Archive for June, 2006

The Flying Mathematical Stride

A fantastically remarkable (circa.1926) gadget:

WiFi Equipped?

…The Web in Technological Embryo!

What is it — and Why?

First to answer correctly, Wins: a 500-word piece, by me, on any topic — you choose.

It’s the first-ever Open Your Brain speedRace. Spun cookies are in the Starting Gate…

Hint: Listen…

self-reflective Flash

Humor & Anger — can’t deny the connection. I’ve recently found occasion to blur the lines between. Gratutious vulgarity, beating up old ladies etc. I suspect that, when I look back over my last few weeks of posts, down the road, I’ll recognize this as an angry time for me.

But I learned a few things. That anger has always been there, for reasons inescapably beyond my control. I don’t care to elaborate, this morning. I want to check myself & ask: why?

Laughter is the best way I know to access repressed anger and reverse its tragic course.

I think the old ladies were a good target because of their presumed innocence. It allowed me to caricachure the very absurdity of abusing innocents. Remember, the antics in that post are G-rated when compared with Reality. Way worse things happen, than a few old ladies pummeled for fun by maurading packs of knitters.

Suppose tomorrow’s headline read: ELDERLY WOMAN KICKED IN BAGDHAD CROSSWALK!!!

Yeah — by some bored Knitters, hard up for Kicks, after they pummled the warring factions ’till they Begged for Peace.


I feel bad, about the old ladies. To make it up to them, I decided to humiliate myself, by posting a really dumb poem I wrote. It goes a little something like this:





HA-Ha! You’re grandma-got-her Butt Kicked!

Heads Up!
To all you Hustlers, Pimps & Degenerate Drunks who hang around this crappy joint:

I have a New Subscriber. Her name is Pippi.

Pippi is a Knitter.

I heard Knitters knock over old ladies in crosswalks for fun. Then kick them while they’re down and scream, ‘That’s what you get DOUCHE-eater!!

Like, that is so COOL!

Pry a second of your time loose, will ya, to drop in on her knitting blog and type a quick thank 🙂 you! message. Something like ‘Whoa — Knitters be bad-n shit. Sweet. Yo I hate Old Ladies too!’

Remember: every time Pippi pummels one, we get to scratch

Knock Down Old Lady

…off our own List of Things To Do.


Thing is, I’m not certain whether anyone but me find my jokes funny. I am certain that no one has ever come up to me, slapped me on the back & been like DUDE Mike E, man — the Drug Funnel in your brain, whoa.

I laughed until my boobs fell off!

OK. Like that one right there — did anyone laugh until their boobs fell off when I said ‘Laughed ’till my boobs fell off?’ Because I think if some dude really did laugh until his boobs fell off — wouldn’t it be funny?

I’m looking for some feedback here. I have a comment box. Give it to me straight, please.

Tell me this: if you don’t get a chuckle out of watching some asshole lose his boobs — what the do you do for Fun?

It’s weird. I tell you I’m the most polite & bordering on respectable motherfucker when I comment on blogs elsewhere in the ‘sphere. Whenever I check my stats, I see incoming links from their comment pages. I can alomst hear these folks be all like, ‘Why what a nice young man. I wonder what he blogs about? I bet it’s wise…and invigorating!

If you’re one of those people, you may wonder: ‘Did he do this just to grossly offend me?’


The real reason I lured you here is to mug you for Drug Money.

Cookie jars, drug funnels & the Hand of God

Ever wish the human body consisted of nothing but a floating brain? Attached to a funnel, which the nearby Hand of God scoups gigantic piles of drugs into.

Yeah — me too.

What could be better? Not much. Only being the Hand of God itself. Shit Yes! Why pay extra? Bypass the Middle-Man…

I write to make myself laugh. There’s other reasons. But when I bust myself into a chuckle — wield humor as a Surival tool — I Win.

Jerry Garcia once pointed out that he had no way to know what it was like to be in the crowd at a Grateful Dead concert. Weird. I bet sometimes he thought everyone who saw the Dead, a hundred nights in a row — he at least once must have felt certain that every one of them thought he totally sucked.

The shit I write to make myself laugh, anyone who reads it I bet money thinks it sucks, too. Just like Jerry. I say that because it’s hard some days. My self-worth is wrapped completely through these words I write. I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter, what anyone thinks. If you write, or do any art, you probably try to convince yourself it doesn’t matter, too.

I say this: I would rather have no one read, than have a reader whose opinion I value read and walk away unnafected. I mean, if my shit blows like donkey balls, hey — at least it does something.

At least it makes me laugh out loud.

If you ask me, your visit to the Open Container speedWay speaks highly of you. If you’ve read this far, well you got smashing good taste! Truth told, when I finally peal my eyeballs loose from my lap-top screen, at the end of a 30-hour day, as far as I am concerned I got the best damn blog on the Internet.

Better than a drug-filled Cookie Jar with Free Refills — unless they’re growing on trees.

RIP: Frank, the Rock & Roll Pharmacist.

RIP: Frank, the Rock & Roll Pharmacist. June 23rd, 2006 by Mike E ‘He was extremely robust and thoroughly enjoyed everything life had to offer,’ reads the obituary, ‘Always the life of the party.’ When they say Francis Gerard Anthony “Frank” Giamartino (1953-2006) was The Life Of The Party, yeah — they weren’t kidding!

He was also a husband, father, Mets fan, Little League umpire, small business owner…none of which adequately explains the emotional jolt, my hometown received, with the news of his death. Frank was touched by what I call the Superstar Quality. He was Totally Cool. It was a little Cooler For You, if you were Frank’s friend. And Frank was friends with everyone. A genuine community pillar. He died in a single-car crash Monday evening.

Frank will be richly eulogized — deservedly so — for being a loving husband, father, community leader etc. I’ll leave that to the respectable folk. My gig here is to write a few words to celebrate Frank as my friends knew & loved him: The Rock & Roll Pharmacist!

There’s a Walgreen’s in Brattleboro. A Rite Aid, a Brooks & a pharmacy at the Wal-Mart. All corporate-giant franchises — all symbolic of everything Wrong in the world. Smart shoppers use the Hotel Pharmacy; a beacon of all that’s Good & Right.

‘How many pharmacists play you the Grateful Dead,’ a friend asked in a text message, shortly after Frank died, ‘While you wait for your speed?’

‘I will miss Frank. We all will.’ Reads a letter printed in our local paper, ‘But whenever I enter Hotel Pharmacy and hear those tunes I will know Frank is there, somewhere, dancing in the streets.’

I was a few days early filling my Adderall bottle, a while back. The doctor wrote me the prescription, but the pharmacy closest-by said VHAP (state-funded insurance for the poverty stricken) wouldn’t cover it, until a full 30 days after I last had it filled. So I took it to the Hotel. ‘I’m four, maybe 5 days early on this.’ I told Frank, ‘But figured I’d give it a whirl.’ ‘They’re your pills,’ he stated matter-of-factly, ‘I’ll take care of you.’


There’s a thousand stories like that around town. I’ll wager more than one life has been saved, when Frank stepped up to the plate, on behalf of a customer in genuinely dire need of medication — by Dealing With some heartless insurance company who didn’t care to pay.

The law in Vermont says hypodermic syringes may be purchased without a prescription. The law was passed to help slow the spread of AIDS among IV drug users. I don’t use needles but I have friends who do — friends I love dearly. So I’m hugely grateful for that law, and equally infuriated when I hear of a pharmacy not obeying it. Oh, they’ll sell you the needles, they say. Right after they call the police. The Hotel Pharmacy is the only spot in town to score clean syringes without threat of incarceration. For it I thank them.

There are Good People alive today who otherwise might not be.

It sucks that Frank is dead. Sucks Big Time, for his wife. In 2001, she & Frank lost their son Nicholas. And it sucks for their remaining children, who must cope now with the inexplicable loss of both parent and sibling. Gotta feel for ‘em.

For the many folks around town who’ve been strangely affected by the tragedy…it’s spooky. Does it remind us of our own frailty? Yeah, but it’s something more. We’re reminded of the frailty of our own — and, I propose, the global — Community. Fucked up shit happens. Fast. But not always without warning. I saw on the Colbert Report last night that Steven Hawkins says the End is so near that our best bet now is to Bail, migrate as a species to Mars & the Moon. Maybe. But trips to Mars are expensive. And I doubt anyone will give me a free ride on their space shuttle just because I’m so good looking. So I’ll hang here on Earth with the Poor Folk.

If we’re Toast for real — and we may be — I for one plan to get a wild kick out of doom. And who knows? Maybe all the assholes will leave the Planet. And let the rest of us get on with our lives in peace.

But one of the Good Ones left our planet, this week — and the rest of us are poorer for it. Fare You Well, Frank the Rock & Roll Pharmacist. So long, and thanks for all the Stinky Pinky’s!! May your family live out their days in comfort, good health & Peace.