Come as you are. . . . . is the mundo STRANGENESS when the young gather around "empty cultural signifiers" in a hyped subculture "of over-meaning" with explosive, bug-eyed laughter. . . . . Say, "The Wierzbeski Hunters" page as a tribute to some five-second "mystery marine" in James Cameron's "Aliens" which a beloved character made a yelling "big deal" about, but who we mostly didn't see-- except for the odd fact of his incongruous, gargling death "off-screen". The little details of "cult status" recognition-- where? who? what? why?-- but knowing "not what for".

The splintered cultural narrative, say a big ole' white kid named "Ghetto Garv" with black hair and green marsupial eyes who meticulously catalogs the difference between "East coast" and "West coast" rap with deadpan, C-average seriousness like meat-headed cannisters of protein and beef hormones "for the right price". It had all the intelligence of one of those Rally's "You gotta Eat" commercials with jivin' low-lives and hip-hoppity white trash characters glancing at the camera with a Sherlock-snoop-dawg expression. Of course it was "that corporate" and removed "from the source material" when you had a skinny black operator dressed as a blaxploitation ring master "squinching" his greasy, unethical pitch "to the niggas" while selling cans of orange Vess soda for "75 cent". Or the ripped Bruce Lee thorax V-fingered "throat-poke" that would whirl around and tear some unlucky Shogun's heart out.

But whatever the allure of the dark things, you had a doll-gal in lipstick creeping up like a cat through the grass and grabbing Kurt Cobain like a rocker-babe in toyland, Nirvana's bassist talking like "Big Bird" in a fool's sack-hat with nursey school moralisms "and getting kicked in the nuts" like a local yokel "yodel" of the side of Seattle rock life "not NEARLY as ICONIC". And who would know what actually happens to Steven Spielberg's "idealized everyman" hippie New Left young Jewish hitch-hiker thumbing on the side of the road in "Amblin'" (1967)? Not a soul to be found-- not even a tumble-weed for effect-- much less a beautiful (blonde) shiska "who digs him", but an insane speed-addict "who guts him like a fish" as he looks up into the broad, southwestern night. . . . . murmmuring "the stars" as a meteor streaks by with cinematic magic.

To think that "the most jaded of our hipsters", having fallen publicly "with bad career moves", could pay society back with a winking version of "Pinnochio" played out in the streets of New York's Williamsburg with ginger-house sets and a commentary about LIFE THERE, as absurd as it is-- a growing "middle finger" of fibs in the clubs and escort bars with assorted bums and misfits and the redeeming "star-wand" of THE BLUE FAIRY. And at some point, Axl Rose in a bandanna could skip out and do "the dosey-doe" with Kurt Cobain "in mutual peace" as little "brown bunnies" dance in a circle and throw green Easter grass.

At this point. . . . . what could be more alternative than honesty?

(Besides Gentile-Run Studios. . . . .)

"An open & accountable Federal Reserve!!!!!!!" (Tell THAT  to the "money-men". . . . .)

3rd of July "Blue Meat" Thrown as a Reminder "of Roasted Times"

(Two swell-bellied Texan aides in cowboy hats share a chuckle)

"Looks like we caught that thar SODOM HUSSEIN. Heh, heh, heh"

"Down there in Ti-KREEET" (Making "scritching sound" like a knife drawn across throat)

"Heh, heh, heh. We sure 'bagged' his boys"

"Now they look like twin. . . . . E.T: Extraterrestrial's, but you know THEY AIN'T risin' from the dead"

"Naw, not when we bury 'em up to their necks in sand in the buzzards swoop down-- tear THE MEAT offa their heads"

"Hey, you suppose them buzzards look like Richard Perle and Paul Wolfowitz? 'Dem Jew-Birds work for us. They got 'the beaks' to prove it! Now let's go get some coffee and bagles; keep 'Kosher'!"

      (They give the "Heil Hitler" salute to a portrait of Abraham Lincoln)

      (Sound of "baseball charge" played through kazoo with portrait of George Washington looking on)

     ("Spluttering fart") 

"Funny Episodes in the Lives of Gal Rockers, Comediennes, & Show-Biz Mascara Eye-Roller's". . . . . So much of life these days is a bit like a blitzed-out adolescent "carpet party" full of outsized emotion, Sesame Street caricatures "of well-being", and dark accidents when some idiot splurges "too far" with a joke and some gal goes off crying in the other room, comforted by her friends with vague, pop psychology themes "overheard on T.V" that work for about 18 & 1/2 minutes. What overhangs so much is darkness and wailing and half-courage "with a stiff-upper lip" that yet falters with overextended committment and bad debts "that no young man can pay", not having the judgment "to get caught up" in this emotional bloodbath "in the first place". Jealously, possessiveness, and backstabbing haunt the scene with blunt, "hidden" motivations and a large distrust of outsiders. . . . . when the support "of jelly-bones liberals" is nodded at for the juice of emotional gain while "cornball goofuses" are eviserated-- like Homer Simpson thrashing in a fiery quagmire as everyone laughs. Gals in rock or comedy are expected to be brash and wild, but ultimately in ways that prove "mostly unchallenging" to the fantasies of mostly passive, quiet young male fans "who need this cartoon figure" to feel more engaged with the way they try to relate to the female species-- holding up "a press pass" like an aficionado, obsessively journaling in a notebook, or stiffly bopping his head "as the energy in the room dictates".Mortification is all-crushing "when these LITTLE GAMES" are unmasked with a laugh. . . . . especially when he bought over $50 of CD's and merchandise for her to sign "just to have an opportunity TO SWOOP IN CLOSE".

That divide is about as sharp as the edge of a kitchen counter, looking down at a bag o' bread with some "pastures of plenty" on the logo, like some "whore-house row" street somewhere off in the night that would set you back the price of an Egg McMuffin sandwich and a coffee-- OR SHOULD, anyways. But any kid lost in the world of girl-rockers and foul-mouthed commediennes like animé cartoon characters probably "isn't very worldly" and would find himself caught up in a police sting set up by the vice squad when it's his clueless face snapped up in the flashlight's glare.

The cops are trying not to chuckle at this rather common, yet unspeakably-adolescent profile of guilt & shame, fumbling out an excuse in the rawness of the caught, baggy-pantsed act, bumbling with shrugged inexperience.

"But I can't let my Mom find out!"

"Call your Dad"

MAYBE they'll let you go-- but with your money confiscated.

But to say that "show business" for women is a little bit like the sex industry, it can do many things to a haggard soul over time. Living up to a fantasy, going out night-after-night, can give a gal A JADED ATTITUDE when she recognizes why folks are into her, the raw mechanics of her act "and the brightness and inspiration she no longer feels".

And certainly there was much amusement to be had around "the ole' Bill & Hillary" circus act when the man was "the wild, impulsive SHOW TIGER" who dazzled and jumped through flaming hoops to the roar of the crowd while the wife had to be a bit of the whip-shaking manager, especially when "Tiger" would rub up "too close" to an adoring female fan's leg with a sweet, southern-talkin' "purr" and had to be jerked back and evade a crunched lamp with a "YOWWWL", knowing it had been "a bad cat". And they blame HER for whacking him with a broom?

"Jelly-bones liberals" and "Cornball Goofuses" oftentimes live in awe and fear of the hard-hearted. . . . . banding together in their own colonies of mutual self-justification "and feeling sorry for themselves", trying to impose their will on others with trickery, force, "and hiding the truth". They make the biggest "marks" and should always beware of folks "leaping forward" to be their right-hand man who oftentimes "use the same tactics on them".

That goes for everyone else. . . . .

Oftentimes in this business "of children", run "by children"-- hired hands in the background of the entertainment industry perform their various specialties and play the role as self-important "players", but cannot watch "every screen" with many clients and orbiting quantities "outside their purview". But commonsense comes into play.

If you're a rich (widow)-woman "getting on in the years". . . . . then what would some young Greek male model want to do with you?

Perhaps "some Cornball Goofus" of a World War II vet should ask himself that when he falls prey to a Gypsy slut-ring of apartment cleaners if a gal 50 years his junior with dead, cruel, snake-like eyes "begins to take an interest" in his vague, misty-eyed stories. . . . . and he begins writing checks to release her brother from a prison overseas "in some war-torn land".

"Smells like Teen Spirit".

-- "Buy you a coffee?"

Well, alright. I know that a lot of gals like you are frustrated with the pace of things, and sometimes the best thing is to slow down and sit, and enjoy the good things-- such as focusing on the tiny curio "of a bit of coffee", iced like coolness toward the falling rain and stillness. Lots of folks in the city are constantly "dashing from thing to thing", always tapping others "for little bits" of emotional validation when the source will never be "deep" or "lasting". The city and liberal-style thinking to me was always a bit like a cardboard set on a stage that was "flashy" and "looked impressive" but left TRUE BELIEVERS "holding the sack" as folks were "set-up to fail", beat when they "were down", and then the ones who fooled them "denied any responsibility". That guilt is too heavy to face, between "bogus pitch-man" and "indignant fleeced" in endless pursuit "when the world has no comment". It's an age-old story. . . . . true as crossed neo-conservative fingers for global conquest's outcomes as it is for the left's "happy white lies", reasoned that "it's somehow for the greater good". Fleeced anger is eternal & unchanging. But instead of raiding "the fury camps" of others, you should invest in them. Though sourness is part of your act, I think deep down you have a heart of gold.

"The Magic Act". . . . . and how happy, successful and fulfilled a gal will be over a long career in whatever capacity she lives whether at work or home "as the sorceress of many trades" is understanding that her world and friendly attitude exists several levels up from the brute madness, violence, and territoriality of the Paleolithic calling that echoes far deeper in the intuitive muscular and sexual genetic memory of a man's blood. . . . . and is far more "true to what he lives". In today's world, everyone must "learn a trade" and frequently gals as "go-getter's" ply a bit of "an act" and call themselves anything they want, not understanding that her sweetness and winning personality IS WHAT'S DRIVING THE SUSPENSION OF BELIEF. Her product, service, or routine isn't very good but no one has the heart to tell her, perhaps themselves "looking for a little bit of light" in all this DARKNESS and her natural charms becomes a bit of "a crutch". Sometimes she believes in "her magic act" with far more tin-horn self-seriousness than she ought as a feller would turn on a bar stool and wink at her with a bemused, agog "Santa-Claus"-like expression. . . . . watching her "take the hard truths we know FOR GRANTED" and acting with spoiled, rotten petulance, if not selfless Holy Mother Virgin "Naomi Klein" leftist insectoid "self-laceration-for-the-sins-of-CAPITALISM"; putting up tin foil, adobe mud, and balsa wood in its place like a rotting, stinking Termite mound of egoistic bullshit. . . . . . dotted with lentils and pinto beans and shat-out tomato seeds. And crowned with a carved dildo: like one of those horned beasts out of "The Book of Revelations".

And how 'dem "Red-State Dogs" and hot-headed "Tea-Baggers" are hoppin' and bayin' on the other side of the fence at these zany left-wing "Rush Limbaugh-ista's". . . . . who he himself "made a living" out "of being a ham" with the piggish contempt of others. These hussies had might as well have come out there "dressed as a pork-chop", for "THE RED MEAT" of offensiveness that they throw these characters, as maybe one of 'em "JUMPS THE FENCE" and "takes a bite" out of the seat of her pants in mingled excitement and fear and loathing and sexual desire "for the wicked witch/bitch" as she scurries back through the sliding-glass doors. Maybe you should have dressed "as a vegetable"-- a flower-- "a blade of grass". . . . . but should have not played into twisted, juvenile fascination of name-calling and HEATED emotion of the frustrated, lame, and conservative in a frothing, jacked-off sauce of orgasmic "temper tantrums".

-- You're "NUTS" for "Pecker-woods"; invite 'em over "for tea"!!!

Or better yet. . . . .

http://www.naomiklein.org/

Yet "it ain't so bad", one supposes; when layouts can be conveniently drafted & mapped-out on computer screens, then "beamed" to local or regional printing stations for flexible distribution routes and layered levels of advertising, tailored "to socioeconomic appeal". The fact that the summer evening schedual for "The Muny"-- an outdoor amphitheatre of local city flavor-- can be printed up on a "Diet Pepsi" can as a low-fi reminder.The future of print media is to run online plans that also sends a print edition to your house "with the helpful reminders" of local businesses with their ads, sales, coupons, and offers. . . . . so on, and so forth.If the paper "was in my hands", I'd read it; just get it IN MY HANDS.

There are all sorts of **INSANE** ways for "the budget scrounger" to get by. . . . . which even I wouldn't stoop to sinking. Moving through the world with enough open-hearted generosity and grace "of good form" that you don't buy **JUST A SMALL DRINK** and then **TAKE ADVANTAGE** of their "free refills" policy. Knowing that a franchise makes their profit margin off of "fries and soda" and not the few cents grated (barely) off of burgers with cheese, much less "soaking up their air conditioning" like a po' white sponge, humor your local effort. . . . . both entreprenurial and artistic with a nod to The Art Museum and THE NARCOTICS STRIKE-FORCE up in some 'hood "you wouldn't want to go".

                       www.fbi.gov                            

"The Mouldy Alleys of a Catholic Ghetto's Backstreets". . . . . seems like a gray "splorch" of nostalgia and guilt, if not the heaviness of a stomach-churning descent into GOODNESS without the ability "to change direction" with ham-handed, rock-headed "odes to duty" marched to slaughter and sacrifice. . . . . with city memories like tough steak, rotten cabbage, fish fries, milk men, laundary women, dance halls, bingo night, and a woman's mirror with bottles of make-up, perfume, and ointments as the sandals of Christ walked long ago, doves fly from the steps of Rome, and unclean spirits are exorcised from the earth by ritual & blessing.

 "See ya' in the funny pages!"

"Runaway Generals" may have their "own idea" about how to do things-- with better or worse ballet moves across "the social pond" away from a field post surrounded by "the like-minded"-- but whether or not THE PUBLIC IS TRULY READY "to listen in" on the grisly "E.R. Unit/Ambulance Crew" chuckles which those in the biz "would find darkly comical" WITH THOSE HARD-TRUTHS only those in THE CORPS could know, sometimes you have to "dispose of the messenger" out of tin-horn, futile principle-- the counterfeit "of an honorable fiction" which everyone in mainstream politics. . . . . even Rush Limbaugh, have to hold onto "like a life-line" because perception matters, however low down on one knee "believers in the system" bow in faith n' fealty "to emotional truths" with the calculus of listenership and elections with sparks of conscious, millions in the night "like waving lighters at a rock concert" either brighter or dimmer with keen understanding with possible capacity for pranks or mischief-making which is why "The Secret Service" and the like CHASE OUT THE CURIOUS and hope these folks will yip off with "life, liberty, and pursuit of bone-headed happiness". . . . . hopefully not to an indifferent, roughly-benevolent public space "with an assault weapon" though guarantee's can't be made. However, "eternal truth" always outmatches "living death" and folks should wake up slowly to the message because the tantrums thrown by the self-concepted "entitled" are more worrying "than the brisk pace of events" which cares NOT ONE WHIT for life's cradled "tragedies" and orgy of praise "for bad Winona Ryder movies".

(-- Hire "that maniac" back and keep him on the pay-roll quietly)

"Lady Gä(g) Order, you should know your right "to wisen up" to the cruel realities of show business and what happens to bright-eyed, perky gals who charm the world on the basis of "an act"-- be it teaching, sales, or whatnot-- that is based on their sweetness and the ability of others to like them far less than on "substance" and the tired, angry, rueful expressions that harden across their features over time when they find themselves in trapped, hateful circumstances "with nowhere to go" and feeling as if their best years and beauty has faded into wounded nostalgia and dislike of manipulative "pick-up artists" circling their beady glare. . . . . for they will not be sold "as scrap-pussy" with a discount sticker slapped on her ass to be crushed "and junked". . . . . WHICH IS WHAT YOU'RE IN FOR if you don't make a realistic acessment of who you are, you pesky pop-star chorus bimbo.

"Nice Guns".

"Hoover A.D. with THUNDER-CHIEF". . . . . your slightly-remarkable SOUL JIVE from a tuxedo tommy-cat gunnin' on a slap-bass fo' little or no pay.

(Because someone out there special "needs a hero". . . . .)

Walt Disney the visionary started off with some rather humble origins out there in the ole' naive, gullible, open-hearted Midwest where nothing short of hard, relentless work and yet beneath it all "a stony character" could give rise to his happy, wonderful, magical creations "so many could take for granted". Many young adolescents reel back with horror when they see "what went on beyond the scenes of 'Uncle Walt's' company", from failed "labor struggles" to pinched-penny efficiency tricks to being a covert semi-mouthpiece for domestic intelligence services. Yet for a man of Walt's hard-scrabble philosophy, "it really couldn't be any other way". . . . . when over time, nibblers "lie, cheat, and steal" and erode the seeding money of investment margin that drives a well-crafted "assembly line" of product which may or may not "turn a profit"; yet what is always needed "is 100% commitment" with the accelerating force of motivation IN ORDER TO STAY LEAN, MEAN, FROSTY, SHARP, & COMPETITIVE. Some may whine "that art should never be considered PRODUCT", but with the reality of contracts and deadlines and a business to support, it is the nature of the fighting man to exceed all limits when challenged-- which mushy, sentimental "non-profit" thinking cannot reconcile in a world-denying fog like "the opium of leisured privellege" which shall ultimately be "a curse in disguise" like THE HASHISH OF HELL.

(-- "I didn't vote for him")

Of course "a pat of butter", good humor, and inspiration MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE-- accepting the casulties n' losses AS THE PRICE OF DOING BUSINESS while being able to maximize the success rate by careful, exact, brilliant communication that cuts through "the fog" of pain and confusion that seeps into a man's soul "and slowly kills" like angst's eternal poison.

The street musician or corner preacher standin' next to a light pole is a versatile, all-weather character who knows all sorts of stories and songs and folk-tales "and yarn-bits". Some ole' rummage-man, say the relative "of the Jewish peddler"-- would go around recording these guys, "and had an ear for show business". One wanted to sing mainstream hits, but "the operator" had the sense to stick him in a prison uniform in halls with a striped cap and have him wail soul delta songs "from the belly of the beast" with a moping, cant-chinned expression "as they split THE TAKE" at the end of the night and "Mr. Blues-Man" snatched the bills with an angry expression like swatting bees, but gradually figured out the wisdom of catering to what "the honkies" wanted.

When you look at some "long forgotten" cultural artifact that moved with a different energy, or cultural IDEA of stiffer, formal movements found in degrees of Western repression. . . . . jazzy, nifty comic books or the kind of artwork sketched on the side of arcade machines with bonkers, over-the-top "Space Opera" themes for the quiet, thoughtful "underdog". . . . . and if life could have only been as simple and yet absurdly, crisply SENTIMENTAL as one of those "Charles Atlas" muscle-man ads of the scrawny kid on the beach "having sand kicked in his face" and coming back "to show 'em good".

But then there would come a time when one would be seduced "by slick, easy surfaces" and buy into myths and legends and credibilties of elite, "enlightened", better sorts away in far-off places who hardly seemed aware that kids like me existed in a bally-hoo of Martha's Vineyard "Kennedy-cachet" like a bunch of glinting, sparkly-toothed grandpas in blue suits with their fawning, hanger-on's "of beautiful people" in nice clothes and fashionable decency that made lumpen Missourian geek-phantoms like me ponder his impurity "and unworthiness". Perhaps one would pace outside the gates, studying bits of trash intently-- beginning to mimic the conversation which mostly seemed to be "talking about talking" anyhow with great drama and appeals to progressive idealism. . . . . which you secretly thought "was a bit crackpot", but who were you as a young, timid fortune-seeker TO THINK THIS?!

And through it all. . . . . that East Coast "way of life" with Hollywood on the other side and these various "happening" cosmopolitan centers seemed too hurried, too rushed-- to think "very deep" in that desperate, anxiety-ridden congestion "that never let THE SILENCE SPEAK FOR ITSELF". For all the sophistication, such as using "irony" and "high camp" as a weapon these frittering, skittering pretenders "of no consequence" could not ultimately see how they were becoming "the biggest joke of all".

It's not as if "this royalty", or emperor in the story is utterly without clothes. . . . . but to think that the ultimate back-breaking labor behind wealth-- rooted in brute force-- has been "so abstracted" that anyone can go into a costume shop and buy the accoutrements "of nobility" or live with the softness of velvet without being "fit for the crown".

The blackest fraud ever brought down on humanity is that of "equality". . . . . when even as an elite separates itself from everyone, a man far down below has to contend with the hateful, squalling mass of the jealous hatefully insisting that you should be just as miserable, mean, low, ignorant, and pathetic as they are under threat "of collective howls". Someone like "Sarah Palin" skips out with her defiant, country girl ignorance "and curtsies sweetly" like a moose-rate folk(fuck) hero. . . . . off the (beat)en (off) path of back-roads optimism, if not Alaskan PTA Christian whore-mongering with a retarded boy howling in a crib "because abortion is 100% evil".

Yet a greater fallacy is the one of "insider thinking" when credibility begins "slipping" and folks invested "in a way of doing things" CIRCLE THE WAGONS and in that struggle for a waning wealth of resources FALL FOR BRUTAL SWINDLES. . . . . and collect "lost ground" with their own childish behavior. And this is WHY NO ADOLESCENT HAS COURAGE when they each have peeked over the edge "into that swirling abyss" and beheld the unthinkable like a grisly estimation of flesh n' fluid and pulsing gray matter upon your beating mortal coil. So loathesome. . . . . so loathesome.

FUN FACT: "Shit-stained bathing suits were around in 1946" 

(Nothing really changes but "the dates". . . . .)

A defintion of "kitsch" is the denial of all that which is unpleasant behind a bogus, tasteless, "sentimental veneer" of tragic fictions wandering through angst's hopeful fog "and only in for something WORSE".

When so many out there don't have a sense of judgment-- the appraisal of weight, balance, density, thickness, "nor eye for detail" as one makes withdrawals and deposits at the bank of social, cultural, and political "trust". Much fiction, fanfare, and ridiculousness is involved "around this den of wheelers n' dealers" and flippant, laughing depravity in a currency "of easy gains". You'd draw your own version "of scrip" after long and careful study, yet find "it isn't accepted" with the snideliest ridicule and contempt even after "you sunk your entire meager fortune into it".

Well, a man would come back and bulldoze "the joint" under. . . . . by exposing "the ring". Isn't usury wonderful? I make "Goldman-Sachs" look like a Christian charity!!!!! Don't fuck with the Jews.

(Reggae's) Mad Scientist(s) think "alike". . . . . check out the Jul 8th-22nd rockin' issue of "Rolling Stone" and sign up for ALL ACCESS here.

Or else you'll be dealing with "Captain Sky-high", ASSHOLE!

100% "Against the Grain". . . . .

(-- Just like you. . . . !)

Here, here-- this ain't no "PULP": what you "fell for" was very common. There is a very great need among the emotionally-sheepish, particularly on the Jewish side of the fence whether or not you got "the horns of Abraham" beneath that "Genji cut" to need a warm, sentimental "connection" as if "they have a friend in the diamond business" and with a bit of "comic opera" the uncle pokes his finger up in the air and will do you "a very special favor". . . . . if slap-stick comedy is of "any indication", FRANKEN-KIKE will soon be on the loose with a crazy, screwball "Rube Goldberg machine" going "ape-shit".

So oftentimes, I know that act of feigned "good guy" misdirection, off bumbling somewhere ineffectively with his hands "like a good SHEMP", usually found in the misty orgins of some "BLARNEY STONE" of getting your old Jewish mother off your back. There is a way of feigning "the limits of human endurance", stretching out your palm before you with an "aacckkkk'ing" sound like a frazzled, molten wire about to be extinguished with the non-deliverance of Yahwey's lies, caravans dying of thirst through the desert with some foul temptress named "Lillith" figuring in there who looks like Sarah Silverman. How "Adam" Sandler fell. . . . .

"6 million. . . . ." you utter, with a bacon-lipped stone-face, tears welling up like bitter rivers as you face the cold steppe(s) but that number probably refers to the amount of "Famous Amos" cookies you filched, if not the usurey of crumbs on the couch as your mom kvetches at you like a hive of vengeful bees.

So it was. . . . . . much more overblown sanctimony and cowardice "before quietly taking THE LOW ROAD" and skipping upstairs to listen to "Megadeth".

Probably "Countdown to Extinction".

So take a villian like "Ken Starr". Any guy who gets carried away rattling around a stick in a jar with a shameless, bald-headed, toothy-grin and "doesn't play it as an OBSCENE JOKE", or maybe as "a crutch" of New York legend 'ought to be pimped out to the sand niggers. (They'll know what to do with him)

Yes. . . . . as the NYPD kicked down the door and his little Jew-shoes were stickin' out of the closet-space with him shivering in them. And his live-in 34 year-old pole-dancin' girlfriend may or may not have been caught on the shitter "popping pills" like a hyperventillating circus horse in tassals and spandex-straining bosom-beyond-belief "hush puppies" as the cop with his pistol cocked his eyebrow and figured "it made perfect sense".

They slapped him in cuffs then slapped him worse down at the local precinct:

"You rat-- you rat-- you Jew-rat! We'll board you on a plane to Israel where you will be quietly granted asylum!"

For all that Bob Woodward tried to come to terms with the intriguing, yet joyless Cheshire "cat's cradle" of the last administration as he seemed to strike the pose of the click-click psychosis of a newsman lost on some fool's journey-- a camel might as well have farted in his face. Or maybe Barney Frank. Your WASP-oid (period).

You're about as relevant as that hokey scholong bonking out songs on the piano about "hot Washington topix" before guffawing, liberal high school students "on the fast-track to NOWHERE" who think "they're sharp schtuff". . . . . .

U.S.A-- U.p  S.omeone's  A.ss

--"Be kind to the Young & Futureless"

(They may be REVOLTING. . . . .)

Don't be "liberal pussy-pie", Bill. Eat yourself back to life by pulling yourself up by your own guts and determination.

". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ."

"-- See? Now you're gettin' places!"

-- "Cupcakes don't sell.. . . . . not unless it's your truss. Get with the program"

                         pi = 3.14159265. . . . . . . . . . . . . 13/"a FILCHED baker's dozen"/
            Tell it ta' Don Rumsfeld & "The Beverley Hills Cops"
 

       -- "Move it along. . . . ."
. . . . . . . . . . .
   . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

-- "Shiiiit. . . . . . you tryin' TOO HARD, whi' boy".

-- "Karate-Girl" li' ma Rick James impressin'.

-- "Now I must meditate in my "African room".

-- "Leave yo' commonsense at de' door"

-- "And pray for Newt Gingrich. . . . ."

". . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ."

-- "Throw ya' "an earmark", nigga!"

-- "Sho 'nuff. . . . . want some coke?"

 . . . . . TALES FROM THE 'HOOD

"It is always interesting to note". . . . . and a bit regrettable as well, to realize the types "of media chiselers" who wind their way into the entertainment magazines and fuel the air of insecurity and panic-- the trophy of "hotness" and vulgar triumphalism and hateful kick-off's of the less fortunate in this business-- a lonely ship at sea over dark waters, smaller venues, or maybe the grasped, stricken agony "as they shovel DIRT on your open coffin".

Many don't realize that for every boggled, freaky comment "in this horror show of life"-- there may be someone IMPRESSIONABLE listening, who chews this over and walks away thinking deeply. Many folks feel as if they're under pressure "to do desperate things", perhaps "without a safety net" in order to please others, but yet are the ones left with "the brokeness of FAILURE" as others merely gawk and point and laugh at their futile dreams.

To think that most actors and actresses have, in fact-- NEVER LIVED-- and escape off into the solid lock of an escapist identity to mask "the void within". Some may be better, or some merely worse-- yet for all of Susan Sarandon's bran muffin/banana-nut wholesomeness and the cachet of unassailable quality. . . . . had the roulette wheel not hit "the lucky number" enough times, she might as well be sharing her gift down at the children's "play-house" as little red "Winona Ryder's" Fairy Godmother.

Or Molly Ringwald could have stepped in "at the last minute" and no one would have particularly noticed. . . . .

"The Corey Boys" could work lights n' sound and Sean Penn could be out in the gutter drinking himself into a self-searching stupor while there's still underground VHS footage out there of Tim Robbins conversing with an X-rated man/duck that was not cut footage of "the cell block bluez" from "The Shawshank Redemption".

-- "If this is 'Method-Acting', baby--
then don't 'get on all four's'"

The saddest thing about the business was that final "heart of uncertainty about it", like a gauze of avoidance that separated "me from thee" as they sloshed the general audience "toward their drift of things", as if anyone who thought different "was not even worth talking to" with a held up hand of leisurely contempt as folks "got the gag" and nodded back and forth like an auditorium "of panting dogs" with their tongues hanging out in obediance. A comforting curio of New York stories, or "East Coast-Turkey tales" of sentimental "blatted-horn" dressing where a guy like you would forever feel the pathos of feeling "cold and shut-out". . . . . like staring at the cheering, gray orifices holding up signs in the electric whirlwind snows of Rockefeller Plaza, that fanaticism of the selfless trudge-- oftentimes from many states away in some kind "of juiced-up American narrative" very unlike the heartland I knew-- standing there with these young, adorable teenaged girls in home-knitted stocking caps with pink baubles like a faith I couldn't quite have-- before they cut to the scrunched chipmunk "sip" of the breakfast shows over coffee, the bear-like crew occasionally ruffling out into wholesome laughter.

A snowball. . . . . the gray-splatter of ice/grit/dirt vandalism that lifts "this Oswald Spengler" out of his moody ponderings with a Wagnerian jerk. He makes his fight across that damned lot in the early day, the toll of the home-room bell through the existential mists of fjords and some remote "JFK Camelot" growing dimmer by the hour like some pilgrim's progress toward beach-bikini "blanket-bonking" but swindled out of greatness by Steven Spielberg, if not "The Atari Democrats". Where were the "Breu-hau-hau" street toughs when you needed them? If not ward-heelers n' plug-uglies with cocked derbies and champed cigars?

But it was as cold as a non-profit fund-raising maven's tit, the furnace busted like a black, sooty, tin-horn CRYPT, the shrieking harrier in the raised clouded breath "of piss n' smoke" as hell freezes over with the swoop of the muffin girl going from room-to-room and selling them as the scavage of ravage: $1 each.

You know, Miss Lea Thompson-- I think I would be "more suave" than either Howard, a doper Turtle, or the rustling, grunting, poking 12-inch anti-social qualities of "nigga BeBop". Or at least a white woman would think so.

Sometimes it can be said of our more flamboyant of rock poets and romantics that they sail up the straits of places "both obscene and unknown", though probably not all that missed with the overall "rat's ass" of cosmic fortitude; and our ole' friend EDDIE VEDDER would poke his mussed head out, looking quite "dazed & confused", if not middle-aged as he grimaces and scratches out the ticks and pine needles of that Pacific Northwest earnestness "and oneness" with the kicked can of pork n' beans sympathy down in some "hobo jungle".

"Yes, we can. . . . ."

Our Red-State "Theme Park" of Chop Suey Horrors. . . . . is as bizarre as it is uproarious to the outside observer watching two stilted, uptight cultures obsessed with "honor" and "saving face" miss each other completely with miffed, clammy "chumminess". Yes, that paranoia for subtle gestures; whispers-- or maybe a half-raised eyebrow with nods and euphemism and avoidance. PASSIVE-AGRESSION, in other words with that subtle art of kites and lotuses and fighting crickets that leave the average American "stunned" as he looks on, craning his head "yonder" with a curiosity and breaking out in a mortified grin that's stumped as it is bemused. Who knows what to make of this "infinite patience", or inhuman feats of self-sacrifice, or devious "clammed-up" nature in which there is no "yippin' payoff" in BOOM TOWN. . . . .

But the American promise is supposed to be officially "folksy" and "open". . . . . if misgivings "stashed" with a touch of innocent, yet dark humor whose undercurrents can turn into a frothing, rabid stew that some out there either understand "more" or simply "do not".

Of course "all's a SQUARE DEAL" so long as America comes out on top "as the winner" and ain't SKUNKED by losing plays or a changing game. Or when the ambitious "outsmart you" by stealing your secret bathtub "Gatorade" recipe or its industrial/fighter-strength equivalent that made "your boys strong". That's why there's great theatricality in smashing Toshiba radios with baseball bats and not sharing satellite technology with the Chinese and having an old San-Pan man dressed up in a Vietnamase villager's outfit grease "A Solider of Fortune's" spiked chain as he drags a jeep forward with his grunting, staggering steps of his flexing biceps as the Veterans crow with approval, slathered in combat paint like a snarling jungle puma. Anything less would be "to lose face".

--"Your face, your ass: what's the difference?!"

-- Hers is "toothless"

"Mötley Mischief". . . . . and boy's summer cabin pranks with the vacancy and bopped-noggin "beer can cruelty" of hamburgers and hotdogs and mean girls and crunched, fly-wire instruments like southern California idiots being forked and turned over on the grill of Satan's winking indifference. . . . . with tiger-stripes; and poufed-up hair. "Spin-the-Bottle"/Switch-blade/cracked-leather-ass-"seat-of-the-pants" bufoonery LIKE SICK PUPPIES handed a fist-full of cash by sappy, joyous "waffle-bag" enablers. . . . . crawling back to the next contracted appearence "sick as dogs". Snapped rhythms on the snare, a jogged kick pedal, the golden splash of the cymbals and Indian rootsy Buffalo "bomp" on the toms when the curve of the collisium back area beckons your emergence LIKE A SONIC TEMPLE before the collective roar of ignorance's approval. Ketchup is no "secret sauce" yet won't let you down as you tap your knee to the beat.

It's how "ole' Dubya'" had a great time in office, and with Karl Rove smirking at his side like a "dark executioner"-- knew how "TO RUB IT IN" with bemused folksiness, "a tall tale", and a smirk "in on the joke" of how dumb folks thought he was-- a certain, rushed disapproval that sneered with impatience as he'd turn around and go back to the grill, forking over some barbeque chicken "for an even thaw" and tell 'em "to take it or leave it" with his passive-aggressive version of bi-partisanship which was untenable as it was unfair as he winked with a Texan's gleam. . . . . the "Bubble-Yum hot-shot".

"Sink the pink". . . . . if you know whut I'm talkin' about. But stand before a minister first, or end up like those fellers from "Deep Purple".

(Pure moon-rock madness. . . . . cosmic polyester-- "your hedonistic unholiness")

"The po' man's re-VENGE!"

The Red-State "Wurld" is a howling rodeo ring of resentments and Scotch-Irish snarls and skunk-stripe rationalization n' avoidance like a forked piece of crumbly "yellow cake" with pole-cat chivalry and "Dead Man's Hand" salvation. When an elite of offish, snobby "whackos". . . . . flanked by "24 hour Par-TAY people" and a still more bogus, hokey "press corps" spill the sugar and spoil the milk, for what little you can find in this stormy, swollen world of hard-bitten ecstasy-- what little CAN BE FOUND in anger's rictus. Some discount Hollywood "Oscar heavyweight" like George Cloony can speak with far more assurance and suaveness than "he has license", twitching his lantern-jaw and launching into a lunk-headed camel cud-chew of counterfeiting that may as well find itself beheaded by desert Beodins in sweeping cloaks. . . . . or looking at some character like Richard Gere or David Duchovney and resenting how they come across so insufferably "as a snazzy package" eying the camera that you mutter "they're fags or somethin'". When folks debate the merits of a foreign invasion, and much of this is a gut-level anger/revenge throwback "to some golden era" with savage triumph over the putrid, tin-horn quibblers, hedonists, and blitzed-out snobs that cake the discourse like dried-over liberal puke. Of all the dumb things the liberals expected us "to fall for", thinking "that we wouldn't know the difference OR FIGURE IT OUT"-- why should we listen to you now? Even if you proved to be "right" after-all, they'll have "the last word" by hanging you before sundown. . . . . . your offensive "defiance" twisting in the wind as the Almighty spreads his hands and allows "a little cool rain to fall" upon the justice-thirsty mob before they hightail it for the nearest saloon (-- and look at the dancin' girls).

  (Stay out of "Sin Town", you)--

"Nice girls don't play rock n' roll". . . . . but a boy will sing to them. A crisis I've found in lurking corners is when you have a bright, whimsical, offbeat guy who's very intelligent and artistic-- and how you learn to distrust "overtures" when certain opportunists begin to look you over "like prize beef" for strange, deviant reasons (-- which have an inevitable logic to it, if you think lucidly enough with the good ole' "process of elmination" as their sheepish grins grow glittery). Many bright, capable, remarkable women sigh to themselves with the zany, screwball pathos "of what life sinks to" when they find themselves utterly flocked with sorts "who are perfect in every way"-- except they have no romantic interest in her AND NEVER WILL. Most idiots allegedly "in your league" fumble around with business "stats" or the playthings of status like little boys with baseball cards or match-box cars going around a track on the floor "in circles"-- or maybe some arrogant actor or magazine editor like a dumb "popularity contest" lacking HEFT, other than his blow-dried hair or luxurey watch or maybe the fly landing between his crossed, rotting state "of undead iconic contemplation" in which nothing much "goes on" behind those eyes of his. . . . . . except a flitting, darkening hostilty toward some minor affront. But that doesn't mean that I don't like you and think the world of you and would bring a rose for you to hold and savour, delivered from a part of the country where the pulse is slower and coffee stirred in the morning like nature's greatest miracle with the gift of a nice gal around. . . . . to share it with. A secret place, a garden; like a woman's loving heart released like a dove. DON'T BE A "FAG-HAG".

-- "Lawless-Boy"

"The AMEX or A.M.erican Stock E.X.change trading floor". . . . . is the curbside level where lower-card outfits trade with all the grim atomospherics of Rocky's old gym in the 1976 classic-- "bite on the bullet" with the hard-scrabble, rawhide canvas of things. For instance, you might think of Metallica's early days with wide-eyed "heat" and entrepreneurial tack-up's, like a shop in Pakistan or Afghanistan or whatever with a merchant kneeling on the floor with stripped military parts, errand boys run breathlessly down back alleys, and trucks roll through the dust with "Che Gueverra" mudflaps. Down in a rough neighborhood in L.A. two of the boys' parents put up $4000 to cut Slayer's first album. In the ghetto, every block seemed to have "a neighborhood wonder"-- maybe he and a couple of friends would be booked to play at a local "Six Flags" amusement park. The attitude was there-- cunning, bemusement, and self-assurance which knew "what to safely ignore" and how to apply A LASER-LIKE FOCUS. "Ice Cube" hired a glazed-eyed, Gumby-like guitarist with his ribs sticking out to work in his home studio and practically paid him in off-brand "Refrigerator Perry" Korean/Quik/Shaq BBQ Sauce, rolling out a cart with evil, sneaky, arched eyebrows and a rotund "chef's hat" to complete the effect.

Our formative struggles "with scarcity" as they relate to others out on the ruthless "killing floor" of adolescence will shape our values-- when so much "that once held currency" blows away like paper value, the ashes of "a counting house" and barrons of status "living in ruins" or inside an architecture "of survivor's guilt". . . . .

Someone who I will never forget was this feisty little scrapper named Becky, a lil' "blacksheep" who liked to wear a red bandanna and boy's jeans like a coy mischief-maker. I was "dead-weight"-- a "momma's boy", outrageous & subversive "but of no interest to a girl like this" BECAUSE NICE GUYS FINISH LAST. Subtle and outrageous are these "graphic novels", or high-toned COMIC BOOKS that show a slightly-evil heroine, scantily-glad, and her loyal companion dog. Her Dad, who we nicknamed "Bonzai Bob" for his gnarled, Charles Manson-like enthusiasm and Kamakazi zest for the offbeat, was a collector "of far-out stuff" and almost as bad of a hoarder AS WE WERE over at the ole' Adams ranch.

No pressure.

I had no ambition, or inspiration. . . . . and had no goals. The promises that had once been tantalizing "were all but canceled", opportunities "shot to hell". The proverbial "engine room" was a frightful contemplation that made you turn your head "with a sad smirk". . . . . and in your heart "you would never let anyone get back there".

What would I have said to someone like me?

Namely, "don't be so hard on yourself". Most of the adults I knew "had a way of feasting off of my famine" with hard judgment and ignorant "establishment proscription" that attempted to manipulate and exploit my own ignorance and uncertainty "in order to control me", or others-- or anybody-- with their profitable, vested self-interest "of being important".

"Go fuck yo' momma"

"The Dave Chapelle Show" didn't know what to do with itself. . . . . Our head Afro-Brafro Stuntman "of crossover appeal" found himself in an eerie, uncomfortable spot-- when maybe white folks "saw too much" of that clowning side of a second-guessed culture "and may get the wrong idea", or truck in the African-American experience as another "postmodern quantity" of performers, buffoons, idiots, "party-mixers" and the like when your head lunged out of a jack n' the box in colorful jester's flaps and a green jingly hat, if not a flashing gold tooth and a "Whut up?". It may be "true enough" around your own-- but to sell tickets?! (-- Well, at least MARKET SHARE on "Comedy Central" as the biggest draw). Racial commentary came into play, a bit stilted-- always self-serious, that went through the stereotypical "underprivelged" Salvation Army sowing machine of rough, wounded fabric. . . . . half-real, half "a put-on" of "getting over" like soul bus earnestness "and simplicity of heart" that proves to be "a guilt-tripping crutch" instead of picking up a cue ball "and beaning 'em right between the eyes" as the gag falls back on the pool table and angles off the walls with beautiful, calculating "clicks". Streetwise. . . . . not "articulate".

Yo, Barry--

The President is considered by many "to be the salesman of the system", but at the root of it a CEO-- say, Don Keough of Coca-Cola, knew his company "pretty well" and seemed like "the head Swiss watchmaker" instead of being the magical status guest at a luxurey watch "charity auction" attended by spoiled notables. If you could bear down "and get a lay of the land" with some briefing books and come across "as an authority" and turn it into a game with a pointer "and an easy streak of irony", then it could be a fool-proof joke. It's why Bugs Bunny "out-wascaled" Elmer Fudd or praytell, "Yosamite Sam" everytime by plugging his finger in the gun and having it backfire in their faces. At this point, understand that much of the situation at present "is pretty hopeless" until a new wave of inspiration "and good humor" moves in. Folks tout "the free market", but with costs ruthlessly slashed "inspiration cannot bloom". Government bueareacracy by demand of poisonous, vinegary opinion becomes hobbled and spiteful "with those it can catch in the net". Government outsourcing becomes cynical "with a glint of mischief" as they're paid to do half-a-job, regardless of the quality as congressional influence "is bribed to look the other way". At this point, "status" and "soft-bottomed clubby avoidance" doesn't matter so much as "bare-knuckles drive" n' "racauous good humor". A good natured leader could turn this to his advantage, knowing "how to delegate" (-- of course) while knowing what the data means. Remember: "perception half ='s reality" and the sublime "drops jaws" as the realization sounds the echoing depths of infinity-- especially "when it's funny". . . . .

"The Honorable Thick-Browedness of all-American tropes". . . . . can oftentimes be mixed in with a bit of ruthlessness & sociopathy that either the masses don't notice-- or readily SIDES WITH for the glee of hard-core, underhanded CONTENDERS who mean business in a back office somewhere, shredding documents in the name "of derring-do"-- where romance is "clammy" and "the id" rules SUPREME while lobbyists make sly suggestions "with dark understanding", the glide of "greased convenience" in a bog away from public sight-- SO MUCH THE BETTER-- for the rolling train of aggregate pork n' policy and laconic "don't tread on me" honor like the courthouse and airshow that on some level "holds the grunts under its yoke", with jokes about "THE ELECTRIC CHAIR" adding to the morbid law n' order atmosphere like chain gangs and military service.

Love it or leave it, maggot. . . . .

"Oil Industry Assurances". . . . . and the other britches-hitchin' promises "of free enterprise" and "tall tales" that finds itself waving the fumes of catastrophe out of its face with a Stetson, after underestimating the degree of man's arrogance and nature's wrath with the forces of newsmedia retaliation and the yelping "I told you so's" from little indignant left-wing punks. . . . . when the woesome gruel "of Mr. Fix-It" can never be enough. . . . . when the government full of nattering nabobs finds itself "just as compromised" with its hands in the meat pot of corruption. THE BIG BOYS always evade the reasonable 'regs while you & I are held hostage "to the red tape", all but bound up in a chair and rocking forward in anger. When government is unresponsive to the howls and shouts from below, liberals wag their fingers "and moralize obliviously", AND THE RICH GET THE MONEY ANYWAY. . . . . . And you expect me to get "particularly misty-eyed" over some ENDANGERED WETLANDS?! I don't particularly care. The more "that ain't done", the more I laugh at your sanctimony. For that's the way of the world. . . . . .

"Money Talks, Bullshit Walks"-- when some local two-bit character learned to spin his gift with a microphone and transform it into entrepreneurial guile, checking his cufflinks in the mirror while some "hot wardrobe assistant" zips up his pants. Yes, "an off-color" MAFIA DON-- toasted all over da' city, and tossing back his head with a "ha-HA" in a fedora and throwing "spitballs"-- his profundity "written up" as "pure genius" by fawning suck-asses.

GIMME BACK MY SHADES. . . . .

"What all celebrities and high-profile targets should know about stalking. . . . ." is that these are fundamentally very weak characters caught up "in a co-dependent relationship" when the other side simply "isn't in the picture", or in the world of civilians-- "not very much". They may "play games", whether hopeful or base-- when the best thing to do is to call them on their bullshit cooly and directly, "like snapping on a flashlight" on a darker, more childish side of the human psyche that will send them scurrying-- especially with the fear of public exposure when the police may be called in to duly investigate our now-mortified "Woody Allen" type. Your silence only encourages them-- perhaps interpreted "as a mixed message". Kick 'em in the nuts "and shut 'em down".

What all celebrities and high-profile targets should know about kidnapping. . . . . don't ever underestimate the raw, hard-knuckle valuation some out there may see in your status as a naive, plush, easy piece "of fenced property" for a game of "ransom". This is about "power" and your sheltered ass is their leverage, which they control through threats, fear, hope, and greed. This goes for any vulnerable person in society, especially "women n' children", if not "baby-faced liberals" who fall for some pretty awful tricks. Always build up your ability "to read people"-- and to have as much of an "intelligence profile" on the world as possible. Disbelieve; carry on through the world boldly while interpreting gestures "through a cloud of possibilties". Build up your ability to fight; don't be caught "flat-footed & paralyzed"-- which is what the predator counts on. Courage and assertiveness "as a real contender" to show 'em "that you mean trouble" will give them "second thoughts".

This story here shows you a character "who got into a mess", but did the right thing "once captured" to cooperate but eventually BREAK LOOSE.

"Dumbo vs. The Ghetto K-Mart". . . . . There is much "that whitey", whether noble or base, overlooks in order to think upright n' high-mindedly "as a good person ought"-- to tragic, comedic effect that haunts our stilted, uptight blood.

For instance, when ole' Uncle Rush Limbaugh, our native resident of Missouri makes an outrageous, yet sincere offer "to get with the winning team" and buy "The St. Louis Rams", an outpouring of VooDoo onus murmurs throughout part of the region-- and players interviewed on camera have this wide-eyed, "folk tale" impression of "de' Devil comin' to town"-- or maybe even a Klansman, "A Grand Wizard", or a three-headed beast. Grandma Moses poses in an ancient, sepia-toned photograph as crackpot as it is rootsy, and rattles out a grunt in judgment.

Deep down, they don't trust whites. . . . . particularly CONSERVATIVE WHITES; goofy, inauthentic talkers and hot-air blowers not clued into that tribal, primitive reality. To give up what they have for some pasty, structured, corrupt principle?

"Go fuck yo' momma. . . . ."

It's the difference between "white sugar" and "brown sugar", the pathos of a black Santa Claus in a cut-rate department store making low-fi promises. . . . . the grass-skirt hoopla around some local businessman or operator or something, "a medicine man" or "warlord" who holds it together through much low-rent superstition, impulsive grabs and mean fine print as he eyes you with uncanny stillness and calculation "that sizes things up real quick".

So it is, unwisely blundering into some "ghetto K-Mart". . . . . up proverbial "NIGGER creek" without a paddle as the 'gators begin to take an interest with murky study.

"be-DEEP, be-DEEP, be-DEEP"

You notice the dim-eyed help "from God knows where, WHAT forsaken side of fearsomely politically-incorrect disadvantage" barely working, or others with head-scratchin', shifty-expressions that turn from puzzled to malevolent "when goaded" like a creepy, open-mouthed puppet before walkin' away-- one-quarter loyal, or maybe 17% depending on intermixture over the centuries.

Finally, some little 14 year old boy comes up to Rush Limbaugh with an evil, uncanny sense "of cool" and looks him in the eye, tilts his head down with a grin of teeth and says nothing.

An eternity.

Then Rush backs up. . . . . and stumbles into that pyramid "of Planter's cheez ballz" and knocks 'em over as the crowd roars.

"YOU KNOW WHAR YOU R? U IN DA' JUNGLE, BABAAYYY!! AND YOU'SE GONNA DIE", the store intercom crackles with a blaxploitation screech.

He crawls off on his hands and knees as they chant "GET WHITEY!"-- yes, toward the nearest reeking bathroom where he locks the door with a sliding click.

"Dumbo in de' shit-box!"

Such, such is the world of the vast majority of your right-wing audience. And why we don't like "liberal sanctimony" on this topic, because deep down inside "you know it too" but slink off while blaming "the real victim". . . . .

Unspoken, Bertie knew. It was one of those lilting gazes, a conscious that sensed the pathos "of the box", if those rote facts of middle school such as "the Pilgrims landing at Plymouth Rock at 1620" or whatever "was really where it was at"-- mingled with other confused "good girl" precepts as you wandered through the hallway clutching Courtney Love records in your hand, your little backpack purchased from K-mart or even a Bourgeosis-Bohemian specialty store by your "sensible" parents.

When across the room your eyes locked, there was "an understanding"-- but then you turned away "in feigned casualness". Like a breakfast table when some relative or other watches the girl eat cereal "and notices something". Then she notices "that he notices".

But this was "the shoe box", some rocky isle of alternative liberal education, a survivor's tale where some once-blissful childhood "was a dream" and one woke up not knowing for what but to stare off into the horizon "of some sort of mythical freedom", hoping for a ship to arrive someday. . . . . . pondering upon the mysteries of life on the shore, before told to gather rocks and sticks and French conjugations for some "apparently worthwhile" purpose, here on the ding-dong doom of the region's overcast, shot-to-hell futilty on a piece-meal investment scheme to nowhere.

And struggling somewhere between doubt, confusion, belief, "and cautiously wanting to be a good person", Bertie knew.

But everyone was locked in their own selfish fantasy. . . . . as the school and region and fellow oblivious dozed through a nightmare. Some were "more aware", some "less". But she and I "kind of knew". Yet never shared. . . . .

What so many missed about the New Left Counterculture-- yet took at face value was so much of the bizarre, self-justified circus that would usually end "in dark accidents" for characters, no matter how the jarring shock and flat-out atrocity of it would have to be filtered through a soft-focus, sentimental haze that would have to "magically block-out" some pretty absurd things, while occasionally using "the truth" as a bratty emotional weapon, through whatever dim levels of zonked-out "public understanding" for "the greater good" and afraid that folks might get "incorrect ideas" like bleary working man's racism and a beery hiccup in response to lectures and chicken-hearted hypocrisy. Ultimately, "this people's party" coalition would be most deservedly plucked n' gutted by the roar of the crowd. The only agitation you'll inspire is your own lynch mob. . . . . so "leave us be".

"How to spot A PHONEY in Privelleged Circles". . . . . always be aware "of colorful characters" who strike you like the kind of clown who could come tumbling out of a jack n' the box. Their haze of unreliability and constant movement overcompensates for their inability "to sit still" with the honor and good deeds of sincerity, "following through" WITH GOOD CHARACTER. Oftentimes folks overly invest their faith in these fellows, seeking "solid ground" and "something absolute to believe in" only to make up for how ultimately DISHONEST THEY THEMSELVES FEEL DEEP DOWN INSIDE. The phoney "will shrug", always willing to cater to your fantasy but if you're not careful he may ransack your life. Which is why you must never let him near your checkbook, your finances, your house, nor in your bed-- for the ways in which he may turn around "and betray". The realization is brutal, the cold streets pitiless, as the loud party carries on without you-- laughing at your expense.

Who was itchin' around for "Beetlejuice 2"? Here's a rough sketch I came up with a couple of years ago "for anyone who's listening out there". . . . .

Right here for your amusement.