Saturday, December 30, 2006

Saddam a-go-go

Wow, that was some hanging. The image of the two executioners in ski masks slipping the noose around Saddam's neck speaks volumes. Set that man free, they did, first his mind, then his ass, in accordance with Funkedelic protocol. Freedom to do whatever he wants? Of course not. Release from the meat wheel? Doubtful. But freedom from expectation, and it's sidekick delusion, oh yes, the most practical freedom in my opinion, though elusive for me and so many. Seems like such a short time ago we were taking away his shoelaces to prevent strangulation. Hanging embodies the poor person's intentional death, a favorite among pre-teens and lynch mobs I gather. What would Jude The Obscure have been if those kids hadn't hung themselves with the moving box string to save their parents trouble & expense? Just another Tess of the D'urbervilles, that's what. Media field day. Now don't get me wrong, I'm against the death penalty, for voting purposes, but Natural Born Killers remains my favorite movie; conflicted I suppose. Part of me now expects the imminent execution of the rest of the pathological bureaucrats in power. Freedom from expectations, I need constant reminders; repetition works, repetition works.

Dang me, dang me, they ought to take a rope and hang me, high, from the highest tree, woman would you weep for me. --Buck Owens

Gwar's Saddam-a-go-go:

I at the time was a communist
Lived on a collective farm
She was a part time anarchist
Our sex went off like a bomb
Living the life of a terrorist
Looking for the man Saddam
Who gave me a gun
As Iran to the sun
If you die like a dog
Then you are


Going to Saddam a go-go
Everybody is there
Business of strange bed fellows
Makes you dance around like a bear
Ein, Schwein, kick him in the eye
They were the ones
Who could rice from the sun

As they dived in their planes
And they die!
How they died!

The running paper tiger chases it's own


He was someone
Who was there for
People like me
Hi there Saddam
Love the party
Yes they're all here with me in Saddam

Bloody Saddam
Loves you always
Always a kick
Bloody Saddam
Even though the
Smell is making me sick
As we sit on our roofs
And cheer as your
Scuds fall like rain

Here at the ancient ziggataut
Saddam is presiding there
Running around with a saxaphone
Where is the president where?
Here it comes the black tornado
Let's have a cheer for Sarejavo
If you survive what
Falls out of his mind
You'll make the political world

Friday, December 29, 2006

2007, Year of Revolution

Clouds roll in cold, foreboding gray with brief blue holes. Too much coffee and unfinished tasks manifest as short breaths and chest pains.

Saw an owl hover above a bush lastin a howling wind, not 10 feet from me. Then it dove into the bush after some small brown birds, two of which flew away right past my head. Owls speak to me, and the ancestors within me, their faces so primate-like, their voices strike many chords spinal and dark.

2007, 2 + 7 = 9, the number of revolution, so I'm hoping for some hot ones this year, especially on the bicycles. All measures and limits shall be debunked, with any luck.

Friday, December 22, 2006

Tastes Vernal

Breeze blows through my window, smells, feels, tastes vernal, full of new life, green grass. The hairs on my recently shaved head wave 1-mm above my scalp wave and cheer, each of their radiant faces turning toward the window. Each hair recieves transmissions of a certain wavelength range. That information loaded energy washes down my spinal chord, and from there to my various glands, each of which begin to glow with distinctive hue. Smiles plaster my face, inside and out, perquisites of remaining open to life force dynamo hum coming through the open window.

Thursday, December 21, 2006

Happy Solstice

Happy solstice everybody; feel that winter steal into your heart and awake to the land of long nights growing shorter. We enjoyed a pre-Christmas visit from Santa, complete with stocking booty shown here. No, the 2002 issue of Zoonooz was not used as a stocking stuffer. Later that morning the boy sang, which is to say that he swayed back in forth with the music, in front of our packed church. He was by far the youngest, and it amazed me how he made it through the whole 15 minute program without losing stage presence. Father-son performance art pieces dance like sugar-plums on the head of a pin inserted deep into my cerebellum. When we asked him what he wanted for Christmas he said "Candy". "Anything else?" "No, just candy, and chocolate." I've become convinced that my kids have all the memories that I have up until the time of their conception. My father-in-law tells me that theory has been disproved, but science falls short often enough that I remain undaunted, and sure that it's true.  Posted by Picasa

Monday, December 04, 2006

Sacramento Primus Pit Fantastic

I had my doubts about driving all the way to Sacramento, by myself, on a Sunday night, to see a band that used to play at my old housing co-operative in Berzerkeley, but I'd bought a ticket to see Primus at the Sacramento Memorial Auditorium, so there I motored. I'd heard that the crowds at Delta shows were more wild & crazy like the old days, and Tim guaranteed it to one of my top five type shows of the year. I got there during Gogol Bordello, the opening band. The action was minimal, no pit, but the folks were youthful & friendly. When the lights came on between bands I walked as close to the front as I could, where I got to listen to a bearded young man explain pit tactics to one of his two female companions, who had apparently never attended such a show from this intense a vantage point. When the lights went down and the music started the rush took me away like a raging river, sweeping me into impossible crush after impossible crush, people falling all over the place. That girl is running for her life about now, I thought to myself. About a hundred people sat down on me as I realized that the fools behind me had fallen to the floor, no lasting worry though, as arms did, in accordance with age old pit tradition, reach down to help pull me up. A guy next to me asked all of us around him to please feel for his shoes, but no luck. That first song, the one about "...those damned blue collar tweakers...", took a serious hold of that blue collar tweaker crowd. The crowd surfing started and I started howling and growling at random intervals; a true pit opened up, allowing for air flow and motion. Not as graceful and flowing as the pits of my drunken memories, but far better than can be found at just about any bay area show, with perhaps the exception of Slayer. Tim made it up to join me in the craze a couple songs later, soon to have his shirt vacuumed from him by the human blender, during Jerry Was A Racecar Driver I think, never to be seen again. Frontman Les Claypool came out in a pig mask, then a monkey mask with tail, played this amazing bass like none other, deep freaky. The girl that had never slam danced before held her own in a death defying fight for survival fit for Animal Planet or the National Geographic Channel. A number of other females held their own at the front, including one ribald young blond lady that insisted on repeatedly raising her top while riding some guy's shoulders. So many females, in fact, that Les stopped between songs to comment that this concert had the most women at the frong of all the shows they'd played, and it refreshed him to see something other than the usual "sea of testicles". I lost half the buttons on my Hawaiian shirt and got soundly knocked to the floor to practice somersaults in the pit. The pit was full of fresh air and a particularly obnoxious shaved headed young man that charged me like a bull, plowing into my left kidney area, leaving me with a resounding and prominent pain in my gut. The problem with resting past the edge the pit was the lack of air, no flow there, much body odor and carbon dioxide, so I'd fight my way back to the fray. Started getting tired, life kept flashing before my eyes, but I kept stopping it, so I wouldn't miss the band, but it would just resume flashing when my breath would get real short and my heart pounding loud. Went to get a drink at the fountain once, feeling like my kidneys were upset with me, actually four drinks, then rejoined the fun. The bouncers had decided to aggressively grab anyone crowd surfing, even the relatively benign girls. These guys looked like they could use an extra dose of high blood pressure medicine, or some inner peace; those bulging veins and eyes screamed stress. When the crowd sensed the last song all the girls that had wanted to crowd surf but hadn't wanted to get grabbed took too the air, quite a sight. Tim and I hung around after the lights came on to look for his shirt, but no luck. My belt had bruised my hips good, what with all the pulling of the crowd crush. My keys had cut my thigh, and pain wracked my every limb and especially my head, throbbing. Now I saw the wisdom in driving all the way to Sacramento to see a show like this, so worth it.

The moon shown like the noon day sun through my sunroof on the way back, just a wee but louder than the ringing in my ears. I howled and grunted and beat the parts of the car I though could take it. My skin soaked up the moonlight into special moonlight storage nerves, to release as needed in the form of everyday miracles. I got a call when I was still about 40 minutes from home that my boy had awoke in a bad mood and was screaming bloody murder and searching the house and yard for me, turning on all the lights, demanding chocolate. He waited up for me, quietly sitting at the top of the stairs, greeting my the moment the door opened with an expectant "Daddy?"

"Yes Choppo, I'm home" After I'd congratulated him on waiting up for me so patiently and quietly, we feasted on a variety of snacks (no chocolate) and had a regular after-show party session, including the reading of an exceptional Frida Kahlo letter out loud, one from when she lived in San Francisco, before passing out on the futon. Stellar night, all in all.