Oh, that old thang...

It's old hat, yet one worth wearin'. Let me spell it out for the boys in the back. When money becomes the dominate fixture in one's path, then there ain't much room for nothin' else.

Take the starving artist...

Step one: Make somethin' up.

Step two: Find interested parties.

Step three: Find interested parties that have enough money to produce something to the masses.

Step four: Crawl towards the motherload.

Step five: Regalia! A brand new voice has entered the world still pruning placenta.

Step six: Worry about what comes next.

Step seven: Become concerned about not being as successful on the next fly.

Step eight: "Ain't as good as the last, but you're under contract, so let's give her a ride."

Step nine: Repeat. From step three on, making necessary edits when necessary.

Step ten: Don't grab like it used to. Ain't eatin' Rice-a-Roni no more. Sushi every night. Accustommation takes over.

Step ten: I would be happy to represent your product on national television, because in this, my work will live on in some catchy little jingle nestled next to the delightful picture of a cheeseburger.

Step eleven: Royalties like royalty.

Step twelve: "What do you mean they don't like me anymore?"

Step thirteen: "Don't matter if they like me or not. I have so much money now, that I can afford not to care. I can sustain my own career."

Works in other areas as well, except with less steps...

Low class: "Did I win the lottery? I can quit my job!"

Middle class: "Did I get promoted? I can get a new TV!"

High class: "What do I care?"

Public opinion has its minions. Walk yourself around like an advertisement. Be prettier than you really are, and you will have a great life from age twenty-three to forty-five. After that, it's all about the final journey, and that last grasp at glory.

Money is magic. It's the only thing that can make an ugly person beautiful, and a beautiful person ugly. It's Moses parting the gene pool.

Remember fondly your struggling years, folks. Once you reach what you've been aimin' for, you'll scarce remember what that target once looked like.

Z.

Damn dem dogs

Currently groovin' to the latest speculation of the A-Dogs. A happy lil' number we call "Birthday Song." I believe Brother Rob said it best when he said in no uncertain terms "Who does stuff like this?"

And I turn to the audience, take one of them dramatic all-get-out pauses, and say, "Just us. Score one for the quirk-minded socios."

Feels like preachin' to the tired. The hapless, hopeless, dopeless mass of memory-depleted, who so dim with their ADD turn old friends into brief conspiracies. In such circumstances, one might hear: "Don't start the revolution without me--oh, I missed it? Shame. What's on the tube?"

Leave it to the current powers-that-be to set the course. Once again our videos are filled with bubbly boobs and asking asses. Remember the eighties? As the world turns. History depletes itself. Our ragtime mags are juiced with jugglies that make a man feel like all his little milk-white lovelies are ready to PROcreate. As if anyone were ever ANTIcreation.

Breed us some soldiers, babe. I'll post this pic of perky silicone on my magic headboard and make for the next war.

But I stray, to my dismay. I may be sayin' that sex ed don't breed sergeants, that abortion kills off those who will one day aspire to make their own abortions twenty-one years too late, that a lack of class may prove that jingoists cain't exist. Dream a little dream with me, boys and girls.

Keep the boys free to stare at what imagination lacks, and they will fight until the cows come home.

All I'm sayin'.

Z.

Tales from the Drip

Been reading like I've been fiending as of late. Like I don't know what else to do with myself. If your mind is doin' time like the rest of us campers, take a peek at "Farewell Waltz" by Milan Kundera. I've only just begun, as Karen Carpenter might have said, trying to make a joke concerning an embarassing situation, but even so... I am ri-VET-ted.

What to do, what to do? Your girlfriend is pregnant, your wife is at home. Sounds like real time to me. Why cain't Americans write like this no more? All I hear is the pop, pop, pippity pop of pop culture swarming around my armored head like an obstinant bee checking the back door. Lordy Lord, when does the persistence stop? Abandon all ye who enter here your televisions. If ye dare. That's the trick. Leave your habits at the hat rack and I promise a new world for you. Sing yourself a new song and all will be well. Ignore that persistent knocking on your noggin' and you will breathe anew.

Read a book. Take your best girl to the park. Commune with the meadowlarks. It's free. No need to pay for what the world wields you. The best things in life are as free as you want them to be.

Except water. Bastards make you pay for that too.

Word to the wise, make friends with that bartender. He'll sprinkle you with holy water until the night runs dry.

Tomorrow is a new thing, man. Keep it real... or to yourself.

Z.

Song Sung Blues

They done put his body out. Left it on display like El Che, you say. There is somethin' finally that brings us all together. The supreme need to bleed our tears upon the dead, to show how much we really care.

Did it once. Not sure if I was crying because my friend was dead, or because I was looking at that horrible cracked mirror again. The reflection of the end.

The Pope was a good ol' guy. Nothing truly separates us from him now. We're all of the "borrowed time" variety. Some of us eat healthy. The rest of us smoke. Let it be, let it be, let it be...

Z.

What Happens When a Pope Dies?

"When a pope dies, a formal process begins that certifies his death, carries out his funeral, and ensures that the selection of his successor takes place according to the prescribed procedures. The busiest person during this period is the camerlengo, or papal chamberlain, who functions something like a chief of staff.

The camerlengo's first task is to certify that the pope is dead. Traditionally, this has included tapping the pope's forehead, perhaps with a little silver hammer, and calling him three times by his first name. No response means that the pope is dead, but more precise medical equipment may be used today."

[Text nabbed from Encarta]

Blogasms

Boy howdy, don't the blog beat all? Brings us to the quiet congregation of our minds. Allows the useless bits of our existence to breathe bubbles in that clever shade of pink.

Down with the blog, yo.

What better tool to enhance our voyeuristic property with? Bored with the beat, my friend? Take a look at what happened to me today! Painted pretty pictures, I did. Drew blood at the precise moment. Found that vein.

Mama's got a brand new bag, and all that's left is to look inside.

Somebody call the doctor, I need me a spring-cleaning. Call it hoof in mouth. Riddle it with intoxicants and free it into the pulse of the air.

If you listen real close, you can hear the sound of someone rockin' out... of someone eating cereal... of someone washing their car... of someone writing their last will and testament... of someone calling their ex-girlfriend on the phone... of someone planning a murder.

It takes just a thousand miles to smile. Just a upheaval of discontented muscle and bone. The discontinuation of an argument between your face and your mind.

And laughing makes you live longer. And so I laugh like there's no tomorrow.

Hope you do the same.

Z.

Introducing... Our New Mascot

That's right. Here he is... The Philippine Tarsier.

Cute fella, ain't he? We think so. We like the way he sticks to people's heads & pretends he's a tumour. We find that adorable.

Be sure to make a contribution to the Philippine Tarsier Foundation on your way out. Otherwise mercenary tarsiers armed with machetes are likely to ransack your lunchbox & poo in your thermos.

R

Early Warning Signs

These some crazy boots I got on.

Let me break it down for the boys in the back. The Pope is dead and the mass is sad. Ain't nobody throwin' one single "Hooray! You're in Heaven!" parade. Ain't nobody suggesting that the better place is all it's cracked up to be.

Meanwhile, in the Jersey landscape, Mitch Hedberg is dead and ain't one candlelight vigil filling his grave with goodness.

I suppose the true measure of popularity is how many people cry at your funeral, and wish that you could remain alive for another one-hundred and fifty years, stuck to a tube that shoots grape juice through your veins.

"Hooray! The Pope will remain intoxicated like a free-form zombie so we never have to wish the horrible plague of Heaven's Gates upon him!"

Never has death been so popular. Not since Neil Gaiman has Death been so dang high profile.

Word to the miser… keep your gene pool in that fat wallet of yours. It can only help. At the end of the world party, your chromosomes can stand proud and declare that truly they helped bring this absurd herd to its meteorological end.

The peacock didn't know what vanity was 'til it spread out those beat-all feathers. And then it didn't care.

Good night, Mitch Hedberg, wherever you are.

Z.

Dogsights

So, yeah… A-Dogs got the good love to share. Peace be unto you and all that smack. No shoes, no shirt, no problem. Skin beat all. Just a naked exuberance or an effervescent gleam of pubic hair, one more shot for the road, and we got compliance, if you catch my drift.

Friends of the faithful, break out of that drag. It's the stairs that bring you down. Music don't have to be the quick flick of a wrist, send my ears to writhing one last time, send me on my merry way, oh… I remember that, wasn't that…

There was a time, back in the day of daily occurrences, when you had in your hands a piece of beat that made you want to hear it again and again, that made you want to hit that little rewind button and scream out of your car windows as you slid sweetly down the highway, that made you want to stay in this place a little bit longer, and suck up as much time as you could.

It slowed us down. Now we got just bang bang, look over here, check out this freeing sense of momentary lapse I just uncovered.

I miss the missing, no lie. Miss knowing the words to songs and not just getting the easy me-low-dee.

Ain't inferring that all this offering of Dognoise will change your mind 'bout things. Far from it. We're too far gone to enjoy a mile in favor of a minute. We just are poor lil' scooters holding out our hands and grasping for a little bit of air. Just trying to make a few waves in the puddle. Makin' noise for girls and boys and tottering off into the void, like slang that doesn't take its proper place in the scheme of things, and then has the honor of becoming a quaint little groovy thing to say in times of silent conversation.

Don't that beat all.

Power to the tadpoles. Grieve the ghosts. Anchor's away and all the blast that comes with it.

Z.