Friday, November 08, 2002
I gotta say Papa Smurf was pretty damn patient. Those smurfs were always fucking up one thing or another, and good ol papa smurf in his red shorts would just spout out a nice little moral or have a nice chuckle or go like put gum in Gargamel's ear or something. Sometimes he'd even cook up a hot pot of gumbo and they'd have a big ol' smurf feast, all problems forgotten. Now if only they could have like made a machine to go into smurf land, like a super teleporter, and found him, and brought him out of cartoon land, like in that Ah-Ha video (Take on me) and then they could have made Papa Smurf supreme ruler of the USA forever, and damn, you KNOW that Saddam's ass would be in a sling by now. Hell yeah. They should have named him Mac Minister Smurf, that's how copacetic he was and probably still is in my opinion.
If you're looking for me on Monday, I'll be the one at the end of the bar sloshed and slurring, yelling out obscenities and stabbing a voodoo doll of Brian Griese. I might have to bust out my ouija board and put some hex action on fucktahan and the buttcos. God I hate the Broncos. As for the Raiders, they are just so good. I can't believe they call Dallas America's team, cuz the Raiders are so the REAL America's team, the team of true players. And that's on long beach goddammit. The silver and black WILL attack and the horses will run for cover and hide in the squalor of Denver's deepest dungeons of ghetto-hood when Gannon the cannon and the crew come to town, slanging and banging, dropping f-bombs like Frank Nitti. Can you feel it? gyeah. I knew you could.
I was on a month long trip around Europe with one of my best friends and a group of about 25 high school students, "chapperoned" by a few adults from the school district. Chapperoned gets the quotation mark treatments because, basically, these people let us run around Europe like a pack of wild dogs with practically no supervision. It was truly a beautiful experience for an experience-hungry 16 year old. My buddy and I were the youngest on the trip, it was the summer between our sophomore and junior years. Everyone else had just graduated. So we were like the little runts, but it was all good.
Anyway, sidetracked again, goddammit. We're on this train going through England, and some guys point out this big factory and they're like "holy shit! That's the factory on the cover of that Pink Floyd album!" And I'm like, who the fuck are Pink Floyd? So I look at this factory and it looks fukn trippy, like haunted or some shit, and I'm like dude, that's pretty damn cool. And then they explained how on the album cover there's a pig flying through the air between the two smokestacks, or whatever the fuck those things are. If you look on the wrap around of the picture on the inside sleeve you can see the train tracks that I must have been on. Chug a chug a chug a.
So anyway, cut back to the USA. Over the course of a month in Europe I had gotten drunk for the first time (Lucerne, Switzerland), hung out in a den of smoked out pot puffers watching a reggae show and wandered through the infamous red light district (Amsterdam, and no, I didn't partake, of either vice), barfed out of my first upper story window (more stories in the future on that front maybe, I could go on and on, well, let's not), hung out on my first nude beach (Nice, France), participated in fraudulent money exchange for goods - basically full on larceny (Greece). Ok that's kind of a funny story, I kind of feel bad about it now, but well, the things you do when you're a kid. Ok, well, no, later, somebody, remind me to tell the story about the Yugoslavian money and the greek merchant. No really, it'll kill you. Seriously, it's a winner. Ha ha, just thinking about it. Damn I could go on and on and on and on about that Europe trip, but I was talking about Pink Floyd.
ANYWAY - damn I hadn't delved into those memories for a while. The thing about going crazy places like Europe, especially when you're that young, is you think, oh, I'll be back pretty soon, but here it is, 13-14 years later, and I ain't been back yet (but we're going next year - gyeah!)
Fuck I can't get back to my Pink Floyd story and I really can't recall why it was interesting. Anyway. Oh yeah. I'm back in Glendale, California, after all my experiences in Europe, I think I'm a man of the world, you know, a Big Tymer. And I'm like, remembering the feeling of connectedness to that factory that I saw from the train, and I'm at a used records shop, and I find the vinyl, for like really cheap, and I pick it up, and I'm being branwashed by the imagery and I take it home and put it on my record player in my room and lay in my bed and look at the ceiling, and it's like, so, so deep. (Sidenote - one thing I thought, and still think, about the vinyl of this album, is that if you look at the cover of the sleeve, it's just the picture, no "Pink Floyd" no "Animals" no nothing. I thought that was fukn raw, to not even have the name of the band on the album cover. The CD cover sells out and puts the name of the band and album, which pisses me off, but well, the music is the same, but without that friendly record player hum and background distortion, and well I'm babbling like an idiot again, back to your regularly scheduled program.) I felt like the original philosopher that first discovered total consciousness. For those that haven't heard Animals, thou shalt pull thine head from thine arse and goeth to thy local music merchant and invoke the name of Roger Waters and cry forth "Bring me Animals by Pink Floyd, foul knave, for thine heart is a wretched entanglement of Orc brains and toadstool stew!" Animals rules in so many ways, the music, the intro, the tuneage, the lyrics, the subject matter, shit! It is good stuff.
That should hook you up with the discount. Werd. So as I was saying, I was opened up into Pink Floyd-ville. And it was a good place. Not always a happy place, but an introspective, out there, cosmic karmic wonderland of sonic wa-wa. So Pink Floyd is good stuff. Soon after I picked up Atom-Heart Mother (which I thought was cool as goddamm hell, for Pink floyd to have the balls, as a big time band with big-time front men, to come out with an all instrumental album that fukn ROCKED but was so psychadellically mellow), Works (kind of a collection type thing), Final Cut (crazy war stories about roger waters' dad), Dark Side of the Moon (their all-time classic, but oddly, not really one of my favorites of theirs), Wish you Were Here (probably my second favorite after animals), and a bunch of others. I was partial to the stuff with Roger Waters singing, but, hey that other dude (Dave Gilmour?) he's aiight. Pink Floyd came back in the late 80's with that album with like 100 beds on a beach (Momentary Lapse of Reason, yeah that's the ticket), which was pretty cool, but I don't know, Pink Floyd and no Roger Waters just ain't the same cup o tea for me, at least, it's like good, but not, like great, as in a great sandwich.
Thursday, November 07, 2002
Oh, and can you believe what happened to Ray-Ray? Yup. 10 years. Yup. That same bitch. Yup. She ate him up and threw him away. Just another coal for the fire, just another worm for the birdies, just another diamond in the rough, ate up in a windstorm and shit.
So where you at? St. Louis? Dang are you like, a St. Lunatic? wussup with Nelly? Ah sheeiit, yeah my bad, you must get that shit all the time. Who you working for, ah yeah, I heard o them. They those og Anaheim lokes, right? How in the name of the grey cow did you hook up with those dobermen?
Yeah? yeah. Gyeah. Oh, HELL no. HELL no. Oh, no he didn't. Oh, I KNOW that SHE didn't.
Damn. Somehow I knew it would end that way. It's like, we were so young, so full of life, we didn't know what was gonna happen, the world was open to us, we were like petals on the wind, ain't it true though? Well, yeah. Well, ya know, you are so right. Damn, that is the stone-cold truth. I know, me neither, I can't believe Mr. Grisselli told that story about his penis in Traffic class. Yeah, it was, how shall we say? inappropriate. yeah. it was inappropriate. But what can you do? We were young punks on the warpath, but you can't bumrush and beat down the assistant football coach just cuz he's a dumbass can you? Yeah, I GUESS that was what the moral of the story was, but I talked to Sheila and Mary, and they were like, oh hell no.
Ha ha ha, you are so on point, man. Well, I got to get to steppin'. Almost quitting time here at the skunkworks. Ha ha, hell yeah. Well it was good talking to you man. Hey, do you mind if I put this up on my blog?
Yeah, I got a weblog. It would be really funny, I mean, damn dog, you can really tell a story, some of the shit you said, it could like build and tear down again the zion and the lion. Whut? Nah, dude, I can't pay you. I don't make any money off it, it's just a place where I put up random crap for random randoms to peep out and trip on, ya dig?
Whut? Fuck you, you fukn piece of shit! You think I'm gonna sign away my sheepdog just to have copyright on some lame-ass conversation? You are a punk-ass pile of donkey shit you fukn riverboat ho. Yeah. That's what I said. Riverboat. Yeah I heard that story, you punk bitch. Well you can't stop me from putting up my part of this, now can you? and everyone will no know much I won this conversation. Dude, I kicked your ass all over the place.
See that's another thing you gotta love about life, there ain't no do-over, but there's plenty of room to clean up after yourself. Let's face it, if every mistake resulted in nuclear annihilation, we wouldn't have made it out of the garden. We'd be butt-naked in the center of the blast zone chomping on a satanic apple with a snake named Fredo.
Then there are those times in life when you just don't give a damn. You just want to party, live it up, drink in experiences, relish the moment. And those are so important too, because if you're spending all your time worrying about what's going to happen, where's the enjoyment to make it all worth it? If all you're concerned with is down the road, what about the intersection your in? What's on the radio? Is the breeze coming through and hitting your face? Is the sun in your eyes? Do you have a loved one on your mind and is the thought of her face, her eyes, her soul, making you smile? Do you have something to make that moment where you decide to turn left or right a moment into and of itself? Does it really matter where you go as long as you live it, love it, appreciate it?
Sometimes it seems like I have so much to do, and not enough time to do it. Then I think what is it? What is it that I have to do, what am I so goddamm concerned about? A Boeing 747 could land on me at any minute. Do I want to be in that moment thinking about my job, my future, my bank account balance, or I do want to be feeling the breeze and pondering sweet nothings?
It seems a simple answer to me. On the other hand, you can't go around in La-La land 24-7. The world would crash to a grinding halt what with all the bunny rabbits blocking traffic. I'm not saying that we should all roll around in glue and glitter and close our eyes to the ills of our own lives and the world. That's just stupid. There's shit to do, and we gotta do it. But that doesn't mean it has to suck. That doesn't mean we have to grow bitter as we grow old.
Dreams are vital. Dreams are important. Without dreams, nothing changes, no one would give a damn about anything. Some of the greatest things that have ever happened to me happened because I closed my eyes and jumped in and took a chance on a vision of my life. Sometimes I came up aces, and some of those aces are still with me. Some of those risks kicked my ass all over town, and I can still find the bruises, but I don't look for them. I like the aces more. Dreams should never be a replacement for taking the moment you're in, however, and milking it for all it's worth. Even if you're sitting on your ass looking at a computer screen writing a bunch of random thoughts, enjoy it, feel it, bask in it, consider its consequences but don't get bogged down by them. Soon you'll be on to the next thing, which may suck, it may rule, but it will be, and so will you, and there's always that.
Wednesday, November 06, 2002
top ten album list is over at Blogcritics and that you really really have to read it and soak it in and then do a self realization of your musical priorities? Ok consider it mentioned.
Well a republican actually won the governor's seat here in Hawaii, and the island hasn't exploded in a bloody ball of fire. Local people finally pulled their heads out of their collective ass and kicked those leeches out of Honolulu Hale. Time for our new lesbian governor to start cleaning house, which she indicated she'd be doing by having a nice conversation with the state auditor. Ah yes. Time to clean out 40 years of jerk-offs soaking the system for cash. It is good times.
It's kinda funny, because Lingle's acceptance speech, she thanked everyone, etcetera, but didn't say too much about her family, cuz like I said, she's like, appartently, a lesbo, not that there's anything wrong with that. Her running mate, the new lieutenant governor, is this hawaiian guy, Duke Aiona, and this guy's like Mr. Family, and he brings out his wife, his daughters, his son, and then he's thanking his mom, his aunties, his third cousin. I mean like six generations of this guys family were on stage all of a sudden, and homey's thanking God, and cousin Kimo, and it was a little out of hand, but just for play.
So I'm stoked, maybe they can help turn the economy around and pull some of the entrenched beuracrats out of State Government that have been milking the teat for decades. Word.
So what else my peeps? Um well, the Raiders better win on Monday. I don't know why I'm even bringing this up, I'm just opening myself up for abuse. Yes the Raiders are on a four-game slide. Yes they are at .500. But ya know what? They're gonna go into Denver on Monday night, and kick the living FUCK out of the Broncos. I feel it. I know it. It shall be. It has been decreed.
Fuck Denver, fuck John Elway, fuck the Barrell Man, fuck Mike Shanahan, and fuck all the elitist high-born demagogues that actually would root for a team with a fukn horse on their helmet. Dumbasses.
As for the Clippers, well, they could be so fukn good, but like I mentioned the other day, none of them are signed to long-term contracts, they're all playing for numbers this year, just making sure their stats look good for when it's time to land a phat contract in free agency, and they all hate Donald Sterling, the cheap ass motherfucker that owns the team.
Why am I a Clippers fan? I really don't know, but dangit I am.
Dropping the kids off at the pool is always good for inspiration. Well here's a big surprise: Shannon Doherty is splitting up from her 2nd husband after only 9 months. Wow, I could have never seen that coming. I mean, she seems like June Cleaver, that is schocking.
Oh and Wynona Ryder. I say give her 15-20, just to make a statement. Let her come out to do movie roles, but no trailer on set, just tie her to a post with a guard with a shotgun standing watch. and make her stand in a mud puddle while were at it. OK I know, all she did was steal some crap but SHIT. I would be in hot fucking water if I pulled that shit, and so is she, but fuck she has mad cash and will buy her way out of it, and she's getting all this free publicity, it's like her own private idaho.
Ok that's it. Done and done.
Tuesday, November 05, 2002
ahem. well then, and molly told graham, it's all going to be an issue if you don't vote the m&m team. fukn clinton comes and says "vote for the m&m team, they'll turn things around," yeah go fuck yourself clinton you mastermind. goddamm clinton, i don't have anything against the guy, he did alright, got a lot of stuff done i guess, whutever, but he is just such a people person, he's on it, mr. suave. george bush is mr. ... - goddammit i'm getting off subject.
whutever. fuck the democrats. at least here in hawaii. and maybe in juneau alaska.
well then yessirreee. oh yeah. i wrote a grand summation of the ten greatest albums of all time entitled the soundtrack for the goldfish generation so check it out.
well that's all for now. thank you. goodnight. sayonara. buenos dias. dosvedanya. aloha. shalom. howdy pardner howz your sidesaddle??
Monday, November 04, 2002
Berkeley Joe: totally essential. I feel as the bay area golden bear processing index finger on the cali mindstate in this organization and I just want to say that, well, we've run out of chicken in a biscuit crackers. This ain't cool. I'm kinda serious on this one. I didn't want to make a big issue, but alfred, all I ask is keep those CIABC stocked and ready to roll, I don't want to get all postal and shit, but FUCK.
Kool Keith: chill yoke. Dang it's like everything anyone says is like fuck cal with your stupid ass! That's not keepin it rackneal! Werd to the therd its like ocean in a motion and endo potion on my exterior dawg. Check it. If it's ulterior of osteoperosis, I'm all up in it like a bag a doritos on the dig? But heezy and ma greezy, it's not pimpo-peeling skeditch? I knew it. Thanks ok. Onward.
Ae: is everybody's tea full hot and slammin to satisfaction? I must know. Please. Tell me. Information peeooopplleee.
kk: I'm good.
Ae: gyeah, you need tea or gyeah you good?
Bj: straight up no panicking.
Ae: um but do you need more tea?
Bj: it's all phillie in the scrilly, alfred.
Ae: what does that mean?
Kk: he's aight, pennyfull o oats! Shit! Now siddown and check this fish in my tank. It's all cruising and hanging with those plants and shit, and then bampow a different style, I drop some food in there, and then he's all score! I get some food, and chomps that shit down.
Bj: dangetty dangetty. Oh flim flammety.
Ae: so anyway, the clippers won.
Kk: hellz bellsbottoms yeah they did. 1-2 so far. Gotta keep the vibe goin. Candy-man went for 20 boards. If they don't all just go for stats all season which they may do cuz the hate their cheap owner's ass for not signing them to phat contracts, but besides that the have the ultimate line-up in the league, so there's that, and..
Bj: dude shut the fuk up! You know people get bored when you sports out keith. Fooh.
kk: whatstheFRICK ever joe bob brinskly, take it to the yellowbrook farm with that shiznat.
But no. Monday just bitch-slaps me right from word go. Making me WORK. I mean, geez whut is this? Don't I deserve to get flowed cash just in light of my winning personality and overall charm and amiability? Aren't I simply owed a living free of responsibility and duty when you take into consideration how goddamm cool I am?
Well? Your silence I will take as a resounding no, by which you can stretch out that o and shove that n where the sun don't shine and leave me to my caffeinated rondevue in beantown.
You know when you look and you look and you think, I shalt never find, and then, out of the blue, like a bolt from Zeus's thunderstick, it cracks you on the head like a louisville slugger. I discovered in the Cheapo Music used CD racks the golden goose I had so long sought: Ozzy's Diary of a Madman. for those not in the know, this was the last studio album to feature the unparalleled guitar work of Mr. Randall Rhoads. His tragic accident would occur during the touring for this album. capiche? otay. so i was stoked beyond words, especially in light of the $6 price tag. it was word em up to the 18th level of kriptonics.
You may say, crapola, Joe, what's the dillio, just buy it off Amazon or yahoo or some shit, why waste all that time rummaging through record shops, to which I will politely and delicately respond: FUCK THAT SHIT. Yeah and get screwed on shipping and have some pimply faced 12 year old use it as a spoke clicker on his BMX until it finally finds its way into my hands, and then I have to travel to fukn juno alaska to return it and bitch slap an eskimo.
I don't want it to come to that. So I scour the used cd racks, cuz alf don't buy old cd's new if you know whut I mean. It's just not done, it's like puttin sour cream on a pancake. Homey don't play that.
So I get home and I pour myself a tall glass of homegenized goats blood. I light the sacred candle given to me by nikki sixx when I toured with them in 85, preserved just for this moment in time, space, and 5th dimension fondue-smoke. "Over the Mountain" kicked in, Randy's guitar work started tickling my brain, and there he was. The rock god draped in leather with a roach clip hanging from his feathered locks. The axe kept wailing, I started crying, tears of joy at the rebirth of a fallen soldier. Randy muthafuckin Rhoads, in my home, making oatmeal in the microwave and english muffins in the toaster. Make yourself at home, g-dog. It is all g in the heeze.
Imagine, the greatest guitar player of all time, rocking out, and you'd think that was enough, I mean, that would really take the cake for almost any paranormal exeperience. But peep this. I'm slamming away on my air drums, with the drum sticks I bought in a Kalakaua music shop, and suddenly, one of the drum sticks gets yanked out of my left hand. Whut the fuk? I know it's not randy, cuz he don't play no drums. I know it's not my goldfish, he was at the movies with his girlie. I look over, and what do I see, but a floating, severed arm, banging away through the air, perfect time, keeping up with every beat to ultimate precision.
And then I understood. It was the ghost of Rick Allen's arm. The long lost appendage of the unidextrous drumming machine of Def Leppard had come back from the spirit realm to join in our inspired jam session. So Rick Allen's arm was taking care of the drums, randy was on lead guitar, I started wailing out the lyrics to "Flying High Again," matching Ozzy tone for tone, inflection suddenly filling my voice box. With this kind of line up, I'm mad tempted to try to get a hold of Rudy Sarzo, the former quiet riot & ozzy bass player, and see if we can get a band going. Anybody got his number? I'm very serious and even though I'm not paying dollars, you gotta admit it makes hella sense.