THE END, OF BLOWJOBS & EASY-FUCKING, THE END

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STRANGER IN THE MANGER / HOMEY IN CHURCH

How long have I given myself over to Satan? I have paid for lusty princesses in more ways than one. The silky tongues and velvety fingers of a sinful Sheba. A horny stoner girl burned her ass on the range in our palatial home. An erotic Halloween at Planned Parenthood. Someone named Dr. Lesbo with the DNA of a child who took a dump on some railroad tracks. Leonard Nimoy's harem. Stiff Little Fingers plays during a karate match. The censored breasts of an octopus.

SPECIAL NYE EDITION: HORSES 4 SALE

Whipper Pistol
The Thousandaire
Footsie
Feets Donfailmi
Mystery Feet
Marcy Mustard
Vajj Poontang
Childhood Issues
Betty Makeyrbed
Taker Sleazy
Pippy Tubestocking
Salt Petra
Butter Chainyermind
Derby Rich
Dirty Roller
Mercy No Mas
Surly Witch
Porsche Monkey
Hammer Smash Face
Stella Regions
PH Balance
Best Ass 2010 (good for two years!)

REGGAE LOVER (NEAR BUFF PROFESSOR)

CABALLITO NOCTURNO

Last night Erin and I ventured back to PH to celebrate the holidays with my family. My younger brother, Jacob, was released from the klink at midnight the night before and I was anxious to see the chap. It had been over six months since we last spoke and the 15 minutes we spent on the phone earlier in the day was full of yucks & crack-em-ups.

If I could regale you, dear reader, with every outright hillllaaaaarious jail story Jacob told, I would. There's just no possible way to remember all of them. Sweet christ, the man could base an entire career as a stand-up with the material. One of my favorite bits:

"The toilets could flush anything. We flushed an orange, then a blanket, then a pair of jeans, and then a bible. The bible was the only intact book we could fine in the entire jail to try flushing."

Tip of the iceberg right there. He'd trade photos of Kate Beckinsale for cigarettes and coffee (the latter of which, if procured illegally, would be put into a piece of toilet paper and "parachuted" with a glass of water). He also showed me how to do a "jail hug" (don't ask!). Cripes, we were laughing for hours. When we parted, he told me, "Don't worry. It'll be a while before I go back." In honor of the fellow, I offer a track from our old band below.

MP3 MURR TWISTAL - "Dance Of The Universal Peace"
[Note: Jacob doesn't actually play on this track. He did live tho'. Haha.]

OF THE WIG'S EDGE

He was like, "What are you into?" And she was like, "Oh, you know, bondage and shit like that."
He was like, "No shit. I'm into watersports." She was like, "No shit. I had no idea you were such a sexual creature."
He was like, "Yeah, pretty sexual. Just the way I was raised I guess." She said, "Huh. When did your ma stop breastfeeding you?"
He said, "What's that got to do with anything?" She said, "I don't know. Just curious."
He said, "I don't have a weird breast thing if that's what you're getting at." She said, "Nah, that's not what I'm getting at. I just wondered if you were into milkmaids, that's all."
He said, "Shit, why didn't you just come out and ask?" She was like, "I always get nervous when the milkmaid thing comes up. It seems like every guy I've dated is into milkmaids."
He said, "Huh. Well, what else are you into?"

Candy condoms.
Handjob booths.
Rubber rooms.
The future looks brilliant.

FROM THE DESK OF JERRY GARCIA

"I'm what they call an ARTIST, fuck you very much."

MORE EVIDENCE FROM THE OLD MAN'S DESK

Sweet christ, it's a brutal bitch out there. I mean, for fuck's sake, it's 6°F out. Strangely, it hasn't stopped anyone from coming into the shop, even reggae doods. [Is there a correlation there?? Probably not! Who cares?!] Anyway, Aaron's birthday party was last night (and it was my ma's birthday proper) and Robert's going away party was the night before. Lots of playing records, laffin' and sipping maté, late late dog walks (this is not a metaphor). Really, it's been so busy that I haven't had much time to process any of it. Such is the nature of a U.S. December, I s'pose.

Something that stuck out recently, from H.R. (Bad Brains):

"I would think the more important principles to remember are to stay away from trouble, stay away from troublemakers, violence, violent-minded people, and to remember the I-and-I concept: to love oneself, to love others. It's so important to balance out oneself, to take time out with your loved ones and remember the consciousness of the universal love for the proper understanding. It is still in the philosophy stage. It sounds good to talk about it, but doing it requires a bit more time, so I would say to eat good food, exercise, and when playing one's instrument, between 30 minutes to an hour every day."

Lately I've felt some back-and-forth between contentment and feeling like a violent-minded troublemaker. It feels like something's going to bust. Bust for the better, to be sure, but.... Alright. Time to head into some serious feeling-well-below-zero weather. It's the kind of stuff that'll make a dog's ears fall off.

FRESH EYES, NEW EVIDENCE

Let's talk about the OC fire.
Let's talk about ape radar.
Let's talk about heads floating in jars.
Let's talk about drug metaphors.
Let's talk about AARP.
Let's talk about warm white wine.
Let's talk about the disappearing ring.
Let's talk about the shape our shadows are beginning to take.
Let's talk about something that's constantly bleeding.
Let's talk about the monk's hotshit new prayer.
Let's talk about a white spider in a sugar bowl.
Let's talk about CSI phantasms.
Let's talk about the cop's archery cabal.
Let's talk about Funnoween.
Let's talk about the community garden muse.
Let's talk about the train conductor's secret foyer.
Let's talk about a lite lunch on Pickles Beach.
Let's talk about fish polish.

Let's talk about Juan's Thanksgiving case study.
Let's talk about some sick, sick deathrace.
Let's talk about the draft dodger diet.

JACK ON FIRE

It's quite a feeling. It sounds gross. If you haven't done it then you can't really talk. You're in a Las Vegas hotel, you and a famous telepath are sharing a hot tub filled with champagne. It doesn't matter how many cigars you accidentally drop into the froth, you keep drinking and light another.

48 hours later, you're in the desert watching your best friend being skinned alive. The telepath shoots you a text:

Whassup. Picking
up bad vibes but
ur far away. Lay
the scoop down
on a brotha

Vultures circle. "This is payment," you think. Caught up in the rapture of the telepath's glitz, you quit writing the New England Scene Report column for a famous punk zine without giving notice, sold your roommate's bike, and wrote "Happy Hallowe'en" on the mirror before leaving. In the distance still, The Enforcers were edging closer.

to be continued