Archive for August, 2006

Honky Gangzta LocalBoy Writes Rhyme.

MOST!

Like Bill & Ted.

DOSED!!! Like the Grateful Dead…

Ill-er than the BEATSIE Boyz.

When I grow up I-wanta Be Unemployed!

$$!

Shit I was born Unemployed. Got a cool $25 to bet I’m bound to die the same way.

Pss pst…Y’yo wanna buy a blogpost? One for Fiddy 3 for $100. 10-post pack for a 500euro. Any good? Shit Yes! Got mad heart & screamin laughers. Like the Heroic Dose of shrooms I taped behind all your flat-screens.

the talking balcony

My First Rock & Roll concert (age 13):

Heart, at the 1984 World’s Fair in New Orleans.

First time I got arrested for absolutely no reason:

11 years later, on Bourbon Street, the night before Phish played the State Palace.

First (& only) time I ever hurled from booze:

On Bourbon St the night after Phish played jazzFest (’96) arm in arm with Superstar Brown while he yuked too.

First time I lived for a week under a bush in a major American city:

JazzFest ’97, after my Valuables fell inadvertantly out of my pocket on Bourbon St.

First time I sat on the curb for a fascinating hour-long chat with the peculiarly grooved 2nd-story balcony across the street:

Somewhere in the Quarter. I plumb forget where — & most of what was said — but as I walked away that balcony gave me the best advice.

Listen. You Make stories. And tell them. That’s all…

Cheers to New Orleans!! Not a city, she, so much as one strange & long tale to tell.

Why My Blog Rules

The Ladies the LADIES!!

Pippi Velma leighton & Chloe!

Whadaya say Galloway?

WHOO!!

This place is Chick Centraal.

I’m Down with the Plight

82905.jpg

& Proud of the New Orleanians!

Two Lies

‘I did not have sexual relations with that woman.’
–Bill Clinton

‘We had no way to anticipate those levees would break.’
–George W. Bush

Compare & contrast.

Do the math.

Impeach the so-called President.

Plumb Groovy

Went to a Party last night & boy I will tell you what!

Hoo hoo

I’d write about it but I’m Lzay. And fresh out of amphetamines.

Good thing I’m a deft word-thief!

Leighton cook is my new favorite blog-poet wierdo — live from the fantom-green mists of Amsterdam. She blogs about wizardry mostly. Spars with the Government, like everyone, and occasionally — ie this morning — tells about how her face got shroomed off from last night’s bomb brew of tea.

This time Soma added lavender from the balcony to the tea which seemed to make the taste and effect different in a subtle way. We drank Equadorian, Hawaiian, Thai, Columbian and Copelandia and Peyote butttons. The first hour was like ten rounds with Muhammad Ali then all was so clear, cool and sober. It was awesome dude.YEAH ShaZAM she is a Contender!!

Super Cool. Nice to meet you Fellow Traveler she-dude.

We stirred up a pot of chai, fresh local honey & Oregon cubensis brew. At daybreak. Like Shadowfax & Gandalf & 1,000 Rohirrim crashin the party at Helms Deep.

Then I sat in a chair for a long while ’cause I felt too plumb groovy to move.

Drunk Driving Laws: the Case Against

What we need is an organization to bribe Congress for the Right to enjoy our liquor while we cruise. Yep. Enshrine it in a Constitutional Guarantee.

What about the Pursuit Of Happiness?? Says right in the Constitution that we’re endowed by the Creator with the right to pursue our own happiness.

Yet I don’t see a damn word where it says we gotta drive sober on the way!

Yeah — but what about all those Sober Drivers who always get in the way?

They suck.

I say this: If you mess with a drunk driver in patriotic pursuit of their God Given Right to be happy…why, that means you Hate Freedom.

Terrorist!

Trust Yourself!

“She didn’t want to be rescued,”

So concludes the lead article in my hometown paper today.

The woman was resting comfortably on dry land after she slipped, while stepping from a boat, and bonked her head on the dock. She was bruised but not Beat and reportedly didn’t want 911 called.

Fair enough.

Specially so since that 911 call didn’t help much at all.

Virginia A. Yates, 64, of North Shore Trailer Park on Missing Link Road, died when the rescue boat that retrieved her sank. She was strapped to an emergency litter still attached to the boat when it went under.

Like Galileo Dropped the Orange

Want. Beer. Go!

Reach arm forward.

Grasp. Sip…

Relax.

It happens.

When it does we have these to thank:
atp.GIF
It’s a molecule of adenosine triphosphate (ATP). Note the *A* and the three *P*’s. The *A* is adenosine. The *P*’s represent one phosphate each. Adenosine triphosphate.

ATP is the biochemical equivalent to the right music on loud or a six pack of beer in the Tank. The ‘energy Currency of the Cell.’ It makes stuff Go. Like your arm when it reaches for a beer.

Want. Beer.

Here’s the Deal: Thermodynamic energy is stored in the chemical bonds between each of those *P*’s. When the bond is broken the energy is released & works like a spark struck to fuel.

Go!

When the phosphate bond in ATP is broken, the molecule becomes adenosine diphosphate (ADP). When the phosphate is reattached in the mitochondria it is once again adenosine triphosphate.

Dig?

Guess they tried to teach me this crap in high school. But I thought it was Stupid – like the other dumb bull they tried to cram down my throat. Like Don’t Drink & Drive.

Yeah I got news for you Pals – drinking & driving is Patriotic…and cool!!

Alrighty then kids. That’s the Lesson for today…

the Sucks to Be Me Maneuver

‘Five dollar Double,’ I told the teller, ‘One, three.’

It was the smartest thing I’d said in weeks.

The Daily Double is a bet on the winners of two consecutive races on a given track’s card. Got dropped off at the OTB spot in New Hampshire in time to catch the last pair at Mountaineer, or some other east coast night-time track, I forget which. Handed the bet-teller 5 bucks — my last — on the 1 horse in the next race, set to go off a few moments hence, and the 3 in the race to follow.

To win would be smashingly helpful.

I was homeless. And probably Hungry, though I wouldn’t have noticed on account of all the amphetamines. I hadn’t eaten or slept for a couple days but felt sharp. But soon enough — too soon — those drugs would wear off. And I wanted to Win because I knew:

Soon it would suck to be me.

It was raining. Had been for a week. Water splashed into the car-window I’d cracked to smoke a cigarette, when we drove through a puddle on the way over. The puddles were deep.

I counted on winning to pay for a taxi ride home. Or, to the town 4 miles away where I’ve had homes before. Where I planned to buy a fat dinner & hotel room, with the $200-&-change I stood to gain; not enough to solve my many Problems, but it beat crap out of the alternative. Which was Lose and have it suck to be me.

‘5 dollar Double.’ I told the teller at the bet-window. ‘One, three.’

I won the first race. Which didn’t get me any money — to win the Double the horses you pick must win both races. But it can be a High Time, those 20-odd minutes between the two races. It’s a good feeling to think you’re about to Win Big. It can also feel disconcerting, since you must select winners of two consecutive races before the gates open for the first.

Lots of painful second-guessing can happen during those 20 minutes — especially when, along with your last 5 bucks, your Happiness is on the line. Like when you watch the post-parade on your OTB TV screen, and notice that your horse looks half-dead. Or maybe your horse looks fine, but another one looks better. Or maybe the horse you bet on looks perfectly smashing, but when the teller at the betting window handed you your ticket you realized that you meant to bet on a different horse entirely.

‘5 dollar Double,’ you may have said, ‘One, three.’

‘Good luck!’ The teller at the betting window smiled and handed me my ticket.

‘Oh, no wait!’ I exclaimed. Looked my Daily Racing Form over again. ‘Did I say One, Three? No — I don’t want the Three. What I meant was 5 dollar Double: One, Five.’

The teller quickly corrected my ‘mistake’ and handed me a new receipt. The One horse took the first race easily. I settled in to revel in the inevitability of the Five horse’s — and my own — triumph in the next. I watched on the TV screen as the horses were led through the post parade. And the Five horse looked good. I breathed a sigh of relief. Until a voice in my head said, ‘Yeah — but what about that Three?’

The #3 horse looked perfectly fucking smashing.

It was a long walk home in the rain. More precisely, it was a long walk to the town I call home. Golly did I wish I had somewhere to live there.

I sludged through a puddle. It was deep.

Why? I wanted to know. Why?? I bet the right horses. Held the winning ticket in my hand. The fat dinner & taxi ride to a hotel room…All Right There. I said the 3 horse, by cosmic accident, when I’d set out to bet on the Five. So I changed my bet at the last second. The 3 won. I lost. And now wanted desperately to know Why.

It seemed Important. I could have made it better for myself, but didn’t — and not for the first time. I trudged miserably on. Kicked the shit out of a puddle, cursed God for doing this to me. I really did. Cursed God. Kicked a puddle. Then — though I did not want to — I chuckled.

Had to admit it was funny.

Who the hell am I? One more Random Whoever — with no cash, no car & no luck at the races — telling God to Fuck Off while I slogged through puddles on a Saturday night somewhere on Planet Earth.

It sucks to be me. But so what?