lost/lonely

rodeos and indians

went to a rodeo and concert at the rodeo grounds in Interior in 1990. me and a guy named Tim (some of you know him). we had some beer and a pack of smokes between the two of us. nothing more.
we hit the grounds and quickly realized it was an all-indian affair. didn't matter, we pushed in and got the truck right up against the arena. couple of remarks about crazy wasicu and it was left at that.
we ran out of beer right quick because folks asked and we said "in the cooler". we had about 20 bucks between us so we moseyed over to the bootlegger and bought Buds for a dollar a can ...
then we plumb ran out - no cigarettes, no beer. friends filled the gap. we'd made friends by giving and the response was giving back or maybe giving again would be a better way to say it. we smoked and drank all night. if the truck didn't know it's way home on it's own, we'd have slept in the dirt parking lot. safe as horses.

here

i like to sit outside and watch my cat and good friend Willie
he sits in the grass, eats it, barfs and chases bugs
usually, when I say Willie "come here"
he does
but only when I can't see him
when I can he see him he just looks at me like I'm a Moron
and doesn't come
tonight it dawned on me
he didn't understand my request
he was already "here"
maybe I should have worked on teaching him "come closer"

why do you call it hootenanny

someone asked me about this website
what is it about?
what does it mean?

since i didn't know how to answer and I didn't think she would get the interplay of my literary references (especially DFW and HST)
i simply referred to jackson pollock
i don't like his work so much as his approach - splatter art

so i told her
he throws paint at canvas and other people look at it
and they probably don't understand
but they wonder
they think he's an artist

maybe you and i are artists too

blackhawk down

i was out in the backyard mowing the four square feet of lawn and trimming up with the Black&Decker window breaker when a Blackhawk helicopter flew over, hovered and then the dude in the doorway sniper-scoped me. i flipped him off. the copter careened off to the east. i suspect an arrest is imminent.

sizes

two feet, two shoes
a pair of pants and a shirt
requiring sizes
thought and estimation
because shoes are expensive
shirts and pants not so much

favorite almost uncle ever

Can you really do better than that? My favorite-almost-niece-ever Twittered me with that line. I'm her favorite almost uncle. Her Dad is my best friend.
She is smarter than me. That's why I like her so much. She is wittier than anyone else I know, so that's a plus. She's lazy, like me, and loves books (tho I'm a bit of an ass when it comes to chic-lit). I bet she likes opera too. She has that quality. It's pretty rare.

time ain't nothin'

Walking down dusty roads
Looking for horny toads
With the sun on my back
Thinking about people past
Memories that never last
When you're young and naive

Time ain't nothing
When you're young at heart
And your soul still burns
I've seen rainy days
Sunshine that never fades
All through the night

Had a motorcycle at 10
Never got into heroin
I guess I want to live
Maybe get a house someday
Find a wife raise a family
That don't mean you have to die

Time ain't nothing
When you're young at heart
And your soul still burns
I've seen rainy days
Sunshine that never fades
All through the night

elkton house

Hootenanny has just learned of the transfer in ownership of the Elkton House in Wall, South Dakota. Wall is a small town of about 700 semi-lost souls on the edge of the Badlands in South Dakota and the Elkton House is a beacon of hospitality and satisfying, well-prepared family food in a well appointed environment situated in the heart of the motel district just off the town's only boulevard. (And I mean motel, not hotel. There are no hotels in Wall. All of the rooms open onto the parking lot. Nonetheless, it's a hospitable town of accomplished and dedicated 'moteliers' and otherwise.)
What I've heard though is that the new ownership of the Elkton House is contemplating the establishment of a 'gentleman's club'. Yes, they want to turn it into a titty bar. A gosh darned titty bar. In Wall. Just up the street from the school I might add.
At this titty bar, they will of course hire dancers. That is what they will call them. They'll really be nickel and dime prostitutes from Arkansas, the Carolinas and Texas but they'll argue they're all just feeding a family or working towards that degree that will spring them from the stage fees that keep them tied up like slaves.
Leaving aside the community issues (because ultimately, this idea will fail on that level and become fodder for lawyers if pursued), let's consider the likelihood this would actually succeed as a business.
In Wall, as noted above, there are about 700 people wandering around. A large proportion of these are women and children. Another large proportion are males who are either family men or otherwise wouldn't be caught dead in a place like this in their hometown. That leaves you about 30 likely candidates most of whom would show up once just to have a look and would never come back. Now you're down to to three or four. The pariahs. The untouchables. Wall's version of a ghetto crackhead. If there were enough of them, I'd say go ahead, you can't lose with those guys. But the dancers don't work for spare change only so we're back to square one. Pardon the French but we're talking skanks here. A small step up from a disease-ridden truck-stop lot lizard. Maybe. There's no real dancer money to be had in the eastern Pennington County market. Not legally anyways.
So does that mean your target audience is going to wind down to single male tourists of a "sporting" nature? (Are there a lot of those outside of Bangkok, Thailand?) In June you'll get a few custom harvesters but they work all day and into the night. In August, you'll spot some Hell's Angels, Outlaws and Bandidos due to Sturgis Bike Week. Guys from Phillip and Kadoka will round out your year and you might catch a few big-dollar, fat guys from the east coast in the area for deer hunting season in the fall. Slim pickings overall, I would guess, because even if you try to run this locally as a regular restaurant the rest of the time - no one will come. No one.
We should support business freedom and individual rights and a property owner's right to present a tax-based business model with adequate community support. But, most of all, we should support the community's right to reject it based on sound home-based reasoning and accepted community standards. It's called zoning. They ought to zone this idea and these crackpot owners right out of town.
Perhaps they'd do as well or better in Quinn or Wasta. Hell, when Tim owned the Wasta Bar, the last time I was there, there was a saddled horse in the bar before 10:00 PM. I'd pay more for that than a worn out idea.

i'm charlie chaplin

and what about the memorial to the lost
we think it was so long ago
Auschwitz
Belsen
a survivor stated she was given two left shoes and she said look
i'm charlie chaplin
she lived

i couldn't get out of my bunk
but my mother made me
unbelievable

memorial day

PINE RIDGE, SD. High on a windblown hill overlooking the Red Cloud Indian School, one Lakota name stands out among the gravestones in the Holy Rosary Church cemetery.
Red Cloud, the Lakota leader and warrior for whom the Jesuit-run educational mission is named, is buried in the school's historic cemetery. Red Cloud was born in 1822 and died at the age of 87 on Dec. 10, 1909.

This is Red Cloud's final resting place, often decorated with tobacco pouches, trinkets and other tributes to the Lakota leader. The old cemetery is closed to new burials now, but the history of that transitional period for the Lakota tribe is written in its granite headstones. The graves tell of a nomadic warrior culture rapidly replaced by life on an arid reservation. There are graves of numerous Lakota men that are also engraved with the words "U.S. Army Scout." The graves of schoolchildren who died while attending the boarding school tell the history of assimilation through the U.S. government's educational policy. The victims of several deadly blizzards that hit in the early 1900s speak of the dangers and deprivations that were part of daily life.

The grave markers document the events of the time. Red Cloud faced intense criticism within his own tribe for his decision to invite the "Blackrobes," as he called the Jesuits and their long black cassocks, to educate future generations on the reservation. The schools were often mean and dirty, offering lille hope for a better life. But Red Cloud saw that the traditional life of his Lakota people was ending and that in order for his people to prosper, their children would have to be educated to walk in both the Lakota world and the white man's world. Today, on Memorial Day, 100 years after his death, when we honor our warriors, Red Cloud's gravestone speaks across the century to the bridges and partnerships he fostered and promoted. Washte, kola.

hitch 'em tall

run westy run. you can look this band up online but you probably missed most of their shows in Mpls at 1st Ave or the 7th St Entry. we saw them all in various states of inebriation. we were acting like bad oranges.

when the world is running down you make the best of what's still around

In my case it meant borrowing my friends .308 with 15x Leopold scope, loading up an S&M .357 revolver with the 'Magna Shocks', filling the 25 round banana clip on the Ruger and heading for Nogales. Of course, I stopped for cigarettes and beer and ice in Tucson. At a truck stop. Traded some jokes with the lot lizards and drove south and then east to Nogales. The plan was to hunt 'coyotes'.
They aren't hard to find. I used my binoculars before I scoped them with the Leopold attached to an elephant gun (high bore .308) that can reach out over a mile if I judge the trajectory correctly. I usually do.
So the dudes come flying up in a big truck and get tough, verbally. I step out with my can of Copenhagen and take a dip and say what's with the hassle? The big fat one said what are you doing here? I said, hunting coyotes. He looked down, and dug a hole in the ground with his boot and said "Mexican Coyotes"?
I said, whatever pays. Sixteen bales up to Pueblo, CO paid 17K. Heck, it was just weed.

the summer of lori

starts with a party on june 4th, when she's done teaching. according to lori, herself. the best way to describe lori would be to mention she's got a pretty twinkle and fierce spark; a little bash and some pop. about five-feet four-inches tall, give or take; smart-mouthed and as sweet as a frosted cupcake.
and had you seen her tonight in that spaghetti strap dress you would have stayed until last call too.

handled it

Willie handled the desert camping well but of course he would bacause he's a hobo cat with travel under his belt. He's straight-edge hobo. Comes and goes when it pleases him, sleeps and eats here at home, reads my newspaper and wanders off again for the better part of the day. If he has a job, he sure ain't paying rent or buying his own Purina.
Since he ain't been around tonight, I figure he's headed to Higley where he runs a string out of Candace Bergen's guest house. There ain't a lot of cats that can handle that kind of action.

different names

for the same thing:
weiners, hot dogs, frankfurters
noodles, pasta
ketchup, catsup
coincidence?
don't know but you can't find nothing at all if there was nothing there all along
(DCFC)

gas station tamales

Seems like the gig is up. The new owner at the Ray-Cooper Texaco won't let them peddle tamales from the back room anymore. I left my cell number with the cute tamale lady and expect a call today when my half dozen are ready. My tamale lady cooks on the side. I am all hooked up. Three beef, three pollo. Willie eats the leftover masa and smokes the greasy cornstalks. He's a weird little half-Siamese. Grows little red peppers in the backyard. Meditates a lot. Or is just sleeping.
Anyway, this gal, Lisa, makes the best tamales on the planet. She's my tamale lady and is cute as a kitten. She has a careful smile and flashes her big, searching brown eyes. Sometimes she even throws out a little pout in with a concerned look and becomes the prettiest girl in the world.

mi mejor enemigo

my close friend is in bolivia. fighting an insurgency. or filming it. same thing i guess.
he called tonight. he's in the field, commanding his soldiers/film crew. sleeping on the ground. eating canned fish and english biscuits. a big spider crawled into the tent as we spoke. he killed it with his boot. he is a world away. and they are shooting at him.

not bad oranges

Hashed it out with fellow founding member 'Porkchop' Pat via cell from the back porch of the Penny last night and it looks like this summer's Not Bad Oranges tour is on. Just gotta line up Clem. He's the glue that has kept the candle burning. Like that last sentence, he's a mixed metaphor. Being from Long Island he's sort of NBO's Jim Carroll. But, he named the band so he's due his props.
So this was how it came about. It was one hot afternoon in Minneapolis. Lower duplex at 2609 Columbus in the heart of the south Minneapolis ghetto and Clem's eating oranges that he claimed were 'not bad'. And he said, as he ate his third, 'these are not bad oranges'. Thoroughly stoned to begin with, we immediately formed a rock band. The rest is history. Sort of, anyway. None of us remember the early gigs. Just the giggles.
NBO rocks!

Tour Info:

June 12 - Interior, SD (Sharon's Driveway).
June 13 - Wall, SD (Badlands Bar). Free pizza to first six ladies.
June 14 - Wall, SD (Cactus Bar - basement).
June 15 - Creighton, SD (Randy Clark's Tool Shop).
June 15 - Creighton, SD (After party in Jim Eisenbraun's cow barn).
June 16 - Rapid City, SD (John Tyrell's house in north Rapid).
June 18 - Gillette, WY (Randy and Lisa's back yard).
June 19 - Valentine, NE (Fulton Ranch Rodeo).

June 29 - Whiskey, Los Angeles CA. (With Exene Cervenka and John Doe).
June 30 - San Pedro, CA (With Mike Watt).
July 4 - Huntington Beach, CA (With Alien Sex Fiend).

August 8 - King's Park Long Island, NY (With Ryan Adams and the Cardinals).
August 13 - Kannapolis, NC (Unplugged).

September 7 - Duluth, MN (Some coffee shop with Charlie Parr).
September 8 - Superior, WI (Kerosene Bar). Free beer.
September 10 - MN State Fair Fried Cheese Curd Booth (Unplugged).
September 14 - Appleton, MN Apple Fest (Unplugged).

November 6-17 - Fargo and Grand Forks, ND (Fall Eel Pout Festival).
November 19 - Tempe, AZ (HOME AT LAST - Library Bar on Mill Street). Free fish-net stockings for the chicks with the shortest skirts, longest legs and rattiest dreads(3 pairs per participant).
November 20 - Tempe AZ (Cheba Hut on University - go with a pinner, the blunts are huge).

More dates to be announced later.

NBO. Come see us. Drive your life in circles. Circles of joy!

can you believe it

I met this lovely young lady last night at the Copper Penny in downtown Gilbert. I'd seen her before at the Liberty Market and behind the counter at Joe's Real BBQ which is kitty korner across Gilbert Road, but it wasn't until tonight when I saw her again and she smiled at me and said "hi, that chair next to me is empty". I lost contact with reality momentarily and just barely managed to say hi right back. And then, of course I took the empty chair.
Her name is Barbara Anne Hall. Originally from Sioux Falls, SD. Was a Chi Omega at the same time I was a Teke (Theta Eta 286). So, unlikely though it seems, USD frat boy meets USD sorority girl a million miles away.
We closed the Penny and spent the rest of the night down by the canal. To me, she looks just like a young Doris Day. Or just the prettiest girl, ever.

the night the grain elevator burnt down

i was at scott's house. there was a a big boom and a flash. sirens. a huge fire. the grain elevator was on fire. we ran over to look and watch.
jerry morgan pulled up in his pontiac firebird. fleetwood mac, go your own way. loud. on the car stereo. elevator burned. we watched, mesmerized by the fire.
after awhile, it collapsed.
so did i, elated by what i'd seen.

big steve

We didn't get too scared when Big Steve waved a crooked stick and brandished a pocket full of rusty nails at us down by the sale barn. We just scattered, left and right. The cowboys on horseback running the cattle in would step on it to calm him down and Steve would break down and cry. We'd laugh, but we weren't sure we should. Big Steve was OK most of the time. Crying concerned us. He was the crazy guy that chased us through the goat pens and out across the field towards Dart's Dam. And back again. We didn't like it when he cried.

Big Steve was a Vietnam veteran and his time in Vietnam broke his brain, body and spirit. He walked around town with a thick leather belt on his head. Not on his forehead but underneath his chin and over. So adorned, he wandered. In and out of here and there. He ate for free but no one knew where he went at night. He was good at disappearing.

One night while walking home from work, I passed by the sale barn and ran into Big Steve on the old dirt road next to the Fire Department. He was bedding down in the ditch by the old Fisher Implement shop (next to the old laundromat). He had a boom box with Cheap Trick's 'Surrender' playing very loud. As I sat there with him and his boom box, Big Steve began to evaporate. Somehow he lost his gravitational relationship with the ditch and began a molecular disintegration. I was fascinated and compelled.

He hasn't been seen since.

dear john

Well when I woke up this mornin',
There was a note upon my door,
Said don't make me no coffee Babe,
'cause I won't be back no more,
And that's all she wrote, Dear John,
I've sent your saddle home.
Now Jonah got along in the belly of the whale,
Daniel in the lion's den,
But I know a guy that didn't try to get along,
And he won't get a chance again,
And that's all she wrote, Dear John,
I've fetched your saddle home.
Well she didn't forward no address,
Nor she didn't say goodbye,
All she said was if you get blue,
Just hang your little head and cry,
And that's all she wrote, Dear John,
I've sent your saddle home.
Now my gal's short and stubby,
She's strong as she can be,
But if that little old gal of mine,
Ever get's a-hold of me,
That's all she wrote, Dear John,
I've sent your saddle home.
Now Jonah got along in the belly of the whale,
Daniel in the lion's den,
But I know a man that didn't try to get along,
And he won't get a chance again,
And that's all she wrote, Dear John,
I've fetched your saddle home.
Now I went down to the bank this morning,
The cashier said with a grin,
I feel so sorry for you Hank,
But your wife has done been in,
And that's all she wrote, Dear John,
I've sent your saddle home.
Hank Williams

kicking bear and shortbull

In the summer of 1890, Kicking Bear and Short Bull visited Wovoka in Utah. They became enraptured by his faith and even stated that Wovoka levitated through the air above them. Wovoka spoke of the Ghost Dance. Kicking Bear and Short Bull brought the Ghost Dance back to the Dakota reservations, but in a form which lead to totally unexpected results.
Wovoka's faith was based on non-violence. In fact, he even urged his followers not to tell the wasicu what they were doing. But as interpreted by Kicking Bear and Short Bull, the Ghost Dance took on a militaristic aspect. Special garments known as Ghost Shirts were to be worn to deflect bullets fired by soldiers or settlers. Government agents were permitted to witness the Ghost Dance ceremony and were told what it meant. Kicking Bear and Short Bull assured the Lakota that the Indian Messiah would appear to them in the Spring of 1891.
All activities at the reservation were put aside, government agents and settlers were terrified by this sudden and (to them) bizarre turn of events. Newspapers spread stories of savage Indians in wild pagan practices. Tensions became overpowering in the region as the Lakota people gave all their waking hours to the Ghost Dance.
Blame for the Ghost Dance was placed on two people. Wovoka was traced as the father of the Ghost Dance and was interviewed by James Mooney, an ethnologist and anthropologist with the Smithsonian Institute. Wovoka passed a message to Mooney that he would control any militaristic uprising among the Native peoples in return for financial and food compensation from Washington. The offer was ignored. Blame was also put on Lakota elder and statesman, Sitting Bull. Ironically, Sitting Bull was apathetic to the Ghost Dance and only allowed its introduction with great caution. His initial fears were realized: government agents considered Sitting Bull responsible due to his leadership role among the Lakota. Tribal police were dispatched to arrest him, but his apprehension resulted in conflict when several Lakota fought to protect him. Sitting Bull was killed in the crossfire between supporters and Lakota tribal police on December 15, 1890.
Fourteen days after Sitting Bull's fatal shooting, the U.S. Army sought to relocate and disarm the Lakota people, who failed to stop their Ghost Dance. Big Foot took his band of three hundred from the Cheyenne River Reservation and fled south through the Badlands, eluding a reformed 7th Cavalry. On the frozen plains at Wounded Knee on the Pine Ridge Reservation, government troops opened fire on the overwhelmingly unarmed Lakota people with Hotchkiss gatling guns, forcing the killing field survivors into the deep gullies where they were hunted and massacred by 7th Cal horsemen. At least 290 souls were lost. Many lie in the original trench dug for their disposal, a heartless display of American Indian policy in the waning days of the century. Thirty-three soldiers died, most from friendly fire; 20 Medals of Honor were presented to surviving soldiers.
As news of Wounded Knee spread throughout the Native nations, the Ghost Dance died quickly. Wovoka's prophecies were seen as hollow; the land would not be returned through divine intervention. With the same suddenness of its birth, the Ghost Dance disappeared.
Wovoka himself virtually vanished into obscurity. In his later years, he exhibited himself at sideshows in county fairs and worked as an extra in silent movie Westerns. (The one surviving photograph of Wovoka was taken on the set of a film.) By the time of his death on September 20, 1932, he was virtually forgotten by both white and Native peoples. It would not be until the 1970s and the birth of Native American activism that the story of the Ghost Dance was told again.
The tragedy of Wovoka is a legacy of pain and suffering among the very people he wanted to save. The songs of the Ghost Dance are silent today and the dream of Wovoka vanished. The Christian principles which he laced into his theology were ignored by the soldiers and settlers who held allegiance to Christ and yet destroyed the Native way of life with a brutality unknown in the Gospel teachings.

This, then, is not the tale of a great hunter or of a great warrior, or of a great traveler, although I have made much meat in my time and fought for my people both as boy and man, and have gone far and seen strange lands and men. So also have many others done, and better than I. These things I shall remember by the way, and often they may seem to be the very tale itself, as when I was living them in happiness and sorrow. But now that I can see it all as from a lonely hilltop, I know it was the story of a mighty vision given to a man too weak to use it; of a holy tree that should have flourished in a people's heart with flowers and singing birds, and now is withered; and of a people's dream that died in bloody snow. Ben Black Elk

cleaning the pool

The pool expert is back tonight. The pool murk remains unresolved despite our best efforts. A disturbing development has been the arrival of a hoard of poisonous desert toads who now ring the pool like funky gargoyles in the early evening and throughout the night and make a raucous noise akin to a threatened rabbit. Eerie and piercing. Caspar and Willie are on lock down which is good in any event because the backyard neighbor told me if our cats climbed the wall into his yard again, he'd trap them and feed each a toad. I decided to help him in his endeavor. I've been catching the toads with the pool net and heaving them over the wall into his backyard. If I should drop off line for a few days it's probably because I've been arrested for toad launching, a serious offense here in Phoenix. Wish me luck as I deliver the toads via air to their new digs in the hater's backyard.

swinging party down the line

that's all one can hope for these days. the swine flu (God forbid we should rile the pork producers and actually they're right - this is a human virus now, leave pork out of it), but people are dying. doesn't something similar happen every flu season? when i get the flu i don't even go to my doctor unless i need a refill on the percodan (not). i'm thinking i'll play this one out, avoid the hype. lay low. stay easy. and look for a swinging party down the line.

be real

obama didn't create this mess. eight years of cowboy bush did. if you aren't clued into that basic fact then move to crawford TX. you'll be about as welcome there as you would be here. feel free to practice your irrelevant intolerance since you no longer live in the world but in your tiny little compound surrounded by fences and gates. good thing you have a pool. you'll need it when iran and korea launch. as if. grow up.

hard to break

just like any crawford i've ever known, ol' robert can't be whipped by one, two or three or even four. the old boys behind main st. in wall tried but couldn't move that gang out of place. now he's been told he's whipped but you and i, and we, know better. and now that he's got that brand new four barrel carburetor, i suspect he'll make more trouble than he did before. if that's actually possible.

my cat did some meth or something

I think Willie did some meth or coke tonite. He came back in from outside, tipped over my beer and immediately hit the iPod speaker dock and navigated to the Killers and then the Fray using the old touch wheel. I was impressed with his ability and choice until he went at clawing my leather man-recliner, or tried to before I cuffed him hard. Then I grabbed him to check whether he was was on drugs and he shot out of my hand like a bolt of lightening and right into the glass patio door. BOINK. SPLAT. Rargh, spasm, mee-ouch. As he lay twitching on the Spanish tile gasping for air, I approached with great caution because he's tricked me before into buying him Fancy Feast (the little tweaker). But, before I got to him, the ceiling cat, the evil all-white Caspar came in. He's her cat and he's a bastard. He watches me when she's away. Maybe or perhaps very likely he's not ceiling cat but actually a demon.
On his demonic entrance, Willie came to life and rose up and got Masonic (Willie's Fifth Degree Mason) on Caspar's ass. During a 30 second crazed sword-fight frenzy, they damn near knocked my 42" plasma off the wall. I swear I saw them run up a wall, across the ceiling and tip over a forty pound clay cactus planter during a very entertaining scuffle. Willie is cleaning his paws right now and Caspar ain't quite as white as he was before he annoyed Willie. Some of you might know or remember Willie has Pueblo, CO hobo-camp experience. You don't mess with hobos or their cats. We all know that. I think. Oh yeah and I forgot to mention that Willie trains at the Gilbert County Island Flood Irrigation Ninja Prefectory for Cats. So he did have an advantage over Caspar. Plus, Caspar's a pussy.

TeevBow Update

we're just upgrading our marketing from Teever-Bowman to TeevBow for president, 2012. Or earlier if need arises. We are working on a platform but our initial access to platform grade plywood was limited. Notwithstanding our campaign team risking it's life for 2x4's and cinder blocks and concrete at the abandoned housing development in north Rapid, we'll push through.

at a limpin' run

how to get motivated these days besides just hangin' on and driving a used saturn with a buck 30 on it?
any ideas? anyone? i been at a limpin' run since my leg almost bugged off last year. on it's own accord.
the highlight of my day today was explaining the NFPA to an Operations Manager, explaining to another how to buy a forklift battery using a phone and/or the internet and downloading Pandora to my crackberry.
i'm sure i must be some poor somebody's hero, but of course i'd rather not be. i am too good at lazy. if anyone's looking for that, call. i'll make some chili. bring beer.

the copper penny

i was let out of the house by the person in charge so i hopped in my truck and headed to 'downtown' gilbert with my sights set on the copper penny. a fine, historical establishment with pool and darts and wackos and normals. my perfect element, exactly. i will definitely be going back after having made sure the bouncer (dave) and the bartenders (lindsey and kim) know my name. from the hit on my AMEX gold, i'm sure they will.
anyway, i met a strung out meth head with bad breath, a girl with barely concealed boobs so big i couldn't stop looking and a few really cool folks, but i'm home now and someone is gonna be mad when i crawl in. could be me and the cat on the couch tonite.

Update: The couch it is. With the cat. At least he understands my wandering. It's not like I was the one that pooped in her shoe. Probably her cat that did that. He's trying to drive a wedge, I think. Jealous little fink.

rain

i hope it rains tomorrow so i can stay inside and watch the masters and snack on the homemade tamales i bought for a buck apiece - two beef, two pork, two pollo. all for six bucks.
the lady at the circle k sells them for extra cash from the back room. she and her sister make them. they're awesome and so long as i don't get the ptomaine, i'll keep buying them. really, they're awesome and now i have a real homemade tamale source. i'll be on the look out for some excellent chorizo next. it has to be fresh. made on site. and when they give you your change, they'll do it in spanish.

473 million

is the amount of money spent on and by the beer industry in sodak in 2008. about a million of that comes from people i know. they also buy trucks, guns and attend bonfire keggers. sometimes they fight, but that doesn't stop the flow of beer. it's a commodity. never to be criminalized. it's part of the holy trinity of weed, pizza and beer. and cable. i added that to the trinity. and music. and BBQ. and driving down a dirt road with a great friend listening to the jim carroll band while chasing a herd of cows. my friend assures me he can jump from the window onto the the back of one of these cows ...
he positions himself accordingly but no dice, the cows fan out. i can't get him close enough
he gets back in and we replay JC's perfect gravity

my new pool

i love this pool. small but with a rock waterfall that lights up at night. it's like staying at a miniature sheraton.
it was 92 today in phoenix. the pool was as cold as ... well not as cold as hell, but not like south dakota either. a hot-cold gig is rejuvenating. it's just cold up there now.
but i don't live in SoDak anymore, i live in the valley of the sun, so tomorrow morning i'm gonna toast a couple of eggo waffles, slather 'em with a bit of salted, sweet cream butter, douse 'em with the chokecherry syrup that i got from my 2012 pres-campaign runnin' mate and bestest girlfriend Pat B, and chomp beside the pool. i'll be grinnin' the whole time. because as country dick sang, i'm a happy boy.
hasta manyana

PS: Pat, you are a sweetheart; this syrup is awesome!

hound dog taylor and the houserockers

just when i thought i was living in the perfect paradise, it got better. ole hound dog set up his kit in the backyard. so i'm gettin' some ribs prepped for the grill. gonna adorn them with some north carolina pig perfector, bone suckin' sauce it's a gol' dang hootenanny! just wish ole' festus could be here (RIP Mr. Parker) and of course, you're invited too

happy easter

is it next week? cripes i don't keep track. a holiday? not for me now and never really was. a weird space in time built around rabbits and hard-boiled eggs. the fact that they got this spruce goose to fly is 89% of its cachet. of course there are peeps (gag) and chocolate rabbits but i grew up poor so my rabbit was always hollow.
it took me awhile to figure out the good friday mystery of forehead dust. i thought maybe they just finished reading the new york times and inadvertently touched their forehead. you know, the ink dust. i'm glad i don't practice a face painting religion. it saves time. i don't have to explain the smudge. but hey, you catholics go ahead. rock on.

digging tamara

i met tamara last night at the spurr lounge in laveen. unfortunately on probably my last night there because i'm moving back to the east valley and about 40 miles away. bummer? the spurr is the best cowboy/indian bar i've found in this otherwise chain-sports-bar wasteland. people remember you there. i get my bottle of bud with a frosted mug. it's not advertised. i asked sammy, the bartender, why not, and she said we quit offering it but we know you like 'em so we keep a few in the freezer for you. dang - how can times be so tough when you have friends like these?
anyway, tamara was a young pretty little thing that pulled up on the stool next to me when others more distant were available and immediately engaged me in conversation. i couldn't figure out whether she was asian, latino or otherwise so i went out on a limb and simply asked her. turn's out she's navaho. i told her if i ever bought a kachina doll, i would want it to look just like her.
i'd forgotten that kachina's were hopi but she still thought it was sweet. i hope she gets everything she wants in life. she ought to.

i can't find arlys klundt on facebook

after a great deal of very little or maybe even no effort, i still can't find arlys klundt on facebook. he is apparently not one of the estimated 200 million users. i did speak to his father lyle, currently employed as a janitor at the school in kadoka. he gave me some news and assured me that arlys was alive and well but that he could provide no further information, national security or something.
i met with some teever ops guys (yeah, i hire spec-ops guys in situations like this). they surveilled lyle for some time but no evidence of arlys or his whereabouts ever surfaced. he's like a ghost or a ninja.
but my spec-ops guys did get the skinny - arlys sells frozen pizza for a distributor in south korea for a Brazilian pizza company operating out of las vegas, nevada. my guys (spec-ops), have confirmed. i'm going to korea next week to try to bring him back. lyle thinks he's gone native. i'll hook up with my SEAL contacts and get him home. bet on it.

i ain't a cowboy, but i know a few

marty, darty, lee, scott (even though he defected to north dakota), grant (they had the bucking barrel - that was a collarbone breaker). joe dubya who's prca on broncs right now. that temple SOB who rode bulls, I don't remember how he died. probably a car accident. somebody comment and fill me in.
it was great to grow up in a town that had a place called the 'rodeo grounds'. horses and bulls, a few calves for the ropers and steers for the boys. loose meat sandwiches and beer. beat the shit out of luchenbach, tx, didn't it?

PS: we used to sneak up under the bleachers and steal the old cow hands' beer and hats, the beer is gone but i still have the hat

diana deserves

a front and center

the moonie is on a bender

or some kind of weird downward spiral. i asked if i could speak with her regarding administrative matters - she said, "no, i have to get up at 1 AM, i really can't talk". WTF. she works for a mortgage broker? at 1 AM? am i reliving the song Jane Says by Jane's Addiction? is the broker pimping her? i doubt it because she ain't all that healthy lookin', but i'll delve no further - though i wonder if that shopping cart down by the mailboxes is her new home
sad times

making friends

years ago in minneapolis my sister in law brought her mother (who I knew) and her new husband (who I did not know) to the family workplace (beautiful bambino children's clothing). I was VP of Production which meant I channeled the work flow and actually acted as the head cutter and pattern layout guy. well, in-law step-dude shows up and he's kind of identified as an asshole so they say go hang with the teever, he's cool and can show you how we run this show. he does. we discuss tools and boats. i show him how to safely use a reciprocating straight knife. turns out, he's not an asshole. he's ok. but sucks with the knife. can't keep a line. he could never cut velvet.
later, i get a report back, step-dad says to sister i law's mom who reports back to me that he said, 'I like that guy, he knows how to make friends'.
One of the best compliments I've ever received.

teever/bowman push G20 for more global warming

the teever/bowman political alliance is taking on this rash of global cooling and rampant snowstorms by pushing a global warming agenda at the G20 conference in europe. while attracting little support for their ambitious agenda, they were seen eating strawberry crepes with thick, farm-fresh cream at a small cafe near the louvre. pat was resplendant in feathered carapace while teever donned a cotton, black and white striped shirt and leather beret. it was rumored that later they would be attending an absinthe tasting affair at the botanical gardens near le gare sud'est. before we could confirm, they bought a baguette, some jam, a bit of butter and a servicible knife and sped off on a Vespa.

dude, WTF is jasmine

on the label of a California Riesling i read, 'notes of white peach, jasmine and pear' WTF is jasmine? jasmine has a flavor? who eats jasmine? where does it come from?

adventure

I embarked on a Spurr adventure yesterday evening and had the pleasure of encountering my good friend Alex and his partner in crime, Maureen. Tanya and Tina were running the bar and Chris was handling the karaoke duties. I like karaoke. I like the car-accident, train wreck aspect of it. You don't want to listen or watch but you have to. It's compelling.
First up is Bill. He's a tone-deaf monotone. He starts singing some old 70's song and I gratuitously howl like an injured dog. His friends laugh. He laughs. When he's done. I point at him and I say, that was fantastic. You are my new hero. And he agreed. So now he is officially my new hero.
Then came the short girl with glasses, Gene Simmons (KISS) hair and no chin. No chin at all, straight to neck. She sang a very obscure song very badly. I think it was Helen Reddy. My previous dog-howling was Godlike in comparison. Plus, as mentioned, glasses no chin and bad Gene Simmons (KISS) hair.
I leaned over to Alex, who is a very accomplished vocalist, and mentioned, 'she totally fails'. He agreed with the obvious as her piercing (like a hound dog wearing a shock collar) emissions continued. But I really sealed my fate when she sat back down and after I glimpsed again her face and future, turned to Alex and said, 'Jeez, she can't sing and she's only gonna' get uglier, that's unfortunate'. I believe Alex aspirated some Tecate. Maureen punched me.
Thanks for reading. I'm off to Hell now. They're waiting for me.

baby sasquatch

I was taking Colleen home after karaoke night at the Spurr Lounge because she works tomorrow (home health care) and as I pulled up to her place, this little bugger popped out of the bushes and bolted down the street in front of me. Short guy, stocky, kind of bandy-legged. At the moment, I thought I'd either seen a baby Sasquatch in human clothes or a Mexican shape-shifting chupacabra. I gave Colleen a big distracted smooch, shoved her out the door and checked my Ruger single action and went into full-pursuit mode. I needed to know whether it was a stinky bud hallucination from the KGB I got from the dude in the parking lot at the bar or whether I had actually seen a mythical creature. If I could catch it and keep it alive for awhile, I could surely earn some TMZ cash.
Turns out, it was just a midget. A hobo midget.
I caught up with him in the park by the monkey bars. My stride gave me an advantage. Though he could scurry, I could run. And he stopped at the first shot I fired at him. He was drunk but because he was built so low to the ground, he didn't sway or stagger. He said his name was Bill. He offered up a flask. It was 12 year old MacAllen.
I said Bill, why were you in the bushes outside my girlfriend's house and he said, and I quote, "I was counting."
Counting what, I asked.
"Leaves. I'm from Omaha. They have trees and there we spend the better part of any given year counting the leaves. Like a census."
I left it that because I was flummoxed and baffled. So Bill and I finished off the flask and about three-teen beers each. Then I took Bill down to the hobo camp under the I-10 mini-stack. Gave him a loaf of Circle K bread and some onion rings and he scurried into the bushes.
As he fled, he yelled "there's too much company, Connor Oberst was right". Huh?
Now I'm conflicted, do I tell Colleen about the midget or do I find a new weed dealer who doesn't lace his product with fairy dust.

oddity

i was fishing in a little pond just east of Cesar Chavez High School in Laveen when i reeled in a patagonian toothfish. that's a seagoing member of the cod family. a deep sea wanderer. most people know it by it's marketing name, chilean sea bass. i just know it trolled in like dead carp. but since it didn't smell bad, i scaled it, grilled it over oak charcoal with a pinch of sea salt and a little olive oil and served it with a side dish of parboiled garlic snap beans and fresh hothouse tomatoes. it was good, but i still can't figure out how that toothfish got in that pond.

teever/bowman ticket likely

Following extensive negotiations between the the two camps, it looks like a Teever/Bowman ticket is likely in 2011. Cornered in the plaza at Trump Plaza near Columbus Circle, Ms. Bowman said to the assembled, "i was ready for this." Later, she and teever were seen eating pancakes though observers were unable to establish the syrup on either plate. Whatever it was, if Ms. Bowman was involved in the decision, the pundits agreed, it had to be sweet, just like Pat.

squeeze

after Frank Fools Crow passed and the planets were no longer aligned, a Bear Lodge Creek Lakota elder answered a question I had presented via email. the question was, what does it mean when you're holding hands with your pretty lady and she gives you a squeeze and a soft look. the elder related back to Ben Black Elk who said the sacred hoop is broken and the nations have scattered. the elder then stated that the squeeze was an affirmation that the natural order was being restored. as for the look, he said, you're just one dang lucky wasicu.

cat door

i need a cat door. if you have one, please call.

neko

The Winds
by Sasha Frere-Jones March 16, 2009

The title of Neko Case’s new album, “Middle Cyclone,” is a reference to “mesocyclone,” the core rotational structure of a thunderstorm, which can produce a tornado. This was not my interpretation of the phrase, which I took as a commentary on age, and on how Case turned thirty-eight last year: hair flying, throat open, poorly secured items be damned. Case’s work on “Middle Cyclone”—the best of her career by a generous margin, and every song her own except for two covers—addresses youth, aging, marriage, death, change, and all that knobby stuff you run over on the way to your midpoint.
Nature and violence are the forces at work in “Middle Cyclone.” Mockingbirds sing, ants march, and the sky drops marbles on Case’s characters. The Sistine Chapel is “painted with a Gatling gun,” and the characters in “People Got a Lotta Nerve” are all types of trouble—one is a “man-eater,” another eats “hearts of sharks.” Case sums up this scenario—after a long pull on a cheap cigarette, one hopes—by singing, “It will end again in bullets, friend.”
“Middle Cyclone” isn’t an album that breaks apart the world with new sounds. It has the same feel as R.E.M.’s “Murmur,” Meat Puppets’ “Up on the Sun,” or X’s “Under the Big Black Sun,” perfectly formed rock albums from the eighties that emerged from the nest of punk rock, steeped in a love of older music and newer sounds, with self-indulgences held in check by a quick pulse.
The wide-open spaces and narrow hopes of the characters in “Middle Cyclone” could come from any of the many stages of Case’s life. Born in Virginia, Case spent most of her youth in and around Tacoma, Washington, leaving home at fifteen for Vancouver, where she played drums in punk-rock bands. She lived for five years in Tucson, and recently moved to Vermont, where she bought a farmhouse and a defunct post office, to use as a rehearsal space. She is an avid defender of animals (the song “I’m an Animal” is not all that metaphorical, apparently) and has lived much of her life in places where cars and guns usually go together, and fast. If you can’t tell how far Case is throwing her voice as a writer, she gives you a big cue in “Vengeance Is Sleeping,” when she sings, “I’m not the man you think I am.”
Case began recording in the nineties, with a revolving band of musicians billed as Neko Case and Her Boyfriends. Their sound, as Case described it, was like “a bunch of kids trying to reproduce some sort of Owen Bradley magic.” Case and her band took elements—pedal-steel guitar, loads of reverb on the voice—of the so-called “Nashville sound” that Bradley helped create for singers like Patsy Cline. At first, Case’s take on country was engaging, mostly because of her voice, which Case herself describes as “breathing through a fire hose.” “I’ve never really listened to my voice and gone, That is a quality instrument,” she told me. “It’s more like, O.K., that’s good and fucking loud.” She added, “I’m kind of the horn section of any band I’m in.”
Without Case’s voice, the Boyfriends records would have been fairly unremarkable country-rock albums. It is ironic that Case, of all people, would be so fond of reverb, an effect whose metallic curve can sometimes obscure a truly great voice but is a boon to modest singers. (The Jesus and Mary Chain would be a couple of links short without the reverb.) Case’s tone has the glint and the bruised shading of well-handled brass, her pitch is merciless, and when the throttle is open her chest voice is more than a mere horn section: Case is an event, a force that sets off things around it.
One of the Vancouver groups that Case has worked with is the energetic pop-rock band the New Pornographers. The band’s principal songwriters are A. C. Newman, who has a knack for twisting melodies which recalls that of Squeeze’s Glenn Tilbrook, and the prolix Dan Bejar, who writes mainly for his band Destroyer. Case’s role with the New Pornographers has been largely as a voice—she does not write with the band. But a song like Newman’s “The Laws Have Changed,” a magnificent and clever work from 2003 that implicitly likened the Bush family to ancient-Egyptian rulers, does not peak fully until Case enters, singing, in chorus with her own voice, “Introducing for the first time, Pharaoh on the microphone.” You can’t help cheering along with the royalty for three minutes.
As the New Pornographers grew in popularity, so did Case, who made her first full-length Boyfriendless record, “Blacklisted,” in 2002; it was her last and best iteration of the countrified middle ground. The attraction to mid-century country music, especially when it goes a-waltzing, makes sense. Like Nashville ballads, Case’s songs tend toward long, luxurious phrases that suit her voice. (By contrast, she cites “nimble” vocalists, like her backup singer Kelly Hogan, as people with voices as precise as “coping saws.” “They’re like little mountain goats—they’re just hopping up the cliffs,” she said.)
Case’s change in writing style began with “The Tigers Have Spoken” (2004), an album of songs recorded live. The material is mostly covers—several traditional numbers, Loretta Lynn’s “Rated X,” and “Loretta,” by the obscure late-seventies Boston group Nervous Eaters—combined with four Case originals, including “Favorite.” It’s a waltz, a time signature that Case leans on a little heavily, and though the textures are country, the melodies have become longer, the chord changes a little stranger, and the themes more Case’s own. (She hits a deer with her car, but only in a dream.)

pol pot

when i was living in cambodia, in a small village on the border with laos, i made a report to the village elder, hun vang, about the lack of real meat,
white rice and liquor stores. hun gave me some 'monkey' meat (more likely a vietnamese ground mole) and said i should try to hook up with pol pot. he gave me a number. so i called and pol pot answered. turns out that even though he's the second coming of hitler and murdered millions, he had a line on fresh chickens and single malt scotch. he hooked me up. for a vicious devil who should have been and finally was executed, he was very congenial with me. and he wrote me a letter before he was put down wishing me, my family and my friends well, not even mentioning his upcoming demise. he did mention that since he was imprisoned he couldn't score any cocaine. it's apparently hard to come by in cambodian prisons. unfortunately, i couldn't help.

more than one way

There's more than one way to skin a cat, but the result is the same. So whatever approach you decide to take, just do it well. Just let the results speak. And be prepared to dispose the carcass.

the garden show

i've been informed by a certain colleen that i'm going to the garden show this saturday. i assure you i was careful and i didn't ask the obvious question; what is the garden show? it's too soon to challenge the girl things, especially 'cause she's otherwise most sweet. i assume it's about flowers anyway, and as long as i'm the principal gardener, i guess i'm ok with it.

renaissance festival

right after rush limbaugh and hemorrhoids, i hate renaissance festivals. it's the ultimate freak show for mentally deranged idiots who live in a delusional fantasy world of gremlins and ghosts. an example; at my friends wedding reception this renaissance festival pagan chick in a really bad dress got up and did a hand dance. why would you wear a costume to a friggin' wedding reception? personally, i couldn't figure it out and i don't know what the point was, but if i'd had my shotgun with me i would have put an end to it!

the turkish shave

I don't know whether this is available near you, but I get one at least two times a week. It's very relaxing.

First, you get a warmed, damp towel from a steamer that softens the beard nubbins, then a swathe of aromatic shaving cream. Next, a super sharp straight razor is brought to task. Skillfully.

After the first shave, you get another warm towel, and then another lather and a second shave. Damn!

Best of all, before you leave, you're offered a Turkish coffee (the hashish of coffee) and pastries and asked about your view of current events. All listen attentively. Ask questions and trade insults. So, if you're like me, you sit around for an hour or two because these dudes are cool.

Price: $12.50 - pastries and coffee included.

live blogging obama's address to congress

7:00 nbc news states obama's current approval rating is north of 60%, of course it is. he hasn't had enough time in position.
7:02 two supreme court justices blew off the event, most notably scalia, the illegal-duck-hunting strict constructionist. stevens apparently had some bad cheesecake
7:04 here comes michelle in (satin?) purple dress - possible vikes fan? wouldn't that be a bears betrayal - should have gone with orange and black
7:05 here comes the cabinet, no not furniture though they may as well be, stick o' wood here, upholstery there.
7:05 hilary emerges, wish she'd quit doing that, emerging I mean
7:09 biden and pelosi look like hungry retards waitin' for the short bus. here, have a shit eatin' grin, nancy, i have many says paul
7:10 here comes obama, i bet he has reserved parking
7:12 i think i just saw obama just grease a palm with some stimulus money
7:13 obama kisses hilary
7:14 side camera angle indicates the size of pelosi's ass - huge, with built in shelving
7:16 does obama's tie got pink in it?
7:18 blah, blah, blah, crisis
7:19 blah, blah, blah, rebuild
7:20 blah, blah, blah, responsibility
7:22 blah, blah, blah, day of reckoning
7:23 blah, blah, blah, dilemma
7:25 blah, blah, blah, tax cut, tax credit
7:25 beer/pee break BRB
7:28 back, what'd i miss? not much, i suspect
7:29 blah, blah, blah, refinance
7;30 blah, blah, blah, nationalize the banks, eff the stockholders
7:31 can a guy get a hot dog in congress?
7:32 blah, blah, blah, significant resources required (so i refuse not to borrow from china and saudi arabia)
7:33 blah, blah, blah, i promise you, i get it
7:34 blah, blah, blah, open ended recession
7:35 God this is boring
7:36 i'm thinking about snacking on that cold porkchop
7:37 or maybe i should just wait, this sounds like a chicken every pot speech
7:39 blah, blah, blah, protectionist trade practices
7:40 ok, dude, let's wrap it up, america is having a hard time paying attention (or paying for anything else)
7:42 nothing happened in the last two minutes worth mentioning - nancy pelosi jumped up and started clapping like she was on crack but i suspect that happens a lot - health care reform is the current topic
7:45 blah, blah, blah, i suffer no illusions (good to know)
7:46 blah, blah, blah, a prescription for economic decline (re education)
7:50 jeez dude, WRAP IT UP!
7:52 might as well pee again, this noise is becoming distracting
7:55 my head is gonna 'splode!
7:57 willie pete left the room, believe he's fed up
7:58 blah, blah, blah, the obligatory statement of support
8:00 blah, blah, blah, i closed gitmo
8:01 blah, blah, blah, gonna hang with iran
8:02 this is so boring, i contemplated going for chicken - Church's has the best
8:03 much better than Popeyes
8:04 blah, blah, blah, now i plan to get really sappy
8:05 just realized i hid my weed jar but i can't remember where?
8:06 found it
8:07 should have thought of it before this started, maybe it would have been more interesting
8:08 thank God, he's done
8:09 and now, the real morons will discuss the speech, yawn ...

it's over, the speech i mean. let me know what you thought especially if you payed closer attention than me

note from mackenzie

First things first: Don't freak out. I know things look bleak. You're stocking up on shotgun shells and Dinty Moore Beef Stew, dreading the day you inevitably have to pitchfork-fight a hobo over the last piece of firewood in the Hooverville. Hell, you might even be thinking that Kanye West was wrong for once: maybe "The Good Life" isn't all that. Maybe the mass pursuit of diamond-spackled grills, champagne Jacuzzis and McMansions the size of Vatican City was not actually the happiness we totally had the right to pursue.

This past year, we learned that karma is a bitch. That Wall Street is run by Hamburglars. The government is basically too many pigs at too small a trough. That we're broke, at war(s) and, instead of dealing with it, we've chosen to watch celebrities dance, dance, dance for the bloodthirsty hordes. We torture to make ourselves feel safer, cheat each other to make ourselves richer and have generally behaved like raging assholes.

I get all that, and still I say with total and utter conviction: America is awesome. And we're awesome because we are batshit, out of our minds crazy. The French are intellectuals, the Russians are brooders and the Chinese are hard workers. Americans are crazy. Our optimism, ambition, and self-interest verges on the manic.

Think about it - we're a country of over 300 million people, and each of us is told, and honestly, earnestly believes that we're special. That we have a right to pursue happiness. There's no guarantee that happiness will ever happen. We're just cleared to chase, lunge and claw after that happiness, like an eternal dangling carrot. Our dreams matter. This is pounded into us. It is part of our collective DNA. Everyone is special. We believe it, even if it isn't true.

When we succeed, we succeed big (see: the Empire State Building, Moon landing, cheese-stuffed pizza crust). When we fail, we fail big (see: the Great Depression, Slavery, Spider-man 3). We lurch and strive and aspire to greatness. Other countries fear us (not just because we have over 7,000 tactical nukes, though how utterly crazy is that?). They fear us, mainly, because we are an experiment, and experiments can explode. Or they can go on a rampage, like Frankenstein's monster.

Frankenstein might actually be the closest cultural predecessor. America isn't a democracy where majority rules. We're an anti-tyranny-ocracy. We're terrified of tyranny, no matter what form it takes: the government, the free market, your neighbors. The mob can never fully be trusted. Don't tread on me. Get off my lawn. The forefathers had total faith in two things: "freedom" and "people are jerks." They knew that power corrupts, and so they created a system where power is like a bacon-grease slathered football: slippery.

Checks and balances, filibusters and the rule of law. Eventually, the person who's got the power will drop it. And then there's a madcap, sometimes vicious scramble. Then someone has the football again. Repeat.

I like to think of myself as a Patriot. I know that's kind of cheesy, but I've OD'd on snark recently. Sorry internet, but pure, uncut ironic disaffection has become an inadequate coping mechanism. I am not a bible-thumping, jingoistic redneck with the stars and stripes tattooed over generous man boobs. Nor am I an effete, pseudo-intellectual hipster with smooth, manicured hands who blames America for inventing cancer, earthquakes and human vices. But I am a Patriot, because this country gives me the right to be off my rocker.

Let me define my Patriotism: I think America is awesome the way the Whos in Whoville think Christmas is awesome. A Grinch can steal all the accouterments of patrio-eroticism --the flag, the eagle, the Statue of Liberty. And like the Whos, who didn't require gifts or a tree to celebrate Christmas, I will happily salute the idea that defines "America."

And that idea is basically that I get to say this: I am John DeVore and you are not. I am a right wing pinko, a militant centrist, a control freak anarchist. I believe in gun rights and gay rights. I want gays to experience the joys of divorce, and I want them to be well armed. I am a Texan, which means I'm the American equivalent of a Klingon. But I live in Queens, New York, one of the most ethnically diverse places on Earth. My local dive bar is the United Nations. I'm a half-Mexican/half-redneck, who was raised both a Catholic and a Baptist. How many countries does that happen in? It happens here like ... all the time. I'm not even the weirdest multicultural mutt out there - we elected one for president

I have dreams, and I work my ass off stumbling in the general direction of those dreams. And all I ask is this: If I tell you to get off my lawn, get off my lawn. If I don't tell you to get off my lawn, come on in! Let's drink beer and play Xbox. I am one of approximately 301,139,947 other people who all think they are special. Are we all really special? Who knows. Probably not. It's a savage world and life is cheap. But we think we are. That's what counts.

I'm not excusing our excesses and mistakes. Actions have consequences, and even America is not immune to that fundamental fact of nature. We all go down together. But we're still awesome, not down for the count. It is a dark time for the rebel alliance. But our adaptability and individuality will succeed. Each of us will succeed, alone and together. We can't count on politicians because, let's face it, they are glorified sanitation workers. Count, instead, on the Awesomeness of America: our pursuit will not be deterred or delayed. Don't call it a comeback.

Winston Churchill once wrote "Always count on America to do the right thing, after they've exhausted every other option." Well we've done everything except the right thing for a nice long stretch of time and we're, if nothing else, exhausted. Looks like we're well on our way ladies and gents!

this is so cool

Jaguar conservation has just experienced an exciting development with the first capture and collaring of a wild jaguar in the United States.

The male cat was incidentally captured by the Arizona Game and Fish Department on Wednesday, Feb. 18, in an area southwest of Tucson during a research study aimed at monitoring habitat connectivity for mountain lions and black bears. While individual jaguars have been photographed sporadically in the borderland area of the state over the past years, the area where this animal was captured was outside of the area where the last known jaguar photograph was taken in January.

The jaguar was fitted with a satellite tracking collar and then released. The collar will provide biologists with location points every three hours. Early tracking indicates that the cat is doing well and has already travelled more than three miles from the capture site.

The data produced by the collar will shed light on a little-studied population segment of this species that uses southern Arizona and New Mexico as the northern extent of its range.

“While we didn’t set out to collar a jaguar as part of the mountain lion and bear research project, we took advantage of an important opportunity,” says Terry Johnson, endangered species coordinator for the Arizona Game and Fish Department. “More than 10 years ago, Game and Fish attempted to collar a jaguar with no success. Since then, we’ve established handling protocols in case we inadvertently captured a jaguar in the course of one of our other wildlife management activities.”

The jaguar plan, which was created in consultation with other leading jaguar experts, includes a protocol for capture, sedation and handling in the event a cat was captured.

Biologists are currently working on an identification analysis to determine if the collared jaguar is Macho B, a male cat that has been photographed by trail cameras periodically over the past 13 years.

The collared jaguar weighed in at 118 pounds with a thick and solid build. Field biologists’ assessment shows the cat appeared to be healthy and hardy.

The species has been protected outside of the United States under the Endangered Species Act since 1973. That protection was extended to jaguars within the U.S. in 1997, the year after their presence in the Arizona and New Mexico borderlands was confirmed.

"We issued a permit under the Endangered Species Act to radio collar a jaguar if the opportunity presented itself," said Steve Spangle, the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service's Arizona field supervisor. "Gathering habitat use information and learning whether and how the cat is moving in and out of the United States may be essential to jaguar conservation at the northern edge of their range."

In 1997, a team was established in Arizona and New Mexico to protect and conserve the species. The Jaguar Conservation Team (JCT) began working with Mexico two years later, recognizing that the presence of jaguars in the United States depends on the conservation of the species in Mexico.

Trail cameras and field monitoring are carried out by the Borderlands Jaguar Detection Project, a group that works in cooperation with the JCT.

Jaguars once ranged from southern South America through Central America and Mexico and into the southern United States. By the late 1900s, jaguars were thought to be gone from the U.S. landscape, but two independent sightings in 1996 confirmed that jaguars still used Arizona and New Mexico as part of the northern most extent of its range.

Jaguars are the only cat in North America that roars. They prey on a variety of mammals, fish, birds and reptiles. Individuals in the northern population weigh between 80-120 pounds. Females breed year-round and have litters of one to four cubs that stay with their mother for nearly two years.

sometimes

Sometimes I wonder which of my friends know I smoke weed. Six? Fourteen? Maybe all of them? Do their parents also know I smoke weed and if so, will they cut me off? Ostracize me.
It's possible, I guess but 420 is an approach, not a lifestyle. You can have your cocktail and I my bud. The only difference is I can still drive. Legally. For the most part.
So, I was going to write some more, but I forgot what.

bentley

Bentley is a Gila River Apache. He drinks beer at the Spurr Lounge in Laveen, AZ. He's about 6-6 and plus three hundred. He doesn't talk much or often. He sits and drinks at the bar. Maybe plays a little pool. He drinks Bud so I always buy him one. He thanks me and smiles then drifts back to wherever his head is at at. I can't figure it. He's got to work it out on his own anyway. In the meantime, I'll always buy Bentley a beer when I see him. He seems like a good guy.

Things haven’t quite gone according to plan.

Read: The Saharan Conundrum

taylor swift

buckskin joe's running mate. she kicks sarah palin's ass. and she's actually smart. and qualified. not like sarah p. jeez, she can't see russia from wasilla. it's impossible. she lives in a town closer to canada than russia and nearer to anchorage. in a fjord. it's impossible to see russia from there. she is a fucking moron. but that's a problem rural republicans often share. that and pancake breakfasts once a year. and raccoon infestations out back in the hide room.
so i'm for taylor

buckskin joe for interim economic advisor and mr. congeniality

i was just in morongo valley california eating a plate full of grits and i can confirm that people still live there. more than one hundred in fact, perhaps two (hundred). most live in houses, others in caves, others under viaducts or in shipping containers and old army jeeps. the morongo-ites are a proud folk and steeped in tradition. burnt red-cabbage stewed onion paste sandwiches and kick-dancing are always available. and both interesting and significant, strangers are no longer ridiculed or driven from town by the traditional hand launched barrages of hard green tomatoes and flat, frisbee sized rocks. there is obviously a new easiness in the lifestyle.
politically, the townspeople pay verbal tribute to a dog named buckskin joe. he's the talk of the cafe coffeeshop. he's mentioned at safeway. very popular.
buckskin joe lives on paradise dr. he is a good natured dog, going about his business in a statesmanlike way while carefully crafting his presentation and follow up. he speaks (well, barks) clearly and only as often as necessary. also, he is very discreet.
i think we could all learn a lesson from mr. joe. we could calm down and be thankful for what's still available, like food in a bowl and fresh water. a place to bed down. good teeth and claws. being outside in the morning and again in the afternoon. needless to say there's a lot and as president, buckskin joe has vowed to deliver all and more.
i've got to point out one problem though. mr. joe cannot speak or write english, french, spanish, german or italian. he communicates by wagging his tale, snorting and occasionally, by farting. thus, it's clear he is the qualified to be politician. he possesses the tools needed to run this country.
elect buckskin joe for interim economic adviser for now and for president in 2012.

still got a job

Got fired last Tuesday from my kick-ass job at Outback for being a "Peeping Tom". It's almost like when they (the ladies) wear tight shirts, they don't expect you to do a downward visual assessment. Caution. That link is mostly for men and may offend the fairer sex.

Anyway, I headed over to the neighborhood McDonald's near my house in Guadalupe and filled out an application. I was hired on the spot. Some of my work is janitorial in nature (I clean the unisex bathroom), and the rest is pure gold. I make the fries. Hot, crispy thin-cut french fries. A definite signature McDonald's menu item. It's an honor really. I'm clearly higher up in the pecking order than that spazz that runs the drive through. He picks his nose and when he laughs it's sounds like a sheep bleating. He can't even speak Spanish. He relies on the drinks girl to take the Spanish orders. Jeez, we live in an area comprising the most dense aggregation of urban Spanish speaking people in Arizona.
Anyhow, I think I'm locked in on this job and I'll tell you why. Yesterday, the manager pulled me aside and said, "Eef, you doan clean bedder. You clean more time, no more pay." Wow, that's like an obvious vote of confidence regarding job security, right?
And while I prefer making the fries, that sense of security is more important right now, considering the looming economic depression. I'm still not destitute. I can still afford to bring beer back to the hobo camp by the Durango Curve. I can afford to eat at restaurants that offer a dollar menu. Every day, almost. Two weeks ago, I bought a Gatorade to go with my Keystone Light. Like I said. Livin' large!
TBC

Also on amazon.com, my newest release, "A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again". RIP DFW

thinkin' about buyin' another condo

I've been thinking about buyig a new condo and I found this spot out in AJ (short for Apache Junction) at the foot of the Superstitions east of Phoenix. Sweet!

moonies eat dogs, don't they?

And weirdo roommates try to convince you to meditate and offer lessons in meditation if you don't know how. I meditate for several hours each night on my Hemingway Sleigh Bed (leather and wood)). Sometimes my buddy, the great Willie Pete Nelson (cat) joins me. Usually off to the left, close to the window. He goes out several times each night to run and kill.
Last night, he brought home a huge canal rat. Spiky haired and reeking. It smelled like a seven-day gutwagon. It wasn't quite dead yet though and when Willie Pete brought it to me for my inspection, the bugger spazzed, flipped on the rat after-burners and scurried under the couch. It is there now while WPN (Willie Pete Nelson) keeps a close watch.
The drama means meditation is out of the question for now.

get dressed up

we have photos

big cat

Called my cousin Jim's house the other day. Got his wife, the mucho beautiful little woman. Jim was out hunting with Kenny. Hunting what I asked, since there ain't any seasons open this time of year up thereabouts that I know of except rabbits and blackbirds.
They were hunting a cat. A big, mean one. It was ranging out of the Hills to the west. Killing livestock and Jim's horse. That's a death sentence for that cat. You can't kill a man's horse and not get hanged or shot. When they find it, they'll kill him. I hope to see the hide next time I'm up that way. Maybe even sleep on it. For good luck.

monkeys for sale

Who can live without an educated monkey? Not me! But I have more than I need at the moment and so I have several for sale. All of these monkeys are educated at accredited monkey colleges, shaved and dressed and ready for educational monkey action. They understand up to 100 commands, and are guaranteed to be proficient in Microsoft Word, Excel,Powerpoint and Outlook. They will hunt and fish and dig up nutritious root vegetables. And they often wash themselves so you will not need a high pressure hose assembly. Pricing is negotiable on a quantity basis. There is a special bonus for early inquiries. Cash only.

Photo by Zip.

there's always room for jello in 2012

jello makes a case for the presidency while running for mayor in san francisco

the monkey bars

Arlys Klundt sealed his fate when he challenged Billy Batest to fight him at the monkey bars after school. The reasons for the animosity were never clear. But the contest was on. And many gathered because the news had traveled throughout the school. Hootenanny was present as an independent observer.
At three PM the combatants were present and sneering at each other. Billy looked apprehensive even though the money pushed the odds in his favor. Arlys was grim. He had a fight to consider.
Assembled in anticipation, the bystanders watched as an impromptu 'fight circle' was formed. Scuffed shoes drew the perimeter while Arlys and Billy readied themselves for the fray.
It began and ended quickly. Billy delivered a single jab that sent Arlys to his knees. He followed up with a right hook that put Arlys on the ground, flat on his back. He didn't get up. The fight was over. Billy Batest had won.
But we still thought he was a fag.

willis the lemur

I was talking to a friend at work and she said, "Why don't you get a lemur and name him Willis. Then you can say. 'What you talking about, Willis"? I had to pause to process the information. Then I weighed my options. A lemur? A really smart monkey-cat with a tail and freaky big eyes. I could maybe deal with a lemur.
But where the hell do you get one? They're endangered and mostly, at least the best one's, are found in Madagascar. To get there, you will probably have to run the Somali pirate gauntlet. You might have to overnite in Columbo, Sri Lanka.
Next, I asked a friend, "What do you feed a lemur?" He said spinach, garlic and sausage rigatoni. No tomatoes. Extra virgin olive oil.
(Got a call from my lemur sales guy - gotta go - story TBD).

the bigger foot

Now I know that a lot of you don't believe in God, Jesus, Santa Claus or those other guys/girls (a rabbit that delivers hard boiled eggs and chocolate effigies - not probable), but many of you may believe in Bigfoot. I'd like to tell you a little bit about Bigfoot. The Bigfoot I have come to know and honor.
Bigfoot prefers the apellation of The Supreme Master Earth-Lord Bigfoot (SMELB). He does not ring your doorbell or drop off pamphlets or otherwise disturb your American suburban utopia (though he has been known to steal chicken from your grill).
Mostly SMELB hides. A lot. So folks are unaware of his work, planting and selling psychedelic mushrooms to tree-huggers and meth-heads and, occasionally, people like us.
Nonetheless, the Supreme Master Earth-Lord Bigfoot has successfully evaded detection and capture since time immemorial. Many question his very existence. He hides so well that he's never been found.
Now we all know a few friends that are unresponsive; phone calls and emails go unanswered. But The Supreme Master Earth-Lord Bigfoot has taken this to a new revolutionary level by having never been seen. The photographic evidence is inconclusive.

jane says

Jane says
I'm done with Sergio
He treats me like a ragdoll
She hides
The television
Says I don't owe him nothing,
But if he comes back again
Tell him to wait right here for me
Or just
Try again tomorrow
I'm gonna kick tomorrow
Gonna kick tomorrow

Jane says
Have you seen my wig around?
I feel naked without it
She knows
They all want her to go
But that's O.K. man
She dont like them anyway
Jane says
She's goin away to spain
When she gets my money saved
I'm gonna start tomorrow
I'm gonna kick tomorrow
Gonna kick tomorrow

She gets mad
Starts to cry
She takes a swing but
She cant hit
She don't mean no harm
She just don't know
What else to do about it

Jane goes
To the store at 8:00
She walk up on St. Andrews
She waits
And gets her dinner there
She pulls her dinner
From her pocket
Jane says
I've never been in love
I don't know what it is
Only knows if someone wants her
I want them if they want me
I only know they want me

She gets mad
And she starts to cry
She takes a swing man
She cant hit!
She don't mean no harm
She just dont know
What else to do about it

Jane says

the chihuahua wand

The mail in the housing development in which I live is deposited and gathered from a central location. Usually, I hit the box on my way home from work. Just as often I cross paths with the North Laveen Hooker. She haunts the mailbox depository, mostly on Sundays. She's prettier than your average truck stop hooker. Stringy blonde hair, ruddy complexion, heels or boots. She stutters and walks at an angle like a crazy dog with rabies. But friendly and, apparently, accommodating.
Last Friday, I pulled up to grab my mail and she comes staggering from behind the block wall of the home adjacent to the depository. She has a crack pipe stuck behind her ear like a pen or pencil, smeared make-up and a chihuahua in tow on leash. The chihuahua makes a run on my ankle. You how those little buggers can be mean and vicious and wreck your entire day but I was prepared.
On the Thursday prior I stopped at the local mercado/carniceria to check on the fresh chorizo and saw, while I was waiting, a Chihuahua Wand. On the shelf, bright, shiny and in need of only four Triple A batteries. Two dollars and ninety nine cents.
Well, the chorizo was two days old so I passed on that but grabbed a six of Tecate and a Chihuahua Wand. What the heck, I thought, everyone down here has a Chihuahua and I may need this.
Well, the North Laveen Hooker approaches with Chihuahua on leash, what do I do? The dog is clearly rabid or just messed up by a century of Mexican inbreeding. I've got the handgun I carry in my truck in case I get in a shoot out with the cops and I've got the Chihuahua Wand. In a moment of lucidity, I grab the Wand. Chihuahua neutralized. If I had batteries.

what has happened to customer service?

So I'm at Me Gusto on University Avenue in Tempe and I ask the waiter, 'could you take these chips and throw them back in the fryer for a minute, I like them crispy'. He takes the basket and all seems well. He comes back with a basket full of chip dust like he'd put them in a blender or something and then physically threatens me with his pen. He makes a stabbing motion apparently intending to poke me in the eye and before he can get to me, I flip the table and duck behind it. Luckily, I always carry a small .25 caliber auto in my sock and I clear it in time to fire a shot into the ceiling as he's coming around the table, apparently enraged by the turn of events.
I say, 'check please' and he responds 'certainly sir, one minute', but I still think the first part was uncalled for and so I wrote a letter to corporate. Rather than an apology or gift certificate, both due in this instance in my opinion, I get a plaque naming me Asshole Of The Year.
Now that's poor customer service. Even though the plaque was very nice.

scared

the crazy Chinese guy is in the kitchen
taipeng or taiwann
i don't know
a name like that

the birdman of morongo

the year of the dingleberry

a list:
1. republicans
2. democrats
3. fools
4. shamans
5. birds (that poop on your car)
6. dogs (that bark without reason)
7. cats that don't hunt mice
8. books that start on page 9
9. page 9

python

there's no possible way this movie could suck

don't worry holly

i'm working on the header ... you have to admit, aesthetically i'm headed (har,har) in the right direction

ps: this chick can write

What Were You Expecting?

click the link, idiot

reboot (hard)

Time to Reboot America
By Tom Friedman
December 2008

I had a bad day last Friday, but it was an all-too-typical day for America.

It actually started well, on Kau Sai Chau, an island off Hong Kong, where I stood on a rocky hilltop overlooking the South China Sea and talked to my wife back in Maryland, static-free, using a friend’s Chinese cellphone. A few hours later, I took off from Hong Kong’s ultramodern airport after riding out there from downtown on a sleek high-speed train — with wireless connectivity that was so good I was able to surf the Web the whole way on my laptop.

Landing at Kennedy Airport from Hong Kong was, as I’ve argued before, like going from the Jetsons to the Flintstones. The ugly, low-ceilinged arrival hall was cramped, and using a luggage cart cost $3. (Couldn’t we at least supply foreign visitors with a free luggage cart, like other major airports in the world?) As I looked around at this dingy room, it reminded of somewhere I had been before. Then I remembered: It was the luggage hall in the old Hong Kong Kai Tak Airport. It closed in 1998.

The next day I went to Penn Station, where the escalators down to the tracks are so narrow that they seem to have been designed before suitcases were invented. The disgusting track-side platforms apparently have not been cleaned since World War II. I took the Acela, America’s sorry excuse for a bullet train, from New York to Washington. Along the way, I tried to use my cellphone to conduct an interview and my conversation was interrupted by three dropped calls within one 15-minute span.

All I could think to myself was: If we’re so smart, why are other people living so much better than us? What has become of our infrastructure, which is so crucial to productivity? Back home, I was greeted by the news that General Motors was being bailed out — that’s the G.M. that Fortune magazine just noted “lost more than $72 billion in the past four years, and yet you can count on one hand the number of executives who have been reassigned or lost their job.”

My fellow Americans, we can’t continue in this mode of “Dumb as we wanna be.” We’ve indulged ourselves for too long with tax cuts that we can’t afford, bailouts of auto companies that have become giant wealth-destruction machines, energy prices that do not encourage investment in 21st-century renewable power systems or efficient cars, public schools with no national standards to prevent illiterates from graduating and immigration policies that have our colleges educating the world’s best scientists and engineers and then, when these foreigners graduate, instead of stapling green cards to their diplomas, we order them to go home and start companies to compete against ours.

To top it off, we’ve fallen into a trend of diverting and rewarding the best of our collective I.Q. to people doing financial engineering rather than real engineering. These rocket scientists and engineers were designing complex financial instruments to make money out of money — rather than designing cars, phones, computers, teaching tools, Internet programs and medical equipment that could improve the lives and productivity of millions.

For all these reasons, our present crisis is not just a financial meltdown crying out for a cash injection. We are in much deeper trouble. In fact, we as a country have become General Motors — as a result of our national drift. Look in the mirror: G.M. is us.

That’s why we don’t just need a bailout. We need a reboot. We need a build out. We need a buildup. We need a national makeover. That is why the next few months are among the most important in U.S. history. Because of the financial crisis, Barack Obama has the bipartisan support to spend $1 trillion in stimulus. But we must make certain that every bailout dollar, which we’re borrowing from our kids’ future, is spent wisely.

It has to go into training teachers, educating scientists and engineers, paying for research and building the most productivity-enhancing infrastructure — without building white elephants. Generally, I’d like to see fewer government dollars shoveled out and more creative tax incentives to stimulate the private sector to catalyze new industries and new markets. If we allow this money to be spent on pork, it will be the end of us.

America still has the right stuff to thrive. We still have the most creative, diverse, innovative culture and open society — in a world where the ability to imagine and generate new ideas with speed and to implement them through global collaboration is the most important competitive advantage. China may have great airports, but last week it went back to censoring The New York Times and other Western news sites. Censorship restricts your people’s imaginations. That’s really, really dumb. And that’s why for all our missteps, the 21st century is still up for grabs.

John Kennedy led us on a journey to discover the moon. Obama needs to lead us on a journey to rediscover, rebuild and reinvent our own backyard.