Message in a bottle #10,001

F.T. Wuck recently left me this fuming comment: "I type in "ashabot" and all I get is "Yahoo News, Rabid Edition", but all I really want is comix, dammit! Jeez, even static films of feathery shitbirds is welcome at this point...how about a fucking poem or little story even?" Although the rants aren't going away (sorry F.T.) I get damn few visitors around here and even fewer comments so when someone makes a fuss I do pay attention.

Sadly, I only have excuses for why I don't post more fabrication. Certainly politics is fabrication of the grossest order but F.T.'s right. I am pretty stingy about posting my own poetry, comix, even feathery shitbird movies. I guarantee you, it bothers me a whole lot more than it bothers anyone else. I know, while it's true that I'm very disturbed by the advancing shadow of the corporate police state and, however marginally, have to participate in this maddening political debate, I am also profoundly lazy and spend far too much time mucking in the muck when I could otherwise be working on my own, creative projects. So no promises but, rest assured, the matter is under consideration. So, okay. Stories is it? Here's a short one I just heard, a true story as a matter of fact. It will have to do for moment.

My son and his wife ran into David Letterman the other day. They were just starting out on the South Fork trail of Montana's Bob Marshall Wilderness for a five day backpacking trip when a guy wearing chaps and a "Late Show" tshirt, came walking down the trail leading his horse and a small group of riders who were following behind. Naturally J. and A. moved out of the way to let the horse party pass. As the guide got closer they exchanged the usual, "Hi. Thanks. No problem. How are you? Fine. Thanks. How are you"s. It was then they noticed that the guy was none other than CBS Late Show host David Letterman. Now J. and A. are low key people, students at the U of M in Missoula, and not the kind to stop a stranger for a photo op, even David Letterman roughin' it behind a goatee. The next person to pass was a kid about eighteen. J. said to him, "Hey was that David Letterman?" The kid said, "Yes." Then J. asked where they'd been to which he replied, "Oh I don't know. Somewhere out in the Bob".

Yesterday, I promised W.T. "feathery goodness" but my doctor's appointment in Reno turned into a grueling all day errand quest so today, for you W.T. and Roy, I posted an all new, exciting adventure from the Bird Park.

The Waffle and the Crow
01:29

david letterman late show bob marshall wilderness montana backpacking

Lamont wins. Lieberman switches affiliation

Yes, I'm encouraged that Lamont won the Democratic primary in Connecticut tonight. And I think that Lieberman is a dirty bastard for switching to "Independent" when actually he is just another twit sucking on the neocon tit but, all things in perspective. A lot more Republicans are sweating under the collar and looking for "graceful" ways to jump their ship. I'm certainly willing to do what I can from my little corner to help restore some balance to the world but I can't help thinking how all this looks in a more comprehensive perspective.











lamont lieberman primary

Truth or squirm

Ass-kissing shills and craven hate mongers run interception for Bush Co. & Amerika Inc. I wish we had real journalists in this country like the BBC's John Snow.

UK Journalist confronts Israeli Ambassador

israel lebanon journalism

Saturday at the Roxy - 05.06

Just a quick note about the feature of the day, "Night Life in Reno". However tame and cliched it looks now, it shocked and outraged a lot of people in it's day. They felt it glamourized "modern behavior" and in reaction pushed for the Motion Picture Production Code of 1930, aka the Hays Code, which started being enforced in 1934. It's a simple plot but almost an hour long so when I played it, I diminished the window to the size of the viewer and half watched it as I surfed other sites.

Get ready to take the
Boob Test


Feature Film
Night Life in Reno
1931 - run time 57:33


The Show, by ZeFrank
Yes, I'm shamelessly grinding the birthday theme
into the dirt but still I think you'll enjoy this epidsode
which he claims is Run out of Underwear and Contemplate
how far you can get on an Empty Tank of Gas Day.

Alex Baldwin does the voice over for the last clip of the day.
It's the video the meat industry doesn't want you to watch
so I won't blame you if you chicken out
but I hope you have the heart to open your heart and
take the plunge.

alex baldwin zefrank boobs reno nights roxy

Overview

Long day. I accidentally deleted half of my blog template this afternoon. A moment's inattention. I hate it when I do that. I've have a positively lovely afternoon reconstructing things just so they look halfway the same. Another check in the "Why Bother" column but the encouraging comments from yesterday kept me going and I got through the worst of it without pulling the plug. I'd only regret it anyway.

It's evening now, the worst of that is over and it looks like rain may be on the way but you can never be sure in the desert. I watch weather moving towards me from miles away, rain trailing below the clouds like a long gray veil that never touches the earth. But the wind is up and whistling around corners, rattling the trees and sunflowers in the Bird Park and the light is yellow bouncing back from an increasingly gray sky fringed with dusty rose. And thunder overhead. It's kind of nice.

Aftermath

Yesterday was my birthday. It was also the 9th anniversary of William Burroughs' departure to Interzone. I really like Burroughs and as far as I'm concerned August 2nd is our day. I even wore my Burroughs' tshirt with the quote, "We intend to destroy all dogmatic verbal systems". My kinda guy.

The day started out on a low enough key with a trip to physical therapy. Still working on loosening up that knee. After that, it was a non stop party. The birds got the last of the scrumptious veggie Marvel Meal and a special mix of various seeds and Mr. Lee and I poisoned ourselves with mammoth helpings of lemon-strawberry cake and too much ice cream. My friend Susan even dropped by with a couple of cool gifts, which was totally unexpected. I offered her cake but she wisely ate watermelon. In the evening we went to a second birthday party. Big day.

Today, I'm a bit depressed. Don't bother telling me it's the sugar. Susan already kindly pointed that out. Plus I'm beginning to hate the pathetic "Dear Diary" quality of this blog. I don't know why I do one. It's embarrassing. All well. I'm a chronic sufferer of symbol overload. Blogging is a overflow valve. I've been in the house too long, almost constantly since the Summer Solstice. It's evening. The quail have just arrived in their little hats. In case you forgot, they spend the day under Dwayne's sprawling Indian Willow Tree, or whatever the fuck it's called. They stroll over here to the Bird Park for an evening snack. The finches spend all day on the feeders spewing seed everywhere and the quail drop by to see what's left when the temperature cools.

In case you're wondering, the image at the top is of the front of the birthday card Mr. Lee made for me this year. I love his cards. They are always unique and delightfully disturbing. Circuses are my thing anyway and this year's card has circus images on front and back and under his signature a tasteful gif of twisted barbed wire. The image on the back is very faded and grainy, in keeping with it being of a small, Depression era traveling circus. I'm not posting a photo of the backside. I have to keep something for myself. He always nails it. I'm sure I spent many of past lives in various traveling circuses and wandering theatre troupes. The backside also has a wonderful quote from Anne Sexton. I like her a more than Sylvia Plath these days although Mr. Lee was quick to point out that poor Sylvia was over-exposed. What can you expect when you stick your head in the oven and gas yourself, what with the children and a big mouth husband. She is a fine poet though. They both are.

An dear friend of mine, Michael O'Rourke (himself a fine poet and playwright) wrote me yesterday and had some nice things to say about Driftwork... "Driftwork is like pure cold well water in the desert. My gratitude to all who contributed--it's wonderful to know that the universal loners, pit stop desperadoes and holy whores, pacifists with fists full of poems and diehard prose, can face down the high noon tactics of oil fume ghosts gurgling in the blood of the indigenous soul." Michael was probably thinking of me when he wrote "holy whore"; and probably "pit stop desperado". Both apply. Shit, it all applies. That's the problem with old friends. They know too much.

So that's it for now. No politics today.

"For God was as large as a sunlamp and laughed his heat at us and therefore we did not cringe at the death hole." - Anne Sexton

The last written words of William Burroughs