Tuesday, September 09, 2014




That oh oh oh song is stuck in my head and my ear.  Good time to mention that daughter #4 is officially here and the blessings are nonstop and if you’d asked me 20 years ago if my life would ever be this full and beautiful and all-encompassingly satisfying, I’d have called you a crazy person and called the chicken coop cadre.  Challenges are abundant and days are mad hectic and bees look at me and thank allah they ain’t so busy but would I have it any other way, nein, mein freunde, nein.

Staring at the moon last night with Mrs. P in the alf mantch and the light shone bright as an out out brief flashlight that the rooner would have come in on a unicycle and pontificated, I had an epiphany that only hit me the next day, but by then I’d forgotten it.  I know it was intensely meaningful, however, and it would take until the next time I was shrouded in mystery in the back seat of a Packard alone watching the rain-soaked streets of a decrepit and bankrupt megalopolis until I’d remember what exactly it was that urns from four countries were trying to coerce me into pontificating upon, and my instincts tell me at that time I won’t remember the point of reference to make any sense of it, but I will know, harken on this brethren, that only birds in flight in the Jetstream with goggles made of diamonds could fathom something as deep, deeper than Atlantis.



Thursday, August 08, 2013




Finally getting people out of my house, they gonna get the fuck out, of my house, my muthafuckin house, they gonne be out, my house, my muthafuckin house, I’mma be like fresh kid ice and sit in my house with a bone and bang that shit on the floor and the ceiling and be like this my house can’t no one take it away from me, not if I don’t say they can’t, and I’ll be the boss, what finds a fish that talks and tells me secrets.  I’mma be in a submarine going to thor’s house, and ma Heyerdahl’s gonna be like wuddup alf, you want some bread or whut, and I’mma be like bitch please I got bread flowin out my ass like what when they do those exercises on bikes and shit and ain’t no one gonna be able to say shit about that.  I ain't countin chickens but I'm addin up crickets and they all swimmin upstream and goin to the house whut the sleestax built.  read about it in a book.  they'll look at you with those eyes with no pupils and shuffle to the glowin orb and show you secrets that you never wen thought was crucial nor critical nor relevant but they were all of and none of the above.  name me three other amigos who did more and I'll eat my hat made out of fruit roll ups.  gratzi.




Friday, June 01, 2012




If I kept a piece of paper or even grander scheme a pad or diary (sniff) at the side of the bed with a pen and a little batman light then I’d probably be in a studio with a robot reciting rhymes with no meter to an inaudible audience whilst silent gears turned in a fantasy brain.  I’d gaze out the window on the coast and the canals and the boats and the birds and the trees and the lack of telephone wires and know that what was unknown could rear its ugly head in a beautiful way, and not being sure on said scenario's desirability, I'd be forced no doubt to seek clarification on what's said/unsaid, seen/unseen, and original/clichéd, and ASAP.



Wednesday, February 22, 2012



Cat Stevens had a perspective that, while it can be argued, cannot be destroyed in a court of law unless you’re a lawyer. If you’re upstairs in a poolhouse and see a record with a tree and a smiling cat in it, you might be in my memories, and if that’s the case, I need you to get the hell out, cause those are mine, and they’re personal, and all mixed in with metaphors and similes and other grammatical excuses for emotions that allow me to separate myself from myself.

There’s a feeling of falling that only comes once you’ve taken the leap. You grab the defenseless child, look behind you at the thugs shooting guns, disregard the height, stare at the suddenly small gigantic pool hundreds of feet below, and take the plunge. The seconds pass like hours, the milliseconds like minutes, air rushing by, sound meaningless, onrushing aqueous surface arcane, tourists paddling to the side irregardless, and then you know, maybe you’ll live, maybe you’ll die, maybe it’s a dream, maybe it’s not, but either way, you did it, you ran that route, you leaped that faith, you saved that child, you braved the yonder, and no one can say you didn’t, life or death, sane or unsane, known or unknown, and when you forget to write it down or record it on some bullshit mp3 the next morning it won’t matter, because it happened, even though it didn’t.

6/1: just changed the pic - go listen to the album, er, mashup - werd to ossifer bird 



Is it going to be one of those nights? Emmylou Harris was something of a badass. GP knew what he was doing when he established partnership both professional and personal. Er, well, professional as far as I know I can only provide parameters said references for, but liberty station is a place to drink, and she knew about it, and I can say, well, she knew what the hell she was talking about, and it’s much appreciated, because so few people these days do, myself included. Shit, I kick up shit at Neil Diamond concerts and get the grayhairs all in an uproar and then the next morning realize I was likely mostly in the wrong, but guilt is not something I partake in, because life is too short and my hair is too receded and the more I think the less I know and the clippers are in first place.



Wednesday, February 15, 2012


howdy pards long time no blabbery spout of gibberal communal water fountain that you hate and love and fill up your fake red plastic gun with its power and shoot out over the corn field you've been trying to forget since you were 9 years old. ah, the hands, they hover, they speed, they cry, they bleed, they need movement, solioquies on grecian urns yet uncovered, trees yet climbed, rocks yet clambered upon, the atlantian ideals that our forefathers and aft-uncles saw when they jumped off that boat, swam to shore, dodged a couple bullets and made their way into the forest, never before heard nor seen again from society at large until they showed up in that town with the funny glasses and the scragly beard. the look in their eyes said no quick movements within this feller's vicinity, or shit could get strange. the certain type of respect or lack thereof that this engendered thus forsooth and forthwith started a town of brethren that saw fit to prescribe within their own brains similar medications, known and unknown, physical and metephorical. they'd drunk the applesauce, ate the kool-aid, as it were, and found not a maniacal powerhungry demigod but a simple man fond of simple pleasures that that yearned for a simpler time before simple simon had met that pie-man and fucked it all up with his thumb in that dyke or some shit like that. the specifics didn't really matter, if you thought long enough the answer would come, correct, incorrect, it didn't matter, as long as wheels were in motion and thus came from the fruit of dude's loins a lasting settlement that they all accepted was def leppardville. the end.



Tuesday, August 30, 2011


In the pontification and written description thereby of 1) a Grecian urn and 2) myself, I chose, well, did not choose, had to, but well, same result, the subject of said personage that appears when I look in the mirror. It was extremely gracious and kindly and descriptive of all my best qualities in such as my professional and educational career, and if you read it, you’d probably be extremely impressed and want to have me come give a seminar at your school or coffee shop. If this be the case then please make sure you wipe the microphone with disinfectant but not that orangy smelling one, as that could make me a bit nauseous and I need to have all my wherewithal in reference giving the most motivational or anticlimactically juxtaposed conversational diatribe that was vociferied in the western hemisphere since the oracle wandered away from Delphi in a fit of heat stroke.

It’s been a crazy (Wednesday, or is that magic?) dia a la trabaja and I can no wait until it’s over, but then again, I’m enjoying the kinetic energy that is transcribing through the neurons of my brain as well as the fiberoptic cables of the innernet plus telephone and bringing me magic (or are those crazy?) beans, to put in my salad, to put in my hat, to take to the zoo, to feed an elephant, and then he takes me up the stairs to the secret lair where Captain Atom and the zoo crew are waiting to feed me to the crocodile that lives in my throat. Sigh/shalom.

I try to bottle my frustrations with people and put them in the ocean to sail away to foreign lands but they always somehow come right back to my doorstep, which confuses me as I live on the 14th floor and a good two miles or so from the sea, maybe seagulls are flying onto the lanai and depositing them for some ventricular deity that requires bottled messages to flow in a circle like the lifeblood of a heart, keeping flow in its proper order unto the day in which his power has been ambushed away by those that would waylay his ambassadors. Yeah, that’s a good way of saying it.



Thursday, May 05, 2011


I just burned a CD with Pink Floyd’s Saucerful of Secrets followed by The Jackson 5’s ABC, from 1968 & 1970 respectively, as I imagined that millions of people in 1971 must have listened to these albums one after the other as cross- pollenization of these 2 groups was of course running rampant at the time. Also side bets involving syd barrett vs. Michael Jackson on who would be the most notoriously crazy person of the coming 3 decades. Barrett wisely took to the (deep) underground while MJ did, well, MJ stuff. McCartney/Syd might have produced some better tunes, but think about those thoughts or lack thereof that were had, in between & after solo albums wherein he sat on random floors staring at a camera or showing up to recording sessions looking vaguely confused. The brain baffles, batters, barters, and stews.

Live gets a lot of shit but I think they’re pretty good. But then I was also the person who proclaimed Def Leppard the greatest band of all time, so it’s probably true that I shouldn’t be listened to nor read. That being the fact, what are you doing her? (Hi, Mr. googlebot, Hi self, hi no one else, salud).

I could say something actually true or meaningful or about my life but 1982 is calling, and if I don’t produce the numbers, the game gets rigged against the elephants in all the rooms everywhere, and uncle Jackie gets cranky at the bar.

Ok maybe I’ll talk story for a sec, just cuz live’s playin, and it’s kind of atlantising me (putting me deep, deeper than, 2nd to None fans know what I’m talkin about, yah all 3 of you, they more poplar than yo). What was I gonna chat atcha on? I forget. Life is good. All I can complain about is piddlin stuff. Gratzi a supreme being nom de plum of which I don’t know and/or ponder yer existence, but if ya there, gratz, ya done me good, ju blessed me right, I canna whine, er, I can, but, well, the heavy stuff, it’s panned out, times tuff tuffed em out, ju, ju, gratz. Werd. And yes I am a 38 year old white man. Defense mechanism anonymous called they want their self-actualization back. Jurk storr.

I think I don’t like writing about anything that’s not random words meaning nothing in that someone might read it and go “yadda yadda that is awful” or "yadda yadda that is great" or “I am offended” or “that hurts my feelings” or “this guy is just horrible” or “Man this guy’s mustache must be scratchy” and I just can’t handle that kind of rejection or thought that I am causing pain to anyone, but I can, but then I think why, and then I wonder why not, and then I remember that it’s the negasphere & they have the right to wander away and go play charades with themselves, and I make the conscious decision to persevere in my infinite dramatic struggle against my monolithic imaginary opponent.



Wednesday, April 27, 2011



the jerk store called & the jurk storr called and the ball hit the wall down the hall. salud. need to check what they have at the library and cross reference against amazon. so did I tell you I have the phattest view? yah, lucky moi. and that on my way to werk I have the phattest view. yah. and that the fattest ewe gives me a ride over a hill at the very end because the driveway at my skunk works is broken. it's certified, backed up by world insurance inc. check them, they'll make sure you're set up with apt coverage. I feel that verbage (said) and written is opportune for brain blatter, er, batter. repetition is the sincerest form of haberdashery.

I'm eating an everything bagel. Only in bagel culture do they get away with this terminology. you can't ask for an everything pill if you're sick. You can't order an everything sandwich at the deli. you can say everything ON it, but they still need the basis of what is going on with this fictional sandwich that is now being optioned for a major motion picture. I feel that this ongoing fraud within the bagel community needs to be investigated and legal action needs to be taken and brought to conclusion and all those that have colluded to commit this ongoing perjury need to brought to justice and hanged in a high court, I mean hung out to dry with the trout. sleep with old fishes in deep pans filled with persian butter. don't ask me why I said persian, it's part of the conspiracy, mind melding, ancient witchcraft at work.

if only someone could come from within the streets of gotham and take back our philosophy. if only there was some type of beacon we could shine in the sky when a corporation such as bagelconglom inc committs heinous acts against hyenas. someday our knight will come, preferably in the day, so we can see him. until then, eat in the dark. gratzi.



Thursday, February 03, 2011


It’s been just over two years now since our oldest daughter finished her 6 months of chemotherapy for leukemia (AML). Although I guess she was officially in "remission" after the first few treatments, the completion of the treatment, not having to go through any more cycles of chemo, and her still getting better & better, was the big breakthrough. It’s been a wild two years, a rebirth of sorts for all four of us, myself included, with all kinds of movement to all kinds of places, physical & metaphorical. Transition after transition, forth, back, and then realizing back IS forth. Um, don't ask.

In any event, our first born, who I was so terrified we might lose before she'd even had a proper chance to fight all the challenges she'd already been presented with (she was born with down syndrome), who was SO brave through all the hospitals, and drugs, and poking and prodding, and never stopped emitting this pure joy that affected everyone around her, is doing great. We are so incredibly lucky to have her here with us. Too many people we met during our journey lost their children. Too many relapsed and are fighting the same cancer again that they had thought defeated. Two years. Cancer is not a part of our daily life any more, but it’s always in the background, there’s always another follow appointment to check her “numbers” (although less & less often as time goes by). These days, (KNOCK, KNOCK) her numbers are always good.

Our younger daughter has been through a ton as well, couldn't have been easy all those nights away from Mommy, and hospital visits, barely one year old. We all stuck together like champs, though, I'm proud of all of us; it wasn't easy. Our younger one is such a blessing to the older (and vice versa), giving her (& us) perspective, and guidance, and wisdom, and the most oddly occasional adult sounding pronouncements. They're so different, so alike; we know down the road the former will become more pronounced, and it's a blessing to enjoy (and we learned, enjoy that moment) the beautiful spot in all our lives that we're in now. Speaking of the future, we just signed up the older for kindergarten, which sounds unbelievable. She’ll be 5 in May. The younger 4 in July. They’re getting older, wiser, more calculating in their mischief. Our babies have become big kids. It's fun, scary, exciting, fascinating. You see yourself in them, your spouse in them, and that magic something that makes them them, that is theirs alone, and, well, you marvel at it (er, I do). Love who I'm with, love where I'm at, the mindset is bright "incandescent, even." Life is good.

For fans of the (ir)regulah, don’t worry, tomorrow (or maybe next month/year) there will be more indecipherable gibberish (ie back to your regularly scheduled programming). Or maybe the grecian urn'll stay out of the barn for a few. Call it a mystery, for now. Aloha.



Wednesday, February 02, 2011


Lotta stuff goin down, on, up, to the side, across the street. Add all layers of etcetera you can possible consider. We moved. On up to the eastside. Literally. And it’s made a ton of difference, wowsers, lovin it Maynard. Kay, gonna holla at you wit the real. Nah, kiddin. Starting to remember why I stopped writin crap here. It just comes out like this. Much ado about sumpin, but decipherable only to the few, the just, the strong, residents of trillville condescending on a piece of scenery like they straight blanketed it. Can’t be havin it. Scrappy doo out.