White Saw Shark The Twelve Nightmarish Hours

This was the view from the end of my driveway last night...the full moon rising over Mt. Baker with my down-the-street neibor's barn in the foreground.







Next month something interesting happens, sky-wise; so if I remember, I'll try and take a picture of the moon in the same position, but with a bright yellow star directly over it: star, moon, mountain, barn.

It's like a haiku.



Well, enough of that.








Right now this is what's staring at me...this canadian severed totem pole coffee mug head with pens stuck in it.
Gaze upon it's potent tackiness.
Ponder it's unnerving gaze filled with mysterious knowing.
Thank whatever God you worship that it is no longer at large in the community.












"Hey Coon Dog!" we said. "When you go back to Louisiana this year, bring us back a souvenir!"
We got a severed alligator head and a half-empty bottle of hot sauce he stole from the resteraunt at the airport.







Leonardo DaVinci and Cowboy Curtis sharing a doobie on my bookcase.

" ..But dude, I still dont get whats so funny about Snakes on a Plane."
" Now gol-durn it, Leonard, jest lay offen that subject for about five muthafuckin minutes, wouldja?"








To further my image as the wealthy, devil-may-care citizen of a first world nation, I leave giant jugs of money lying about my house.

There must be virtually oneses of dollars in this one alone!











This is the stain that was on my carpet yesterday. Now you tell me why a bunch of Crisco appeared in my sink.

Was it a miracle?






.........oh DANG.
WAIT A SECOND-
OH MY GOD.



Check this out! It was in my cupboard!
You know how people are always finding tortillas with the face of Jesus on them?



Well?

It could be.





For the past twenty-one years the Yummy Biker has hung this picture over the doorway of our kitchen.
It may be a compliment.
It may be a warning.
Mainly I think he likes it because it says 'Regularity' and thats funny if you're German. Or Beavis and Butthead.



yeah, yeah, yeah; or ME.





...and this illustrates that last point rather vividly, wouldn't you say?
No, it's not the Chunnel.
No, it's not the Eiffel Tower. (Maybe the Awful Tower.)
No, it's not Tammy Faye Bakers' yearbook photo.
It's the END.


Oh ha! Ha ha! is laugh my face so muchly!

WORSHIP THE GLORY THAT IS OUR SPORTSTER

Feast your eyes on the visual orgy that is our chopped Sportster.










Deal with it, bitches.

I had a spot on my carpet. I have no idea what substance was responsible, although I suspect it was something goonybird-related. Anyway, for an amount of time that I refuse to admit to I have been treating it with the attitude 'if i ignore it, it will ignore me', and while it has been ignoring me, it has also been getting darker.

I finally broke down and scrubbed it out oldschool, down on my hands and knees with (a large tube of Astroglide and a mardigras mask), a handfull of rags, a brush and a squirtbottle of oxybleach. Leaving me with a nice clean spot on my rug, but since it's now a spot of a color sometimes found in nature I figured I was still ahead of the game.

Until I went to rinse shit off in the sink. Suddenly I have this blossoming of small flakes of white, hard grease appearing. Like flakes of suet...on everything I was using and all over the inside of the sink.
Where the how the fuckin what in the hell?!?

It was like a strange little cosmic event. And really, thats the kind of cosmic event that I'd rate. Other people get alien monoliths with cryptic inscriptions; I get sink crud from another reality.

That probably caused a few new grey hairs, and we can't have that. So I decided to touch up the roots.

Now I am cheap. (and judging by the above I'm dirty too. So why am I broke all the time??) When the hair dye warns 'Caution! Throw unused portion away! Storage of the mixed product in a sealed container may result in explosion!' fuck; that's like a challenge. And a challenge delivered with the promise of something exploding? Who in the fuck do they think is buying this stuff??

So it was that I reached for the mixed product that had been sitting in my medicine cabinet for a week, unexploded, cautiously undid the cap-still no explosion dammit-and proceeded to lose that grey.

Hair dye doesn't smell real good on the best of days but when the funk off this shit hit me it about made my eyes cross. What did it smell like?

It smelled like lemon vodka vomit pee.

But it was already on my head.

So I left it there.

And forgot about it while I vaccuumed the carpet.

One hour later when I reached up to adjust my glasses I realized that I wasn't wearing glasses and that I had a head full of goop. I rinsed it off...no more hairs in the tub than usual...dried it with a towel...no hanks of hair coming off in handfulls...checked my look...no bald spots...

So far so good. In a couple of days I may break out in pus filled head hives, but for now, I look ten years younger.

And my house smells like the bathrooom floor in an 'Eighties nightclub.

my first rerun...The Flatbutts: Savage Investors of the Old West

I've been creating honorary Flatbutts lately. Here is their story.
The Flatbutts, not the honorary new members of the tribe. Which is imaginary. But I'm the queen of it so don't piss me off or I will whap you with my magic wand and scream 'You're a toad! You're a toad!' until you cry.

(Extensively revised because I felt like it.)

I am Native American. What tribe? The Flatbutt tribe. ( like the flatHEAD tribe from the upper clatsop region. get it? huh?)
See, thats a joke.
I can make these HYSTERICALLY AMUSING jokes because I am a Native American. Just like I can say honky ofay, and exactly like I'm always calling the catholics a pile of twats because I'm part white and I was raised catholic. See? Using the same logic, you will never find me referring to the spoos, the slipperheads, the kites or the eelshoes because I made those up.

THE HISTORY OF THE FLATBUTT TRIBE-SAVAGE INVESTORS OF THE OLD WEST

Back , back, my children, back in the dim mists of time, the Flatbutt tribe lived their charming, primitive lives undisturbed by the passing parade, amid the peaceful ponderosas high in the hills. It was a time of innocence. The mighty Flatbutts stalked game (mainly Twister, sometimes Monopoly) in the primeval forests. They made highly sophisticated pottery and are known from the archeological record as the inventors of the sippy nipple booby mug. They were particularly known for their greeting cards, which they imbued with powerful magic charms and a strong, greasy aroma.

The children of the Flatbutts were reared with a keen appreciation of something. Nobody knows what exactly. They spent much of their youth high in the elms, waiting for salmon to pass beneath and attempting to hit them with water balloons.

Life for the young Flattbutt was idyllic, and most of all, unhygenic. When a Flatbutt lad or lassie came of age they were initiated into adulthood by members of the tribal Amish Death Metal Society...felled from their lofty aeries and then flung headlong into the mighty Lager river, which ran strong, foaming and yeasty, through the center of their ancient tribal lands. For days afterwards those living downstream tasted, and knew.

Using long pointy sticks, the newly-made adults were then rescued from the malty torrent and greeted by the tribe. A huge bonfire using wildcrafted sofas was set ablaze. The next three days were passed in feasting, catered by Port O' Subs, attempting to light off damp fireworks with gasoline, peeing for distance, fart tag and Twister. During this time, and for some afterward the buffalo were wary.

The adult male Flatbutt was of average height, not counting the additional inches added by the pirate hat and cuban-heeled boots it was their custom to wear. Each man also wore a penis sheath, a ribbed length of dryer vent decorated with feathers and crackerjack prizes, held fast to the body with duct tape and many inches longer than was entirely necessary. This article of clothing, it was believed, aided the hunter in attracting the police.

Sometimes in bad weather the males would cover themselves in fried eggs and burrow deep into the forest duff in search of Playboy magazines cached earlier in the year.

Women customarily went topless (inspiring the tradional indian war cry WOO WOO), wore raffia platform shoes with cherry toe clusters, and midlength circle skirts adorned with poodles, eiffel towers, and frenchmen riding bicycles. No ensemble was considered complete without the traditional Hermes bag where the scalps and genetalia of their enemies were carried.

Then came the pioneers... those europeans banished from their own lands by a populace sick to death of their constant whining about being too cold and too wet and too muddy and oo, can't I have another blanket and oh dear the thatch is leaking again and could somebody bring me something hot to drink? and maybe a magazine? and could you turn the channel before you leave?

They crossed the plains leaving trails of used tissues, and the rumor of their passage was told in the sudden increase of postnasal drip among the tribal peoples with whom they traded for vicks vaporub and aspirin along the way.

The first doomed meeting between the two peoples happened on Friday.
Last Friday.
Everyone was settling in for a nice picnic lunch and maybe later a swim in the river if it wasn't too chilly (making certain they waited the traditional one sacred hour after eating to appease Paul, the giant monster lager lizard who was rumored to live on the bottom of the channel eating the Adidas of the unwary) Without warning, from over the rolling hills in the distance appeared the Chevrolets and Pontiacs of the settlers, drawn by tired oxen.

Without so much as a howdy do the feverish pioneers unhitched their beasts and simply allowed them to trample oxishly towards the river heedless of the noshing natives, who scattered willy nilly and hither and yon and Simon and Garfunkle and Seigfried and Roy, only before Roy got his head ate by a tiger, and then into the very river itself, where the thirsty beasts drank their fill, promptly passed out and floated away downstream.

The Flatbutts rallied. Gathering up their blue tarps and styrofoam coolers they waded in, chunking rocks and bottles, sandwiches and eight-track players in a valiant attempt to sink the beasts, and finally, desparately, pelting them with the used diapers of their own children.

Sadly, there really never was any hope.

And so history was played out on the sage-strewn stage of the painted praries. Intermarriage alloyed the pride and strength of the Flatbutts. Competition for cigarettes drove the price up. Korean investors swept in like locusts on really big fast things and bought up the primeval forestlands for a pint of pee and built Outback Steakhouses where once proud Flatbutts had hunted in proud and flatbutted nudity. Although that naked part was supposed to have been a little Flatbutt secret.

But a ray of hope gleams through the crack in the bathroom stall of history, blocked though it may be by the wadded up toilet paper of Caucasian revisionism. Today, using laptop computers which they cleverly assemble from sticks, rocks, squirrels, and some of those cardboard tubes that paper towels come on*, the Flatbutts are slowly regaining their former status as the savage investors they were of yore.

Given time, a clearly written pattern-preferably Bernina- and the right yarn, they will rise again.

WHITE MAN, PRAY TO JESUS THEY HAVE YOUR CORRECT SIZE.



*a perfect example of Flatbutt injun-uity.

FirstNations explains it all for YOU.

When you switch to a vegetarian diet you will have to clean the toilet a lot more often.


It's the poo issue. When a carnivore visits the Ritz, it's like the helicopter delivery of a refrigerator.
When a vegetarian does, it's more like a tickertape parade.










Good news: Recreational drugs are lots of fun. Try some today!








Odor is particulate. Actual particles of what you are smelling are entering your nose and flowing outward through your entire body.












You cannot teach a cow to memorize the periodic table of elements.

Not even if you wear a fez.







There are a lot more crazy people in the world than you might think. And not good crazy, brothers and sisters.

Be afraid.









Any drug that you can take orally also comes in a form meant to be introduced anally.
If this intrigues anyone I do not want to know about it. LALALALALAICANTHEARYOU, LALALALA.
Found this out because a guy my husband worked for had an irrepressable gag reflex. He carried acetomeniphin suppositories in his lunchbox in case he got a headache.







Sometimes you do need a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.

warning: dickensian childhood interlude

My childhood was pretty extreme. There's layers upon layers of sickness that went on. None of it happened for a reason and none of it made any sense. My only job was to survive it and then get as far the fuck away from it as I could. And thats what I did. But I'm still living with a couple physical reminders of it that crop up now and then. And I resent it like hell.

Between two mentally ill chronic smokers and the stress and chaos they generated, (not to mention catholic school) by the time I was six I had asthma. I remember it's onset and I remember the doctor who told my parents that it was psychological.
First of all, they thought it was very funny to teach me to explain 'it's not catching, it's only psychological' to people. Ha! yes, thats high comedy. Taking advantage of a kid is ALWAYS high comedy.

They wasted no time spreading the word. Every teacher I had knew 'it's only psychological'. It was in my school records. Every gym class I was forced to attend I was reviled by whatever barely literate health nazi happened to be teaching at the time and made to participate, conspicuously, until I damn near passed out to the jeers of the entire class. Jeers that went on all day long.

Being an object of contempt everywhere you go, and being accused of lying when you are genuinely sick is really not a good way to grow up. I was a normal looking kid. I was smarter than average. And none of that mattered because I was already branded as a snivelling liar and hated for it. I remember having attacks in school to a chorus of the entire class singsonging 'faker! faker!' And of course the teachers did nothing. Of course.

Asthma doesnt look like anything much worse than a cold from the outside. You're just out of breath and coughing, to the outside world, and to them all that means is that you are lazy and out of shape. And the cure for that is forced activity!

There was a Doctor on television at the time named Lendon Smith, a supposed expert on child care. He is the one who really popularized the notion of the neurotic, substandard wimpy asthmatic kid who literally made himself sick to avoid stress and gain attention.
How I hate that phrase.
"You're only doing it to get attention. You're just trying to get attention"
The LAST motherfucking thing I wanted at that point in my life was attention. Attention was the enemy. If people paid attention to you, you'd get treated like shit. I most assuredly did NOT want attention. I hated having asthma. It was like I was being betrayed by my own body.

Asthma is slow suffocation. The tissue in your lungs swells and loses elasticity. Every breath you take you have to force and think about. Your lungs hurt. The breath you force in has to be forced out. Gallons of mucous form, and capillaries in your eyes and chest burst from coughing and trying to breathe. Your lungs simply will not expand and your windpipe is narrowed and full of snot. And it gets worse and worse and worse. You can't talk without gasping for air. You cannot walk across the room. The headaches are intense. Your hands and feet tingle from lack of oxygen. And it HAPPENS WITH OUT WARNING AND WITHOUT AN OBVIOUS TRIGGER.
And it commonly happens in the middle of the night when you are sound asleep.

That's what turns my parents out. I would have needed the involuntary impulse control of a buddhist monk to program an episode like that.Much less repeated episodes.

Despite what they saw and heard, my parents were more than happy, suspiciously relieved, in fact, to take the word 'psychological' to mean 'all in her head, nothing really wrong with her'. What makes it heinous is that they acted as though it was the expense...but when I moved out I found out that all my medical care had been free through CHAMPUS through my 21st year. Career military dependant.
Free.
I was denied FREE medical care.

Now that I am their age and have spent some years away from their sickness, I know, without any more conforting doubts, that the reason they did this is because they really didn't like me or being parents very much. And that as extreme and dramatic as it sounds, they hoped I'd die so they wouldn't have to do it anymore.
Thats the truth, whether anyone wants to hear it or consider it or think about it or not. I know it. I was there. I'm there now.
This is the kind of white trash, waste of skin bullshit you see on COPS or SERVE AND PROTECT. And thats what I grew up with. Those were my parents. They had a nice house and wore clean clothes, they'd spend whatever it took to make things LOOK good, but that was my parents.

I don't even want to know where they're buried.

little mary sunshine has left the building

(updated: end)

Living in a body that is intent on dying despite all your best efforts is a total fucking pain in the ass. I've been fighting asthma for forty fucking years and I cannot express how sick and goddamn tired I get of it. You dont' look particularly sick, but Christ, let me tell you, it's real. It hurts. Your body isn't getting enough oxygen. You can't do anything; you can't think, you can't walk up a flight of stairs, you can't talk and yeah, shit.
Imagine you have just blown up some party balloons. That tight, raw feeling you get in your windpipe? That's what asthma feels like. Now imagine the same, but add a bucket full of jello.
Imagine trying to breathe through all that.
Imagine that happening for no particular reason.
Imagine that happening in the middle of the night.
That's how I spent last night. At least until about 4:am when I finally took a Benadryl. It didnt' stop the asthma but it did make me sleep.
You put up with a lot of shit with asthma...not only the disease itself, but the nutjobs and fuckwits with their moron remedies and advice. I've heard it all and tried it all..herbal teas, drier climates, diet, you name it. Particular thanks go out to one U.S. Health department quack bastard motherfucker who told my parents that asthma was 'only psychological' and thus doomed me to ten years of being called a liar and having medical treatment withheld because supposedly I wasn't really sick, I was just faking it.
The upshot?
the kicker?
The punchline?

All our medical care was free. All of it.

My father was career military. Full coverage. Hospital, medication, everything.
Free.
They spent thousands of dollars out of pocket having my teeth straightened, though.

update: i've returned to this several times since i've started blogging. eventually i'm going to have to do an in-depth thing on this whole withholding of medical care issue. i promise it will not be pretty. but maybe i'll be able to lay the motherfucking issue to rest once and for all.

mexican death sushi

The definition of the burrito

A Burrito is pretty much anything edible, folded up in a tortilla. Unless you flap the tortilla in half; that's called a taco. If you roll it into a tube shape, it's called a burrito. Or sometimes a soft taco. Unless you tuck in the ends AND heat it up in a frypan, thus returning it to 'burrito' status. If you stick fried brains into it, it's called a delicacy. If you deep fry it, it's called a chimichanga, which means 'female monkey'.

The abominations known as the 'wrap' sandwich and the burrito canape, and the instant constipation cure known as the breakfast burrito (which is McCheese, McEggproduct in a drum and McCrap strained out of the deep fryer rolled up in a McFlour McFrisbee) are not real burritoes. They are ersatz burritoes. Trust me.

My particular downfall is the bean and cheese burrito. I developed a fatal addiction to these in my latter vegetarian days, when I was single and working two maid jobs. You can live cheaply, thrive, work like a dog and never suffer a midday letdown on two generous-sized bean and cheese burritoes a day. I am living proof of that. You can also blow up like a goddamn hot air balloon if you continue to eat that way in addition to a diet that includes meat. I am fat diabetic proof of that.

You need:
1 flour tortilla
refried beans
cheddar cheese

necessary condiment: hot sauce

unnecessary condiments: salsa, guacamole, sour cream or abondigas soup
......or all of the above.

You dump the beans and cheese in the middle of the tortilla, roll it up into a little package,tuck the ends in, fry it up in a pan on all sides until the cheese starts to melt and the package is sealed shut, then consume in flurry of saliva and partially masticated protein, dipping the sodden, gnawed end intermittently into the condiment (s) of choice.

Food of the GODS, y'all.

Now, it sounds innocent enough, a burrito....until you deconstruct it.
You have:
1 flour tortilla = flour, water, lard. Cooked in lard. Reheated in lard.

Refried beans = water, pinto beans (and any combination of pintos and reds, kidneys, black, turtle, flor de mayo, soy, great northern, soldier, jacobs cattle....... my favorite being pintos, soy, black and flor de mayo)....raw onions, epezote, salt and lard

Cheddar cheese = whole cow milk, rennet, carrotene, salt, cheddar germs or whatever plague makes cheese 'cheddar'

...You may as well carve a hole in your chest and stuff one of these right through your aorta because it's basically a handheld infarction.

Then the condiments:
Sour cream = whole milk and plague bacteria
Guacamole =mashed avocados, lemon, salt (mayo, sour cream, crema mexicana, whole yogurt, chopped tomatoes, onion, garlic, lime, salt, pepper, chile)
Hot sauce = hot chiles, vinegar, salt (lime, lemon, cilantro, pumpkin seeds, peanuts, lard, salt, beer, sugar, vodka, whiskey, corn syrup, red food coloring, tequila.....)
Salsa = tomatoes, onion, chiles, tomatillas, salt, pepper, cilantro, lime, (corn, beans, chicken stock, pumpkin seeds, pignola seeds)

Abondigas soup = minted beef meatballs, beef stock, carrots, celery, onion, epazote, colantro, dried chile, tomato
Obviously this is a dish in itself instead of a condiment, but I love it so much with burritoes that I dunk. And not just any burrito, either....a butterito. Which is exactly what it sounds like; a warm flour tortilla slathered in whipped butter and dunked into the soup.

I hope this clears up any confusion.

TOMORROW: THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN THE BURRITO AS GOD INTENDED IT AND A CRAPPY BURRITO THAT SUCKS AND IS STUPID AND MADE OUT OF BIRD POOP AND ROCKS WITH A HAIR STUCK TO IT, AND A PINECONE. AND SOME LINT.

Cerulean Vole: Flying Kill Terror of Bang!

This is not me. It is a cute lil' fat Indian, which kind of describes me, but it is not me. Sorry.

Someone bought this in Seaside, Oregon back in the 1920's. I'm not making the connection between a coastal town in Oregon and the Cherokee, or why anyone would have bought a souvenir of what at that time was a bunch of scroungy loggers and some fishing boats sinking into the mud; but onward...








Remember when the Health Department lady would come visit your class in grade school with a great big huge toothbrush and set of these choppers and proceed to demonstrate The Correct Way to Brush? I was busy thinking " Oh damn, I must own those!"
I do now.




What the-? Hey, leave shit alone.
No it's not valium.
Really.
Listen, it's not valium.

Ok fine, it is valium.






Are you hungry?
Oh, sure you are. It's no trouble, really.
Honestly. I'll make a sandwich.
No, it's no trouble at all, I mean it.

HAVE A FUCKING SANDWICH.





I found Rinty here at a storage unit sale. This was a tv lamp..it had lost its cord, though, and the moon-shaped piece of glass behind the dorg. But at one time, screw in a lighbulb, and voila! The ghost of Scooby Doo.
I remember people actually believing in these and using them.
I am REALLY OLD.






I can't cook a really great meal without the supervision of my buddy the Magnetic Dashboard Shriner. When he got lonely, I gave him a Plastic Dugong to keep him company. He used to have a girlfriend, the Cheap Red Magnetic Porcelain Naughty Naked Lady, but she keeps diving off behind the stove.





LOOK INTO MY EEEEEEEEEEEYES.
You cannot defyyyyyy my wiiiiill.
You must obeeeeeeeeey.
Regis Phiiiiiiiilbin must father your chiiiiiiiildren.







Sorry, were you thirsty?
We only have a little pop.

OH HA! IS SO MY LAUGHING HUMOR!
GET IT? A LITTLE POP!
IS LAUGHING MY FACE!

ahem.




This is all that remains of a collection I used to have of antique kitchenware. I had hundreds of items at one time. One day I looked around and thought to myself 'why am I nuts?' so I sold it.


















Well ok fine, this is left too.
But it works!
And theres a tomato on it.
Tomatoes rule.








Fine, yes, this too.

Would you like another sandwich?
Too bad.










Vital message space does not go to waste here at rancho FirstNations, as you can see.

"Eggs! Eggs! I love eggs! Oh hurry, hurry Mr. Egg Man, give me my eggs! I'm hongry!"






When the guy would come to refill the cigarette machines, back in the day, sometimes he'd drop off a premium. Here's one from a gas station.

I don't think they would let a real smoking dog hang around a gas station, do you?
That would be stupid.



Here are two more smokin' dogs.
This one is my girlie woof, Jett.
She is a GOOD GIRL. Yes, she IS.
GOOD GIRL JETT.
Without her we would be COMPLETELY AT THE MERCY of women pushing strollers and guatamalans playing soccer.
WHEW. We are SAFE.



This is my boy dog, Opie.
He is my TATER PIGGIE. He is also totally shocked that I took his picture.
He has just come in from tatoing around in the yard.
If the yard is not periodically tatoed in, it gets untatoey, and he has to go out and tato it up again.
Yeah, I'm a retard.


You know who else is retarded?
The person who thought it would be a really good idea to carpet a damn kitchen.



That was just some of the incredibly marvellous and fabulously valuable collectables from my kitchen.
Wow. It was exciting, wasn't it?
I know my little heart is going pitty pat.
Next time we will tour the outbuildings.
Or maybe the grocery store.
Now go away.

inbred

This is my first 100% BLOGGING INTERNET POST FOR BLOGGERS WHO BLOG ON THE INTERNET.
Being my Random and Poorly Connected observations on new media, because if all the other kids jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge I SO would too.

Ms. Betty's Utility Room made a comment about oldschool diary type blogging and the concept -and the phrase- ran 'round my darlings faster than pasta d'oglio through a colostomy patient. "Hm," is what I thought. This is what I did: I took a gallop 'round the WWW to re-introduce myself to the tenor of the virtual times. Lo and behold, I discovered that NOW is so bloody immanent, among the technosceti, that it's 'then' before the author hits 'post'.

I HEREBY DECLARE 'OLD FASHIONED DIARY BLOGGING' TO BE THE NEW BLACK.

As soon as I hit 'post', it'll be so last week.

What will this mean to you and me?
Absolutely nothing.

The impact of new media on people socially, from what I've seen, is not very evident here in rural Whatcom County. It is primarily a leisure entertainment medium for folks here anyway. People may be more cognizant of things like yiffing and whatnot but they certainly don't discuss it over coffee at Dutch Mothers. They take it as seriously as they take anything else they encounter in media, which is 'not very'. Like the Jerry Springer show. It isn't very nice.

It's impact on business is real, though. Around here it's common to see grungy old farmers driving their tractors while yakking away into a cell phone, and those same sitting in the Dutch Treat cafe, eating their appel pannekoekken, wearing wooden damn shoes and tapping at their wireless laptops as they monitor their investments. Honest to God, I shit thee not. The internet means speed and speed is money in the agriculture business. One thing a dutch farmer is not is stupid. Thats why we still have so many successful family farms here as opposed to the rest of the United States. Ain't that a trip?

Speaking generally, where there is meat community involvement, there is less interaction with any type of media. Outsiders around here resort to the net (IF they have access; some idealist groups forbid it) for a sense of community unconstrained by personal history. Online you get to be a new you, but none of your status, accomplishments or creations follow you offline. Offline you still have zits and smell and everyone still remembers when you peed yourself in first grade. All you have is a very detailed fantasy life with a killer 'random' option. What can you do when the electricity is OFF is still a very real measure of success here. How many saleable game objects you have doesn't mean jack shit while you're watching the doors and windows freeze over and trying to keep the fireplace going...or keep your log truck on the road, or keep the cows milked when it's 20f.

It certainly brings the migrant kids and the poor kids into the library, though, and thats always good. The library is free. During the day you cannot get online. Each terminal has a bunch of kids huddled around it playing games or doing homeschool work. And the ones who have to wait their turn? Read. All these kids are red hot, self-taught technogeeks who are (and I'll make a leap and say they're growing up pre-radicalized by) coming along on the margins of society. They are going to be the ones running things in ten years. Fuck YEAH.

The internet was supposed to create a new human.
Yes, well. It was supposed to create a paperless society by the year 2001, too. I don't see any new humans (although I might not know one if I saw one. If you are a new human, do the 'comments' thing and let me know will you. We'll chat.)
Now posthuman? I really like the idea of 'posthuman', even though it sounds kind of...prosthetic. I know one person who claims to be posthuman. But no new humans yet. Meat constants continue to define the paradigm.

Crap; I used the word 'paradigm'. Someone stop me NOW.

and again UPDATED: Emerald Green Mammoth Global Freezing Plan

Question time!

Without the small handfull of pills I take every day, I would be dead in 2 months, on the outside. Dead as a brick. Gone.

Of course, that ain't gonna happen. Come Armageddon, when the Canadians start pouring across the border brandishing their gouda, you better believe I'll have already taken up my rifle and loaded my truck up down at the local pharmacy. (Oh for heavens' sake, yes, I'm premenstrual.)

Then I got thinking about what I'd do come the revolution. Seems like you'd want to stockpile gasoline, guns, ammunition and any and all kinds of drugs you could get your hands on, right? That's what the 'new money' would be. I might be thinking in 1970's terms, of course, which is the last time I in indulged in this kind of speculation (one of those real 'deep' stoner conversations, you know.) Maybe these days the list has changed.

Has it?

oo, i just thought of one....yeast.

to make booze with.

what, me farm? *snerk* yeah.

one of the three things which nice people never discuss in company

All this happened 27 years ago this month.

Ok. So it's 1977 and it's August. Elvis the king, resting on his throne, is wondering why he's so tired and out of breath all the time. Me, I am 17 years old and the only unmarried non-virgin in a five mile radius.

I am at a religious family retreat that my mother has quite matter-of-factly blackmailed me into attending ( which circumstances are worth several cringe-inducing posts in theyownselves. ) Nice place, lots of trees, and not jack shit to do.

I hit the bookcase in the main lodge and started ripping through the collection. I'll read anything. They had a lot of anything.
'Hansi, the Girl Who Loved the Swastika'...I think you were required to own an edition of that if you were Born Again in the 70's...'Crossroads Collected Stories of Inspiration'...'The Billy Graham Story'...'Christy'-hoo, that was a ball of fire...'Intra Muros', a strange, self-published little book about a womans' visit to heaven that was also making the rounds at the time...and one slender volume on medieval art.

'A Meditation on Grunewalds' Crucifixion' is my best memory of the title. I'm almost certain the author was a Jesuit scholar. What this book was doing in amongst the lightweight 'Charismatic Catholic' selections I have no idea. I mean, this thing had footnotes. And despite it's somewhat lugubrious tone it made me very happy.

The type of religion being peddled on our social level was a religion of fluffy, happy niceness, where nice happy people had clean, nice houses and worshipped the Lord with upraised hands, a religion that sincerely believed that 'God never gives you any burden which you are incapable of carrying.' A religion so useless that when it happened that someone was handed a burden they couldn't seem to lift it simply went unacknowledged.

Now remember, these were Born-Again Catholics. So add to that the good ol' Catholic 'if you're not miserable you're sinning' mindset.

And yet none of it explaining how, say, infants born inside-out, for example, could have been expected by God to bear that kind of condition, or could have been 'not right with the Lord', but I digress.

I found more to admire in that book that in anything I had learned in catechism up to that point in my life.

I honestly think that Grunewald was inspired, offering up that view of the Passion . He had painted it to be used as part of an altarpiece*, for a monastery devoted to caring for people dying of ergotism, of plague, of cancer, of infection. He showed them a Christ that had suffered exactly what they had suffered, in all its appalling detail. A human Christ consumed with pain and dying, not already passed into nothing more than an anatomy study. Most importantly, in those pre-Vatican II days, the priest who served the mass had to look that Christ in the eye every every time he went to open the altarpiece. The same priest who later went in and ministered to people suffering identically, who looked similar.

So Christians did see torment. They did acknowlege the insupportable. They did think. At least
two of them had; and I had the proof in my hands.

Until that point my only comfort, or my only 'faith in faith' if you will, had been found in writings by Jews who had survived the Holocaust. Catholics romaticize suffering because life is supposed to suck at best so you work with what you get. Charismatics in practice completely denied it because life was supposed to be perfect 100% of the time and anything else meant you were on the Cannonball Express to Hell. The Jews said, 'This happened. It sucked. God was with me then and is with me now and I struggle to understand. "

It impressed me on a secular level as well. I would have never read it had I not been so utterly starved for intellectual stimulation at the time. I had never read an advanced work of nonfiction. I struggled to understand and I wished I had a dictionary, and I wanted MORE IMMEDIATELY.

In the meantime I was trapped on a ten acre tract in the middle of the mountains with a bunch of people convinced that God wanted them to go out in the woods for two weeks and act like retards. No chance of getting laid, I quickly found out.

No 17 year old wants to be anywhere with a parent anyway; it's excruciating. Now add the sheer embarrassment of watching a bunch of Catholics trying to 1. enjoy themselves, and 2. experience 'ecstatic' religiousity with no cultural referents. If I'd heard the phrase 'you shouldn't be so NEGATIVE' one more time I was going to ram a goddamn owl up someone's ass. So I dummied up and watched these (goofy fucking white people) secretaries and Taco Bell managers raise their hands and praise the Lord, throw away their medications and cast out demons and speak in tongues and perform healings and interpret prophecy and read from the 'Living Bible' and fall on the floor and knock over chairs 'fainting in the Spirit' and have to get stitches. Yes, really.
The Charismatic Movement was not pretty.

I was told that the reason for my dissatisfaction lay in being too worldly. I listened to rock and roll (that old devil!) and read too many secular books and, it was hinted, probably was not as smart as I thought I was, so maybe I'd be better off if I just stopped pretending to be better than everyone else and start joining in.

And you know, I tried. It was not in me. I hated myself, and I mentally apologised to God every inch of the way.

So in a very sideways and backwards kind of manner, I actually did increase my understanding of religion during the course of that retreat. I came out of there understanding that religion was ridiculous. I came out of there having seen what belief could be, what it could encompass, and I left knowing there was nothing worth having from these grinning dipshits singing "I've got the joy, joy, joy, joy down in my heart"

And yes, I gotta say, I owe it all to Jesus. That's why I think about converting to Judaism...something which, were it not for the fact that I am bone agnostic, I would do tomorrow.
That makes sense if you're me.



with thanks to Minka and DaNator for the hotmail how-to.

*should I explain this? here goes: think of one of those old-fashioned dressers with a folding mirror attached
to the top. Replace the folding mirror with the 'altarpiece', a painting on a decoratively cut piece of wood that usually had folding doors attached on each side, and every surface decorated. Replace the dresser with a sort of lectern or small console table to be used as the altar proper. The whole thing was meant to be used for serving Mass in a chapel or a small space. The painting part was removeable so you could carry it from place to place and make an instant 'church' . The table half could then be used for something else, which is why most of them got lost over time and only the altarpieces remain.
That said, some altarpieces were huge things, made for permanent installation in a church. Some were only one panel . Some were very complicated and had many folding panels with detachable angels and statues and things to decorate it. Some were tiny and meant to be carried in a pocket, and those are called 'devotionals' . Bear this in mind the next time you go shopping for medieval art.

the 'IT' girl

I got tagged! Ms. DaNator nailed me with this one. Find her rockin', bitty-friendly bestiary here at
http://danator.blogspot.com/

Would SOMEONE please tell me how to do links so they come up as a blue word underlined?



1. One book you have read more than once:

One? Oh Christ. Just re-read 'Watership Down'. Better than ever.

2. One book you would want on a desert island:

'The Big Waterproof Self-Propelled Book of Fold Your Own Oceangoing Watercraft'

3. One book that made you laugh:

'Confessions of a Failed Southern Lady' made me laugh until I started burping. Florence King's best.

4. One book that made you cry:

'The Dog Who Wouldn't Be', Farley Mowat. Anything where the dog dies, forget it. I'm done for. I haven't read the last chapter of that book in years, not since the first time.

5. One book you wish you had written:

The thought has never occurred to me. How about 'one author you wish you could write like'? That I can do. Ursula K. LeGuin. That woman has it all: brevity and talent, imagination, style, and content.

6. One book you wish had never been written:

'Malleus Maleficarum'. One of the most evil things ever written. I felt like I had to wash my hands after the first chapter.

7. One book you are currently reading:

'Thirteen and a Day'. It's a cultural study of American-style Bar and Bat Mitzvuot. On the one hand, the author's biases are firmly in place and nothing's gonna change them, dammit. On the other, it's quite an interesting tour of different varieties of modern Judaism.

8. One book you have been meaning to read:

Everything my bloggy buddies have mentioned. I need to cull over my comments for book suggestions and then hit the library with the list.

9. One Book That Changed Your Life:

'A Meditation on Gruenwalds' Crucifixion'. A straight up Catholic meditation by a scholar of medieval art . It explores, nearly inch by inch, a very unusual, deeply disturbing painting of the Crucifixion, and does so within the context of Medieval Catholicism. An amazing, enthralling, emotional insight. This book was partially responsible for fanning my interest in art history. I was impressed at the time that the author would have taken such a bizarre (to modern eyes) and gruesome painting as his subject. Not your usual sanitized Christianity. And at the time, I was so very grateful for that as well. Actually, I'm going to do a post about that, so thank you, Ms. DaNator!


10. Now Tag 5 bloggers:
I don't tag. I throw my memey breadcrumbs out on the pond and then wait for the bloggy ducks to gather. Then bomb them with pine cones.

quaint vignettes from my charming rural idyll

Well, I hate having diabetes.
On the other hand, I get a kick out of the blood pokey dealies and the little monitor and keeping a record. If clinical depression and asthma had been this structured I would have been MUCH better at them. As it is, I only had to return to the eating habits of my hippiehood and voila! Normal-nay, fucking excellent numbers! Lost weight-5 lbs is weight-and I feel better.
Of course, eating like this will do very little to reduce the virtual Matterhorn of Red Meat in my freezer. See, and here I thought I was being all frugal and shit stocking up when I hit the sales, when what I was actually doing was accreting a BEEFY DEATHBERG.

Animals are stupid 1.
Driving down the road two nights ago. It's dark, you know, it's rural, I'm following the base of the foothills, so there's forest....and up ahead in the distance my headlights catch the twin eye-reflections of an animal in the center of the road. I slow down. I am smart like that. Hitting shit can just fuck with your whole day; especially given that out here there is the very real possibility that the animal in question could be REALLY BIG. Like a big stoner, or a cow, or a black bear, or a bull elk BIG.
It turns out to be a skunk. Medium sized, about as big as a housecat. And this skunk is right on the center line of the road, too. Playing with something with it's front paws. Just like a cat will play with a bug.
Yes. There is a wild animal, a wily wild beast of the woods, which is supposed to be all cunning and crafty and sly? Dicking with a bug in the middle of the road, in the middle of the night, IN THE HEADLIGHTS OF AN ONCOMING CAR.
I slowed down and went waaaaaaay around it. It ignored me.
Having anal glands filled with the animal equivalent of napalm saved his cocky little ass this time, that and the fact that I drive a compact car. Little bastard is going to try that with a gravel truck one night and leave nothing but a grease spot on the road.

Animals are stupid 2.
My girl dog, Jett, desperately hates bees. Any kind of bee. Flies, she can snatch out of midair like a sniper. Bees she will chase and bark at and attempt to bite, or crush under her paws. Not a good plan as, being a dog, she spends most of her time barefoot. She will stand in the middle of the rug looking frantic with one paw buzzing and I will have to get a piece of tissue and dig a hornet out from between her toes, again, where it has been stinging and buzzing frantically.
Bumblebees she hates the worst. To her a bumblebee is a big, flying mouse and all mice and mouselike balls of furry evil must die, die die. She will close her jaws on a bumblebee, and the bumble will sting her, of course. Opens her mouth in shock, bee flies away, lands on a clover, and the dumbass BITES IT AGAIN. The first time I realized this was happening the poor thing came trotting up to me with her skinny little Lab-type face swollen up like a chow dog. When I opened her mouth to find out what the odd noise was, two huge bumblebees flew away. And I had to grab her collar to keep her from chasing them. The goofturd must have been stung in the face more than 50 times or more in her life. Hasn't learned a thing.

The Yellow Jaguar's Evil Hand Closes In

Note: special last minute amendment.

Suggested by another Brit.

My administration seems to be turning into a puppet regime even before I assume the post.

Per Arabellas and Rockmothers' request I have decided to throw my hat in the ring for consideration as the City of Sumas' new Mayor. My campaign motto is:

I have no idea what I'm doing
But hell, you're used to that.

My platform has three planks (they used to make us say shit like that in debate.)

Plank 1- is to be located near the city compost heap. It is made of white pine. It is 6 ft. long. Be careful when playing on or around the plank. The plank is splintery. Do not play with plank after having consumed alcoholic beverages. Always wear appropriate safety gear when playing on or near the plank. Do not tease or molest the plank. Do not use if allergic to peanuts.

Plank 2-More nudity.

Plank 3- What ever I make up.

Proposed amendments to the city charter:
-More nudity.
-The official Deity of Sumas will be John Cleese. Churches not accepting the Cleesian Liturgy will be taunted a second time.
-Children out after dark bouncing basket balls on my sidewalk will be set adrift on an ice floe.
-As will Junkies out talking loudly and/or acting like dipshits on my sidewalk after dark
-As will drunk people out in the field behind my home having loud, stupid arguements after dark. Unless they speak clearly and at least one of them is hooting and crying, when it then becomes free late night comedy entertainment and gives me a an excuse to blast people with the hose, which is something I live for.
-The Wicked Witch of the West hat will be the Official Hat of Sumas.
-All the stupid ugly grafted cherry trees planted along Cherry street will be cut down and replaced with Pin Oaks. The street will be renamed 'Big, Uncircumcised Boulevard'.
-No,ha ha! Is my joking! No, the street will be renamed 'Sumas Avenue' and the street that's now named 'Sumas Avenue' will be renamed 'Michael'.
- El Nopal will be moved into the abandoned titty bar and the owner will thereafter will pay no rent and no taxes FOR LIFE. The former two mayors will be installed as his pretty potty pals and will wipe his ass and give it a little kiss on each cheek every time he 'votes Republican'.
-The Offical Pretty Potty Pal uniform will consist of a pair of 'Hello Kitty' underpanties worn on the outside of the slacks.
-My dog Opie will be Generalisimo City Development Coordinator for Life. God knows he'll turn in just as stellar a performance as the dumbass in there now. He will be in charge of the Sacred Bonking Rock of Justice and wear one of those little leather aviator dog hats, the ones with the little goggles, so he looks like a WWII pilot which would be so cute.
-The sites of formerNSA spy poles will be surrendered to the Current Administration and the land used for roadside shrines to Venus Williams' Sweet Thick Ass.

-All city council meetings will hereafter be run according to the ritual proceedure of the IOOF because it is fancy and there is marching. Aand everyone gets to wear medals and Napoleon hats. And there is a secret handshake too. But only I get to carry a sword.

-All Border Patrol facilities within the boundaries of Sumas will be surrendered to the Current Administration and turned into Happy Havens for Homeless Marijuana and Naked Men (Cute Ones with Nice Asses.)

SPECIAL LAST-MINUTE AMENDMENT...The municipal rodeo showgrounds will be re-purposed as the site of the annual International 'Beast 500' Nekkid Hoovering Races. Only I will call it 'Vaccuuming Races' because this IS America for cripes' sakes and nobody will know what I'm talking about if i say 'Hoovering'. Except maybe some people will think I am talking about J. Edgar Hoover and come expecting to see a bunch of balding paunchy men dressed in tutu's running a relay, which would be kind of cool, I guess.

fortunate son

Fortunate Son, Walter Mosely.
I've read other things by Mr. Mosely. His most popular titles reside on the mystery shelf and concern one E.Z. Rawlins, a school janitor who does a little freelance private eye work, set in the South of the 1940's. The shade of Zora Neal Huston haunts them. They're good books, damned good, but this one is amazing.

Now I'm having problems trying to describe this book. I will admit right up front that I'm biting off way more than I can chew. The best I can do for you here is to describe my experience of reading it. I'm afraid that doesn't make for much of a book review. It does mean that Mosely is a better writer than I have the ability to quantify.
This is a miraculous piece of writing.


First of all, I cannot tell you with complete assurance who the central characters are. Could be three of them. There are probably two; there might be only one. That one could very possibly be the author, and by that I mean the unseen writer, not Walter Mosely the personality. It's very like Indonesian shadow puppets in this way: we are not on the side where the shadows act out the story, but the other side, the one which frankly admits the presence of the puppeteers without even the apology of dark clothing.

On the surface this is a story of brothers parted and reunited and the lives they lived in the interim. Life is not terribly kind to these two men. We aren't spared anything. And if that was the only level upon which the story existed it would be enough. The recounting holds you hostage. Touch it and it rings; it sounds that true. And that holds true for every man and woman who walks across the stage as well.

Mosely draws his charactors without visible effort. Each person stands out exactly like the subjects of a Diane Arbus photograph do: very stark, very detailed, more real in black and white than color could make them, but at that same distance from us as well. Mosely makes no appeals on behalf of, or in opposition to any one player. He simply places them onto the table one at a time.

The dominance of Fate is central. Now normally this is something I have a big problem with in a book, believing as I do in self determination. Fact remains that none of these characters are the captain of their own ship, not completely. Fortune and love are irresistable and dispassionate, overwhelming forces in these peoples' lives...but they neither save or condemn the people driven by them. This isn't Bronte. And for me, that saves the narrative. Mosely moves the pieces around the board with complete impassivity. It's chilling, and it takes your breath away.

In the end I simply can't tell you that it 'meant' any one thing conclusively, or if it meant any one thing at all, other than 'some people had some things happen to them and it turned out so'. That could very well be the case; in fact I strongly suspect that it is.
And that is rather repellent.
And rather wonderful, too.
Because after all, Mosely knew what the outcome would be from the start.
God damn, this man can WRITE.

TRAILERPARK OF THE GODS

This would be Venus. She was supposed to have arisen from the ocean, born from 'sea foam'.
Where did the foam in the sea come from?
Well, there was this huge fight between this giant guy and his giant father in Heaven and one thing lead to another, and someones giant severed dick ended up in the bay.
Surprised, to say the least, at being parted suddenly from its' owner and dropped into ice-cold water, it squitted and flapped. As would you....thus, 'sea foam': a euphemism for 'jizz and bloody guck frothed up by a giant severed dick flapping and spazzing around in the ocean'.




Little did she realize that she would practically had to lock herself in the friggin' bathroom in order to get five minutes alone. The poor woman was destined to spend the remainder of her days surrounded by extraneous nudes and semi-nudes. Worse, they all suffered terribly from an infestation of flying babies so they spent a lot of time running around and whacking at them with a broom.







One day there was a terrible midair flying baby collision with Venus caught right in the middle.



Her contact lenses fell out and in the ensuing mad scramble they were crushed underfoot.
Due to the lack of qualified optometrists in the Golden Age it was decided that she would be married off to a seeing eye husband.






There were problems from the start.









"You are as pretty as a whole bunch of shiny socket wrenches."



"Um......................ok then."





Time did not improve matters.







"What do I spy wiv my liddo eye? Could it be someones....coochy?

"Yes. For the hundredth time today, its my damn coochy. Would you please go read a book?"








At her wits' end, Venus secretly placed an ad in the Olympian Auto Trader and Personal Classifieds:
"Gorgeous twenty-something female, zaftig, fun loving, kids, not very married, seeks discreet man for sexy fun. You are: hwp, physically attractive, s/ok, d/ok, rs/ok, std/ok, kids/ok, previous felony convictions/ok. You have a passion for the romantic. Must be very open minded and not put off by the possibility of being wet on by flying babies. reply GRE35 463337."






Venus soon realized that she should have filled in some of the 'background information' blanks a little more completely.




"Hey there little fellow, you know what? Your mommy is my aunt! That's right! Her and my father had the same father! ...Well, at least part of the same father. So you're my cousin! Cool, huh?"











Next she tried singles night at the off-leash park.




"Sweetie, go play on the swing, ok? Go on now!"
"Hey mister! Can I pet your dog?"
"Honey, mommy said go play on the swing!"
"Are you going to party with mommy?"
"Honey, now do as mommy said..."
"Are you my new uncle?"
"GO PLAY ON THE SWING NOW."






Before too long the first boyfriend got wind of the second boyfriend.



"I told him to fix the box spring! He was only checking the- Hey! Really! I asked him to fix the-Hey! He was just, he wasn't hiding! Oh my God! He had to go under the bed to fix the box spring! Really! Are you listening to me?"









And the husband got wind of the first boyfriend.



" Ya see? Ya see? The guy didn't even take off his hat!"
"Wow, he sure didn't! Damn! Didnt even take off the hat! Ther it is, right on toppa his head! Yep, theres his hat! Wow. didn't even have time to take the damn hat off. Wow."








Now divorced and destitute, Venus was forced to apply for Welfare. Fortunately the allowance for dependants was quite generous in her case.
A thoroughly depressed Venus started hitting happy hour down at the local country and western bar.


"Come on, honey. lets go back inside now. "
"Shh. whuzzat?"
"Oh come on...Buy momma another Lone Star."
"Aw fuck; a siren. Ya wanna hand me them chickens baby? Daddy's gotta boogie."



All too often her nights ended in the 'Luv-R's Sweet' at the Budget Travel-Inn.

"Wow, you know, this is my favorite room...what a great bed, too..you think this a pillow top? Gee, its nice! I'll bet it's a Sealy. I love those Sealy mattresses, don't you?"

"Um, yeah...you ever....uh...done it on the floor? Because I've, uh, always wanted to do it, you know, on the floor...?"





She tried hanging around the video arcade at the mall under the mistaken assumption that a younger man might be just what the doctor ordered.

"Beep! Beep!"
" Would you please-"
"Beep beep! Hooooonk!"
"Now come on-'
"Beep! HOOONK! Beep!"

It wasn't.




"Iiiiiii'm gonna honk it!"
"Now, no you aren't! Now come on!"
"Yes I am! I'm gonna honk it!
"No, you aren't gonna honk it! Be serious! Give me a kiss."
"Uh oh! Here comes Mr. Hand!"







No matter how many limber-limbed, famous-footed* snipper-whappers she dated.



"Ooooooweeeeeoooowaaaaaaark...Hello! Hello? SOS! This is Ice Station Zebra! Can anybody hear me? Ssssss..."












...just plugging along, all those young, young men, trying and trying...







" Now ok, fine, we're in the treehouse. Now what did you want to show m-"

"MEEP! MEEEEP!"














"See my new puppy? Say hi to the nice lady, Sparky! Sparky says, 'Wow, lady, you sure got a nice pair of ti-"

"Um, ok. thats good."







....until finally she realized that there is such a thing as 'too young'.




Reacting violently and passionately to her plight as is a goddess' wont she flung herself headlong into the DARK SIDE OF PHYSICAL PASSION.






"Oh come on, let me! You know you want it!"
"Ew get OFF me! Come on now!"
"Come on! I wont hurtcha! Lemme blow some big ol' wet farts all over that ass! Fbbbbbbpt! Come on baby! Turn around! Apppppbbbbtt! Thbbbbbbt!'"


Early forays into kink were dissappointing.








Later ventures provoked nothing but dismay.


" Oh my beloved...I have been waiting for you my whole life. You are my everything. My moon. My stars. My..."
"..My foot."
"And I shall name it 'Footy-wooty'."
"Well that's just great. Listen, asshole, I shaved for you, ok? And the face is up this way."


















And she ended up with a really, really, really, really, really bad case of crabs.










Things were getting desparate. What good was it being 'Goddess of Love' if you couldn't find any?


High up on his throne atop Mt. Olympus, the Baby Jesus saw her plight and took pity. He flew down to have a word with her. She chased him off with a broom. He returned in his secret identity as the Holy Infant of Prague which set her mind at ease. (It is difficult to tell one flying baby from another, and even more difficult to keep ones expensive upholstery looking brand new in the midst of a flock of them.)


He sat her down and they had a nice heart to heart.
" Listen, it's like the Whitney Houston song. 'The greatest love of all' is to love yourself first. No, wait; Whitney might not be the best example. Lets use another. Aretha Franklin! All right! R E S P E C T! There we go. Respect! You have to respect yourself."
"Oh sweetheart, I think that was Otis Clay."
"No, Aretha Franklin recorded 'Respect' back in the...wait."
"Are you thinking of Etta James?"
"Aretha Franklin did 'Respect'; now I remember that clearly. 'R E S P E C T, find out what it means to me! I'm sure thats Aretha."
"I get your message, Infant of Prague. It's not worth going through a pair of diapers about."





And Venus took this advice to heart. Using drachmas she would have otherwise spent on cover charges and burning sex lube she started a home hostess business:
'Aphrodite's Arts: fine designer accents for the sensuous home'
She soon became known all over the heavens as the "Queen of the Hot-chkey Tchotchkes"





Her newfound financial independance engendered a newfound self-respect in her heart as well.

"OWGODDAMMITWOWOWOWOW!"
"WELL THATS WHAT YOU GET! 'Pull my finger' is NOT FOREPLAY! Capische?"

Yes, she'd found a whole new attitude when it came to men. No longer was she a plaything, tagging along begging a man for scraps of love and attention. Now she was in charge.





" Heeeeere comes Miss Hand! Uh Oh! Beep! Beeepbeep beeeeeep! Honk honk! Beep beep! Beeeeeep beepbeepbeep!"













And to celebrate, she went out and bought herself a brand new fancy hat.






Money probably better spent on new contact lenses.

Still, life was good now... in the TRAILERPARK OF THE GODS.













I just stuck this here because I liked the picture.



* Oh come on. Tell me you DON'T know that the foot sticking out on the left there is the Stomping Foot of Reknown from the opening sequence of each 'Monty Python' episode. Because it is.

1%

The Yummy Biker and I have quite a collection of EasyRider magazines...not only the pathetic ones from the 'Eighties on, but the oh Jesus, zits and tits, low-rent EasyRiders, starting at issue #2. (Anyone out there have an ish #1 they'd like to part with? Even if its 'Riders UK, let me know in the comments and we'll do the email thing.)

This magazine had its' moments, and some moments were pure class, but it was never cool the way, say, underground comix were cool. EasyRiders was cool the way sleazy sideshow crap is cool...because it was fuck-you tasteless. For the times and the place it was pretty extreme. Sagging boobs, aging snatch, whiskey and beer, quaaludes, sodomy, needle tracks, white trash-sister humping-stuff. All the iron was Ameripean, all the women were nymphomaniacs and all the men were balldragging studs, of course.

Now all this romance existed primarily in the minds of two staffers- Spider, and 'Bandit' aka K. Randall Ball. The two of them also did about half of the writing in the early issues. Yes, Virginia, that includes the letters. (No! No! you mean to tell me that THE LETTERS IN EASYRIDERS WERE FAKED????? I know somebody who got their letter published in WordMonger though! My uncle! When he was in prison! etc.) To be fair, by the late 'Seventies much of the content came from outside submissions. Now, were those writers actual bike people?

Hmm. Are bears catholic? Does the pope shit in the woods?

Anyway, nobody cared. As far as the readership were concerned, this magazine defined THE SCENE. Bike people ate it up whole, without question, like it was candy. Really disgusting shit flavored candy with funky hairs and cockroach parts stuck all in it. Ate. It. Up.
I know I did.
Yep.

Of course, I was 17 and I had NO GODDAMN SENSE.*

We cycle these vintage issues through our throne room reading rack about once every year or so and surprisingly they just get better with age.
In an Ed Wood kind of way.

FROM THE WALLS: NOTES FROM LOCKED DOWN BROTHERS AND SISTERSMOUNT UP, LADIES! For one massive Aryan warrior" I'm 24, 5'9", 170 lbs,. and built to last! Free in three years, and seeking the pale, lusting flesh of an Aryan slam pig. No other forms of inferior scum need reply. Xxxxxxx Xxxx Box 1xx, So. Walpole, MA 02071

TENNESSEE "WHITE" HEADED PECKERWOOD: Slammed down in the blue grass. I'm 37, 5'6", and 175 lbs. of all-beef Tennessee pride. Would like to kick it with some of you fine "white" soft-tails. Steve "Hardluck" Wallace, #xxxxxx-ek, Dorm 1xxx Eastern Kentucky Corr. Complex, Box xxx, West Liberty, KY xxxxx

ITTY-BITTY-TITTY-LOVER down in a gator country prison, looking for a sweet or sour slut for life. I'm 38, 6'1", 250 lbs., have tats and operating Pan. Due out in '94. Write: Dennis "McNasty" McCarthy, xxxxxx-xx hamilton Corr. Institution, P.O. Box xxxx, Vasper, FL xxxxx

Now I wonder if any of these gentlemen ever found what they were looking for via the medium of these ads. Certainly the prospect of being somebody's' slam pig would rouse the tender feelings in any womans' soul.

MIRACULOUS MUTHA TELLS ALL!
Soup Kitchen
Listen up, bitch, because I've ben thinkin' about it, and I've got some plans for you and me. First, I want to give you an enema with a whole can of Campbell's Beef Chunky Style soup. Second, I want you to squat over my face and wrap your purple tongue around the scabs on my rock-hard crank. Third, when I'm about to blast a nut down your throat, I want to spread the crack of your flea-infested ass and have ya let loose with the Chunky Beef while screamin' at the top of your lungs "I've lost my baby! I've lost my baby!"
So what's the deal, bitch? Is is a date or what?
Wargasm
Walpole, Mass.

Hark; the iniminable literary voice of the notorious K. Randall Ball aka 'Bandit'.
Despite my best efforts, I could not convince Wyndham Triffid that Bandits' obvious talents rated him a place on the Triffid vacation reading list, and to this day I feel that was an unfair snub. Any fool can see the sheer magic which seeps from every lax, varicose orifice of Mr. Ball's prose. Well, you can.

INDIAN RITUAL: A SECOND-GENERATION BIKER PLUCKS A NEW FEATHER FOR THE FAMILY BONNET
(intro to article) Ya ever notice how some bros seem to have all the luck when it comes to finding restorable classic scoots? Me, I can't find my own asshole in the dark with both hands and a flashlight, much less hit a jackpot cache like this leg-wettin '47 Chief. But when ya get down to the actual factuals, as my uncle Zeke useta say, luck don't count for squat in this game. Instead, the cats who unearth these spoked gems from America's motor lode owe their "luck" to serious, unrelenting perseverance..." and it continues.

On and on.

Here's a selection of Biker Mama Poetry. The original was illustrated** evocatively with a tender hand, a keen eye and a prosthetic foot by one Clark Calhoun, a man who knows his way around a womans' ass in a pair of cut offs:
THE BITCH ( I swear to you I am not making this up.)
She stands at the walls
and silently smiles.
She's packed a
hundred thousand
miles.
Seen 'em rise
and seen 'em fall,
the Bitch has fuckin' seen it all.
Packed behind some righteous bros,
laid 'em down
and let 'em go.
Polished chrome
throughout the night.
Dared some bitch
to pick a fight.
Ran for beers
and opened cans.
Did it all
to please that man.
Sewed the patches,
cooked his meals.
And dummied up
about the bills.
She loves every
moment living wild,
on the road,
Harley-style.
Jenny

And really, isn't that what its all about?

If I read of, or hear of, another oldschool biker lamenting how 'his bros' have been co-opted by the straight world I will flat fucking vomit. Those dipshits embraced the stereotype. Now they're crying about all the lames. Oh wah, the middle-management castrati are out riding SuperGlides, playing biker with their HOG rockers, wanting to buy some of that oldschool brand of BADASS. Well what the fuck did the fools expect; with all that lame shit out there defining the experience?

Adding further insult to injury, the preceding selections were not from EasyRider magazine proper, but what it became post-Guccione as it tottered along weakly, still dressed in its as-yet-unwashed 1971 bell bottoms: Biker Magazine.

Circa 1993.








* Although even then, I must admit to my credit, I figured it was bullshit. But hand it to 'em; they had the best rank jokes going, plus they showed full frontal.
Why yes, I have been a sick woman for a VERY long time indeed.
**oh how i wish i could get it to print.