A flickered fancy of whimsy whispered within walls wept while found. So funny how one night, one moment can change the world. How granule our standing really is, as we think deeper about things that should be a simple passing.

Once the hazy flash of fogged up glass thick with the dew of love on a night when only the moon can laugh and smile down at the car in the snow. How sticky, sweet, and quick. Watch up. Gentlemen style. Be a man and become a man. Make it all happen in the soft sigh of dreams awoken to.

I am the Zek, coo, coo, ka choo!

Be careful what you wish for because you might end up inside the soul of that wish, being that wish, not knowing whether or not you will ever awake again. It really has nothing to do with fairies and fireworks on a Disney summer night. Explosions and dust and mountains of glorious entrapment behind a golden gilded curtain, all while the dwarves dance. Dance you tiny little men, dance!

The sweat curled up in beads that only salted my lip as if they had been fried. The parch of my mouth could pass as papyrus. Liquid fire and torched daytime nightmare. Every reach, every grasp, every move had been monumental. Too much. Too much to even dream of wanting to know.

Shake and shuffle those 52 bad boys. Wiggle them out onto the felt. Let me know where the ladies hide. Let me see where the little paper weight money tokens should be placed. It all comes up over. It all came up craps. With no more free drinks and plenty of empty pockets, where do you go? Axle Rose, where do I go now? When will enough be enough. When will sleeping-in just bring back my relative thoughts of day to day? Make the cards dance in case the little men can’t. Take home the ladies and hold them close. Never wake in the middle of the night, you may not like where you find yourself.

I want back my boyish grin. I want back where I once was thinking that I could be more than what I have become. Look high. Stare deep. Inward out flex. Take it all back and start me anew. Please …

I once was this. I once was that. Adrock did it with a wiffle ball bat. Could it get any more weird? Any more strange? Any more like Jazz that won’t be heard by kids who don’t care. Any more like the words I write that won’t get read. Any more like the books I know that my daughter won’t. I know I am going to die soon. I know it. I can feel it in the marrow deep like a virgin on a porn shoot. My days are numbered. Like a doctor of wisdom, “I’m your Huckleberry”.

How can a black and white screen and a bit of audio madness take it all away in the flash of a glance, in the eyelash dance between moments? Damn it! Am I that friggin’ bad? Am I to be dumped into the barrel of sin for the rest of my days and waking hours? Will James Joyce rise up and kiss my ass just for shits and giggles? Please, send him to me. I want to sock him in the jaw.

Send ‘em all to me. Line ‘em up. It has been a long, long time since violence shot through these veins ala F1. Change my tires. I need no more pits. Peel ‘em out and charge the inside. Pedal down and the fury so finicky that only the helmet can lick back at the sweet, sweet kisses of wind.

I want two rounds with each of ‘em. Then I want whole nights with their ladies. I want the world off of my shoulders. I want to stand straight again. Stand tall and not have to be so mad. There is a magenta carpet of fur on the animal in my belly. He bucks up toward my lobes. Scissor them up, man, I know too much.

My biggest complaint for so many ticks and tacks of epileptic value on the clock dial was my mind. I know too much. I remember too much. I care too much. I love too hard. Mostly I am exhausted. I took a bite out of life and French kissed it together with that McGruff dog.

Memories of swift blue skies and slow moving turquoise serenity in it’s liquid gyrations come flooding back into my now with it’s simple and peaceful name tag stating: Moorea. I wanted so bad to go back and live. I was ready to learn French. I was ready to fish and gather coconuts and star fruit for my meals. I wanted to teach English to the children and smile back to the ones that waved as I rode my bike to the school house under the shadow of Mt. Rotui. French cooked duck three nights in a row swallowed down with the help of J&B and a nipple lick of hundred dollar champagne. I held a dolphin in my arms. I hoped a pretty little Island princess would take me home to the tribal King. My back was tattooed there with a rake and a hammer with a coconut shell bowl of ink. A French man named Gilles banged and smacked and nailed the ink into my back as I sat bent over on my knees in a thatch hut looking out across the South Pacific at Papeetee. I could see the fish jump. The fishermen gale in glee. The reggae was interrupted with French monologues from DJ’s that wanted to make you care and live and dance. Under the Sun, under the Sun my friend. I wanted so badly to stay. I needed to stay.

I came home and died. A bit of me left into my daughter’s soul as she was born that following February. She is me. I hope she is not tortured as much. I hope she holds her cards closer to her chest. For awhile I let the whole world see them. I am an ass for such playground trust. The cards are tighter than twins now. Don’t look. Don’t peek. I will skin you alive if you do.

Playground psychotics my friend, simple psychosis. Let me sleep a night all the way through. Please.

Soulful treachery is treachery none the less. Cast me away into Gram Parsons soul. Hold me tight in his gentle voice as I set fire to the wander lust that no longer can sustain in my soul. Make everyone stop talking. I don’t want it to make sense anymore. I am reserved in my ignorant little island. I am not a good man. I am not a nice man. That is why the stares are so deep.

I have no more hope or glory. I have no more battles. The war has ended. I am not a docile vegetable. Hold the pillow tight chief. Call any vegetable. The vegetable responds to you.

I am no longer going to try to justify myself to anyone including myself. Too many stairs. Too steep is the incline. The only steep I want is that found in the procedures of tea.

This makes no sense to most of you. Where did all the good girls go? Where did all the songs they hum flee? My head set is broken. Someone mime them out as I stare through you, past you, in between the light.

Bring me back to Boston. Leave me in a Lincoln bar. Throw me down an alley in Baltimore. Fill your heart up and let your mind guide you through the avenues that I can no longer feel. I once was a boy, a man, now I am a scared trapped rat. You know what happens to a barn rat. They are shot. I can’t keep scaring horses.

Paisley, plaid, gingham, and hounds tooth day dreams left in sad song that over flows a bar bottle as the tears refuse to stain the mahogany that is carved with past purveyors in passing pauses. I can smell the peanut shell floor and the stale beer of misogyny in the urinals from a far. Rip that fiddle, boy. Hold me tight in the ass pocket of those blue jeans, baby, hold me tight.

Gram had it best in the song “She” from the album GP:

she, she came from the land of the cotton
land that was nearly forgotten by everyone
and she, she worked and she slaved so hard
a big old field was her back yard in the delta sun
ooh, but she sure could sing
ooh, she sure could sing
then he looked down and he took a little pity
the whole town swore he decided he'd help her some
but he didn't mind if she wasn't very pretty
for deep inside his heart he knew she was the only one
ooh, but she sure could sing
yeah, she sure could sing
she had faith, she had believing
she led all the people together in singing
and she prayed every night to the lord up above
singing hallelujah, ooh hallelujah
they use to walk singing songs by the river
even when she knew for sure she had to go away
and she never knew what her life had to give her
and never had to worry about it for one single day
ooh my but she sure could sing
ooh, she sure could sing
she had faith, she had believing
led all the people together in singing
and she prayed every night to the lord up above
singing hallelujah, ooh hallelujah
she, she came from the land of the cotton
land that was nearly forgotten by everyone
and she, she worked and she slaved so hard
a big old field was her back yard in the delta sun
ooh, but she sure could sing
my, my, my she sure could sing
ooh, yeah she sure could sing
ooh, she sure could sing

I wish I could sum things up as good as the men and women who hopscotch across my cerebral synapse paths.

Make it happen. Hear my plea. Someone, somewhere, make me know why, please. I can’t say please anymore. I am getting angry again.

Soft scents of beddy bye hold me close as I know the crib will not hold me anymore.

Hold my hand as I lay down to die.

The last words I want to come from my mouth are words to you.

You know who you are …

How many times will a government fall down and be picked up when it is a toddler? How many toys must go into the cribs of fledgling societies? How many free meals will a culture toss from it’s tray before it realizes going hungry sucks? Will the parents peer around corners in later years, like raccoons searching out left behind trash? Scouring and scavenging with their beady little eyes glowing in the surprise of a camera flash.

Strike me down and call me dead my brothers and sisters, I am free for now. As free as any man in a system of take down and take off. No spin off here. No spin around. Just a little bit of solace in a night where even the lighthouses are afraid to shine on through the fog and fear in the name of self preservation and perseverance.

Hold me down and give me the meds. Make me more than Geoffrey Rush and Alex Rufalowicz could have ever been. Make me ok. Make the Sun rise again. Make the Moon cackle at what once was in the bleary dead exhaustion of a night that can not grasp the insanity of the day.

Is it just another taste of MacMurphy in his splendid theatrics? Is it another lick at the nose snubbing rubbing mania of Jeffery Goines? I just want my cigarettes Nurse Ratchet!

Hold me down and wash me clean as the boys and girls on the playground laugh. Drill your Mother’s high heel up my ass as a sense of playground pride. When the attention of union teacher’s apathy is turned then run with the shoe to the bushes. Don’t worry how the boy will be when he is man.

I am a confused creature here in the world of WWW acceptance. I am the creature who shares a bit of spit in the mouths of all. Only when the reflection is seen do the vampires run, and run they do. Take flight, oh demon of night, to where no light will shine. I have been there. I worked graveyard for five years.

I have traveled all around this breast of Mother’s milk and seen it’s sights. From Boston to Eugene, from Tampa to Tijuana - oh no, wait Tijuana isn’t ours! Oh how funny one can be when the news grabs guttural gobs and gasps at the gazing glory of the grasp.

I sit in a pool of my lonesome with the keys to remind me that Herbie Hancock will always make sense. Coltrane, Gillespie, Davis - all in the mind whip flail of a prismed horn and piano moment. Wrapped in the pain and sorrow of what could occur around them all with the pleasant little summer dresses of happiness and youthful indiscretion that can only be seen peripherally.

Hold me down as the old man dies and wrap me up in a sarcophagus of yellow while the navel blood flows from one’s soul like the tears of Dionysus.

Planes, trains, automobiles. All one of the great sins of man that I have found glory in but not dependency.

I drove once through the nightmares of Robert Moog and slept in the valley of “where am I”. I drove from Worcester, MA to Arcata, CA in 56 hours, stopping only for the slumber of electric nightmare while the invisible children dressed in the plaids of deception crossed the hot black desert tar of night below the cold whipped war of wind in front of my speeding death. I was straight. I needed redemption. I found it at 70 m.p.h. driving into an America that had exploded in front of my very weary graveyard eyes. Like a cherub blazing into life fresh from the heat of birth, I found my refuge in an anonymity never found in a common place sphincter.

Awaking to the pale blue purple blacks of what night once was being masticated by the dawn’s early light. I found the Salt Lake all around me. Like an embryonic existence shunned by most grown men, and justifiably so at times. I moved on down the road. There were pasts to forget and tail to be chased like soft spots of classmates in a live or die death match of duck duck goose.

Where is the sense of judgment for judgment’s sake? Where will the great debate sink us all if never eyes are seen? If there are no pupils or whites or iris blooms than there will never be a slice of pie that can accommodate a family style table. I don’t care much for dessert unless there is a instigator. My life does not require the sweet things, yet I find them all around me. In smiles, in handshakes, in a wink of an eye. In a hot ass strutting itself silly up and down the ga-ga block of men who don’t remember their last lay. So said the polyester slack neglect of the grey haired men in their chess games and debates of why the rook should have been used or the point qualifying in the next round of letter tile toss.

Someone, someday will find this sorry ass and publish it right up the glory hole of America’s kisser and hope for the best as the elderly cry, the common man questions, the modern woman denounces, and the children giggle from a lark as they hide, belly side of a table with fine linen lace as a curtain to the show.

Will the tonality be lost? Will it be like me obsessively reading Dostoevsky or Pushkin? Will I be a new King Kong in one hundred years? Will the world end in Al Gore’s wet dream? Will we all melt away and shun from whence we came as the flesh melts from craniums past? Stand tall and proud. Wrap me up in a wet towel and show me to the bar. I am sure there is a flame retardant there. Something wet.

Take me back into days that left me spinning and whirling and swirling with the wonder lust of what once was. Why am I delving into the kevlar cave? Soon it is a done deal. Make me remember Zappa, Bukowski, Huxley and all of the felt time felt a lot feely touchy of fixations of fantasy past. Make the trip what the journey was. Gas me out. Dress me up. Call me Mother. Lay me down to die.

Why are the Vonnegut’s and the Updike’s, the Salinger’s and the Henningway’s all lost icons that can not happen? I long to the days where not just their styles and passion but their points meant more to me than the oracle of my asshole will ever know. Wrap me up bitch, bury me beneath a tree, call me a present and save the bow.

In infantile gestures, of nipples run amok, we shy from where the food is coming from. We rather attack each other with razor sharp claws and the grinning beaks of avian cock fights in back room bars where cocaine costs less then bets returned.

A common ground must be found but no common ground is big enough for all of us. Lou Reed had that almost 20 years ago. Why can’t we all just get along? 200 million gagillion billion trillion mega-maxi-million people can’t “all get along”. We need to save who we are. The boat is sinking and I am not going to ride with that Leonardo Decrapio guy - no way, no how!

My new homage to the American every man breathes up from the devilish lungs of one Richard Nixon, with all spouted, muffled, and spit drawn in and out glory, “ Cocksucker!”. Throw your hands up in peace to that. It is over, man. It is simply a done deal. What’s the deal you’ve been dealing me? Don’t let that deal go down.

Let sunlight splendors of dancing rays and glistening drops cascade into and caress my golden air and my lily white ass as I pray and hope for the night to come once again. Was I better off staring at Danver’s State Hospital’s pivots and points of gables gone past as I smoked at thee a.m. on my “lunch“ break? No. I got my Lady now. All the courts and crazed cacophony of catastrophic congeniality and congruence of congealing quagmire is worth being next to her breast. In the night, when the shadows are much more dim and the melodies are easier to hear.

Allergies and stress have made me deaf these days. I shout so loud. I scream like gargoyles released from the granite bondage of their homage. I am a different soul. I am a man that just needs to find the square hole. Long before Sarah Jessica Parker, I was and am the square peg. One big world of round holes with my little right angle existence. 90 degrees after 90 degrees and it is too hot for me. Heat beware - my cold ass is coming and it’s coming hard. I guess that makes me hot! Damn!

Blankets of velvet and velour valiantly envelope varying viscosity in the mind. Make this a bit more fluid than the horn players lips as he addresses the virginity of the mouth piece. Zappa said everything that I am trying to say in a song from the Waka Jawaka album from 1972:

And if a forest grows up
From the dirt on the floor,
Then the frog with the satchel had just
Dumped beside the door.
You just startin' to get worried,
You ain't going out no more
And it's confusin' to your mind ----
Just consider this:
You can be scared when it gets too real
You can be scared when it gets too real
But you should be diggin' it
While it's happening. (Yes!)
But you should be diggin' it
While it's happening
'cause it just might be
A one-shot deal

Someone save me. The windows are rolled up too tight and the keeper of the key has gone shopping for designer purses and shoes in the fog of scents and perfumes that can only make one hack and sneeze if they do not belong amongst the chromium and plastic. Roll down the window. Wave. Smile. Engage those gorged by gauntlets of gregarious garb. I’ll pass.

Make it all happen as if it should. Bukowski didn’t get it til 35. I still got time.

I still have smiles. I still have hope.

Wrap me up in that bloody yellow gauze. Know I will be just fine.

Here or elsewhere, Monday comes and it will come harder than ever …

Someone exclaimed once that I really do not like Wednesday. I am beginning to think that more and more as the old bones get home on the fabulous day of hump. I am stiff. I am tired. I am mentally vanquished. Someone light the sterno, the buffet must be eaten.

Louise Correo is going to bring a lawsuit of discrimination and racial profiling against the Border Patrol who was running an ILLEGAL immigration sting outside Barstow, CA two weeks ago (http://www.vvdailypress.com/2006/114856795427416.html). The operation was coined “Desert Denial”. Twelve border agents were deployed and the weekend sting yielded 80 ILLEGAL immigrants. A similar operation was executed last year called “Rampart”. That sting yielded 254 pounds of Marijuana and 1500 ILLEGAL immigrants. Correo is screaming as loud as he can while lining up children to speak about the horrible actions taken against them. He takes time out from the child “victim” parade in order to say things such as the stings being like “what Germany did to Gypsies and Jews” He said that no “Gringos” were stopped but all of his “brown brothers” were. He claims it is racial profiling. I find that a quick emotion response/headline grab. How many ILLEGAL Ukrainians or Australians or Swedes are going to be found driving North from Mexico up interstate 15 towards Barstow? Not many I am quite, quite sure! When he was asked about the officers having probable cause he screamed, “HELL NO!” When pressed time and time again about probable cause he refused to answer. So they could be speeding, weaving, have Mexican license plates, or even a tail light out or seat belt violation. Earlier in his press rant he said that the Border Patrol should stay on the border and that it was a waste of resources. 80 ILLEGALS caught. I think my money has finally been well spent.

Today in Irvine, CA (just ten minutes form my house) Senator Banamnesty (McCain) spoke to a luncheon of Latino business owners as a prop up and prepare for his big run in 2008 for President. He exclaimed that the ILLEGAL immigration issue is cause for a “Call to Arms” That decrepit bastard better be talking about the ones attached to his abdomen! He also went on and on about the dictionary and the definition of “amnesty”. This is a clever ploy to make Ed Meese look like a buffoon. It didn’t work on me, you friggin’ jack ass. Mr. Meese referred to “Black’s Law Dictionary” as it is a word in this instance that requires a legal definition and cites the 1986 bill, which is the same as the current Senate vomit, as AMNESTY! Senator McCain - you must be Funkin Wagnall’s!

I bet you think my reaction is insane or that I display a demeanor that is not warranted. This brings me to what I wanted to write about next …

Cameron Brown is getting ready to be tried for the death of his daughter and already the furious wind of assumption is clearing the room right out into the hall of jury tampering (http://www.dailybreeze.com/news/articles/2901241.html). This happens all the time and I am getting sick of it. The last time that it resulted in a man on death row was in the Peterson case. You will all think I am nuts now but I do not think that Scott Peterson did it. I listened to Laura Ingall report from the court house day in and day out. I do not think the case was tried fairly and I think they convicted him because he was a liar and a cheater but with the lack of evidence that does not make him guilty of murder in my mind. They are using this sort of tactic and technique already in the Cameron Brown case. They say that his actions and reactions are not those of the everyman. Hey, I thought we were all different people, with different ways living in a diverse society that embraces our differences? Nope we are in a society of styro foam clones all wanting to be the same fucking person and crucifying anyone for not being like the next cut out down the line. We are a society that feeds on emotion and hysteria and judges people based on the question, “What would I do”. Such a selfish little group of rats in a maze of no reward and sold short accomplishments in order to keep up with the Jones and blend in in our own little camouflaged fraudulent ways are we. We all are not emotional. We all are not looking for attention. We all are not smart or intelligent. Some of us are dumb or stupid or not bright. Some of us are not looking to cry our way into a friggin’ Diane “Stupid Ass” Sawyer interview. Some of us would prefer to be left alone and deal with things in our own way. Ask any juror from the Peterson trial that made it to the end or any of the three that were cut and they will tell you that it was not until Amber Fry that they begin to think Scott guilty. Listen to the interviews with the female jurors and all they can do is focus on the infidelity. The judge even admitted there would be grounds for PLENTY of appeals due to juror misconduct and D.A. funny business. I wonder when this will all stop? I wonder if Cameron Brown will endure the same? Where will Mike Farell be on the execution night of either of these men? I know. At home wishing it was a black man so he could do Larry King interviews with Jesse Jackson. It won’t happen because Peterson and Brown are white.

I tried to find a link to the website that promotes this man’s innocence but all I could find is a website that would like you to help save Joop the 165 year old Orangutan. Go check out this website (http://www.savejoop.com/). Really go check it out and give it a quick read. They say it is horrible that Joop is 165 and his time in captivity has been torturous, as they show him laying down next to a man and smiling. They proclaim that Joop would be dead if left out in the wild and that is why they want to save him. He is too old. He is too old and likes people too much. He should be freed to go be dead and not be near any people. Some people are FUCKING INSANE!!! Nobody here to save a possible wrongly accused man. Plenty to save elderly Orangutan’s being fed and having fun. Some one needs to shoot me. I must be feeling like Joop.

Two other snippets of insanity. I can not help myself as both are just too meaty to over look and not scribe about.

I know that I just insisted you go check out of the links in this essay. I really, REALLY need you to go look at this one. Fabian “I work for Mexico” Nunez is the Assembly Speaker here in California. He is proposing that tax money and the money time that will be spent to argue about it as well as advertise and propagate legislation regarding cable TV. TV’s are like cars. They are not a necessity to live or survive. I did not watch television for a long time and only recently have peeked around it’s troublesome corners and into it’s devious little insipid crannies. The website to read about this costly little effort that is no where near necessary is We Want TV Choice (http://www.wewantchoice.com/ca). You especially do NOT need cable or satellite TV in order to breathe. That is like saying you can’t organize your vehicular (notice I did not say survive) travel with a mere Yugo but insist on the new Fair Mercedes Act. BULLSHIT! I want real representatives. The BIGGEST problem with our society is television. It is a devilish little creature blowing it’s flute as it’s cloven hooves perform precision menticide and turn us into consuming morons talking about characters as if they are our friends. If you want to go down that road, while your children are chaperoned through life by the slime oozed cathode ray tube, than that is your prerogative; I am not here to stop you. Just don’t use my tax dollars to regulate and promote it, okay? Watch Videodrome or listen to Zappa’s “I am the Slime”. I think I am going to go live on Pluto. Or if I am feeling randy, maybe Uranus. Earth is NOT for me.

The other topic would be my favorite liberal ass tissue Time Magazine. It got heated for me this weekend as I debated about whether or not Time was a conservative manifesto or a liberal agenda. I think the latter. I was proven correct yesterday as I received my weekly copy a day late due to the holiday. Political cartoons and quotes extra liberal and the obituaries non partisan. By the way Desmond Dekker died at the age of 64. You might remember him for his 1968 hit "Israelites" - it is one of my favorite non Zappa songs of all time. Then we move onto the Nation section and lo and behold in all of his two page picture spread colored glory we find Al Gore. UUUGGGGGHHHH! In a tux with little men in the background so appreciative at the nano second chance to capture his soul on the ol’ kodachrome. UUUUGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!!!! Joe Klein writes a bit about Democrat Barrack Obama - the only liberal thing within Times pages that I enjoyed (not Klein but rather Obama). No Mister Kennedy that is Barrack Obama not Osama Obama or what ever the hell you said a year ago! Then we move onto an article about how evil the Marines are due to the recent “massacre” that is being coined the new “Mei Lei”. Oh how badly the original freedom fighters against Vietnam wish it was still here so they could feel important. Does anyone remember the fire bombings of Dresden? Come on, even if it is just form reading "Slaughter House Five"? No one? Has anyone read about how gruesome and horrible ANY war was; i.e. WWI, the Civil War, War of 1812, Franco American War? Hello!?!?! OK, then the evil Enron. Of course big business is conservative and Republican and all three of those are corrupt so may they all burn in hell with a man’s fist up their ass. Then, the resurrection of the Neo-Nazis, white supremacists and militia men because of … you guessed it ILLEGAL immigration. This little ditty implies that ANYONE who is for action against ILLEGAL immigration that does not see eye to eye with Bush or McCain is a racist or a xenophobe or a nativist or a Nazi. Come on! What a fucking stupid thing to say. It is just NOT true. It is extreme voting booth stacking in order to make it happen with amnesty, oops, I mean bananas. Then an interview with Evo Morales who I used to like until he started bath housing with Hugo Chavez and preaching communist rhetoric that just does not suit him but South American politics is a hard game to play with out a few techno song filled nights of coca and cuckoo. We move on to the deadliest war in the world which, according to Time, is in the Congo. I thought that the US was the only one to participate in the deadliest anything? Why aren’t we there? Why won’t we help? Because when we do go to help full force we will be crucified by the media and the country hating assholes who do nothing except play arm chair quarterback and criticize the world from atop their beard scratching ivory towers of profundidity. Sick hypocritical bastards! Then we move to how foster teens find homes and a great piece regarding horse racing. Then a four page spread with John Updike. I have cited his book, “Couples” as one of my favorite reads. The big quote at the bottom of his page and a half picture is, “I could see why Muslims would hate the West, and the US in particular.” This lets you believe that Updike hates America too and we should just scream our liberal asses off from the highest peak on Earth and proclaim our hatred towards ourselves and bilaterally embrace the world with all of it’s scars and dysfunction and violence and genocide. MMMMMMM. Time Magazine that bastion of conservative thought and ideas.

Give a man a light a momentarily he has fire. Give a man a pack of matches and he can set his copy of Time on fire, over and over again.

Headache now. Pound, pound, pound. No cake, just ache. Big wheel please stop turning. I need a friggin’ cigarette. Or maybe a little more.

I need to understand why I am living in a world where nothing makes sense and I am always meant to think I am wrong. People actually wonder what planet I am from.

I am going to go find my own planet. I will name it Janet. I will say things like, “Damn it! I’m from the granite planet Janet, so just fan it and tan it and cram it!”

That would make so much more sense than anything here, now or   otherwise …

News looks like fish wrap once again. I suppose I don't understand what constitutes a story. I thought I did.

Today is Memorial Day. We should be remembering those that have fallen in the line of duty, given their lives to represent us proudly and with fierce discipline through out this country's history of involvement in wars, battles, conflicts, skirmishes, and even simple disagreements and arguements resolved swiftly by just the mere mention of these dedicated men: Our Armed Forces.

I know that many of you disagree with the War in Iraq. Out of respect for our soldiers I am not going to argue with anyone about that today. I think we should be there. I will leave it at that.

These words have left my lips before: Any soldier, anytime, anywhere, I will be you a drink and gladly and proudly shake your hand, listen to your stories, and help you if need be and I am able to. That is a PROMISE!

I think the news ought to be focusing a bit more on this holiday and not the rubbish they are focused on today:

Natalie Holoway, Dope filled Scooby Doo back packs, ANYTHING having to do with Brad-Angelina-Jennifer x 3 -Affleck-Damon-Foxx-Wilson, the death of Paul Gleason, or the duck with Alien head x-rays. Can we focus on the day and what it means? When will news have a moment of silence and a cup full of respect to offer?

To blame the President for our country being in war is a disgraceful avenue of vindictive shame to continue walking down on this holiday.

The government is an EVIL three head chimera with it's skull trifecta rearing and flailing out of control. If you want to throw blame around today than scream about Government Intelligence (FBI, CIA, Pentagon, and DOJ), Organized Crime, or Wall Street. They have more to do with what really happens than any of the faces we see on the news. That beast can not be tamed.

Regardless, bitching today should not be tolerated.

Put down the beer. Stop eating the meat. Turn the BBQ off. Turn down the music. Offer your guests a plate of:

Honor.

Respect.

Dignity.

Appreciation.

Awe.

A Moment of Silence ...

So here is a little relief and a poem for all;  I wrote this back before christmas 2005 ...

 

 

when will the children of Earth

stop watching sports

read again

cry and not feel bad because they have

put down a remote and pick up some initiative

speak the truth and not be silenced

know that feelings are not a passport to "whatever"

but ...

a denial of reality is grounds for insanity

your Mother may not always know

and Father does not know best

familiar existance becomes your spouse and child

and obeying someone evil is not a commandment

all the ten of them are right

except:

not coveting thy neighbor's wife

should simply and salvatingly be changed to

not coveting thy neighbor's wife without permission

lollipops suck and so does waiting in line

especially when difference is focused on

as opposed to the fact that you can walk away

"no" is our friend

and I do not mean Nancy Reagan's "no"

strength is found in something other than numbers

and you should make your holidays all the days that aren't

...

I hope the children of Earth learn these things

before they are the dregs of Earth with the power to destroy it

...