“What, pray tell, does The Ken Bob have on his mind this Sunday morn?” you ask.

In my best Howard Beale persona I’ll say I mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.  Truth be known I’m not really mad as hell, but I do grow weary of one particular subject.  That subject is our habit of greeting with the obligatory “How are you?” and the knee jerk response “I’m good, how are you?”  Okay, it’s an ice breaker; a polite way to begin conversation especially with strangers.  But for those who are close to us, is there really any sincerity in the “How are you?” question?  More importantly, what if someone actually told the truth in their response?  Well, I tell you.

George The Younger

If you’ve spoken to me in the last few weeks you’ve probably noticed I’m tempering my honest response with a little color.  I’ll borrow a line from a favorite song that fits the mood or deliver one of my own infamous Ken Bob-isms in hopes of lighting a verbal fire that inspires a veritable conflagration of conversation. You may have heard my response as “I’m harder than boardwalk bubble gum, but smoother than 151.” or “I’ve been driven by the wind, drug by the snow, I’m drunk & dirty but don’t you know I’m still willin’.”

My eyes then witness a cacophony of Clooney like cocked heads and all the discord and dissonance you might expect with a facial expression that says “What am I going to do with this?” Apologies to those I’ve caught off guard with my honesty (which by the way is the second biggest word in my dictionary…and no, love isn’t the biggest; I think I blogged on this before so I won’t go into this subject again) but these are crazy times so little wonder you get a crazy response from the biggest crazy in your posse.  We’re all a little torn and tattered from our day-to-day foibles and follies; the talking heads on the tube; Barry O and healthcare and of course that economy thing.  And when you’re up to your ass in alligators it’s hard to remember that your original intention was to drain the swamp. Unless of course you’re Mother Fuckin’ Nico; my inspiration for bloggery today.

Here’s a guy that couldn’t walk a while ago.  Here’s a guy that was up to his ass in hospital bills a while ago.  Here’s a guy that got the “I want a divorce.” a while ago.   Here’s a guy that’s still here. So am I and so are you.  I suppose it’s okay to sweep sorrow under the rug with a pat answer to a pat question; but wouldn’t life be more interesting if we all spoke as if we had  just eaten the 120 count box of Crayola Crayons?

Mother Fuckin Nico has.  And you can get a big bite of his brilliance by reading his own Confession I’ve aptly entitled “Mother Fuckin Slash.” Secretly, Nico asked me to dress up his English — but after reading his writing it was painfully obvious that without his own words it wouldn’t be Mother Fuckin Nico.  It’s here in its unadulterated form, sure to make any Chuck Palahniuk “Pygmy” fan happy. As I write this the MFN is probably somewhere over Missouri or the Atlantic on his way to France.  Rock on Frenchie!

For me, I’ll keep munching on wild strawberry.  I’ll keep gobbling on purple mountains majesty.  And on occasion I’ll nibble a little piggy pink and nosh on mauvelous, cerise and what we used to call “flesh” until the civil rights movement changed that to peach. You’ll get a taste when you ask me how I’m doing and we’ll let global warming do the ice breaking as you and I look and long for bigger better connections.

Good fortune is not something that appears regularly in my metaphysical inbox, much less at the end of a meal in a Chinese restaurant.  But I did have the good fortune of being born in the same year Captain Kangaroo went on the air.  While I’m uncertain as to what the Gods were messaging by that fateful synchronicity, I’ve often drawn parallels to these two seemingly unrelated events.

For those members of the Alphabet Generations and as a reminder to my fellow Boomers; Captain Kangaroo was a morning show for kids.  Far more entertaining than Mr. Rogers, the Captain lived in the Treasure House with Mr. Green Jeans, Bunny Rabbit, Mr. Moose, Dancing Bear, Grandfather Clock and an assortment of other neighborhood characters including Mr. Bainter the Painter.   The Captain would read stories, teach arts & crafts and show Tom Terrific cartoons featuring Mighty Manfred the Wonder Dog.  Bunny Rabbit would play tricks on the Captain to get carrots and Mr. Moose told jokes that always ended with a thunder storm of ping pong balls falling on the Captain.

It was an idyllic time…the days were just packed with adventure that included chasing the occasional possum or raccoon from the trash cans that lined the gravel road in the trailer park where we lived.  My cousin Mel and I built forts from refrigerator boxes and spent our afternoon’s in the branches of a huge oak tree eating candy stolen from the local ice-house.  Falling from heights that made my mother nearly faint was an option we chose regularly; there was a creek that ran under the tree and although the water was cold and black, it was also deep enough to swallow our youthful frames.

Every day began with the Captain and life at the Treasure House was equally idyllic.  It was as if nothing ever went wrong and the biggest problem was cleaning up all those ping pong balls or worrying about whether Bunny Rabbit had enough carrots.  Unable to distinguish reality from fantasy (a malaise I continue to battle which is in part one of the reasons I’m single) I decided I wanted to live at The Treasure House.  Today I might describe it as a natural high…I mean, c’mon who wouldn’t want to hang with a dancing bear and talking clock?  F’get about it.  Can’t tell me I got nothin’ to do.

And hey, don’t forget about the fact it was the fifties: hula hoops, chocolate Coke’s and the occasional half empty can of Jax beer pilfered from Uncle Junior’s hands as he slept one off were all de rigueur .  I only wore shoes three or four months out of the year and porn meant petticoats.  There was always a bar-b-q on the weekend and that sometimes meant a trip out to the swimming pool DuPont had built for the employees of the local plant.  There we could sneak off to the inter coastal canal and play with the manatees or stand on top of the plumbing outside the women’s shower peering through the jalousie windows.

Evenings were spent catching fire flies in a jar or shooting Roman candles at each other.  Sometimes we would sit around a listen to Paw Loyd tell stories of being pulled from his horse because his “sheet” got caught in the briar patch he was riding through.  Now why would anybody wear a sheet while riding a horse you might ask?  I’ll  remind you this was southeast Texas and the sheet was the bottom half of a costume topped off by a conical shaped hat and hooded mask.  Such is my ancestry.

But every day would begin again with The Captain and my almost fairy tale stroll on the treadmill of life.  I suppose it’s an indicator of age me telling this story, but the memory and the emotionstill run through the veins and arteries leading to and from my heart.

I really thought I could run away and live at The Treasure House and not only improve what was nearly perfect but also enjoy the guarantee that it would never end.  My perfect reality ended shortly after I began first grade.  We’ll save that story and the lament of the unHoly Treasure House and the Sisters of the Sacred Heart Nunnery & Orphanage for another time.

The other night I ventured forth to another Treasure House known as The Troubadour accompanied by Jenny from the block and Dr. Duskin.  Bob Schneider played the role of The Captain and my other favorite characters were replaced by Harmoni “I’m ready” Kelly and a multi instrumentalist that made Dancing Bear look like a quadriplegic.  History, in a somewhat maligned form, repeated itself and my idyllic ambitions were once again aroused.

I awoke the next day and felt this burning desire to run away join the band.

I’ve been taking cheap shots, literately.

I’m forgoing convention in favor  of creating better content.  So as far as for going forward and in an attempt to mature myself and that which springs forth eternal from the hard drive between my ears (and perhaps more representative of my years) I will endeavor to drop my abuse and overuse of alliteration and all it’s children.

“Oh my…say it just ain’t so Ken Bob.”

Well, yeah it is.  How I say it has become more important than what I say and while I’m known f0r and thrive on contrarian thinking, while I’m known for taking the fork in the road (and the spoon and the knife as well; I enjoy a two fisted meal…ya’ know?) and while I’m known for my equal parts passion and lust when it comes to abuse and validation; drizzle drazzle, drizzle drum one more run on sentence, one more bastardization of the English language and I’s done.  And for you dear reader; eyes done.

Call me Mick, but I can’t get no (da-da-da) satisfaction.  I’m the kind of guy who when he gets to the top of the mountain says something like “Could’ve got here faster if I would’ve…” or utter the angst of anti-climatic calculations and assumptions of goals not set high enough, deep in a trough of delirious doubt I fail to reward my self.  And now I find myself at a similar precipice and I’m pissed.  Well, at least peeved and pondering platitudes of the past and present.

So no more homophobic homilies, no more wanton whimsy, goodbye to gregarious gorging on words, wisdumb and the weakness associated with a continual dose of verbal sucker punches that satisfy the senses for seven seconds like that six dollar bowl of fro-yo you ate last week.

This week and weeks going forward I’m gonna feed you the fat.  I write this as I struggle through this weeks verbage yet to be finished to my fancy.  But from breakdown comes breakthrough, that which does not kill me only makes me stronger and at the end of the day…it gets dark.  And as we all know it’s darkest right before it gets pitch black.  I find myself once again mired in the mud of my own making.

How will  make the shift from a stream of (un)consciousness where the words flow like wine only to wilt like wroses?  My machete maligned, it’s edge as dull as that which you now read, that which you drink like beer and later dispose of in kind minutes later I endeavor to persevere.  I remain inspired by those around me and recent readings of “The Ten Things You Can Do To Become A Better Writer.”

1. Write.
2. Write more.
3. Write even more.
4. Write even more than that.
5. Write when you don’t want to.
6. Write when you do.
7. Write when you have something to say.
8. Write when you don’t.
9. Write every day.
10. Keep writing.

I’ll add one more to make it a nice uneven 11:  When you can’t write, write about it.

So there.

How about that?

Good gawd; what hath my witing wrought.

i went to a party the other night, t’was the eve of the summer solstice and dia de los padres, two days post of juneteenth; an evening of epic proportions and equal distortions.  i punched the clock that saturday night and departing my haunt use-you-all around p.m. of 10 i ventured west two blocks on a spiritual journey for spirits at the nearby write-aid.  el aliens such as i often tend to find remedies for writers block and other misfortunes in a bottle.  this outlet seemed my most obvious and convenient choice for tonights panacea.

standing in front of the refrigerator doors pondering a plethora of possibilities I droppedeves on the conversation of two eastern you-rope-ians whose sentences were un-understandable save for the occasional utterance of “butt-vaser.”  i quickly found my quest in the form of sixers of corona and pacifico and turned to make my march toward the swipe station.  halfway there i noticed in the corner of my eye a young asian woman face feeding herself a cup of ice cream and pondering her own plethora of possibilities in the war paint section — a quick inventory of my senses asked myself why she on a night saturday, 10ish of eve found herself in a store of drugs surveying the landscape of war paint seemingly calculating her next move or, dare i say, passing time before her next appointment?  didn’t last long and i found the starry eyed swipe station attendant with a smile bright enough to light the way into the darkness of the night ahead.

i needed no such light as i found myself light hearted as i shared her joy in my dozen denizens of brewed and bottled hops, wheat and distilled stillness — the requisite price of entry to the port i would soon park my phanny.  i was pushing myself, just a wee mind you, as the ensuing festival was to be populated by only one person i knew (and forty or more i didn’t).  that one person’s moniker i have anointed with the title of “occasional friend.”  she’s a pretty girl with a pretty smile that always makes me happy.  hence my minimal need for pushing.

i arrived and walked in like i owned the place, or at least paid a significant rent.  it’s important to project confidence in these circumstances.  the frivolities were already two hours underway and the population perfectly placed in their cliques and corners of conversation.  i deposited my price of admission in the obligatory cooler and found a more desirable selection than those i contributed then nonchalantly helped myself to the same.  a quick search for a church key left me unresolved and i casually interrupted three kiwis in talk small mode asking if an opener was lingering nearby.  the more resourceful of the bunch opened my bottle with another in a feat i have yet to witness.  i must learn this slight of hand, this party trick will surely make me popular.

a quick survey of the land and a brief circling prowl through the palace finished with me empty handed in my search for the only and one person i knew.  i asked a woman politely collecting trash if she new where i could find my occasional friend and her curt response of “no” took a little wind from my sails, yet i remained undaunted in my quest for occasional friend.  i soon found two faces i recognized, two friendly types i had met once or twice before at my aforementioned clock punching saturday night spot and promptly parked my back side in their circle and engaged.  it was fun and a fine find.  i reveled in the moment for a moment.

the fete moved forward and i soon found myself in another locale spewing talk small, yet formidable.  we found our way to father’s day hallmark holiday queries of plans for the ‘morrow.  my turn ensued and my new found talk small friends queried me as i divulged my empty bucket of two legged family members and conversely the fullness of my four legged versions.  i presented my position positively, undaunted and fully present — but somehow after revealing my childless parent-less self, larry felt pity (?) and gifted me with my very own dia de los padres prize in the form of a two dollar bill and the story of how he acquired some $800 dollars of these delectable oddities of federal reserve notes. 

my own notes sang loudly in my humbled head and heart just about the time occasional friend found me and welcomed warmly me.  her eyes, usually full and bright, tonight appeared as two pee holes in the snow.  my quick recognition of her emergence from and impending return behind a closed door told the story.  the math in this situation is of grade school level and recognizable in my own actions at similar events where i was host.  equally recognizable was the warmth in her touch and the sincerity flowing from between her lips and what i expect to be her heartfelt promise that we would in her words ”hang out soon.”

in short order i said my goodbyes and gratitudes for the evening and departed realizing this was about as good as it would get for this attendee.  with my net worth increased by two dollars and an equal if not greater deposit in my emotional bank account i found my way home.  such was my eve of the eve of  this year’s summer solstice and dia de los padres.

(the only thing harder than writing these missives is sorting through the spell check)

spell check complete i review and feel i have left you, dear reader, with an incomplete impression.  i will endeavor to do better in my endeavors of subsequent story telling.  stay tuned for more of such missives.

*2 buck larry is not related to 2 buck chuck lest you think i’mpilfering from the pantry  at trader jose’s.

“your chicklets or your life, mo fo!”

I’m working on it, I’m working on it.  It feels like I’ve dropped trou and I’m running around in my tidy whities like some reject from a Will Ferrell movie.

there’s an argument to be made for putting such things in writing in an effort to create a righting.   cathartic in nature, once its written one tends to become more committed.  and Lord knows I’m ready to be committed.  question is just where and (w)how.

i’m finding inspiration in the words and soon to be actions of those around me.  and as always, i’m also finding inspiration in pain, the great motivator.  if you know me well you’ve heard me say countless times that people move away from pain more than they move toward pleasure.  that’s a “chance of gain” proposition. (google: kierkegaard, freud, nietzsche).  once pain nears its pinnacle, fear kicks in and the “feets don’t fail me now” metaphor manifests.

so it’s time to get goin’.  giddy up, lez go.

 

 I’m sitting in a diner finishing a plate of eggs  and nurturing my long term love affair with my beloved bacon.  Part deux of my morning will entail a brief headline review of the local paper from a machine just outside the door.   So when the waitress brings my check, I ask her for change.  She retorts that “change comes from within” as I gaze at the myriad maze of tramp stamps that adorn her body and the small tear in the seam in the arm pit of the gingham uniform she’s wearing.

I travel quickly past my perverse  Rebecca of Sunny Brook Farm in fishnets fantasy and quickly recognize that this visage and verbiage might be a message from the Gods.  I’ve just finished my “blue plate heart attack breakfast special” and the Wi-Fi download dessert of this morning’s email.  In that email is an invitation from an occasional friend to join her and her close compadres for some live music at Genghis Cohen’s.

She’s often described as a “long time music industry veteran” (we’ll talk about that in group…) and apparently one of her favorites is returning to the music business after pursuing his spiritual path and doing a bit of soul searching.  Combine that with the words of wisdumb from my waitress and my bacon buzz and you’ve got a sure fire recipe for a plethora of possibilities.

“Spiritual Journey” is a somewhat maligned and overused Cali-Cliché.  Details of the email revealed the travels and travails of this man and his path to such far reaching places as India & Israel.  Immediate confusion seeped in through the leaky roof that covers the hard drive residing between my ears.  Spiritual journey + music industry = ?  Does not compute.  Danger Will Robinson, DANGER!

On first blush, it seemed a contradiction.  Do pray tell, why in the world wide web of work would anyone return to the music business after a spiritual journey and soul searching?  Perhaps their journey is incomplete, perhaps on the path they came to a fork in the road and took it.  For me, music and business in the same sentence is an oxymoron.  Music by itself is magic, a painting that gets painted every time it’s played.  A photograph that gets photographed every time you hear it.  A sculpture sculpted, a recipe rendered or a movie moved.  But once business enters the equation the art disconnects.

So I rewind my recent wrath of experiences: my breakfast and the impending pain due to arrive in my left arm, Rebecca’s retort, the email invitation and its underlying invite for me to understand my own soul searching and spiritual path.  I close my laptop and pack it in my man purse and head for the door.  I mentally control/alt/delete the newspaper idea and reboot my brain back to its original upright and locked position as I taxi down the runway in my own soul plane about to take off on my spiritual journey.

It’s been said that I’ve got more crossed wires than the Iraqi phone system and this may be the source for the answer as to why I’ve yet to embark on a journey such as this.  So I decided to check my ego with the hottie in hat check room and humbly Google my gonads off regarding my own spiritual journey and soul searching.

I found that enlightenment is available for immediate download for only $29 (mind you, it’s a $78 value!).  And also available from a path more familiar for $11.19 (& eligible for FREE Super Save Shipping on orders over $25. Details You save $2.80 (20%)) from Amazon. 

Product Description: from Amazon  Walk On: The Spiritual Journey of U2
One of the world’s leading voices of faith and social activism also happens to be one of its biggest rock bands. The members drink, smoke and swear—yet a radical biblical agenda and faith fuel their life and work. Welcome to the dichotomy of U2.

U2 as in me too?  I am the king of contradiction; but lack the Italian birth right to justify it.  In fact; I once tried to reclaim my birth right, but the guy at the pawn shop said I had to have a ticket.   I digress.  Quickly dismayed by the commercial clutter, I followed Rebecca’s suggestion and looked within.

I’m a spiritual person.  Ain’t I?  You’ll find a copy of “365 Days of Tao” in my bathroom and Viktor E. Frankel’s “Man Search For Meaning” is on my bookshelf…somewhere.  I did my time at Esalen, but checked out early.  And hey, I’m spiritual by default since I’ve lived in California for almost 20 years.

Maybe it’s my southeast Texas red neck roots that really keep me grounded.  Or maybe not.  Maybe I’m so afraid to fly that I can never land.  But when the wheels do go down, I realize that I can usually find my soul by searching through a plate of short ribs and potato salad followed by a Moon Pie and an RC, and my spiritual journey is a well trodden trail from my house to the liquor store.  Maybe.

I’m probably not gonna find my soul in India, Israel or French Lick, Indiana.  I used to think that happiness was at the bottom of a bag of Oreos and that I could wash it down with a cold glass of milk.  Guess I got that one wrong.  What I do know is that at the end of the day, it gets dark.  Death and taxes are life’s only certainties.  There’s nothing more overrated than great sex and nothing more underrated than a good bowel movement, and that sincerity is everything; once you learn to fake that, everything else is easy. 

 I don’t need to experience Burning Man, Bombay or a Bar Mitzvah to express myself much less find myself.  Instead, I’ll find my soul and take my spiritual journey through the words of the world’s greatest existentialist, Popeye the Sailor, who always said: “I am what I am and that’s all that I am.”

I just have more money than talent.

A dear friend introduced me Saturday last as “a guitar collector.”  After the hair on my neck settled, I gathered my composure and let go of the paradigm.  The thought lingers like a festering wound.  I search my soul and dictionary.com to find solace and medicate my affliction.

My pain isn’t fully assuaged, but I’m getting better.  I currently own eleven guitars, all with the exception of my first, I play in regular rotation.  Most collectors don’t play their guitars, in fact some don’t even play guitar at all.  They simply accumulate.  Maybe it’s the beauty of the workmanship, maybe it’s the prowess of the prior owner or maybe it’s just a piece of history.  These guitars are stored in their cases or in a glass case and displayed like art or some materialistic manifestation of their owner’s mettle.  Their priorities are different than my own. 

I don’t exhibit the classic traits of a “collector.”  I shop for deals whether it’s e-Bay or regular retail.  That usually means dents, dings, scratches or missing parts.  A true collector turns his or her nose up at such blemishes and shortcomings. 

My choices are driven by a desire to emulate a particular sound or style, not to round out an assortment that I’ve logged into an Excel spreadsheet that with photographs is stored in my safe deposit box.  I also don’t post pictures of my guitars on geek sites dedicated to the same…geeks.  My guitars are often modified with non-OEM parts that might improve intonation, or simply produce a different sonic array.  “Artist Signature” guitars like my Gretsch Brian Setzer Nashville 6120 (the name alone was a consideration for not buying the guitar) are quickly stripped of any “name-branding” parts.  I bought this guitar and others like it solely for the tone it produces and the parts employed to do so. 

I could rattle on about those parts as well as those of my other guitars.  I’ll be the first to admit I’m a Guitar Geek, but once again I’ll remind you dear reader that of late my mission has been learning and carving out my own particular style and sound.  I have a box full of parts that have been added and/or subtracted to achieve that goal.  I’m not relying on my guitars value as a means to fund my retirement, I don’t carry extra insurance, post pictures of them on the web or trade them like baseball cards.

I play these guitars.  I’m fortunate enough to earn an income that allows me to have several as well as the modifications, amplifiers and effects toys that makes what could be work, fun.  And granted without that fun this  major mode of learning might go by the wayside.  When my talent finally exceeds or at least matches my money, then I may start collecting.  But I’ll always play and I’ll always be a player.

Now that’s a sentence worth a fifty minute hour and $175.00  I’ll get back to you on that. 

Fuck this, I’m going to the bar.

1.       I’m deathly afraid of toothpicks, especially en masse.  I’m afraid someone will spill a box and I will inadvertently say “694” out loud.  I’m an excellent driver.

2.       When people ask me where I learned to cook I reply “In the kitchen.” That’s not my sardonic wit speaking, I learned by making a lot of mistakes.  We learn from our mistakes.   Just ask my parents.

3.       I’m a member of the 99^th Percentile, and my therapist has agreed to testify.  I pretty much know what you’re going to say before you do.  Surprisingly, this time saver always leads to punching.

4.       I don’t have any children because I can’t.  It’s a violation of my parole.

5.       Everything I know about love I learned from my dogs.  Don’t get me wrong, I like cats.  They taste a lot like chicken.

6.       I never had (or have…) any guilt about masturbation.  After all, you’re having sex with someone you love.

7.       Most of my wonder years were spent in a Catholic Nunnery and Orphanage.  Please see #4.

8.       I’m not bitter because I’m single.  Actually, it’s quite the opposite.

9.       I didn’t join Ralph’s Club for the discounts, I was just lonesome.

10.   Everything I lack I make up for in denial.

 

It’s been some 60 years since George O. penned “1984″ and almost 25 years since we all denied the presence of “big bro” (as it would be called in today’s vernacular); but gender aside “big bro” is alive and living.  Much to our chagrin.

A case in point(less) is Mickey D’s attempt to tell this Texan (no…I am not southern, although I spent several years in what is undoubtedly the core of the American south) that fried chicken with a biscuit is breakfast and with a bun (and maybe a pickle or two) it’s lunch.  I can honestly attest to the former being “not” and the latter being “certain.”

I’ll harken back to a few years ago during the no carb craze (a phaze we’ll all surely regret, not unlike rap music and the big hair 80′s) when KFC tried to tell us all that fried chicken was healthy.  KFC also tried to genetically engineer a three breasted chicken about the same time her sister Bella Taquito introduced a “light” menu.  Say what?  You think I’m at Taco Bell because I’m trying to lose weight?  Hell no, I’m stoned and I’m hungry.  And of course today, PETA takes issue with KFC’s memorable marketing “We do chicken right…”  I’m waxing poetically off point from my original intention, which is not attacking our fast food nation (the bastards pay my bills), but reminding you that you don’t have to be a victim.   That, like destiny, is a choice.

 When I’m driving in my car

And a man comes on the radio

Who’s telling me more and more

About some useless information

That’s supposed to drive my imagination

Thank you Mick & Keith for reining me back in. (All of life’s questions have been answered in a song…).  I strangely feel somewhat satisfied.

So whether it’s chicken in a biscuit or Techroline to clean your machine, take a cue from the aforementioned Mr. Orwell and put on your tie-dyed peace sign t-shirt and “question authority.”