two ball players and other stuff

mike lowell is cuban. he plays third base for the red sox. i like the way he plays, he's even a favorite of mine. and then, he speaks. "i can't wait for castro to die. to me, he is like bin laden." about fidel stepping down? "the cuban people are still not free. only when they have democracy (?) will they be free."

but hey, he's a heck of a third baseman. have no fear. i will ply him with leftist literature. hopefully, he will come around.

then, there is the left fielder. number 24. a personality, an original. the 2007 red sox visited the white house yesterday. big papi was there, beckett was there, lowell, of course, was there. number 24 wasn't there. he wasn't there in 2004 either. they have been blasting him all day on sports talk, questioning his patriotism. perhaps these nimrods have forgotten his dominican descent, or the 1st amendment? manny ramirez doesn't play by their rules, but he's too good for them to ignore. when craig hodges ducked out on bush the elder, the bulls sent him packing. my friend manny isn't going anywhere. they want those 40 homers.

manny ramirez may play for the red sox, but yesterday, he acted like a true patriot, and by his absence, made his presence felt. to me, manny will always be the man. the media will continue to fuck with him, but of course, that only proves that he's on to something.

freedom.

last night, saw a documentary on pete seeger called the power of song. pbs. great movie.

the kids were murder today. k kept calling me a predator. another girl asked "when am i going to get a hair cut?" i responded "if i thought it might end the war in iraq, i would consider it." as the cover of this weeks mad magazine reads "viva la stupidity."

this blog has gone to pot. weed it and weep. and while i grant you that the grass is greener on the other side, i will press on until i get back in to the zone. my, if i could only have a ronnie ball again, but the alicia keys to success seem to always allude me. perhaps what i need are more solid, idle moments, but they are hard to find when you have to sing the work song. gnat told me that joke didn't fly with him, but to me, he's just moanin.

remember that blog i wrote about going to the high school basketball game? well, as detached and otherwordly and meaningless as it all seemed, i'm on my way back tonight for a playoff game. well, everything else sucks too. i don't know how else to explain it.

peace.

i believe i passed inspection

i am a man who has been getting nothing but dirty breaks. they could clean and tighten my brakes, but i would have to stay in the garage all night.

on meet the zone defense, ralph kramden in the fact that he will not be running for president. however, he will be running the boston marathon. i will not attempt to hand him, or anyone else there, an anti-war hand out.

when i was in high school, there was an assistant principal named mr. staples. i used to call him mr. office max. that line was always on target.

why did i run into walls in high school? what is it a metaphorical escape from prison, an attempt to break up the monotony, if just for a second, proof of my immense immaturity, something to do, a chance to hear my name chanted? probably all of that. all i know is that when i was lying on the floor afterward, i felt an energy, a freedom, that no good grade on a test ever matched.

when i was kid, there was an asian kid in my neighborhood named fu. he was a good guy, but we couldn't quite see beyond his race. we would always call him fu man chu. after saying it a fu times, i knew it wasn't quite right, even at 8, but i kept doing it.

fu, i'm sorry. i am a product of a sick society. i know that's no excuse, but it's true regardless.

you were a good baseball player.

better than all us ignorant white motherfuckers.

stuck in the quagmire

family ties tend to tighten around the neck. pinko, the only thing worse than your family is someone else's family. and war. it is the abdication of our precious free time that is the greatest punishment. once you realize that none of it matters, you desperately want to hold on to the part that does. not doing anything is our only hope. sadly, big brother seems to be watching 24 years later, and perhaps, he is still getting used to you. america is in the heart. sadly, it is often up your ass as well. the in laws attack, steady in their socializing. they eat out, make comments, hold on to something that isn't there. they want to see you, but afterward, you don't want to see them. of course, you don't want to see them before either. the in laws are everywhere. they are next door, sitting outside, yelling at their wives, holding doors open, reading a romance novel, voting for democrats and republicans. a nation of in laws, customs, false politeness, obligations, bills, rent, pollution, bad sit coms, digital television, reality shows, cluster bombs.

and tears.

i'm going to be observed today at my teaching job. i was gonna go with the thong, but backed down at the last moment. just once though, i'd like them all to know what sexual hairy ass meant.

what is there to observe. it's all bullshit. why must we pretend that it matters, as if there were no longer babies with bloated bodies? in the end, we all looked away, and acted as if there was some importance involved. and we wonder why death touches everything we do. reggie will observe me. he wears the pants on the gig, as his last name is jean. i am healthy, as i have good genes, but i will be observed anyway. you darwin some, you lose some, but it's all shit, just the same. it's the origin of the feces. i'm gonna put on a happy face, and act like i care, cause the extra 400 a month comes in john handy. but, in my heart, i will silently scream at him to get the fuck out of my room.

you got it.

i'll sell out again.

a truer picture

had a thought today about the famous european painter, who when asked to paint jesus, painted his cousin, who, he felt, looked like jesus.

if only a nigerian painter had drawn jesus. then we might all have a truer understanding of what he actually looked like.

a friend of my mom on the election..."what, do you want obama to win because he's black?" (i know a white woman in kansas who may beg to differ, but no matter) later..."do you want obama to win because of the boys?" (i don't have the heart to tell her i'm for nader. you know, the whole electoral college thing, corporate crime, wasted words all.) this woman is paralyzed, her legs have gone to shit. sadly, her brain already was.

nader in 08? or, perhaps elaine brown, or cynthia mckinney? well, other than the red sox, my teams never win either. and gitlin to the contrary, this is not the nadir of nader's career. i've seen a bumper sticker which reads "end global whining." i'm not a big fan of it, but it certainly applies to gitlin.

oh lord, don't let them drop the obama on me. if you want to sue mingus me for stealing that line, be my christopher guest. just don't give me your guffman.

by the way, my mom told her friend off. she cried, said that she didn't know that she had to watch everything she says. yes, we all want the freedom to be an asshole and not be called on it.

probably why we hate castro so much. as lenny said "that castro, he really made things tough on the tourists."

let me lay the bread on them.

just some food for thought.

stuff

when dick ellington met cunt basie, it was quite a session. first, they made a larry holmes for themselves, and soon, they started a family. they began with sonny boy, which they decided to do now rather than tjader. they followed that up with baby ruth, with a guest solo by dick johnson. then, they played candy. an original copy of this album has gone for 100 grand. mr, there is a goodbar in boston that often plays the album. the kit kat club does as well. the almond brothers have often spoken about the album as an influence on them. and remember how the doors stole that trane riff for light my fire? yeah, but who gives a shit? maybe the who. horton heard the who, and then said to me, "guess who i heard?" to which i said the "who" and he replied "guess who" and i said "i told you the who" and it quickly degenerated into a who's on first bit. guess who's on first? who. ah, this whole thing is off bass, and is likely played out. i hope all you out there are getting played, like dave silberg, yo, this shit is reel. i would reel it in, but i feel like a fish out of water. on the real.

new york is a toddling town? and just what is that? a toddling town. what shit. by the way, are there 2 t's in toddling? they say there is no pity in the naked city. and no clothes too. new york is the city that never sleeps. there are pills for that sort of thing. i only slept about 5 hours last night, but that had nothing to do with a city and more to do with my state of mind. i looked up at the ceiling and wondered why there is no country for old men. while there is a bardem they can go to, it would be nice if they could drink from the dishwasher pete fountain of youth. did juno that was coming? oscar, don't be such a grouch over these puns. if you are good, i 'll show you my big bird, my charlie porker, my dick johnson, my john dixon. actually, my penis is so small that it can only be measured with negative numbers. that's an old gag, something my penis will never make you do. aw, come on, too much chering, sonny, you couldn't bono someone if your subscription to life magazine depended on it. well, at least i've got time on my hands. in truth, my sex life has never been better. 10 years ago, i was looking at national geographic magazines, checking out the female tribe members. today, i am reborn, but not a christian. russell explained why he wasn't a christian. i think it had something to do with his not believing. the thing about religion is the hours. saturday for the jews, sunday for those who continue to feel that jesus was the son of god. weekend time...precious, you know? maybe if i could work it into my lunch hour. and, if so many hadn't been murdered in his name.

AS THEY SAY, LORD, PLEASE SAVE US FROM YOUR FOLLOWERS.

i like jesus hates me, but there's really no proof of that. i think he's neutral on the subject, but i defend anyone's right to exclaim that if they so choose. perhaps he does hate some of us. word is he is not a big fan of the air conditioner. he favors a big fan. he also likes a big fanny, perhaps explaining that "jesus: ass man" bumber sticker i saw in my dream last night. i had a really weird dream, where little indonesian boys and even smaller somalian girls, joined hands and sang the old negro spiritual "go down on moses." it is a grand tune that is passed down from generation to generation, an oral tradition. i must teach it to roberts as part of sex ed. ok, i'll stop horsing around.

peace, mr ed. i'll try to get back on track with my next blog.

back to back with bucking broncos

when did flats come back? about flats, the flat screen replaced the big screen. but, it is like the flat ass vs big ass debate. either way, the bombs continue to fall. at least i'm not seeing sneakers with lights in them anymore, although i am seeing sneakers with roller skates on the bottom. little kids, zipping around, still happy, yet ignorant over the mess that awaits. you're gonna hate me for this, but i often hate little kids. they stare at you, long and hard, and when you look up again, they are still staring. they think every stop on the train is theirs. they are always asking their parents for the time, and they always ask "are we there yet?" they whine, want everything they see, and are no better than the asshole adults they will become. of course, there are a lot of great kids out there too, but can we at least admit that many children are as overrated as this country of ours? they are the bomb droppers of tomorrow, the future mental midgets, and they are not all precious.

who will replace carlin and pryor, sinatra and cole, cooke and wilson, ammons and stitt, zoot and getz, bird and trane, dolphy and kirk, fellini and bergman, woody and groucho, martin and malcolm, brown and turner, wilt and russell, ray robinson and mays, yusef and mingus, monk and rouse, bukowski and trumbo and heller and wright and robeson and konitz and pepper and rollins and mobley? where are the books worth reading, the music worth listening to, the art worth looking at, the people worth talking to? where is cagney daring the cops to come get him, bogart cool with cig hanging out of mouth, monroe gliding across the screen, brando yelling for his lady, newman eating 50 eggs?

where is all the greatness?

and what is this shit that has replaced it?

1-2-3

as i lay here with a chip on my shoulder, i am in a sour mood. i would cream someone if they were to bother me. meanwhile, green onions plays on the radio, though i would prefer booker playing the blues, if you dig the tenor of where i am at. as i sit here in a blue mitchell mood, i stevie wonder, where is my bread, my peace of silver? i am tired of this horace race. can someone grant me some peace before i fall to pieces and go crazy? i've gone out walking after midnight, but i was a patsy for the crooks, so now, i de-cline to take those walks. hence, i strike out more and more. nothing swings, from glenn miller and down by the riverside. i got a new dorsey, but it needs a lock. i was gonna ask for the whole whig party, but like a true democrat, i settled for a lock of hair. hair today, gone tomorrow, tom. don't cry uncle because we are living in an aunt heap, and while sam cooke sings cousin of mine, i contemplate death. but, it would be too final. so, i sit on the doc severinson of the e bay, wasting time. someone else just got a carson, but having wheels doesn't make you a mcmahon, and the show tonight does not seem james worthy of my attention. in fact, i am so poor that i can't even pay attention. you could cut the attention with a knife and make him fork over the dough, but it would all probably go to pot anyway. go ahead, pan these lines if you prefer, but i think it is starting to darwin cook, charles, so don't cry a river over me. no, smile chap, for the town of lynn awaits. lynn, lynn, city of sin, you never come out the way you went in. yet, we all must sin for our supper. do you notice how it's never supper anymore? too religious. how about "the last dinner?" supper...stupid word. religion gave us a lot, of which bullshit is one of the main things. i say this not to degrade, but merely, as an observer who remembers that the greatest killers throughout time, including pat boone, have believed. to be frank laden, we are sattled with blazing thoughts of fire, and i brooks great resentment over this. enough of this jazz! leave us a-sloane! let us watch tom and jerry, or jerk off, or sleep. at least let us create our own stories. the ones that are thousands of years old get a little tiresome. i want to burn rubber away from tradition, and finally have a good year, and yet, you likely tire from these puns, which speak to retread lines of yesteryear. so, you sit in traffic, but there is no free way. all is cost. all will costas, bob. there will be a lloyd price. they will take your personality and stagger you until you think you are lee morgan, but no one will be there to help you search for a new land. the great ones get shorter as you get older, and you are no longer green. wayne you were younger, things seemed otherwise, but now you realize that no one is wise, not even tim, who while he is white like me, is still just a man, like all the rest. ah, to rest, perchance to dream, there's the rub, and i wish you would get your hand off my penis. there are ty laws against that sort of thing, so unless you want a fantastic foursome, i suggest we intercept this communication before it gets out of hand. for while you may have the ball, two can play at that game, and while you pray, i may become the prey and joe hunt you while you relax by the riverside records and pay your bill russell's. my friend, you will not always be the center of attention. one of these days, you will wilt under the pressure and someone will curb your enthusiasm. so, shaq up with a lady love while you cannes, because life is no movie.

it's for reel, and the next shot might be of your face, shot by a bullet, real or reel, it's hard to tell the real from the false now. either way, a bit of you will die.

they may call it success, but you will know the truth.

and the madness will go by the name of normalcy, and only the fools will be sane. but, they will be medicated, hidden from view, tied down, handcuffed, beaten, killed.

and only the insane will live.

and the beat goes on

i've figured out many of the lies, but i still don't know what the truth is. i do know that in the year 2008, a chinese take out joint should be able to come up with a better name than "charlie chan's." I also know that nothing was won in Kosovo, though thousands of lives were lost, mostly due to our bombing. The left left us in those days, as many somehow believed the lies of the male clinton and e. lie weisel. now, the u.s. embassy in serbia no longer stands, and ethnic strife remains strong. kosovo is serbia, it is that simple. albanians may be a majority there, but there are a lot of chinese in chinatown too. and oh yeah, serbians were a majority there until they were murdered by the nazis.

but i suppose, if we truly believe in the rights of majorities to determine their own destinies, we will allow dc to become independent. bush, not surprisingly, remains silent on this issue. the least we could do is provide decent housing, education, and health care to the inhabitants of those who are just minutes from the white house. i won't hold my breath. no, it's more like us to cry fake tears and drop real bombs on others in order to produce a false peace that eventually creates more real wars. then, we can hold up our hands and say that we tried our best, and then we can bemoan that some among us just aren't ready for democracy.

the guy upstairs always gets up early on a saturday to create a clear, snowless, path on the stairs. hence, i'm up, blogging now. well, it beats live rock concerts outside my door. the worst was the cross eyed irish guy that would do "i am a rock" and "the sound of silence" and "daydream believer" and "imagine." once, i went out to complain to him, but his eyes were so fucked up that i felt bad, so i ended up being very polite to him. there were others too. the bums, the "alternative" crowd, the gays, the loner with his guitar, the mediocre multitudes looking to beat the heat. i lasted for 17 months. well, there was a train across the street, my parents were close, and the winters were nice. and it was our first apartment, and a nice one too. well, phil, i suppose you have to holda on to what you got. but, enough was enough. so, now i complain about others things, other people, new sounds. in the end, sartre's "hell is other people" becomes more profound with each passing day.

at 16, i worked in the kitchen of a nursing home. saw people naked on elevators, saw residents curse nurses, and each other. toward the beginning of my life, i glimpsed others at the end of theirs. all for 6:50 an hour. what was i doing? well, i guess i thought money mattered then. today, i stress to young people the importance of not working. have a love affair with free time, i say. but, i was young then. now, i have to work. oh, to be 16 again.

ah, it sucked then too.

mr. ed runs over virgil hill

thoughts and things i have recently seen.

i used to think the white house was the center of the empire. now, i think it may be the credit card companies. just where are they located?

heard a woman say that she "would never buy used porn." well, it's not like the guy is jacking off onto the video.

a vacation...you are happy to have it, but mad that it doesn't last. the feeling of dread arrives, as the routine returns.

i make a little bit more than the average salary in 1979, the year that i was born. on the other hand, i am buddy richer than 99 percent of the plant. what kind of a shelley manne am i to complain when i am living like a king while others live like a max roach. by the way pinko, if you could drum up some readers for me, i would appreciate it. i could even art taylor the material to suit their needs. perhaps, i could do a story on my family in philly joe jones, or, for you lovers of vegetables, i could rave about the corn on the jimmy cobb i had for dinner. pinko, down to your willy shoemaker shorts, i implore you not to spike lee anyone's drink. do the right thing, for it is a jungle fever out there, and while malcolm x karl marx the spot, i am not dogging you. in the end, whatever you do, remember to do it for god and country.

perhaps if we had a shit in movement, an ass roots movement, and if we remembered to salute the fag and have a gay old time, everything would be much better.

that took some larry flyntstones to come up with that line. well, life is a hustle, but if you want to feel like a paul newman, you'll do what you can to stay fresh.

whatever happened to kool mo d?

i never thought i would have fond memories of "press your luck" and "name that tune."
by the way, where have all the whammies gone? that guy that mastered press your luck is a hero of mine. of course, a hero ain't nothing but a sandwich, so i ask that you go light on the craig mustard, as i relish the next pun that comes, and i ketchup on the good lines. i got serious for a while, but, at least for a day, i feel silly.

i also never thought i would have fond mammories either. oh, the wheel of good fortune has seemingly spun my way, and i don't think i am in jeopardy of losing it. in the meanwhile, i, an american, idle about, blogging.

there are only 20 contestants left. one of the guys that got voted off sang "suspicious minds."

sometimes don't we all feel that we are caught in a trap? ironically enough, the trap tends to be television. these singers are awful, too young, over singers, no pitch, no understanding of a lyric. one girl was singing "take another little piece of my heart" as she jumped around, seemingly the happiest woman on earth. someone else sang "where the boys are." what a connie job. it was enough to make me want to hear frances albert sinatra.

20 left. and america, you certainly do not have talent.

and we sit on sofas, watching the joke, as the networks laugh, counting the bills, growing rich, buddy.

i'm sure you just wanted to make sure this blog is dead.

well, it is.

my only regret is that i have but one penis to give for my cuntry

walked in to the brookline library to take out half of their stock, and saw a guy who looked a lot like pinko. got a little closer to him, even though i knew it was an impossibility. up close, it wasn't that close. but, it was something, his posture, his build, his hair cut, clothing. strange. funny how we get excited over things we know aren't true.

what about those people (people (guess who) who need people) who are kind of your friends, so you call them your friends because you really don't have friends. that is, friends less than 3,000 miles away. you make the half assed effort to hang out, but you really don't want to. or, do you? you know shit is messed up when even you don't know what you want. the thing is, i am usually in between.

saw a girl on the bus who had on these pants that you could kind of see through. to make a long story short, i did much more reading after she got off the bus. sometimes, you are fascinated by the guts it takes someone to wear something. it often isn't even sexual. more like, "can you believe that?" sometimes, it's so sexual that it's not sexual anymore. beyond it, so sexual it's silly.

in general, you don't know what you are going to get on public transit. i still have fond memories of the maniac who sang "he's a maniac" for the entire time i was on the bus. then, he got off the bus with me, and continued to sing as he walked away. less fun at this point are the numerous teenagers with their lust and foul mouths. i become a fascist in their presence until i remember how out of control i was at their age. but at that point, i am already angry, and another trip home has been ruined. well, i can always get sentimental about the guy who told us all that he shits his pants. i wonder where he is now?

probably at the laundry.

well, i better grab my bukowski books before 10 more books of his poems are put out. i hope john martin has enough room in his house for things other than bukowski. for the moment, i don't. i don't have time for miller or celine and fidel's auto sits unread, as i gobble up the books of buk like a thanksgiving dinner.

speaking of fidel, he was, and will be until he dies, a great man. for close to 50 years, he fought against the beast. he created a society that cared for it's people, educated them, banned racism, offered 1st rate health care, fought apartheid, and gave it's support to just struggles the world over. i don't care what anyone says, to me, fidel is the last great man of the 20th century, a giant among insects.

viva fidel!

and while i'm at it,

viva milosevic! the man got a raw deal. portrait of a tyrant, pinko? that was a great laugh on the grass at the common. but now, they have killed him, as they have killed many others.

as fidel lives.

and hopefully, cuba as well.

evaluating

i get into it, way more than i should. the joke is that "i am getting a package together." lp's and cd's, one after the other, buying, selling, trading, and buying again, often the same record, sometimes even in the same week. sitting close to the stereo, trying to figure out if it's too good to trade, or if it's worth burning. usually, it comes down to the mood i am in at that moment. there are times when you can trade a lot, other times when each record sounds great, and you laugh at yourself for even considering trading it. the whole thing is silly, but since i don't have the courage to try to overthrow the government, it seems one of the only things i can do. i have heard a ton of jazz, probably thousands of albums at this point. when you are comparing john jenkins and hal stein, you know you have problems, and yet, i feel closer to these obscure masters than most people i have met in the flesh. when i broke up with my girlfriend, when pinko returned to his laid back homeland, when some team i was rooting for lost a tough one, (hey, give me a break...the real tragedies will come later) the music was there. gene's tone, henderson's imagination, trane's fire, grant green's sound, ike's relaxation, zoot's swing, mingus's humor, dolphy's genius. they were, and are, always there.

the music itself isn't silly. it's me, pacing back and forth, asking others what they think of a particular album that i am on the fence about. the listening over and over again, looking for a cop out, a reason to keep or trade. this guy's tone bothers me or nat adderly's on it or freddie this or kenny that or that album is overrated or if i want to listen to him that's not the album i would choose.

great things drive me mad.

better to be driven mad by something great i suppose.

but still, you should see my when i get like this. a real life woody, nervous, contemplative, occasionally laughing at my own mania.

as a tenor blows in the background on an album i am evaluating yet again.

after bitching about saxophone colossus to pinko

i went out and got saxophone colossus. hey, i can cop out on the fact that it was 5 bucks and i had credit. so, pinko, (down to your underwear) you don't have to burn, baby, burn, this disco for me, which is good, as you may have started an inferno if you had burned it.

by the way, is that roach an ego maniac or what? he solos to the max, leaving me ready for freddie and a trip to quebec, if you dig the tenor of what i'm saying.

once, my dad had a gig at an italian restaurant. the owner sees him, with his afro and somewhat racially ambiguous features, and says to the guitar player, "who are you bringing me here, sammy davis jr?" (you think he wouldn't mind the greatest entertainer in american history, but to a bigot, i guess anything black is bad.)


my dad's comeback?

"you're close. he's a black guy trying to be jewish, i'm a jewish guy trying to be black."

classic. the fascist ended up offering dad weeks of work, which papa mellish promptly turned down. sammy, it turns out, was already booked.

speaking of italians, they usually love black music, as long as white people are playing it. you get that a lot here in boston. there are plenty of good white jazz musicians. if you're black, you're best chance is if you are token female vocalist who isn't very good. other than that, go to new york. perhaps if you are lighter than rock newman, you got a shot. that was a low bowe, but it's the real deal.

speaking of this, an old italian guy donated his record collection to stereo jack's, my used record hang in cambridge. yep, italian. jazz recordings. white guys. lots of tjader and buddy defranco and sinatra and maynard ferguson and mel torme. a black guy? maybe lewis black. to be honest, he did have some basie and lena horne, if she counts, basie. now, all those white cats were bad dudes, although i'm not a big torme guy, buddy. but still, where is the mobley and ammons and stitt? the dude was so white he didn't even have zoot and al and stan and woods. i guess they used too many blacks as side men. man, bigotry is always there.

week off from work. cool thing. it's a little taste of freedom, makes you want more than these simple words i try to cey, ron. say you, say me, say it forever, that's the way it should sacramento bee. hear the news, there's good rockin tonight. some may read this, and think that i am off my john rocker, but they have never taken a subway in new york, so who cares if the sun cares to fall from beyond the sea. it is during these times that we need to be braves.

it has come out that obama stole from a speech given by guys and deval patrick (son of sunra bari player pat patrick, no lie) ah, plagerism. they used it against mlk, now obama.

sir, i knew mlk.

mlk was a friend of mine.

sir, obama is no mlk.

but the system doesn't just kill great men.

remember that the system will kill assholes too, if the asshole being killed is less of an asshole than the assholes that they want in power.

you can murder a man in a thousand ways. there's the 9 to 5, the rumor, the silly charge, the ticket for driving too slow. we all need to be careful.

having said that, fuck obama.

and just about everybody else too.

things

i walked through the latino part of my neighborhood today. noticed a ton of hillary for president signs. i have been hearing she is very popular with latinos. why? i know there has always been a little tension between latinos and blacks, but their support for her seems a little strong, given the facts.

me? i favor obama, for clinton is one hillary i don't want to climb.

it is easy to think you could beat someone at something, especially if you never play it. sometimes, i'll watch someone playing basketball, and think to myself that i could bust them. there is an old line which goes "what the mind can conceive, the body can achieve."

not true. these kids would probably kill me. i would hit a couple jumpers, and then i would start to feel as if i were having a heart attack. this feeling is why i stopped playing the game in the first place.

speaking of ball, the kidd trade is a real esther roller coaster. it can't be good times for him. well, if he isn't traded, i can still go to good time. kidd in dallas would be cool. i suppose he deserves a shot at a title. but, i'm not gonna sit around and feel bad for a guy who is making over 15 million a year, championship or no championship.

not while the populations of the earth are still being punished for no fault of their own.

monk was something else. his music can really charlie a rouse me. what a body of work...bandleading, composing, piano playing. any one of his skills would be more than enough to make him an important figure in music. all together? amazing. by the way, stop and think of the sax players he used...
coltrane
griffin
rollins
rouse
foster

what a giant he was.

and they thought he was crazy.

patsy cline crazy

crazy like a rick fox

there is so much great monk music. nuns of it is bad. at times, i listen to it religiously, as it helps get me through the night. the unearthed monk and trane at carnegie hall stands up to anything i have ever heard. i love his early recordings with rollins and foster, and his first album with rouse, which also featured thad jones. monk, monk, monk. it's always good. and if he did start to repeat himself a little as time went by, he always repeated great stuff, like stuffy. no hackensack on the piano could play that one. monk, was straight no chaser, but not narrow. a rather large fellow, he played the fool, but everybody plays the fool, there is no exception to the rule. listen baby! monk is from an earlier time, before bebe. his clothes were from a different time, a time when coltrane played time was, and that communist red garland tickled the randolph keys. chambers had it maid then, and people used to sit around and eat corn on the jimmie cobb. there was not a mall for miles. why, you needed a coltrane to get to one. the hawk was not an endangered species then. throughout the harold land, there was good jazz, and the art farmers grew their crops organically, as they all still do in cuba, as james eats kfc out of a james brown paper bags, which is no groove, jackson. he does this at rcc. please say, cc, r, say you and your spanish eyes will wait for me, as i drink a martino with al, a nice feller.
for now, i have more bunker hills to climb with my associates over the next two years. i hope you will give me credit (about 60 of them) for my effort, for i always conduct myself with home pride, for i kneed the bread.

and for once, we will stand in wc fields of wheat, with the whites, and our rye sense of humor will guarantee us good bread at the comedy club.

if you don't feel too close to these puns, maybe you will like what i think of next.

and now, back to the grind.

stuff

after work yesterday, i walked to the brookline library, about a ten minute walk from the school. k was also heading there, so we walked together. she set a fast pace. she made a couple calls on her cell phone. she talked and talked and talked. she is an only child, popular with her classmates, captain of the cheerleading team, a real life diva. she is an honor roll student, is taking ap spanish, applying to colleges. she goes out with a man in his 20's, drives him around, goes places. i confess that i have a soft spot for k, as i confess a soft spot for almost every young person i have ever worked with. she is cute, alive, filled with an energy that i envy. she is excited about starting adulthood, plies you with a plethora of questions, picks your brain. to be honest, she does have quite a temper, can be mean, insulting. but somehow, with her, it usually comes off ok. if i were her age, i would be quite taken with her. now, you just hope that that wonderful energy can survive the blows to come.
i enjoyed the walk. it reminded me of the many times i walked home from school when i was a student, often with a classmate who lived in my area. when you are surrounded by the energy of youth, you feel younger. things have meaning for them. it still matters. k, in her stylish jeans and flats, telling her boyfriend where it's at as she sets a furious pace for any pedestrian to match, teaches me more than i could ever teach her.

leaving the house today. got into the hallway and was about to lock my door when i heard the guy next door berating his poor wife. i've heard this a few times already, but this time it was really bad..."you fucking idiot! i'll kill you! you fucking cunt!" this man is a babbling alcoholic, a human doll who repeats the same set of sayings every time you run into him. in the summer, he sits outside, and satisfies only himself by saying..."nice day, eh? back again, eh? don't go too far! i like it when they keep the lights on in the park..." for this man to call anyone an idiot is beyond belief. these people have been married for over 40 years. how many times has he yelled this way? or hit, or pushed? as far as the woman goes, compared to him, she is a genius. she reads, listens to music, can actually carry on a conversation, worked at the library for 15 years. she deserves better than a drunken fool who verbally abuses her. little did i know when i took this apartment that i would end up in a real life bukowski short story. i have to say, i would much rather read them, than be in them, even if i only have a small part. by the way, i hate these guys who treat their wives like crap and then give strangers a good vibe. fuck these dim wits. but, it's more complicated than that, i know. this man has been worked near to death by a capitalist system that didn't educate him. it held out drink as his only reward, and he drowned himself in it. so now, the one good thing he has left, he derides and destroys, in a brutal game, that we will all lose.

the year was 1964. booker ervin, joe henderson, and wayne shorter, all made the best albums of their careers. inner urge, juju, the space book, many more. mingus had dolphy and jordan and coles and byard and richmond. coltrane had his quartet. sinatra, was starting to slip, but he was still a great singer. sam cooke, eric dolphy, still had life. bukowski was making the plunge on 100 a month. marvel comics was on fire. jackie wilson had just hit with baby workout. willy mays was flying around the bases, ali was still clay. the four tops had baby i need your lovin out. the beatles were coming. whites were starting to dig the blues. all of this, and more, was going on.

and, to top it all off,
we decided to destroy southeast asia.

ole

it was a leonard bird feather in my cap to critique a donald byrd record, but then i got a charlie horse and had to stop richard writing. so, i got my robeson and prayed to st. paul, but the frida payne wouldn't go away, so i decided to kahlo for a while. i went down to the shore and watched the flamingoes, but since i only have eyes for you, i couldn't see them. then love walked in, and i said hi, asked her to close the door, and get me some pendergrass, so i could get high. instead, i ended up hanging with herb williams. we put some food in the pot, but, to be blunt, it didn't come out welles, orson. so, he spent the rest of the night telling me how he raised kane to be a good citizen. "that kid was like a rose, bud" he told me. i liked the line, and was the only one clapping about it after everything else had gone silent. then, we watched a night at the opera. me and my brothers gave it high marx, and then ordered duck soup from a nazi.

p watched the marx brothers on youtube today. he had on the clip from monkey business where groucho dances with the girl. then the husband walks in and catches them. this led to groucho's classic turning of the proverbial table..."sir, this is an outrage, breaking into a man's home. i'm not in the habit of making threats, but there will be a letter about this in the times tomorrow morning."

the science test was an awful 6 page hodge podge of crap that will have nothing to do with the rest of anyone's life. considering this, failure is just another word for success. in fact, considering anything, failure is just another word for success.

Democracy

the problem, of course, isn't the Democratic System
it's the
living parts which make up the Democratic System.
the next person you pass on the street,
multiply
him or
her by
3 or 4 or 30 or 40 million
and you will know
immediately
why things remain non-functional
for most of
us.

I wish I had a cure for the chess pieces
we call Humanity...

we've undergone any number of political
cures

and we all remain
foolish enough to hope
that the one on the way
NOW
will cure almost
everything

fellow citiizens,
the problem never was the Democratic
System, the problem is

you.

Bukowski

or, as carlin says, "people are always saying that politicians suck. but who elects them? the people. so, maybe something else sucks around here...like the public. the public sucks. how's that for a campaign slogan? the public sucks, fuck hope!"

fuck hope.

power to the people

na and other girls are walking through the hall, shouting "power to the people." i ask her if she knows who huey newton was. she replies "huey newton? whose that?" i tell her that he was the founder of the black panther party. their slogan? power to the people.

she then looks at me, and starts chanting "white power!" i reply, "why are you chanting that? i thought you were going to marry chris brown." if you remember, na is a black girl who won't date black guys because "they aren't going anywhere," but she has admitted that she would date chris brown.

i'm sitting in the school library at the computer when the principal comes up to me and starts smiling. well, i guess at 6 figures i would smile too. perhaps he is thinking "who is this schmuck?" for that is exactly what i am thinking about him. then a woman comes up to me and takes my picture. i look up at her and she says "oh, sorry." how can you be sorry for just going up to me, sticking a camera in my face, and taking a picture of me? now the cia knows what i look like.

roger clemens is the new hitler. until the next war. i'll say it again...who gives a flying fuck about who took what? there are a lot of guys out there abusing their bodies, and they can't hit 800 homers or throw a 100 mile per hour fastball. if you want to go after ball players, go after the obscene amounts of money being made by the owners and athletes while people starve and others try with all their might to keep a roof over their heads. somehow, i don't think there will be an investigation into capitalism anytime soon.

true story: j (the hip hop cracker) and b (the girl with nothing in her brain) used to go out, but are not together anymore. b and a few other kids are sitting in the class when j walks in. you can tell that there is tension between j and b (as opposed to scotch) it turns out that earlier today, b fell on some ice. j saw her fall and said "fall, white girl, fall!" of course, j himself is white, although he likely hasn't been near a mirror in a while, which may explain his confusion. b brought this up, and said "you're white too!" next thing i knew, j was explaining the difference between a guinea and a cracker. j's point was that he is an italian, and therefore, not white. i'm not sure if this argument would fly in little italy. hence, j can call b a "white girl" because j is in fact a "guinea," and not a "cracker." however, b is also italian, but somehow, in j's world, is still white.

i don't know about you, but i just wish that these stupid white motherfuckers would shut the fuck up!!

the voice

forget the mob, forget the rat pack, forget the amos and andy jokes. remember always that his first nickname was "the voice." listen to the tone, the diction, the sense of swing. notice the little things; how he bends the word "around" on "you go to my head." or, the subtle ending of "don't worry about me," or the second chorus of "our love is here to stay." the man is better than we know, as famous as he was. i don't mean the image, the celebrity, it's that voice.

listen to it, and learn.

two hour delay today. tried to sleep, but the guys going down the stairs kept waking me up. got to school a half hour early, and talked to p about world affairs.

had to kick two kids out of my mcas class. well, i didn't have too, but, you know. i give them half assed work, and they won't meet me half way. they kept texting each other and laughing. one of them is this annoying gay asian kid who thinks he can call girls cunts because he's gay. i hate to get tough, because i know it's all crap, but sometimes you got to do it.

history class today; they "learned" about john brown. the aide asked if he could really be considered an abolitionist since he killed people? later on, i threw in that "lincoln is considered a hero even though 600,000 people were killed in the civil war, but john brown is a "murderer" for killing five." a student objected..."that's different. lincoln was a president. he has the power to do that." my response? "tell that to the guys 6 feet under if it makes a difference." by the way, 120,000 people were killed in the civil war for each one that brown blew away.

i also threw in, while brown was being condemned by the mentally challenged that masquerade as educators, that "malcolm x used to say that if you were a john brown kind of white liberal, then he would listen to you, but that he didn't want to hear from the other kind."

in our culture, if you are willing to fight and die for black people, you are crazy.

much better to drop bombs for oil.

with a uniform, all is forgiven

as i "exist"

i am coming out of the bookstore and into the freezing cold. a young woman with a greenpeace jacket on asks me "do you want to save the world?"

i answer...

"i'm sorry, i've got to go to work."

the kids were talking about a pair of sneakers that have just come out. they cost 210 dollars. a girl is going to get them. the guy, in his best democratic party opposition tone, complained "that's alot of money."

i'm sure his obama like solution is for them to cost 150 dollars. then, and only then, will he give in to corporate control.

who am i fooling?

he's probably at the store right now.

it's always something

you can never just make a photo copy. the machine is out of paper, or a cartridge needs to be replaced, or paper has jammed, or you need a code to access the machine. doesn't anyone just write notes on a board anymore? speaking of notes, teachers don't use chalk anymore. they all have these white boards with dry erase markers, or over heads. me? i still dig chalk. of course, you get that dusty shit smell on your hands that never comes off, but it's the least work. and it's charming, you know? but, no one cares about charming now. we are too busy being efficient. and when you get down to it, none of it matters, because we are teaching the same bullshit, whether we use chalk, a marker, or an over-head.

the next time someone asks you what you do, tell them..."i attempt with all my might against the forces against me to maximize my leisure by reading, and listening to jazz. and, i never ask someone what they do. that is the sign of a shallow follower who has accepted the standards of success within our corrupt, corporate dominated civilization."

you can't go home again. especially if you have lost your alicia keys. by the way, i don't care what anyone says, i think she is a vastly, overrated stiff. it is a sad commentary on the state of american popular music when people like her are considered profound artists. well, at least it ain't botti playing my funny valentine.

speaking of valentine's day, you gotta admit that when it comes to creating new ways of wasting a person's money, our culture reigns supreme. this is not to say that there isn't a certain charm to the day, but just to point out the essential commercialism that is integral to it.

and the children still have bloated bellies in africa.

and the babies still burn in baghdad.

and that box of chocolates is still waiting for you to buy.

things are getting worse. please send chocolate. well, what else do you have in mind?

let them say about me that more often than not, he tried to be human. and that once in a while, he could hit a high note. at his best, there was a creativity within him that bordered on something good. of course, he was like all the others, complaining, self righteous, with a self inflated view of self. as time went by, he remembered what herbie mann said..."i find as i go through life that no one cares about me as much as i do." thanks to ike and zoot and gene, he knew how a tenor should sound. he wasn't much, but at times, he could transcend the mediocrity of his surroundings, and for a few seconds, he was alive. there were many who were worse.

he never built bombs. he rarely uttered "i'm just doing my job" and when he did, he felt guilty, as if his hand held the murder weapon. he once asked "is he dark skinned enough?" when his supervisor had him trail the black customers in the store he worked in. a sense of humor... that he had. but the tragedy often overwhelmed him, and the jokes didn't help then. they rarely do, but they were something. he was in their pitching. he threw strikes, but in the end, the other side had too much power.

a girl walked in to the class with a new hairdo. p noticed, and said "you look like you are in the supremes." he meant it as a compliment, but i don't think it was taken that way. the oldies just don't get respect. the world is in an uproar, the dangerfield is everywhere.

p asked "david, do you remember paul bearer?" you think my puns are bad. by the way, he was the undertaker's manager.

i told spears to count by three and put a line after the third number. when i went back she had put a line after each number. another time i asked her, "if you had two dollars, and someone gave you another dollar, how much money would you have?" she just looked at me, her mouth hanging open.

hey, i can't handle money either.

back to the stockade.

on being nearly 30 at a high school basketball game

you are watching the game and thinking, my god, they are only kids. you remember when it mattered, now you want to tell them to just go out there and run around. you shake a few hands, say hi, but feel a little off, as if it's not your time anymore. you know a couple of the cheer leaders. they look cute in their outfits. you think of them as if you were their older brother, but your feelings probably wouldn't come off well, so you don't say anything to them. the game is rather boring, or is that just your own sense of alienation? you look at them and think, i could bust them if i got into shape, but is that true? probably not.

the whole things matters and doesn't matter. a 6 foot white kid tries to dunk, and misses. the coach, a 6 foot 11 inch giant, screams "what are you thinking?" and then remembers he is dealing with children. brookline wins, they make the playoffs. the whole thing was mildly positive.

i didn't linger long. i had a bus to catch. as i walked, i thought, why did i do this? yet, i may go again. in the end, what is there to do? it is good to see people caring, energy being displayed, heavy set girls somehow doing splits. and yet, there is an undercurrent of sadness to it all. former players who still live in the projects, sitting in the front row, replaying their past when they too were stars. an old man shouting into a pa system, telling everyone to stay off the floor.

at the end of it all, the life of things return. despite the old man's pleading, the little ones run onto the court and fling balls at the basket. cheerleaders receive roses from admiring parents. there is a touch of anarchy, as the refs retire and the coaches depart. it is during the best part that the people leave. sadly, they are only satisfied with structure.

brookline high school. it's really not such a bad place. i've worked there for close to three years, and still haven't committed suicide.

maybe i'll go to another game.

i didn't hate it as much as everything else.

way to go warriors.

by the way, when is supposedly liberal brookline going to stop calling their team the warriors?

i just can't quit when i'm ahead.

what do you expect from a bleeding fart liberal, who has been unable to build an ass roots, bowel movement?

i guess something like this blog

spears

in math today, spears got yet another zero. she told us that 36/6 equals 18/30, that 15 is an improper fraction, and other answers that were better than the correct ones. she comes after school for extra help too. imagine how much worse she would do if she was a slacker.

j said the teacher was a feminist because she let the girl go to the bathroom before him. he exclaimed that this was "bullshit." something tells me we don't have a great man here. j is a hip hop cracker, and as you know, they are twice as obnoxious as the most obnoxious black kid. i can't help but think that the world would be a better place without him.

k didn't want to talk to me today. she must have still been upset over the my space situation. either that or she finally realized that i'm a no good asshole. hopefully, it was the former.

e took the whole week off from school. first she was sick, than it was because she moved. funny, but i remember my move taking about 6 hours. of course, any student that takes a week off from school deserves our admiration. so e, i salute you. by the way, the word from the students was that she was bummed that her party "sucked," and this has led her to feel bad. two of the kids in our program went, ate, stayed for 10 minutes, and left. you know, maybe i can learn from these kids after all. anyway, e, don't be sad, although it's your party and you can cry if you want to, i wouldn't cry if it happened to me.

when old songs start sneaking in to the blog, the end is near.

and, so it is.

el fin

but wait, bukowski on the rich..."the rich understand. they just don't do anything about it." a great line, but when you think about it, the rich do too much.

like fuck us.

now i'm done.

crap

mc, the history teacher, actually referred to the "great confederate flag" yesterday. the students were either too dumb or too indifferent to care.

j talked about joining the army after he gets out of school. he thinks they "could make a man out of him." i told him i'm not much of a man. "actually, i'm kind of a punk" was the exact way i put it. the other aide mentioned a couple guys he knows who joined the service and are now making 70,000 to 80,000 grand a year. i guess he doesn't know anyone who got their face blown off, or anyone who has blown someone else's face off. and we wonder where the good germans were. probably in the army. but, at least they didn't choose it. i was gonna say "you should see the ground truth." maybe back when i still cared i would have. now, it's like hey, if some ignorant fuck head wants to get himself trapped in a pile of deep shit, that's his choice. the door to the library is wide open, and the computers are filled with hard truths, but some people still want to be men. fuck them.

k broke down yesterday because she found out that someone she thought was her friend has been making fun of her on my space. for a second there i thought that she was being compassionate for the sick and suffering throughout the world. just joking. we are always crying about the wrong things. the story of mankind...miss placed compassion. we care about the wrong things, we are angry at the wrong people, we live the wrong lives. my space? high tech masterbation. at least the old kind was enjoyable. they used to say that the old kind blinded you, an old superstition. the new kind actually can hurt your eyes. and people suck too. i don't care how much promise a medium has, people will find a way to twist it into something terrible. and, they will always find a way to insult each other. he said she said. in the end, most of us are little kids, taking joy in the sadness of others, hurting them because we can, not because we should.

you want to tell them that none of it matters, but that is hard to do while the tears are flowing. i suppose it is better for tears to fall than bombs. but, in our culture, you can be sure that both will continue to fall.

j (not the same j) refuses to admit that he goes out with a girl that he has been going out with for close to 3 years. not only that, but he insults her, makes fun of her, verbally abuses her. we are always obsessed with how we are perceived, and how we perceive ourselves. j probably sees himself romancing some hotty from a hip hop video, and can't stomach the reality that is his to attain. fantasy isn't so bad, but not when it means making another miserable. if she is good enough to kiss, she is good enough for people to know that you are kissing her, herr. (the jerks last name) by the time we learn, we are out of time.

remember your humanity, and forget the rest.

k is back. got to love the bounce back.

mc is a prick, but i do like it when he goes "here are some more notes that you'll never look at." name me one thing that tops cynicism?

i wish i wanted to go to the boys basketball game here at the school. it would be nice to have spirit, to join in, to be social. but then, i guess i would be somebody else, and that wouldn't be nice at all.

everybody is going wild about this election. am i missing something? who, with any chance to win, ever gets at the root of the disaster? who among them tells the truth? who stands against the war machine? again, if we are going to jerk off, can we at least have a pay off? yet again, i will back someone who won't win, sort of like rooting for the nets.

when will we ever learn?

the flowers are gone...

and everything else.

sometimes, it seems, that only crap remains.

hence, the title of this blog.

ps...but i did just get a really good johnny griffin record.

i guess i'll get up tomorrow and try again after all.

i just can't help it

none of us can. it's beyond anything we can do to resist. life has a momentum that only a superhero could combat, but still we try. there is a quality to everything that is more than foul. there is a word for it...shit.

but, there is humor too, bits of laughter mixed in with the ongoing tragedy. yesterday, n began to cry in class. his reason? the beatles guru, an indian fellow who charged 2,500 dollars for his services, died recently at the age of 91. n eventually recovered, and was able to rejoin the class after a short while. by the way, n's last name is tierce. his tierce flowed like wine. in fact, the tracks of his tierce left a trail for others to follow. and when he eventually got home, he cried tierce on his pillow.

i can't get used to reality. my fantasies are so much better. of course, if they became real, they would suck too. like work. you always imagine an occupation that fulfills you, but you never find one that does. the jobs you used to do look better in retrospect, but while you were doing them, they were as bad as the rest. memories are misty recollections. your imagination sprinkles in with truth, creating a collection of half truths which are superior to the real. in the end, none of us want to acknowledge the fuck head existence we are forced to live.

you remember the good stuff, or the dramatic. the times when you made people laugh. i remember when i threw computers down the stairs of my high school, but that was only about 20 seconds of the 4 years i spent there. the spectacular special times satisfy us, not the other stuff. no one wants to admit that life is an endless series of boring, monotonous repetitions.

so, we remain stuck in neutral. sometimes i think of a new gig, but whose to say it wouldn't be worse than the one i have now? it probably would. will it be hillary or obama, mccain or romney? i know one thing, i certainly don't heart huckabee. what choices are there? well, when you go into a supermarket, there are 8 different kinds of oreo cookies, and that doesn't even count bill cosby. there are dozens of cereals, and two major political parties. as gore (not al) vidal said "political thinking in the u.s. runs from conservatism to fascism." the conservative end is thought to be liberal, or far left, and the fascist end thought to be conservative. true progressivism? no voice at all. maybe on your local cable access channel, or standing on a street corner rambling about the system. and we wonder why people turn to terrorism.

we live in a world that does not listen to reason. truth has no power, and fiction rules over fact. in fact, fiction is seen as fact. reality is what we say it is. we're a winner, is the impressions i get from the song we sing. it's all right? no, it isn't. people get ready, for my train of thought is coming to tear down this mess. they keep on pushin this crap on us. once they even sent a gypsy woman to my door step to explain it to me. she said amen and spoke of the lord, who was vacationing in the hamptons with their lionel ritchie friends, and with costanza's in laws. i fought the in laws and the in laws won, but in the rematch i fought them to a ty and ty law won, so i got my lawyer milloy who got a verdict in my favor. richard told me he would like to seymour trials like mine. in fact, he told me that mitchell silver was sitting on top of a michael gold mine, and since there were still some jews without money, he thought he should get up and let people share the wealth. these eyes couldn't believe the people who were sonny and cher-ing the land. there were even american women on harold land, and the fox was there too, as well as pony poindexter. the land had great sax appeal, but unfortunately, i had been clifford brown so long that the strumpet didn't want to blow me anymore, and she decided to service grant green instead. that left me with a plethora of idle moments, which was not solid. ah, there is enough bull in this blog to satisfy a matador. just thought i'd throw that latin bit in. i hope you are feelin the spirit of what i'm trying to do.

don't be green with envy.

while i grant you that there are those with moore than us, like archie and johnny, there are others with less.

well, in a flash,
gordon says,
goodbye.

the words never end

i thought this one was over. remember that young girl who was kidnapped/killed/whatever in aruba? she was a generic blonde, the kind of all american girl that always generates interest and concern. well, i guess there have been some new developments in the case. some well off fool gave voice to how the finish was finalized, and now they are after him. this has my coworkers buzzing. they are concerned. they care. they are compassionate. they are outraged that this man romes free after such admissions. they want justice. they watch the shows, follow the news for new developments. for you see, this girl "could have been us." look at her pale skin, her "beauty." she was just a child trapped in the darkness of the carribean. ironically, it is cracker that appears to have committed the crime. the fellow is from holland, cocky, used to having it always go his way. hence, his babbling. supposedly, they were drinking and drugging, when she started to shake. he panicked, and dumped her body into a river. the only thing is, he now admits that he didn't know if she was dead when he deposited her body into the water like a bottle of beer. unknown to him, while he was speaking, cameras and tape recorders were monitoring his every word like a bad spoof of 1984, which is really how it always is. so, will he be charged, or not? do they now have enough to fry him like a punished patty at some fast food joint? of course, the chatty coworkers want his blood. why, he took the precious all american girl from us.

since these events have transpired, how many children have starved, victims of the crime of capitalism?

you would think, to hear them talk,
that the true crimes,
have already been solved.

but no, the true crimes, are very much still being committed against the victims of the earth. as we babble on about the all american girl, millions of the world's people are silenty suffering.

in the end, i guess they just spoke the wrong languages, had the wrong color of skin, and were bombed by the right people.

next time, maybe they will remember to make their deaths worthy of prime time tv.

on a constant feeling of desperation

i almost voted for obama. i got half way to the polling station, but at the last second, i crossed the street. it wasn't really a decision driven by mentality. it was deeper...my body literally removed me from the abomination before it came to be. but, i almost understand how i nearly voted. it was a feeling born of desperation, a voice which whispered to me "well, he is better than hillary." but, i would have felt guilty if i went through with it. i would have been that guy driving through the poor part of town, looking for a good price on a piece of ass. the feeling of shame would have over rode any good that could come of it. for when obama dropped the first obama on iran, my vote for him would have brought me a little closer to the genocide. yes, perhaps he is a little better than the others, but bill clinton was a little better than bush, and what does that knowledge do for the bodies buried under the bombardments he orchestrated? the dead of serbia aren't walking around saying "well, at least he dug joe henderson."

there is no choice left that a decent man would elect to choose from. in the end, i didn't want the feeling that i was swimming in a sea of shit, just to keep from drowning in a dirtier location. so, i will likely do as i always do. i will vote for someone who has no chance to win, just like none of us have a chance to win. it is not worth your conscience to be part of the crowd. i can't even speak these thoughts out loud. people ask if i voted. i want to say "you know, hitler was elected" but it wouldn't register. better to fake it. and yet, it isn't.

school goes on. kids learn about the holocaust, they are taught to divert their tears to the deaths caused by far off demons, while the destruction caused by their so called democratic leaders is ignored.

and somone tries out for american idol by singing "freedom."

we don't even know the meaning of the word. the last freedom left seems to be the "freedom to act like an asshole," which, as i recall, was not a part of the first amendment. but, then again, the founding fathers were a bunch of no good fuckers too. beware the fool who attempts to tell you that we need to get back to some glorious past when people had rights. there was even a book called "the end of america."

yes, but when did it begin? america as a construct of liberty and freedom has been a farce from the get go. only by ignoring the plethora of brutality that is the american past and present, can we be pleased with the place we are in.

we are fucked far more than we know.

so america, here's to hoping you drop the obama on us.

perhaps, he will practice genocide with a small g.

rant

today, p complained that someone wrote vulgarities on his locker. the exact words were "fuck the police." everyone but me seemed terribly offended by this statement, which strikes me as a profound truth. i guess i never really learned to be a good white american. in any case, the infraction was looked into. it turns out the statement was written on the inside of the locker, which begs the question, who else but p could have written it? also found were a plethora of ozzie osborne stickers.

p has made me prime minister of a country he has invented. so far, i have met with fidel castro, jimmy carter, and the pope. i have made a deal with hugo chavez for cheap oil. the only problem is p is the king of the same country, and therefore has power over me. hence, our troops are currently in iraq, despite my strong protestations. i guess i'm just another sell out after all. other people at the school also hold positions within the country...
n and r are the head chefs
d is the russion ambassador
k is the cuban ambassador
a is in charge of security
k is the the ambassador to belgium.
one more thing...over the february break, i will be going to england to visit prince charles. just thought you should know.

today d was hit in the eye with a roll. unfortunately the rolls at the school restaurant are very hard, and he took it right in the eye. the aforementioned roll was thrown by "wit," who certainly showed a strange sense of humor in the episode. this event led to the obligatory "who did it" exercise, where each student is called in and questioned by the teacher about what they saw. the teacher complained to me that many of the kids claimed they didn't know what happened. i offered that in my day, it was a cardinal rule to keep quiet when questioned, as "ratting" out peers to adults was viewed with contempt, and of course, still is. this got me a glare from the offended, right minded adult.

hey look, it's bad enough i am working in this place. isn't that enough of a sell out?

no, they want your mind too.

especially your mind.

well, at least they are all patriots fans, many of whom got little sleep because of the game. good...fuck em.

by the way, it looks like off the mark will not be allowed to get his job back, as he forwarded his resignation to the top dogs of the brookline town hall.

that's too bad. it would have been cool for a guy to quit one day and be back at work the next.

the problem is that we lack a sense of humor.

most think it's all very serious, and in a way it is. not the job itself. that's bullshit. rather, it is the time the job takes up that we could have used to become more human.

and that, i'm afraid,
will never be funny.

patriots luz, corcoran

it was a great day for the little people, for the underdogs, for the 1000 to 1 shots. the patriots are, an arrogant, cocky collection of a team whose time is up. too many times this season they tried to destroy their opponents, running up the score, going for it on 4th down when the game was already over. yesterday was that rare moment when justice was served. granted, it was on a rather meaningless stage, but it is still a good feeling when you see the right thing happen.

off the mark: a guy who does my gig quit last week. he had enough of the shit. he even wrote a formal resignation letter. the next day, i went to wish him well, and he told me he wants to stay on the job! off the mark got set to go, and then didn't. or did he? will the school have him back? i'll find out soon enough. when you think of this, it's rather interesting. off the mark knows the awful feeling that comes from being a working stiff, but then, when he quit, he realized the equally awful feeling of being unemployed in a culture that worships money. off the mark is a sorry case that you can't help but laugh at. he once told me he felt like a parasite. don't we all? unfortunately, he comes out of the jewish, "i've got to have a career, i need to do something with my life" bag. other than waiting for the bombs to fall, there is nothing to do. the job we do, while by no means compelling, allows us to get out at 2:30 each day. there is still sunlight, time for walks and other things. we are not building bombs. yes, there is a tragic element to the modern workplace, and by no means do i mean to belittle the alienation that is the essence of our being. but, there is humor here too.

what is it that everyone is striving for? when you get down to it, they want to make money, but the more decent among us don't just want to come out and say that. so, they blab about finding themselves, plot a return to college for yet another degree, talk of travel.

our lives are both more tragic and more comedic than we know.

today in beantown, the people are stunned. their perfect football team has a human stain. they lost the exit game. portnoy, and many others, have complaints over the outcome, but that won't change the score.

sometimes you are reminded why you give up days and days of your life to watch sports. rarely, but sometimes. last night was one of those times.

back to the boring banalities of the everyday. of course, nothing has changed. the hungry are with us still, as are the wars.

but, even if only for a moment,

i had a good feeling.