Tuesday, March 31, 2009


"What is Dr. Pepper if not some peculiar strain of root beer?" Terrence paused and stared at his last cigarette, willing it to grow. It was now almost gone and the process of smoking it was barely a specter in his mind. He continued:

"The world is composed of a beauty so wild, it's not difficult to imagine endless varieties of root beer, each flavorful and complex in its own way." Strains of an opera rose from the bushes. Terrence tried to relax his erection.

Nearby, Penny sat on the police bench with a pained look on her face. Terrence approached her.

"I'm sorry for not paying attention," she said. "I had another... vision."

"Tell me about your vision," said Terrence.

"It was the future. It was hip to have acne." Penny paused, removing a cassette from her Walkman and flipping it. "Sorry. Black mass."

"Go on, little one, go on" said Terrence.

"The trees looked different... but not too strange. Yet, all were concerned about the environment. Someone said, 'We have to begin thinking about what kind carbon footjob we're leaving for future generations.'"

"What else, Penny?"

"I remember a salad bar of locusts. I remember a lot of hoopla about an unearthed Doors demo with the working title 'The Crystal Pimp.'"

Terrence was silent. Shit, he thought, she thinks about way more interesting things than I.

Friday, March 27, 2009

Tuesday, March 24, 2009


The most amazing girl in the world, Erin Nicole, bought me a roundtrip plane ticket to San Francisco so Lloyd and I could drive to LA for the David Axelrod show. Sir Wells just informed me that the show has been canceled. Egad. I'm crushed and bumming hard. Nonetheless, I shall soldier on with what will most definitely be an excellent trip to Cali... Cali... Cali. Can't wait. But dang -- it woulda' been great to see THE AXE!!

Moving on, clusterflock.org just threw up the most information I've seen yet about the upcoming issue of Minus Times although Drag City mentioned it in their news section as well.

Oof... I'm hurtin' about the Axelrod news. Oof -- it smarts!! Perhaps this unreleased Six Organs album will pick me up. Hm.

Sunday, March 22, 2009


"The register started singing this kind of ching-ching-ching song and that's when I knew the business was successful," he said. "That's the money song!"

The street assassins took a break to chow down on some turkey sammiches their honeys made. "I think I really love those gals," said Parker. Martin was enraged: "What the fuck are you talking about?! That kind of talk will mess you up. We're street assassins -- WE DON'T THINK!"

"We don't want to give up this spot," she said, pointing to a 1' square patch of grass in the crowded field. "It's for God in case he wants to come to Bonnaroo this year. If he's not here by Radiohead, someone can have it."

"It still feels like rejection each time a new booklet of Food Stamps shows up." His colleague interjected, "And I'm bothered there aren't Drink Stamps! Haha. Tell the government that I'm waiting!"

"Please, Mr. Edison, when you're through with those bagels and pepperoni, could you tell me more about this fascinating electric candle? It really... excites me," said Missy. "Why Missy, I'd heard that you were a bit of a starrrrrfucker."

Friday, March 20, 2009


"Man... women want one thing: a wedding ring and then the rest of the world." Bart stopped blowing on his didgeridoo. Colby took off his beanie and scratched at the base of his hair wrap.

OVERHEARD: "I put a lizard in my mouth to get high but it started licking the roof of my mouth and bugging like it took a 'lude."

The angels stopped their singing and put their lutes down. A big gang of them went and hung out by the railroad tracks until the shit blew over.

Rogue "prince" kidnaps real princess and brings her back to cave lair: "Check this shit. It ain't King Arthur but we have some killer quaaludes -- way better than that shit he has."

CLASSIFIEDS: Looking for a killer thrash band to rent practice space behind A Wrinkle in Pizza. Call Lassiter for more info. Must have chops. ***-****

Monday, March 16, 2009


With one more day left to read D.C. Berman's "Self-Portrait at 28" while still 28, I've decided to put it off once more.

Wellllll... I did read "Self-Portrait at 28" twice in the last year. Once, bit by bit over the course of a few months beginning with a verse read online in April or May during my trip to Europe. I don't remember when I finished it but it was months before the second time when I read it in one sitting, kinda' drunk, late one night.

Actually, about that trip to Europe: it took so long to digest the experience that I've been at a loss as to what can/should be said about it until now. The best part of the entire trip was walking way way way way out to the edge of a cliff with my best girl and best friend, Erin Nicole. It was miles and miles of red Maltese dirt, sleeves rolled up, talking talking talking with the sun beating down hard but a big bottle of water and a bag of chicken-flavored chips keeping us going. It took hours upon hours and was exactly what I wanted to be doing with the one person I wanted to be with and I knew it at the time too, which is lucky because most people don't know how great something is until it's long gone.

That was the best part, to be sure, but I also marveled at the world there at the edge of the cliff, with the White Temple on one side and a couple smoking a j-bone on the other. The ocean (the Mediterranean Sea, actually) took up the entirety of my vision and I wanted to piss off the cliff like I didn't give a shit but was so worried someone might come up and push me off that I went back to our hotel afterward and dreamed about falling off the cliff over and over again, doing that falling-in-dream-leg-kick-thing (this was terrible). Later, back in Paris, I lied about pissing off the cliff anyway. But I digress....

Hm... trying to find my train of thought again. I wanted to write about how stupid I felt reading that poem whilst drunk, how off the experience was for something that always elicits an intense emotional response from me. I'd like to write about choosing to be sober but I feel really happy and in love with life and full of gratitude for my girlfriend who I love so damn much, Chacho, Mavis and Peta and want to pay a certain attention to that right now. It might seem a little precious or something but I've felt so bad for so long in so many ways and paid attention to too many other, false things when my immediate little family is amazing and I'm so fucking fortunate to have what I do.

Hobbling to work on a bum knee, even that felt so good out in that sun.

Tuesday, March 10, 2009


Wanting to look through some of my zines from the 1980s, it seemed serendipitous when I reached for Unreal Mindwarp Funnies and Unsound #5 was right below it. Flipping through the review section to get a feel for the era and content of Unsound, I came across this review I either didn't notice before or completely forgot about for John (North) Wright and the Young Losers - Welcome 1984:
"Another tape to add to my collection of John Wright brilliance. This man writes incredible lyrics and expresses feelings so clearly, it becomes an enlightening experience. This tape features John with members of Hunting Lodge and the combination of vocals, lyrics, and music creates a whole new type of sound, no category for this tape. Look forward to the next issue of Unsound, an interview with John Wright."
Several years back, I issued John North Wright's final album, White Widow. When John passed, my sister and I inherited a TON of his work -- books, tape reels, BETA tapes, 4-track cassettes, scripts, etc. -- and this has my appetite whetted to archive everything and track down whatever interviews and reviews I can. Check this tho':

Friday, March 06, 2009


Woof -- my Skate Laws set at The Moustashow is fast approaching and I'm starting to turn into a nervous nelly. People shouldn't see me in this state -- it's bad news. And since I've been on the wagon for a minute now (wellllll, for the most part), methinks I won't be imbibing beforehand. The ol' "liquid courage" thing, y'know. Anyway, here's the cover of my new book:

More info on that to come. Also, an Athens paper just hyped [the actually 48-page] Mr. Wiltoncroft just over yonder: 'Mr. Wiltoncroft' seedy, but benign. Interesting article title.

I've been listening to a whole lot of Golden lately. Just so damn good. Oh yeah -- I forgot to mention that the last Dark Matter at Elks Lodge went really well. I was anticipating something like 45 people and we got 90. Not our largest draw but probably the most people you could have there and maintain some semblance of comfortability. Ha.

Thursday, March 05, 2009


Ricki Tard -- "He's Chinese!!" -- Peanut Blaster from 2246.

The hooker gave him a Rhode Island Cheese Plate but a visit to the doctor cleared it right up.

The children referred to him as "the slave of Jay-Z."

The witch's blouse.

MP3 FOREST JUZIUK - Ricki's Theme (Still Nervous After All These Years)
MP3 FOREST JUZIUK - Ricki Tard And The Witch's Blouse

Tuesday, March 03, 2009


Fog covers the field, dew on the long grass. She takes off her beret and sprays an 'X' of Aquanet across the top. (She describes her ensemble as "punk-Italian" but neither look is discernible to me.) After the can falls to her feet, she pulls one of those long safety lights from her apron, lights the hat, and sends it across the field. The light disappears following a small sizzle. The dew.

From her bun, Sally removes a 5" hairpin and pricks the index finger of her left hand and squeezes three drops onto the starmap. The drops burn a dark green, the paper curls slightly. In the pen, the pigs begin howling, marking the arrival of warm winds from the east.

Sunday, March 01, 2009


He crushes a roach into the top of the nightstand with the bottom of his bourbon glass.

Tonight, the mayor is upset with power and parties. Tired of upper class alcoholics and white women snorting OxyContin at fundraisers. Of charging his make-up artist's paycheck to an untraceable credit card.

"The bones will splinter after the teeth have eaten away the flesh," he recites to the room after his wife has fallen asleep. How long is evil? How wide?

A charcoal cock shrinking to just the size of the Statue of Liberty now and holding. Any smaller and you have a solution to burglary, better rights for cripples. Mercenaries would get the night off. Hell, give them the year off!, he thinks.

In the yard, the dog lies just outside its house, ribcage balloons with shallow panting. The humidity is a cloud of lard but it's trying to be a nice night.