LIKE SHOOTING PEE IN A PISS STORM

There's nothing worse than getting busted by the fuzz on the eve of a feverish drug-addled Saturday night. Party in the air. Booze on the breath. Weed in the pocket and a paddy wagon pulling up with a drug dog. Shit. Not the best way to get your weekend partying started. But seriously, how long does it take to arrest someone? Five, ten, half an hour? No, apparently the road must be blocked for a minimum of one hour and fifteen minutes, while cherries flash wildly into my front window and blown over breathalyzers dance nervously with incriminating statements. One look at the pair of old school degenerate crack fiends in the car and any sane, non-drugged out 'normal' down and out Windsorite can see that they're guilty. Guilty of driving around in a 1992 Lumina, without proper registration, probably a suspended license, in search of shitty dope, cheap hookers or the slow, crawling, slithering drunk driver way home. Lost but still looking. Stoned but not high enough. Arrested but in jail. Shit. Finally the tow truck is here and the cops are on their way in search of another pair of hopeless sketchy criminals. Like shooting pee in a piss storm. Sop up the mess then go make an even bigger one. Repeat. Drink coffee. Go home. Play with gun. Sleep soundly.

Sitting here. Drinking beer. All alone in my home. Feeling tired. But sort of wired. On a Saturday night nonetheless. Gotta get it gotta get it started. In he-ah. Huh? Yeah. The cable's out. I don't know why. I've got a hunch. What a stand up guy. Too bad for him. But good for me. Hope he sleeps well. Cause I'd just rather read. Can he read? Probably only certain words in certain orders. Cook for ten minutes. Open wide. Put in mouth. Devour. Deep Fried Anything. Super duper massively sized. Grease. One size fits all flannel. It's a bit chilly outside. But that's fine. I feel fine about it. It's what's surrounding the cold I'm a bit worried about. Leery of life I am. Gotta swim. But I lost my flippers. I actually never had any. I'm a walking water log jammed up to the point of permanent leakage. Gotta fix the holes or I'll sink. Quickly and quietly into the darkness. There will be hands reaching, but I may be too tired to hold on. Still time though. This is all a worse case scenario plot versus myself. Happier thoughts to come. Sincerely yours, your courageously timid narrator.

TIGERS WIN! TIGERS WIN! CLETE'S THE HERO ONCE AGAIN!

Bottom of the ninth. 6-5 Mariners. The Detroit Tigers, on the heels of a thrilling come from behind attempt find themselves down by 1, with a runner on third and two outs. Clete Thomas is up to bat. That's right Clete, as in the shoes baseball players wear, is up to bat. (spelled differently, but you get my pun or point or whatever) In the bottom of the ninth. With two out and the winning run 90 feet away. Thomas. A strong baseball name. The slugger and big man Frank Thomas another. And the other, older Frank Thomas. Though the younger and powerful White Sock is greater known than the elder journeyman, his elder namesake was a pretty decent player himself. (He once had 35 homers and 109 RBI's for the Pirates in 1958). O yeah, and don't forget about Ira, Frosty, Kite, Red, Pinch and good old Tommy Thomas. Classics. Classics yes. But only one small piece of baseball history - the game. The ultimate all-time classic. The game. How many Thomas' have been in the big leagues? 100? 178? 314? (actually, it's only about 35, a fair amount of Thompsons and one Thome). A prestigious baseball name by any means and this Clete can win the game for the home team. Pressures on. Because, not only is Clete fighting for playing time in right field with Magglio "I've cut my hair so now I have no strength" Ordonez, (or I've stopped taking steroids and I'm old) - but the Tigers are in a playoff race. In late August. First place nonetheless. This means something. Even if they are in the worst division in baseball. Crack. A low inside fastball that the left handed Thomas ropes into right field. (left handers notoriously have a natural off the shoe top sweet swinging uppercut swing, especially with an open stance like Clete has). Tigers win! Tigers win! Roarrrr!! goes the huge steel Tiger charging out of the massive left/center field scoreboard (Biggest in league, I believe) Roarrrr! Tigers win! That's right. Tigers are going to the play-offs. I'm sure of it. Hell, the Tigers might even win the World Series. I can feel it too. Tigers are... wait, wait a minute. Stop calling the call-in radio shows. The Tigers are flying out for a none too excited for West Coast road trip. Oh shit. Every thing is all game winning hits and ass slaps until the Tigers lose. And they're going on the road now. That means they'll lose. There goes our one game winning streak and 2.5 game advantage over the idol White Sox. The Tigers give new meaning to the home team advantage. Or rather the road team meltdown. Or the visiting void. Or the worst road team still in the playoff hunt. What's gonna happen when more than half of the playoff games (if the pussy cats, I mean Tigers make it, that is) will be out of town. A hostile, colossal evil Tiger snacking monster. Smiling t.v. colour guy Rod Allen and his supremo-homey 'tude is liking what he sees at Comerica. But what can explain this undeniable and undefinable mis-match of road loses vs. home wins. What's the fucking problem Rod? Can't you and your 78 career major league at bats come up with a winning formula for winning on the road? I got some ideas. Bring the giant Tiger everywhere. That's right, suspend the 65 foot steel beast from cables a helicopter, that which completely covers the road teams' scoreboard. Bring the home field with us and there's no way we'll lose. Just one example of many.

IT SOUNDS LIKE I'M MAD, BUT I'M ACTUALLY QUITE THRILLED TO BE HERE.

There are some things that are happening around me (very close, in fact), where some people don't like other people (quite a bit, may I add) for a variety of different reasons. I don't know the whole deal and don't want to, either. That's just how I roll. The less I know about anything, including that which I could not care less about - the better I sleep at night (if I even sleep at all). In this case I'm not in the least bit involved, but somehow I am. You can't make the uninvolved and apathetic chose sides. One side doesn't like me because I am friends with the other side. Hmmm. Okay. That makes sense. If you're an inconsiderate, ignorant, illiterate, incest-bred, overweight and three-quarters retarded blind monkey - with no arms and one gimp leg. That's like being mad at food because it makes you fat. Or drive thru's because they're so damn convenient. I'm doing my darnedest to avoid the 'situation' but it's hard when you're sitting on your porch and the 'situation' comes hobbling across the street, up the front yard and scowls at you before entering the same building you share with them. Now, I'm a nice guy and most people like me (I think anyhow) or at the very least find me mostly tolerable, so... what's the deal with the 'situation?' You ignore me and treat me like shit b/c you're so fucking stupid to realise that I'm just living here, in the world, dealing with my own problems, trying to get by, in the same shitty apartment, on the same shitty street, in the same shitty town - just like you? Grow the fuck up or move out or kill yourself. I don't care which you do, just pick one. Quick, 'cause the summer's almost over. In the end I get what I always wanted in the first place, albeit with a little more paranoia, fear and unwarranted guilt attached to it. Leave me the fuck alone like I wanted you to in the first place. The SITUATION (in bold b/c it's large both figuratively and literally) is under control. For now, until I move somewhere else and meet some more idiots, who only want to be my friend so they can use it against me. Remember this - there will probably be at least ten more of me to pass on through here, so, if you can, try to be nice to them. Or just leave them alone.

DIY IMF IRA IRS NHL LPGA

It's a very warm, hot, super and at times slightly sunny, uncomfortable, muggy, hazy, hard to breath in, sweat-inducing, smog-filled, pore-opening, must-need-for-air-conditioning kind of day. It's one of those days that makes people act crazy. Or crazier. Or the same, albeit operating at a higher temperature. Needless to say, I'm sweating my goddamn balls off as my gushing forehead sweat glands run furiously onto my face and directly into my eyes, dripping profusely off my nose onto my upper cheeks, lip area and brow, simultaneously creating a nuisance, and mini pocket-like bubble-like formations on my face - after it stings my eyes blind with my own home made product of my design. DIY. IMF (in my face). That's all for today. I'll see ya again on some random day when I feel like blog type blogging.

PAY UP OR PAY DOWN

Man oh man. Money oh none. Why do we depend so much on the big bad green machine? Oh ya, because it gets us things we need to survive. But does it, really? What do we need to survive these days? Food. Yes. This costs money. Unless you can grow your own vegetable garden and rear your own cattle. But that costs cash to get going. And some land. And water, patience and time. And maybe some employees. Fuck. Shelter. Find a nice big tree and some soft grass and hope it doesn't rain or get cold. Or too hot. Or snow. Or asked to leave because you're passed out face down on somebodies front lawn. Shoes. Shoes cost money and are key, especially if you are walking. Or standing. Or running. Or speed walking. Or jumping. Or even sitting on uneven ground. Shoes can be expensive as well, unless you stupidly shimmy up a telephone poll or start collecting discarded singles from the side of the road. Love. Love is necessary for survival and, according to legend is free, has power, hurts, is addictive, everlasting and a 'temporary madness' as St. Augustine puts it. Sure, true love may seem free but you still have to pay something to find it. A few drinks at the bar, some money into the collections basket, a ten dollar beer at your favourite gentleman's club, or a nice dinner at an even nicer restaurant. Shit. What about sex? If love isn't free then sex certainly isn't. And sex is key for survival. You might be able to survive solely on sex. No food, water, shelter or beer? That's okay, 'cause you got sex, so you're okay. Huh? Anyways, what else is needed to survive these days? Peace of mind? Stability? Friends? Happiness? A reliable vehicle? No. That's where the shoes come in. If you move your legs and use your mind and eyes to direct your body - you can get places. For free. (unless you're really tired or its far away) No gas, just blood. No tune-ups, just breathing. No bald tires, just blisters and planters warts. But really, are any of these necessities free? When it comes down to the nitty grittiness of life, aren't we paying everyday with our mere existence. To be alive is to pay, so maybe nothing is free. Death is free. Because as long as we have mortal thoughts, we may never be free - from ourselves.

HOT HOTTER HOTTEST

Today is supposed to be very hot. And it is, because I am sitting next to an open window on a chair and I can feel the heat gushing in like a fat, stinky obnoxious zephyr. Last night was as equally hot, but darker, more buzzed and a bit odd. It's always fun getting liquored up, going out and seeing some old friends. However, it's a little less fun getting liquored up, going out and avoiding old acquaintances. It's even less fun when you have written a song about them and you suddenly remember why you did immediately after seeing them. Turn away. Quick but unnoticeable. Spin. Damn jagger bombs got me again! Oh well, what are you gonnna do. If you wanna go hang at an old haunt on a Saturday night, you have to be willing to make some sacrifices, a few tight turns and some economical and efficient glances countered by the not-so-obvious back turn. Anyways, back to the heat. So, what can one do about this heat? Even in these modern times, it's a contemporary problem. You cannot fight the heat like you would an opponent, a cold or an excessively expensive parking ticket. Punching, pill popping and pleading cases are of no match to that which you can definitely feel, but not see, touch or control (w/o money, that is). Especially if one does not have air conditioning or central air or walls made of slow-melting but very cold and presumably quite large one piece ice cubes. Is it better to endure outside, where at least maybe a breeze can be caught amidst the steamy air under the shaded arm of a friendly tree? Or is the place to be inside, face to face with with spinning stale sweaty re-circulated and stagnant air, armed with poor man's AC (a towel) and minimal movement? Hmmm. Where else can you go? Ice cream parlours are bound to be cold. Butcher shops too. How about a morgue? All good ideas, but not very welcoming, safe or comfortable. Plus, you gotsta get there too. I think I'm just gonna go to the g/f's. Because they have cool air, popsicles and they're going to pick me up. In a car. With air conditioning.

SHIT. SHIFT. STEAMY

Did one. Might as well do two. Nothing to do. Nothing to lose. Nothing to gain. Then what is it? Nothing to nothing? What is in between lose and gain? Non-movement of zero-zilch-natta-nothing-ness? Yes, that's what. What's what? This. What I'm doing now. I'm moving my fingers across time and cyber space for no apparent reason but to fill my empty time and the net with more junk from the bottom of the river. Who's more worthy of coveted rental space - in space? Me or Perez? Or Me or Shaq? Me or Harvey? Or me or You? Probably Shaq. No, probably somebody nobody knows, but really, it's someone everyone knows. Those people are the biggest celebri-nobodies these days. Kate and Jon. Who? Jon and Kate plus who? 8. Oh, yeah of course. Them. The featured exhibit at your neighbourhood convenience/grocery checkouts - for the last year! Or so. Or more. I've never seen a picture of 8. Just the parents of 8. Lots of different pictures of the parents who are never pictured with their 8. But he is with his new girlfriend. And her with a new look. And me with my non-life. Yes, this is nothing. But, it sure is something that I know about this. Shit. Shift. Steamy. I also know that nothingness can come in many different and unseen forms - even that of somethingness, which may be the worst kind of empty void black thing because it seems alive, occupied with something - when in fact, it's over flowing with sweet f a. Nothing disguised as a stinkier something. It's hard to explain this particular mode of life shit, but you know when you're covered in it. 'Cause it smells and its hard to get out of, especially on a hot day. Outside. In the sun. Steamy.

Two Month Anniversary Lay-Off Extraordinaire

It's been two months to the day that I last prepared and posted a blog type blog like thingy ding word page. So, I figured, while I finally have everybody's attention - I'll say slash key some sayings of infinite slash keyboarded non-sensical wisdom. (aka 'nothings') Proceed. Since we last connected via wires and monitors and quirky nothings and such, I've done slash been into and out of a few things. Firstly - grunge. Back into it. Not because I just finished reading a second biography on Kurdt, Chris, Krist, Chad, Dave, Kurtney and many other lumberjack junkie musicians - but because I went on youtube and could actually watch a lot of what drunk ass but clever Brit music journalist Everett True claimed to have seen, done and heard firsthand. (And let me say firsthand, that he seems to be on the level - that is in comparison to other fabricated life story long shot guesses and random fill in the blanks - I mean 'biographies.'He was there. He was mostly drunk, beligerent, and drunk - but he was there. Besides being there, I wish I were more into it, that being grunge rock, when it was hip to be into it, that being grunge rock (circa 1989-1993), but I was a bit too young and naive and stupid and young, and going to an inner city like Catholic school in a small southern town by a lake, surrounded by glass and sand, mostly candy produce, migrant workers, and a predominantly immigrant population that liked to eat fish, kibbah and pasta, fight, lie, and dance together (meaning with other people only of the same ethnicity) at festivals on the outskirts of town - did not help much. Needless to say I was very far from (literally and in miles or on a map) Seattle or Olympia or Aberdeen or Southern Cali or wherever the grungy shit first hit the mainstream fan caked with a brainwashed and ignorant MTV generation that which was built on man handling, control and brass stained crud. It's all about a punk rock attitude, achingly somber yet catchy melodies, destruction/noise sequences, soft to hard dynamics and Fender Jag-Stangs. Huh? Anyways, besides Tad, Grrrl Riot, red necks, Scream, Steve Albini, Jack Endino, a commercially accessible 80's big rock production, fanzines, foxcore, Frasier Crane, Frances Farmer, The Gap's Grunge clothing line, Mudhoney, and drug addictions...I also swam (mostly just laid on my back like a lazy manatee) in the lake, ate some surprisingly fresh and tasty Wheatley white fish fillets, cut the sleeves off all of my t-shirts, watched and was weirdly pleasantly disturbed by a few Norwegian Black Metal Documentaries on Youtube, caught a super-sick-trashed-throat-throwing-up-non-stop-diarrhea-thing, went to school, started drinking Arizona Iced Tea products, rode my bike about 200 kilometres (give or take 10 to 30 kilometres) around Windsor and it's surrounding areas, got into Wii (specifically the tennis, baseball and bowling games, but more specifically the tennis games), worked zero payable or taxable hours, am still into '09, finally got the Honda back in action, played a decent show with the band on a large stage at a medium sized party on the lake in the county, drove an hour to buy a nine dollar air pump, sang and tapped along to Huey Lewis and the News, got 4 hours sleep on a couch in Chatham, and am in the process of recording a semi full length seven song album - also with the band. (aka Threat Level Midnight, or TLM, or the band). So, I'm back. Maybe. For now. We'll see what happens.