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Theoretical Conspiracies

Wednesday, March 14, 2001

Conspiracy theories are funny. People who full heartedly believe in them are laughable and often the brunt of some good jokes (Slackers, Greetings, X-Files), but when you get right on down there with the crack pots you ask some basic questions. A question like, "Did Jack kill Lee because he was really angry about what Lee did to John or did he want to shut Lee up for good?" really helps support a conspiracy. Of course, their are people who see a conspiracy in everything. They're even saying we never landed on the moon. I can't say I'm willing to buy into that one. You'd think the problem of whether or not folks was ever on the moon could be solved if the Ruskies, no reason to lie, sent an unmanned module to orbit the damn rock and snap off some picture postcards of the sea of tranquility. Some conspiracies aren't so remote and generally unimportant as remaining doubt about the moon. Some conspiracies unfold in books, newspapers and right on national TV, but the pieces don't seem to readily interconnect or they do but the media is cautious to not let the streams cross. I see something happening. It started in the eighties when Reagan came into power. The rich needed to counteract the all too liberal movements of the seventies that gave power to entities like OSHA and various labor unions. The reason most people think the third Star Wars movie in '83 was total crap is because they knew it was a lie. The rebels should've lost. They did great in '77, and then in Empire in 1980 things started to look dark, but they never really came back in 1983, the series stopped mirroring our political reality and failed to stir our spirits the way the first two did. It felt we came back for awhile under Clinton, but it only lasted two years until the republicans were wagging their dicks all over the congress floor once again, and Clinton, always happy to take his prick in hand, simply joined them. Now the new Bush, our Bush, is in and if he gets his way the 21st century will be more like the 19th than the 20th. It's only a matter of time. The conspiracy is surging forth and it is seemingly inexorable.
What is the conspiracy? It's simple really. The conspiracy is to generate a large and uneducated pool of humans for major corporations such as Nike, ConAgra, IBP and Manpower to draw unskilled and inexpensive workers from. Uneducated workers, especially minorities and recent immigrants who can't speak English, are perfect for these corporations because they are less likely to complain about unsuitable working conditions, form unions, and know they have any rights are recourse to workers compensation if injured. These corporations want their factory work places left alone. Therefore, since George W. Bush has taken office, the power manifest in OSHA is being stripped. Already legislation has passed to stop OSHA's work involving employer's responsibilities towards workers suffering from cumulative stress traumas such as carpal tunnel syndrome. Once OSHA is dissolved, which will happen, the Republicans and their big money contributors would like nothing better than to see the Occupational Health and Safety Act of 1970 repealed, then the work place is free from unannounced government safety inspections and the fines, that were always petty slaps on the wrists anyway, leveled against them for worker safety violations. But the conspiracy is at least two pronged. There is still the matter of where this large uneducated work force is to come from. With OSHA and health and safety inspections out of the way where the work force comes from opens up significantly, and the Republican right is going to help with this too. They begin by attacking and dismantling public education. Something Bush is for, and something Dick Cheney's wife is really going to hoot for. She'll be especially valuable to drive up political sentiment after her husband dies. The nation will want to appease her and make her bill for a voucher system, a system to direct money away from low income neighborhood schools, pass because they feel sorry for her. In 2002 students will be required to pass a standardized "Exit Exam" in order to graduate from high school. This will result in greater numbers of drop outs and greater numbers of minorities from the poor under funded schools who will flunk or drop out. We are going to need more prisons for our failing students. Many of them will find their way there. The ones that don't will be able to staff the kitchens of the nations fast food restaurants and the meat packing factories these fast food restaurants have created. The ones in prison might be better off. Importantly, without health inspections the working conditions will be able to return to the ensanguined filthy state they were in in the late 1800's, and the work force to be exploited can get younger and younger as the drop out rate increases. I probably would have dropped out around the eighth grade if I knew continuing on through school or just getting my G.E.D. later were to be essentially the same thing: pass one test and you got it! Public education is working today. Regardless of what it appears like in the media, school violence is at an all time 25 year low. The so-called "failing" schools are failing because they are under funded. They are using out of date texts, have little or no access to computers and the teacher turn over rate at their schools is astronomical. The latter is caused by greener pastures at schools in affluent neighborhoods. The students at the "failing" schools tend to come from single parent homes, have had little parental involvement, and have low self esteems. They will commonly call themselves "stupid." These kids are unlikely candidates to be passing a standardized test. When they fail the tests, it will prove their school is failing and under new legislation the government will cut their funding until they meet the higher standards. The students, however, are very likely candidates to begin work outside the home at a young age. They will work at fast food restaurants. They will fail the exit exam. They will steal your car.
Let's recap:
A) Big business needs uneducated workers.
B) Bush wants to "reform" public education.
C) Bush and the house are Republican.
D) Big Business funds the Republican Party.
D) Republicans pass laws to benefit big business.
E) The education reforms will benefit Big Business.
F) The Health and safety reforms will benefit Big Business.
G) Some health and safety reforms have already been passed, and those reforms benefit Big Business.
H) The drop out and flunk out rate will go up.
I) The drop-outs will work for Big Business which no longer has to worry about worker safety, pesky worker comp. benefits, government inspectors, unions, and of they're lucky, that damn federal minimum wage will be off the books too.
So that about wraps it up. Less education, lower wages, no hope: brought to you by the Big Bush Business Administration. And, oh yeah, man has never landed on the moon either. So there.

Good Glavin!

Monday, March 12, 2001

They advertise in schools. Everyone knows this now. Coca-Cola and Pepsi sign various exclusivity contracts for their products, Taco Bell has leaked its way into the cafeterias, poster ads hang in high traffic areas of the hallways, and pumped in top 40 music interrupts their safe programming for a message for their ultra-hip sponsor. They were doing this to my high school. I recall many kids not liking the idea. Some of them, in a school with next to no graffiti and vandalism, defaced the poster ads regularly. All this advertising in school seemed new then, and the news would even report on it. But I remember back further to grade school and it was happening then to, but in such a way as to disguise it as advertising and present it as entertainment and prizes. Kindergartners don't know the difference between a corporate clown and WGN's Bozo. My grade school must have used that logic when bringing in McDonaldland characters (Ronald, Grimace, Hamburglar) to perform funny (for retards and grade schoolers) sketches, and provide some educational materials on health and nutrition. I even answered a question on nutrition as posed by Ronald McDonald and won a coupon for a free Big Mac. I think the question somehow begged that I name McDonald's menu items that would create a well balanced meal representing all four food groups. Too bad. This was all presented as education. Only now do I recognize what I learned. It's not like I ever forgot about this corporate fantasy day at my school, but I never, for what reasons I don't know, perceived just how unethical and insidious this "edutainment" was until recently.
I was hanging out in a livingroom of some friends a few years back with a bunch of Earth Firsters. They had their signs of protest, and were planning their attack on a local McDonald's in my home town. (Interestingly, that McDonald's is now gone.) One of them spoke up saying how she remembered trips to McDonald's as a kid being highly exciting moments, something special the family did together. She felt used and dirty through these recalled emotions, but I doubt there was anyway she could have avoided equating McDonald's with joy as a child. How could she? Every food item is like a birthday present in brightly wrapped paper waiting to be torn into. She would have had to never watch television (especially Saturday mornings) and, if her grade school was like mine, avoided going to school where field trips often involved a special stop at McDonald's, but only if we were good kids. I think those Earth Firsters got that McDonald's on Water Street shut down. I don't care what the statements about negative cash flow stated. Everyone whoever set foot in that dump knew they were raking it in. Everyday, thousands of college students ambled by on their way to class. Thousands of lazy college students who didn't do their own cooking and needed food fast and cheap. The problem was, this McDonald's was on a public sidewalk on a busy street in a small town. They were making the news. This did not wash with McDonald's. Earth First won because protesters are not a part of the McDonald's image. Most McDonald's buildings are surrounded by a black top sea that they own, thus disallowing protesters to get near the building and lessening the effect of the protest to the eyes of passersby. If nothing else, all this proves is protesting does work, but it has limited effect on the bigger problem: ADVERTISING!
I live in L.A. where I'm bombarded by towering advertisements, Brad Pitts and Julia Robertses fifty feet high. It's everywhere and unavoidable, and it would be downright unamerican to make the ad industry stop so I wouldn't want to do that. What I was thinking involved passing a law that states, more or less in a Dragnet fashion, "Advertising must state only facts. No subjective terms or claims are allowed. No characters used in advertising can be depicted as displaying any emotional state. All expressions must be flat poker faces." This doesn't leave much room for products that have no worth. Slogans like, "McDonald's, digestible by many!" will only go so far. There will be an end to claims of "best," "tasty," "zesty," "hearty," and "It doesn't get any better than this." No more lies. No more food. No more folks. No more false fucking fun. No more dipshits looking like they're snowing their pants as they bite into that Big N' Tasty burger.

Cookie compromization in 5, 4, 3, 2...

Wednesday, March 7, 2001

You've reached the proverbial smoking gun of the internet. Beware! All you're cookies are compromised! UNPLUG your computer now!
I'm learning all the hip computer jargon with the assistance of Chris Carter's "Geek Fantasy Force." It's a stunning new show that displays without a shadow of a doubt that the creative force behind the X-Files has completely run out of ideas, and by the look of things, actors too.
Wait, I think I already bitched about Chris Carter earlier this week so I'll find something else to bitch about. Or I could write about my childhood. I've done that before too, but not for quite sometime.

I would wear the mask of Satan and roar in my thunderously evil four year old voice how all the block's sinners were mine. Soon I discovered this was no way to make friends. My parents had moved from downtown to the developing suburbs as part of the great Eau Claire diaspora making way for the ever expanding legions of college students. This new suburb was a strange and wonderful place. There was a shit load of space and all sorts of building development in the area. The skeletons and basement foundations of houses in the making became the favorite playgrounds of all the local children, but not me. I liked wearing the mask of satan and screaming my head off in my big new back yard.
Later, the teachers at my elementary school would suggest I was borderline mentally retarded and needed numerous blood tests as well as strong medication. My mother drew the line at medication, but did allow them to sample as much of my blood as they liked. When teachers are calling for your blood in first grade it throws a pall over your future relationship with authority figures of anykind.
I remember once overhearing my father and mother discussing this hell borne behavior, my father with some displeasure, although, if I recall right, I found the mask of satan in his parent's attic. Well, one day, the mask, being old and brittle, tore and cracked, after all it wasn't meant to be worn everyday like I was using it. The mask was for Halloween use. It didn't matter. I figured I could still be the devil without the mask. Intrepid, I strode bare faced forth into the world to begin reaping all manner of sundried objects that had somehow found themselves damned. Without the mask, my duties as dark overlord of the block were going as well as I could have hoped until three kids of my own age decided ill-fatedly to utilize satan's backyard as a shortcut to their backyards. Here was the true test of the powers of the devil unmasked who apparently is also like the troll under the bridge and demands sacrifice for passage across his domain. It was satan who sacrificed in this case, again much like that Troll. There was a scuffle after satan asked for their souls since they didn't much cotton to the idea of handing them over. Denied souls, satan lashed out, falling one of the boys. The young girl backed off, terrified of satan's awesome might. As I gloated in my rageful power over the impudent little fuck who refused sacrifice for safe passage, I received a boot in the gut from the other boy. Perhaps if satan had been wise enough to not fall prey to that ultimate trap of villainy, gloating, he would have prevailed rather than ending up in a tight fetal ball on the cold hard earth. Ah, yes. Thus, mighty satan fell, and was called several names, but the next day, rather than continuing on in the usual satanic parole of the back yard, satan joined his attackers of the previous day in a rousing game of tag through the skeletal homes down the block, and it was okay.

And now, no word from our Sponsors...

Tuesday, March 6, 2001

Why do some of us end up asking questions like, "I didn't piss all over your car last night did I? Because I distinctly remember jumping up onto the hood of your car and pissing all over the windshield." The answer to the greater question lay hidden, but the answer to the question in quotes is "no." What's worse than a blackout? Implanted memories. They pose a great problem for Ontology. When you look out at the world, everyday you deal with what there is, and by feeling safe in your own particular ontology, you function throughout the day. But what do you do when your universe starts getting overpopulated? What do you do when FOX suggests man never set foot on the moon and your friends suggest you never took one great piss for mankind either? How cluttered is our world with the things that are not? It's becoming nearly impossible to keep our heads clear. Media poses an enormous threat to ontology, creating the most significant problem since Plato suggested that to say a thing does not exist amounts to nonsense. You know, what doesn't exist?
"Leprechauns don't exist."
" What doesn't exist?"
"Leprechauns!"
"Leprechauns? Where?" and so the fuck on...
This silly argument that seemingly disallows negation of existence is just a bunch of big babies' way of not allowing people to say, "God does not exist," but that doesn't mean I'll discount the argument because that old argument is precisely what makes the media so damn powerful. They report it and it exists, and now you just try to say it doesn't exist.
Bah! this is just a bunch of ass airs. Last night I had a dream. I was substitute teaching at my old high school. It was my first day of substitute teaching, and I was angry I had been suckered into doing it. Who or what suckered me was not readily apparent, but my dream "I" believed that great suckering had occurred. I arrived at the school which was quite literally swarming with little freakish brats. My stomach churned, and I had no idea where to go. Eventually I found the place, and had two periods of Western History to teach.
"I have no lesson plans for History of any kind," I protested. They quickly informed me that it didn't matter and I should just show some movie that had any form of historical content or significance to the Western world. Then I realized I didn't know what they meant by Western. Was that just U.S. as I assumed or did it go back to ancient Greece? I could really give those little shits a good run on ancient Greece, I thought.
I awoke. What's the meaning of this dream? I can't rightfully say. It is a classic of the insecurity genre on the same level as going to the Mall in the nude, but for the first time the insecurity as represented in the dream was conquered. It was Conquered by thoughtful expansion of the bound variables I had created for the word, "Western."
Perhaps, it is not through the simple negation of the media's assertions, but by expanding the bound variables contained within their terms that their crimes against ontology can be remedied. With enough expansion, and universalizing when possible, the media should wind up looking like the little hyperbolic under achieving arm of the government that they are.

Allow me my own hyperbolic fantasy by asking a few "what if" questions. What if the media, television in this case, from nearly day one was a government tool? What if the images of death and violence are encouraged by the government and not discouraged as they make a display of every now and again? What if George "the executioner" Bush, Jr. doesn't really want us to believe human life is precious? What if the laugh track is an insidious device so we find humor in the mundane everywhere we look so we can't see our own realities for what they are? What if they added a laugh track and funny noises (like on America's Funniest Home Videos) to war footage and scenes of liberal protests? What if these questions aren't hyperbolic "what if" fantasies?

Samprini

Monday, March 5, 2001

For a moment I thought I'd write about the shuddering decline in Simpson's quality last night's episode was a shining example of, but why would I care to write about a thing like that? I also thought I might point out how taking characters meant primarily for comic relief in one series and transplanting them into their own series is a patentedly awful idea, and clearly reinforces how far away Chris Carter should be dragged from the reigns of power. What happened to Darin Morgan? There's the guy that should have a g.d. comedy series. I guess we'll all just have to wait for that very special, "David Duchovny guest stars" episode. Really, I don't watch that much television, but television is what Sunday night's are for or at least were for. I'll have to find a better entertainment like the movies that put out newer and better films every damn Friday. Films like "Say It Isn't So!" & "Dumb Guy and the Dog," & "I'll Get in Your Pants Yet You Stupid Bitch Just You Wait and See!" & "It Ain't a Juvenile Male Rape Fantasy if it's Funny!" I hate movies so damn much, I wonder why I bother writing scripts at all. I know I could get them sold if I just used more words like: bum, wee-wee, knickers, knockers, potty and samprini. I think my main problem with writing screenplays is caused by the fact that I'm a bad writer. Of course that didn't stop Joe Easter House, and I shouldn't single him out with so many worthwhile subjects out there to single out. Joe really does know how to write. I guarantee you the studios give him research money to go to strip clubs.
"But how will the nude lap dance smack of brutal animal reality if I have to draw exclusively from my drug addled imagination?"
"You're absolutely right Joe. Here's a million dollars!"
Anybody could do worse for himself, huh?
Worse for himself as in, walking a mile in the rain to the subway in order to be sure the porn is ready for rental.

Review

Friday, March 2, 2001

We Sold Our Souls For Rock and Roll

Actually, you don't so much sell your soul as pay to do it. What does a ticket into OzzFest cost these days anyhow? $30? $40? Well fret not head bangers, now you can get a sampling of the OzzFest for under ten dollars, and under five if you find a matinee bargain, but curse you if you find a good matinee bargain because We Sold Our Souls For Rock And Roll (WSOSFRAR) is not the sort of moving picture show you should seek cut-rate deals to go see. It is a movie best suited to enjoy only at full ticket price. Top dollar, baby. Matinee prices are destroying America! At least that's what I overheard Jerry Bruckheimer saying the other day.
WSOSFRAR, if you don't know, is a documentary on the OzzFest 1999 tour, and it's something of a blessing for metal heads. The film was directed by Penelope Spheeris who does have the right credentials to be out shooting such a documentary as this, it being her fourth on niche music scenes. The other three are none other than the Decline of Western Civilization pictures.
I went to the premiere of WSOSFRAR at the newly (in the last couple of years) restored Mann's Egyptian Theater on Hollywood Blvd. I walked up to the theater, umbrella shielding me from the rain, through the large open air passage designed to look like a place where ancient egyptians would be quite comfortable to go to a movie. The rain was not accompanied by thunder, but as I walked on the thunder and opening chords from the song Black Sabbath played around in my head, and it was this music that opened up the film. The title of the movie splashed across the screen in a Germanic Wehrmacht font as Black Sabbath plays Black Sabbath. Not a bad opening, but I'm ahead of myself.
Before the show the audience was given a special treat, a performance by the Reverend B. Dangerous (not to be confused with Johnny Dangerously). What did the Reverend do for us? The Reverend, who is also featured in the movie, pounds nails into his nose, drills into his nose, eats bugs, snorts worms, hangs weighted objects from his tongue, staples his shirt to his body with a staple gun, and in one of everyone's favorites, snorts a condom up his nose and pulls it out of his mouth for lubrication. As the reverend said, "Not all ladies are classy enough to just let you spit on their asshole all night." Then, we were witness to lesbian glass wrestling. Two women wrestle on shattered glass. There were lacerations. I saw. This was no movie show. It was for real, and they seemed deathly serious about the sport, pounding heads into glass, rubbing shards and splinters of it into each others hair. Really, it was horrifying. For his finale, the Reverend planted his face in the glass, had his assistant balance a concrete block on the back of his head and whack it violently in two with a sledge hammer. After everyone was thoroughly disgusted, the Rev. and the lovely ladies took their bloodied bow and it was time for the movie show.
Allow me a digression before I get to the actual movie which this is a review of by the way in case you couldn't tell yet. What the Reverend does is real. No bullshit. When he plops a scorpion into his mouth it is a real live deadly scorpion. And I know. Since I am ever skeptical, I had the Reverend, for the sake of my world renowned journalistic integrity, jam a pen deep into my sinus cavity to be sure I could fully understand a small part of what it is he, the Rev. does. It was beautiful. Only afterwards did I realize I had been tricked into hot nasty nasal sex, but that's the price I pay for my commitment to excellence.
And the movie began...
Let's start simple, the movie was produced by Sharon Osbourne, wife to the infamous Ozzy Osbourne. Anyone with half a cylinder pumping realizes one thing when they see that credit: the movie must be, to a certain extent, a commercial for OzzFest. Maybe not as much as say, Demolition Man was a Taco Bell commercial, but that's the general idea. And that isn't to say there isn't artistry in commercial works. The commercial aspect of the picture is only going to work on someone who is already deeply indoctrinated into the world of heavy metal. Most likely, then, if you're reading this magazine and in particular this article, that someone is you. Just as sexy members of the opposite sexy sex cause you to desire whatever sexy things they have and do, so to does the sight of Ozzy or Rob Zombie cause you to want to be a part of whatever they are doing because to you, they represent much more than just the music. Ozzy might represent, tangentially, your teenage years to you and all those new adventures those years brought from smoking pot with Master of Reality spinning in the background to getting laid for your first time as the first few seconds of Fairies Wear Boots cranked out of your mom's car's rear speakers. You're already living your metal life and the metal movie about OzzFest Pavlovs you to OzzFest the next time it comes around. And hey, I'll probably be there with you. Therefore, don't fear Sharon Osbourne as the producer, but rather know, this film is for you. Penelope Spheeris, as director, also comes up with a few tricks to transcend a world of pure OzzFest advertisement with scenes including not only fanatical idiocy, but sexist fanatical idiocy as well. But that's nothing new to metal either. Metal has always been good at reducing women to a singular platonic form: whore. The only female voice in WSOSFRAR, aside from a brief excursion into the den of groupies, is Sharon Osbourne whose input on women at OzzFest amounts to a callous aside about how they serve a purpose. They serve a purpose as long as they stay far the fuck away from Ozzy, huh? The lack of the female, even though the director is female, is no surprise as it has been the case with metal for so long, the air is filled with testosterone and that sense of brutality testosterone is heir to. Not one female graces the stage behind an instrument. Too bad. Maybe that is something that can change in the future. If metal can appropriate African American culture, then maybe it can incorporate some feminist philosophy too someday. Am I sounding too "I have a dream-esque?" Probably. But I do. Have a dream that is.
Back to the idiocy, the fanatical idiocy is what makes the movie fun. The density exhibited when one fan of Black Sabbath fan in all earnestness proclaims, "[Ozzy] really could be god. When you think about it he does more than god," is worth the ticket price. He is in his own special way more of a groupie than the groupies who are interviewed in the film for he is ready to bow down and worship, not just, um, bow down. Another great moment arrives when a chunky young gent announces to the camera that he is going to worship Ozzy with a sacrifice by fucking his chunky girlfriend in the ass. The chunky girlfriend is set steadfast against this particular sacrifice.
Secondary to the fans, as far as I'm concerned are the bands. Included in the film are Black Sabbath (of course), Rob Zombie (sensible gentlemen), Slipknot (O! So mysterious), System of a Down, Slayer (dorks), Deftones (boredom personified), Primus (likable), Fear Factory, Static X and I fear I'm forgetting some. Allow me to clear up some of my parenthetical commentary before I get beat up by angry members of the Slaytanic Army. Rob Zombie, even through all his goofy theatrics and corn starched hair, comes across as one of the nicest demons from hell you'd ever want to meet. I say Slayer are dorks primarily because, well, it's true. Slayer come across like the speed metal version of Gene Simmons (in the lingerie store) and Paul Stanley (in bed with lingerie models) in the Decline of Western Civilization Two: The Metal Years. For some reason Slayer is the only band posed in obviously set up interviews, on location on Alcatraz island. Everybody else was fine with being interviewed outdoors or in their dressing rooms, but not Slayer. No, they have to be scary. Look, we're in jail! Oh no! They're locking us in. Arrrrggghhh! Evil! Jail! Satan! Gael! That said, Slayer's music is still some of the best high energy no bullshit metal out there and it more than stands up to the onslaught of NuMetal. No Guh-Nu Metal is good Guh-Nu Metal.
Sorry, I just climbed aboard the Great Space Coaster there for a second. So, where was I? Parenthetical asides, right? I called the Deftones "boredom personified" because they were the most lackluster thing to have ever been captured on film. The dead lice were dropping. Part of this dead delivery may have been due to the singer being stuck up at the front of the stage due to a mic chord being held hostage in the crowd. Slipknot was entertaining. They came across to me as the N 'SYNC of the New Wave Of American Heavy Metal, henceforth known here and in all world press as the "NWOAHM!!!" and the exclamation marks are mandatory, and I've trade marked the abbreviation, and reserve all rights and you owe me ten bucks everytime you so much as dare utter NWOAHM outside of directly quoting me! Slipknot, part of the NWOAHM, had a bit where they walk around Washington D.C. in full costume, and there's a young female fan of the NWOAHM movement and therefore Slipknot running exuberantly from one member to the other telling the camera why each one is cool. This scene ends with a brilliant freeze frame punch line that I won't give away here, but it involves the girl running up to the last member of Slipknot and joyously saying, "And this guy's cool because he's sort of a Rob Zombie like guy," and she gets flipped the bird by the "Rob Zombie like guy," and we freeze the frame, holding on her shocked expression. Oh shit, I gave it away. I'm no good with secrets either. One secret revealed in WSOSFRAR is that System of a Down are all Armenian! I bet you didn't know that until now. It was the first thing they said in their interview, "Hi, we're System of a Down and we're Armenian."
No heavy metal movie would be complete without protesters. You'd think it'd be hard to find people out protesting Black Sabbath. I mean, does Satan even care about their thirty year old songs anymore with nice fresh anthems praising his big red butt being written everyday? Probably not, but Christians never give up. Ozzy and his crew have been a thorn in their side for quite some time the way they promote Satanism, suicide, cannibalism, homosexuality and the reefer. In the movie we learn from a minister that Black Sabbath are all practicing cannibals. There is no sign of cannibalism in any of the back stage footage featuring Black Sabbath, so the minister's claims are largely unsubstantiated. However, if I may make a horrible pun, Black Sabbath hit the stage, capping off WSOSFRAR, and they did eat the crowd alive.

More Senseless Anger

Wednesday, February 28, 2001

I cracked. I unleashed a box of wrath, a package of frustration, a suitcase of rage and of course, a can of some kind of butt kicking substance while on the job. Those bastards just make me so very very angry!
He was an older gent and seemed quite proper in his spiffy pressed black slacks, white button up and black sport coat. Hung over his forearm in a manner quite dignified was his large black umbrella because as the world probably knows, it won't stop raining. He marched forth past the swinging doors plastered with "No One Under 18 Past This Point" signs and directed himself right to the classic pornography.
Note: "Classic" does not mean those early black and white flickering stag reels popular at B.P.E. clubs from the twenties through the sixties, but rather legal porn made at the tail end of the Carter administration and all through the Reagan years.
Granted, Red Hot Video is run by a bunch of less than scintillating minds, and when they have a rack of videos they want on sale, they hang the signs all over the store, right from the wire racks other videos are on. This never fails to cause confusion in the average customer, who you must realize is less than a big bright beautiful intellectual star themselves. Indeed, it caused confusion in the aged silver haired dandy swinging his bumbershoot. When he brought two videos (Autobiography of a Flea and another "classic") to the register, sticker priced at $29.99 he immediately snaps, "These are $19.98 correct."
I glance at the price on the boxes, and say, "Well, no. They're $29.99"
Then the fucker lashes out at me, "That's your game, eh, sonny? The sign says they're on sale for $19.98, but I get 'em up here and ya slap on ten more dollars."
"The sign says "select titles with a bright yellow Red Hot Sale sticker on the box" are on sale." It says that in a text somewhat smaller than the gigantic $19.98 taking up the center of the sign, but so what. Even the elderly have fallen pray to the jiffy-pop, Web Blog, MTV edited, McWorld. Nobody can take the time to read the fucking writing on the wall. Paul Harvey, g.d. the rest of your story, we don't have the bleeding time!
"Yeah," he says, "Why's it hanging right in front of these videos them?"
"Because..." I say and realize like a flash, somewhat like that Scientology flash of enlightenment that blinds Travolta and give him a tumor in Phenomenon, that I don't want to explain anything to him or to anyone else. "The signs are hung wherever they hung them. I really don't care and you don't have to buy them."
"I'm not going to. You people should really..."
I'm not taking anymore crap!
"Fucking piss the fuck off if you don't like it and buy your god damn porn elsewhere."
I'm pleased to report that he did piss the fuck off. When the next customer came up to the register, he asked, "What was his problem?"
I replied, "Me," and he laughed.

Stories about playing Hollywood yesterday night will come tomorrow morning.

Happy I Love Work Fun Song!

Tuesday, February 27, 2001

I don't give a fuck who's on your g.d. cell phone! Why do you think I'd care? It's like they use to say in the olden time moving picture shows, "I don't care if it's the Queen of Sheeba!" And I don't. Just pay for your porn and get the hell out and thank you and come again and no I don't mean that as a pun! That's right fool, 18 days late means 36 Washingtons, Susies or Saquagias!
REE! REE! goes the cell phone,
And the troglodyte lights up like merry fucking Christmas.
When he gets off the phone he tells me, "Well, that was Pee Wee Herman on the phone."
When I stare blankly at him he adds, "Yup, good ole' Pee Wee."
"Oh!" I say emphatically, "Good Ole' Pee Wee. Why didn't you say so because that whole Herman thing through me way off you fucking pervert! Why don't you call up good ole' Pee Wee and take your sack full o' Latina Piss Fetish videos over to his house and have a big wank together so he stays out of trouble in public! Pee Wee is into all those gadgets in his house right? Like the automatic pancake making Abraham Lincoln, right? Would you like to buy this Anal Chode Grinder in the shape of Monica Lewinsky's head to bring over too? My God, man! Pee Wee! Thee mother fucking Pee Wee! Unbelievable. Okay, now pay up you loser in a Ferrari Jacket. Buy American asshole! Fucking Italian bullshit car. Ride, Mussolini, ride! Thank you."
KaCHING!
And I kicked his saggy ass out the door in a straight up punt. Good riddance to Pee Wee attractin' rubbish.
I have to go back to that dank pit of a work place today, but afterwards I get to play Hollywood. That's right, play Hollywood, not unlike delirious old coots who imagine getting phone calls from Paul Rubens at the porno store. That's why one lives in Hollywood, huh? To play Hollywood! Today I'll be attending my first movie premiere. Odd, it's premiering, but I've already seen it. But this is the official world premiere, Sundance and other people's living rooms aside. Who knows, maybe Pee Wee will be there and he and I can have a jerk of togetherness in the back row. Wouldn't that be the cat's meow?

Format!

Monday, February 26, 2001

My retinas have dislodged, fallen to the floor and become stuck in the shit brown shag carpet like cheap disposable contact lenses. I can't look at the computer screen any longer. It burns! Now I'll have to go out and buy one of those glare guard devices. I'm not a fan of the glare guard, however, as it forces you to only view your screen head on. Any fancy angle and... nothing, can't see it, and some of the stuff I download, man, I don't want to look at that shit head on. I just can't take it. It's like the need to watch the scary bits of a movie through the fingers. Anyway, why have my retinas rebelled under the burning and the stinging and the hurtfulness? I've been formatting, formatting, formatting and still ain't done formatting. Indent to two tabs for dialogue. Indent fourteen spaces for character title. Screenplay format was designed to work on type writers. What I stupidly assumed is that the character's name, as positioned above the dialogue, was simply centered, but it is not centered because typewriters don't know what the shinola a center is. So now I'm decentering, aligning right and indenting exactly fourteen spaces past the dialogue. Why fourteen spaces? Why not three tabs? I don't know. They do have formatting software now, but I'll be damned if I'm going to drop $269 bucks on something that does nothing more than indent to the proper margin point. Shit, I might be able to code a program in basic that approximates that simple 269 dollar bullshit. Excuse me, if I cut myself short, but I do have some formatting to do.

Time and the Bunny

Friday, February 23, 2001

What do I know about anything. Very little, if anything. I like to think that I know more than Socrates who as we all know, humble and philosophical as fuck, claimed the only thing he could know was that he knew nothing. And just how philosophical is "fuck?" "Fuck," is without a doubt the center of the philosophical world. "Fuck" has caused wars, endless debate and perpetuates all arguments and will continue to until the end of time. Not that time can ever end if, that is, time exists at all. That's my problem right now. Time exists all too, too much. It bears down on me like a great boring job one has to go to in half an hour. Now you get the picture. In an abstract way, I live out Xeno's paradox everyday of my life. Going places where I'll never end up because, quite simply, finiteness in the face of infinity is ever so very small. Yes, so very small. Sometimes, time stands still for me. It is in those times that I hop around my big empty living room like cute fuzzy bunny hooked up to a car battery repeating over and over, "Yes." It's the "yes" of optimism, positive energy, and the affirmation of life. Then, time kicks back in, opening before me its maw of infinity and I crawl in only to find I taste like chicken and the maw of infinity is my own maw, it is also your maw and George W. Bush's maw (not Barbara, you freak), but it is no more his than ours. We are all equally condemned to death. Some of us more equally than others. True, the old adage, "time heals all wounds," is in a sense true, but time more or less causes all wounds and eventually refuses to heal like a renegade doctor, like the dentist from the Marathon Man. Shit.

My Day Times Are Numbered

Thursday, February 22, 2001

Is it just Southern CA or is daytime television as bad everywhere? I wouldn't know. Not because I'm an uncultured L.A. hick whose vision doesn't extend beyond his own "'hood," but because I've never watched daytime television elsewhere. The news shows are the worst of it too. I know Soap Operas run across the country and some internationally, but I never saw news like the news out here when I lived in Wisconsin. A couple of stories yesterday included: "LeftOvers: Do You Know What Dangers Lurk in Your Refrigerator?" and "Hot Wax Car Washes: We go undercover to expose the scam!" It was real deep cover too. They sent the FOX news crew out, with the FOX insignia stamped across every piece of equipment in sight, walked straight up to car wash managers and asked them if the hot wax is worth the price. That's the same undercover technique Hanssen used to gather state secrets for the Russians. It's fool proof. In the equally ludicrous "Leftover expose" they sent roving reporters out to cities across America to peak into our homes' refrigeration units. What they found may shock and deeply, deeply depress you. In one home, in Houston I believe, Spaghetti sauce was extracted from deep within the fridge. The reporter opened the tupperware container as if it were rigged to blow. Once opened he leered skeptically at the sauce (one of the few times in recent memory I've ever seen a reporter even slightly skeptical) and asked, "How long has this been in here?"
The unwitting matron calculated days in her head and answered, "Five days."
Fear ringed the reporters eyes, "Five days! I wouldn't eat that."
Well, that's the news folks. For other entertainment there's Maury Povich's parade paternity testing and cavalcade of freaks. Literal freaks, too. Children and babies tromped out before the camera in all their genetic deficiencies. Mankind will never cease to be fascinated by poorly sculpted versions of itself.
You can always avoid Maury and the Entertainment shows about Madonna, Guy, Tom, Nicole and the ubiquitous Martin Sheen babbling about his youthful stint as a caddy, (From personal experience, I know the guy never shuts the fuck up about his caddying unless he has scripted lines to read as the cameras roll. It's like he's a little wooden boy dreaming of his life as a real boy, oh so many years ago) by switching over to the channel nine news. For their top story they touted the "Latina Chris Rock" whose witty repertoire of jokes included the quip, "White people actually buy food for their dogs!" In America we have laws against allowing our dogs to slowly starve to death on the streets. We so crazy!
The commercials during this schlock barrage are the most brazen predators of fear I've witnessed. Dozens of scenarios unfold involving being pulled over by police, getting in fender benders or seriously maiming yourself while driving. The fear in this: What if you're uninsured? One ad, after some emergency room footage, featured the tag line, "The important thing is Jim's alive. The sad thing is, Jim and his family will be paying the hospital bills for the rest of their god damned miserable fucking lives!"
Oh, Jim! How could you?
Other advertisements pray on the daytime demographic of housewives' insecurities about their spouses' fidelity. The most common of these is a psychic hot line. The commercial stars a mystic sort of muumuu wrapped portly black woman. She speaks with a Jamaican accent so you know here and now she's one chick with supernatural nether-worldly connections. She says, "Do you really know your lover?" The idea, of course, is that you don't, and because you don't you need to call a total stranger for guidance. Who better to offer advice when it comes to the potential desecration of your connubial bliss than someone you've never met?
Of course, all bets are off on daytime television here in the "southland," as they call it, because if it rains or someone tries to flee the police then all eyes are forcefully turned to these fantastical events. They'll interrupt press conferences with the president if some jack ass in Glendale decides to play Dukes of Hazzard with the local Roscoes. Yee-haw! Hey, I hear sirens outside right now. I better go turn on the news. Because it's news, right?

Let's Do the Time Warp

Wednesday, February 21, 2001

What was it, two, three months back when Clinton was still president? Is that all the time to have passed since Lil' G-Walker Bush stepped into the oval office and took the reigns of the U.S. government? The stupid bastard is a fast worker. While flipping through the three major networks to catch the top news stories last night, I felt teleported back in time. Reporters were talking about spies, missile defense plans and "chilly relations" between the United States and Russia. Since when have there been "chilly relations" between the U.S. and Russia? There wasn't any chilliness I recall when Bill was behind the wheel. So there's this chilliness then. The news went on to use the phrase, "new cold war." New g.d. Cold War! The new cold war is a result of G-Du-B's full blown support of the missile defense plan. In other words, soon you'll be hearing the media rejuvenate other words such as, "arms race." Russia can't afford to enter the arms race, of course. They're eye-ball deep in debt to us as it is, but they're getting some strong support from former European Satellite nations to develop a mobile missile defense plan as a joint venture. They ought to do pretty well. If former F.B.I. agent, Robert Philip Hanssen , recently charged with espionage, gathered up data on the U.S. missile defense plans over the past fifteen years, then Russia and the European nations should be able to run a tight race. If I were them, I'd start chatting with local bad boy, Saddam, and make things tighter. The Russian government should be damn sure to keep spies operating in America as long as there's a Bush with a pulse in the country. Here's what G-DuB, kickin' it 1980's Style Old School had to say about the spying to his advisors aboard air force one, “Allegations of espionage are a reminder that we live in a dangerous world, a world that sometimes does not share American values. To anyone who would betray its trust, I warn you, we’ll find you and we’ll bring you to justice.” Scary words. "Dangerous" is equated directly with "non-American values." I just wish I knew what American values were. I also want to know, precisely, what "its" refers to? As in, "betray its trust." Is "its" the world? Is "its" American values? Dude, this "its" is important. G-DuB is warning YOU! It's an official presidential warning. But isn't spying in its own way an American value? Does it not follow the entrepreneurial spirit that is the foundation of capitalism, an American value? I would have to say that espionage is an American value. It can't truly be considered anymore criminal than what we let GM, Nike and Coca-Cola do to third world countries and even our good neighbor, Mexico, everyday by poisoning their land, air and water and exploiting their people in a way that amounts to indentured servitude with armed guards making sure you put in a good days work and don't run off with a pair of those Air Jordans on your feet. You don't make enough to buy those, sonny. Speaking of "the third world," (i.e., all those little countries that don't matter) we ought to be hearing a lot about them in the newspapers again real soon. They'll matter once more in that special cold war, pledge your allegiance manner.
G.Bush, he's bringing on the flash backs. With Bush and the media pulling in his corner, we ought to get a full blown cold war (and potentially hot in Iraq) off the ground by summer. Military spending will reach unprecedented new highs, while public education and environmental budgets are slashed. I get the distinct feeling we're slipping into some sad times. With the slightest sign of an economic slip, Kaboom!, we're bombing Baghdad. Economic slip, Kaching!, we're building a missile defense system that can not, will not work. All that is good for the Republicans. To make sure they keep a select group of "liberals" in their corner they get some stats on Iraq's human rights violations, noting, "16,000 cases of disappearances in Iraq, [with] reports of torture and arbitrary arrests widespread." Torture and arbitrary arrests? Sounds nothing like the U.S. Nothing like the NY or LAPD. Nothing like Texas.
Here's a thought: Maybe Hanssen told the Russians where the Bush family will be having their Easter brunch. Eat a ham, celebrate Christ! And maybe the Russians will kick that bit of info. down to their sometimes fanatical Bush hating Muslim neighbors in Iraq. Bush hating muslim neighbors who happen to have relatives attending universities in the United States. Wouldn't it be terrible if one of them rented a Ryder truck, and, and... No! It's too horrible. I sure hope national security looks into that possibility. Maybe we'd better bomb those non-American value holding non-Americans a little more to be sure we get our message across, "We will not put up with terrorism or the manufacture of weapons of mass destruction!" You hear us you different thinking sons of bitches? You hear us?!

Breeding Stock

February 20, 2001

I'm being irresponsible and not working on the script. I get two days off in a row from work, something I have not had in quite sometime and something I've bitched about in that period of quite sometime, and here I am squandering those two days away. What can I do? There are only two choices: be productive or improductive, potent or impotent. Speaking of "impotent," I was wondering about the Vatican's policy on impotency and the medicinal enhancement of. So I went to google.com and typed in, "viagra +vatican," to see what I'd find. Although I found no official statement released from the vatican, many sites, both pro- and con-, about viagra mentioned the vatican unofficially endorses viagra on the ground that it can strengthen families. Boners build strong families! So I guess as it goes for the Vatican, if God, for whatever reason, has stricken down the once mighty Priapus, then you may take action to erect the fallen idol anew. Since it wasn't supposed to be up to begin with, I wonder if it would be okay to roll on a condom? What a crock of shit the Vatican offers their followers. A pill empowering the man to stand at attention and start fighting is good. A pill empowering the woman to accept that fight without fear of pregnancy is bad. I'd think the birth control pill could help build stronger families too. You're in a family raising a couple brats and you're Catholic. Finances are stretched to the breaking point, debt is accumulating, and one more child would mean you're off to the poor house. Some of the best entertainment you have is sex. It's affordable and you and your spouse don't have to go out for it. The problem is you're Catholic. Sex could get incredibly expensive as it does for a lot of families who end up with more children than they can support. You and your spouse feel birth control pills would be a good way to keep the size of the family in check, and maintain the current status quo so things don't get worse and the family weakens as so many families do when financial burdens break their backs. Now there is a new problem. Since you're Catholic, your religion forbids you from using any form of birth control including the pills. What happens if you do use the pills? Looks like you devoutly believe use of birth control equals an afterlife raked over hot coals. Well, just if you're the woman on the pill. The man's on viagra and he's okay.
This is nothing new for the Catholic church. A religion rapidly losing its potency due to its fear of allowing women into their higher ranks as Priests, Bishops, Cardinals, and Popes. The rest of Christendom shows little better in its respect for women. Hell, even our government holds little respect for women. Remember that Equal Rights Amendment? Remember how it didn't pass the Senate? That was a good time in America, boy, I'll tell you what. That was the day our government officially decreed the inferiority of women to men. It's no wonder the leader of this country is always a member of the Christian religion, and to even get elected a potential leader has to mention a couple times how he's keen on Jesus. Note: "he's" keen on Jesus, not "she's." Two hundred twenty five years of patriarchy in the U.S. isn't going to change anytime soon. Not even for Hillary.

My Ten Cents Worth

Tuesday, February 20, 2001

Mayor Rudolph W. Giulani of New York City calls the Disseminated Group Inc., "the latest example of the relentless 30-year war the left-wing elite has waged against America's religious heritage."

Cat Chaser didn't pull the 27 bucks out of the bag for me like I was sure he would, and when you get right down to it there was no winning on Noriello either. Needless to say, there's a certain futility in laying down two bucks on the top ranked horse to show. That bet pulled me in a whopping great 10 cents. I'm no horseman. I always skimmed those track passages in Bukowski. Somehow I was never made to care, win or lose, how Buk did at the races. With my first forray into the world of horse betting, I came out $4.90 down on the money. That ten cent win left me with at least a shred of dignity. The damn top ranked horse, Noriello, all he did was show. What a wager, a nickel to the dollar. Lay twenty bucks on the line and you get a payoff of a buck for your troubles. Truth be told, I'm down more than four dollars and ninety cents. Take parking into the mix, 3 fins, entrance fee, 5, nachos, 2.50, and the large Pepsi at $2.25 and I'm down a bit more. You count the numbers. But still I remember winning that dime. I cashed that bit of paper in too, my ten cent voucher. I can imagine a lot of people probably think, "ten cents, fuck it!" and throw their voucher to the floor. Not me, man. I calculated for that dime. I deliberated at length for that dime. If you're serious about the races and want to win more than a dime, and cover nacho expenses to boot, then you have to raise the stakes. That's probably where the real pulse pounding comes in. Slap a hundred down, when a hundred really means something to you, like the ability to eat, drink or pay rent, then the galloping down the course really means something to you too. The horses are running for your future. Horse races must be significantly more exciting and involving for the poor than the rich. A rich man would never have the horses beating a path to poverty for him unless he was an outright fool. A person with wealth could never quite get the same thrill of a big win when that win means for at least the next month, you're king.
I doubt the track will ever be a place I'll frequent. I've never been to Disney Land, but I bet Santa Anita has one or two things up on the place so I'd be there before the other. Last night, around 3 a.m. I awoke and saw a horse in the corner of my room, back in the darkness. The red digital lights glowing on the answering machine, the eyes. I guess the rest I just filled in with shadows. I'll assume the pile of shit in the corner is a hallucination as well. Every morning I have a good bowel movement like clockwork, thanks in part, I think, to Grape Nuts Brand Cereal. This morning I didn't have to go. I'm thinking it might be because I skipped my Grape Nuts yesterday in favor of a Bacon, Avocado and Tomato Omelette.

Excerpt From Blade Runner:
[ Taffey Lewis's ]

Deckard: Bartender? Taffey Lewis? Taffey, I'd like to ask you a few questions.

Taffey: Blow me.

Deckard: You ever buy snakes from the Egyptian, Taffey?

Taffey: All the time, pal.

Deckard: Ever see this girl, huh?

Taffey: Never seen her, buzz off.

Deckard: Your licenses in order pal?

Taffey: Hey Louie, the man is dry. Give him one on the house, okay?. See ya.

Taffey Lewis came into the shop to buy some videos last Friday. He walked using a cane, his chubby fingers garishly decked out in over sized stone rings. Bracelets ensnared his wrists in equally gawdy fashion. His loose fitting shirt was open at the top so the necklaces had a space out in the open to breath and be seen. Somehow it all worked for him. I'm not saying it worked in a particularly good way, but there is clearly no other way this old beat hippie could dress. We chatted film, then he gave me his phone number. So today, I'll revise the script as much as I can and later in the next week or two, I figure, I can get a copy to Taffey and see if he can do anything with it. I have my doubts, but a lead is a lead maybe even more so when one doesn't actively seek leads. It's no more of a gamble than Cat Chaser to win, eh?

I Sold My Soul for Cock and Noel

Saturday, February 17, 2001

This is older, unposted debris laying around unused on my hard drive...

Here we go again. During the wait for the return of the computer I reverted back into what the Juggler simply called, "Classic Rick." Classic Rick includes, but is not limited to: punching disco balls, slam dancing with a mirror, drinking enough whiskey to kill your average Saint Bernard or not so average very small horse, running amok in the street, screaming, "Hey! You miserable piss drinking dog fucker! Get the fuck back here and fight like a man!" at toddlers, being interviewed by passersby with camcorders, breaking a toilet into small pieces about 'yay big', moving large household furnishings for unknown but desperate reasons, and speaking in cryptic riddles about myself and the nature of the universe. It was a night for the usurpation of bunny rabbits, indeed. My demons were exorcised in one great liquid blast, and now the computer is back, my wonderful glorified type writer is back and those wicked whisky wizards I unleashed have their old home back in words on the 13 inch monitor where they belong or on your monitor which is probably larger to compensate for that '67 Mustang you don't own. Are men with cable modems compensating for lack of cable elsewhere?
What does my 33,6 modem say about me? Wait, I got this one, it says I work a low paying shit job that often involves wondering what the white gooey stuff is on the returned tape. That pinpoints it.

Kirsten and I were invited up to the Director's house for Superbowl Sunday since the director just bought this gienormous wide screen television. Since the superbowl was not shot in some ridiculous 16:2 panaranal aspect ratio all the players looked like squashed hobbits due to the television stretching the image. At least I think it was the Superbowl. For all I know they were dailies from the new Lord of the Rings movie. Turns out Brittany Spears plays a Troll and Aerosmith old wizened Ents. For what it was worth, nobody paid much attention to the antics of the footballers. I for one was to busy getting nasally violated by some kind of a pain junkie. What do you call those guys who hang cinder blocks from their nipples, let scorpions hang out in their mouths and fuck their noses with electric drills? Please, don't give me an answer just yet. I let a guy like that ram a pen deep into my sinuses. Guess what? Four inches of pen up the nose and no blood, no lobotomy, no problem. The Director scolded the Pen Punisher, warning him not to kill or drastically alter the personalities of any of the party guests. Later, I got to see the Pain Junkie in action in the new movie, "We Sold Our Souls For Rock'N'Roll." If I had seen that earlier, I wouldn't have let him anywhere fucking near me. Impressive performance. Lots of blood. A real Beavis and Butthead show. Fantastic. The movie itself is well done, but comes across more as a fun filled ode to OzFest and the "return" of heavy metal than an actual heartfelt document of a place and time like the Decline of Western Civilization pictures. If "We Sold Our Souls..." plays a midnight movie anywhere, I'll be there with a traveler sized Jack Daniel's on my hip. I'm sure the movie is best enjoyed when drunk with a bunch of mentally stunted metal heads a' hootin' and a' hollerin' at their heroes up thar on the biggie screen! The fans in the movie after all, make up the most interesting element of the movie so why would they be any less in the audience at the movie? However, drunk midnight movies aside, I'm not so sure what the cultural relevance of the movie is. As a documentary it is a stunning work, shearing down 268 hours of raw high definition digital video footage into a ninety minute cohesive movie, but as anything more than a brilliantly executed commercial for OzFest it does not succeed. If I was any other kind of man than the kind that looks for socio-culturally redeeming elements in his movies, I'd have nary a negative word for "We Sold Our Souls..." but since I am one of those pedantic pseudo intellectual nit pickers, I can only say I enjoyed it. It made me laugh more than most of the stumbling over incompetent comedies coming from the new breed of Hollywood hacks crankin' out "Deuce Bigalows," "Dude, Where's My Cars?" and "ManChilds."

Got Dicks?

Friday, February 16, 2001

"You got dicks?"
"What?"
"You sell dicks?"
"Excuse me?"
"Dicks? You sell dicks?"
"I'm sorry I don't understand you."
"Dicks! Dicks!" he yelled, jabbing his right hand forward as if stabbing with a knife.
"Dicks?" I asked, finally understanding the word this old bearded fellow was saying. A malformed lump on his left cheek bulged out his scraggly peppered beard hairs and made his speech nearly incomprehensible.
"Yes, dicks."
"Yeah, I guess so," I answered.
"Where are they?"
"On the other side of the doors there."
"How you get through?"
"Just push on them.," he pushes the white old west style swinging doors and steps through. I add, "And they're called 'dildos,' okay? Not dicks."
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes."
He steps up to the glass case harboring the sex toys. "Can I see that one?"
"There's nothing more to see to it. You can't open the box."
"MmHm. Does it (undecipherable)?" Maybe, I thought, he asked if it Mambos, but I wasn't any too sure about that.
"Does it what?"
"Does it Vibra?"
"Vibrate?"
"Yeea, vibra. Does it vibrae?"
"No, I think it just sits there."
"I'll check it out."
"You want to buy it?"
"Yeah, I'll take it."
"All right then." I retrieved the dildo, molded from an actual erect penis, from the glass display case.
"What's that mean?" He says, pointing at the box where it reads, 8".
"That means it's eight inches in length," then added for my own amusement, "not in girth."
"That sounds good."
It might sound good to him, but I don't know if it sounds all that good to me. At any rate, he's livin' it, I'm writin' it and now you're thinkin' it.

Insecticide!

Friday, February 16, 2001

I always give in to not giving in. When I put my foot down and said I would not do battle with the ants of my kitchen, by gum, I meant it, but here I am now with a kitchen wreaking of unscented Raid. That unscented Raid is an insidious trap. You buy it thinking, "Mm, odor free," then get it home and spray it all over every square inch of counter top, floor, sink, cutting board, cupboard, shelves, ceiling and window in the place only to realize unscented means rather than smelling like flowers or strawberries it just smells like what Raid smells like in an undisguised state. Interesting, that unscented Raid smells just like the strippers at Darryl's Cooch Factory up in Tehachapi. They import the strippers right off the old Women's prison. It's where Larry Flynt sends his scouts for his Jail Babes magazine. I hope the strippers aren't using Raid on their crabs and prison scabies, but the truth is most likely otherwise. In any case, my kitchen no longer is over run by pests. In my dream these ugly cave dwelling scorpions made the entire interior of the kitchen seethe with a hideous life. I snapped awake with a can of Raid already in my hand, nozzle targeted at some phantom in mid-air over my head as I screamed, "Würfel minderwertiger Scheißebeutel!! Würfel! Würfel!" but in English. After that it was outright, full blown genocide on those little grease ant bastards. The genocide I conducted exclusively in German, chanting, "Ein, zwei, Tod zu den Ameisen. Drei, vier, gift fur du." Then SPRAY, SPRAY, SPRAY like mad!

Reader Mail Answered!

Thursday, February 15, 2001

As a worker in the pornographic industry here in the San Fernando Valley, I sometimes get questions from the curious "every man" concerning the ins and outs of the world of adult film making. Yesterday was one of those times:

A young reader from Oconomowoc asks,
"I am not an official on porn but why do they pull out? Is it so they can show the white gooey stuff flying about? And would that mean porn stars don't swallow? Keeping this in mind, should I be discouraged by those girls with the shirt that says "pornstar" on it across the bust? R*ck, why is the world so confusing?"
Now, why do you write in and try to answer your own questions? Perhaps one of the secondary reasons for pulling out is to "show the white gooey [ejaculate -ed.] stuff flying about," but that is not the main reason. When the first "money shot," what they call a filmed ejaculation, was captured by John "lucky" O'Reilly in The Nun's Story in 1913. It was suggested by the young Carl Jung, then film critic, that the filmed ejaculation "[...]symbolizes the film maker's outrage at the rigorous rules for sexual code and conduct imposed by the Catholic church upon his homeland. The very action of ejaculation symbolizes a beginning of paternal origins such as the 'Father Land.' The nature of ejaculation as a release of pressure also indicates the need for O'Reilly's forebears release from Ireland during the great potato blight that was indeed causing high levels of internal pressure within the country."
Whether or not Jung's critique is worth it's weight in seminal emissions, it is certain that the juxtapostioning of the first money shot with the film's title, The Nun's Story, can be no small coincidence. In fact, it could be said that every filmed or video taped ejaculation is a direct attack on the very foundations of the Catholic Church which is built upon not pulling out to assure future generations of Catholic Serfs to work the lands of the rich.
I hope that explains some things for you. You see pulling out isn't for such a base and prurient as to simply show an arc of manly viscous pearl pulsating gently through the air in order to stimulate sexual urges in the viewer. That would qualify as obscene under our nation's current obscenity laws. In fact, the display of jism gushing from a giant veiny cock into a young woman's face in movie's like "Cock Smokers Volume 57" and "Dirty Cocksucking Asian Sluts Number 32" is a subtle and constant shaking of the foundations of the American Class System. What that jism says is, "Even though less than 1% of the U.S. population controls 99% of its wealth, doesn't mean that 1% necessarily controls you!" After all is said and done, the cumshot ultimately stands for equality, truth and most importantly, justice for all, not the rich upper class few like in China where their laws forbid the making and distribution of adult contemporary cinema and therefore the displays of male ejaculation contained in those films. You stop Jizz, you stop freedom!
In regards to your question as to whether or not porn stars swallow, I'll tell you they swallow the same pack of lies force fed to all of us by the media everyday. So yes, they do swallow. Um, literally and metaphorically. About the girls in the "pornstar" shirts, I don't know. How big are these busts you refer to?
In closing, the world is not a confusing chaotic nightmare if you simply take time out to talk to me first about what ails you before getting all worked up about it. And if I can't help, then try self medicating.

Trouble With the Old John Thomas

Wednesday, February 14, 2001

_{Poor
chap, but then really what could you expect of him with a name
like John Thomas? He looks none too pleased with the situation, but
I can't blame him. He just went from money shot to mug shot in 5
seconds flat. Note his tight pursed lips and the way the top of his
head seems to merge with the rest of the universe like a visual
demonstration of the goal of Buddhist meditation. They say, "Every
picture is worth a thousand words and that every picture tells a
story." Something this picture doesn't say is how much deep
admiration I have for the genius in St. Paul who managed to get the
police depatment to post pictures of the men and women arrested for
engaging in prostitution. 100% brilliant.
That's odd. I'm sitting
here with no browser open, no ftp software running or anything else,
and the little windows icon indicating my state of connectedness
with the internet was just flashing green. That would tell me
information was being exchanged between my computer and something
"out there." Unfortunately it doesn't tell me much more. Maybe
they're on to me. After all I was running a vast internet smear
campaign against a landlord who was technically never my landlord.
You see, when I called her a "cunt" and a "negligent landlord" she
said it simply wasn't true, and that it amounted to slander. Now, I
know I was wrong. She is a cunt and a negligent land lady.
She is a woman after all and women simply can not be lords. There is
an operation, but if she were to undergo that, then she would no
longer be a proper cunt. Thus, I stand corrected and offer my
sincerest apologies to the cunt.
I'm waiting for it to warm up.
Waiting for the day when I can get home from work, crack open a cool
refreshing ale, slide open the large glass doors to the pool and
dive in. Let's see... we're half way through February (happy
Valentine's Day) so in a about a month, two tops, depending on the
breaks.

Freak Log 2001
02/13/01 It isn't unusual for me to note the random daftness
found on the streets out here. Unlike Hollywood movies, I see no
drive-bys, pimps, hookers, drug crazed maniacs or super heroes. What
I see is far more pedestrian, but deserving, nonetheless, to be
catalogued here. Since no kind words adhere themselves to this
assortment of derelicts from the L.A. streets, I'll call them
simply, "freaks," but in that nice compassionate nearly reverent
sense, as in, "Boy! He sure is some sort of freak." The first freak
is that garden variety freak known commonly as "the Jesus freak." I
arose parastaltically from the depths of the subway, or as you
British people call it, "The Tube." The Jesus Freak was already set
in place. For the sake of having a mental image, picture the Jesus
Freak as a plump, semi-retarded Steve Buscemi. The Jesus Freak had
only one phrase that he muttered over and over again like a dreadful
parrot, "Open up the bible and you'll find Jesus. Open up the bible
and you'll find Jesus. Open up..." Thus far not a very compelling
freak. At his feet were five video tapes stacked in two piles. One
pile consisted of three documentaries on the Titanic. The other
pile, two tapes, making up James Cameron's The Titanic. As I
pondered the Titanics at his feet, he swooped down upon the tapes,
quickly snatching them up and to my great delight, I mean horror,
strode directly towards me, stopping three feet away where he
rearranged his Titanics at his feet just as they had been before.
The obsessive compulsiveness came through when I he staggered the
documentary pile of tapes to match how they had been moments
earlier. He resumed parroting out his line, this time seemingly
addressing me, or my shins I'd guess since that's where his eyes
were cast. Then, quite suddenly, to my horror, I mean delight, he
again determinedly snatched up his tapes and ran after a woman that
walked by and was descending down into the depths of the
subterranean train. Down went the Jesus freak, disappearing from my
sight. I'm left with one nagging question, "What's up with the
Titanics?" Is his unconscious mind trying to tell him something
about his life, by directing his neurosis towards those particular
tapes? Is it some grand metaphor for his life? Was he at one time,
out to sea, high and mighty, king of the world and waves, and the
next minute head butting a big ass chunk of ice until he achieved
his current brain damaged state? Let's move along. After the Jesus
freak went his own way, the 212 came by and took me to work. The
next two freaks encountered were encountered at work, at the
Pr0N-Sh0PpE! An aged, weathered black man with skin like leather and
hands like talons entered the store. With him he toted two large
bags of garbage, perhaps recyclables, I didn't ask. His hair was
long and dreaded, with a fan of hair sticking straight up on his
head forming a crest. Tied into the white corn starched dreadlocks
were the bones of long dead chickens, dangling like ornaments on a
really wretched Christmas tree. "Mind if put these sacks down here?"
he asked me, indicating the counter top between me and him, the all
important barrier between the sane (me) and the insane (EVERY OTHER
FUCKING LAST ONE OF YOU!!!!!!!). "Be my guest," I belched out on a
cloud of undisguisable terror as I leveled off the .357 at him
through the counter below his line of sight. "God bless you," he
said. His voice a heavenly chorus of a thousand Tom Waitses. "No
problem." "You need to see my I.D.?" he asked and for stomach
knotting second I have no clue why he asked, then I see he is
referring to the sign reading, "No one under 18 allowed beyond this
point." "Nah, I'll take your word for it if you say your over
eighteen," I said to the hideous relic. Now, something very horrible
thing happened. He opened up his mouth for an over exuberant and
entirely unforced cackle, "Ha ha ha, you're a man after my own
heart." "Only on a stake," I countered. Perhaps I'm being too harsh.
After all, I think this freak is all right. I have no qualms with
him on a personal or even impersonal level, and if, through my word
choice I appear to be belittling or implying some sort of loathing
or death wish, remember that is not the case. Words are chosen for
dramatic affect and not to form a just and true picture of reality.
If you think it's wrong of me to abuse the truth in this way, then
kiss my black ass or the black ass nearest you, whichever is more
convenient. I don't care. Onward. "Do you have gay black videos?"
"Sure, down the middle on the end to your right," I answered
unswervingly, and off he moved, his weight placed heavily on his
cane as he walked, down the aisle to the joyous bounty of black gay
porno awaiting him. Some time passed, during which I occupied myself
with I Love Lucy and he occupied himself with browsing through
display boxes prominently featuring oily black men. He returned with
two tapes, and requested they be put on hold for him until Friday. I
assume Friday is when he cashes in his sacks of plastic bottles. I
put the tapes aside and he turned to hobble back down the aisle, but
before I could sit down and see what zany scheme Lucy and Ethel were
hatching, he about faced, and said, "Excuse me sir, I have an
emergency here." Oh, God! Quick call the ambulance. It's a medical
alert! He's going to die right here in front of me! He forgot his
heart medication!! It's an emergency! Holy Christ, we got an
emergency here!!! Look out! Coming through! Oh, fuck. Oh, lord! A
full blown emergency! "Could I use your restroom?" he continued.
Restroom? Is that all? "I really have to go. I pissed myself earlier
waiting for the bus and don't want to again." "Yeah," I said, "Sure
thing," and crossed round the barrier between me and the rest of the
shit festering world to unlock the bathroom, or "Head," as you
military people call it. "Thank you. Thank you, sir. I promise I
won't mess it up in there or anything. My word," he said, suddenly
driving me to a despairing panic in which I imagined feces smeared
walls, vomit dripping ceilings, semen spattered floors and other
unsanitary horrors I in hadn't had the spark to kindle on my own
without his mentioning it. Then, I started thinking of what a sad
thing it is to have piss running down your leg, soaking into your
pants that you may not be able to wash for a month or more or never
for lack of a second pair when all you're trying to do is get from
one part of town to another. He took what I felt was an irritatingly
lengthy amount of time in the bathroom, the bathroom that's not for
customer use, but he did emerge and there was no mess, as promised.
There's not much more to say about the fellow. He left eventually,
picking up his trash bags and extending his hand for me to shake.
"I'm Reverend King, what's your name?" he asked. I told Reverend
King my name, and he left, but not before saying, "God bless you.
You pray for me, I'll pray for you." I didn't answer. Not long after
the good reverend's departure, Joe Pesci comes walking in in a cloud
of bad cologne, top five buttons undone revealing a gold chain with
some Zodiac symbol at its end, resting in a nest of thick chest
hair. Joe Pesci walks right up to me, slaps his hands palms down on
that counter top I'm growing quite fond of and says in a thick
Queens accent, "You can always tell the smell in this place," he
breathes in deep through his nose, "Do you notice the smell?" I test
the air. Nothing. I say as much. "No? You don't smell that? C'mon!
You're saying you don't notice that? It's the whole building. In the
walls and everything. You don't smell it?" "No." "Don't tell me
that," now he is getting genuinely angry at me. "You must smell it.
Maybe you've been here too long," Joe Pesci inflects that last
comment as if it's a thinly veiled threat. "All I ever smell in here
is cheap cologne," I snap. "B'ahhhh!" he disregards my last
statement and heads through the doors into the world of porn.

AntAcidTrip
02/13/01 I keep a clean kitchen, but it doesn't seem to
matter where I live out here, I get ants. At this new place, I
hadn't even used the kitchen for cooking and ants had found there
way into the garbage bin. Today I find they have swarmed all over
the stove and are feeding at two crumbs of I don't know what because
the only thing I've cooked up has been soup which tends not to leave
crumbs. This is my space to complain. If, before I do one thing to
make my kitchen an unsanitary haven for vermin, then exterminating
the vermin present should be the landlords job. Landlords in Los
Angeles, the two I have now dealt with aren't worth their weight and
the collective weights of all their ancestors in maggot engorged
shit. Maybe this current landlord will correct the problems which
currently include: no furnace (the gas co. wouldn't turn it on
because it falls well below their standards), ants (already
mentioned), and failure to allow my former roommate to begin his
lease on the date it was supposed to begin. That last reason effects
me too because I can't logistically unpack any of my belongings or
sat up the household with another full apartments worth of crap
stacked up to the ceiling in my living room. Still, my biggest
problem is the ant problem. I gave up fighting the things at the
last apartment and have no intention of resuming the fight here.
I've given up, 100%. My roommates can handle it if they want. I
don't need a kitchen. I'll live on $1 chinese food. That's been my
dream for about nine years now anyway. Since this is my only day off
until Sunday, I have a mountain of crap to take care of, and this
site isn't up anyway so what're you missing? You're missing me for
one. Have you been watching the weather channel? If you have then
you are undoubtedly catching information about the weather. It's
what they do best. They're probably excited about the weather in
California since we're actually experiencing what one might call
weather: rain, high winds, tornados, and, of course, the plague of
ants. I'm enjoying all the weather creates: floods, stalled cars,
cart loads of the dead, spongy brakes, waves of crashing water
surging up from under passing SUV tires and drowning pedestrians on
the sidewalks, falling palm leaves, and the standard Los Angelean
"Rain Dance." Unlike the natives of this land the Los Angelean rain
dance isn't designed to cause rain, but conversely, caused by the
rain. How is the dance done? It's easy. There are no fancy moves to
learn. All one must do to participate is jump into your car at the
slightest dampening of the roads, start your engines and forget
everything you might have learned in Driver's Education about safety
and courtesy. Now you're off and dancing like a pro. One lane right,
one lane left and keep your fingers off that blinker, now, slam your
partner to the curb, spin your auto round and round and whatever you
do don't slow down, baby. Please, don't slow down, baby. Writing
about the dance reminds me that it's past time I get out there and
join in. No good ever came of being a wall flower, except that it
prevents you from contracting syphilis later in the evening.}