Whiskey Rebel's Diary

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since 05/28/01

07/02/08

I had one of those loooong dreams last night. I woke up a few times and even got up once to piss..but the dream restarted each time. The first portion of the dream I was hanging out with Gene Simmons at his home watching TV. It wasn't exactly the house you see in his show.

Not a lot happened. Gene warmed up to me as the night progressed and began enjoying my company. I was drinking at my normal pace in the dream and Mr. Simmons was surprised and impressed that I could imbibe and not turn into an asshole.

After what seemed like several hours of this, Buzz from the Melvins showed up.

He revealed that Gene was actually his blood relative. He was there to meet up with Gene's family to take them to see a new flea market he had purchased. We all went. We traveled in a train like vehicle that seemed like light rail.

Gene seemed kind of bored and kept to himself walking in the back of the group. His wife was very outgoing and friendly especially to Buzz.

We got to the flea market and to my joy it was loaded with old vinyl. I found an armload of albums that pleased me. Buzz showed me a pamphlet that was being handed out to customers showing a picture of him when he was young (12 or so) wearing a tie and sport jacket and a cornball sort of smile.

We all went back to the Simmons house. While we were in the train like transport I showed the records I had found to Gene. They included an album by the earlier Gene Simmons of Sun records and "Haunted House" fame. He was pleased to see it; yes he was very familiar with the other Gene.

We sat around uneventfully on a huge sectional sofa at Gene's place for a bit longer before I woke up for good.

What does it all mean? I'll be damned if I know. If you are big on analyzing dreams study it and fill me in.

The extended flow of the dream might have been inspired by a book I just finished for my correspondence Euro lit class. It was first published in 1959 by a French guy. It was written in an intentionally repetitive style that irked me and frankly I found myself waking in my chair a couple times with the book in my lap. The setting was a banana plantation filled with crawling lizards and swarms of insects. Ordinarily that wouldn't bother me, but I'm still getting over " the metamorphosis" by Kafka. Anyway, a guy crushes a centipede on the wall of the house in the plantation and the author describes it in detail a half dozen times. Later he spends 4 pages describing vividly a mad frenzy of various sized bugs circling a light.

That story seemed endless even though it was only 100 pages or so. Usually I would've read it in no time. FUCK. I still have another book on order by another French guy and an old depressing favorite "The Stranger" by Camus to re-read.

Man, these goddamned Euro's and their infatuation with misery, bugs, punishment and in general desolate lives may drive me yet to girly romance novels.

06/28/08

I'm in touch with a large number of new Fathers and soon to be Fathers. Since my son Elvis is now a full blown adult and has done well I and I brag about it here I get quite a few questions and comments from new Fathers.

Incidentally, I know I wasn't a perfect Father. I've talked Elvis about his upbringing quite a bit. I could've done a few things differently, but he and his wife feel like they have a lot in common due to the upbringing me and his Father-in-law provided the two of them seperately. Mothers are important of course, but it's more uncommon to have an uncaring Father than Mother though. New Fathers probably need more help.

First off, I'm amazed at how seriously most of the many Fathers I know take their duties. Most of them are hellraisers and misfits. They take their new responsibilty really seriously though. I'd name names, but HELL...YOU GUYS KNOW who you are.

The most important concept concerning parent-ship (PAY ATTENTION HERE!) can be explained by a chess concept; you need to maintain THE INITIATIVE. You don't need to know the rules of the game to understand this. You need to stay not only on top of the situation for the entire raising of your kid, you need to stay a bit ahead. The time to figure out where your kid is going to attend school is about 2 years ahead of time. The time to begin teaching them the alphabet and early reading concepts is BEFORE kindergarten. The time to instill values such as the greatness of being truthful is WAY BEFORE they enter the squirrly junior high school years. You don't wait until your Daughter is 14 and dressing like a Maury Povich dropout hooker to discuss why that's a fucked up option. You deal with it years before the problem tends to come up.

It's called maintaining the inititiative. Example: When your child is first learning to walk and grabbing everything in their path...is NOT the time to kid proof your house. Don't wait until they destroy something.You're supposed to be the smart one in the relationship when they're at this age. You should anticipate their stage of developement. I don't care if you're a raging daily alkie, you can still deal with easy stuff like this.

Don't be timid about wading in and changing diapers guys.

Why? With the expanded life expancy of our/your generation you can expect your child to pay you BACK IN KIND. Yeah, go ahead and giggle...it sounds funny, but there's a kernal of truth there.

If you change 'em today, they're gonna love you for it tommorow..because it's a way of saying you care. I love to describe to Elvis the messes he made. It's a way of reminding him that I WAS THERE in case he ever forgets.

As far as you folks with newborns to 2 year olds go, yeah. It's a lot of work dealing with them isn't it? A litmus test as to whether you're doing your job as a new parent is whether you are able to realize that everytime they cry they WANT SOMETHING. The next step is figuring out WHAT THE HELL THEY WANT. A bottle? A pacifier?

If you think for one minute that it's time to start spanking a baby because it's crying, you're WAY OFF BASE. Book up...or ask one of the kids Grannies. Learn what it is they want. I fucking guarantee you....if you maintain a forward looking initiative, anticipating what the kids gonna do, you're gonna be able to deal with a little crying and screaming with a sense of humor.

If you find that the kid is causing all sorts of problems eventually, at school for instance, don't give up...BOOK UP. Realize you are in part guilty for not anticipating a common "bad" stretch of behavior.

When you've got a bad situation though to deal with concerning a growing kid in school, whomever's fault it is...is secondary. It's up to you to save your kid the same way you would have from a moronic, well meaning relative tossing the little thing in the air when it was a baby.

Hey, at certain stages of his developement I was ready to wring Elvis's neck. It's gonna happen. There will be days they hate you; and you them. Whatever problems there are will be easier to deal with if you anticipate them. You're not really home free until they're married off and looking to have kids of their own. THEN they will understand the sacrifice you made and thank you for it. THEN you can shoot pool with 'em...or have 'em cook for you or just pamper you when you're sick from THEN ON.

YES my friends, bear in mind...the tables will turn one day...and YOU will be repayed for your efforts. You'll very likely get just what you have coming....

06/25/08

Elvis and his wife were by last night. We had an interesting discussion about what constitutes as "funny" according to Hollywood these days. They were told by friends that they just had to see "knocked up"..that it was hilarious. So, they rented it.

They got halfway through it before bailing on it and agreed it sucked.

Now, if you're 35, male and single, if you're not perceived as a mighty cocksman lots of folks are going to assume you are gay. Likewise, if you're my age and don't like a beloved example of pop music or an extremely popular movie they consider you over the hill. That your oldness doesn't permit you to "get it".

In my case at least, that's a load of crap.

I keep waiting for something to happen music wise. Popular music has been stuck in neutral for many years. My Fine Arts professor Morris Nelms explained to our class that there's a cycle dating back centuries. New things happen only every great once in a while. I keep waiting.

As far as films go, remember I'm the guy that refused to waste his money on "Borat".

I've seen enough previews for films including "knocked up" that let me know that there's a wave of 'em out there meant to profit off of the "Beavis and Butthead" generation. Now, I am to this day a big B&B fan. Mike Judge wasn't suggesting that people behave like them. But, somehow a huge number of juveniles that grew up on it have developed the notion that it's cool to be dumb. The proof of their existance is the fact that movies keep being made to suit them.

No, I AM NOT shocked or offended by the obligatory jokes about guys caught masturbating, people being caught in naked, compromising situations, Hollywood farts, etc.

THAT'S my point. It's not shocking to me. I consider it to be "crude light" film making.

It's all light fluff stuff, hardly more shocking than Letterman (who bores me). For christs sake, even the hippie generation had a battery of film directors that pushed the boundaries (John Water's for instance). True oldschool guys like H.G. Lewis and Russ Meyer make them look all like frigging prisspantses.

Do we dub these "knocked up" fan jerkoffs the "Jackass" generation?

Maybe. I don't really care what you call them. Why glorify them in any way?

I'm glad my son knows what the good stuff is when it comes to films. That's all I care about.

06/20/08

Now don't get me wrong; I'm not into sunshiney literature. Jane Austen romances leave me cold and bitter. I enjoy a nice sick novel, but the European's I've been reading for my final 3 hour class (I'm taking it as an internet correspondance course) are ruining my summer.

Don Quixote in his 1,000 page splendor was ok. Madame Bovarie was a cheating cunt and deserved her horrible death. Voltaire's "Candide" was nice as a devils advocate sort of philosophical book. I had to grit my teeth through Solzhenitsyn's "one day in the life of Ivan Denisovich..which is a grim look at life in a prison camp. Next I was disgusted by "the metamorphosis" by that nerdy little kraut Kafka. It's about a dude who wakes up transformed into a frigging cockroach. Tommorow and probably the next day I get to re-enjoy "the death of Ivan Ilych" which is about a guy dying a slow death from cancer.

I read it long ago for another class when my old man was dying of cancer himself. Since he was a huge Tolstoy fan I got him a copy of it at the time. For some reason he was comforted by it..although I'll be goddamned if I can remember why.

After that I get to tackle Mann's miserable "Death in Venice".

What the fuck is it with these guys? Must all Euro lit either be disgustingly proper or depressing as crib death?

I'm already sad and depressed enough most of the time as it is. How many people have these guys pushed over the edge over the years? Is that how we should judge this work?

This stuff makes Americans like Faulkner and Selby look like jolly optimists.

Call me a pussy, but it's no wonder I gave this sort of lit up when I was in my 20's.

06/17/08

I never did get around to commenting on anything concerning my trip to Vegas aside from my attending a Sex Pistols show.

I've flown a lot over the years for both business purposes and pleasure. Oddly enough, even though I've flown on probably 10 airlines at least, I've never had the pleasure of flying the friendly skys of United. Of course, 30 years ago they were considered a prestige outfit..and now they're a few steps from the fucking dumpster.

Man, they reeked of a business going down the toilet. Both of my flights were severely altered by reasons not clear to me. Flying out to Vegas my flight was delayed for an hour. I cleverly booked a flight that required a 3 hour layover in Denver anticipating that sort of petty shit. Dozens of my co-passengers missed their connecting flights though. As Kurt Vonnegut would say "so it goes".

United is pushing (perhaps as a last gasp strategy) an "economy plus" flight class that guarantees one (and I quote) "up to 5 extra inches" of leg space. The guy at the United check in desk offered to seel it to me for $70 and then upgraded me for free. It was great to actually have leg room. The second leg of my flight wasn't as comfortable.

Incidentally, I still had a 2 hour layover at the Denver airport.

What do you do with the hours? Well, in my case I needed about that long to find a stall in a mens room that wasn't soiled by 1) piss all over the stool seat 2) a huge puddle of piss on the floor my pants would be dangled into 3) a handicapped stall in which there wouldn't be two men one of whom was purched sideways 4) a semi-clean seat but no hook for my carry on bag 5) a pot load of disgusting unflushed, clogged turds.

Such a big fucking airport. Perhaps they should consider hiring a few janitors.

My flight home fell into place nicely, but it was also fucked up bigtime.

I checked out of the Sahara at 12:50 pm to meet a 1:15 pm shuttle to the airport. My flight was due to take off at 4:10. You need to allow extra time at McCarron airport in the tinsel fucking city. I get searched every damned time I travel through there. That's fine by me. I'd search me too.

My shuttle service didn't fucking show up. Another dude ( a shriner from Alaska!) was left in the lurch too, so we divied up the cost for a cab. I got adjacent to the United desk at about 1:35. After scanning my credit card into their selfserve machine I learned I was scheduled to fly out at 6:15 am the next bloody day!

Now, those of you who have witnessed my temper might expect me to flip. I didn't though. I was ready to rebook a flight much later than that the next day and head back to Terribles for another night of fun.

An airline employee saw my situation though and advised to immediately go to the customer service window. I learned by flipping my part time cellphone on that I had about 9 text and voicemail messages. Marla had gotten a message from the airline and booked me onto a 2:35 pm flight.

I asked the airline dude if I had time to make the flight. He thought I did. It was gonna be close though. Las Vegas isn't like your hometown airport at all.

I had to double time it through the security line which usually takes an hour, catch a short train to the "D" terminal, jog another 1/2 mile and arrive early enough to change the middle seat Marla left me swinging with to something I could fit into

I hauled ass, trotting around dumbasses on both sides. When the security point was in sight I began peeling down, off went my shoes, my bandanna, my official Whiskey Rebel vest. I wadded everything into a ball and double timed it..and was encouraged to see the line was very short for the first time in my experience.

When I got through the checkpoint, I redressed and booked for the train to terminal D. I arrived at D43 about 15 minutes later. They were already seating people on the flight. I explained my situation to a guy at the airline departure desk. He got me an aisle seat. OH FUCK. My first in 20 years. I ALWAYS book ahead and get a window.

Oh well. I ran back to the mens room and grunted out a few turd-flakes whilst calling Marla. I hope I thanked her whilst bellowing for a minute about booking me into a middle seat. I think I did.

It was the latest I've ever climbed onto a departing plane. The whole plane load stared at me as I walked the aisle. Oh well. I fit into the aisle-job and didn't need a seatbelt extension (a guaranteed humiliation on SW airlines).

My seat row partners? A couple of scrawny, thinner than girls goth guys. Yunno, Beavis and Butthead dress in trendy black effeminate clothing and fly to Denver. They both looked scared of me. That's a wise decision of their part. I wasn't in the mood for even a peep out of them.

Surprisingly it wasn't too bad a flight. I was "early" in Denver to meet my connecting flight, but I needed most of the 3 hours to find a semi-clean shithouse. I called Marla and apologized for my earlier bellowing.

I asked her why the fuck she hadn't called me to warn me at the hotel when the airline called. She informed me that the Sahara had sworn that I had left a 12:15 sharp. FUCKING LIARS.

Yunno, looking back I'm glad she didn't get through. Imagine how nervous I would've been if I knew I had so few minutes to make my flight, especially when the shuttle cunts didn't show up. Being very early saved the day...bear this in mind my friends.

Why did United cancell my flight? I'll be damned if I know. Their "economy plus" 9 row section was empty in my final flight home to Texas. They shooed people away from sitting in it for free though. Man, that is one airline going down the fucking toilet. I'll never fly with them again.

06/13/08

I hate crowds.

I hate people.

I avoid all situations in which there are so many people I am not in control of my fate.

I hate backing out of social commitments.

I like playing music live, but am not the proverbial "whore for a gig". It's got to be a worthwhile endeavor or, fuck it. If I've agreed to it though...I show up. That's been the case 99.8% of the time for 28 years.

The Hammerlock folks asked us to play a couple shows with them this week..well, of course they asked many weeks ago. We love them. They are our pals. We happily agreed to play a show in San Antonio.

Unfortunately, we parted company with our long term drummer Bobo (thanks for the years of service, man) and cancelled out a couple weeks ago. The show was rebooked for another venue and unfortunately cancelled at the last minute after Hammerlock was already in Texas.

They stayed with us Wednesday night. Well, Mikey stayed down the road with Mark. You get the idea. They stayed in Austin somewhere Thursday night. This was probably due to the sometimes funeral atmosphere around here since Marla's Granny died. We told them we'd see them at Emo's Friday night.

I knew there was a biker rally of some sort going on up there. I thought it was one of those "bikers for tards" sort of things. We found out today that it was a rally that was set to be attended by 200,000 bikers. Austin was closing off a huge swath of streets.

We wanted to go up there. The Texas Stud was going to be performing with another of his bands at Headhunters in the same vicinity. We had planned to drive Mark and a female pal of his there.

When we heard what a big deal this was going to be though, neither one of us wanted to make the trip.

Note to visitors from out of town: We don't live in Austin.

You have to deal with a crowd any night in Austin near 6th street, but we're used to that. We're not used to dealing with another 200,000 bikers.

If we were booked to play, we would've simply gone there really early like the Hammerlock folks did at the suggestion of the club (Emo's) and toughed it out.

Look, I don't care if it's 200,000 girl scouts or Phish fan imbeciles or what have you. If we're booked, I'll be there. If we're not...I want to avoid it.

I fucking HATE SXSW. Why?

I hate crowds. I hate people.

I just had a fantastic time in Vegas at a Sex Pistols show. Would I deal with the humongous crowd Austin expected to see them? FUCK no.

Sorry Texas Stud. Sorry Hammerlock.

Mark got a ride up there with other people. Hey, he likes crowds. He does pretty well with people. Not me..or, should I say us.

Marla just lost her granny...and was in no mood.

I hope the bands did well up there. I'm pretty confident they did.

It's a fine line. I enjoy going to MLB games where there are 20,000 people in a stadium biult for 50,000. Pack 40,000 in there and...FUCK. Get me out of there.

If we were booked to play in front of a crowd of any size...that's different. I'm a performer. I'd have access to performer facilities backstage. I could play a stadium tour (which of course we'll never be asked to do).

I hope the shows went well.

By the way, the motto of this rally was quite amusing: "no shirt, no shoes....no problem!". I bet the streets of Austin were crammed with bare tittie jiggling and drunken theatrics. I approve! Let the gutters run green with vomit. BRAVO. Just don't expect me to be there unless I'm booked.

06/12/08

My earlier posted description of the Sex Pistols show I saw in Vegas seems frigging bland upon rereading. I wrote it not long enough after hearing that Marla's good Grandmother (there is a bad one too) died at the age of 96. She was a damned good woman. She always had a beer ready for me in her frig whenever we visited her in Modesto California over the many years I've known her.

Even though her own Daughter (my Mother-in-law) despised me eventually, Ruth was still friendly to me. We once took her to Reno and Lake Tahoe and Virginia city and had a great time. She enjoyed being around gambling facilities. Evidently she was quite the "flapper" girl back in the very late 20's. Look that up if you don't know what the hell I'm talking about.

Bottom line: I never bellyached about going to see her, unlike certain other relatives. I'll miss her.

I had an uncanny related experience in an elevator at the Riviera over the weekend in which a woman who looked exactly like Ruth talked and joked with me for the duration of our ride. I held the door open for her, we chatted a bit more and parted company. I actually broke out in gooseflesh on the spot, the woman looked so much like Ruth. And then I get home and find out the news she is gone.

I'll add some more juicy details about the show at some point soon. Last night I was simply too stunned to do much more than go through the motions of relating basic data.

06/11/08

I was lucky enough to see the Sex Pistols last saturday night while I was in Vegas. That whole morning I had focused on chess and the tournament I played in, but when the evening came around I switched gears and got ready for the show which was held at the Hardrock Hotel.

I was supposed to meet up with drunk Ted and his friend Amy, but that never came about.

Instead I wound up alone at first in the back of the room filled with 1200 loaded fans wishing I had a drink.

FIRST bit of luck. A guy I remembered from Portland recognized me and bought me a nice glass of whiskey.

SECOND bit of luck. My pal Buzz from the Melvins happened to spot me. He and fellow Melvin Dale and Mrs. Dale drove in from L.A. for the event. What great company. I lucked out.

Mr. and Mrs. Dale waded into the audience for a position to watch the show from. I later learned they saw a guy whip out his weiner and piss all over the floor. Wow, what a devoted fan.

I sipped slowly at the glass of whiskey as the Pistols kicked off their show with a bar band modern country-ish version of "pretty vacant" followed by an authentic version. The band presented their old songs with a sense of humor, sticking very close to the original recordings 80% of the time. The exceptions were their lower tier of songs that could stand improving. "Belsen was a gas" for instance was delivered with a much improved 5-6 minute long arrangement.

Now, I've seen a lot of veteran bands try to perform their songs in a tasteful but updated manner. The Sex Pistols pulled it off as well as any band I've seen within memory.

John Lydon talked a lot to the audience, working them at times to participate by singing along. That's standard fare for many rock shows, but it seemed to work well in this case. The audience seemed to really suck it all up. They had a great time, clearly. He ripped into an over eager front of stage security guard yet declared that stage to be the property of the band just like my own band has many times.

The Pistols play medium tempo songs that ROCK. That's always been their forte. Steve Jones played the Chuck Berry leads you expected, Paul Cook and Glenn Matlock delivered the goods on drums and bass. The sound level was surprisingly not so loud that I even needed ear protection.

I bought a ticket and took a "bye" for one round of the chess tournament in order to see the Sex Pistols play their goddamned songs. They did exactly what they should do by performing their songs in a straight forward way. They obviously could have fucked around a lot given the fact that the bandmembers have made so much music over the years with different projects.

They just kept it simple though. Buzz later referred to it as the show of a lifetime.

He's right. This was the fucking Sex Pistols. Their gigs are as rare as hens teeth. They just "KISS" kept it simple, stupid. This was a goddamned great band doing eveything you'd hope they'd do..right. Damn, I hope I get to see them again sometime.

05/30/08

I've been busting my ass, getting ready for the chess tournament in Las Vegas that has become a real tradition for me..the "National open". The 2 best players in the U.S. will be there along with another dozen grandmasters at least. People come from all over to play in this event.

The event has a sentimental meaning to me in that I met one of my many sisters for the first time there one year.

This year, I get to meet drunk Ted in person as we meet up to go see the Sex Pistols; a band I thought I'd never see live. The number one band on my wish list to see.

To add to all this, a guy from Oregon will be there who wasn't so much a friend but a friendly rival who was there the first time I got high from weed. I slaughtered this guy when we played as kids. Wouldn't you know, the tables turned and he eventually became a powerful master while I retired for 23 years..a washout.

I'm pretty sure I was a real dick to this guy 35 years ago. I'll be going out of my way and grinning to make his acquantance now..not because he improved as a player, but because there's something perverse and magical about meeting people you knew way back when.

I only partially identify with the me from back then. I had to learn some stuff in my 20's and early 30's to become who I am today.

Marla reminded me tonight of a time when I was a real jealous dickhead in the 70's when she wanted to do something with co-workers. Well, I admitted I was wrong, but also that I wasn't even the same person. I won't be held accountable for stupid shit I did then, although I'll admit my own ignorance.

So, will this guy be a dick? Or will we have a blast, drinking to the long list of mutual acquantances in one of the Riviera casino bars?

Friend or foe? It's his choice.

05/29/08

There's not too much to say about the upcoming Presidential election. It'll be a battle between sheer, blind, idealism vs. comparative middle of the road pragmatism.

I don't love McCain, but compared to the slippery, happy face sloganeering Obama he seems like a standup guy. It's a sign of the collective stupidity of Americans that he's even in the race.

After examining the Libertarian candidate, I'm frigging embarassed that I ever registered as a party member. No wonder I heard him first on George Noory's whackjob talkshow.

This latest topical Obama pal Father Pfleger guy takes the fucking cake. How many levels can I hate this guy on? The Obama apologists rush to remind us that Pfleger isn't running for office...like Wright or Ayers. Or Farrakhan.

I really like the way a commentator expressed the Obama question; who should we believe he is..the man he claims to be..or the man his friends show him to be.

Politicians lie to survive. Obama is a politician like all the rest. His campaign battlecries are as empty as have ever been spouted.

Don't let your hatred of Bush drive you to support a manipulative, fad feel-good-word spewing, handsome collectivist. If McCain is bland oatmeal, Obama is cake frosting..or cotton candy. think about it.

05/26/08

I got to thinking about the things I did today and what it says about who I am.

I started out by reading a French novel from the early 19th century. The, I played and defeated my Fritz chess computer software (set on a "sparring" mode"). Next I turned on the TV and partially enjoyed a couple hours of pro wrestling (er, "sports entertainment"). After that I watched "baseball tonight", slapping my thigh with joy over the poor year the Yankees are having. I studied chess for a few more hours and then began cracking corporate beers open, guzzling 'em as I played my PS2 baseball game. My current PS2 project is a "career" mode for a great grandson of good 'ol Ty Cobb..a vicious and widely hated superstar athlete.

So, what am I? A high brow intellectual, or a low brow slob?

I thought about it and remarked to Marla how few people would enjoy..much less be capable of doing the combination of things I did today.

I know I'm an oddball. What I'm really interested in is exactly how I can use my ability to operate both in sophisticated and simple circles to some sort of advantage.

Will I always be an intellectual, cultural halfbreed in a negative, awkward, unproductive way? Or can I figure out some sort of way to make it all pay off?

I'm open to suggestions at this point.

One would think that I'd be able to find some sort of niche, but I haven't yet.

As it is I mostly just fail in both circles, disqualifying myself as belonging to either high brow or low brow worlds when I reveal my true ways.

Yes, I get attention for defying stereotypes, but I want more than that.

05/21/08

I finished off my first chess tournament back after my extended 8 month academic break with a game against a veteran expert who statistically (compared to my rating that is) should beat me 8 times or so out of ten at least. The opening phase of the game I outplayed him. I made a few 2nd or 3rd best moves in the middle game and found myself down a pawn. In the endgame I fought hard to try to give him fits. His hand wavered he told me later over a move that would have turned the tables on him. I lost an interesting enough game that afterwards a handful of strong players analyzed it. It's like getting a free lesson to take part in a rehash of your own game with stronger players.

Besides chess study I've been reading my eyes out of there fucking sockets. If you recall from earlier entries, I'm fulfilling an upper division course requirement for one of the final two hoops I need to jump through to get my degree with an internet correspondence course sponsored by the university. It's a European lit course.

The first book was a ballbreaker....Don Quixote, which weighs in at 940 pages.

I polished it off in a couple weeks. The next book is "Madame Bovary" which I'm about 80 pages into.

I'm a bigtime reader, so I don't mind digging through these "continental" classics. For that matter I've read a few of them over the years.

I just finished a course on the "American novel" taught by my across the street neighbor.

There's no doubt that in comparison to the Americans the Europeans from over the years are talented, visionary but depressing sons of bitches.

If I had my druthers, I'd read modern Americans like Selby, Der Buker, Faulkner, Sinclair Lewis and Hemingway. Their collective work seems jolly compared to the Europeans.

Flaubert who wrote "Madame Bovary" clearly hated mankind.

Kafka's "metamorphosis" is a terrifying tale of a poor bastard who wakes up in bed in the form of a giant cockroach.

Tolstoy's "the death of Ivan Ilyich" is the most depressing book I've ever read. It follows step by step the slow death of a poor bastard by cancer. My old man died in such an identical manner that I gave him a copy of the book to read for "comfort" in his final days since he was a big Tolstoy fan.

"The stranger" by Camus I'm very familar with. It's about as good a novel to shrug your shoulders and GIVE UP to that I've ever read.

Then there's a Solzhenitsyn novel tossed in.."one day in the life of Ivan Denisovich" which is undoubtedly an upbeat page-turner.

All kidding aside, I knew what I was getting into when I read the entire reading list; I've only touched upon the joy awaiting me.

These Europeons are all guys I can deal with. If there had been one frigging Jane Austen novel tossed into the pile I would've signed up for another course.

There's no doubt I'm gonna get depressed though, since I tend to immerse myself in books I read. Oh well...BBrrappppppppp...Euro lit is not for pinks and mollycoddles.

05/16/08

I won't make any friends from this post..but since when has that ever mattered?

It's bothered me for a long time that this town, in spite of the fact that its only reason for existance is the University is chock full of fucking Pure dee fucking morons.

Don't just take my word for this. My neighbor/Professor stated it well in front of a class..WHY are there no bookstores? None! In a college town. Why is it that every time he wants to see a film oriented towards people over 19 he has to drive to Austin or New Braunfels or San Antonio? People who graduate from the university LEAVE here and go somewhere they can pursue a career or at least a normal life. Those who remain are fucking rubes..or express it in a nicer fashion if you want: they're low achievers who are here because the demands of living in such a lowbrow burg are less than neighboring towns.

I've lived here wayyyyy long enough to realize that the "fixtures" in the local bars are dumbasses, into stupid shit that I don't fathom for a second.

No wonder Joey left. (Hi pal, how you doing?)

Don't get me wrong; I'm not any more into fancy pants "enlightened" types. I prefer being around good old blue collar types to allegedly witty, "Mr. and Mrs. Volvo" types (thanks Mike McNally)..but guess what? These underachieving rubes are too stupid to hang with honest blue collar workers for the most part.

For me, the epitome of local Hooterville-like ignorance is summed up by the TWO signs I've seen recently hanging on store walls referring to renting stuff for the local past time..tubing. You see, they don't refer to it as tubing..they have to alienate me FOREVER by spelling it "toobing".

All my loved ones and what few friends I have are into "tubing". To this very day, Marla has tried to talk me into going "tubing". We've had several house guests including Travis and Liza from Hammerlock make a point of going "tubing". Mark, Elvis and his Wife...they all do it.

Everybody but me. Why? It seems disgusting and nerve wracking.

Hey, I didn't get the neccessary white-trash gene. I could try to blame my adoptive parents, but I damn well know Bob Irwin would have loved to go tubing with 'em.

How could I "relax" in a tube floating around when surrounded by rubes? HUH?

Never mind all the floating scum and algae protected by local environmental nuts.

The potential floating human scum guarantees I'll never do it. I told Marla that for $10,000 in cash up front I'd try it for an hour.

The fact that they have to call it "toobing" means I've just raised my price. I'll need $25,000 for an hour of "toobing".

OK MARLA? Tubes are for "rubes"....but Toobs are for BOOBS.

You got that??

05/12/08

Fuck yeah..I got my grade report today. I wound up on the frigging Dean's list for the 3rd time out of 4 semesters. If I was just taking History and English courses I would yawn. I had to nail down "B's" in Physics and German to earn this one. I did. For me, to wrangle a "B" out of Physics for the second time was a real achievement.

The subject matter included electromagnetics and quantum nuclear physics.

Hey my friend, if you think these topics are easy even in a non-math pussy setting, you're full of shit.

I've amazed myself, once again.

It's easy to succeed in an area of your own choosing academically. Passing muster Dean's list style burying your nose in stuff that's not your chosen field is another matter.

My most highly esteemed Professor the State of Texas historian confided in me that he'd get a goddamned "D" if he was lucky studying Physics. Knowing what infamous universities he got through with distinguished honors I know he was just being nice, but he'd have to work his butt off.

I've got to admit, I have a lot of respect for people who come close to scoring 4.0 gpa's. I talked with one lady during finals week whom I would have classified as a simple blonde big-chested ditz. She had a 4.0 with a DOUBLE MAJOR going into the same Physics final I took. She already had some sort of job lined up in Washington D.C.

Man, she was hot looking and had a brain that is unique for women sporting her physical attributes. I've been really critical of women who look like her accusing lots of them of only attending college to earn an "mrs" degree. She certainly defies the profile. Good luck baby.

I played my second tournament chess game "back" from my self imposed 8 month cometitive break from the game. I played another 14 year old, this one has been red-hot lately. Nobody gave me a chance in hell of beating him. I felt like the Brooklyn Brawler booked against HHH. I played well and aggressively though. He was lucky I offered him a draw in an endgame in which I had an extra pawn. I had less time on my clock to use and didn't see a simple path to victory, so a draw was fine with me. He will be very hard to touch for even a draw by the time he reaches 16.

Next round I get an adult for a change. He's been rated an expert for about 15 years from what I can tell. I hope he thinks I'm a dummy and comes to the board lazy. I've played a couple blitz games against him and lost miserably, but that has no bearing on my skill playing slow chess. I hope he assumes it does.

A good strong foe to get me ready for the National open in Vegas.

05/10/08

Even though I consider it amongst the worst 5 hours spent in my life, it actually occupied about 3 hours according to Elvis. I was bullied, browbeaten into attending his graduation ceremony. One thing for sure is, when it's my turn to pick up the diploma later this year I'll demand that they mail it to me.

Take an arena that's built to hold 7,000 basketball fans and overload it with a no-limit crowd of absolute rubes..MORONS..with few rules to dictate their behavior and you'll see what I had to deal with.

Hey, I don't deal well with crowds. It doesn't matter if they're there to see music or a hokey, traditional graduation or what have you..they make me physically ill. They spent hours trying to crawl all over me from all angles.

When I was trying to back out of it Marla called up Mark and asked him if he could save the day and drop me off outside of the arena a half hour before the fucking soiree began. He did..and it surely minimized my pain and agony, but what I wound up with was worse than going to church or shoe shopping with my Mother and Aunt.

Besides people crawling all over me I had to deal with imbeciles nearby with deafening airhorns, cornball hicks bellowing "OWW!" for little reason, rubes toting platters of dripping, greazy nachos, angry boobs who were late due to their own incompetence who none the less blamed it all on the fact that the mini-world within the putrid arena didn't revolve around them and automatically pardon their mistakes.

Amongst hours and hours of discomfort I did manage to deliver one zinger, one perfect Al Bundy line. Trying to select a seat I climbed into the nosebleed region of section "e". I saw a seat placed so that if I sat in in my back would be to the wall..a frigging pillar. I began to sit in it..and a bloated woman with a hideous face stuck her puss in mine and bellowed "HEY! This seat's saved"!

This of course was nonsense. The printed programs specified that seats weren't to be "saved" by subhumans attending the ceremony.

Taking a visual whiff of this gal, I realized I didn't want any part of her. I clambored up over the row of seats on to another section. I bade her goodbye though: "HEY! I barked back at her..."I didn't wanna sit next to YOU anyway..!!"

It was only a brief moment of satisfaction, but it helped.

To think....the fucking disgusting twat was some poor students Mother..!

Eww......

Now you know why I don't go to any football games or arena rock shows down here.I'm a performer...I need to be backstage or miss the event.

05/04/08

I had a return to tournament chess after 8 frigging months of having to obstain from it in favor of my studies. I played a fast improving 8th grader whose rating has been going straight up for years. He's rated just a tad bit higher than me..for now. He's obviously being coached and coached well. His opening preperation was damned good. He worked his way to an advantage snapping his moves out in seconds.

I played very scrappy chess though tonight and fought my way back to an advantage with aggressive play. I made a couple 2nd or 3rd best moves and suddenly he had an advantage again. Then, I played another aggressive not very obvious move and wound up with a material advantage..a winning advantage according to my Fritz9 computer. I was running out of time on my clock though. I didn't really have time to spend 10 minutes looking for the perfect way to win.

No excuses though; I used up my time and that's the price you pay. He managed to pull out a stunning draw out of a lost position. I've done it before myself. It happens.

I didn't feel bad after the game. It was the last one of the night to finish. My games always seem to go long. That's good; it means you're not being blown out too often.

My opponent next week is another kid who I believe is an 8th grader. I beat him handily a couple years ago, but he's been on a rampage lately. He's beaten one of the strongest masters in the club twice in two months. I'm sure he'll be out for revenge.

I'm sure most of the club members might figure I don't stand a chance in hell, but I do. I love playing the underdog. He's another player who just snaps the moves out. The dumbest thing you can do is try to snap 'em right back at him. I'll play my own game.

My stamina was good considering I have an allergy reaction that is making me cough and has swollen one of my eye tear ducts up and a hunk of a tooth resting over a root canal from long ago dangled by a thread all game.

Big deal. It's not a game for pinks and mollycoddles best stick to online poker.

05/01/08

Oh halle-fucking-luyah, oh halitosis fucking booyah. Imagine the sound of 1,000 damp asscheeks being slapped in rhythm in a bevy of shower stalls. This is the backbeat to my completion NOT just of a 2 year academic program, but to the ultimate rectifying in a new millenium of a poor course of student behavior initiated 33 years ago as I first lurched my way into the University of Oregon.

I was an eager amateur imbiber and stoner then and could not plot and follow a strategy to get me through the rough moments. The middleaged, veteran functioning alcoholic me has intellectually kicked the ass of the pink cheeked, bitter, confused jackass from Beaverton Oregon.

Let the bottles be hoisted in my honor. Even though you may have slaughtered countless billions of braincells in your adult life, you can still cling to hope upon my example that you can top your younger self in an intellectual pursuit.

I've personally hoisted our pal Mark's half gallon of Maker's Mark that he left on our bar after a band practice. As Rachael Ray would say: "Yummo".

As I sat recovering from the final German class of my life I pondered, what would the me of 1975, failing German, failing astronomy, confused, unable to realize what he was doing wrong; what would he think if he could look in a frigging crystal ball and see some older version of himself finally, FINALLY in 2008 figuring out how to pass foreign language and science courses?

I don't completely identify with that guy. He was too cocky, too loud in proportion to what he knew. Too influenced by friends. Too much in the orbit still of his parents to figure out his next move.

Beyond the ivy halls of academe, I could kick his fucking ass across the chess board too for that matter.

What it all comes down to, is the fact that idealism and youthful over confidence is TRUMPED by good old fashioned common sense. There's not much reason to expect that 19 year olds should be able to top seasoned, well prepared, strategic middleaged people in any field of endeavor. In a perfect world of course. Don't expect your lazy parents who have regressed philosphically since 8th grade, dropped anchor musically with acts like the Doobie Brothers and haven't read any books besides those sold in airport "top 20" displays to follow my example.

You people entering middleage, take my word for it or suffer the conseqeunces; don't be fooled by simplistic, dumbass conventional wisdom. As the old saying goes: youth is wasted on the young. In spite of current pop culture dictates, there is no reason to believe you shouldn't be peaking in your middle age. I'm not talking about penis extensions. I'm saying, develope your brain..use the wisdom that naturally comes your way with all the mistakes you make early in life.

Remember: You can't be a legend without some grey in your temples. Uurrp.

04/29/08

So, tomorrow is the big day. I've already been awarded another great certificate on stage and have an A in my American novel class and have done an entire semester of A work in my Public History class..meaning that even if I fall to a B in the takehome, easy final I'll get an A in that too.

Tomorrow is the last day for my two toughest classes intellectually speaking. Yeah, yeah..my Communications course was a humiliating 4 month trail of tears and glimpse into the dark side of academic political correctness, but I always knew I'd get a decent grade.

I'm finishing my second and final physics course. It's been rough as hell, but you earn a degree in large part due to your ability to get through required courses in subjects you're not strong in. When I see how many students are working on bullshit degrees in non-intellectual subjects like Communications and business (which is no longer considered a serious subject by many thinkers who see it as "buzzword studies") and special minority group and gender p.c. studies, I'm glad of the fact that these cakewalk degree under achievers have to buckle down and work their way through something they may find tough.

I'll probably only get a C in physics..maybe a B..but unless I really fuck up ( and I just might ) I'll get the requirement over with. I'm very interested in the concepts, but have no knack for it whatsoever. I don't know why.

The big watershed moment in my life that takes place tomorrow is my completion of 2 academic years of German. The reason I never finished college long, long ago is the fact that I washed out of German. Foreign languages don't agree with me. I've never really enjoyed my two years of being back in college because I've always had the possible failure in German hanging over my head. I didn't really know if I had it in me. I should be getting a B..although upon looking at my grade record earlier today I realize I'm not far from a sympathy A.

I've sweated blood practically to get through German.

And it all ends tomorrow in a presentation of the fairy tale I wrote with my two crack partners who translated. I think we're acting it out with cat sock puppets and falsetto voices.

I actually plan to find a quiet corner or clump of shrubbery after the class is over. I could find myself misting up..and I don't want to do so on a student shuttlebus. Why? Not because classes for me are 99% over, but because I completed 2 years of German. The rest has been relatively easy.

As I mentioned, I still have to complete a solitary take home final in my strong subject by next week...but it's pretty well over for me tomorrow.

Next Fall I have to take a single credit hour Physics lab in which there are no lectures or books, just blowing soap bubbles and rolling balls down ramps and playing with balloons. It's one afternoon per week. To satisfy my other final requirement I'm taking a correspondance English lit course from the university. I'll read 10 books by the likes of Camus, Tolstoy, Cervantes, Kafka and others and complete two assignments which I'm sure are papers. I won't even see a human being in the entire process. Just 3,500-4,000 pages of reading which is a cakewalk for me.

Then, my diploma will be mailed to me unless I'm talked into graduating publically.

I'm hoping this diary can get back to normal after tomorrow. It's been a couple years of sparse posts since my mind has been on other stuff.

Urpppppppp.....

04/26/08

Here you go, by request. This is my swan song assignment for my German classes. A real, bona fide German fairy tale. I have a couple partners who'll likely edit it a bit, so I figure I'd post it in english before they get ahold of it. Note: many of the things about the story that may seem awkward to you are simply common elements of the art form. Urp.

The two Cats and the Pig faced Catamount.

Two cats named Mr. Jinx and Dixie lived in the yard of a large house. Mr. Jinx was an orange cat and Dixie was black. They were both a bit crazy. The people who lived in the house were generous and thoughtful. They provided the cats twice a day with his own bowl of catfood, catnip and beer.

There were few mice or snakes to chase from the yard, or other work to do. Twice a day the cats would eat and drink until they were very full and crazy from the catnip and beer. Then they would take long naps.

One day at feeding time, Dixie the cat approached his bowls. He saw that they were tipped over and empty.

"sad I am, mad I am

Meeew meew

Who eats my food

on their flesh shall I feast!"

Meanwhile, Mr. Jinx approached his bowls and saw that they too were tipped over and empty.

"sad I am, mad I am

Meew meew

who drinks my beer

their blood shall I drink!"

The cats began crying loudly together.

"sad we are, mad we are

Meew meew

Whoever gets happy with our catnip

Will be sad and dead Before the day is through!"

Mr. Jinx and Dixie talked together, trying to figure out who the thief was.

Suddenly, they saw a fluffy white neighbor cat named Cuddles strolling along in the yard next door.

Whereas Dixie and Mr. Jinx were mean cats, Cuddles was always happy and friendly.

For this reason, the cats did not like Cuddles.

Mr. Jinx said "Cuddles looks a bit fat today, doesn't he?"

Dixie said "fat and happy too. I don't see anyone else around, so he must be the thief.

And they cried:

"sad we are, mad we are

Meew meew

But happy we shall be

When our deadly work is through!"

The two cats fell upon the little white pussy cat, dragged him to the ground and plucked his eyes out. Then, they ripped his throat open and drank his blood. Next, they ate his flesh until there was nothing but a pile of bones laying in the yard.

The cats licked their paws after the bloody feast.

They were very happy now and sang together:

"Now, we are not sad.

Now, we are not mad

Meew meew

The thief is dead

A happy meal we have had

But even happier shall we be

If catnip we have for our desert".

The very full cats walked slowly to their dishes to see if their masters had brought them their other daily portion. They could not eat another bite, but wanted catnip to make their naps better.

When they got to their dishes, they saw that they had been filled again.

But to their horror, they saw a huge creature ten times their size eating and drinking from their dishes. He had the body of a panther but the face of a pig.

The cats screamed together:

"Meew meew...who are you?"

The ugly beast, turned to them and belched.

"Hello fellows. I am a pig faced catamount. As you can see, I love to eat catfood and drink beer and get happy with catnip. This is just an appetizer though for a big fellow such as me.

For my main meal I prefer cats. Nicely stuffed fat ones".

The pig faced catamount sprang at them. Since they were fattened from their own meal, it was easy for him to snap the two cats necks with his powerful jaws. He settled into the finest feast he had eaten in days.

04/22/08

I know a lot of people will look here to confirm the fact that our buddy and ex-bandmate Emilio died yesterday in a motorcycle accident (on his way to work I'm told) down in Jacksonville Florida. I've heard it from two sources..it's unfortunately true.

Marla and I are stunned; he was 28 years old, a long time husband and a proud father of 3.

I've never had the pleasure of meeting his wife or kids. They must be devastated. We've thought about them all night.

I'm gonna say a few things about Emilio that need to be said, in spite of the fact that I'm not sure how much of it his kids are aware of.

Don't get me wrong, I have nothing but good things to say, although they show a side of him he probably was glad he outgrew. At the time Marla and I met him he was a 17-almost 18 year old. He had a horrible childhood complete with stays in rotten foster homes.

He rode with Marla, Elvis and I to the C.O.S. supershow held in Lawrence Kansas.

He annoyed the hell out of me frankly, for reasons that we eventually laughed together at. Every gas stop he seemed to have to tell everybody he saw he was in a band. He was constantly trying to rush our trip along so he could back to his girlfriend. He was ungracious and never thanked us at the time for the ride. Well, that's par for the course for an 18 year old, eh?

The difference between him and a lot of other jerks who I've eliminated from my life is the fact that he immediately made something of his life. He joined the navy.,..which did him a helluva lot of good. he started a family and immediately lived up proudly to the responsibilities.

A few years down the road, he made a big production out of apologizing to us for his behavior as an 18 year old. He didn't have to; but he did. We happily befriended him as a guy who had made a good life for himself. Over the years he showed up at a few shows of ours here in Texas and we emailed back and forth.

Believe it or not, he took up chess in a big way. He emailed me a game of his he played on line with some questions. I was proud to see him playing the old Robatsch defense that I used as a younger man. I was surprised that he was as accomplished as he was...and proud.

The last email between us was a year or so ago. He asked me for clarification of some sort of rant I had made about religion. I don't think Emilio was a heathen like me. That's fine of course. We all have to make our own decisions.

I've thought about him quite a bit recently. It seemed about time he'd leave the service. I hoped he'd move to Texas, maybe Corpus where he was once stationed.

Bottom line, I admired Emilio for turning his life around and creating the family he always craved. He became a man's man. A role model.

I want to publicly salute our old pal Cosmo for taking interest in Emilio's life when he was at that crucial, awkward, age. I know he's taking it hard. We exchanged brief emails. Cosmo and Emilio were better than blood relatives..

He was a good family man, a proud member of our armed forces...and we'll miss the hell out of him. Adios Julio Justice.

04/21/08

Again, it's a small, small world. Whilst loading up to go to our show last night in San Antonio I happened to yak with my English lit Prof. who lives across the street. I pointed out what a massive load of cans he was toting out to be recycled.

I told him we were playing music in S.A. and he asked about what sort of music we played.

I already knew since he was from North Carolina and attended a lot of music shows in the 80's and early 90's that it was a strong shot we'd know some of the same people.

Sure enough, he's quite familiar with our pals from Antiseen. I informed him that Jeff has stayed in our home right here across the street from his home.

He's evidently got a younger brother who actually is a musician and likely knows even more people we know, such as the infamous Todd Goss from the tri cities area.

There are limits to how familiar you can get in a student-Professorial relationship without violating all sorts of codes. One things for sure, once the semester is over in about a week we'll be legally able to really talk about this shit.

We're having a sort of open house night and day of mayhem to celebrate Elvis earning his degree on the 9th of May. The theme I have dictated is B+B+B...beer, bourbon and beef...with another "b" blasting rock and roll as an accompaniment. I may invite the Prof. over for a couple, although I sense he's a true recluse whereas I'm one by situational neccessity.

UUrrpp...Anyway, good story, huh? Long live Antiseen.

04/19/08

I'm worn down, but still am looking forward to playing tomorrow night in San Antonio. I knew when we accepted the booking for the show what sort of mood I'd be in...or I guessed...and I guessed right.

Only one week + one sick, added day and my classes are over.

I got a myspace message from my Uncle and Aunt about their Grandson who lives in Portland and is in a band and wants to get in touch. I want to help him...he's my own flesh and blood. I'll likely tell him to do everything opposite of the way we've done things if he wants to "succeed". On the other hand, if he wants to piss people off (which I dobut..but you never know) he should follow in our footsteps. I like the thought of a cousin of Elvis's (I guess) making racket in some of our old haunts in stinky, worthless, Portland.

Uhh.....Uurrppp

04/15/08

Three more reasons why I have the bestus wife going.

1) I just watched Hillary suffer through 4 sips before knocking back a campaign trail whiskey shot. Marla prides herself on banging 'em back without chaser (like some of us pussy men). Actually, drinking isn't a contest..I nurse my booze on occasion..which translates to whenever I feel like it. Still, Marla showed that Clinton bitch, huh?

2) Marla made the last trip to the liquor store. She returned with two large bottles of Beam instead of the one I always buy. Why? She chalked it up to common sense; hey, the sign clearly said you save $2 if you buy two.

3) She pointed out a commercial she saw that seemed to answer one of my longterm gripes. We're a Scott tissue family. Charmin' wads up in little balls in my arse. It's a hideous product. I've noticed lots of people who host us seem to stock up on it as a superior product, but it's anything "butt". She said the commercial she saw showed a cartoon bear couple in close proximity to a wooden outhouse. The Mama bear had to get out a vacuum cleaner to run over the Papa bear, cause Charmin's "normal" brand rolled up in little balls in his bum. This was a tacit admission that Charmin' needed to deal with the problem; they've henceforth introduced a new stronger asswipe that doesn't disintegrate in male bears assholes..and presumably mine.

Marla pointed out that I WAS RIGHT ALL ALONG and Charmin' must have an employee monitoring the net who read my analysis at some point.

Thank you honey.

04/10/08

Wow, after last nights bleak perspective things have picked up in two ways. First off, after almost 2 years of effort we have convinced Texas State to accept my math credits from long ago meaning I don't have that hanging over my head. I've been waived.

The other thing seemed too good to be true at first. It popped up on my screen since I happened to join a website a month ago.

I'll be goddamned if the Sex Pistols aren't playing in Vegas the same weekend I'm already booked to play chess there. John Lydon hates ticketmaster's system almost as much as I do. He arranged a pre-buy program for members of his website that was to take place at exactly my hour of wakening today.

It seemed too easy, but..goddamn it; I got a fucking ticket to see the bastards in a club room of the Hard Rock cafe hotel. The capacity has to be the smallest they've played in a long time (1400) in the US. It seems it's a warmup show for a summer tour outside of the U.S.including a date in Russia.

I've thought for a long time I'd go to my grave without seeing these guys play.

Well, yes I need to accept a half-point "bye" for one of my rounds of chess.

The price is a few bucks less than the Doo-wop review we saw at the Sahara last year.

The tickets will go on sale for real Saturday and will quickly be bought up by scalpers.

Thank you John Lydon .com for giving a shit enough to get some real fans a chance to buy some tickets.

I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop with all the bad that's happened around here, but it hasn't yet.

Unless they cancel, I'm gonna see the Sex Pistols in my favorite city in the U.S.

And I won't spend a penny of travel expense except maybe a cab back and forth.

One, two three......UUUURPPPPPPPPPPPPPPPP......

04/09/08

Happy birthday to me.

Marla and Elvis and his wife all did a good job on it; I ate lasagne with great venison sausage in it. We had great home made chocolate cream pie. We listened to magnificent country music.

In the end though, it didn't pull my body and mind together.

I'm like a distance runner who may or may not collapse in front of the finish line.

My latest torment is a mysterious rash..is it from stress? Who knows. I never, ever get rashes.

It's hard to keep the end of the semester within sight as a reasonable, attainable goal. Is it worth all the physical and mental pain? Of course not.

I'm drifting..and more in tune with wondering what'll happen next to stop me. My work is slipping. I'm forgetting why I'm supposed to care.

Birthday my ass.

04/03/08

I get sick and tired of railing about my various injuries and illnesses here, but sometimes have to..particularly when something unusual comes about as a result.

Over the last week I've sufferred 5-6 days of a fever accompanied by a reaction to a brand of deodorant that left me with a couple horrid pus spewing wounds..one in each underarm signifying a symbollic crucifixion.

I took 3 tests with a bit of a high temperature including one following a bout of insomnia that left me with no sleep on a night my body really needed to recover. That particular no-sleep, feverish state test is going to result in the highest test score I've gotten for the class (Physics).

Is it worth it? NO. But, that's the way the cards were dealt. You "play with what you have" is a concept used by both poker and chess players.

Going into the 2nd feverish day/night I decided to try to direct my locking groove fever dreams constructively. That worked pretty good. Over the next few nights I received "advice" from my brain on matters ranging from genealogical questions to ideas for songs. Even though you're contorted into some painful, sweaty, condition with blood and pus forcing the bandaids off your wounds in order to drip drip drip onto the sheets leaving you in the morning stained in sticky brown goo, you may as well make the most of it.

I certainly am not the first to try to direct feverish dreams; to my knowledge plenty of American Indians (including the ones who probably used the hill our house is on for a cemetary) deliberately induced fever to receive vision such as for coming of age rituals for young men.

Correct me if I'm wrong.

When I was 15, I fell into a fever after spending an afternoon experimenting with a saxophone fingering chart. When I came out of it I picked the thing up and played every note of the chromatic scale over and over accurately. I already knew how to play a couple other woodwinds...but the Saxophone is the one I still can play easily to this day. I never received any other lessons or instruction.

Am I trying to be some sort of super optimist here, trying to find a good side to one of the most fucked up weeks of my life? Hell no. If there's a pie cooling on the windowledge and you're the one standing there, you might as well snag it.

Another bit of insight coming from my fevers stems from the fact that we're dealing with the final, final details of the long time coming JOBJUMPER 2nd printing.

My fever brain displayed in simple fashion the connection between that original suffering bastard Job from the bible and the word "job". Interesting, isn't it..how Job's children died, he lost all of his wealth, received a full coating of boils similar to my own sores to mention only a few of the torments he went through, but HE NEVER had to face a Monday morning job interview/application itinerary. Still, give the man credit..his name has been used for a long time now in connection with the common mans most common means of suffering.

03/30/08

I'm worn out from my school workload. I've got many aches and pains and symptoms including a poisonous puss squirting mystery wound and could sit here and bitch for a couple pages, but I'm not going that direction.

Even though it was one of those rare nights in which it took 3 or 4 beers for it to taste right, I kept at it and am fortified enough to take care of business here.

Tomorrows a big day; even if Ric Flair wins his match at Wrestlemania, he's clearly about to hang it up. I've read comments from a couple other people on the net declaring it the end of an era. Ok, there needs to be an official line in the sand drawn and for me tomorrow will be it for Flair. The last song in his set; any more can be classified under encores.

For me, a fanatical appreciation of Ric has always been a good way for someone to gain at least casual acceptance.

The other side of the coin is the fact that somebody who goes gaga over Chump Hogan keeps me at arms length by doing so.

Heel wrestlers were (as I've written before) my first role models. The line between heel and fan favorite has distorted over the years thankfully, along with my appreciation for them.

I've had lots of favorites over the years from other sports including Bob Gibson, Orlando Cepeda, Bill Laimbeer, Charles Barkley, Bo Jackson, John Kruk and lately Tiger Woods. Ric Flair means as much to me as any three of 'em combined.

Why? What a combination: dress like a peacock to piss off the rubes, win by any means possible and then go party til dawn or later. And the music. Remember, Elvis Presley used the same theme at concerts, who but Flair could get away with it and make it as much his?

I brought my son up to appreciate the Nature Boy. I took him to see him wrestle live when he was probably too young to remember. Oh well, my heart was in the right place. I was swollen up with pride the day Mr. Flair came to my workplace at Tower records for a signing and I got to take Elvis up to shake his hand with a few other employees who were known to be absolute Flair admirers.

Later the boy showed he learned his lessons well. Our "The Nature Boy" song lyric was written by him. If you get a hankering to listen to it today or in the days to come Itty has it up at our myspace "rancidvat2" site. It took us about 4 times as long to record and mix because of the samplings of Mr. Flair we used.

I emailed Dave from the Wrestler Observer a couple years ago and asked him how I could get a copy to Flair. He offered to hand deliver one to him...but I didn't follow up.

Why? I dunno. I'm very natural with most famous people but terrible about approaching a few, and he's one of them.

Yeah, I saw him wrestle live many times over the years. I took Marla more than once. Get this: she shares the same 2/25 birthday with him.

I couldn't handle the way he was treated during his absolute worst years in WCW. Elvis and I both deliberately avoided watching him being a company man and sacrifice his self respect in the line of duty. We couldn't take it.

Vince has been much better to him, although I wish he had been pushed more of course. At least he was kept on the payroll through his 50's!.

I've talked to many people over the years who have first hand accounts of encounters with Mr. Flair. I can't recall hearing of a single instance in which he acted like a jackass. That's in spite of the fact that he used to have to out drive fans who hated him in small towns in the south often. I know of a man who launched a beer bottle through a big screen TV out of hatred for Flair. It hasn't all been parades over the years. He was paid to sell tickets..and that meant getting fans livid with rage during much of his career.

People booed the living hell out of him at cards I attended in Seattle, L.A. and Portland long ago. If you weren't there to see pissed off audiences in the 80's, you really missed something. Every night I attended cards in Portland for instance, security guys had to deal with out of control fans who often brandished weapons or foreign objects.

Flair was the uncontested King during these years from my standpoint. During periods in which he dropped the NWA title, things seemed very strange. It was HIS belt. It didn't look right on Dusty or Ronnie Garvin.

If you got to meet Flair over the years or watch him wrestle live or frequently on pay per view, Bravo. You had your brush with greatness. If you're one of those nostalgic, campbell's soup slurping, thumb sucking, Hogan fans, glorifying cartoon "wrestling"...you can piss off. I'm sure you'll be applauding Cena tomorrow.

We grown up Flair fans will be knocking back double shots like I am right now in Ric's honor! Thanks man.

03/25/08

OK, all of you squat to piss myspace sissies have a good laugh at my expense; I looked at the site created by Itty and was amazed how many people I've lost touch with over the last couple years have been trying to get in touch with us there.

I chalk up at least 3 quality acquantances that I've been connected with again thanks to your fucking myspace.

It's not MY fault that so many people prefer to communicate with us using a site that befits teenage girls.

I can only piss and moan and kvetch about it for so long. THEN it's time to shut up and face up to checking messages there every now and then.

Once again, thanks Itty.

The last couple days have been a real rollercoaster ride academically. I got a frigging "30" on a physics test. Luckily, there are 12 and it will be replaced by my final test grade but still, that sucks and is very disappointing.

On the good side I've maintained a "B" average in German this far, I got an "A" on a paper for my English lit class taught by my neighbor (comparing Brando and Dean to charachters from Hawthorne and Cooper) and am scoring a high "A" in my public history course.

Best of all, I got a notice in the mail today: for the 2nd year in a row I'm going to be awarded the "achievement in History" award at a big ceremony. Last year I thought it was a possible fluke..this year I know I've fucking earned it.

Maybe I can beg Mark to show up and take pictures since he's a student now and knows his way around. It may be the last academic award of my life. My closest loved ones don't turn out to things like this. They take certificates for granted.

Oh well. I know I've paid for it in blood, pain, lack of sleep and repeated humiliation. Nobody but me gives a rats ass, but what the fuck. I'll enjoy it anyway, I'm a fucking LONE WOLF....wahOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.

03/20/08

BEST FAN MAIL IN YEARS!

We got booted off of myspace long ago; of course it being a chickenshit site, we were never given anything more than a vague reason, but what the hell...Marla and I HATE myspace. (I might add, our Imac locks up trying to log in. Our pc does too most of the time).

The irony is, we actually went through the motions and attempted to not go out of our way to offend anybody or break any rules.

Our good pal Itty has set up a nice new page that is now complete with music, 369 friends and email and photos aplenty. This is all fine by me, as long as I don't have to deal with it. Beer and Bobo and Mark are all regular myspace users..they love it. GOOD.

They'd be bored by my profile and "friends" at Chessgames.com...that's where I hang out and communicate.

I finally visited it for the first time tonight and answered a few emails.

The absolute best piece of communication came from some jerkoff kid, 17 years old who sent us the following piece of hatemail 7 months ago.

It was titled: "I hate rednecks"

"hows yer sister/wife you nasty inbred people.you say your punk rock? well im sorry, punks arent dirty

smelly reneck cousin kissing retards"

I have not bothered to change the spelling by this young genius, by the way (HELL, I rarely bother to go back and check my own in this diary).

This seems like the sort of thing that SHOULD get you kicked off of myspace, doesn't it? I eagerly clicked on the little pinprick's handle to see if his page could be brought up...certainly he didn't limit his hate spiel to us, some band that's never even performed in his town. My guess is he's sent a slew of it out. So, WHY IS IT JUST US getting the boot? Why not him?

Of course, his page came right up. He last visited his page in the last few days.

This is the sort of little darling who lives and dies for his myspace page.

I'm tempted to ask Itty how to file a complaint against this kid.

But, really...I am thankful for the cliche spouting, unoriginal, dull little puss. It's people like him who have fueled the band this long. Our band engine runs on pure 100% SPITE.

Hatemail is something a band simply can't buy. You can try all you want to offend people and most of the time you'll just be ignored. You've got to have a really deep loathing of humanoids to do what we have done for so long. Email like that perks me up. I feel better just thinking about it than I have all day.

I'm tempted to delete this entry, make a mental note to buy Itty a bottle and thank him...and go back to gossiping over chess opening theory.

Or, I might go check the mail there once a month in hope of more inspiration.

HHmmmm...

03/19/08

I am sad, very sad sitting here thinking about the passing of one of the great minds of professional wrestling: Mr. Gary Hart. A fellow Texan.

A man of true greatness has left us. I will drink a couple too many shots at least sitting here and suffer tomorrow, but if anybody says "Phil, what the hell is wrong with you today" I'll tell them that one of the greats is gone...and I'm gonna salute him.."AWHOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO"..and if they don't understand what in the hell I'm talking about they can kiss off.

You won't see any mainstream media coverage of his passing, unlike the finger pointing associated with the death of some steroid freaks with comparatively little understanding for the biz and talent and shall I add COOLNESS.

That's OK, the people who matter know what he did.

I don't know enough frankly about Gary's behind the scenes booking work except from what we are told in the great WCCW documentary from a couple years back. Likewise I know little about his work as a wrestler prior to that time. I'm confident that Dave from the Wrestling Observer will include all the details of his lengthy career as a wrestler in his upcoming piece on him.

I do know this, he was one of the most significant, key managers of all time.

When I first saw him I thought he looked a bit plain compared to guys like the Grand Wizard and spoke many words per minute less than James Cornette, but he incorporated ring attire that a real "playboy" might wear (as opposed to a cartoon interpretation) and a more select, sparse usage of words into a knockout style.

This isn't to say that he didn't have a big fucking mouth. He simply didn't use the "wrestling manager as clown" approach in the same way many of his colleagues both memorable and ho-hum did.

I've been watching tons of Abdullah footage lately (thanks Ted). After watching many, many hours, I'll go out on a limb and declare I think Abby for one was never better than when he was represented by Gary Hart.

Hart not only got the fans pissed off at himself, he'd focus on doing what a manager is supposed to do: GET HIS MAN OVER. All you fans of Hart and Abby, think back to the way Gary would lead him to the ring with his custom sport jacket over Abdullahs head. This created a sense of real, imminent danger....YES...THAT"S what seperated Mr. Gary Hart from many of his peers: he created a mystique surrounding his wrestlers that superceded heat against himself. He didn't need to play the clown or the buffoon to do that.

Gary Hart seemed like a pretty scary dude..no, he didn't have a sculpted six-pack or stand six foot eight. He seemed to convey contempt for humanoids in a natural way that clearly has never been the forte of WWF/WWE.

Gary Hart looked like the kind of guy who'd enjoy eating the worm out of a tequilla bottle, just to disgust a bar full of people. Gary Hart had more of a genuine satanic glare and air about him than even the great Kevin Sullivan, if you ask me.

He didn't overdo it on theatrics or costume. He simply came across as a bad man, who had figured out a way to handle maniacal, freak wrestlers.

He was a legit tough guy in one way for sure; he survived the plane crash in 1975 that cost Bobby Shane his life.

Many of his charges were extremely exotic such as Abdullah, the great Kabuki, Muta, Nord the Barbarian, etc. The fact that he dressed more like what you'd expect from a promoter (and remember, the promoter played a more special occasional role in his heyday) or the night manager at a strip club made him stand out from his wrestlers and other managers too.

When Gary Hart spoke to the camera, he seemed to really select his words. This holds true not only for old wrestling footage we have to remember him by, but also his incredibly powerful, insightful words in the aforementioned WCCW documentary. He stole the fucking show as far as I'm concerned. They often talked to six different men about a wrestler or topic involving the company and it seems like every time Hart's comments are the real shit, the bottom line...the ones you remember.

When I saw it for the first time a year or so ago my reaction was, Gary Hart off camera was one of the most intelligent, cool S.O.B.'s I've ever seen associated with wrestling.

I remarked to Elvis at the time, I wish he was one of my Uncles..,

According to the Charleston SC newspaper obit I read, Kevin Von Erich regularly referred to him as "Uncle Gary". Good call, Kevin.

A guy you can talk to who won't bullshit you, but just tell you what you really need to know. Provide sage advice, guidance....just like he guided his charges in the ring. A role model.

A lot of wrestlers who I respect a helluva lot I wouldn't know what to say to 'em in a bar. I am sad I'll never have the chance to meet Mr. Gary Hart.

03/15/08

Lately here I've discussed some examples of ordinary, contemporary, "cultural" flotsam and jetsam that simply bother me. You know, calaculated 2 day stubble, faux-hawks and the gold pants blue shirt ensemble.

If these things seem trivial to you, bear in mind I've been writing about more significant aspects of humanoidism for years. I'm just now getting around to sweeping the lurking dreck out of the corners shall we say.

There's another little phenomenon that I've simply got to bring up here. If you can provide an insider explanation of it, please feel free to enlighten me.

This one sneaked up on me. I had seen people doing it on TV (of course) but had never experienced it firsthand and close up.

I was riding on a shuttlebus a couple weeks ago. Dead tired. Weakened.

A fully grown male in his early 20's sat within my field of vision. He caught my attention, because he seemed to be trying to sport a classic 70's afro, but didn't seem black enough. Another fully grown male climbed on the bus and walked towards us. He saw the other fellow sitting there; their eyes locked, they got giddy looks on their faces and pulled out their dicks..and waggled them in each others faces.

Well, not exactly. I RATHER that they had than to do what they did. They each formed their fingers into what used to be known as a "peace sign" but instead of flashing that old passe, nauseating gesture they turned their hands backwards and sideways and parallel to their chests.

It instantly hit me; THAT was the same sign I had seen in two different TV commercials that had left me befuddled.

It immediately brought to mind the ways that inexperienced, sissy kids drink and smoke together.

A true, natural smoker or drinker will take a hit or light up when they feel like it regardless of the pace of others around him or her.

Little wimps, whelps trying to be cool and accepted by their peers all drink in unison and fire up smokes together. It's a new experience to them; they aren't sure if they are neccessarily doing it right so they reinforce one anothers courage against the fear they may be coming across like rum rookies by doing everything as a group...

These guys on the bus reminded me on the spot of an old "Honeymooners" TV episode in which Ralph and Ed walk around at their Racoon lodge meeting waggling the tails of their funny camps in unison.

At first I thought the ultra chic dudes must have been kidding, but after their initial eye contact doofyness they embarked on a very serious looking discussion.

Today I called Elvis up and asked (once again) for a simple, down to earth explanation from him and his wife about WHAT THE FUCK this sidewinder peace sign is supposed to "mean".

My guess was that the guys were hippies; when Elvis and his bride got done laughing on their end of the line he established a serious tone in his voice. He said they had no idea what it exactly meant, but ensured me that it's one of those things black people used to do, that has been incorporated by wiggers (Def: "white, affluent youth who seek to emulate the culture of hardcore gangsta rap").

REMINDER! If this doesn't seem to be the case in YOUR community, remember this is a rather lame college town.

I'd REALLY like to get an explanation of this "rock, paper, scissors" minus the rock and paper from the mouth of somebody who actually brandishes it.

Just in case you think I've finally gotten to be old and out of touch, MAY I REMIND I've always been revolted by hip symbolism that seemed forced and only a trendy gesture or idea or buzzword of the moment.

When I was 9 years old I thought the stinking hippies were cliche spouting pukes..

In the 80's I dared asked a couple co-workers "why don't you tie your shoes?"

Every week or so in the 90's in urban Philly I'd pump Elvis for information on the latest imbecilical styles and slang. I'd marvel at tales he told of students who actually rolled up one sweat pants leg in some sort of would be deadly serious and symbolic manner.

As Marla reminded me tonight when we were discussing this, one thing is for sure: once a clothing fad or slang catch phrase or idealistic gesture becomes incorporated by TV, it's in its last throes.

You can concoct a similar definitive formula for the death of a trend once it reaches San Marcos. The two girly men..or as we say in German "Sitzpinklers" on the bus may think they're flashing a little sign that is cutting edge, and an indication that they are sophisticated and culturally beyond ordinary white trash looking losers like me. What they don't know is that I'm thee Whiskey Rebel..avant-garde since before I dropped out of my mammys ass; I'm so far ahead of pop culture trend followers in this burg I'm sticking into the next county...GOOSING YER MOTHER.

03/14/08

I had a great idea for a topic to write about here; it's so good it's going to be blown up into a Carbon14 column though.

Instead I feel the need to kvetch here about toilets..specifically the one that was installed in our Comfort Inn suite in Kerrville.

Now, I'm aware of the fact that to most or many of you a toilet is just a place to rest your ass for a minute or two whilst blowing a nice turd manicured into the shape of a cigar by the muscles into your bum into the waters below.

You probably don't give the stool you perch daily on a second thought..

I on the other hand am spoiled by having in our master bath at home a beautiful, long, wise and deep toilet that would likely be favored by princes, Captains of industry and persnickety nabobs in places around the world where folks sit on a seat like champions as opposed to squatting over a hole silently praying you don't soil your shoes or drawers.

If you've ever visited our home you almost certainly pooped in the ordinary guest bowl; I keep my own topnotch porcelain pride and joy a secret to even the most respected company.

Imagine my chagrin when I wind up in some hotel or motel with a stool with a tiny hole to aim thru, cheesy butt wipe that fragments upon contact and a poor setting to perch your legs and feet pleasantly.

I've found a better throne than that we enjoy at home a couple times. Once was in a suite at the Stratosphere in Vegas..another time was in a Hilton hotel in Houston that was hosting a chess tournament I participated in.

The stool we dealt with in Kerrville was not the worst I've experienced by a long shot..but it's a couple notches beneath what you'd expect from a $39.99 redhot deal special at a Redroof Inn.

The main problem was, the stool was not mounted to the floor properly. I wipe my ass from the right side. To achieve the proper purchase of bum wipe to ass (from that angle) you need to shift your weight to your left foot. Unfortunately, when I did so the stool rocked in a way that made me worry the damned thing was going to tip over.

At first, I thought I was just being a weenie about it. Marla confessed to me though that even she in all her pristine toilet femininity shared my experience. In fact, at one point during our visit she marched to the front desk and gave a detailed list of instructions that she suggested the desk pass on to the hotel maintenance staff to cement their toilets properly.

She said the guy at the desk getting the lecture seemed stunned; we both saw the humor in the situation and laughed.

Well, I didn't laugh for long. I had to keep using the fucking thing. Every time I did I sweated over the thought of the damned thing pitching over leaving me either in the nasty ass preacher seat position or perhaps in a fetal curl crying for Mother.

All in all I didn't get much reading done in there...Uurrpppppppppppppp

03/12/08

So, Marla and I wound up checking into a suite for a couple nights in Kerrville Texas to relax. We got home Tuesday afternoon.

We were treated to a horseshit, pissant, third rate attempt to rip us off.

Our suite had an extra room with a couch and sofa setup that resembled what we have at home to a scary level. We spent the first night with the TV shut off listening to a great classic country station. What the fuck; Kerrville was the home of the immortal Jimmie Rodgers "blue yodelers paradise" mansion.

Late the first evening I sat down in an office chair that had been placed in front of a table our boom box was set on top of. The goddamned thing collapsed....a bit too simply. Yes, my weight is capable of buckling a chair, but upon further inspection we realized that plastic parts were missing from the chair in the first place. The maid or management had propped up the chair with 4 functioning wheels out of 6, the other 2 with only partial wheel parts...it seemed like they wanted us to "break" the chair which had obviously been broken.

Where they lost out was not expecting that we had owned 2 almost identical chairs over the years. When important company showed up we would make an attempt to fix up our broken chairs in a similar manner for neatness sake.

It was clear the chair had been broken NOT due to my fat ass..but ahead of time. Why? Key plastoc parts were missing. They wanted us to assume my fanny had busted the thing and pay some sort of penalty.

Marla confronted the guy at the desk and he tried to play hardball..being a complete dick----at first. She wound up dragging the bogus chair right into the lobby and as luck would have it, she found another identical "broken" chair somebody else had turned in.

She took pictures with her cell phone camera of the chairs side by side and explained how we knew they had tried to screw us, and how we were preparing a complaint to their home office.

Their threats melted away quickly.

It's disgusting that a big national hotel chain ( Comfort Inn) would pull shit like this, but true. You've got to get up pretty fucking early in the morning to fool the combined mental prowess of Marla and I though. Hell's bell's, we met selling encylopedias door to fucking door for a goddamned bunch of bunko artists.

No, slip your weiner back in your slacks. Try it out on somebody else.

I still wouldn't be surprised if we didn't parlay it all into a night of free lodging in another one of their hostelry's establishments.

We've bickered and argued over the small shit for 30 fucking years. When we combine forces we always win.........ask Elvis..he's seen us in action...UUrrrpp........

And we wipe our asses with Amway presentation flyer's too for that matter.....

03/08/08

My last class before Spring break was to be held at 2:00 pm in the usual place in the center of the campus. I was so worn down, I ALMOST blew it off; no tests or anything like that. But, shit the Prof. lives across the street.

I hoped to at least get a parking space in the lot I can see from our driveway. It was raining, blowing about 35 MPH and the trail I needed to walk thru was muddy as fuck.

I was ready to head back to bed...but SHIT...the Prof lives across the street. If he can make it, I can make it...rain, pussy stench, wind, clouds of purple gism haze raining down..whatever.

I gambled and won a parking space in the oversold lot that I should be able to park in( and catch a van that will deliver me to a shuttle bus that will take me where I need to get to)...but, I usually have to walk the billy goat hills whilst cussing the worthless TXSTATE parking authority for its corrupt practices.

For Texas it was cold...for the rest of the US, not so. I made it to Flowers hall my destination with 15 minutes to spare. I was limping, my bandana was coated in rain and I had a bloody scab in my right nostril that I didn't dare pick, fearing a nosebleed. My balls itched and my feet burned from the new shoe pain.

What the hell....I knew damned few of my classmates would show,.....but shitfuck...my Prof. lives across the street.

I don't care if your goal is to blow soap bubbles with tards for a living or weave baskets or embark on research projects or honk away on a slide trombone in an army band in Iraq or what have you; you should have some sort of pride in what the funk you do. I felt like I had to go, considering how myself and a classmate are History scholars in a room filled with English majors many of whom don't believe in washing their feet or pits.

It turned out that there was only 10 students in the class when the Prof. waltzed in. He may live across the street, but of course as a faculty member he has the right to a good parking space that he obviously takes advantage of. He wasn't slick with rain like me. Well, more power to him. If you're a 19th century lit. scholar with a PHD there should be some perks.

Well, there I was...I had toughed it out..and was momentarily proud for not being a pussy who couldn't deal with a little rain; until he took the roll and dismissed us without a lecture. Oh fuck.......

We're reading "the sound and the fury" by Faulkner..he will mark down the bastards who didn't have the nads to show up, but didn't want to give us extra points or deliver a lecture for a partially attended class.

I slogged my way home. Naturally as I chugged into my driveway I gazed up his and saw his car parked at the top. He had made it home already. Of course.

I felt like shit and turned in for nap.

Marla showed up an hour or so later feeling even worse than me. She had worked many days in a row and averages 11-12 hours per day. We both hobbled around the place like Cactus Jack vs. Abby. We rested a while and then headed out to the school Elvis is a student teacher at. The theatre department he helps instruct delivered a bizarre, Monty Python ( his influnece?) like adaptation of Shakespeare's "Midnight summers dream". We missed the spaghetti feed.

When it was all over and after I had shaken hands with the theatre director lady and the school administrator ( we used to call 'em vice principles) to whom I quipped mid handshake "I'm the one he got his looks from!" we went with Elvis and his bride to Cracker Barrel where I consumed a normal, only faintly sodium laced meal that was so healthy it didn't even make me thirsty.

What the fuck?!? It's a great chain as they go. Lance Storm ( who hates Southwest airlines like me for the same reasons ) loves it and it was I am told the late Waylon Jennings favorite too. Even Mike McNally approved of our hometown CrackerBarrel during his visit here last June.

I tried some sort of delightfully stanky greens for the first time at Elvis urging; I believe it was turnip greens. I approved. We Irwin's are oozing with soul, right?

03/03/08

Spring break is lurking a few days away...and I need it. I'm broken down and need it.

I'm not gonna be one of the ones who snaps mere days before though...I hope.

Lots of assignments to work up this week.

I was working on one over the weekend sitting at my Imac when I sensed motion out in the driveway out of the corner of my eye.

I saw my lit professor neighbor in my driveway...MY LIT professor. He had rescued a cardboard box from a batch he layed out to be picked up..the heavy winds had blown it into our drive. VERY strange to see one of your Prof's waltzing around in your driveway.

NO grade posted yet on the papers we turned in to him a week ago.

Oh well, I turned in another paper today and will do so tomorrow for a 3rd class.

On the shuttlebus today I happened to notice a meek looking girl..sorta mousey..about 8 feet away from me staring at a book. Upon closer examination I noticed that placed inside the pages of the text book was what appeared to be color print of a photograph.

It was of a man..stark naked with a HUGE fucking pecker.

She just stared at it and stared at it...non stop.

This guys unit could not have been real..could it?

I dunno.

It was the size of a swollen billy club...if I could tell that from 8 feet away, it had to be damned impressive.

And she sat on the bus and stared at it nonstop.

I guess she's looking forward to spring break.

Maybe I'll climb on the bus tommorow and find that she's STILL in the same seat staring at the huge pecker. I hope so.....

02/27/08

Now that I know my lit Prof lives across the street, I find myself given to gazing at his house when I'm outside, conscious of the fact that..hey, he may be reading my paper this very minute. Does he think it sucks? Is he this very moment complaining to his wife about having a damned old returning student across the street, inhibiting his puking on the driveway or walking to the mail box in a mean morning wakeup mood..knowing I could be gossiping about him?

Well, I guess I am sort of more aware than I have been about the goings on over there..but, he has nothing to worry about when it comes to me telling students about what little I can see from across the street concerning his personal life. I'll never reveal his name here. Hey, whether you write literature or rants for zines or an often drunken diary like this, what you see going about your daily routine is just grist for the mill.

Oddly enough my frequent "no names" policy here often leads to people (especially those from bands!) thinking I'm writing about them when I'm either just generalizing or thinking about some band they've never heard of.

I've been really shocked a few times to learn than some former or current bandmember thinks I wrote something about him here when I had somebody else in mind, whom they've never met who might've played music with us when they were in grade school.

Anyway, I see lights on across the street. I can sort of see a faint glimmer even though there are tall hedges facing the street on both sides. Is he just now getting to my paper? Have I already earned a disappointing grade? Maybe it's good. Maybe it's bum wipe.

Uurrpp.

Mark from Canada ( of Radford's infamy ) has contacted me to state that the term "faux- hawk" that was discussed here a while ago has been in usage up there in Regina for a couple years and that his director at work sports one (!). I doubt that he and drunk Ted from San Diego know one another. It just goes to show you that it's a really natural and culturally accurate term for a silly hairdo.

He also mentioned the beige pants/blue shirt work-casual dress phenomena is big up there. He works with two men in an office and not once but TWICE they both showed up on the same day wearing this overworked combo. I believe he justifiably razzed the hell out of them.

I take great pride in the fact that repeatedly over the years in this diary I have mentioned little factoids concerning recent behavior quirks of humanoids that eventually become widely known and accepted.

Like this one. I saw a news story lead in tonight concerning two women who claim they were booted from an airline for life because they are TOO BEAUTIFUL. I was so excited; I was hoping it'd turn out they were simply oblivious MBC's ( "mouthy bar cunts", remember?). I had to wait through some commericals for the rest of the story. I walked into the next room where Marla was busy rubbing my hands together in glee and delight as I told her about it.

SURE ENOUGH..they were mere MBC's who got obnoxius during a flight and were escorted off upon arrival at their destination to be prosecuted I believe. An airline representative laughingly addressed the press explaining that their looks had nothing to do with their winding up in trouble. They were clearly immitating uninhibited feminine behavior they've seen on TV. Just being dumb cunts with no manners.

Just like lots of guys. The difference is when guys behave like MBC's they're considered assholes rather than simply uninhibited or fresh or honest.

Anyway, if you don't believe me about this beige/gold pants blue dress shirt thing, try watching 2 hours of cable television flipping through the channels a few times during the time period at your leisure. When you see some guy sporting this uniform..call it out: "gold pants blue shirt" and take a big hit off of your beer or a blast from your bottle. You'll be fucking WIPED before the 2 hours elapses..I guarandamntee.

02/22/08

It was like a scene from a sitcom. I took a break from writing a paper for my American novel class and walked out at about 3:00 in the afternoon to get the mail from our box...and I'll be goddamned if my across the street neighbor ( NOT the party house..next to it ) wasn't waltzing out like on cue to get his; and..he's my frigging professor for the class I'm writing the paper for. He said "I hope you're in there reading" in a joking manner. I responded "I'm writing YOUR DAMNED PAPER" I replied.

I think he's as reclusive as I am if not more so. He must've talked to his Wife about it just like I did to mine. He's ok in my book. I've noticed, sometimes there's a bigger pile of empty cans in front of his place for the Monday morning recycling pickup than in front of ours. Well, not that often. But...there's a determined effort to drink beer in that house evidently.

I think he's about 10 years younger than us. It would be fun to drink a few beers with him since he's a Moby Dick scholar (he got his PHD writing a thesis on it) and even though I've never read it, my old man was an amateur Moby Dick scholar. I can certainly understand the mind set of a 19th century American lit scholar. But, he's governed by rules against fraternization I'm sure. I'm not gonna pester the man.

What's the odds that I wind up with a professor of one of my classes living across the street? There are several hundred at the university. As Marla pointed out, it's damned good that the 2 or 3 assholes I've come up against didn't live there.

I lift my shotglass to that!

02/21/08

The University newspaper is about as horrid as you might expect. Lots of token articles about current event topics that students are supposed to be concerned about with very, very little meat and never an ounce of originality. Lots of rah rah school spirit crap that maybe 5% of students take seriously. Token diversity, token green tripe, a dorm humor comic strip.

I've learned to scan it in about 3 minutes. One of the highlights for me is spotting contradictions within the paper itself. The editorship appears to be about freshman level...HIGH SCHOOL FRESHMAN that is.

Here's my favorite pairing of articles that seem to make an unintended point without from this week. The student government President defended the student fund shelling out $550,000 to Starbucks to get them to install one of their outlets in the student center. He chirped happily that it will be a great way to make the public consider our school a big league institution. Meanwhile, an article ran portraying the living hell being endured by students riding shuttle buses from Austin and San Antonio to our fair campus. The conditions of the 45-60 minute rides sound like something you'd expect in Pakistan or Bang-the-desk with students crammed in standing room only style with no commuter hand straps at all. The director of the shuttlebus program (undoubtedly a senior or grad student) said there was NOTHING that could be done intil Fall 2009. You see, he explained, they were awaiting some sort of grant money..their hands were tied.

I've heard a dozen students bitch about the shuttle hell-ride. Guess what? It's not even a free service? Riders pay $4 per ride and of course we shell out our tuition money, a chunk of which goes into a student fund...so that frat boy student government types can earmark the money for Starbucks to profit from..or maybe a new football stadium scoreboard ( yep..another recent purchase).

I bet the student government guy and his pals and their women don't have to ride commuter buses. Of course not; they all have brand new cars Daddy bought 'em that are worth more than some of the tiny houses in town students live in.

The shuttle bus assholes have fucked me over by changing routes at the last minute so many times I've quit even referring to it here. I'm saving it for a mag column or eventual book.

It's been a rough week. My shoes wore out weeks ago and I haven't had time to replace them. I had to get some Dr. Scholls moleskin bandage crap to ward off the mysterious shooting pains I got from the worn out shoes. Marla special ordered me a pair of identical shoes to what I have ( they're extra wide) and they finally got delivered to our door. Now, another catch22. If I wear the new ones, GUARANTEED I'll get blisters. If I continue to wear the old ones I'll keep mangling my feet. What to do?

With age comes harsher hangovers and more foot pain.

Marla worked a combined total of 35 hours over the last two days. Her feet are hamburger too. Tonight we wound up out of leftovers with neither of us in any sort of shape to shop much less cook.

Most people would order pizza or hit a fastfood drivethrough...hell, a lot of people do 4-5 times per week and some shovel it in every day of the week.

We used to...and I wish we could again. Of course as longtime readers of this know I can only eat normal, sodium dosed restaurant or prepared foods from stores occasionally.

It doesn't bother me most of the time, but on nights like this one it REALLY pisses me.

Finally, since I can occasionally eat fast food I volunteered to go to good old WHATABURGER. I had to pick up beer too. My feet hurt as I walked into the grocery store, but I felt good knowing Marla could sit on her ass and not be waiting on me.

I rarely feel "happy".

I feel satisfied a couple times a day and relieved often that something is not going wrong, but I haven't been "happy" even at least 2 hours a day in so many years I've lost track. Maybe I need to write a Carbon14 column exploring this.

I felt "happy" during the drive to Whataburger.

I've recommended them to a couple score of vistors to Texas. They cook your order individually and their fries are home cut. The only problem I've had in the past with them is ordering at their drivethru. I have REAL problems at drivethru windows since I'm one of the few Americans that rarely patronizes them.

Picture me as a confused Hank Hill trying to deal with a Tex-Mex speaking 16 year old at a drivethru window. I DON"T want their combo's. I DON'T want their overpriced drinks. If I say I want 3 pieces of chicken at Popeyes I will have a #3 combo waiting for me at the window.

People around here ask we anglo's if we're "bilingual" when they want to know if you speak Spanish.

Now that I've learned German to an extent I love to shock them by answering "Jah. Und du?"

Anyway, a geeky Texas anglo took my order at Whataburger at the confusing drivethru menu. He tried to slicker me into adding a hot peachpie for only 99 cents. Uh uh, buddy. I'm really craving a nice sodium laced burger with a little box of fries on the side.

Since I rarely eat this sort of thing when I do, I want it to be right. Of course you know what happened. It came out completely wrong. I should have ordered the peach pie.

I wanted a bacon cheese burger..Marla wanted just cheese. Neither of us got cheese though and I didn't get to eat bacon for the first time in 4 months. Why?

How was I to know that their goddamned burgers don't come with cheese? Don't you have to order specially to get them to leave the cheese off? Doesn't everybody eat cheeseburgers?

Now, I know..you're probably shaking your head in amazement that I don't know what comes commonly with a fucking burger in the year 2008.

Well, go blow it out your ass. I wish a case of fastfood induced double-whopper-roids on you.

The burger sucked. It was the sort of bland lump of pickle flavored, salty, easy to masticate with dentures crud my dead Scandanavian Aunt Fern might've preferred. The fries tasted like they sent somebody across the street to McDonalds dumpster to fill my order.

I'm very disappointed.

I guess next time..which will probably be a few months from now.. it's back to Popeyes for another go around with them. Now do you see why I prefer to chow at Subway when I'm on vacation? They're not perfect, but at least they fucking try to serve you something relatively good for you.

02/16/08

Situations that would often be shrugged off or outright ignored in a real city are fodder for laughter here in this hick town.

Imagine a multi-tatt sporting, bearded and obese man who looks like he road his Harley up to the front door pawing through the kiddie book cart at the public library.

Yes, that was me down there today, sifting through books with lettering two inches thick and colorful drawings in search of a fairy tale book.

What's that? wouldn't they assume I was looking for a book for my kid? Unfortunately NO. I'm a regular and I've never brought a child into the library before.

I started out trying to get a librarian to help me, but she seemed useless.

Why did I need a fairy tale anthology?

Why it's simple. For my German class. We're gonna be writing our own fairy tales (German word "Marchen" ) and my memory has faded over the years. I remember the basic gist of most of them, but not the details. Some of them (like "the frog prince") I've completely forgotten.

Anyway, I found a nice fat collection of fairy tales with adult sized print and then settled into a cubicle to study Physics for a while ( "electromagnetics"..quite a contrast, eh?).

I eventually found my way home, climbed into my p.j.'s and cracked it open.

Actually, I read the first story aloud to Marla and Dixie the cat. It was "Puss in boots"

What a vile story!

For those of you who may have forgotten, I'll remind you..fairy tales are cruel as fuck.

The puss in this story suffocates bunnies, threatens to dice up a group of peasants into minced meat and gets the King shitfaced on wine.

Holy Shit!

Another story has a moralistic ending in which the heel female winds up getting stripped stark naked and stuffed into a barrel of nails and dragged about town!

The ending of "Snow White and the seven dwarves" in the book finds the evil stepmother being forced to endure a form of painful torture; a pair of heated iron shoes in which she is expected to "dance" until she dies. Disney skipped over that little detail, didn't he?

These stories are loaded with examples of senseless and impulsive behavior, vile trickery, horrid cruelty dished up to humans and animals alike and a sexist, dogmatic dominance by Kings and Princes.

Hey, I'm supposed to write a fairy tale in German language along the lines of these stories? I can't fucking wait.

02/14/08

Valentines day. I hope you fucking enjoy it. Really...sort of.

That is, if you can manage to steer away from making it a holiday that benefits primarily the greeting card and restaurant industries. Cliche romance and love are two different things.

Love means you do like Marla and me and steer clear of the commercial aspects of the glorius day. We've been together 30+ years and if asked chalk it up to seperate vacations and seperate identities for both parties not dependant in any way on each other.

Ok, I know as cynical as that sounds that my son and daughter in law will likely do the things you're supposed to do on this day as a couple married 6 months. Well, shoot for being able to carve out seperate realms in some way eventually.

Cookie cutter, by the numbers romance is false in nature.

If you don't have a partner on this hallowed day, don't despair. It's not that big a deal at all.

I'm more concerned about my physical pain. I've taken 3 tests over the last 3 days that required deep preperation. I've fucking HAD IT. I'm consciously avoiding any thought whatsoever about further academic responsibilities for a day or two while I re-gain my strength.

I learned about a whole new kind of pain over the last few days. I needed to get new walking "school shoes" a couple months ago and didn't. I wound up 2 nights in a row with horrid shooting pains in my right foot big toe. A chunk of a seam or something in my shoes wound up sticking down and irritating my foot. The pain was intense and rather unpredictable. It was of the "shooting" variety. It fucked with my sleep. I tried to nod off at my nornal nap times but with a pain that randomly caused me to scream in pain every 15-60 seconds that wasn't to be.

After a couple hours both nights the pain vanished. I guess I should be glad for that.

It complicates the situation that choking down pain pills is no help when it comes to studying for my 3 in a row days of tests.

Since we live in a tiny hick town the shoe store didn't have my extra wide size. My new shoes will be delivered in a couple days. I'll tough it out in the meantime...scaring the cats with my primal screams in the process.

02/10/08

It was a peaceful Sunday afternoon. I was studying for yet another Physics exam. I gazed out our front window and noticed that a guy had parked his truck in front of the party house across the street and unloaded a tool box.

I should say former party house. Most of the frat guys have moved out of there. There remains a rich Paris Hilton wannabe from their crew and I think a guy from a different social circle than the frat dudes.

Of course the civic minded business major frat jerkoffs left a mountain of broken crap in a heap by the sidewalk. They also managed evidently in one of their final nightly parties to wreck the garage door ( powered by a switch ) by getting it stuck in a crooked angle off of the path of its metal guide-tracks.

When we anglos get stuck in a mess like that in this town we call in a hispanic or two to fix things. That's why the guy with the truck was there. He got right to work hustling in an impressive manner.

I was distracted from my studies by a few things I saw. He had brought along his wife and two kids for some odd reason. She stood looking docile and brain dead with a baby strapped to her front while a kid about 6 pranced around doing make believe karate moves.

For some reason I couldn't figure out the truck was left for the entire time they were there with all four of its doors open. Had somebody cut a fart that they were trying to air out? Or is this something truck owners like to do to show off their truck? Don't ask me..I'm still trying to figure out exactly why people drive slouched down low in their seat.

The guy worked for a couple hours. I kept looking up from my books. I thought about my old man who mowed doctors lawns on Sundays in the 1950's before he and my Mother adopted me and my sister. The guy was making clear rapid progress on the garage door which has been stuck open for weeks. I respected the guys knowledge and speed, but I wondered what the fuck his wife was doing there. Did she want to be there? If so, why didn't she bring a book or something to knit or a radio or some toys to keep the kids busy?

Maybe its because I'm going through a temporary school phase in which I don't have two hours to waste that I wondered how she could afford to.

The older kid was pretty well behaved. Neither parent yelled at him the whole time they were there. The Mother just kept standing in the driveway doing nothing at all...not bitching at the guy to hurry..not ragging at the older kid..not fussing with the baby. Just standing there.

I completely gave up studying eventually and just watched trying to figure it all out. Were they all going for pizza after the guy got done? Had they been to church that morning? What does the guy do for a living during the week? He was a goddamned bustass worker..running up the steps of his ladder. There was no coke break and none of the mans family at any point seemed to ask him when in the hell he was gonna be done.

Eventually a few minutes after he got the door fixed Paris came strolling out of the house wearing extreme short shorts. I thought of the strong male she's shacked up with ( I think ) he looks like an athlete. Why couldn't he fix the damned door? For that matter, why couldn't just ONE of the frat guys and their huge array of scores of friends find just ONE guy in their number to fix the damned thing they had wrecked during a party?

A lot of things puzzle me about this situation, but one thing is for sure: the frat guys come from homes that espouse the mentality when something gets busted or fucked up..call in a Mexican to fix it.

The Mexican fix it guy was one of the hardest workers I've seen in a long time. He drove a nice truck. His wife and kids were uncomplaining. He seems to have a nice life. He obviously is such a good worker he does something else during the week. Maybe he's an assistant bank branch manager like my old man?

Marla came home a few minutes after the family left. I filled her in on all the happenings ( if you want to call it that ) and asked her why in the hell the wife just stood with a blank look on her face for two hours. He could've dropped her and the kids off at a park or Walmart or a relatives house. Why didn't she bring a magazine at least?

Marla had a quick answer. She said that she obviously didn't trust the guy to work there alone. She wanted tokeep an eye on her man.

I thought about the Paris-snot wannabe and how much leg she had showed and it became clear..I think.

I asked Marla one more thing. I admitted I had no idea how he fixed the door, but since I'm in my second semester of physics I think I've learned enough to hazard a guess that he would've had to pull the door BACK UP rather than down to begin the process. Marla nodded yes, shrugging as if that was really obvious.

Then, she repaired back to our master bathroom where she has been installing a new shower/tub with shiny fixtures. I'm told the water pressure will be powerful.

And me? I headed up to the Austin chess club for my kind of mental workout.

During the drive I thought about that lady standing there like a cow with her kid strapped to her; I bet she's an Oprah fan.

02/07/08

THIS JUST IN!!

Drunk Ted has informed me of his own name for what Marla has dubbed the "Gerber baby" hair-do that is currently such an essential landmark of tonsorial importance. Here is his message in his own words...

"I've been calling that dumbass haircut a "FO-HAWK" for years now! It's like they're too much of a pussy to get a real mohawk, so they make their hair into a faux-hawk.

You can't change MY name for that ridiculous hairdo!!!! And please give me credit for that name if you print it in your diary!

Drunk Ted"

Well, Ted's a wise man whom I respect. His name for that doo is a good one which I hope you'll all add to your vocabulary. I personally think that there's a healthy tradition of multiple names for hairdo's. What many call a "mullet" is referred to by others ( Mike McNally for instance ) as a "mudflap". Has anybody asked one of the little worms who sport this style what they call it?

02/05/08 #2

I simply can't wait a day to post this. You know the new male hairdo that seems to have legs..the one in which guys goop up their hair into a sort of mohican minus the shaved sides? I've been asserting around here that it's a lame, commitmentless version of a mohican that makes the tonsorial bearer look abstract-wise somewhat like a pinhead.

I asked Marla for her 2 cents worth..what we should call this new look...vital as it is.

She said it should be known as the "Gerber baby" look....

And so it shall..from this day forth.

02/05/08

For the second morning in a row I've popped out of bed early. As a student that rarely fucking happens. I always could use some sleep. The only bad thing about it though really is that today is Marla's day off and she needs time without me up and around. So, I'll just sit here and quietly tap away for a few minutes.

I've now completely lost interest in the election..not that I was ever more than a casual observor. I wound up watching news shows 1/2 half to an hour per day though. I'm glad that phase in my life is over and done with.

It got to be too much to stomach..one party wanting to harken back to the glory days of conservatism: the Reagan era ( YUCK! financially one of the worst times in my life ) and elements of the other party trying to con people with Kennedy clan pixie-dust.

It's all horseshit. Anybody wanna buy my vote?

Of course, even though it's fairly easy a task to realize that Americans are in general

gullibe and worthless, it's incredibly difficult to fathom JUST HOW clueless and stupid Americans can be. The Kennedy nostalgia angle bait is a prime example. I have to strain my mighty mind until my skull tingles all over to conceptualize anybody taking Ted Kennedy and the rest of that brood seriously in 2008.

Even though I haven't much of a philanthropic spirit I still sincerely hope that the people being conned by this truckload of offal are old rather than young...so they'll DIE SOONER.

Between the sentimental goo teet sucking and the conspiracy quacks and their bilge and the minute by minute tediousness of the reporters clammering to catch somebody in a faux pas it's stinking so fucking bad I can't take any more.

The bottom line is this: I've lived through a lot of American elections and I can't remember one where it seemed so pointless to try to talk to the various politicians accolytes..eyes glazing over...a cliche rebuke spewing from their mouth.

I attribute it to the rise over the years of the "cause oriented" single issue voter citizen.

Common sense has never been in such short supply.

PHEW! I wash my hands of the whole process officially here and now.

02/02/08

Usually I'm fairly decisive about things. The last couple weeks though I've been going back and forth about a major decision to the point almost of ridiculousness.

The question is whether to go for a masters degree or not. I know, I know..students tend to talk big about going for advanced degrees when they start out working on a bachelors degree. I hear it daily from students I doubt will even last long enough to get that first degree. After a few tough classes the idea seems to fade into the background.

In my case, when I went back to school I didn't expect all that much in the way of grades and I surprised myself. I have a frigging 4.0 within the Texas State history department. Combined with my work at Portland State from many years ago it's still about a 3.7 which is pretty damned good.

Marla and I have talked for hours on several occasions about it and actually made decisions both ways only to have me the next day questioning the decision we made.

All the obvious indications are that I'd do well. I "mastered" the undergrad term paper, my professors have unanimously applauded my work. Student loans are likely available.

I consulted a reader of this diary who is going for his M.A. in history. He seemed encouraging. Elvis gives the idea a double thumbs up.

I'm not afraid of the reading or writing involved and I'll enjoy learning more about research. So why the indecision?

The most negative thoughts in my mind that I can identify have to do with the fact that when I was growing up one of the worst things that ever happened to we earwigs was my old man going for his MBA. Now, it's been pointed out to me that a business oriented advanced degree is a whole different animal than a history MA.

I also have to admit that I probably feel more at home as a student than old Bob. He had the misfortune of going back to school for a masters during the peak of the hippie era. Hell, he had almost as little use for them as I did. It was nice fo