Saturday, December 18, 2010


A classic Christian execution
at fledermaus HQ.

And the moon burped at me,
the moon spit at me.

And I,
I farted at the moon.

Sometimes I regret what I said
about dreams
because this time
you were stripping in the car.

The bruise of horse manure
because it is pleasant
does not mean that it's soothing!!

Friday, December 17, 2010


Someone wrote me, "I'd put money on this: you are one of two who didn't use Google to find out what i was talking about." We were discussing the current state of affairs in these dark ages -- namely Wojnarowicz's The Fire In My Belly and the Smithsonian's completely shitty, wuss-out -- and the above quote smacked of the such smug elitism. Maybe we're fighting the same battles over & over again but I'm convinced we're achieving great breakthroughs in cynicism.

The horrors of social network one-upmanship. Years ago, my friends called them "secret wars" and we all succumbed to the sting of paranoia and a subjectivity that barely kept in touch with its sibling. Now we're here.

And look here where it's not all that different and that's on me. There's a way of needing that I know now & it would be the bee's knees to chip away at that to reveal what's below. Trying to surround myself with that vibe is troublesome.

The wishy-washiness of liberals is horrifying & the absence of heart from the right is never surprising. I hope you're not sitting down cuz all that jerking of knees has gotta' leave bruises from the seat in front of you. That goes for me too, brother.

"Cynicism is my whiskey. And I had a few."

Congratulations to Pope John Paul II for making Time Magazine's Person of the Year.

And my apologies if that has seemed like a conversation between me & me. THIS IS FOR YOU.

Sunday, December 12, 2010


What if it were the last day of Earth & the first day of your period? Or if you hired strippers for your end of the world party & they showed up way too drunk? I heard a story about how a friend was ragging on a stripper's bodyguard for looking like Jared from the Subway commercials. He yelled "Hey Jared" one time too many & the thug flashed his piece.

The constant bombardment of information is so overwhelming that I don't think I could "tap into the zeitgeist" if I tried. What is the zeitgeist? Does it matter whether I can figure out what it is?

Drug culture is weird but this is the future & the future is so wild. There are whipped creams that gets you drunk. Four Loko has been banned but you can't suppress greatness. Some creep(s) will figure out how to make FOUR LOKO HOMEBREW.

Richie & I popped The Whip at Elks Lodge a couple nights ago and man it was good. I MADE A NEW MIX FOR THE OCCASION. Brad Hales was our guest and the selection was spectacular. If anyone has a line on even more "secret" bars in town, do let me know. Dark rooms with billiards & smoking in the back?

Last week I DJ'd an auction of prison art. This was my buy: "Passion Fruit." If you catch word of one of these auctions, you must go.

Home life is good. Someone said they thought ENB and I had broken up because I wasn't covered with bruises anymore. Outside right now it's the storm of the century.

Silence is golden, but a whisper is a treasure.
In the field of clich├ęs
we straddled a horse together.

And when a baby kangaroo cried in the distance
how did you that make you feel?

Saturday, December 04, 2010


". . . it’s pure insanity to tear the zombies away.” A little booze changes their eyes into human “boob reflectors” -- which just goes to say that Lane’s boobs are pretty remarkable projections in their own right.
The semi-tropical atmosphere of the Wabangi Lounge -- home for such famous dances as the Watusi, and the old Wall Street slogan: “You bangi me, I’ll bangi you” -- adds background to Lane’s dancing style. After a couple of hours of pounding flesh, Lane begins to sound like a kettle drum. In fact, they fired the drummer because the beat she makes as her teats pound on her stomach, creates a more dramatic effect anyway. And once those old jungle sounds rise from the chasm of her chest, “honey” drips from the zombies’ erected cones.