in case you can't read the poster, "If they think they can stop him they're dead wrong."
4.06.2009
A little film I wrote and directed...
in case you can't read the poster, "If they think they can stop him they're dead wrong."
3.21.2009
Peter on Dylan's Malibu Shit Hole
I'd agree with Idiot Wind being top 10. Except for Mozambique, that whole album is top 10. And yes, David Emminger is a fucking douche vomit. He should be begging Dylan to let him chew the cling-ons from Dylans majestically wrinkled ass's hairs. And to be allowed to give him a tight lip on the bungholio. I hope those guards violate Emminger in the outhouse.
I would love to know about this portable toilet though. Is it the plastic type? Can't he get a incinerator, or composter, or even have the guards dig a shit trench. That's what guards are supposed to do anyway. It takes two guards 4 hours to dig a 3 foot deep, 35 foot long trench with a mattock. You put the shitter on a sled and move it a couple of feet every few days. Shovel some dirt through the keyhole cut in the floor. No stench. In guard school, there is no toilet. The first thing they have to learn is how to dig a shit trench. And they don't start that lesson until some poor fuck asks where the toilet is. The instructor, always a former drill sergeant, is just waiting for that question, and the opportunity to scream, "DO YOU THINK THEY HAD TOILETS IN THE TRENCHES OF NORMANDY!?" And goes on to tell how they dug shit trenches within their own trenches in which they were taking cover from intense and constant enemy bombardment. They were so good at digging trenches deep enough to hide in, the secondary shit trench was almost incidental. Sometimes when an enemy mortar did land in their trench, it would blow shit everywhere - covering the sergeant and his men. Recounting this would send the instructor into a frenzy and the student guard would no longer need to shit. But it would be to late.
I would love to know about this portable toilet though. Is it the plastic type? Can't he get a incinerator, or composter, or even have the guards dig a shit trench. That's what guards are supposed to do anyway. It takes two guards 4 hours to dig a 3 foot deep, 35 foot long trench with a mattock. You put the shitter on a sled and move it a couple of feet every few days. Shovel some dirt through the keyhole cut in the floor. No stench. In guard school, there is no toilet. The first thing they have to learn is how to dig a shit trench. And they don't start that lesson until some poor fuck asks where the toilet is. The instructor, always a former drill sergeant, is just waiting for that question, and the opportunity to scream, "DO YOU THINK THEY HAD TOILETS IN THE TRENCHES OF NORMANDY!?" And goes on to tell how they dug shit trenches within their own trenches in which they were taking cover from intense and constant enemy bombardment. They were so good at digging trenches deep enough to hide in, the secondary shit trench was almost incidental. Sometimes when an enemy mortar did land in their trench, it would blow shit everywhere - covering the sergeant and his men. Recounting this would send the instructor into a frenzy and the student guard would no longer need to shit. But it would be to late.
2.22.2009
Fetish
Check out this blog. Someone's making a stand. Hipsters beware.
Welcome back sexy.
www.originalbeardo.blogspot.com
Welcome back sexy.
www.originalbeardo.blogspot.com
2.02.2009
What are these kids so fucking Scared of?
My six year old is always scared these days. "I'm scared, " she says, out of bed at 9:30 pm, the litany of bath, stories, bed, dishes, lunches almost a memory. A movie within reach, or a book, and sleep along with. "What are you scared of?" "I'm scared." Real cool and non-committal, because she knows if she says "monsters" I'll explain them away or give her monster spray or something. Just "scared," like, you know, why the fuck aren't you scared, dad?
M criticizes the blog from her sick bed. "Why did you change that entry about moving to Texas?"
The ex read the blog. I'd forgotten, I guess, that she read the blog and I wrote something, "harsh" as she put it. The funny thing is, I'd just "reconnected" with her through facebook. I'd never have heard anything otherwise. Fucking facebook. It was nothing, and it is nothing and I told her that but then I went back and read it with as much objectivity as I could summon. Somehow on this read I found the line about her to be "harsh." You can't listen to your critics, right? Well, I did. Whatever, it was a throwaway anyway.
Bread lines have started. It's going to get worse before it gets better. Of course it is. I know that if this city doesn't get an infusion of cash there will be a lot fewer housed and a lot less fed, period.
I watched the Grammy's tonight. And that was just pointless. I did enjoy Kanye and Estelle, and M.I.A. with the "Rap pack." The sound on my TV was going during Radiohead, and M was pretty anti Radiohead/Grammy at that moment, so we turned it off. Awards are just fucking nuts, you know? I like top ten lists myself. Like, Top Ten Migrant Workers of All Time, Top Ten Holocausts... you get it.
I have to give a shout out to my kids though and maybe an award because they are just totally cool, even though I started this blog kind of dissing them and the whole bedtime thing, I mean, it is kind of nuts... But anyway, they're hilarious and sweet and have weird and cool styles all their own, and they're good singers both of them, I've got to get them singing harmony cuz they can carry a tune, and they have good taste, like they like Dylan and Tom Waits and they really like my friend Kathy's new disc, they like Stephen Malkmus, they love old country music and 50's pop. Anyway, I'm pretty lucky to get to hang with them all the time. Even if I have to make their lunches when I'm ready to be in bed.
M criticizes the blog from her sick bed. "Why did you change that entry about moving to Texas?"
The ex read the blog. I'd forgotten, I guess, that she read the blog and I wrote something, "harsh" as she put it. The funny thing is, I'd just "reconnected" with her through facebook. I'd never have heard anything otherwise. Fucking facebook. It was nothing, and it is nothing and I told her that but then I went back and read it with as much objectivity as I could summon. Somehow on this read I found the line about her to be "harsh." You can't listen to your critics, right? Well, I did. Whatever, it was a throwaway anyway.
Bread lines have started. It's going to get worse before it gets better. Of course it is. I know that if this city doesn't get an infusion of cash there will be a lot fewer housed and a lot less fed, period.
I watched the Grammy's tonight. And that was just pointless. I did enjoy Kanye and Estelle, and M.I.A. with the "Rap pack." The sound on my TV was going during Radiohead, and M was pretty anti Radiohead/Grammy at that moment, so we turned it off. Awards are just fucking nuts, you know? I like top ten lists myself. Like, Top Ten Migrant Workers of All Time, Top Ten Holocausts... you get it.
I have to give a shout out to my kids though and maybe an award because they are just totally cool, even though I started this blog kind of dissing them and the whole bedtime thing, I mean, it is kind of nuts... But anyway, they're hilarious and sweet and have weird and cool styles all their own, and they're good singers both of them, I've got to get them singing harmony cuz they can carry a tune, and they have good taste, like they like Dylan and Tom Waits and they really like my friend Kathy's new disc, they like Stephen Malkmus, they love old country music and 50's pop. Anyway, I'm pretty lucky to get to hang with them all the time. Even if I have to make their lunches when I'm ready to be in bed.
1.23.2009
movie pitch
A semi-hip couple in their 30's, one child,
a Daughter
big dog, in Portland. He's out of work not looking:
Pretending to. She's tired and doesn't Trust him
anymore. She's Angry. She's at the end of her rope.
He's gambling, poker, Losing, of course. She's in
a car accident, she's Saved by a stranger. He
leaves the child with a crack addict to get in a game.
She sleeps with the stranger which is in itself an accident.
The crazy brother, speed freak in a Manic Phase
comes to town.
They've all been through this before but it's as if they've
no memory as they turn the corner of streets just travelled.
Only the girl Sees all the desperate patterns, see?
The beauty they possess in it's fleeting rawness
is Exposed. Their love, needy and halting juts out
like broken bones through a terrible wound.
They all 4 end up in a car or on a raft
On a pale lake, on a gray highway, sun drenched
or magic hour, it doesn't really matter anymore.
They're all of them alone in their own tragic way
but they're laughing, they laugh like this to the end.
a Daughter
big dog, in Portland. He's out of work not looking:
Pretending to. She's tired and doesn't Trust him
anymore. She's Angry. She's at the end of her rope.
He's gambling, poker, Losing, of course. She's in
a car accident, she's Saved by a stranger. He
leaves the child with a crack addict to get in a game.
She sleeps with the stranger which is in itself an accident.
The crazy brother, speed freak in a Manic Phase
comes to town.
They've all been through this before but it's as if they've
no memory as they turn the corner of streets just travelled.
Only the girl Sees all the desperate patterns, see?
The beauty they possess in it's fleeting rawness
is Exposed. Their love, needy and halting juts out
like broken bones through a terrible wound.
They all 4 end up in a car or on a raft
On a pale lake, on a gray highway, sun drenched
or magic hour, it doesn't really matter anymore.
They're all of them alone in their own tragic way
but they're laughing, they laugh like this to the end.
1.14.2009
wall to wall, old friend asks, what's your story this past 20 years?
Jesus Jonesy, I dunno. I moved to OB about when we lost contact, 88 I guess. Went to a lot of shows, surfed, drank too much, took a lot of things I shouldn't have. Or let's say, things I'll not take again anytime soon. I got into school, into a couple professors really, and thought I might go that way. But I started driving a cab right after I graduated, then I got a job at Bear Valley ski resort. After that winter, 92 I guess, I bounced around, landed in Oakland/Berkeley. Different apartments there for a couple of years. Worked in a coffee shop, construction, book store. I moved to Austin, TX. in 94. I was "writing a novel" and really just spinning my wheels. I was working for a disabled guy and living in this amazing house, digging Austin, travelling a lot. I was writing songs and would send tapes to a friend in Oakland, he'd do the same. He moved to Austin in 97 and we started a band. Disappearer. We made two CD's/ Recorded one with Frenchy from Sixteen Deluxe at the Bubble in Austin, the other we recorded in our living room. I was substitute teaching, grading essays for a testing company. The band decided to move to Portland in 2000. I went, though I knew it was a bad idea because a) I voted that we move to Brooklyn instead b) I was sleeping with the drummers girlfriend. It all comes out within months of arriving in Portland. Band breaks up. I start and lose a business on another persons money. I drive an ice cream truck, marry the drummers girlfriend, move back to San Francisco after 9/11. We both get social work jobs, she gets pregnant, we bounce around rental flats in the city, squeeze out another little darling in '03, get better social work jobs, get better at parenting, feel better about ourselves and the world, hit the seven year itch, go into counseling, things get better again and now we're just hoping our programs stay open and housing prices drop just a little more so that we can actually buy in SF! You?
1.12.2009
back door
I can see the falling
the sidewalk and sunshine
rehearse the old names
of the bars I would know
The Catalina
Mr. G's
The Hitching Post
Gentleman Jim's
My memory is a magazine trampled into floorboards
of rusted Dodge Darts
my medium is the plywood
of your staged photography
Where'd you go
behind my back the fresh air
the sidewalk here the sunshine
plays the jukebox
Whether I picked myself up ever and walked out of there
Or
someone I knew knew me and made sure I was safe
I can't recall
don't intend to
for now
I've still got a matchbook from the Arizona Club
must have left a few things there, too, in my day
the sun out the back door
or the black night could fall
and
while you played the jukebox I fell
the night fell
while you played
the jukebox
the sidewalk and sunshine
rehearse the old names
of the bars I would know
The Catalina
Mr. G's
The Hitching Post
Gentleman Jim's
My memory is a magazine trampled into floorboards
of rusted Dodge Darts
my medium is the plywood
of your staged photography
Where'd you go
behind my back the fresh air
the sidewalk here the sunshine
plays the jukebox
Whether I picked myself up ever and walked out of there
Or
someone I knew knew me and made sure I was safe
I can't recall
don't intend to
for now
I've still got a matchbook from the Arizona Club
must have left a few things there, too, in my day
the sun out the back door
or the black night could fall
and
while you played the jukebox I fell
the night fell
while you played
the jukebox
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