Goldfish (a neo-beatnik thing)

I got this fish...

A goldfish, you know? His name is Dave, Dave the goldfish. And all he does. All he ever does, man, is swim around in his bowl.

That's his whole life, that bowl. And he's swimmin'. Swimmin' around and around in his bowl.

Around and around in his bowl and I thought...

Hey!

My man the fish needs a change, a new look at his life and the life that exists around him. A piece of greenscreen behind that little castle that sits atop those colored rocks that line the bottom of his world and that little castle, man, the one that he never seems to use

(At least he doesn't seem to use it while I'm awake).

And I thought I could take him to Marineland or something. A trip to his own private gene pool to see his ancestors and brethren. A higher link in the foodchain of fishlife.

Or out on a boat. Looking bird's eve view wise at my buddy bud's homeland...

A new bowl perhaps? A larger than large, tank type, mansion sized lake of a cage with room to move, man.

With room to scoot.

And then, captured in the moment I flashed away, man. I went to a mindspace where all fish are equal and freedom is the only buzzword and people (normalsville, you know?), we should be kinder to the souls of the sea. And I thought, man, fish need help. My fish needs help.

And me?

I'm the type of guy who could...

I mean, I am just the kind of guy who could help fish and people band together in a life of love and honor. A whole wide world where nobody has to worry and time alone will be in charge of everyone and everything that we happen to come into contact with and, maybe someday...

And then it hit me...

He's more than happy just being a goldfish, man.

Seeing Orange

It's been going on for years, man.

The age old question.

Is the glass half-empty?

Or is the glass half full?

We all want to know the answer, we all want to know.

We all have opinions but we can't be sure.

Me?

What do I think?

I think the glass is half-empty.

But

I also think that if you look around you just might find a faucet. And there may be some ice in the freezer. Look in the refrigerator. Is that a bottle of 7-up? And over there, on the shelf, I think I see a bottle of bourbon! Wow! There's a bag of Doritos on the table and somebody has left out a bowl of salsa!

Too cool! I love this place!

Where's the stereo?

Yep!

That's what I think.

That's me.

I've got a jaundiced eye and I'm looking through rose colored glasses.

I'm seeing everything in orange.

Which is strange.

I don't like the color orange. It makes me feel nervous and jumpy inside.

Be A Jerk, Save A Tree

You know those little cards?

The ones stuck inside magazines?

The ones with the postage already on them so if you want to join a CD club or get a plate with Elvis on it or whatever all you have to do is fill it out and stick it in a mail box? I hate those damn things. I'm looking at a TV Guide, a Playboy, or something and I can't control the pages because the magazine keeps automatically flipping to the page with the card! I hate that to death! Don't you too? What the hell can be done about those damn things?

Well...

I have a job for you. Consider it a social experiment. An art project. Hell! If it works for you feel free to consider it as being a good old American pain in the ass.

The next time you find yourself trapped in the evil web of those stinking cards simply tear it out of the magazine, write "NO THANKS, TREE KILLER!!!" on it, and mail it away. Do it as often as you can. All the time every time and get your friends to do it too. Have them get their friends to do it. And their friends of friends. It would be a chain protest! Pretty cool, ain't it? It'd be like throwing tea in the harbor! Good old American ass pain, kids!

See...

The reason those cards are in magazines is because they are monetarily valid. I mean, enough people are stupid enough to order things with those cards that they turn a profit for the companies that pay to have them stuck into our magazines.

It seems to me the most effective way to get rid of those cards would be to somehow make them monetarily INVALID. Every one that goes through the postal system is that much more postage that the company has to pay and if they end up paying for nothing over and over and over again it seems to me like they'd get the message eventually and stop polluting our magazines with their mindless crap. See what I'm getting at here?

Now:

You don't have to write "NO THANKS, TREE KILLER!!!" on it. You can write anything you'd like. "GO YANKEES!" would work. As would "HI, MOM! CAMP IS GREAT!", "THE PRESIDENT IS FULLA BEANS!", or, my personal favorite "STUFFING! NOT POTATOES!" (get cryptic on the bastards. Screw with their heads. Have fun with it!). You really shouldn't write anything too dirty though. It would really suck if it got back to you and you had to go to court for writing "KISS MY FUCKING ASS, YOU NAZI DICK LICKERS!!!" on some stupid little postcard. Then again, you might end up on 20/20 and get a sit-com out of it. Who knows? All I'm saying here is that I don't recommend that you swear. There's no reason to be snotty if you can just be annoying. I think my dad said that once and, if he didn't he should have.

Anyway, you are now on your own.

I have planted seeds and if they sprout or not is your business.

It's your world.

Have fun with it.

Or don't...

Something To Do When You Get Rich

1) Buy a bunch of cheap vases that all look the same. Like, 50 of them or so and stick a single fake flower in each one.
2) Put them all in a cupboard, stacked very nice.
3) Get a small table. About a foot by a foot across with a flat top and four legs, about four feet high.
4) Saw one of the legs off and put it near a light switch.
5) Put a vase on it.
6) When you're showing your house to someone new reach for the light switch and knock the table over, making the vase break on the floor.
7) Stand the table back up, open the cupboard, put a fresh vase on it.
8) Say, "Fuck! I hate when that happens!".
9) Continue showing the rest of the house and never mention it again.

Milk Is Truth

do you remember milk cartons?
how you should open one end and not the other?
well
when i was a kid
sometimes
the milk carton would be mangled
the other end would be all fucked up and torn up
and it looked like a fucking bomb had gone off in the kitchen
they would say
'stupid milk carton! something should be done about that!'
i would say
'you should have tried to open the other end. milk cartons work that way.'
i'd get grounded for being a smart ass
sometimes i'd get smacked
but
i couldn't let it go
i wanted the truth to be known
that's all i'm really saying here

i'm not a normal person...

Mustard

dude!

what's the deal with mustard?

salami and mustard
pastrami and mustard
your mommy and mustard

that shit fucking rocks, man!

Ripping Off Eddie Grant

We're sitting 'round on a Sunday
And we ain't got nothing to do
Somebody pulls out a board game
And decide that they'll be the shoe

"Oh, yeah!"

CHORUS:
We gonna roll and move past Baltic Avenue
And then pick up a Chance card
We gonna roll and move past Baltic Avenue
And then pick up a Chance card

I take the top hat and place it
On the square that we all call Home
I toss the dice and get doubles
So again my turn gets to go

"Oh, boy!"

CHORUS

Your roll...
Let's go...
Your roll...
Let's go...

CHORUS

I got a nine and I'm landing
On the space where parking is free
Race car just bought Marvin Gardens
And screwed up my Monopoly

"Oh, no!"

CHORUS

Monopoly...
Monopoly ...
Going to jail...
Can't afford the bail...

CHORUS

Play it in the daytime
Play it in the night ...

Might Have Been A Model (a true story)

she was pushing eighteen. not much of a problem there. i was in my mid twenties (going on about twelve) and she had a boyfriend anyway. besides, i take things kind of slow. i wouldn't want to hurt anybody, once bitten, better safe, apples falling from trees, pick one you like, okay? she was blonde, hips like a dessert cart, painfully pretty. wanted to be a model and might have done very well at that kind of gig. face like a really hot angel.

so... we're at this party and her boyfriend (a real nice guy, btw) leaves for a while. i'm feeling good, drinking a bit, nothing serious, just hanging out. we've known each other for three or four days and i'm playing at flirting with her and she's playing at being pissed off about it. we're both laughing and bothering other people with our fun-vibe. i go to the bathroom and, on the way out the host drags me back in.

he says:
you like her?

i say:
yeah. lots.

she told me not to tell you but she's leaving her boyfriend.

so?

she's thinking about you.

why would she tell you that?

so i'd tell you.

but she told you not to tell me.

what are you, man? a fucking moron?

(long pause)

oh...

at one point she's really acting shocked at my attitude, goes into the kitchen, comes back with a glass of warm water, and dumps it over my head. it wasn't beer. it wasn't cold. it was art. i would have married her right then and there.

her boyfriend comes back and they get a ride home. she and i act like we don't really give a shit that the other's leaving but the eye contact was promising.

a few hours later we get a call from the emergency ward. the car that they were in was in a crash.

i figured that everything was okay, or at least not all that bad or they would have told us over the phone so it's off to st. john's hospital.

we sit there for about an hour and they call her sister into another room.

there was a scream. just like in the movies. just like nancy allen in 'blow out'. anybody that tells you that chicks don't really scream like they do in the movies is full of shit. you can trust me on this one.

so there's this scream like in the movies and then she yells, 'that's not my sister! she doesn't have a face!'

she was dead before the cops had shown up.

we all kind of floated home in a fog.

a couple of days later i got the story: the car had rolled over quite a few times. she was in the back seat on the passenger's side and her face was torn off when her head was smashed through her window. her boyfriend was crushed in the wreck. the driver lived. he was saved because he was pinned in the seat by the steering wheel.

she never became a model.

the strange thing is that i rarely think of her and when i do i can't remember her face.

then again

maybe that's not so strange after all...

Ducks And Rabbits

Look…

There’s really only two types of people
Ducks and Rabbits
Trust me on this

DUCKS:
The ducks want things
Anything and everything
For no fuckin’ reason at all
Just like Daffy, the duck on TV

RABBITS:
Rabbits just wanna have fun
Anytime and everytime
For no fuckin’ reason at all
Just like Bugs, the rabbit on TV

DUCKS:
The ducks like to push the rabbits around
It proves to the ducks that they are right
Ducks are like that
They need to be right all the time
Why is this?
(because deep down the ducks know that they are wrong)
It’s Freud or something like that…

RABBITS:
Rabbits like to fuck around with the ducks
Why?
Because it’s fun to watch the ducks shit bricks!
That’s why!

So there you go
Ducks and Rabbits
And that’s all there really…

Oh, shit!

I forgot about the ELMERS!

ELMERS:
Elmers like to kill the ducks and rabbits
With guns and bombs
And all of that stupid shit
Just like Elmer, the guy on TV
Why?
Why do the Elmers want to kill the ducks and rabbits?

Easy…

The Elmers never watch TV
Oh, they look at it
But they don’t really watch
They don’t learn from it
They don’t know how to dream
And that’s why the Elmers like to kill the ducks and rabbits
Because the ducks and rabbits are dreamers
They’re full of dreams
And the Elmers hate dreamers
For the Elmers know not the truth
And here it is
Here’s the truth

It’s a gift from me to you…

THOSE WHO FAIL TO DREAM
ARE DOOMED TO ONLY SLEEP

And just how do I know that it’s the truth?
How can I be sure?

That’s easy too…

I’m a rabbit
And I dreamt it.

Elephants

the elephants are moving
(slowly, slowly)
one foot at the time

not going uphill
(lowly, lowly)
in an ordered line

don't think for themselves
(empty, empty)
it's not something they do

wait for instructions
(tempting, tempting)
the trainers make the rules

don't bother with the elephants
they'll freeze still with remorse
their brains are small
and filled up all
with peanuts just
of course

Lame Ass Backstory

About a bazillion years ago the Earth cooled. This was a good thing. If it hadn't we'd all be jumping up and down a lot and screaming about our feet more often than we do now. The air would also hurt our lungs and there wouldn't be any water. Can you imagine living in a world like that? I just barely can and I have a rather colorful history of drug usage.

There were these pools of water laying around back then and, through some electrochemical process that I don't have a lot of knowledge about these tiny fishy things came to life. Chemistry tends to vex me on a daily basis. If you take some motor oil and lemonade and toss in some cotton balls you get Twinkies? How does that work? I mean, there can only be a finite number of chemicals, right? How the hell do those research guys come up with new ones? I had a chemistry set once and if I mixed up a bunch of stuff all I ever ended up with was a tube of blackish slop. I just don't understand it in the slightest. This may tend to explain why I write. I may be trying to understand things. Ah, well...whatever.

Some weeks later dinosaurs stalked both the surface of the Earth and each other. These were dangerous times for the more fragile life forms who were mainly walking snacks and sandwiches for these dinosaurs. The whole world was a giant Burger King and you didn't have to deal with money.

One day a chunk of what was basically iridium zipped through space, got caught in the Earth's orbit, and smacked into the ground with a resounding boom. The impact of this smack and boom caused a huge cloud of dust to blanket the sky, blocking out the rays of the sun and making things rather chilly for the dinosaurs and snacks that lived here. The plants died, the plant eaters died, and the meat eaters followed suit rather quickly. Things were looking bad.

However, some of those snacks had fur coats and they hid out in little caves and hollows and rode this badness out. They kept warm, ate when they could, and had a lot of little furry snack sex. Somehow there is always hope.

These little furry things evolved and after spending a couple of years in the trees they lost their tails and walked tall on the ground. Cave people had arrived.

Now...

I don't know about you but I would have made a lousy caveman. Most of my leisure time would have been spent crawling around nearsighted looking for something to read. I doubt my tribe would have been into my sense of humor either. Some burly cavedude would have crushed my head with a rock just to shut my ass up. "Yeah. He was an asshole and now we don't have to hear his fucking whiny voice! What's for lunch?"

I'm not real hot with history but, if I remember right those guys and gals didn't even have Dr. Pepper! Barbaric? Don't get me started! Have you ever seen a TV Guide from back then? They weigh in at about seven thousand pounds. You had to do the crossword puzzle with a hammer a chisel. And if you made a mistake you were just fucked and that was all there was to it, man.

But enough about me.

Somehow the more aggressive caveman tribes grew up in Europe. These were serious hunter/gatherers who just had to have more. And more. And still more after that. They built ships and crossed oceans and got to work setting up what is now known as The East Coast. Not content with that they pulled this thing called "Manifest Destiny" out of a hat and moved west, hacking their way through viscous plant life and a few million Indians. Once they got to The Pacific Ocean they chugged Margaritas, beat the living shit out of a bunch of Mexicans, and said, "Wow! If we had some well built blonde women here we could make television and movies! Let's do it!"

So they did.

This sort of wanderlust still pretty much exists even to this day. Tons of people who really have no business being here move to Los Angeles every day. They seek fame and fortune in what is sometimes called "Show Business" (other times it's referred to by it's more rightful name: "A Motherfucking Pain In The Ass"). These people don't kill each other or anything (not too much anyway) but they do play their stupid little schoolyard games with each other and make life a big old bummer for those of us who were born here and really just want to tell stories and get paid for it. Oops! My bitterness is showing! Sorry about that!

So...

Some people moved here from other places to try to carve a life for themselves and set about finding meaning in the face of their assorted neurosis. We all want love and good things right? And there's nothing wrong with that at all. Hi! I'm my compassion! How are you doing today?

Criswell Predicted Me

I first saw a little movie called "Plan 9 From Outer Space" in high school. This was around 1971 or so and in those days high school meant exactly that, at least it did at my school. One night I smoked a nice sized joint and saw the movie at about three in the morning. I had no idea what it was (or who Edward D. Wood, the guy who wrote and directed it was, for that matter) but, as a young and hungry science fiction and horror fiend I thought I'd check it out based on the title alone. I couldn't believe it. It was the sloppiest and downright lamest thing I had ever seen. I almost literally laughed my ass off.

Nobody really had a VCR back then so if you wanted to see a movie a bunch of times you'd have to wait for a rerun. It would replay every six months or so and I'd see it every chance I got, often making friends and people at parties sit through it as well. There were no two ways about it, you either loved it or hated it. Most hated it. That was their loss as far as I was concerned. I was hooked and the most amazing thing was that it got better with each viewing. It didn't take very long for it to become one of my favorite movies.

These days it seems that almost everybody with a quirky taste in cinema loves it and it has reached the height of cultdom. Books, magazine articles, and a comic book all sing the praises of what has been called "The Worst Movie of All Time".

But is it really the worst? I don't think so. Have you ever seen "Tomcats"? "Mrs. Doubtfire"? How about "Gone With The Wind"? Those are some bad movies, pal. I mean, look, at least "Plan 9" has a message: "Stop playing around with weapons or we'll come back and whack your whole damn planet!" Pretty heavy stuff. Sure. I know. Robert Wise said the same thing in the film "The Day the Earth Stood Still" and he said it better too.

But here's the thing:

The reason the aliens come to earth in "Plan 9" is to stop us from discovering Solaronite, particles of sunlight so small they can't be measured. If we create a Solaronite bomb it will blow up the sun and then follow the sunlight, blowing up everything it touches thereby blowing up the whole universe. Now, here's no such thing as Solaronite but there are neutrinos, teeny tiny particles of sunlight. If a neutrino bomb were created and set off would the sunlight explode setting off a chain reaction that would destroy the universe?

I'm no scientist but it sure seems that way to me.

And what about Ed Wood? Did he "discover" neutrinos long before whoever is credited with the discovery only to pick a really stupid name for them and use them in what has been called "The Worst Movie of All Time"? As Criswell, the guy who narrates it says, "Can you prove it didn't happen?"

***

And speaking of Criswell...

Criswell made his living as a psychic at the time. He would do the talk shows and had one of his own here in Los Angeles where he'd make predictions about what he would call "Your Incredible Future!". My mother had a friend who knew him and, in the late fifties she went to a studio to see one of these shows being made. Before the show she was introduced to him and he asked if she had any questions. She was pregnant at the time and wondered what kind of child she was going to have. At least this is what I have been told and, seeing as to how my mother was the one who told it to me I see no reason to doubt it.

Criswell put his hand on my mom's belly and said, "I predict that you are going to have a baby."

"Yeah..." she laughed," I know that but, what kind of a baby?".

He said, "A boy."

"Really?" she asked.

"Sure." he replied, "Why not?" Then he went off to do his show.

On March 12, 1956 I was born. I was a baby and a boy, which goes to show something but I have a monstro sized hangover at the moment and I'm not really sure of what the hell it is...

Road

Life…

It's like a road
Long
Never ending
Twists
And turns
Forks and underpasses
Other people's cars
Burnt and hollowed out
Over turned and blocking the way
You swerve to miss them
But have to look
Fascinated by the flames and burnt bodies

And as you strain to listen to their radios

And as you smell gasoline and burnt rubber
You sometimes miss your exit
And then you think
"What the fuck did I do to deserve this?"

But

Keep driving none the less
For someday
Someday soon
You'll be home
Safe and sound
Without a care in the world
Without a single problem
Without a single teardrop

And it will all come together
Again...