hammeryourteeth

macarewwwwww

2009-06-12T22:30:00.000-07:00

I've been woozy and fluish and grouchy the past couple days, flipping off Jehovah's witnesses, suckling chicken soup out of a gym sock (it's like a Brita for Campbell's, people!)and gumming Saltines like a goddamn infant--the whole nine. I was almost to the end of Under the Cherry Moon when I flipped over the Premium box to check the sodium content, lest I become too bloated to pull off my hot pink giraffe print fleece footsie pajama set for the (spoiler alert!) Christopher Tracy death scene, and horror of horrors, wouldja look at what I found?

Saltine macaroons? Seriously, goyim? Now Google and I both know that the delicious macaroon, while oft touted as a Jewish delicacy, in fact has a noble European pedigree, having been a longtime staple in both Italian and French cuisine. HOWEVER, smiting the treasured coconut macaroon with white flour ingredients, especially in the form of Saltines, fer G-d's sake, is just bad form. I haven't seen such a flagrantly white trash de-Kosherization of a Passover standard since my one time roomate made chicken n' dumplings and frybread for seder in lieu of matzoh ball soup. Bless her hillbilly heart, she couldn't find any matzoh meal, and it's the thought that counts, after all. Nabisco, what's your excuse?

you are my sunshine

2009-06-05T15:50:00.000-07:00

R.I.P.

2009-06-04T17:04:00.000-07:00

It's been a rough coupla days.

Stormy weather

2009-06-03T13:29:00.000-07:00

Life's funny. One minute you're just lighting up a joint in the middle of another brisk spring day and the next there's a raging thunderstorm and you're tap dancing to Amon Duul in your living room after polishing off an entire box of Viactive calcium chews. Man, those hit the spot. I was interrupted mid shim sham by what I assumed was the knock of an angry neighbor with sensitive ears and/or no appreciation for the arts, but it was just Aaron stopping by to say hi and borrow a Cormac McCarthy book. He's a cool kid, works at a porn shop. The other day, he said, he was on the phone with a customer who'd requested some fancy schmancy girl-on-girl bondage movies. "We're getting some good ones in on Friday," Aaron told him. The guy said "Cool. Go Lakers!" at which point the conversation veered from S&M to NBA. Perverts (that's not a pejorative in my book) of a certain stripe can get especially loquacious where their boners are concerned, I remember that from my video store days. Not content to merely slink up to the counter and pay for Bang Bus, eyes averted, these guys would come up with 4 volumes of Dirty Debutantes sandwiched between, like, The Pianist and You've Got Mail and would then proceed to "distract" me with a frantic Rainmanesque monologue about weather or food or time travel or the legacy of post-structuralism, in one case (this was San Francisco, mind you). I always liked those guys. They had manners enough to uphold social niceties in the midst of depravity, and above all they seemed to care about how they conducted themselves around a lady. Not that good breeding ever came between them and Jessica Romans. Aaron's looking for a "real job" now, but he's gonna miss the porn shop. He's a real people person. Before he left my house he said "I hope I'm as cool as you when I'm--" then he said my age. I said the things that look cool to a 22 year old are usually the earmarks of spectacular failure and emotional immaturity, but thank you. I'm sure that by the time I perfect the lindy hop I'll be able to gracefully accept a compliment, but that shit is harder than it looks. I've got a ways to go if Kemp and I are gonna pull off Mr. Bojangles and Shirley Temple by Halloween.

Tengo la camisa sucia porque tengo una alma sucia

2009-06-01T13:22:00.000-07:00

I work in the restaurant industry, so it's a given that I devote a fair amount of time to the exploitation of strapping young hispanic males. Not my fault, I don't dress em up in those sexy goddamn undershirts. Sometimes I put Juanes on the stereo and scream "Cumbia! Cumbia!" til one of em dances with me (they told me it was cumbia, but later I found out it was the worm), but that is my God given fucking right as red-blooded American member of middle management, comprende?

It seems that what began as a mere company sanctioned dinner break dalliance (helping Guillermo carve cucumbers into penis shapes, shouting "!Eschucha me, Pablo! !Yo soy una gallina!" before I farted) has since evolved into a full-fledged obsession (threatening Pablo with disciplinary action if he doesn't let me braid caution tape into his hair, offering Kain 20 bucks to remove his shirt and use it to clean the windows). I lack self control, is the thing. And my scruples are atrophying with age. And I'm easily corrupted by power. I'm not sweating it, though. Bottom line, demanding quid pro quo neck massages from hot teenage resident aliens is a helluva way to pass the time. We all have our little tricks--just ask Pee Wee.

The ritual enactment of castration fantasies is the bread and butter of the service industry, after all.

Man, those latino boys and girls have some kinda magic, for sure, and I think I have tapped into its source. Wanna know what it is? Why sometimes I feign crying so I can bury my face in Edgar's freshly laundered lapels? Why I creepily lean forward in line at the 99 cent store so as to catch a whiff of the mujer limpia in front of me?

That's the stuff, people, on the bottom. Ariel. I'd been courting that scent since second grade when I used to swap jackets at recess with the ever fragrant Alejandra Melgoza and years later I snagged a $1 bag of this stuff from the Mexican market when I ran out of Tide and que magico! I was instantly transported. Alejandra, what has become of you? Last I heard you got knocked up senior year and now you work at Wells Fargo and have a bunch of babies with that Air Force guy who used to buy us Strawberry Hill. You were always beautiful and kind and good at math, are you still? Wherever you are, I hope you're still buying your laundry soap off the bottom shelf. I hope your kids look like you and smell like you and that someday I'll lean forward in the 99 cent store line and recognize them and say hello, how are you, you don't know me, but I knew your mother once, how's she doing? Where the hell has she been?

Tear my heart out, why don't ya.

2009-05-26T11:42:00.000-07:00

How do you feel about free carne asada tacos? For em? I thought so. What, do you suppose, is the best way to enjoy them? On a stool in the loneliest corner of the carniceria, gargling tamarindo spiked with Old Granddad and swabbing Tapatio off your lap with the Erotic Services section of the Weekly? Or besieged on all sides by sweating, feather-and-loincloth-clad Aztecs flailing and undulating in unison and pounding out rhythms so intense that you cover your ears and swiftly assume the countenance of a senile village doctor stethoscoping a jackhammer? Both ways are acceptable, but opt for the latter if you get the chance, especially if Eddie is the one who tells you about it. Eddie is a stand up guy, a swell chef and a talented dancer to boot, but he is not gratuitously friendly. If he invites you it's not because he wants you there, it's because he thinks you need to see it.

Don't give me that look. You don't know what you need.

Julia and I spent a few minutes prior to the performance cracking tasteless 2012 jokes and waiting for the kickass pyramid formation that never came. Instead, we were treated to something much more impressive.

This was nothin. At one point he crouched above the fire and scorched his inner thigh until my spirit balls were sweating.

I'd seen them perform before, but this was the first time I'd seen the female dancers included. The interplay between the male and female dancers was incredible.

Don't think I'm jonesing to try this at home, mind you. I've still got my heart set on tap dancing and besides, Eddie's solemn appeals to the crowd, however eloquent, weren't steeped in that inclusionary lets-all-clasp-our-many-hued-hands-and-circle-round-the-cozy-wozy-unity-fire vernacular that I grew accustomed to in San Francisco. He stressed that this performance wasn't merely for the audience's amusement nor was it an attempt to recruit us, but that he hoped it would persuade us to explore our respective cultures. Which sucks, 'cause there is a noticeable lack of pelvic thrusting in the Russian Jewish tradition.

You know what? We never did get around to trying the tacos. I guess we still have time.

I will be in the bar with my head on the bar.

2009-05-22T15:37:00.000-07:00

Happy Mozz Day.

The Bell Jar, Rollerderby zine and parent's divorce notwithstanding, I would not be the dour, well-shoed and rapier-witted failure I am today were there no Steven Morrissey to reluctantly pied piper me into womanhood, kicking and keening and spouting clove smoke like some sort of trenchcoated teenage freight train. Like many a disaffected youth before me, I cried to Morrissey. I danced to Morrissey. I made out to Morrissey. I ditched English class and ate donuts in the car and cried some more to Morrissey. Remember that shit? Life was good when no one else but you and Mozz understood how bad it was, wun'it? It has become fashionable in certain circles of the cognoscenti to disparage Morrissey for his adolescent histrionics, and Morrissey fans for their decidedly un-ironic, near religious devotion to a man whose literary pretensions and relentless wry self-effacement long ago threatened to render him a caricature of the beleaguered art fag. A pox on them, I say! Morrissey is resilient. Yeah, he's put out a coupla clunkers over the years (listen to a loved one drag out the word "hamburger" for eight syllables and you know it's intervention time). Yeah, he's self-obsessed (seriously, guys, would you have it any other way? Would we have our dreaded sunny days at the cemetary gates if our hero weren't perpetually sixteen, clumsy and shy?) and hypocritical (though who but a sanctimonious vegan could fault an aesthete his penchant for well-made leather shoes?),but his stately demeanor is unfuckingflagging, as is the surplus of humor, venom and melancholy that has endeared him to eternal adolescents and doomed romantics of every stripe. You know who you are. And naysayers be damned, the "Maladjusted" tour effin ruled.
That, and I'm pretty sure he's a miracle away from getting sainted by the Catholic Church. Smith's reunion tour, maybe?

Happy birthday, Steven. I'm kinda sick of your songs playing all the time at work, but I love you unrepentantly.

You can leave your shirt on.

Is this what you wanted?

2009-05-22T12:22:00.000-07:00

Do you ever think about what you’d ask God if you could? Did the Prince cover of that insidiously catchy Joan Osbourne song ever get you thinking? When and if the time comes to ask God one question…man, there’s so much I want to know, so much I’m curious about. I’d want to ask if karma exists, if reincarnation exists, what is the human soul? Are human beings separate entities at all or rather emanations of the same divine spirit and identity merely an illusion? Do good and evil exist? Is there really an underlying order in the universe? I’d want to ask one of these questions, but I know myself. And I know that I’d get overwhelmed and clam up and at the last minute I’d blurt out some rambling, mealy-mouthed version of only question that’s ever really plaugued me throughout my lifetime- “Um, God, I’m really curious, I don’t know why because this isn’t the kind of stuff I normally think about, it’s kind of a special case …It isn’t covered in the Bible or anything, I don’t know if any religion addresses it, but someday one might… a lot of people still alive today actually know the answer to this question, but no one ever talks about it and I don’t know why because you’d think the subject would come up at least a few times, it’s gotta be a conspiracy or some kind of mass hypnosis or something, but anyway, I was wondering if you could just tell me this one thing, even though I’m kind of embarrassed to ask, it feels so wrong, blasphemous, even, but I just need to know so I can allay my suspicions and put the whole thing to rest for once and for all…so…here goes...
how big is Bob Dylan’s cock? Oh wait, wait, can I make this a two-parter? Yeah? Alright, did Leonard Cohen ask you that, too?”

It's wrong, I know.
But it haunts me.
I tried to exorcise the demons through art therapy to no avail.

"Leonard Cohen beseeches the Lord-'How big is Bob Dylan's cock?'"
Collage/Mixed Media 2009

Forgive me. One cannot live on the Marianne Faithfull Mars Bar story alone.

Yom Huledet Same'ach!

2009-05-20T21:57:00.000-07:00

Tonight I'm reading Robert Creeley, listening to Dr. Hook and eating dollar store cherries til I soil myself. Happy birthday, Moshe Dayan.

big spoon and cherry

2009-05-19T13:30:00.001-07:00

Didn't cleanse myself in the waters of Lake Minnetonka. Didn't get plowed on Old Overholt and play Ouija board with Westerberg under the Washington Avenue Bridge to try to contact the ghost of John Berryman. Didn't sing "Nazi Punks, Fuck Off" at Nye's Polonaise (they didn't have it. Suspicious, no?). Didn't have time for any of that, on account of Prince being so goddamn needy. I must've read him "Harold and the Purple Crayon" about a thousand times.

"...but Johanna, Harold never really gets home."
"No, Prince."
"Lost in the dream void he has used the only tool available to him, first to navigate the abyss then to manifest the familiar, either not realizing or not caring that this purple dreamworld is in fact only a copy of his previous reality, with no governable internal logic and all of the perceptual flaws inherent to a crude imitation."
"Yes, Prince."
"...and he will dwell forever in the purple majesty of his phantom bed with his purple phantom companions in an ersatz purple world of his own creation, victim and sole executor of his self-prescribed purple delusions?"
"Yes, Prince."
"Awesome. Read it again."
"Yes, Prince."
Talk about draining.
I did manage to get a helluva tour of the Twin Cities, thanks to trivia-obsessed journalist/barefoot runner/recession gardener/local bootlegger, Mr. Tortorello; radio celebrity/movie critic/verbal abuser of telemarketers/taker outer of Stephen King, Ms. Curtis and high-powered executive/treehouse enthusiast/singer of Terence Trent D'Arby/notorious boozer, Mr. Powers. Minneapolis is beautiful. Between strolling through the many parks and motorboating on the Mississippi, Mr. Powers and I managed to toss back some of Tortorello's famously abbhorent homemade onion wine. It's not lingering in my mouth anymore, but if you could crawl down my throat and lick my liver I'm sure it would still taste like a fully loaded Langer's sandwich. The banana berry wine was tops, though. On the liquor tip, anyone looking to drink with firefighters on the cheap (ladies?) best head over to Jimmy's bar. Load up the jukebox with "Emotional Rescue" and "Night Moves" and try 3 or 4 of "Jimmy's famous bullfrogs." If you can successfully identify any pernicious bit of natural flavor that may have crept into said concoction, I will personally call Jimmy and tell him not to kick your ass when you play "Beast of Burden" six times in a row. If you're lucky enough to be traveling with a handsome man of African descent, prepare to be accosted by various cornfed blondes in U of M t-shirts who will promptly claim minority status ("I got some Jew blood on my mother's side")and proceed to regale your bemused companion with Black Power fist bumps, all the while making pointed racist remarks and winking at him like they are both in on the joke. After that, would ya please head over to Nye's Polonaise Room for a lager-fueled piano bar singalong? Despite the aforementioned oversight in the karaoke selection, you will have a great time belting out "Girl from Ipanema" to a crowd of several. You might even catch Glo's stirring rendition of Billy Joel's (sorry, Billy "Glo." He corrected us.)"Just the Way You Are." It is really something special. Just look for the guy with the L.L. Cool J cassette tape around his neck like a rosary.

The view of the cityscapes from the lakes is really spectacular. In the plane on the way over Mr. Powers and I were treated to a two hour monologue by some middle aged woman who thought that the Chinese man next to her was directly responsible for both MSG and Yao Ming. She couldn't decide whether Minnesota had 1,000 lakes or 10,000 lakes, but she knew it was a lot from the state license plate(11,842. I just googled it. See? Strangers without internet access are dumb.).

Calder mobiles in the park? John Ashbery poems on public monuments? What's wrong with this place? Don't you guys have Tivo?

Or are you too busy radically underpricing early Hawkwind albums so that visiting waitresses can afford to stock their record crates AND wreck their diets with craftsman brew and beer brats? Bastards.

happy birththing

2009-05-14T16:37:00.001-07:00

We couldn't drink Eric's sister under the table after all. We barely managed to drink her out of Chi Dynasty and onto the long brown lap of a stripper named Ivy and then into a K-town karaoke booth where we plied her husband with what remained of the Smirnoff so she would have a shoulder to pass out on while the rest of us powered through "Sorry, Sorry!" and "So Fresh, So Cool" in phoenetic Korean.

I used to think the idea that such-and-such "knows how to party" was ridiculous and that such skills were surely inate. I still maintain that the phrase in question is trite and obnoxious, but over the years girls like Nikki have taught me that though the propensity to party may be inborn, the techniques must be honed over time until that delicate balance of hedonism and restraint with which you were concieved is practically a reflex. This ensures that when you're slack-jawed and nosebleeding in a stranger's lap, legs akimbo, you will be sporting both an unembarrassing, nay, perfectly adorable pair of pink lace panties and a (preferably) beefy, semi-cogent male entourage, lest you be unwittingly trespassing into date-rape territory.

A reliable female companion and a pair of black lace stockings are acceptable substitutes in a pinch, especially if said female companion is a neutral good 10th level wizard with high listening skills and a Cloak of Invisibility in her purse.

...and if she will dutifully guard your exposed nethers with a glass of champagne, all the better.

The birthday boy had a great time. Sandy and I got him a t-shirt, a tobacco pipe (for true), some bacon related paraphenalia, a copy of Iceberg Slim's "Pimp" and a dozen Baltic jokes. He LOVED the one about the starving Latvian fishmonger!

Sandy, however, had a fit when I claimed that she had to sleep with me because "Puerto Rico is an American territory, baby." It was worth a shot.

It all worked out in the end, anyway, 'cause Chris put not one, but TWO roofies in her pina colada!

I learned that coca soda works faster if you snort it

and that inhaling the whole can will magically transform even "Enter Sandman" into a many sequined, laser-lit Solid Gold-worthy dance extravaganza!

Then Eric's roomate stood up. He claimed he could heal us with the power of song.
"We can’t sing! We can’t play!" we said. "Can you?"
He could.
"Make us proud," we said. "Make us happy!"
"Make us sad!"
"Make us hurt less!"
"Make us okay with ourselves!"
He said "nay, I can heal only those who truly believe." He went on about a smoky room and cheap perfume. He went on and on and on and oh! we said. "Don’t do it for us.
Don’t even rehearse."
"Pretend we’re not here."
"Yeah, pretend we don’t exist!
"Remember your childhood!"
"Help us forget our childhoods!"
"Pretend we’re demons!"
"Pretend we don’t exist!"
We still can't hit the high notes in "Wuthering Heights," but now we can appear at strip clubs in spectral form, foiling our bouncers/college professors/dads and enjoying endless two-for-ones in blessed anonymity.

Kind of a rip-off if you ask me, but I guess it'll do until I wash the vomit off my Cloak of Invisibility.

Jo Jo Jab Jab & the Uppercuts

2009-05-12T13:57:00.000-07:00

I'll let you in on a little secret...I stole all of my street fighting handles from automotive repair shops:

S&M Apollo
Sunny Autobody
Citizen Collision
Black Apple
Jab
Nitro
Dr. Auto

Maybe it's a little brazen, but it's not original. The ladies at my favorite gentleman's club lift their ubiquitous stripper nicknames from desserts, Greek goddesses, exotic spices and luxury cars and I RE-name them after my favorite historical monuments, natural wonders, popular tourist destinations and internment camps, eg:

Sugar=Liberty Bell
Saffron=Mt. Vesuvius
Cupcake=Disneyworld
Venus=Half Dome
Sage=Niagra Falls
Caramel=Carmel
Mercedes=Manzanar

Niagra Falls is the prettiest, but Library of Congress gives the best lap dances (her real fake name is Cinnamon, but I tried to get her to change it 'cause her ipod is so jam-packed--once I got a lap dance to Holger Czukay!). We're going there for Chef Eric's birthday. His brother in law made millions inventing some kind of beer accessory--

and as you can imagine, with such status comes discernment; ergo, we will be chauffered from titty bar to titty bar in a limousine stocked with Lynchburg Lemonade and Miller High Life. Somebody's gonna puke in that thing and I hope to God it's me. I need a new Facebook profile picture.

How to tie a tie

2009-05-06T13:19:00.000-07:00

"how to tie a tie" was the first thing that popped up in my Google search when I started to type "how to pledge eternal love via postcard to a former goodwill ambassador of what I now suspect is an imaginary country." I thought, shit, why not?
I'm a little short on practical skills. I could maybe hotwire an 83 Volvo sedan if there was somewhere I had to be that was 20 minutes away and I had 40 minutes to get there, but if you were to choke in front of me, por ejemplo, I would simply poke you and say "Hey. Hey. Are you ok?" or else slap your back and yell "Hell yeah! Go Dodgers! so you wouldn't embarrass me in front of my conductor (train, not symphony) friends. If you gave me your dvd player to fix it would come back to you with a cookie in the disc slot and a bitchin new hairstyle. I'm not so handy, is what I'm saying, but you don't need to be handy to be sound of body and mind enough to outsmart the Jerry Garcia Collection. So I got this tie. I have the tie in my hand. It's not so fancy, it doesn't light up or anything. I think I can beat this thing. I have the will and the presence of mind to do it. You're right, it's not a contest, but what does that matter if I'm competing anyway so fuck you, tie. My grandma says you can't bake bread when you're depressed and my grandpa says you can't tie a tie without vengeance in your heart. I have vengeance in my heart. I have this fucking tie in my hand. I am not a perfect person, but I think that this time I will not let you down.

Let's do this.
You are gonna be so proud of me.

Daily affirmation:

2009-05-01T15:31:00.000-07:00

"What’s up, pussy, it’s nice to meet you. Your folks sent me. Your boss sent me. Your friends sent me. Your God sent me. To take care of that stupid hair of yours. To scrub you like a fleabag dog. To streamline your look into something slick and pussy-friendly. To teach you how to shimmy and grind to sell your ass and give you back to the world dripping confidence and power and that sweet local pussy juice that put this town on the fuckin’ map. The map on my dick. The fuckin’ map. Listen.

A man is a man insofar as he is able to fuck, eat and make doo. In between is a whole lot of sleeping and lifting shit and learning which motherfuckers can take a punch. I can take a punch. I can take his punch, or her punch or even your super premium ultimate power punch, the one you’ve been saving for your worst enemy. I can take that punch so fast. I can steal that punch right out from under your nose, fix it up and resell it right back to you for twice the price. That’s why they call me Professor Burglar. That’s why they call me The Mechanic. That’s why they call me Here Comes That Freak-Ass Heeb, Fool’s Crazy, AKA Air Traffic Pussy Controller (but that is because of another thing). Look here, I am not big or frightening really at all. I enjoy the company of little animals. I have a regular-ish face and a normal fist-sized fist, but it is not the what of the fist, it is the way of the fist, ya dig? You gotta groom it for stardom like it’s the Jackson Five. You gotta be like “hey, fist, I have known you since you were a goddamn zit on my wrist, don’t be throwin’ down no jive-ass shadow puppets. Lemme show you how to dress for success, with more rings than a giant redwood and knuckle scabs that show you mean business. Lemme show you how to move.” Then you work with it and work with it until you have a guaranteed showstopper. A smooth motherfucker will make this look easy, but this will not be easy for such a pussy as you. It will take discipline. Stamina. And blood¬--a lot or a little, depending on how your mama raised you. There is no shame in it, showmanship is not a crime. Giving the people what they want and giving one motherfucker what he’s asking for is just killing two birds with one fist. Does that hurt your feelings? You a bird man, pussy? Well, have your bitch-ass parrot repeat after me: whatever you do, you gotta do it with style. And that’s just another word for conviction. And that there’s just another way to say it’s time to sow some seeds and grow a pair.

Perk up your deer ears and don’t sweat me, doe boy, because I can read you like an open fist. I watch you at night, trolling the boulevards alone with headphones in your ears and nutsacks in your cheeks. You are truly the loneliest pussy. And you’ve got no signature stride. And you’re hiding your fists like they’re not pain machines. And you’re eyeing sexy strangers on the street and screaming, “that guy has great style! That girl has excellent style! That thing has ultimate deluxe super style, hand-crafted by the heroes of our time and tailored exactly three calendar weeks ahead of the zeitgeist for maximum style power!” Can you feel that crazy style-flutter in your chest when that thing walks buy? It is your poor, flabby heart telling you to buy something glamorizing. Save yourself. Listen to that fat bitch inside of you for once, it has known you your whole life. Me, I dress up my fist like I want my punch to feel. A velvet shroud or a foot of chain off a hobo’s Schwinn or a lock of your mama’s hair. Long story short, pussy, just try it all on til you find what fits. Take it in, do it up and work it out. Dance around like a beautiful freaking fairy or else sing a song meant for a pidgeon’s brain. Say to the public, “Remember me, public? I was in your house that day. I sang along to your radio and acted all crazy til you kicked my face in. I love that Luther Vandross, I could hardly help myself. I drank up all your Rolling Rock and I punched myself out with my very own fist during “Endless Love” and guess what? I’ll probably do it again because how would you survive without us, my fist and me?” Take it from me, pussy. I raised my fist right and now he’s got his own thing going. See, he’s a true performer. He knows what you need before you know it yourself."

Look up in the air! It's Prince's guitar!

2009-05-01T13:45:00.000-07:00

Went to Joshua Tree with G. The desert's a funny place for a guy like that--squirrely, bad lungs, has a condition where he needs a lot of snacks (something like 3000 calories a day, most of them dyed, bagged, papered and/or cellophaned). He's a trivia whiz and a Prince fan, which makes for a fun commute. A few hours in the car with that guy and every gas station attendent's a dead ringer for a famous dictator and every cloud formation looks like Prince's guitar (I'm prone to such flights of fancy, though. On a road trip a few years back when I was listening to a lot of Neil Young I swore that I could see him on the side of every tree-lined road, all nekkid and hirsute, galumphing through the brush like Bigfoot). Gassing up in Cabazon by the Robotic Dinosaur Museum is always fun. Some Pinochet motherfucker at the 76 station saw the bananas drawn in the dust on my car and told us that "bananas is better n' penises" and the old babykiller has a point--bananas are potassium-rich, delicious, and portable, but I can never finish them (commitment issues?)and besides, they won't buy my drinks or my t-rex souveniers.

The windmills off the 10 are impressive.

The Joshua Tree Inn where Gram Parsons kicked is walking distance to the liquor store AND the health food store, how could we say no to that? We did, though, 'cause the motel in Pioneertown is adjacent to the saloon and it's run by Michael Hurley's nephew and some fine-lookin lady with tattoos. In the end, life is just a series of trade-offs. That's the word on the street, anyway.

Here's the view from the hotel window. Pretty nice, though I never did get to ride around in that thing.

These crazy things. For some reason I find myself approaching these trees the way I approach horses--with a mixture of awe, respect and fear. I hold my hand out. I hope it doesn't bite me. I touch it. Then I want one.

Turns out these things only go like 3mph and you can't even knock a motherfucker down going full speed. You can do some damage to the Van De Camp frozen fish display, though.

Give this one another spin, will you? Prince's sexually provocative persona has been misconstrued over the years. It is not so much conquering Lothario as sex-obsessed, Yoni-worshiping, oft pussy-whipped romantic (the girl in "When You Were Mine," 'didn't have the decency to change the sheets,' between lovers fer Chrissakes) with spiritual leanings that were obvious even before his religious conversion ("I Would Die 4 You," et al.)Sure, the strutting, preening little badass in "Cream" and "Sexy MF" is good fun, but I find the wide-eyed, virginal protagonists in "Little Red Corvette" and "Rasberry Beret" more interesting, and the approach to sexuality in the aforementioned songs is definitely more prevalent in his body of work even as he matures. This is all over "If I Was Your Girlfriend" (that horny, hilarious monologue at the end just oozes romantic desperation and longing for transcendence through sexual connection) and "I Could Never Take the Place of Your Man," but most notably on "The Ballad of Dorothy Parker," one of the greatest Prince songs ever.

The shit he pulls off in this song is astounding. The way the potentially unwieldy jazz arrangement supports the casual, conversational phrasing; the subtle, weirdly revealing narrative details (holy crap, the fruit cocktail!) and character development (with a Joni Mitchell shout-out to boot!); how the "Dorothy Parker, wit/writer" persona frames, then ultimately ennobles the "Dorothy Parker, wit/waitress" character without drawing obvious parallels or even addressing the allusion. You get the feeling that the narrator doesn't even know that Dorothy Parker the waitress has a literary predecessor, or if he does, that she has been eclipsed by in wit and scope by her flesh and blood namesake. Incredible stuff. Man.

And this is no fluke. You know. Prince does this shit over and over.
Prince might be my foremost literary influence, after Shel Silverstein.
Not that that's the draw.
I'm gonna go take a bubble bath with my pants on.
Shoulda done it sooner.

There are some good hikes out here, of course, but I recommend getting your ass out to Wonderland of Rocks and climbing around like a freaking mountain goat.

G-sus

Check it. It's metal.

2009-04-30T16:09:00.000-07:00

You'll be pleased to know that the Griffith Park Observatory's Tesla coil is up and running again, to the delight of tourists, metalheads, and tiny Asian boys everywhere.

Badass. I'd kiss it, but I'm afraid it might hurt. Story of my life.

Another runner in the night

2009-04-27T12:09:00.000-07:00

Vodka, vodka, tequila, beer, cabernet, mezcal, beer, whiskey, vodka, vodka...That's a helluva rookie lineup, shame on me. I came of age with Black Sparrow Press books tucked inside my PeeChee folders, goddammit! My pillows are embroidered with aphorisms culled from Mickey's bottlecaps (the one I just drooled on says "Don't get up. It's not worth it.")! I'm not above the occasional tequila/beer/self-punching contest combination, to be sure, but I certainly know better than to mix red wine with dregs of Jim Beam sucked out of a bar napkin. That might actually be why I continue to do it on a seldom-to-regular basis. The Surgeon General reports: "The thrill of transgression trumps willpower/friendly advice/the I Ching 8 times out of 10." Fuck em all, my Limited Edition CBGBs Collector's Coins usually turn up the "Decline" hexagram, anyway. Bacchanalian leanings aside, I am not adverse to the occasional coupling of pleasure and productivity. I managed to escape with an impressive Virgin Mary-shaped bruise and considering it was sustained right as I deciphered the lyrics to "Blinded By the Light" (revved up like a deuce! A deuce! Sorry, I'm a late bloomer), I don't think that's an accident. I also got Whitney's phone number(Whitney, who are you? Not that it matters much. I'll be dropping you a line somewhere between 2 and 5am, probably to entice you into an evening of Krautrock and Hot Pockets by candlelight). I learned that America doesn't make great cars, but dammit, we make some fine-ass trucks! which moved me to help my biker buddy butcher Francis Scott Key which got me to feeling so good that I tipped the karaoke dj my last two-dollar bill. It was worth it. My footwork was a little off most of the night, but my solo vocals were at least inspired enough to earn me an obligatory doe-see-doe with the abrasive Thai hostess and a few Nag Champa-scented poems (how does he do that?) from the Vietnam veteran who mans the door every night. Not bad for a barely-conscious rendition of Bob Dylan's "Hurricane." For the record, I pussed out and screamed "n-word" into the microphone, just like that. I'm already sporting a dozen dusty cartoon penises on my Acura, I don't need any more enemies in this neighborhood.

That tranny was really nice (that's the one on the left, asshole). She spritzed me with her perfume and it smelled good on her, but...

Jan, abrasive Thai hostess of note. Her version of Fleetwood Mac's "Dreams" will make you wanna cup your testicles, grind your teeth, chew off your ears and thank God you're alive.

Joann. Some folks think that she only remembers my name because it's so close to hers, but I'd like to think we have a special connection: Bacardi, gold jewelry and Chinese takeout.

Night-time scene, Mountainside Theatre, Cherokee Indian Reservation, Cherokee, N.C.

2009-04-25T00:39:00.000-07:00

Dear Judo Master,
Happy Armenian Independence Day. G just texted to say that Mr. Young was getting blown by a pro in the back seat of a truck. What are you doing? It seems unlikely, but I know what you're thinking and Judo Master, you should be ashamed (I mean that as a compliment)! Next year how bout we celebrate Saroyan's birthday instead? Thanks for the postcard, by the way. Cherokee, NC has sure changed a lot! The sky's all pixellated. There's a cigarette burn where the sun should be. To answer your question, things are not desperate yet, but no, they are not good. I am lying to my lovers about how often I bathe. I am using my student loans statement as a napkin. According to the neighborhood bar bouncer’s poems, I am emanating a “dawn glow” which surely indicates jaundice. I've got eight cavities, bad eyesight, no television and shitty credit, but you know what, JM? None of those things are important. Not tonight.

Good friends are important. Good friends in pink panties. Near-naked friends with pink bedroom walls and more near-naked friends.

Naked-all-the-time-smoking-fag-after-fag-til-it's-like-Stonewall-up-in-your-lungs- tossing-bananas-at-moving-cars-running-willy-nilly-with-'92-Dylan-McKay-throw-pillow- strapped-to-the-nethers type stuff.

Naked for fun and function.

Evil naked. "I'm not religious OR spiritual" naked. "I got "nihil" on my wrist and "Daddy" on my tits" naked.

Naked a few minutes ago and about to be naked again in a few minutes or so.

Picturing the whole room naked, like I oughtta.

Hey Judo Master, for once, let's do one of those things we talk about. The weather is good. We've got time. We're not too healthy, but we're still alive.
G-d bless you. Hit me back with the name of that song again.

Love,

JH

I'd fight you, but I only got two fists and they're both fulla Skittles.

2009-04-23T16:23:00.000-07:00

This is Sandy; friend, muse, screensaver.

That's a cupcake tattoo on her arm. Now go say hello.

James Dean Motherfuckers

2009-04-22T19:49:00.000-07:00

Julia and I woke up with the Waitress Hate something fierce so we thought we'd meet some folks at Griffith Park and spend the last day of picnic weather eating our skull weight in cheese, knocking back Prosecco on Joe's dime (thanks, Joe) and studying Prince's "Sign O' The Times" like it was f'n Proust. Griffith Park is a beautiful place if you are a boozer, a dirtbag, a jogger, a soccer team, one or more homosexuals, an ice cream vendor or a coyote. I am a few of those things (sometimes simultaneously, often against my will), so it woulda been perfect had I not had an itty bitty bone to pick with GP (went to the observatory last week. Their Tesla coil is out of order. Just sitting there all tangled and forlorn. Bullshit, man. Presumably the Hollywood sign still works.). No big deal, though (deep breath). A trifle really (thump-thump... thump-thump...). Anyhow, I heard Mel-with-the-cute-French-accent say "I hope you do not think I am weird for letting them kill me on the floor," and right then I decided, fuck it. Not only am I gonna live forever, I'm never gonna be sad again. It was a good day. The coyote by our picnic blanket kinda freaked us out til I stared straight into his coyote eye and he gave me that "chill, comrades. I'm just here to fix your Tesla coil" look...the same look I gave the park rangers when they cruised by while we were cheersing to good health and good friends and the Social Anxiety Advent Calendar with Xanax under the flaps. We didn't get cited for booze, but Julia broke her foot juggling bocce balls. Who juggles bocce balls? Julia does. And she broke her foot.

daily smut 4/16

2009-04-16T15:33:00.000-07:00

Daily Smut

2009-04-15T16:41:00.000-07:00

North, South, East, West

2009-04-10T23:26:00.000-07:00

Can't sleep? Send me the name of a town and I'll map it out for you. Lake Confidence, Lung Square, Highway Pi, Great Grandson Avenue, Gibbous Federal Penitentiary: these are some places in your town. There are more.

Smog Cutter, 8:30?

2009-04-09T11:25:00.000-07:00

I knew I'd find you. Where have you been? Things have changed. My hair has grown a foot. You are very successful. Leonard Cohen is pushing 80. I don't want to think about it. Here, let me buy you that drink you like.