iss like this iss like that iss like this and-aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah! you fucking shot me man! what the fuck! you fucking shot me dude! fuck!

while downtown during lunch today, out the grimy window of the sub shop, i saw her, and instantly i cursed myself for not having a digital camera/legit camera phone.

no, i didn't see some multi-racial perfect 10 (dime) from the Hustler Club strolling down Saratoga St.

i'm talking politickin' mang!

you see, one of the benefits of living in a moderate to large sized metropolis is that inevitably, you will lay eyes upon some pretty fucked up, often destitute wizards of weird. sure, small towns have their nuts, but the population density just ain't man.

this particular crazy was jaywalking(?) in one of those motorized invalid carriages. like the shits i try to get, pretty much every week. they shouldn't promise a 30 day free trial if it's not really free. people like me really depend on that shit.

but yeah, this woman, possibly in her '70s, disrupting the flow of traffic and not giving a fuck, her carriage literally plastered in huge "Obama '08" campaign stickers. with an array of Amurrrican flags as additional adornment. and of course she was rockin' the crucial Amurrrican flag denim long sleeve. so what if it's fucken 91 degrees with 88% humidity? she loves her some America.


she loves her some Obama. she doesn't give a bitch's tit about whether this country is ready for a Black head of state or not. she wants him in there, BY ANY MEANS NECESSARY!

so roll on you tiny diamond. keep hope alive.


Come On Baby, Let's-Do-The-Weird! Come On Baaaabay, Let's-Do-The-Weird! Come On Baby, And It Goes Like This...

word to the WIZENED:
This nonsense is part of a rather interchangeable series of posts that seem to make the modern Trilogy Children forget their "Troubles." If only temporarily.

Part Un: "I Keep A Wolf At The Door.

Part Deux: "Sally Sue Your Saints Are Sinners!"

Nevermind why I'm here.

OK OK, if you must know Nosy Nellie, let's just say that when you have a total PCP meltdown in the middle of Vine Street in broad daylight and make razor-supported demands that the Biotech hyper-industry turn your GOD DAMN lights back on, prosecutors tend to look favorably on any and all efforts to right the ship. Mentally.

Needless to say, my presence in this cramped, sterile office are but the beginning of my quite literally ass-saving re-direction.


We're about an hour deep into my third "session." The first one didn't go so well. At least for the doctor it didn't.

"Are these restraints really necessary? They're on pretty fucken tight, man!"

The good doctor pauses for a moment, trying to shake the memory of two weeks ago, lying on the floor there of his own seemingly safe and secure office, terrified and in an unrelenting headlock, with a pen-knife wielding maniac demanding The Truth, The Whole Truth, and NOTHING But The Truth GOD DAMMIT! So what if he's in a fucken wheelchair? Handicapped fucks get it too! Just can't believe he kept his mouth shut. Pity is a powerful thing.

"Well. Mr. Paisley, as your therapist, I seek to help you to the utmost of my abilities, but quite frankly, threats of violence and sodomy will not be tolerated.

"Please please please please please please, Mr. Paisley is my father. And I detested that hook-nosed faggot, God rest his soul. Call me Phinnaeus."

The crippled fuck takes quick note of the old man comment, but I'm not bothered.

"OK, Phinnaeus. Today I figured we'd get to something a bit more informal, less structured. Because, and this is merely my preliminary observation, it seems, well it seems that you don't do well with structure or traditional modes."

You can't really be offended by the truth, especially when it's one you embrace. "OK. So what do you have in mind?" Sonofabitch really strapped me in good. Pretty strong for a man in his, condition.

"Well. What we're going to do now is something I'm sure you've heard of or seen in the past."

The old Jew (and trust me, I got an eye for these things) busts out a dense stack of glossy cardboard squares and shuffles them in his slight, impotent lap. Just the thought of how much of a cake-eating, pantywaist of a needle-dicked wimp this guy is (he can't possibly be satisfying his Jewess wife?) is starting to get my pressure up. But I'm not goin' nowhere.

"Phinnaeus. What do you see?" He holds up one of the cards, patiently awaiting my answer.

"Eh?" I'd scratch my head in wonderment, but, you know. "I see a fucking disaster is what I see."

"No no Mister, um, Phinnaeus. Think of it as an abstraction. A non-traditional representation that'll give me some insight into your, personality. And try not to think about it too hard. You know, just go with the flow, follow the feeling."

He's visibly proud of himself and his "hip" expression. Loosens his collar a bit, smirks; real cocksure-like. Fancies himself a genuine poet, a "Rock Star." Whatever the fuck that means. Of course, his confidence comes standard with my immobility. Pussy.

"Well. I guess it reminds me of something."

"Yes?" So eager.

"It reminds me of 1970."

"Nineteen-Seventy?" In a perplexed, patronizing tone. "OK... How so? How does it remind you of Nineteen-Seventy?"

"Yeah. Reminds me of 1970. To be more specific, it reminds me of the day I fought Dennis Hopper in the parking lot of a Wendy's in North Hollywood."

"OhhhKaayyy? The actor Dennis Hopper?"

"Oh no, haha, no way man. The abortionist Dennis Hopper... Yes the fucking actor Dennis Hopper man!"

"Alright. And how did you happen to know Mr. Hopper?"

"That fuck owed me money MAN! Things were so carnivorous that day though. It was like, let's drop 400 micrograms, let's pound an eightball each, let's speedball a bit, let's roll around in some Hard White. just as a warm-up, ya know? Let's test The Mortal Coil a bit."

"Okay, so you and Dennis Hopper, the actor, were doing drugs together?"

"C'mon man! Sayin' it like that makes it sound like were sucking each other off. Naw, we were fucken partying, driving around in his convertible looking for pussy, man!"

"Alright. So how did this fight start?"

"Well, we stopped in this parking lot to rap to these two Mexican or Salvadoran or Nicaraguan birds. I don't know what the fuck they were. Anyway, Hopper said something stupid, some real stupid shit. I don't remember what exactly, but I know it was fucken stupid. The kind of thing that definitely scares pussy away. Especially illegal immigrant pussy. Something about reporting them to INS if they didn't let us film them fucking. So yeah, it was that, plus the fact that mere seconds after they split, he insinuated that with the Mexicans gone, we should try my mother's house. Thought it was the funniest shit ever, man."

"So you fought him because he insulted your mother?"

"Yeah, I guess. Well it wasn't really a fight. He went down after one punch. Faggot."

"Alright. Well, we did get something out of that. You do care for your mother, at least enough to physically defend her honor. But as for the rest, well-" (trying not to upset me, trying not to 'follow the feeling') "it's just that most subjects see some sort of canine figure in that inkblot."

"Well i didn't see no FUCKEN dog man!" I'm giving him a fatal fucken stare man, half-fucking-around but half-wanting to get out of this god damn chair and cut his nostrils with an Exacto knife.

Clearing his throat, he adjusts himself in his invalid carriage, making a face all too commonly associated with disbelief and skepticism. But fuck him! I know what I saw!

"Alright Phinnaeus, let's do another. And this time, try to just answer immediately, without too much consideration. OK?"

Focusing on the blot, I put on a face of coooool nonchalance, just to satisfy the paraplegic fuck. I answer real quick.

"Well sir, that's of course a picture, a rep-RE-Sen-Tation, of yours truly in the year 1979, Anno Domini... During a Sandanista rally in Managua. Mi hermano Manolo was admiring the chrome accents on my AK-47... Actually he was the only one in the crowd that noticed it wasn't a genuine Kalashnikov. I don't remember if it was a handmade number or a Chinese one-off. Actually, wait, Norinco wasn't heavy on the scene yet, so it must've been an amateur's handiwork. Anyway, we spent that night in a brothel with underaged whores, former nuns who'd been kicked out of the CONvent for makin' moves on the 'Father.' Sat up all night and all morning just talking about the nature of the revolution as it pertained to the dissident ethnic "minority." Later that night, with a head full of coca leaves and the stink of pubic youth on his trigger finger, Manolo proceeded to assassinate a Somoza governor. GOOD TIMES."

The doctor gasps, audibly. He holds up another "picture" in utterly stunned silence. Eventually, he manages words.

"And this one?" Exasperated now.

"It's me and Jodie Foster, man. Sorry. Jodie Foster and I. No, wait. I was right the first time. Me and Jodie Foster and a bunch of her 'people' at Lake Havasu, shooting mannequins dressed like Injuns, like Natives, gobbling up absinthe soaked sugar cubes. I tried to get her to eat some peyote buttons I had boiled in embalming fluid but she was being a total cunt. A real drag. I ate mine
sandwiched between two pristine butterfly wings and some stale Melba toast. Little trick I learned from Mia Farrow. But yeah, Jodie kept whining about having to get ready to film 'Le Sang Des Autres.' With Sam Neill and shit. I think I might have sacrificed an infant to Quetzalcoatl that day. Either an infant or a toaster. I was tripping face, man!"



"Look doctor. You're tired, I'm tired. What do you say we call it a day, friend?"

Hardly an argument. The doc's so relieved to get rid of me for the day that he doesn't fear for his safety any longer, releasing the leathery grip of those fucken restraints.

"But before I go Sir, I've been meaning to ask, what does a guy have to do to get a fucken script 'round here?"

"Well, Phinnaeus, it's going to be a few more meetings before I can determine with certainty whether medication is necessary, and from there, what exactly to prescribe should the need arise."

"C'mon doc!?" You know I'm good for it...

Obviously hoping to avoid a confrontation, he slowly reaches for his prescription pad and begins scribbling. Awwww! He's putting his license and career on the line for lil 'ol me. How sweet.

Just then, I get the command.

Knock 'im out! Make the grab! Take a dash!


I ask you, who am I to disobey orders?

He doesn't see it coming. At all! It's almost comical how thoroughly he's blindsided.

You see, there are certain places you can hit a person where he'll be out anywhere from 4-8 hours, and he won't remember shit, won't be seriously hurt, and there won't be any visible evidence of Assault + Batteries Not Included.
Of course, to share the exact locations of these "soft points" would be... socially irresponsible. So solly friend.

Problem Solved. Swiftly and Quietly.

I snatch the script pad out of his limp, cripple hand and shuffle for the door like some sort of freshly emancipated, drug-endowed pixie.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to run to see The Druggist: The CAPtain and the KILLer. He'll be awfully steamed if I'm late, you see...

SQUARES: 0 PHINNAEUS the Cat: 1 Quintillion


go ninja go ninja go go go go go!

Vanilla Ice - Ninja Rap (From Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles).

'90s-caliber cross-media marketing anyone?

Holy Shit! Truly a definitive force in the youth of KASAI.

Got my first piece of pussy as a young buck on account of spittin' this shit like hot fire.

Maybe 'piece of pussy' isn't really all that accurate. Because, let's be honest, 'twat' isn't really on the menu at 7, 8, or 9 years old. so yeah. more precisely, my mom's coworker's emotionally troubled slut daughter let me play 'OB/GYN' and shit.



Chocolate Rain! The Prisons Make You Wonder Where It Went...

Tay Zonday - Chocolate Rain

Thank you Antville!

it took a second listen (i was pretty disabled by the fits of chronic, hysterical laughter), but i realized what the kid Zonday's gettin' at.

The Prisons Make You Wonder Where It Went.

this ain't no love song babydoll, it's a funeral dirge. Tay-Tay's pontificating over the plight of Black America throughout this country's history and such.

though he looks like Baby Farrakhan, he's actually 25. hence the 'Old Man River' sound. yeah.

TayZonday.com coming soon.

The Kid Is Back And There's Gonna Be Trouble...

Rick Astley's "Never Gonna Give You Up," as performed by Mr. Zonday.

millions of YouTube views...


a case of "At" or "With."

And Here's A Song By A Gay Guy.

Rick Astley - Never Gonna Give You Up.

the originator. so to speak.

imagine my horror when one fine day, i happened upon my old man jamming to this shit, rather non-ironically. but i guess sometimes you just have to throw caution to the wind, roll up the sleeves of your pastel blazer, purse your lips, and stunt. HARD.

if you haven't seen/heard this ish before, get familiar. not like you'll have a choice.

i'm ordering a PREEEEMO sound system for the whip, and i plan to ghostride the shit coast to coast, shooting speed and bumpin' this Astley shit non-stop as i proselytize in my own little way.
so when you see those windows rattlin', hear that noise a' comin, see that shirtless idiot grinding his teeth into powder, all bug-eyed and shit, don't even try to fight that dancin' feeling. know yourself round here!



Choppa Style, Chop-Chop Choppa Style!

Juvenile - Ha

"New track from Juvenile comin' up, so keep it locked!"

i remember the day pretty clearly. heart full of hope, tuned in to 92Q(Jams), finger readily poised over the record button. this was gonna be the leadoff for my football camp mixtape.

this first single from Juvey pretty much kicked off a commercial rap revolution, and established the South as a dominant force in hip-hop/rap. needless to say the years since have proven it to be a mixed blessing (i.e. Rap-A-Lot's resurgence vs. finger-snap bubblegum rap)

sure, it's arguable that Master P and No Limit got the jump, but there's no way you can convince me that Cash Money wasn't Percy's worst nightmare. ever since B.G.'s 'Bling Bling', off the "Chopper City in the Ghetto" album, the phrase has become an official part of our modern lexicon.

but when was the last time you heard somebody say they're "Bout It Bout It?" that's what the fuck i thought.

i love how back then, 20" rims were exotic, a prize among the hood set.

now it's all about being able to fit inside your rims.


ya betta run Forrest, run Forrest runnnn!


Akira Ifukube - Symphonic Fantasia (as performed by Japan Ground Self Defense Force)

that Pharoahe Monch shit got me feening for Akira Ifukube's original Godzilla theme. fortunately this is 2007, so i didn't have to go to the "record store" or the "library" to look up/procure this track. how you like me now 1973?


It's A Mad Mad Mad Mad World: Part 1

plastic bags are so fucken 2005.

earlier this week, gourmet food-seller Whole Foods, not willing to stand idly by while other corporations corrode the very fiber of humanity, dished out designer canvas bags like the one pictured above.

designed by Anya Hindmarch, the $15 bags quite literally caused hysteria as eager Yentas lined up by the bowlful to get their hands on the canvas sacks. the Union Square shoppe in NYC saw a line of 500, eager to score.


and what's worse is that a similar promotion caused a stampede in Taiwan in June. 30 people were hospitalized.

it is in light of all this foolishness that I am left with no choice but to issue an edict, which I will submit via e-mail to various heads of government throughout the (civilized?) world.

it reads as follows:

"And let it be known that from this day forward, the 20th of July, 2007 anno domini, all those participating in hyper-consumerist hysteria shall be 'Transmitted' to an as yet undisclosed location for 'Re-Education.'

"Preferably, this institution will be situated in a locale where annoyances such as UN charters and human rights conventions do not apply. The length of a 'visitor's' stay will be determined at the sole discretion of the 'Patriach,' yet regardless of his decision, that stay may be no less than 6 years, 6 months, and 6 days.

"Serious offenders (i.e. Bush voters/NASCAR fans/Hummer H2 owners; those that camp out for weeks waiting for IPhones/PlayStation 3/Episode 1: Phantom Menace tickets; those that miss their only son's graduation to attend a Harry Potter midnight release; et al.) shall be, upon admission to the general 'Re-Education Facility,' immediately transported to the subterranean 'Dungeonarium.'

"After no less than 180 days of sensory deprivation, techno-sodomy, and Abu Ghraib-esque humiliation, 'Visitors' will be transferred, regardless of their degree of 'Re-Education,' rehabilitation, or 'progress,' to the off-site 'Reconstitution Area.'

"It is here that the withering bodies of these most heinous offenders will be pulverized and ground into either a nutrient paste (to be used as feed for livestock and as food for the destitute global majority) or a viscous gel to be used as a lubricant for our numerous machines.

"It shall be the duty of the global citizenry to report and/or physically detain any and all violators of this Edict, lest the natural progress of the species be stunted by the idiocy of the spendthrift yuppie hordes."

Your Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man, Doing Everything a Spider Can,

It's A Mad Mad Mad Mad World: Part 2

add 3 Parts Fall Out Boy (any similarly despicable band may be substituted) and .15 Parts Flaming Lips to 8 Parts Grossly Underachieving Nerd and what monstrous sin against nature do you end up with on the other side of the equation?

The Harry Potter tribute band...

Total Suck.

indeed, a dangerous new strain of virulent, mind-numbing pop rock with an alleged 200+ sub-strains.

may The Tetragrammaton have mercy on their misguided adolescent souls.

Your Job In Germany.

"Whateva Whateva I do what I want, I roll wit 12 gangs whateva! You don't wanna let me shoot here, I'm gonna SUE you! You are so SUED!"

not too long ago, in the post 'What's Beef?' (found HERE), i think i made it pretty clear that if Tom Cruise wasn't stood up to and prohibited from shooting his new biopic Valkyrie, then the terrorists would win.


well it looks like Bin Laden and the boys are at Party City as we speak stocking up for a killer Pizza Party, because Tommy Boy's snaked the system and found another place to play.

good job Deutschland! or should i say Doucheland? yeah, ya like that? i got more when you need 'em munhfucka!

Hey, if it weren't for the good 'ol U.S. of A. in WWII, you'd all be speaking German and junk. so, you know, you're welcome Germany!

a friend of mine once said, you're either with US or against US, and after this SNAFU, it's pretty clear where you Germs stand.

just know this Klaus: you are soooo fucken SUED! omg! I'm gonna SUE you in England!

U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A! U-S-A!


yo baby wasssup!?!

a youtube clip brought to my attention by Mr. Cardona.

Crankin(g) - apparently some new dance craze that's making waves on the interweb. yeah. everybody's setting up webcams and dancin' up a storm these days, hoping to be on the cusp of some idiotic new trend. better yet, maybe the dance will get so big that they'll be asked to do it in the new Missy Elliott video.


some (many?) may see "crankin'" as another in a long line of postmodern minstrel traditions.


sure. hip-hop/rap is crowded with no-talent, long-neglected children with names like Young Leek and Lil Boosie. it could even be said that hip-hop/rap is dead. and unfortunately, the seemingly harmless actions of a YouTube cranker or a "picaninny" rapper do tend to have negative effects on the mainstream perception of Blacks, both at home and abroad. that's just the way it is.

but the real victims here aren't the negatively impacted individuals of African descent who are actually doing something with their lives. oh no.

the true victims here are the middle-class White youth, eager to bite off the Black, excuse me, "Urban" tastemakers that he observes through media outlets both traditional and non-traditional alike.

yes. this is the real tragedy. thousands, possibly millions of pretty little children, emulating what they assume to be "cool." the lost generation.

at least Elvis/John Lennon/Jimmy Page/Keith Richards were ripping off beasts.

we will keep you in our prayers misguided middle American youths. we will keep you in our prayers.


walks on water, fucks in the moonlit alleyways, got nothin' to lose.

Midnight Juggernauts - Shadows

that summer, she flew me to Adelaide.
made me a rhubarb pie and told me things would be wonderful.
bought me a Fender Jazz Bass. Mexican-made.
she's got the moves.

she knows how to use it.

and so do i.

one day, my J was stolen outta the van, in an instant.
i don't play the jazzy bass no more.
now i just draw the insects that scurry about the bedroom floor.
i PRAY for rain.

freak the funky robot fucker!

Herbie Hancock - Rockit

quite possibly the song i was conceived to.

don't ask how i know. i just do. it.


Sally Sue, Your Saints Are Sinners!

nota bene: this slice of life is a pseudo follow-up to "I Keep A Wolf @ The Door." To read the Daddy, click HERE!

shoulda brought a fucken jacket.

it certainly wasn't this fucking cold when i was chasin' the dream, chasin' the sun. chasin' that first high.

it wasn't even this cold the night i met Sally Sue. back in '81. Studio 54. one of many times dancing with the Man in the Moon With a Cocaine Spoon. i'd spent those New York nights as a part-time bodyguard for a moderately successful Ginny pusher from Bensonhurst, and by the time he got touched by an undercover DT, i'd already warmed up to the most of the clientele rather thoroughly.

as for Sally Sue, it was love at first bite. fucken Stars Falling On Alabama!

there were a few birds in the hopper that night, but they were fucking Also-Rans. same old song.
i'd never seen Sally Sue there before. she was wholly impressed by my signature party trick: grabbing a can of Ajax (with Bleach) from theboys' room and blowing lines of it like it was nothing. and it was nothing. pure talent. nevermind that my septum was fucking obliterated. like any jokehead worth his salt.

a few lines here, a few cocktails there, and Sally shares that she's the heiress to the Mead family paper empire. how intere$ting... you can marry more money in a few hours than you can make in 12 lifetimes. and don't you fucken forget it!

as has often happened while shooting the shit with females, i divulged the nature of my dreams and aspirations, chief among which was racing in the Baja 1000 desert endurance race. Man against Machine against the Elements against the Clock against the Wall.

her eyes lit up when i started rambling on with rapid-fire coke-talk about harrowing feats of victory and the devastation of fatal defeat. absolutely fascinated. hand on my knee. breaking concentration only long enough for the next hit.

she had the build of an 11-year-old boy, and kinda looked like Momma, in the face.

but she fucked like a champ, she had an endless supply of dope money, and she was into me, so why split hairs?

and being a member of that elite yet reviled class, the Idle Rich, it was only two weeks before we were off to Mexico to fuel my dream and my habit.

"We" bought a bodega about 55 miles south of Tijuana, and soon thereafter, a racing machine and all the intoxicants we could get our fucking hands on.

the Truggy she'd had shipped from Miramar was a pretty solid, respectable piece of equipment. reminded me of the Jeeps in Nam. only far quicker, much lighter, more agile, less forgiving, and sans gook-killing apparatus.

those burnt-out Mexican days mostly consisted of me cleaning my guns at sunrise, shooting a shitload of military-grade speed at sunrise, and running over various desert flora & fauna (and a small cripple boy from down the road; nothing some Mead money couldn't fix) in the Truggy, bashing about the formerly Spanish terra firma like some kind of fucking amphetamine-fueled mechanized werewolf.

and the heat...

so many dead, eyeless things, wasting away on the sides of the trail that i'd sometimes run down to buy cartons of cigs.


that might be the word some queer pigfucking pantywaist might use to describe it, i guess.

i'd say more like, Ideal. fucken optimum operating atmospherics. forged in the fire and all that shit.

as for my girl, she spent the desert weeks shooting black tar into her right foot (the only vessels left standing), constantly painting her fingernails, and trying in vain to decipher the stiff, discolored stacks of El Universal. but never once complaining.

she was a beautiful thing. that is, until, on a junkie's whim, she ate our entire stash of mescaline, stripped down naked, and sprinted down the cigarillo trail, sobbing like a newly orphaned child, screaming some nonsense about "The Lineage."

she'd run faster than I'd ever seen a human being move without the aid of a machine. faster even than the frightened, inexperienced bugle boys, retreating from determined AK rounds.

Running For Their Lives.

but then again, so was she. she was a beautiful thing. i never saw Sally Sue again.

knowing that her little Stunt would draw unwanted (but not unwarranted attention), i gassed up the Gringo-Mobile, ditched the bodega she'd bought, and headed back for the "States."

crossing that border was an admittedly cartoonish affair, what with my 37" tires, banks of floodlights, long-travel suspension, and 1000 dB idle.

I assured the sentinels that everything was ok. repeatedly.

"I'm an American, Si? OK? Amer-I-Can. Right? OK?"

they let me through. they kept the Truggy...

"Goodbye Gringoooo!"

what i wouldn't give for that Baja heat right about now. thermometer by this guy's window says 42.

but going back to Mexico, at least in spirit, would require a touch of sun, and that asshole Helios would give away my position sure enough. just like that cigarette did in the Khe Sanh jungle that humid Halloween night. won't ever forget it. fucks saw Christensen from a quarter-mile away. blew his face clear off. he was an asshole anyway.

for a fleeting second, it looks like the husband/boyfriend/man of the house character's spotted me, but turns out he's just makin' his way across the room to fetch the booze and the lube.

she's got a great pair of legs, but her tits are clearly fake. so fucking fake. i'll put aside my hatred of implants for the moment though. one of the few stops i've ever made where there were no fucking curtains.

glorious! hand in the pants.

"Showtime Tom!"


i've been looking so long, at these pictures of you, that i almost believe that they're real.

Boy Meets World - A Tribute

i'll be out by dinnertime.

And on that humid day, he received a note, concerning the matter of the State of Maryland Vs. Richardson, Kasai J.

And the document reads:

"The applicant/petitioner Richardson, Kasai of Baltimore, MD, having been found to be entitled to expungement of police records pertaining to the arrest, detention, or confinement of the applicant/petitioner on or about 10/31/2003 at PR.GEO.CO. (Prince George's County), Maryland by a law enforcement officer at the University of Md Police Dept. and the court records in this action, it is by the District Court of Maryland, this 12th day of March, 2004."

took 'em a while. but better late than never.

I'm Clean Bitches!

for some (fucking hilarious) background on what led to all this, peep the steez.


Fight! Fight! Fight! Fight! Fuck?

The Ramones - "The KKK Took My Baby Away" (Live in Sweden)

apparently written about Johnny taking Joey's girl.

this is what it's like when worlds collide.

Reggie Bush: "i have a newfound respect for soccer now."
David Beckham: "should i go with the G4 or the G5? Posh's puss tastes like freshly picked strawberries, swathed in the morning dew."

seeing Becks in shoulder pads, running hitch-and-gos is a bit disorienting, but entertaining enough to end up here. that's all that can be said about that.

go 2+ sleep. go 2 sleep. =4 your own sake.

if all this jazz had a foreword or a preface (by the author), it would begin with the words of Dylan: The Times They Are A-Changin...

in the past few years, i've, rather involuntarily, trained myself to fall asleep without the aid of hard liquor. you see, those of my ilk may often require blackout drunkenness to hush the tiny neurological children that keep rapping at the Window Pane of Unconsciousness, causing Delta Wave Mischief even though their cortical parents called them home for dinner hours ago.

and my slightly eschewed Brain-Mind tends towards pretty horrific, hauntingly convincing dreams, so that's a total pain in the ass too.

so you're damned if you do, damned if you don't?

exactly. so when i do get my two hours of "sleep" and finally "wake up," i have to spend the day figuring out if what i said or did in a "dream" was actually said or done in "reality." pretty troubling stuff really, but it does keep things interesting.

alarm? dismay? the passing of judgement? you thought that "Maniac" trip was just a marketing ploy? Silly Wabbit, anti-psychotics are for (s)kids...

with problems and fury and destruction in their hip pocket, carried at all times. like a Photonotoxic shit-wallet, stuffed with FuckShit. and thus, my reversion to the Bad Old Days.

i'm simply tabulating this policy shift electronically because my two parts are once again at war.

The Battle of the BULGE...

ALPHA: don't booze. be safe. honor thy mother and father. 2+2=4. thou shalt not kill. i love too much to see you do this to yourself. (sobbing uncontrollably)


OMEGA: get to boozin' asshole! and hit Donte up. you haven't treated me to crack in a while you fuck. (burning itself with cigarettes)

this seemingly minor pre-struggle consideration will surely amuse in the morning. but as i sit here, marvelling at the viscous, translucent beauty of the gun-cleaner vodka that is Zelko (distilled in the picturesque industrial sector of Landsdowne, Baltimore County; MSRP - $4.99 for a fifth), i'd have to say the Smart Money's on The OMEGA. he's just so much more fucking fun that OMEGA.

"This is The End, The End For You My Friend."

night night, don't let the bed bugs bite.


things (can and will) fall apart.

i'm a Man of my word. i will return you and your brethren to your Keepers, as soon as you answer me a question...

where the FUCK are we?

i mean, i know we turned left at The Garland, then kept straight on Determinism Row for a few light years. but did we make a left or a right at the Electronic Emergency Sphere? and i don't recall if They said that Ambartsumian's Knot would be on Our Left or Our Right. fuck.


shit. did you see The Eyes? do you remember seeing The Eyes? it says here that you can't miss 'em. fuck!

just can't seem to remember... much of anything, these days.

i do remember bits and pieces though. MEGAbits and pieces.

yeah. there were these synaptic droplets, i mean the tiniest, most gorgeous of any synaptic droplets i'd ever seen, all beaded up, (hurriedly) cascading, one by one, down the Mighty Brow of the Astro-Castro Colossus. for a moment, floating there in stunned serenity, i thought i'd missed the memo, thought i'd 'passed on' to something Greater, because everything got super-silent. Super-Safe.

Safe As Fuck.

please please please don't worry.

i've been keeping my Eyes on It. on Things. on You. on Them.

some say i've not enough Eyes for the job, but binocular vision is inocular in ways the binary being cannot hope to comprehend.

i've whittled a thousand Over-Existences from the corpus callosum of the MultiVerse, and every fucking one of them has fallen victim to The Fuck-and-Suck Singularity.

how fucked up is that?




lemme bum a cigarette. and can i get five bucks? thanks. you're a good kid. good heart... so rare in this Day and Age.


grow up.

Soozie Sooz, Peanut, and Mookie thought it would be funny to tie off baby Lilly and drop a nice warm shot of heron into her chubby little arm. hilarity ensues.


and in other news, authorities say that the Cartesian Crystalline Hoodwink has finally relinquished its grasp after intense negotiations.

ABC: what's wrong?

XYZ: my phylum's got me phrustrated.

i mean don't get me wrong. i'm completely satisfied with being a member of the Animal Kingdom. it's just that other taxon that's got me P.O.'ed right about now.

it's enough to make a kid wanna devolve about 200 million years and head for the Primordial Campbell's Chicken Noodle Soup. being a member of Chordata is fucken hard work man! and quite frankly, it's wearing down my cogs. (sigh)

ABC: sorry to hear that mate.

XYZ: yeah (double sigh). it's gotten to the point where i've spent the last few Sunday mornings going into the back, behind the shed, and digging up the lairs of (harmless Rat) snakes and grabbing 'em and biting their heads off. just to feel alive, ya know?

fuck. it's all so inwardly urgent.

i guess when it comes down to it, i'll help (them) as much as i'll hurt (them). and even i don't know who "they" are. yet.

sooo, what's next?

well... impate. as it's said in places near and far. but i'm hopeful. at least somewhat. ya gotta be.

yup. hopeful.

cerebral cortex don't fail me now. now if i could just get this phantom limb to start pulling its weight around here, maybe i could get some work done for a change.

"Geezers on Es, Kids on Whiz, Darlings on Charlie, all come together for this party."

The Streets - Weak Become Heroes (off the epic 'Original Pirate Material')

"tune reminds me of my first E."

well not really.

first time i heard this well preceded me and Ecstasy. my first night partying on a college campus.


boozing and blowing pills in an off campus home with a bunch of sketchballs (some of whom, coincidentally, would turn out to be good friends of TimeMachine's).


the beginning of the end, as it were.

yoooo, remember two-step?


i keep a wolf at the door.


i been kicked outta hipper places than this MOTHERFUCKER!

spit in his face, just so he believes the lie. Cherry Skoal is what i'm packin'. fiberglass to the cornea you FUCK!

yeah! better believe it! much hipper than this shithole. in '74, after standing up on the bar, whipping my shit out, and insisting that a bartender let me put my (unshaven) balls on her face, i got (quite literally) thrown outta Whisky-A-Go-Go. thrown onto my face. i still got pieces of the Sunset Strip in my cheek, under the skin and in the flesh now.

"Gotta Pay To Play" she'll say. and that's a registered trademark you sonofabitch, so keep on movin'! i paid, and i played, and i got the scars (and the bankrupty declarations) to prove it.

so don't try to tell me about dignity or inappropriateness or appearances or crutches or Co-Caine or VietNam or bareknuckle boxing for CA$H MONEY or annihilation or social constructs or disappointment or jumping outta planes or legitimacy or divorce or "the button" or Detroit or Chicago or opiate addiction or Vaclav Havel or the Velvets or M-16s or slide guitar or broken rubbers or consecutive abortions or saturation bombing or subway groping or false alarms ASSHOLE!

FUCKING AMATEURS! FUCKING SNOT-NOSED, NEEDLE-DICKED, FINGER-FUCKING, BRACES-HAVING AMATEURS, ALL! the kinda fucks that'd get you K-I-L-L KILLed in The War man! in any War! i mean, what kind of fucken operation are you running around here any fucken way?!

you see, all this is easily explained. call it history repeating itself, kind of. more like the echoes of historical fact spiking our present day prom punch. and fortunately, it looks like the universe has afforded me the occasion to explain exactly where we stand and what got us here to begin with.

on some strange spring day spent bashing about the '67 iteration of the Haight, i ate a bunch of that devilish substance STP and rather immediately headed down the traditional "bad" route. a Bad Travail for the Bad Old Days. like a 10,000,000 volt Blinding Baroque Mindfuck wrapped in an Incomplete Full-Body Orgasm.

fight for your life... strife = freedom. and the rest.

there i was, newly jettisoned from the historically notorious slave ship Tocora, cast into the bitter froth 50 feet below the decks like so much rotten meat. my own seabound hell. or should i say a new seabound hell. the stench of dead brothers and sisters follows me off the deck, the vile journey much less a Passage than a crashing, careening Funeral Procession.

but there i was, FREE from it, and though i knew i wasn't really "there" in that ocean, i clung to the coffee table, or rather the small plank keeping me afloat in the harsh North Atlantic waters, with all my mortal might. hopeful. though the salt of the ancient ocean soaked thoroughly enough into my wounds, suffered at the hands and whips of "traders," to make me repeatedly consider letting go. just slide into the deep, graceful for the first time since the terror began.


The Invisible Hand, at your service.

i persist without exception.

challenges abound, in and out.

what are you waiting for? questioned the All-Knowing, Unseen Electronic Eye. Surely not rescue? Be realistic. 'He' wasn't there for your father's father. Why would he be there for YOU? tell me now. Just what is it that makes YOU so beautiful, so worth the trouble in the eyes of Out-There?

this unsettling neuro-charade went on for more than a few hours. days even. that is until i was roused from my Electric-Ego-Death by a young nymph named Paisley who told me she wanted to buy some weed.

worried. stunned. now, carefree. absolutely lovely as she stood in patient silence, feigning tiredness so as to make herself more interesting.

just look at her.

she'd passed the test.

after the sex, i thought about asking how old she was, but you see, the ignorance, she is bliss in her remiss. without a doubt.

spare me.

the endlessly abandoned soul can wait. as long as it has to.

and so can you, you FUCKING cocksucker! get your fucken HANDS off me! i got rights and shit! rights i fought for!

i been kicked outta hipper joints than this! fuck your Golden Arched chintz! fuck all 99 Billion of your flunkies! and FUCK-THAT-CLOWN! how i loathe YOU and your fucking CLOWN! fucken banditos! fucken Hamburglars! (good one!)

a shuffle and a step.

get your fuck-no need to carry on any further.

i'll see myself to the door. just gotta use the bathroom first. i'm jonesing.

The Saga Continues HERE


ima outline y'all like a fresh pair-a-NIKEs! again!

as if the Air Max 95s couldn't become any more unfuckwitable, Bill McMullen went and showed 'em how to do this son! limited edition "Shuttlemax" joints.

cop these and you could stunt just as hard as the hardest hardcore sneaker seeker, if not harder. take the shit all InterGalactic. fly around the club with this shit (making booster effects with your mouth) and the drawers will drop. guaranteed, or your Munny back!

if our actual space program was really this dopesick, we'd have hit up Mars like 20 years ago. there'd be a discotheque on that bitch by now. i don't know about you, but i'd prefer, nay, demand that my tax dollars be wasted more stylishly.

so holla at the, umm, kids @ Kidrobot if you're into this sort of thing. if not, lace up your Grant Hills and go smoke a Newport or sumthin.

Shuttlemax @ Kid Robot Store

two scoops.

i don't buy into the traditional gambles on the afterlife.

heaven v. hell?

sounds like a bunch of ricky-rec-league foolishness cooked up to scare badass kids or the pedophiles they may or may not succumb to.

sure. that kind of accountability for one's earthbound doings would be awesome. but aren't we being a little optimistic in our hopes for unequivocal universal justice and salvation?

let's get real here.

should there really be an afterlife, my hope is not for fluffy clouds or rosy-cheeked, lute-playing cherubs.

oh no.

i'm thinking a bit simpler. a bit more Indio.

kinda like Daft Punk at Coachella 2006. on an eternal loop.

there i am, front and center, surrounded by my best mates, with an unlimited supply of bomb E(thereal) pills at my disposal and plenty of beautiful babies to go around. and a cosmic remote control, just in case i wanna hop skip and jump past that sluggish interlude midway through their set.

yeah. that would make a fine "heaven" methinks.

feel free to disagree. don't be so nervous Pervis. speak up. it's your g**-given right. so i'm told. by the voices. they never really seem to take a break.


all fired up.

Homer: "I'd like to buy your deadliest gun please."
Ubiquitous Simpsons Salesman: "Aisle Six, next to the sympathy cards."

Happy Fourth! God Bless Amurrrica and No One Else!

YouTube clip (allegedly) courtesy of the Hal Turner Show. Just watch it.

and as for Mr. Turner, what an adequate emblem for the four-decades-long devolution of the progressive American sociopolitical landscape.

some insight:

"The voice of the common man. . . . ."

"Hal Turner is so far to the right he makes Rush Limbaugh look like a liberal and Sean Hannity seem like a girlie-man!"
- so far right that he urges listeners to boycott Israeli goods! word!? Nixon and Reagan are spinning in their Cryo-Chambers.


"Israelis v. Arabs;
Who are the REAL Terrorists?"

Mexicans In America,
HATING America!"

"RALLY AGAINST BLACK GANG TERRORISM: August 4th, 2007, Kalamazoo, MI
15 Separate attacks by black gangs against lone white males in 90 days!"
- sorta like a Bizarro-world Million Man March? i feel sorry for any Blacks in and around Kalamazoo on August 4th. if there are any that is. pesky silent majority and their white backlash.

'i got five girlfriends! i'm eight-foot-nine and 700 lbs! i got nine cars! i got 3,000 dollas!'


"He is stronger than steel and moves faster than a whirlwind.

Sometimes he hides in mud. Other times he transforms his shape, like an ever-changing cloud.

Although his fighting spirit burns like fire, his mind is as calm as still water.

'Violation of the Commandments'

Should Beetlejuice fail before completing the mission, he will disappear before the dawn and vanish forever.

Keep this knowledge in your heart and mind.

- from the 'Secret Manual of Oboro Ninjitsu.'


atlantis to interzone! and step on it!

baby, ya know i'm here to keep those dendritic arbors bushy.

just heed the mandate.
i'll feed the mandrake.


i know. my shouting and pop culture references won't get you there. but you gotta at least TRY!?!?

c'mon smooth operator. take her by the hand, gently now. succumb to the will of that wild, sometimes wistful WonderWaif, a drug-fueled pixie (stick) made of pure light and energy and hope and chaos. and Choice.


don't follow her too closely though. she'll show you The Way to Dusty Death, to be sure. and i hear there's no coming back. once you've bought your ticket to the shitshow that is.

non-refundable lifebloodbodysextruth. sorry kid. cumpnee policy.

and we're always clear. like crystal Pepsi.

could you please pick your synapses up off the tile before you go. ya know, i haven't seen your breed around these parts in a while. the "valley of lost children"-variety i mean.

but i'm here to help. to guide. to train. to bewilder by means of a cattle prod, pliers, a blowtorch, and lots of bourbon.

monitor that progress.

wanting? trying? succeeding?



yo lemme hold $135 million til friday. you know i'm good for it?!?!

"Hala Ranch, is a ($135 million) 95-acre estate built in 1991 for the family of Prince Bandar bin Sultan, the former ambassador to the United States from Saudi Arabia and the home’s only (occasional) occupant... At 56,000 square feet, Hala is bigger than the White House, with a staff of 12. It has 15 bedrooms, 16 baths, a private barbershop and beauty salon just off the master suite and enough space for a party of 450 people." - NYT.com


Prince Bandar. as in "Bandar Bush."

guess when you put together Bush family kickbacks, dirty oil money by the bowlful, and BAE Systems/shady arms deal smash-and-grabs, you can get down like this. so much so that this was effectively his "second" home.

i guess if a major British arms dealer (BAE) threw $2 billion my way (you know, just for being a team player?), maybe i could stunt like this too.

all i wanna know is, where you at 50?

dust in the wind.