Archive for September, 2011

Banks for Nothing

September 30, 2011

The banks.  The banks are upset because they’re getting some long overdue regulating.  It’s regulating that’ll cut into their profits, say these banks.  What are they going to do about a little scrap of their billions getting peeled away?  Take it out on their customers of course!  It’s the bank way.  What they’ve decided to do, to recoup that lost profit (and likely pocket even more than before) is charge their customers who make purchases using their debit card a monthly fee.  Bank of America will be taking 5 bucks from each customer who has entrusted them with their money.  Wells Fargo and Chase only want 3 bones each month – aren’t they nice?

This is a petty reaction.  The banks are petulant children throwing a hissy fit because they’re being told to behave.  Have some ethics, they’re being told.  Give a little.  Share.  Don’t rip small businesses off.  But the banks don’t want to share their toys because, well… MINE!  MINE!  MINE!  If they’re being forced into semi-ethical behavior, then they will take it out on their customers.  After all, is it not the banks who are doing us such a huge favor by taking our money?  I mean, they don’t exist by the consent of the people who deposit their money there.  Hell no!  Why should the banks even pretend that they need customers.  If they place ridiculous fees on their meager services, then the customers will pay and the customers will become outraged – rightfully outraged – and misdirect their anger toward that big bad over reaching government with it’s commie Muslim president who probably wants to see the banks fail, by God!  The customers get the shaft.  The banks get the green.  The government gets the blame.  It’s a corporate paradise.  A fool proof plan.  The banks say, “We’re sorry.  The government made us do it, you see.  Our hands are tied.  They made us.  Don’t blame us.  The devil made us do it.  Blame the devil.  Or if you can’t do that could you just hate the sin but love the sinner?”

Lazy banks.  They won’t even count my change anymore.  I know they must still have one of those machines back there, but they won’t use it.  I don’t have time to count pennies by the hundreds.  Please, it’s US currency. Legal tender.  Take it you prick!  Roll it up and shove it up your ass – I’ll pay the fifty cent fee for that service.


Thanks for Nothing

September 30, 2011

“Thank you for choosing Starbucks,” reads the sign, but I didn’t choose Starbucks.  Starbucks was there where no other cafes were.  While the car had its brakes done and oil changed, time needed killing.  As I mercilessly gunned down the passing minutes I realized I don’t like to be thanked for making a choice that I really did not make.  I no more chose Starbucks than I chose for my brake pads to wear out.  The monolithic coffee chain is everywhere – predatorily driving out competitors. No, I did not choose this.  This was chosen for me.  Nobody chose this world.  It’s been torturously sculpted into modernity by the desires of selfish wealth-obsessed assholes determined to get theirs at any cost to you.  So fuck you!  And thank you for choosing rape.

There was another thing I noticed at the Starbucks.  All the lap-toppers were on PCs.  At the independent coffee houses, it’s often difficult to spot one PC in the orchard of Mac users.  What is this coffee chain PC / indie cafe Apple divide?  What does it mean if anything?  Does it say something about these people?  Are the indie cafe lap-toppers more discerning or more cash foolish?  Perhaps, PC users are hard-wired to turn to industry titans?  Or, maybe it’s much simpler.  Maybe Macintosh devotees are simply turned off by green aprons.  I suspect it’s a puzzle I will never solve.

The Pig Ignorant Word

September 29, 2011

They say anyone who wants to write should write everyday, but I don’t know if it’s true of blog writing.  I do write, and I do write everyday.  Unfortunately, on most of those days what I write is poetry.  That’s the thing about the whole stay at home dadding – time is limited and poetry is limited writing.  Poems are meant to be fast, to the point – in and out with the business… strip down, come quick and get it all over.  That’s great when time is small.  My time is infinitesimal.  That’s the reality.  Time is infinitesimal, and not infinitely seminal.  I am on my fourth glass of scotch and bed calls.  You see how little time there is in one night?  Not enough to get anything done.  I sure do like the idea of writing a second novel, and I’m about 60 pages into it, but the hours for that work do not pile up like I’d want.  I have nothing.  Why did I decide to have my son circumcised when I am not Jewish?  Because that is what sons do to us – cut us off, all around.  A ring of skin for the ring around my finger, for the collar around the neck, for the skinny waisted wasp in want of a hula hoop, for whiskey when words will not do.

TV Party

September 28, 2011

A lack of getting out and seeing the sights leads only one way… to taking pictures of the television screen.  I can’t wait for Revelle to grow up and look through the family photo album of all the exciting things teevee has to offer.

Such as this evidence that kooky old nut job, Ron “give me liberty or give me women without reproductive rights” Paul has been out doing his kooky old nut job schtick since at least 1991. The number to call is: 481-3833 (area code 512).  Reports indicate the truck was last seen on I-35 N toward Oklahoma City in April of ’95.

Finding a driver for the truck wasn’t difficult either.  By the way, I heard that gum you like is going to come back in style.

New Flesh flavored Hubba Bubba.

The TV Party will be continued…

Total Feckin’ Shite

September 27, 2011

The digital 8 track recorder my band was recording its new record on has taken a shit.  All the drums and all the guitars have been blasted into the void.  What’s lost represents hours and hours of jury-rigged DIY effort.  Now it’s back to the drawing board, and possibly giving up on the whole self-recording adventure.  I was to start putting the vocals down this week.  On the bright side, my time is all freed up.  On the down side, I don’t want it to be.

On another bright side, this gives us the time to actually write a song called “Cross Contamination.”  I think the song will be a scathing indictment about you getting your peanut butter on my chocolate.  The other point of view, that it was I who got my chocolate in your peanut butter, will be roundly ignored.  To dignify that line of thinking with its own platform is antithetical to my far right wing agenda.

What I Heard

September 27, 2011

First, there’s a homeless woman near the train stop making her pitch: “Sir, do you have a cigarette?  Do you have a dollar for me, ma’am? I know I’m a parasite.  That’s what the guy at the bank called me.  I wouldn’t give a loan to a parasite like you, he said.  Ma’am, do you have a dollar?  I’m a parasite.  I don’t have a pot to piss in, ma’am.  I crapped my pants.  Please, I had to go and I didn’t have anywhere to go, ma’am.  I have nothing.  It’s running down my thigh.  Ma’am, do you have a dollar?”

And then, a couple blocks later, a man says into his cell phone, “Yeah, I’ve been throwing them out because they’re only like two dollars a piece.”

The divide is real my friends.  Real and unspannable.

Die for Art

September 26, 2011

We paint the dead.  Well, not we – people.  There are people who paint the dead.  To have an open casket funeral, the corpse must appear alive.  It never does, but we aim for that indefinable spark with layers of foundation, blush, rouge, lipstick, eyeshadow and a dusting of powder.  It’s common, and therefore doesn’t get a lot of media attention.  I don’t want to be painted in that way.  I want a real artist to do something with my body.  Perhaps they could paint a lovely landscape across my back.  A place I enjoyed looking out over when I was alive.  People deserve more than a crummy beauty parlor job after their death.  Those face painters working fairs and boardwalks could be hired for children’s funerals.  Deceased little boys and girls could have their faces done up to resemble dogs and cats and bunnies.  They liked it when they were alive.  I would have been thrilled to be made up all green like the Hulk as a dead boy, but we don’t do that.  Death is too solemn and dignified for fun.  But not if you’re a tree.

I saw this on my two mile walk today, pushing the boy along, and not but two blocks before I arrived at the scene of this tree stump, I passed a large dead Opossum in the road.  It was rough looking, I admit, but it hadn’t yet attracted clouds of flies or began to stink in earnest (probably because a thick marine layer kept the sun from baking the beast), but nobody had seen fit to paint a Mickey Mouse or Betty Boop on it.  For living in a neighborhood full of self-proclaimed artists there sure are lots of quality road kills going to waste.

Self Portrait

September 25, 2011

I gave up cigarettes to smoke electronically.  The future is plugged in.  I want an electric glass of bourbon for each and every one of my digital images.  For electrons I thirst.  Fire away…

This guy needs the first shock.


September 23, 2011

There’s a mother at the cafe, and she’s there with her child.  The boy is about one year old, and he’s pointing at his mother’s iced coffee beverage and bellowing his wordless desire to get his hands on it.  The mother sternly says, “No,” then flattens her hand to her chest and adds, “Mine!”

That’s fantastic parenting.  Teach the kid to be a selfish little prick who hoots, “Mine!  Mine!  Mine!” for every object that enters into his snotty mitts. Why not give him a shot of bourbon and pack of Marlboro reds while you’re at it?  This is the first stepping stone to turning a healthy human being into a person who believes Ayn Rand is a wonderful philosopher.  Mine!

Corn Salad

September 23, 2011

Not much to it, but it has a delicious pay off.  Roast your cobs.  Raze the kernels.  Dice a Bermuda onion.  Chop cilantro.  Mix it.  Salt it.  Dash on some oil (I used avocado oil).  Squeeze a lime over it.  Stir.  Now what?  Throw it in an omelette or take a tostada, shred cheddar onto it, top with the corn salad, nuke for 30 seconds.  The tosatada stays crisp, cheese melts, salad heats… dash on some heat and you have lunch… hot corn on corn action.  The best in cornsploitation.