ball & CHAINS

June 6, 2013

Giving up on love starts with

giving up on yourself.

Giving up on mom & dad & me & my

& the teachers & the bosses &

husbands wives children… giving up

a person makes sense sometimes,

all the time…

all the fetters…



far more consistent.

But even so, the easy road lead not always


truth… country clubs & their dues’

bitching chocalate-cover’d kids,

they kiss you alright… probably better than alright,


I wouldnt know a goddamn, refusing

the only damn God I had

to start it all

off the boards

with… despite what mother might say.

But still, you come back… you think about it?

What could we ever do without the


Buddha & Christ & Whitman had it easy.

What mommy wanted…

Who we are.


In Memoriam- F. Gallagher RIP

May 25, 2013

Cage – HDW

Fighting, fighting above & between

& Beyond & Within… with you, sometimes


Sometimes… ask yourself why? Ask



Where are we?

What are we?

Where is daddy’s mockingbird?


What what

what the fuck are we fighting for?

Is there anything better

to be


Probably $$

Fight, fight, fight…

May 3, 2013

First responders, heroes, last night I did not stand

with the brave, the few, I was one

of the Many, the meek, the




What are you made of, more than me?

Less? Even worse? Did Uncle call you, one of

the few, the proud, the brave? Or are you




many and nothing but store-bought make-to-believe

magic kits, stocked full of Rabbits, carrots, bomb shells…

Fuck a woman before you die, young man!

Fuck a man before you die, old woman!

People, ordinarily,

are ordinary people… until they fuck, or die, or

more terrifying… LIVE.

in between, a rambling

There is nothing anymore. Nothing for man, nothing for beast. Certainly nothing for God. Not for you, or for me. Nothing for them. Fuck them. They, they who took, and take… rake rake rake… the smoother sayers & the super savers, buy 2 get the 3rd at quadruple the price… is this what the game turned out to be? Ass kissers & bullshitters & magic wands made of government stamped paper, guaranteed for life… WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU READING, MAN? FUCK! WAKE THE FUCK UP! They have stolen it all, all the value & the love & the miracles… now its all fuck-suck CEO 401(k) packages… petty-ass nonsensical undermining’s…  e-mail audits & credit-score-checkers & lifetime memberships… we are not human beings, we are spiritual beings confined to a human experience… and as we walk, more and more and more as the sidewalks pass, the Satanic experiment is revealed… soul plucking demons…  easy access…

Who is left with a head on their shoulders?

As long as you find 1 in a 1,000,000, keep finding, searching & hurting… never abandon the fight. We (not they) might not overtake their systems & networks & wi-fi… but we’ll get the knickety snickety  little bastards over soul. Soul Power. That is the crusher, the reason why George Clinton could smoke paint & Charleston all over the stage… still selling tickets… the reason why magic sticks onto us, and not the meat-freaks out in market.


Obscurity is the path of least resistance…towards art

January 23, 2013

Papers in Capetown wrote Sixto (pronounced “seesto”) Rodriguez, a folk-singing songwriter, off as a self immolator. His legend brewed up in the form of tea-leaf anecdotes which included a successful suicide at his last (obviously) concert in South Africa… the last stand of a genius musician…the creator of  Cold Fact, perhaps the most influential album during the overthrow of apartheid. Then twenty years later strangers from across the world came looking for him on the internet, via his daughter,  to catch him up on all the news.

Until uncovering his own mythology, Rodriguez led a simple life by any examination. A self-described musical-political (he ran for various offices eight times in Michigan), a man for “peace, prosperity, and maybe a little bit of justice” who also described the middle-class as an “arsenal of democracy”… no wonder the world lost track of the guy. He could’ve cared less about his ‘failing’ music career because his day in day out trudge of demolition work offered him purpose…he still sleeps in a house kept warm by a wood burning stove, fueled by supplications of cardboard & plastic nonsense. Construction kept him fed. Philosophy kept his mind hungry (he received a degree after putting down the guitar). He meandered and steadied himself through the 80’s in Detroit (aside from a couple of Australian concerts, a place he was aware of his fame), clueless to the Cinderalla ‘aspect’ that his life was taking on…clueless to the musical conscience of South Africa.

Apartheid not only unjustly segregated along color-lines, it seperated from within. White Afrikanners who supported the evil policies kept away from liberal minded flower-children’s children who supported equality & the preservation of human dignity. At the time Copywrite law was (and still is) extremely convoluted. An African label earned the rights to his album Cold Fact & distributed the sounds of ‘Establishment Blues’ and ‘Crucify Your Mind’ far-and-wide over the southern edge of the continent. These O’Leary grandchildren embraced Sixto’s anti-establishment messages…it was the Beatles first, then Rodriguez. They transformed his energy into their own movement.

An eternal archetype, a life-preserver for the human experience, the People’s Poet searches beyond the hate & the angst & that feeling that God abandoned us to the gutters… a dark-skin’d warrior-child of the streets. Sixto’s picture suggests a Mayan priest, chewing betel on the subways muttering ghetto aphorisms to his scrappy dog. No wonder a soldier in the Afrikanner Army once told Rodriguez, “We made love to your music, we made war to your music.” There is both beauty and death in the dark places. It takes a miracle-1-in-a-1,000,000,000.000 psyche to explore them correctly.

Rodriguez is not only anti-establishment (granted the establishment needs a fixin’), but he is anti-ego. You would think a guy who sold millions of copies and didn’t see a dime might be somewhat, ornery…or fucking livid…but it doesn’t seem to move him an inch…at least from what he has publicly revealed. I hope the money gets back to him, to his daughters, but I think his peace over the whole issue comes from a satisfaction that any artist can empathize with…he was able to affect people for positive effects. And not just people…an entire nation bound by old-dogma, dipped in lies & corruption & violence…and that old dogma fell, with Rodriguez playing an active part in the coup.

At the end of the journey the money stays behind. What Sixto earned he will carry forever on his celestial dance. Listen to him while you still can.

Friday Album Portrait – The Out Crowd’s “Then I Saw the Holy City”

January 11, 2013

Dig!…… were you there? Did you buy the ticket and take the ride on a mid-90’s post-grunge pre-indie (awful word) reinterpretation of suburban malaise? Were YOU the one of the kids in their designer jeans reaching towards the greater beyond? Tweenage strangeness and early-20’s cocaine benders along Pacific Northwest highways, hell-bent after the high watermark & infinity but content with finding anything… chased by the ghost of Kurt & fueled by cartons of Marlboro Red 72s…were you there? I missed the scene but stumbled onto the documentary, like any scout’s-honor digital ager does when he wants to brush up on his/her letters… Dig!…Headlining! ONE NIGHT ONLY! The Dandy Warhols/ Brian Jonestown Massacre!

The film diagrams ecstasy-induced come-downs & deep-fetter’d emotionalism & the natural state of art, which is conflict. The lead singer of Brian Jonestown Massacre (Anton Newcombe) acts always out of insanity but (at the same time) usually out of vision, from a mind within a man that every musician interviewed in the film described as ‘genius.’  Along BJM’s road of drug use, stardom, maladjustment and (ultimately) schism, the viewer is introduced to Anton’s supporting cast… a freak-out tambourine player, a sylphy Eastern girlfriend (with an equally destructive heroin sweet-tooth), and a bitching guitarist who quits at every other stop along their ever-defecting, Gulf of Tonkin bus tour… the lead man behind The Out Crowd, Mr. Matt Hollywood.

After wiping off enough of Anton’s bullshit, Hollywood jump’d out of the tour bus (but in the last couple years he grew weary and re-jumped back on…which may or may not bankrupt the thesis behind this write-up…ahh fuck it) and formed his own psych-rock-anarcho-feel good orchestration. Anton probably laughed and plugged-in & went back into the insular world created for, by, to, from and of himself… Maybe he did or maybe he didn’t, but Matt Hollywood tells the strange story of collaboration & inspiration & explains why the collaborative nature of music separates it from most of the other arts… the neurotic sculptor digging remains out of a cemetery, the forsaken novelist destined for another alcoholic night of cigarettes & regret… music depends on fitting into a whole, while other mediums require piecing together one.

Hollywood once confessed to a reporter, “I will always love [Newcombe], and I will always miss the fact that musically he’s one of the people I really connected with, and it’s hard playing with other people knowing that there’s this other guy who’s like an extension of my own mind.” His last remark unearths the lynchpin… an overlap of consciousness & a leap of faith.

So what happens when Luigi heads down the drain, leaving Mario to fight Bowzer on his own? Sometimes the outcome is less than ideal… see: prime example… Mick deciding in the mid 80’s that he didn’t need Jagger and released She’s the Boss, it became obvious to the rest of the world that the album’s misnomered title should have been christened Keef’s the Boss. Sure John & Paul put together fine solo careers…but it wasn’t Sgt. Pepperworthy. There’s no way a guy named Matt Hollywood could lose the genius responsible for BJM’s output & create an album on his own that not only extends BJM’s sound but proves that he might have been the major player all the while… Oh, you want proof? Enter –>The Holy City… a testament of the strongest, the survivors of the People’s Temple Agricultural Project.

“Little Elf” starts off on a drone… a voice, a decaying tape bleeding television strange… slow and incoherent then funky and recognizable… like many BJM openings, an invitation to trip. As the rhythm carries and the membrane bursts,  the BJM sound is uncanny…I was listening to Her Majesty’s for the first time … “All the people standing in their lines, going nowhere wasting all their time, they’ll drag you down and screw you, mess you up and do you in, we’ve got something they could never find.” Simple psychedelia, homegrown like a basil plant on the window ledge slurping up the last photons of an Indian Summer… loose but taught & tambourine driven…spreading love, spreading life, spreading energy.

“Be Good” (I know I’m reviewing the first two songs of the album and you’re thinking I didn’t listen through the entirety because the time happens to read 4:00 on a Friday… but what reality matters?) is prototypical slow-stop-heavy-slam mushroom bliss… “Be one of us because you’re everybody”… Hollywood’s lyrics hang subversive & anarchistic, within a context of melody and blinding shamanic fractals… jungle cats & river monsters & a vibrating ancestry… the whole song grips. It beams up to the point where none of the flowery-freelover’s  claim they’ve been pushed out the front seat & into a Gallic conquest, but keeps the speed-freaks & octane huffing gonzo’s content in a chakratic rush of tongue sex (see: album cover).

The feminine croons that hover over “Big Brother” & “Eyes of Blue” turn me on. Period. Then emerges the resurrected, a Lazarian-phone-a-friend… “Bring out Yer Dead,” a call to arms between a call to life after a call to the local dope man. “Treaty Breaker” represents the be-all-end-game to spirit hymnals, a saddle-back’d ride onto one of Arizona’s oldest corners of desert…a flute, indigo-driven and contingent on the wind & sky…the brother of “Instant Dharma,” another fire-circle song for the aesthetes with nothing better to do than Get Busy Waitin’ under the porous firmament… “Sports” had to have been written by Anton, surely? Sex, drugs and rock? The extended jam, riffing and riffing past the thermosphere & into the realm of Spacemen 3… you’ve heard it a million times before with BJM, but not quite like this…this sunny-day in the middle of winter music…stoned & freezing & smoking a cigarette outside the library with a knapsack full of Apostolic Traditions & wellness magazines…having recently been the victim to mind theft.

Then I Saw The Holy City brims with jangle-room effect’d guitars and sly production moves (horns on “Your Highness”)… it runs long, an expansive LP…Spector wall-of-sound’ing..but it doesn’t usurp any early highs by adding unnecessary gulleys or streams to wade through at the end of a long day’s night…its no shit-cook’d hit of E after hour 3 on a smokin’ fine legged hit of LSD…no no, this a fever-inducing Pink PlayBoy Rabbit…Dig! A balance of drone & of haze, of late night cigarettes and early morning grindhouse amphetamines… melody and mystery and just enough quiet to offer the listener a chance to contemplate something like ‘Maybe that Anton fucker isn’t a genius after all?’

Correlation vs. Causation – An exploration into the mental-masturbatory techniques of 1st World Academians

January 10, 2013

Don’t you think we could’ve saved the American Academy of Neurology a couple of bucks… spared them the cost of a 260,000 person study (aka survey)? I mean did it really take all this effort to figure out if you handed the following social groups a Goldberg depression test they might score a bit on the high side? Or really lowww…because here’s whose REALLY drinking diet soda = overweight caffeine junkies, chain-smoking haggard&divorced single professionals, neuroses-clogged fiancees & a whole pile of baby boomer’s (minus the psilocybin)… off their personalized-family-picture-drink-coasters designed to protect a mahogany desk top at all costs.

Call me a loon, but I could see all of these poor bastards feeling a bit shitty every once in a while… maybe a month-long mental-health-day from work? Or the wife & kids? Or any sort of general insanity that cricks and creeks into all of us?

Dr. Honghei Chen & the White Coat Magicians came up with “Our findings are preliminary, and the underlying biological mechanisms are not known.” Dr. Bullshit & the Also Known As’s covered DHCWCM’s title track song and reinterpreted it as, “We spent a couple years pissing away a bunch of money and exchanged quite a few e-mails in the process.” But the real enlightment staved off until Chen’s boat-rocking solo of  “More research is needed to confirm these findings and people with depression should continue to take depression medications prescribed by their doctors.” (A warning those flash-flooded by ennui that sadly no, soda-pop is not going to heal your existential wounds). 

Even more sadly is that this is not science… it is a case of correlation vs. causation: two things may trend similarly across a statistical sampling, but their independent behaviors/scores/game show tokens have absolutely no bearing on each other i.e. there is no ‘biological mechanism’ that binds the two i.e. me lighting a cigarette outside of work has nothing to do with the scoffing woman hoity-toiting past with her wretchedness… And these are the same high-brows (Dr. Chen and the other medicine men & women) who witch-hunt anyone equipped with an IM-179 Geiger Counter, Thermal-Imaging Systems, or Digital EMF Readers (see: un-liscensed ghost adventurer equipment)…hmm? Will the real pseudoscientist please stand up?

This is the nature of acadamies, of the United States’ university system, of donor-funded scientific research, of lecture halls & symposiums & conferences where hoardes of sexless experts align their agendas (kiss eachother’s asses) for the better of mankind. For the pursuit of knowledge… this is why any sort of true progress is vague & impossible and will be thrown into sterile hamburger grinders by the FDA. 

Westboro Baptist Church & the Usefullness of Free Speech (for us hapless members of the citezenry interested in destroying the Nazi party)

December 28, 2012

Tax exemptions for non-profits baffle and bemuse me… money and church and state and more money building more temples with more state overhead… the process reeks suspect, especially since church groups and social centers and religious affiliates are some of the most vocal organizations in regards to policy & government procedure within their spheres of influence. There is no doubt religious-run bodies & charitable foundations & hospitals comprise a bulk of the good work being done in this country, but in all things TaxBreak there are blood-suckers and poseurs… enter stage left the Westboro Baptist Church… Fred Phelps clips his canvas suspender-straps around a bright orange set of cardboard posters… black lettering strident against the sunlight, a light Fall breeze and the grass and the mothers & fathers & tears and tears and “Thank God for Dead Soldiers”… Westboro’s battle is a war of words, not a pursuit of logos. It is a distortion of good for the sake of shock.

Their honor roll reads like any feud between noble slave-owners… Fred Phelps assembled a band of inbreds and mongrels & Good News-bastardizing red-blood’d biscuits (all of whom happened to have the same last name as Freddy Boy) in Kansas to fight the evils of  homosexuality & the Jewish state in support of flag burning & unprotected sex.  Standard American fairy-tale… Phelps first exploited the pain and tragedy of the 1998 Matthew Shepherd murder to shove his ‘church’ out onto the ‘national stage’ and has conned & connived, insidious in all his dealings (see: January 2011 Westboro’s decision to call off picketing a 9-year-old shooting victim’s funeral for radio air-time), ever since.

Some people want to fight back, to squash the fearmongers and fight them head on… counter-protest the protest. I say let the bastards continue to spread blood above their doorways… let this insignificant band of Tao-looting gypsies shout through the streets of Topeka and explode and berate and string together cuss-riddle’d non-sequitors across the rest of the rust belt. I personally have witnessed their antics (pilfered from use’d-refridgerator salesmen), craven & button up’d & hiding behind invisible fences with loud loud loud speakerphones… they came to Chicago in the summer of ’09 to march along the north side and bully productive members of society who happened to live near Wrigley Field, the site of an Elton John performance the following night. Like 20 farmers could stop an army of Mona Lisa’s & Mad Hatter’s…

Despite the fact that they come off as a complete joke their antics are deplorable. Their message is as subjective as any message can be packaged… not to high-horse the notion of objectivity, but when the ‘opinions’ become the ‘doctrines’ and all of a sudden a ‘book’ is written and its cover sticks with more dust & more dust… things tend to unravel. People (i.e. Freddy Boy) tend to take over. Group consciousness is sacrificed to the lampreys of individual drive & ego overhaul.  Their broadcast deepens in volume but not in substantiation… yelling yelling yelling, starved for attention like Soviet orphans. Unfortunately (and fortunately) the Christian Gospels can be interpreted in a variety of ways, so it is no one faction’s right to stake a claim on the truth. Anti-love, anti-brotherhood, anti-equality (even though Phelps practiced once as a civil rights attorney… but that’s how these neuroses manifest… the self-hatred’s within a person who is completely in love with themselves… it’s a complicated mess) certainly couldn’t be further from the Sun God’s intention in His ministry, but at the end of the day it is all up for grabs. Tis’ the beauty of faith… and what makes it so tenuous. It is why Westboro Baptist is a church and qualifies for all the bonuses… as much as it pains me to accept… but at the same time they are a church that soon will be completely erased from history.

Our country is built on unalienable rights… it is important for the government to stay out of the morality. We are granted the freedom to be ourselves, to speak freely… to let other assholes speak their minds, and then respond with our own version of the truth. It is important for Westboro Baptist to continue distributing pamphlets of bigotry and hate and disconnectedness… look at the picture below. How many people are lined up with this sad bastard? How strong does it look like Westboro has become? Years and years of Phelps family dollars squandered to spread the new truth of the Gospels… but what is there to show for it? We need to let them continue to talk themselves into oblivion, to point out these last one-man parades of hate to our children and our friends and to consciously choose not to join in the noise. There are less and less of these groups and they will continue to decline so long as good men possess courage and humanity stays human. Let the law be the law and let hate run its course.


From One Soul Child of the Apocalypse to Another

December 20, 2012

Every good slab of 21st century journalism is charred by an insight from Brian Williams, and I loosely quote the newsman from his contribution to ‘Mankind: The Story of Us,’ currently hovering somewhere out on the television waves… every world power, every empire and republic and dictatorship that exerted influence, is akin to a supernovae. Their energy builds and builds until finally the lattices crumble and the foundation cracks from the enormous pressure outside… everything falling into itself. Free-fall. The power structures are replaced and life, for better or worse, changes drastically.

Fortunately (or unfortunately) such a collapse will no longer be imminent in the backdrops of our psyches. December 21, 2012 will come and go, sun up sun down, as every other day in recorded time has done before and will continue to do after… until the ink fades or the book burns. Mayan ayahuasca  brewers, Kabbalistic cipher-underwriters, Elysian mystics & solar-flare speeeedfreaks dreaming of the internet… the fantasy of our disaster and downfall has been played out since the Discovery Channel started contending for PrimeTime advertising.  Ted Turner and FOX News and doomsday bunker engineers have made a killing off the phenomenon…Donald Trump is having his shirts pressed this very moment, drooling over his returns on gas masks and electric generators… the general public has been swept up in the Apocalypse Phenomenon, in the tide of their own mortality.

It is only human.

But now with our wallets empty and the fog lifted, there is a question to be asked: Do we continue to be blindly anesthetized and bred into a culture of fear and degradation, or can we willfully choose to live in the here and now with all the other spirit forces of the Gaian mind dancing around us? There’s a reason why the fight-or-flight system has such control over our biological systems, and there’s a reason why tyrants and despots have targeted it for 10,000 years… agapic love, the chakra-stirring kind developed in the deepest intricacy of our frontal lobes, is relatively new…

The odds are against us.

But… we must push forward towards some state of grace, of hope; in spite of the spectacle’d eyes and monocle’d glares from the crowd. At the end of the day, or the start of the eschaton, when hell comes to Earth and Heaven wanders down the beach, the value of life and of the human experience will be the most important issue of all. We, as an American people of 310 MILLION, as a world people of nearly 7 BILLION, can either continue on status quo and wipe the sweat from our brows having avoided disaster… or… recognize the disaster will be there, and the question is when it comes what sort of attitudes will we have in place to combat it.

The free-market will fail, laissez-faire will break a knuckle and when she does the underlying tone of the culture will carry the United (or Divided) States down one riptide or the other: peril & destruction & insatiable madness OR a more cooperative & holistic & spiritual way of daily existence.

There are certain truths and truth-tellers that have come upon this planet (truth in the way C.S. Lewis means in The Abolition of Man) and their recognition by a society of individuals is critical to success for the whole. Think –>> Constantine and the cross, Charlemagne embracing teachings from the monks at St. Denis, the Indian ruler Ashoka’s construction of the Buddhist law pillars, Muhammad meditating deep into the desert and Moses leading his people from perdition with only his hands. There are many economic, social, political parallels that can be drawn from our time period and those others when major changes occurred, the exciting times (an Irish prayer: may you be alive at the end of the world). We will not be immediately faced with the itinerant blast of fireworks that an apocalypse would carry (i.e. tomorrow), but eventually they will fall upon us, God-forbid our children or children’s children… you see the cornea expanding?

The onus is upon us… the time to pass the buck has ended and sentenced to death by hanging for betraying his family and friends… maybe this taste of death can be good for us? Maybe the scent of fetid and cold and dark spaces, this closeness to mortality that mankind has fascinated itself with, will be a necessary scare? Maybe we needed the apocalypse to come, and then go?

Brotherhood, opportunity, a sense of hope… all is ripe for the harvest in this epoch of conscious existence. It is our choice whether to embrace it or not, after we cast down the Web Bots and ride out the planetary alignment and reset the ticking time-bomb of Yosemite, it is our obligation to move forward, past the violence & hate & quiet desperation that strangles our hearts… past Newton, Conneticut, past the civilian rubble stack’d in the Middle East, past the bloodlust for gold and resources and credit card numbers… we, as individuals, need to look at our own faults to better accept the smile of our brothers.

We need to embrace this trip that is life.

Feel the heaviness, feel it in the center of your being when you wake up tomorrow on December 21st, and push the covers away in an effort to go on. Wake up to live, tomorrow and today and forever, not to die.

How are you today?

December 11, 2012

Happiness, is a warm gun.

-John Lennon

Happiness is a byproduct of function, purpose, and conflict; those who seek happiness for itself seek victory without war.

-William S. Burroughs

Psychology, wave neouvou, has destroyed American culture. We have tried to quantify and qualify consciousness with Newtonian physics in a farcical adventure down Misconstruction Lane. The worst news is that people have actually profited from this shit peddling and ass-backwarding of human nature… from Dr. Drew to Maury to Judge Judy… labeled as self help and positive thinking and interactive therapy, the erasing of truth is being conglomerated (as the scope of technology becomes more susceptible to the pipe dreams of insidious ideas) in the most horrible sort of tidal waves.

All the questions, all the important matters, all of the heirarchies are directed by a culture of consumption and buzz and reptilian basement-mindedness…What can you do to be more marketable, better serving to the capitalist power base? Little kids sun tan in aluminum can beds and staple off parts of their vital organs. The super ego has become the super evil… even a rigorous papal-provided set of decrees would better serve the human species than the banks and buyers and big shots…hell a Bedouin sick den damned under the gravity of a Saharan sunset would be a more suitable basis for liberation theology.

Enter the viral ‘scientific’ variable, the weapon of the enemy… the idea of happiness… and now, lets take a survey! All over pop-media the unprotected viewer is bombarded by snapshots of perfection. Little windows with new trim and pearly smiles reflecting suburban backdrops of SUVs and unused public libraries and over-used ATM stations. No digital reload occurs without some pre-positioned Advertising VP’s wet dream splashing around the edges of the page.

The General Populus is told what and where and how to strive for this ingenius fabrication of the soul-looters & pollution experts who sit a top the corporate ladders, driving the super-PACs… you know, the boys in the bomb business. Work work work! Marry! Child rear! Invest invest invest! Pay your taxes and your mortgages and your student loans! Run around and never, EVER, look up! Buy! Sell! Who gives a shit!>? Fast paced and even faced…the boys in charge, who pay less on their annual income than you or me or the ghosts of Kennedy brothers ever tossed into the kiddy,  force their agenda into the global mind frame. They seek to dismantle the archetypes of reality and the conceptions of the soul, because once the idea of impermanence sets into their subjects’ philosophical fabric… oh boy…

Real questions are asked. All of a sudden, the fairytale dissipates… their answers… the rusted alloy and discharged semenations and coarse arguments and unnecessary hatred remain while the old dogs puff fat cigars in sub-continental bunkers overpaying for sex publishing articles about the Top 10 Places to Live in America… because a crack slinger from Baltimore wants to pursue his entrepreneurial interests in Salt Lake City, UT… because we all need his and hers televisions in the master bedroom, reeking of mahogany and cell phone service. Ceramic cutlery lined up around rust-proof’d outdoor grills on the patios between potentiality and pussy and the king’s seat…

Do you want to find their bunkers and burn their bullshit? I do.

Back to You, Alan!


At least the old generations woke up with minds to lose…

We were born outside of the pens, the shepherd

asleep at the wheel.

Soundbytes & torrent waves &, manifest destiny whipping us

to website ourselves into eternity, (open-access)

happy happy icons…

Thumbs lapping wits, consciousness barely a

tweak in the frosted light of November.

Children stare past God, &

even if you read on, now, you’ve won! Goddamnit, right now!

You’ve won! Fight and thrive and kill until

the old men die!

These words, a song to dead tribes…sick hands beat the drums

while this pounded verse, blistered at the hearth,

refuses to plough along the line.

Listen to me you invisible ghosts, you ugly soul’d alterations

of nature…maybe the ether will catch the

aftermath, a couple of smiles…

Cano! Sing! Dance! Eat magic and love yourself in

the faces of your friends, coerce mycelium

between unlikely ends!

Continue on, especially when the path sticks like a grade-school

desk drawer, and the crowd laughs. They laugh and Hyde

& will never be remembered,

which is the secret truth We Can NOT forget my

friend… the dripping elixir that fuels the way, a

shell for a hermit crab.

Zeppelin Dismemberment Day, A moment of silence

December 4, 2012

A sad anniversary indeed… it’s no Nagaski or Hiroshima but it was the end of an era, the start to a pacemaking decline towards the middle… December 4th, 1980… Led Zeppelin calls it quits. Just month’s after the announcement of a North American tour, the band released the statement:  “We wish it to be known that the loss of our dear friend and the deep respect we have for his family, together with the sense of undivided harmony felt by ourselves and our manager, have led us to decide that we could not continue as we were.” John Henry had passed into that quiet night late September 1980 and it became rapidly apparent to Plant and Page and Paul Jones that no one could replace the man who Hendrix told, “Boy you’ve got a right foot like a jack-rabbit!”

In memoriam of the man who penned the real ‘Moby Dick,’ FearAndLoathingAtThe.WORDPRESS is offering up a list of what Generations X, Y, Z and A1A will be missing out on as they trudge blindly into the twilight of mankind without aid from the Great Bonzo & His Band of Merry Tricksters…

10) Borromean Rings, Triquetrae, ZOSO obscurities and Mu Civilization symbols

9) Playing a drum-set with four sticks (good luck Pavlovian conditioning Justin Bieber to do that shit)… bass triplets and snare rolls abounding

8) Seminal rock albums recorded in Victorian countryside manors (see: Zeppelin IV and ‘When the Levee Breaks’ acoustics) 

7) Motorcycles in LA’s Continental Hyatt House… quick getaways via their Starship (aka personal commercial airliner)

6) Mudsharks in Seattle (or red herring, depending on your chemical state while the incident occurred)

5) Half hour long acid-fueled drum solos, abandoning the trees half-way through to slam out the rhythms with blistered palms while a violin bow creeps across the trucks of a double-neck’d guitar

4) Iconic double-albums produced because of an abundance of quality material… not the shit-pandering and consultant-advised audience targeting and talentless ass-clownery that goes on today

3) Marrying a Southern blues scale to Eastern rhythm patterns via a high priestess of ancient mythology


1) Real rock n’ roll… sold straight from the devil (see: David Bowie and the exorcism of his LA home) and brewed with a Trans-Atlantic blend of sex residue and speed… the kind of music that can rework space-time boundaries and allow the listener to exist in the eternal… remember where you were the first time you heard the riff from ‘Good Times, Bad Times?’