Saturday, December 22, 2007

I Wish Somebody Cared

(Lyrics in the Key of SwampPop ):

Now usually I don’t complain
I just shrug and take the pain

But tonight I really wish
I really wish
Somebody cared

Huggin’ and kissin’ ain’t much of a sin
Momma tonight what I need is a friend

It ain’t so bad being alone
Anyway, it’s all that I’ve known

Still tonight I really wish
I really wish
Somebody cared

Now usually I don’t complain
I just shrug and pass a good time

‘Cause I know I’ll make it through
If I’ve still got a beer or two

But tonight I really wish
I really wish
Somebody cared

O how I wish
Somebody cared

Friday, December 7, 2007

Pioneers of Psychedelic Sound

"from the egg into the flower alpha information sending / four and twenty birds of Maya baked into an atom you":

Friday, November 16, 2007

The Weirdness

"England and France
Those cultures are old
The cheese is stinky
And the beer ain't cold"

Iggy Pop, Stooges - Free and Freaky in the USA

Monday, November 12, 2007

Open up and Drive

Charlie sat trying to ride out a sudden inexplicable and frightening urge to rip holes into his own chest. Flashbulb images flew through his mind. His fingers, slipping between ribs, tearing flesh, pulling open a wet, yawning vacuity, dripping with gore. Face damaged too, jawbone showing through a mass of tendons and muscles. His arms snaking around his head, severing it with a swift twisting motion. . . his heart threatening to pound right out of his chest and onto the living room floor, throat constricting around his breath, screeching, horrible noises deafening him from somewhere inside of his tortured head, eyes darting around rapidly. . . his cloistered room pressed inward on him. Dust motes and lint swirled thickly around his face in the light of the reading lamp causing further breathing difficulties. Standing up, he paused to take stock of the effect of his change in position on his physiology. His heart began to pump faster, but the rest remained disgustingly usual.

He stepped softly to the bathroom, taking care so as not to wake the neighbors who were audibly sleeping on the other side of the thin wall. To his mind, even his soft steps seemed elephantine, reverberating through the floors like a pile-driver.

Icy water, tinged with rust, poured from the faucet and slowly turned clearer. Charlie splashed great handfuls of it up into his face and bent to let the water run into his hair. He whipped his head out of the sink with a splattering of his hair on the low ceiling. Out of breath and blinking away water, he checked his pupilary reflex. No dilation irregularities. When he put a hand over his eye and leaned closer to the mirror, he could see his pupils grow and when he removed the hand, they shrunk to a normal size. What is a normal size? Charlie didn't know, but they seemed to be close enough to what he had grown accustomed to seeing in the mirror over the years.

Six billion of us, he thought as he dried his face and patted at his shirt front. Six fucking billion human beings eating and shitting and puking, farting, picking their noses, fucking and sucking and killing, raping and robbing, dying and being born, wet and screaming, falling from the ripped and jagged hole right down to the hot asphalt to rub elbows and assholes just like so many bacteria jiggling around on a big petri dish. . .

He tip-toed through the kitchen, silently getting a bottle of beer from the refrigerator on the way. Sitting on his bed, he got dressed, intermittently taking pulls at the beer. He got his wallet, keys and two cold ones from the fridge before leaving.

Locking the front door and giving it a shove to make sure, he got into his car and, seat belt securely fastened, pulled away with a beer between his legs and the other one jammed into the garbage piled behind the passenger seat.

He lit a cigarette and drove aimlessly for a while. His eyes scanning the rear view, the side mirror and the parking lots and driveways along side the streets. . . He carefully examined every set of headlights, coming or going, to determine if they might be those of a police cruiser, especially looking out for the telltale parking-lights-only Ford LTDs that could occasionally be spotted sitting in lonely lots at that late hour. These were usually found in twos, facing opposite directions, with their driver-side windows adjacent in case they felt like leaning out and swapping spit with their partners or something.

Charlie inhaled cigarette after cigarette. He sucked the smoke down harshly, feeling his throat burn and redden with every drag, but he didn't care. He couldn't stop envisioning himself as a twisted, bloody pulp and the more he drove, the more automotive the themes of these horrible images became.

At a red light, no other cars in sight, he hopped out with a dirty shirt found on the passenger side floorboard and wiped at the grimy windshield just to make himself feel marginally safer. He got back into the car and waited for the light. It turned and he took a left up onto the elevated expressway.

He noticed that his heart had slowed down markedly and seemed almost to be beating normally. He counted three beers and eight cigarettes. The alcohol? Probably not, it wasn't hardly enough to produce that much of a change. He'd drunk considerably more than that in his time and still felt fairly sober. Maybe the nicotine had played a part. . .No, he figured it was more likely the heavy drags he'd been taking that had primarily affected the change. Deep breathing's how the athletes and kung-fu masters do it, isn't it? He thought it must have been. Sticking his head out the window and into the wind, he inhaled deeply through his nose and exhaled for an eight count before repeating the process a few times.

Back behind the glass, he almost felt better, but the mild light headedness and the ringing ears reminded him that it was to only be a short reprieve. His eyelids drooped, his scalp tingled and he put both hands on the steering wheel while his head buzzed gently back to normal.

Sirens screamed!

His breath caught, his heart fluttered wildly in his chest and his eyes flashed up to the rearview. There were flashing red and blue lights and some very bright white ones all directly behind his car. He nearly slammed on the brakes reflexively and his eyes darted to the speedometer. He was going about five over the posted limit.

His arms tensed, chills ran down his spine. His feet shook uncontrollably, rattling the pedals as he fumbled with the blinker rod and pulled the car over to the side of the road, trying to make every nuance of the maneuver look as normal and as sober as possible.

The cruiser pulled up close behind him and the lights kept flashing.

Charlie's heart pounded and his temples throbbed. He couldn't stop shaking and feared that it might be noticeable from the other car. He tried to take a deep breath, but his lungs were shaking too. He was able to haltingly fill them with air, but became hotly aware of just how much he was shaking upon exhaling it. He threw the beer in the back seat with all the other garbage and it, no-doubt, spilled its last contents over everything. . . it didn't matter. Charlie's mind raced to think of anything in the car that the officer "might not want to see. . ." but he couldn't order his thoughts. A floodlight came on to further brighten the scene and it was trained on the back of Charlie's head.

"Take the keys out of the ignition and drop them out of the window," a stern voice enunciated slowly over a scratchy pee-ay system.

Charlie performed the action in spite of his hands' frustrating refusals to cooperate.

"Open the door from the outside and step out of the vehicle," the stern voice said deliberately.

Charlie fumbled with the door handle and tried to complete the movement in a relaxed manner. He thought he'd pulled it off rather suavely when the voice yelled,

"HURRY UP! GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE CAR!" and he got out, squinting back at the dazzling myriad of lights flashing and whirling around the cruiser. He could hear a police radio squawking fuzzily somewhere within the lights.

"TURN AROUND! NOWWW!" the voice commanded viciously. "Face the other direction! ON YOUR KNEES!" it boomed as Charlie complied shakily. "Get your hands on your head and lay on your belly, NOW!"

Charlie did it.

Minutes passed as the radio squawked, the lights flashed and Charlie laid, shaking and blinking on the shoulder of the expressway. Not a single car went by the entire time.

It was late.

He heard the door of the police car open and heard a boot hit the pavement with a cold THUD that he could feel through the ground below him. He judged the distance to the cop car to be at least twenty feet, so with a normal stride, the officer would arrive in eight more steps. He waited for the second thud, but only the wind over the mechanical sounds of the rotating lights on the roof of the cop car and the squawks of the radio could be heard.

The next step never came as a door suddenly slammed and the cruiser revved alive and sped off, tires squealing, nearly running over Charlie's prone body.

The sirens faded into the distance. . .

He listened for any noises behind him.


Just the rush of blood in his ears and his breath wheezing against the grainy cement.

A car approached and flew by going over seventy. It honked at him as it went by, him still lying there next to an open car, light pouring out of its door, keys in the road.

He sat up and looked around.

The cops were gone. His heart thumped twice, slowly and deeply before returning to a relatively normal rhythm. No one was approaching and he was utterly alone on the expressway, sitting there on the shoulder, at least thirty feet off of the ground. Dusting himself off and finding his keys with a flashlight from the glove-box, he made it home, hungrily smoking the rest of his pack of cigarettes, before the sun rose.

Friday, November 9, 2007

Thrift Store Camera Photo Collection

From BoingBoing:
"I read a local Maine newspaper article about a guy who, over many years, collected rolls of undeveloped film from cameras found in antique stores. He finally had them developed and ended up with several hundred images that he's placed online."
Check out the pictures here

Monday, October 29, 2007


The man who documented every 5 minutes of his life since 1972 has passed (listen):

Sunday, October 21, 2007

One Hell of a Weekend

And when it was over I had a three day growth of beard, this hangover and a $5 polariod shot of myself with a monkey on my lap.

- PiGbOyFaCe

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Our Band Could Be Your Life

If like me, you have pissed away a substantial amount of time over the last two decades uncovering new kernels of info. about seminal punk groups such as Black Flag or the Minutemen, this historical text will briefly fascinate. The chapter on the Butthole Surfers is particularly odd and comically depraved. Hell, this book makes it easy. In the pre-internet days (and before there was a market for a book such as this) one had to scour liner notes, interviews and song lyrics to glean even the tiniest morsel. A time consuming endeavor, indeed. Our Band Could Be your Life chronicles the rise and fall of these outfits culminating in the post-Nevermind indie explosion and many of the active participants are briefly interviewed.

It fits in well on the shelf right next to the essential punk oral history Please Kill Me and other semi-related tomes such as American Hardcore, Lexicon Devil and We Got the Neutron Bomb.

If you are unfamiliar with the groups outlined, Our Band Could Be Your Life is a pointless read (unlike the riotous Please Kill Me which would surely interest even those hapless souls with no interest in the genre). In Our Band, the anecdotes of infighting, substance abuse and heroic struggles against the major label record industry are simply too tedious to one unfamiliar with the music itself. As for me, I saved the chapters on Mudhoney and Beat Happening for last because I never listened them, and those two chapters were a tedious plod indeed.

Even if you aren't drooling at the prospect of a pre-indie rock history book, the heft of it would still make for a decent paperweight or a fair to middlin' doorstop.

Monday, October 15, 2007


"Take it from me, life's not worth living."

- Louis-Ferdinand Celine', Voyage a bout de la nuit

Friday, October 5, 2007

A Year to Live

Bill and Frank sat watching people go by. The place was a large outdoor pedestrian mall with an ornate fountain as its centerpiece. An indoor mall sat at one end and the Mississippi River ran along its side. All manner of people went by and Bill quickly washed his feet under the weight of a icy stare from an old woman with cat-eye sunglasses on, who sat frozen, admiring the fountain.
Bill turned to let his feet dry in the breeze. Now he was facing the woman. Frank didn't seem to notice her as he smoked and had apparently picked up a pair of sunglasses. Bill wondered at Frank's ability to procure items like cigarettes, lighters, sunglasses, hats, shoes... He figured that he'd either walked into one of the shops back on Canal St. and taken it or swiped it off of someone whilst walking. In either case, it was a pretty neat trick to be able to pull off consistently without getting caught a lot, at least it seemed so to Bill. He bummed a cigarette off of Frank, who apparently had a whole pack.
Frank moaned just loud enough for Bill to hear and when Bill looked over, Frank was staring. Bill followed his line of vision and ended up looking at a gorgeous young woman in a flower print sun dress. She had wispy blond hair and open shoes that were nothing more than a wedge of rubber with tiny leather straps binding them to her feet. Her body was that of a swimsuit model. She walked at a brisk pace, but her face was relaxed and peaceful as if she had nowhere to go, just extra energy. She positively glowed in the sunlight.
Bill looked away before she noticed his stare.
Frank, his head not moving, followed her with his eyes from behind his sunglasses.
While waiting for her to get out of earshot so they would be able to discuss the nuances of her passing, Bill fidgeted around, examining the stone of the fountain, checking his shoes, waving his feet... He still could feel the old woman's stare and he looked at her quickly. Sure enough, she still seemed to be staring right at the spot she had been when they'd first arrived. Bill wished he had a pair of sunglasses. He puffed at his cigarette.
"Damn, that bitch was fine!" Frank said.
"That girl in the flowered dress! Didn't you see her?"
"Oh, yeah...yeah! She was a goddess."
"And she knew it too!"
"DID she!" Bill shook his head.
"Did you catch the painted toenails?"
"No! What color?"
"Looked like red..." he pointed to his sunglasses and sighed.
"I liked the shoes."
"Yeah," Frank nodded as he produced a candy bar.
"But how about that beautiful little dress?"
"Shit, that bitch could have been wearing a potato sack..."
"Yeah... Maybe you're right," Bill said as he slipped the shoes onto his bare feet. "But the dress didn't hurt either. How about the way it blew around in the wind, letting a little extra thigh show now and then?"
"You're right, but all I'm saying is that she'd have been fine either way." Frank said as he scanned the crowd, studiously taking in every woman that went by. He dismissed the men as soon as he determined that they were either cops or too smart to be conned. The ones he decided were cops he imagined into painful situations. He was picturing one particular pinhead with a sharpened coat hanger piercing his navel when Bill said something. "What's that?" Frank asked.
"I said, what would you do if you knew you only had a year to live?"
"Well I guess I'd do what I'm doing now until I died in the Charity ward." He paused. "That's a hell of a fucking question to ask, man."
"You took it the wrong way. Of course, that's what I'd do too, given our present situation." They both glanced down at their clothes. "I mean if we were straight and had jobs and houses and wives and families and everything. What then?"
"Those are a lot of ifs..."
"Yeah, but humor me, I think I'm on to something."
"On to something?"
"Yeah. Just answer the question. What WOULD to do?"
Frank thought for a minute. "Is it something painful?"
"The thing I'm diagnosed with."
"Doesn't matter."
"Well of course it matters! If it's some horrible wasting illness like AIDS or something, I'd probably kill myself before the year was up."
"Okokok! It's a painless tumor that the doctors say will explode and kill you in exactly one year."
"They can't operate?"
"Ok. well that changes things a lot."
"You're right...So what would you do?"
"Well, let's see..." Frank meditatively watched a little latin girl go by.
"Caramel." Bill mumbled.
"Yeah, that mexican cutie with the caramel colored skin that just went by..."
"Oh, yeah. I saw her. . . So?"
"So what?"
"What would you do?"
"I don't know," Frank said, getting annoyed. "I guess I'd divorce my wife, kiss my kids good-bye and buy a Harley. Maybe smoke a lot of opium and tool around on my bike until the damned tumor blew up and killed me in my sleeping bag."
Bill didn't say anything and just sat nodding reflectively.
"Hmmm," Bill said, seeming to wake up from his thoughts.
"Then what would YOU do?" Frank asked with a tinge of sarcasm.
"I'd just stay in my place with my family... Don't get me wrong, I'd quit my job and all, but it'd be better than dying alone."
"Eh, maybe you're right." Frank watched a young couple pushing a baby in a stroller. The man was sweating profusely and carrying two large baby bags that threatened to burst. "What kind of question is that to ask anyway?"
"I dunno," Bill shrugged, "I just think it says a lot about a person's ambitions, that's all."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I think the answer to that question says a lot about you, where you picture yourself going and what you want from life. Like you, for instance. You want to be left alone to enjoy what you can get your hands on, while I want love, and to be with my family and all..."
They both sat and thought, watching the beautiful women walk by in groups and alone, with husbands, boyfriends, babies, parents, siblings and pets. Each one more sensual than the last. Huge vessels went by on the river. Tanker ships, cruise ships, tugboats and barges. All of them with men scurrying around on their decks.
Frank suddenly stood up, slapping both of his knees.
"I think it's time we went looking for some grub, pardner."
"I think you're right." Bill said as he got up to follow Frank.
The old woman quietly sighed to herself and rearranged her hands in her lap.

Thursday, October 4, 2007

Got boudin?

Consumed a questionable link of boudin today from a reputable and much loved purveyor. I sucked the edible contents from a synthetic casing as I drove down the Dime at 70 MPH, hands full and steering with my knees, a piece of greasy butcher paper unceremoniously spread across my lap. Feeder bands from a tropical storm pummeled my windshield obscuring visibility. It had chunks of fat, gristle and small pieces of bone intermingled with the seasoned rice and liver...Still, it was a spicy treat and my lips burned afterward for half an hour.

- PiGbOyFaCe

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

An American Battle

SEARS Credit Card

RE: Sears Credit Card Account #XXXXXXXXX

Dear Sir or Madam:

It is with regret and consternation that I must report the following troubles that I have been having with this credit card since July 2004. First, please note that I have never received a bill or late payment for this account since 07/04, until I called to close the account in 04/05, at which time the operator informed me that I had an outstanding balance. The chronology of my story and the ensuing problems are as follows:
07/22/04 & 07/25/04 - I made a few purchases at a local SEARS store, with the resulting balance totaling $130.74. On the first occasion, I reported to the sales clerk that I moved and provided her with my new address. She was unsure if she could make the change in the system. After a few moments she stated that she was able to do so and did (or so she stated). This address was XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
08/04 -I never received a bill or late notice.
09/04 -At some point in 09/04, I realized that I never received a bill for these purchases. I called the number on my credit card and was informed that the address change was never made and that late fees and finance charges were applied. I explained the situation to the operator. The operator assured me that the late fees and finance charges would be dropped. She quoted me a balance of $130.74. In additon, she stated that the address change had been noted. I paid the balance in full.
10/04 or 11/04 - I returned to SEARS and made another purchase of two shirts and a pair of slacks.
11/04 - No bill or late fee received at my reported address.
12/04 - No bill or late fee received. By this point, I forgot about the purchases, thus it did not cross my mind to call and reported the same change of address for the third time.
01/05 - No bill or late fee received at my reported address.
02/05 - No bill or late fee received at my reported address.
03/05 - No bill or late fee received at my reported address.
04/05 - No bill or late fee received at my reported address. I called to cancel the account because I obtained another SEARS card recently (SEARS MasterCard- it is worth noting that I had no credit troubles in obtaining this card nor was I informed of late fees with the old card). I was notified when I called to cancel the card of the outstanding balance, I requested a statement at once. I moved again and had a new address to report. This time, I promptly received notice of closure and the balance amount, along with a history of transactions.
I have enclosed a check for the original purchase amount and a small finance charge which was included at that time, although I think it too erroneous. This seems to me fair and equitable after the nightmare which I have just described to you. I intend to remain a SEARS customer provided this is settled honestly and satisfactorily. Thank you in advance for your assistance with this matter. Please notify me of the results, I have listed several contact options below. PLEASE NOTE THE CORRECT MAILING ADDRESS IS BELOW.

Pretzel Logic

"As long as the flame of life burns, anything can be rectified."

-- Unknown

Who's "The Man"?

"The price of paradise is stained with blood
Young men die for what?"
--Dennes Dale Boon

Tuesday, October 2, 2007


"Women. Old Ladies. Babes. Chicks. Can't live without them, can't use their bones for soup."

--Sonny Barger, Hell's Angel

Friday, September 28, 2007


"Politics is like trying to screw a cat in the ass."
--Charles Bukowski

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Wake Up, Heart Yanked Out

Cyprian woke up floundering in his own dystopia at the age of twenty-five. He stood at a quarter-century and on the cusp of life but his hopes and dreams had been dashed. Still he was young, unbelievably young and his feet trod a fecund path. He held a low grade menial position as a governmental flunky in the ranks of civil service, lusted after women incessantly and viewed himself with utter contempt. I say he 'woke up' floundering although he'd been awake all along...with his eyes shut tightly against the affliction. The job, a veritable torture rack, blackened his outlook. He considered himself a martyr he was so oft crucified. And who could blame him under the circumstances? He suffered a great deal of anguish at the hands of his fate. Things happened, fell into place piecemeal, with little or no forethought. Try as he might he was unable to alter his affairs. In that regard he was like a marionette...but who manipulated the strings? It was as if he wasn't alive at all but living vicariously within his own skull. A sort of back room, cerebral existence in which he harbored no ambition. By hook or crook, sheer indifference and laziness he ended up a civil servant. Naturally he loathed the job; it became the ubiquitous thorn in his side. It was anathema to him and he suffered from uncontrollable shakes, bouts of nervousness and wild fits of depression. Emotions oscillated within him like a pendulum and it became difficult to hold onto the reins. His senses became dull and his mind filled with drivel; his attention span deteriorated and he lost the ability to concentrate. He was drawn and quartered...trapped like a beast in the zoo.

He longed to quit the 'nine to five' but had bills and the rent. Civil servants make peanuts, chicken feed. The more he scrimped, the more debt mounted. And his landlord didn't pussyfoot around for someone so light on his feet. A day late with the rent and he was out on his ass...Sure, he looked for other work. As a desperate measure he perused help-wanted ads in the Picayune over beer at Johnny's. No luck. Every possibility disgusted him equally; he couldn't fathom doing anything with relish...He grew disenchanted and existed in a lull. An utter failure in the realm of employment. At night, in bed before sleeping, grandiose visions danced in his cranium...Lofty pipe-dreams; the musings of a peon. Still he was young, unbelievably young. I do not speak candidly to illicit compassion on his behalf. Rather, I am illuminating the quandary in which he found himself awash as a triumph of sorts.

But fuck the groundwork; the groundwork can wait. It's the meat and potatoes I'm after now. It was a Sunday when the doldrums hit him. Sundays are useless entities- the only sensible thing to do is fritter them away as quickly as possible. Cyprian woke from his slumber at the crack of dawn and felt the noose begin to tighten. How many hours remained before he had to return to work? Ah, work! That's the idea that stuck in his craw. The death of tomorrow always lingers on the breath of yesterday. There's no hope for men who lack ambition. And in this world the multitudes will always be bound and fettered...

Monday, September 17, 2007

There's Nothin' at the Top but a Bucket and a Mop

The Pups are BACK and they're doggin' it! Rise to Your Knees, indeed. The Kirkwood brothers reunited as the Meat Puppets at last. Most thought this a veritable impossibility after bassist Cris' descent into addiction and worse (well documented in several Phoenix New Times articles over the years). I was fortunate enough to catch the band recently touring. Ironically, they played nary a tune from their resurrection effort, Rise to Your Knees. I think it a fairly kick-ass record (although those living in 1983 and expecting Meat Puppets II may not). Keep an open mind and grow rich. Curt Kirkwood himself described it in a recent interview as 'an accumulation of big campfire sing-along songs' which, if apropos, would unquestionably disturb and possibly warp the family next to you at the KOA. Regardless, it's been on regular rotation in my musicological sphere since I obtained it. I must confess that I did not purchase or even lend an ear to later albums such as No Joke and Golden Lies. At the time I was convinced that Rock n' Roll was a dead art form and I had reverted to listening to Country, some Blues and a bit of Jazz. I am familiar with their entire output from the band's SST releases plus one. I caught the unappreciated Eyes Adrift for one incredible but under-attended show... At any rate, the new record works as a seamless continuum for me.

I arrived early at the venue and saddled up at the bar with a buddy, ordering whiskey and beer. The psychedelic swirling mayhem that ensued was all Meat Puppets. Cris was doubled over on bass, long frizzy hair flying everywhere as he rocked out like a creature from another planet. The crowd was enthralled as they played classic tune after tune from their repertoire, including selections from Meat Puppets II, Up on the Sun, Huevos, Monsters and Too High to Die. The seemingly spontaneous treatment and work-up of the songs was phenomenal. This show moved me like so few have in recent memory. Shit, I'm ready to drop everything and drive cross-country to catch another show! Still not a track performed from the new one... And I am convinced that those tracks will destroy you played live...

I foresee many albums to come and rub my hands together in anticipation of the Pups' next move. Until then, I shall burn myself out on Rise to Your Knees.

- PiGbOyFaCe

Sunday, September 16, 2007

Where You Got Them Shoes?

Frank and Bill sat sharing a cigarette in an alcove under their interstate overpass. Frank took the last drag and held up the butt for inspection by Bill.

Bill nodded dejectedly and watched the burnt butt fly up and away from them and out into the windy swath cut by the traffic that flew by day and night. It bounced and bobbed along the pavement, somehow never completely coming to rest. He wondered just how far it could make it on the interstate. It was theoretically possible that it would go all the way to California via I-10, but it was just as probable that it would follow an alternate wind current and be carried up I-55. It all depended on the rate of biodegradation and the drenching rains that could carry it to the shoulders and wash it down the storm drains...although, rain might also cause it to stick to the surface of a passing vehicle... He thought on...

Bill turned to ask Frank's opinion on the butt's longevity and destination, but found him putting on the shoes. They owned one pair between them. Living in the back-country for eight or nine months, they had either destroyed or eaten their old shoes. Upon returning to the city, they'd acquired a new pair from a tourist's bag while the dupe got a sketch done of himself by a street artist. Both of them felt bad about having to steal, consequently they owned just the one pair of size eleven hiking boots.

Bill asked Frank where he was going, all the time watching carefully the ritual attentiveness that Frank put into donning the shoes. They were both dirty bums, but they had agreed to try to prevent fungal infections of the feet. Each watched intently whenever the other put on the shoes.

"You're coming with me. We're gonna get some shoes for you."

"But I like those."

"We'll get some like them. C'mon," Frank said, hopping up and crunching across the broken bottles and nail-driven slats of rotten wood that were strewn about under their cement cavern.

Bill followed, picking his steps carefully, looking like some sort of tic-tac-toe playing chicken in his nervous, jerky progression.

Hoofing it down Canal Street in silence, Frank went over his plan. First they would set up on two corners -- Frank on Decatur, Bill on St. Anne. Frank would run the shoes scam on a tourist while walking up the street. He figured it'd take about one long block to get to the kicker and start demanding the shoes, where, if the sucker gave him any shit, Bill would hop out and start agreeing with Frank as if he were a total stranger. They could both stand there and righteously demand the shoes off a mans feet if he played it right.

Frank explained the plan to Bill whose main concern was Frank's competence in picking out a man with a size eleven foot. Frank pointed out that his own feet were also size eleven and they tossed the idea back and forth, doubts and assurances flying like feathers around a cock-fight.

At length they arrived at St. Anne and Canal. Bill sat down at the granite foot of a forty story edifice and waited. Frank walked comfortably to Decatur St. while Bill picked at the dirty bottoms of his feet, unruffled by the looks of passing strangers.

After a spell, Bill spotted Frank walking toward him with a barrel chested man who was dressed like a cowboy. Blue boots with pointed toes and a big heel. Some kind of snake pattern on them.

They were engrossed in a spirited conversation as Bill watched them walk by. Frank kept shooting him looks and waving wildly behind the big man's back. Bill didn't move, instead chewing on his yellowed thumbnail and looking around dumbly.

Frank and the tourist walked together for another block before big Mickey Gilley finally pushed Frank roughly away and took a stance like a bull, giving Frank the eye. Frank cowered away and stalked back to Bill.

"What the fuck, man!? I had him! Why didn't you back me up?"

"I don't like cowboy boots", replied Bill, deeply interested in the sidewalk.

"Well, shit, you never said you were so particular about shoes before, your highness."

"No cowboy boots or sandals."


Frank took up his position on Decatur again.

People of all shapes and sizes went by. He stared down at their feet and waited for the right combination. The dupe had to be a tourist, wearing size eleven, and now, apparently, not wearing sandals or cowboy boots.

Twenty minutes went by during which time four perfect ones went by wearing sandals or cowboy boots. He thought about just going for one and letting Bill have the hiking boots. He dismissed the thought, however, as he had no intention of parting with the fine hiking boots. They were arguably the most comfortable footwear that he had ever owned.

He kept watching the crowd.

Inevitably, a sucker arrived. This time it was a nervous looking kid of about sixteen walking fast and smoking a cigarette. Frank sidled up, walking in step with the kid.

"How ya doin' fella? Can I get a cigarette?" Frank asked in one breath.

The kid looked at him like a hunted animal and quickly produced a pack from his breast pocket.

Frank took the pack from him and took two cigarettes, placed one behind his ear, one in his mouth and handed the pack back. "Light," he commanded.

The kid produced a pack of matches and stopped to wait while Frank lit his cigarette.

Before discarding the match and while still looking down his cigarette, Frank said, "I bet you I know where you got those shoes."

The kid raised an eyebrow and reached for his matches.

Frank snatched the matches back and looked the kid in the eye expectantly.

"Ok, what would ya like to bet?" the kid asked.

"I'll bet your shoes for my shoes."

The kid looked down appraisingly at Frank's fine boots and nodded. "Ok, it's a bet." he said. "Where?"

Frank tilted his head back and inhaled deeply from the cigarette with his eyes closed, savoring the moment. He mumbled, "where you got those shoes, let's see..."

"Well where? Ya not getting out of this bet now," the kid threatened.

Frank smiled to himself. "Size eleven, right?"

"Uh, yeah...", the kid said, taken aback a bit.

"You got them on your feet, that's where you got them."

The kid stared at him, mouth agape, for a full ten seconds. Frowning, he turned and started up the street.

Frank tossed the cigarette after one last hit and jogged after the kid, marveling to himself at how well things were working out.

Bill watched the kid moving quickly up the block in his expensive tennis-shoes. "Now that's more like it, Frank" he thought. He rose and stepped right into the kid's path.

"Stop that kid!", yelled Frank.

The kid looked back nervously and ran into Bill with a full head of steam.

Bill fell to the cement crying "Ohhh, hell. Oh damn, that hurts." He made a show of it, rolling around on his back and grabbing at his tailbone. The kid just stood and stared stupidly down at him, stealing a couple of furtive glances at the more curious of the working-class folks who mostly hurried by clenching their teeth and fixing their gaze straight ahead, ignoring the debacle.
Frank's arm appeared around the kid's shoulders.

"Hey, hey Kid! Slow down buddy. You're gonna kill someone!"

Bill, lying flat and still, let out a low, agonized moan.

"Aw, hell. I know this guy. He hurt his back in Vietnam. Remember Vietnam, kid? No, I guess you wouldn't."

The kid mumbled something about school, but Frank didn't hear him because Bill had really started pouring it on, screaming as if he were being eaten alive by wolves. It was all either of them could do to keep from laughing. They had to avoid eye-contact with each other.

The kid was horrified. Frank could feel words pouring from his mouth while Bill wailed on the sidewalk. He could see the kid getting closer and closer to his boiling point. It reminded him of sex in a strange way. Finally, the kid looked like he might just bolt and Frank heard his mouth close the deal...

"...and if you give up the shoes I'll see to it that the authorities don't have to be called in and that the old general here gets the medical attention he needs."

The kid was shaking and looked at Frank.

Bill kept sobbing and groaning, but looked up at the kid expectantly.

Frank looked from the kid to Bill and back at the kid.

The shoes came off in a flash, not even untied, and the kid disappeared across the street and into the crowd wearing only white tube socks.

"Well, that was easy." Bill said, hopping up and dusting off his backside.

"Yep." said Frank, bending to light his last cigarette from a businessman's zippo. He nodded his thanks and followed Bill who was babbling excitedly about washing his feet in the fountain up the street and trying on his new shoes.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Thank God for Little Girls

I drove around the neighborhood looking for a cheaper place to rent. I hadn't brought in any money in weeks and was starting to get worried.

The neighborhood was an old one and had recently been invaded by yuppies who fixed up their old houses with a vengeance. It actually looked pretty nice but still had some fairly affordable rents if you took the time to look.

After copying down a few numbers within a block of my place, I turned up Opelousas and scanned around for signs. It was about 3:30 and school kids from the near-by parochial school filled the street.

The old fire station stood there, stoically watching the proceedings. Next door to the station was an antique shop with a few Victorian chairs in the cracked front window. At this window there were three little girls dressed in their catholic school clothes apparently admiring the old things in the window.

As I drove by I thought how picturesque that little scene had been. Before I had gone ten more feet, I heard one of the little girls yell, "FUCK YOU, WHITEY!" As soon as the first one did it, the other two joined in a chorus of profanities.

Going as slow as I was, it wasn't a problem to take the next U-turn. That scared them. I slowly drove up on the antique shop and they started screaming at the top of their lungs and falling over themselves to get through the doorway. I looked around and saw an old black man sitting on a lawn chair across the street. He observed the whole thing silently and without moving a muscle. With his watchful gaze upon us, I felt confident and stopped the car.

I got out and walked up to the shop. The screaming little girls had made it into the shop where they were screaming and pointing at me and imploring a confused looking older lady to do something about me.

"Hi, I'm Duane Carter and I was just driving by..." I extended a hand and began to explain.

"What have you done to these girls!?", she asked, stepping forward and shushing the girls behind her counter.

"Nothing, ma'am! I was just about to explain to you that they had been yelling obscenities in the street and..."

She sent the girls to the back of the shop and they went, sticking their tongues at me and one even lifted her skirt at me in an obscene gesture.

"Look, ma'am. I just thought I'd let someone in charge of these girls know about their behavior. Nevermind." I said as I turned to leave.

"Stop right there you mother fucker", the old lady growled from behind me. She was pointing an old pistol at me and dialing the telephone. I didn't think she'd use it, so I turned back toward the door and took a step.

She shot me right in the back, somewhere near the kidney area. The pain was excruciating. I fell to a knee with the floor spinning under me. My head wobbling on it's perch, I spotted two of the little girls poking out from behind the counter and grinning as if someone had just wheeled in a cake before I passed out.

I came to strapped face-down to a paramedic's board being lifted into an ambulance. Once they got me in and got the van moving, a nurse of some sort stuck me with a needleful of burning liquid and I passed out again.

"So you're up?" a police officer asked from a foot in front of my face.

"Yeah", I croaked.

"You've caused quite a bit of trouble, sir."

I just looked around the hospital room. It was a nice one. I wondered who was going to pay for it.

"You want to tell me why you were chasing those little girls?"

"Chasing them?"

"Yes Mr. Carter. They have all stated that you chased them up the street and into the antique shop with your penis in your hand."

"My what?! What the hell are you talking about?" I nearly fell out of the bed.

"Calm down, the restraints are for your own good." he said, indicating the straps on my ankles and wrists. "The girls say that you got out of your car and came running at them with your penis in your hand. Do you disagree with this story?"

"You're damned right I do! I was just stopping to tell their mother that they were yelling obscenities at passing cars! They yelled 'FUCK YOU WHITEY' at me fergodsake!"

"You do understand, Mr. Carter, that these girls are all Caucasians themselves."

"I didn't say it made sense! I just thought their parents should know and then that old lady shot me!"

"The lady said that you were going for a weapon."

"I don't carry any weapons. I was leaving because she looked like she was going to believe her little darlings before me."

"Uh huh." he just nodded.

"What the fuck do you mean UH HUH!? I've been SHOT! Aren't you going to do something!?"

"I'll be right outside the door if you need me. In the meantime, I think you'd better calm down." he said as he walked out.

"Don't I get a lawyer?" I yelled at the closing door.

"Not until they arrest you, you don't." said a voice from the other side of a curtain that I hadn't noticed before.

"Huh?" I squinted at the curtain.

"You don't get a lawyer until they arrest you. Right now, you're not going anywhere, so they haven't arrested you. This way you don't get a lawyer until it's too late and you've said all manner of incriminating things."

"Oh. And who are you?" I tried to peer through the thin curtain to no avail.

"Just another prisoner."

"Where are we?"

"This is the police ward of Charity Hospital. They'll hold us here until we're well enough to be arrested. You might be here a while...

Monday, September 10, 2007

Thus Passes the Glory

The week passed in delirium. Sleep, work, not much else. Same old crucifixion routine. Same old slow death. Thursday evening Cyprian took the ferry across at dusk. The sun sank down like a battered shipwreck over the New Orleans cityscape. Phantasmagorical rays of light splattered across the mirrored glass and metalwork of the skyscrapers. An austere display of nature amidst the madness of a metropolis. A strumpet sat opposite him on the small boat. She looked to be a stripper; an exotic dancer on her way to the job. Rue bourbon, doubtless. The filthiest street in America. Can you name one worse? She pulled a compact from her purse and rouged her cheeks. They were inescapable, these harpies. Another voluptuous female form. Another savory number. He couldn't take his eyes from her. The "outfit" she wore barely covered her shame. She saw him looking and crossed her legs, revealing even more lithe and supple charms. The ferry docked and they disembarked. Cyprian felt irresistibly drawn and followed her down the sidewalk. The last rays of sunlight were blotted out by the concrete monoliths and the black of night enveloped them. Canal Street darkened in a flash. He strolled along bug-eyed as a zombie contemplating that fine trim. She had long legs and a rhythmic gait. Those calves of her called out 'come hither' and he followed like a somnambulist in a stupor. Transfixed, he ogled her sinuous form. A young black kid sidled up to him and pointed to the woman who held him mesmerized. "You like that?" he said. Cyprian laughed. The kid was insistent, "You like that?" Cyprian nodded affirmatively. "You better take your chance," the kid advised him, "'cause she a stripper at one a dem clubs." The kid ran off toward the Penny Arcade on Rue Royal. Cyprian hastened his step and turned onto Rue Bourbon. The smooth, brassy sounds of a lonely saxophone cut through the night air. A solitary player stood in a darkened alcove near a dumpster and wailed his lament. An upturned hat lay at his feet. Cyprian pulled a buck form his pocket and tossed it in. The player nodded slightly and blew a few more sad notes skyward. Further up the block, crowds of tourist from the Middle-West swarmed the street and sidewalks. A stench of stale beer and urine hung in the humid air. The ubiquitous two-bit hustlers, ghetto pimps and hookers were working the throng. Neon signs sparkled and blazed in cheap glory; the open doors and windows a peep show on parade. Cyprian walked amidst the debauchery in sensory overload. Barkers stood in front of the joints luring patrons in. The human caprice, capitalism, everything for a buck, obtrusive money grubbing...A bacchanalian wilderness...nymphs, waifs, Amazons, the whole gamut...weakness of the flesh...body parts...a dizzying array...breasts,feet...heads, legs, arms...a psychotropic fuck in the Age of Death....Sex must be the malediction of harpies discontented with coy testicled beasts and their brutish, drunken temperaments. Cyprian's head began to swirl with a lack of oxygen and he walked toward the Sho-Girls Bar. A big, brutish bouncer stood at the doorway like a sentinel blocking the passage. He prodded Cyprian in the chest with a hairy paw and held four fingers abreast to indicate the price of admission.

- PiGbOyFaCe

Sunday, September 9, 2007


"A human being must love someone , otherwise he or she goes out like a candle. Well, so I am their victim.” - Isaac Bashevis Singer, Meshugah

- PiGbOyFaCe

Monday, September 3, 2007

Party 'til the world obeys you

I grew up with a fear of nuclear war, not in the 1950's sense of duck-and-cover, but in the eighty's sense of melting, burning oblivion. Yes oblivion.

I learned early on that Christianity was a joke. Ten years of catholic school saw to that. It seems to have all started with a popular/powerful mystic back in the post-caveman days. A man of learned science could blow up into magical/divine legend in a generation or two. To die well was an art in those days.

With such things whirling in my head, as well as a host of the finest chemicals a high-school student could possibly get his hands on, I set out on my own.

I decided on my trek one morning after a particularly exhausting LSD experience. I lay in my bed sleeping for what seemed like 10 blissful days after finally coming down to my copy of Pink Floyd's "Wish you Were Here".

My Mother at the door.

I gain awareness.

She informs me that it is Sunday and demands that I go to church.

I grunt acquiescence and roll over.

She bangs and beats from behind the locked door preventing me from sleeping.

I get up, naked, and plug my pawn shop electric guitar into my old beat Radio-Shack stereo's MIC input and press record on the tape deck. Recording levels all the way up, I start jamming the only two or three bar chords I know in a rhythmic mantra I had devised the evening before in my silent room.

She rants and raves, me drowning her out rhyme for rhyme, note for note, almost mocking her with my sophomoric guitar styling.

She subsides.

I play tentatively and go off on a melodic/punk lead.
Suddenly the guitar dies in my hand. The lights go out on the stereo.

I feel the stereo's side. It isn't hot, no smoke. I wiggle the guitar cord. No sound at all.

I hear my mother screeching her victory like a harpy. She screams, "Fuse box!!! I won't let you break that guitar Goddammit! You still owe me one hundred seventeen dollars and eighty-one cents for that thing!"

I continue to jam on the now acoustic (barely) electric guitar.

She begins to realize that I will not be 'saved' today.

She bargains, telling me that if I don't go to church, I had better give her some money for the collection plate. I have no job and she gives me only 10$ for lunch each week. I wonder what makes her think I have any money since the school's lunch program provides for $1.25 lunches a day and I supposedly eat these lunches. I don't, but she didn't know that.

I was a fat kid and my method to lose the weight was drugs and alcohol and starving. I kept the 2$/day, starving, and bought the other two in whatever quantities I could muster for my meager cash.

Soon I wised up and began getting together all the money I could. With this I procured quantities for sale to my friends who used like I did. I cleaned up.

I was standing next to a stack of bills from the party the night before.

With friends, I went to a party filled with people on another type of acid. I talked a while to another dealer like myself and we each took one of the other's acid. we liked what we saw and traded three hits for three hits. He subsequently gave away/sold the acorn to his friends. He had given me Black Dragon which I distributed to my associates...

The room tripped a while and suddenly word of mouth went. I started getting people asking me for golden acorn. I had quite a lot with me as it happened, but I was tripping really hard with a bunch of people I didn't know and only a few I did.

I asked one of them to step into the kitchen of whomever's house it was and he obliged. I had a film canister filled with about 70 individually wrapped hits of LSD. The handling involved was minimal and therefore the quality wasn't compromised noticeably. I was exactingly careful with each, using tweezers caked with the greasy LSD juice soaked into each square of paper, so as not to degrade any hit's impact.

This guy bought 4.

I looked him in the eye and knew he planned on all four himself.

I had a goldmine on my hands here. I had charged him $5/hit even though he had bought four. At school or to friends, if I sold four, I'd have to drop to $4 or $3.50/hit, but here this guy didn't mind.

At that point I knew I could get rid of all of this acid tonight. If these people didn't do it all, they'd buy it up to sell to their friends, or keep it for special occasions.

I had been getting really good acid for weeks and it was always a different type, which helped to make each trip something special and keep me happy with the types of acid that went by me. I had good connections in nice, calm, crowds.

I asked the guy if I could put one onto his tongue to satisfy myself of his, and his friend's validity as acid heads and not cops.

He consented and I stuck it on his tongue.

He swallowed it and stood there for what seemed to me to be about 30 seconds.

I nodded.

He laughed and turned and left the kitchen.

A second patron entered. 6 to him at $30. Still $5/per hit. I wanted to get the line moving before the stuff was so plentiful that people tripping really hard started giving it away. Already I had 10-15 hits floating around about 25 people. They had their Black Dragon too. The next guy reassured me by buying 10 hits. I gave it to him for $45. This started people moving toward me.

One by one, they filed into the dark kitchen where I doled out individually wrapped hits of fantastic LSD to them. They mostly took it right there in front of me too. I figured that had less to do with me and more to do with the fact that taking it in the livingroom would prove difficult as there was forming presently, a line to the kitchen, with much jostling about and some wrestling, all in good acid-fun of course. No one wanted to mar the beauty that I had wrought on this little gathering of trippers.

Their Black Dragon was for the most part, a very cerebral LSD, while my Golden Acorn simply erased your word-thinking consciousness and blew you away with phantasmagoric hallucinations incomparably better than any fireworks display, art museum, movie or computer graphic. They loved the stuff, and they bought me out.
I left with a greasy stack of ones, fives and tens four inches thick. I rolled it with a hairband borrowed from a little hippie girl and soon drove my friends home from the party.

I drove perfectly and we even went driving for pure pleasure as the sun came up. I took the ferry across the Mississippi and we all ran to the rails to get the cold wind in our faces and see the sun rise draping the New Orleans skyline.

We drove through the french quarter and watched the drunks finding themselves in the morning.

We watched the homeless walking around to keep warm enough to live.

We watched the shop keepers opening their businesses, sweeping sidewalks, rolling up awnings.

We watched through our mock ray-bans and laughed and cried at the raw humanity of it all.

I finally brought them home and went there myself, tiptoeing through the livingroom to my room where I could sprawl and light my bong. I did so, and finally slept.

Until seven in the morning, when mother woke me with her church rantings. I decided to give her ten dollars. I slipped it under the door and screamed at the top of my hoarse lungs to give it to the needy.

She cried in the hall ranting her love for me and went to her room to dress for church. On her way, she turned on the religious channel on the TV, where Jimmy Swaggart, in his heyday, was preaching the gospel of money to unsuspecting widows and divorcees, like my mother.

She cranked her fine stereo TV and Jimmy boomed through the house and especially through my sensitive ears. I played Iron Man on my powerless guitar until she had dressed and left for church, Jimmy still blaring. I stormed out of my room as soon as the automatic garage door had closed.

I slapped the TV off and went to the fuse box. I turned my room back on and decided to reek out the house with marijuana and play my guitar.

These things I did for about two hours. I had allotted myself this amount of time in advance and set my alarm to stop me. It did.

I turned off my guitar and went to sleep.

I awakened in the night and found mother still (again?) gone. I figured I had slept 16 hours.

Sunday, September 2, 2007

Weeding Out

"The Grateful Dead- if there's one favorite band I have, it's probably that. I saw them maybe seventy-five times." - Greg Ginn, Black Flag

- PiGbOyFaCe

Saturday, September 1, 2007

One Day it Will Please Us to Remember Even This (Pt. I)

Perhaps the greatest misfortune of my misspent youth is the fact that I failed to listen to the the eponymous debut of the New York Dolls with greater frequency. Sure, I listened to the band ad nauseum in the decade to follow, but I failed to notice them early on. They didn't exist to me; they simply weren't on the radar of my teenage years. I'd heard of them and I admired their outrageous attire, their New York pre-punk posturing, the name of the band itself, and that of it's lead guitarist Johnny Thunders. When Johnny died of an apparent drug overdose in a New Orleans hotel room in 1991, the band was mythologized in my mind. Hungover in my parent's living room, I read his obit in an early morning edition of the Times-Picayune. I was twenty years old. I knew the hotel where he croaked and I morbidly strolled past it in the days that followed. I pointed it out to friends- “Hey, look! There's the hotel where Johnny Thunders died...” At the time my turntable spun Neil Young, Back Flag, the Minutemen and the Grateful Dead as if they held some secret. And it was beautiful.

I vowed not to repeat the error of my ways when I discovered the preposterous release of a new album by the Dolls in 2006. Preposterous because it couldn't be. How could the Dolls put out a new album? Billy Murcia, the original drummer suffocated to death in a London hotel bathtub in '72 (after copious consumption of drugs and alcohol). The band broke up in '77. Thunders overdosed in '91. Jerry Nolan, the second drummer died in '92. The bassist, Arthur 'Killer' Kane died in '94.

And yet there it was: a new album. The band's name, New York Dolls written in cursive across the cover in fuchsia lipstick be proof of it. How's it possible? Who's left? Two dudes: singer/writer David Johansen and guitarist Sylvain Sylvain. They melded seamlessly with a new group of guys to create a solid new unit. This isn't the New York Dolls of old; it's the new New York Dolls. And when I say I'm in love, you'd best believe that I'm in love...L-U-V.

It's a raunchy rock n' roll exposition in the classic tradition but with intellectual musings interjected throughout. “Ain't gonna anthropomorphize ya, or perversely polymorphisize ya!” isn't a typical lyric for the genre. Nor is the satirical debate of evolution versus creationism in the guise of a rock song typical. Oh sure, some stiff prick might address the subject, but Dance Like a Monkey is a fuckin' rockin' song! They manage to be jejune and bright at once.

- PiGbOyFaCe

Thursday, August 30, 2007

Welcome to the Assassin's Guild

Was digging around in some ancient text files and found this from 19 years ago...

*--* Qmodem Scroll Back Dump File *--*

Connected at [2400] baud!


For your crimes you are the prey.
The sounds of the hunters and hounds
are close behind.
A dark street beckons REFUGE! At
it's end stands a small house.
Somewhere inside a single light glows.
Breathlessly, you reach for the entry
knocker just as the door is opened by

-=:>Thy Code #, Alias, or [NEW]:49

The Rogue queries "What is thy password?"

=] Checking thy password

=] Good evening JACK THE RIPPER
=] From HELL
=] Last visit 09/24/88
=] Today is 09/26/88 23:05:28
=] Vistor register number 35375

=] Welcome to the Assassin's Guild
=] Thy Sysop is Master of the Hunt

Main Bulletins from 1 to 75
There are 21 new bulletins

Thy Auto Message
Date ->09/26/88

call 241-1927
Powerhouse BBS
300 baud.. 7,e,n

=] Thou hast note(s) waiting
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Subj ->Jesus and Mary Chain
From ->THETIS (#32)
Date ->09/24/88

Very good group aren't they? So tell me ...Who do you love? heh heh....

(A)uto reply, [C]ontinue, (R)e-read :A


Enter message now, 79 cols, [4k] max
[DONE] when finished, [.H] for help'

I love Kojak cuz he loves me... (He always says it doesn't he?)


70 bytes entered
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Subj ->OKOK
From ->PLINY THE ELDER (#98)
Date ->09/24/88

ok.. <<>>

I'm trying to get it from Madman!!

Me the Second

(A)uto reply, [C]ontinue, (R)e-read :A


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[DONE] when finished, [.H] for help'

Madman is an IBM guy.. you aint gonna get anything for an apple from an IBM
person you idiot...


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Subj ->Yo Jack...
Date ->09/25/88

...I've been thinking. I will probably roll up the characters, because I'll
beef up the rolls a little. I'm thinking about starting you guys at about
3rd level because bringing up 1st level characters can be gruesome. I'd hate
to send a magic-user into battle armed only with magic missles. If you think
otherwise let me know. I think I'm going to give you a neutral/evil thief.
Male ofcourse, also what kind of race would you like. A hobbit maybe, my
precious ? Another thing about rolling the characters up, I'll probably give
everyone an 18 in their primary attribute and other magic items. I want them
to last, because yall are only playing one each and I really want to give yall
the chance to make it and live in infamy.

(A)uto reply, [C]ontinue, (R)e-read :A


Enter message now, 79 cols, [4k] max
[DONE] when finished, [.H] for help'

Well, I was kind of thinking the same thing.. Starting at level 1 is lame...
Hmm.. a hobbit thief? I was hoping for more the elvin type... (that is, if I
ain't gonna have a human Anti-Paladin from hell...) But an elvin thief would
be ok I suppose.. neutral evil please.... I dunno... I just like evil


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Brd ->General Board
Numb ->71 of 75
Sub ->Guaranteed way to lose weight
From ->MORGANA (#184)
Date ->09/25/88

Hitchhike from here, along the east coast to Boston with only $2.00 in your works every time!

[B1 #71 of 75] ? or Cmd [N]#

Brd ->General Board
Numb ->72 of 75
Sub ->I'm back.
From ->WASTER (#23)
Date ->09/25/88

I'm back. Some of you may remember me, most of you won't.

Let me get this straight now: Sorry for usings so much time. I only have a
300 baud modem and am unfamiliar with the system. you tend to forget trivial
matters like these after three years.

Anyone who does remember me, I would request that you chat in E-mail rather
than on the gen board.

The Waster

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Enter message now, 79 cols, [4k] max
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Oh boy.. you're back! I'm overjoyed..


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Brd ->General Board
Numb ->73 of 75
Sub ->Suicide...
From ->Images of Heaven (#79)
Date ->09/25/88

is painless... it brings on many changes...

but it's spoder to be a Bubbleman.

[B1 #73 of 75] ? or Cmd [N]#

Brd ->General Board
Numb ->74 of 75
Sub ->Lis...
From ->SHADOWSPAWN (#220)
Date ->09/26/88

While we all know you are the perfect bbs goddess, if you really want to lose
weight, I have the one method guaranteed to work. Go see your local Marine
recruiter, and tell him you want a 13 week vacation at the Paris Island, or San
Diego weight loss centers. Never fails. And you learn to shoot also...

[B1 #74 of 75] ? or Cmd [N]#

Brd ->General Board
Numb ->75 of 75
Sub ->RE:Weight
From ->DEVILDOG (#56)
Date ->09/26/88

OOOORRAAHHH........Up in the morning with the rising sun, going to run all day
ging to Yea Lis, a few weeks in a Marine CorpsBalloon
Platoon will get the weight off. And who knows you might meet a nice grunt.


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Brd ->Arena
Numb ->144 of 150
Sub ->Yes, folks... it's the RESPONSE!
From ->THE BERKUT (#9)
Date ->09/24/88

Gee, Speedy, are you by any chance wavin' that pop gun in MY direction? Nah,
you wouldn't do a thing like that. Somebody who can write like that surely
can't be THAT stupid. O

Brd ->Arena
Numb ->145 of 150
Sub ->[TW] I'm back.
From ->WAST

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Brd ->Adventurer's Hall
Numb ->48 of 53
Sub ->Let me in.
From ->GLEEKO (#68)
Date ->09/24/88

Hello, I've been playing AD&D for about 6 years. I would gladly play. Are
you planing to give us NPC, or what?

[B7 #48 of 53] ? or Cmd [N]#

Brd ->Adventurer's Hall
Numb ->49 of 53
Sub ->P's H
From ->WASTER (#23)
Date ->09/25/88

Hey, KtA

If you have been going to the
bookstores like I have, you would know
that TSR has raised its prices. Normal
handbooks cost $15, and the DMG now
costs $21. Just thought you'd like to

I have about 7 years experience of
playing and DM'ing AD&D. Do I send you
E-mail to get in on the game or what?
It sounds like fun...

The Waster

[B7 #49 of 53] ? or Cmd [N]#

Brd ->Adventurer's Hall
Numb ->50 of 53
Sub -> TR?????????????????????????????????????????????????????????
From ->ALPHA ONE (#55)
Date ->09/25/88

..Did you get raped by a clown again?

..KtA, I'll play. Have plenty of experience, what the hell... I can't DM for
the rest of my life!


..Looking for TR!

[B7 #50 of 53] ? or Cmd [N]#

Brd ->Adventurer's Hall
Numb ->51 of 53
Sub ->About D&D...
Date ->09/25/88

I am planning to issue a questionare, because since the die rolls have come
on line people have been wanting to get in on the game. I don't plan on
letting users play Non Player Characters; I plan on rolling up characters
here at home and beefing them up a little (atleast an 18 in their primary
attribute), because everybody's only getting one character. I want them
to last so that some characters can become legends on this board in time
to come. This first scenario is very important, the future of BBS D&D
here lies with me and the players. It has had no success in the past but
we now have dice rolling thanks to MOTH and FRIENDS. Characters will be
uploaded on E-Mail for those who give great answers on the questionare.
I should be able to tell about experience from the questions. It will be
on later Sunday Sept 25th. So answer quickly in E-MAil because I don't
want any one else seeing your answers, they might use it on you later.
Characters will be as defined as if we weren't playing on the board. I
will use some of the answers in order to figure out things you would do
when put into certain situations. I'll post it a little later.
Kostawn The Assassin
Hero of Thieves

[B7 #51 of 53] ? or Cmd [N]#

Brd ->Adventurer's Hall
Numb ->52 of 53
Sub ->D&D Questionare Part 1
Date ->09/25/88

Assassin's Guild Dungeons & Dragons Questionare
NOTE: Answers should be given in E-MAIL to user #100
Please limit classes and races to Handbook only
Please don't answer this questionare in public

1) How many years have you been playing D&D ?
2) What class of character do you prefer ?
3) If preferred class is unavailable, what class would you like ?
4) What race of character do you prefer ?
5) What allignment would you prefer (make sure it is allowed) ?
5) What name would you like your character to have ?
6) Do you have an Advanced Dungeons & Dragons Players Handbook ?
7) If so then what is the Level Limitation for an Elven Illusionist (pg.14) ?
8) If accepted would you log onto the Assassin's Guild Everyday ?
9) Give a name of your character's diety (will be appointed if unanswered) ?

The following questions will allow the DM to make decisions for your
character if needed. The game will go faster because every question
on the character's movement will not have to be asked and answers
will not have to be waited on.

This is the scenario:
You are with a party of 5, they are:
Bosolor Male Dwarf Fighter
Merza' Female Elven Magic-User
Tolow Male Halfling Thief
Michael Male Human Cleric

Bosolor has become the semi established leader of the party.
Merza', because of high intelligence, is counted on when an
educated guess is needed.
You have joined with this band for personal (diety depending
on class) gain and know little about them.
The objective of Bosolor is to destroy the Hill Giants that
have taken over a local dwarven hold.
He has promised riches to those who wish to follow him inside
the caves. But also states that success is questionable in
his point of view. These giants are real punks.

Together you reach the mountain side where Bosolor does detect
a shifting wall. Tolow succesfully disarms a rock slide trap
and moves ahead of the party hiding in shadows and moving
silently. He is now out of sight.
The rest of the party follows behind for several hundred yards
without a report from Tolow. You have been moving north and
come to a section which allows for passage to the west, east,
north, or back from which you came. To the west you can see
the outline of an open doorway, through the door and on the
far wall a flicker of torch light can be noticed. To the east
there is total darkness in which you can hear an almost un-
audible gurgle. North yields 20 feet of corridor and then a
slow rising stairway which leads into darkness.

10) Bosolor asks you to go east and find the source of noise. Do you ?
11) Why ?
12) Bosolor wishes to go North, but you wish to go west. What do you do ?
13) Why ?

As the party goes east a corpse lies in the path. As you come
closer you notice it is Tolow. He has been stripped of his
belongings and looks to have been unharmed. After a closer
inspection you notice a hole and poison stain on his right
index finger. He had stated, that if he died, he would like
his body returned to his mother at West HollowSpoon.

14) Do you take his body with you or leave it for others to find ?
15) Why ?

Later in the scenario the party has been through many battles,
has not encountered the giants, but finds the treasure of
kings in a room close to the dungeon entrance.

16) Do you take the money and run or continue till the giants are defeated ?
17) Why ?

*** See Next Posting for part 2 ***

[B7 #52 of 53] ? or Cmd [N]#

Brd ->Adventurer's Hall
Numb ->53 of 53
Sub ->D&D Questionare Part 2
Date ->09/25/88

*** PART TWO ***

When encountered by the giants, you are outnumbered and all
hope seems lost. They offer you sanctuary and gold (only
if you aren't a gnome or dwarf because they hate them),
but want to kill Bosolor because he is a dwarf. Bosolor
hearing this goes beserk and unleashes the Hammer of
Dwarvish Lords on the giants.

18) What do you do in this situation and why ?

It is suggested that you save this questionare to a file at home, log
off the Assassin's Guild, answer the questions in a text file, and
xmodem it back to me in E-Mail.
Kostawn The Assassin
Shadow Blade of Jalkive

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

The Cooked Fat of a Pig

After an afternoon feast of one half a greasy brown paper sack full of cracklin' (which I devoured while cruising down the Dime at 70 MPH on my way from Frog City to Hub City- my rattle trap like a sweat box with no AC), I stumbled upon this gem on the Internet: "In the Southern United States, pork rinds carry less social stigma and are widely available, whereas elsewhere they are often poorly regarded due to their origins, high fat content and perceived crudeness as a snack."As if my instant clogged arteries and heart palpitations weren't enough!


Tuesday, August 14, 2007

Bad Brains.. a NEW ALBUM!

I was excited.

A boring evening had ended with a bit of web surfing.

I'd heard that the bad brains were thinking about reuniting. It filled me with expectation. The Bad Brains had fueled many a haze filled night in my youth. They were an important thread in the soundtrack that weaved its way through my adolescence.

A new album (I cling to the now-antiquated term...)

A new Album from the brains... This time with HR on board -- all the original guys. No more albums with the HR impersonator guy... (more about him another time!)

I found my way to a myspace page. While it might seem elitist to say so, I have visitied myspace a grand total of 5 times before... I ahve wayways foudn it a strange and irrelevant corner of the world wide web -- one that I don't frequent...

A Google search had lead to the official Bad Brains page on There, as I watched the usual array of 'shout outs' and links to the official band pages of other bands I recognized, a Bad Brains song started playing. I didn't know it... It was a new song.. Indeed, the whole album was available to play there in the browser..

I did play it -- some tunes twice!

This was ALMOST the Bad Brains I remembered! This was SO CLOSE!

Yeah, it's HR -- the genuine article is hard to mistake. The soung of this man's voice is as implanted on my psyche as deeply as that dramatic deep-voiced movie commercial announcer that doeas all the big-budget movie commercials... You know the voice...

But there was HR. For the first few songs I was just so happy to have him back that the overly religious overtones of the songs didn't bother me.. In fact, at one point he even degenerated into his spitting, sneeringly aggressive nonsense syllables in 'Pure Love' as some of the heaviest Bad Brains riffs boomed in the background in a regrettably short song that left me thirsting for more in the image of 'Outro' from The Quickness album.

Yes, it was the brains.
Yes it was the original lineup...

It's called 'Build a Nation'!

Maybe it's politically charged?

There was Daryl on the bass kicking out some of the thickest basslines I've heard him pump. His performance (and some production work by Adam from the Beastie Boys) has stamped this album as the bass player's boomstick stomping down and giving notice.

The drums were strong and right on the groove (whether ti's a reggae groove or hardcore jam!)

Then came Dr. Know. In all my fantasies of becoming a great guitarist, Dr. Know was always the penultimate. the zenith. The goal to which I aspired.. If I could crank out 5 or 10 seconds of lead that vaguely sounded like him, I was proud for weeks!

I would pay to watch the man practice alone.

As the songs flew past (with the reggae tunes bothering me more and more) I began to notice that there were no guitar leads!

I listened to the title track ad could just hear the spots where the bass dumped impossibly low and hit the bottom of the riff and the whole band rocked into the groove and all the choruses and backup barking had built up to the moment in the song where Dr Know would have laid down his line with the fury and abandon that marked my rise to manhood. The type of guitar lead your mind would have a hard time getting around. One that would take your psyche on a ride for just a few seconds. Such an artist as Dr. Know could cause you to drift out of your ears and float around the room on his guitar lead.

Few other guitarists have impressed me with their mastery. His skill is enhanced by his ability to harness the very chaos that is an electric guitar. The shrieking.. The fuzzy-crunching, snarling freedom of the note soaring above the expertly crafted rhythm with the wailing vocals of HR rouding out the edges -- THIS is the Bad Brains I wanted to hear.

This is the starvation of my soul that longed to be fed as the album progressed.

One song after the other came with an extra dose of religion that I have learned to tolerate int he music of the Brains... Not being a religious man, myself, a lot of the fervor pouring from HR's mouth is lost on me... The more and more I found that it had taken over the majority of the songs, I began to feel a tinge of disappointment with this album...

The disappointment of the religious aspect, HR's weakened vocals, the absence of any honest-to-goodness guitar leads on the whole album... These things conspire to color my attitude toward this album...

Head nodding, heart pumping, fist clenching jams with their new-found low-end emphasis and even some friendly studio chatter from the band all make me like this album at least as much as any of the overly-produced non-HR efforts of the past few attempts...

And hey, it's the original lineup! That's worth a lot (and would be even if they had laid down a children's christmas album!!)

In the end, this album is growing on me and is definitely worthy to stand next to Quickness and I against I in my Bad Brains collection. No, it doesn't approach Banned in DC or the self-titled, but it is a refreshing blast of punk rock.

Now that they got the 'come back' done, if they could loosen up and let the shrieking vocals rage and the guitar solos fly... It could be a big deal -- a very big deal. Punk rock could claw it's way back from the grave and roll over the limp bizkits and kid rocks of the harder-end of the musical spectrum this decade...

Feasting on Plantiffs

The dawn breaks on the face of the migraine pillowcase poster doorway carpet. Brush brush brush wet slick shave... dry.
. He began to deconstruct the events of the previous night....