Christmas Car Talk

  Driving up the GW parkway the other night, watching the snow covered trees flash by,  triggered a rush of memories: I thought for a moment of 1975 when my friend Kevin and I used to hang out with Rachel and Janice in their apartment above a bakery on 7 mile and Van Dyke. I can still smell the bread baking while we sat on the floor and drank Lambrusco and smoked Newports and Kools... Rachel was a titty dancer at the Grand Duchess (though she had really small tits),  I was into Janice who was dark eyed and swayed just so... One time she sang a song she wrote which was stupid (and she knew it) but I still remember after all these years: " The rain is falling from the sky, falling from the clouds, falling from my eyes...” dumb lyrics but it was a sweet moment that she shared... later that year she invited me up north to see her and her new boyfriend on his 'ranch' somewhere way the fuck up near Mackinaw. I was young and dumb enough to think "why not?' and so I drove my Chevy up there in January.rolling past snow covered pines for hours... till I got there and promtly put my  Nova in a ditch on the 'ranch' driveway. Anyhow I remember Janice, her boyfriend (who kept saying to her: "God Damn woman it's 1975!), and I  dropped mescaline and played pool at the local bar with the rednecks. I was quite a sight in those days, a super skinny kid with red hair down to his ass, and a fancy leather jacket with zippers all over it. Some how I managed not to get my self killed by the redneck locals or the cowboy boyfriend... and I can still picture the ride back to the ranch that night in his van... no heat, Janice in the passenger seat, cowboy driving, me hanging on to her armrest sitting on the cold floor, pines and snow banks flashing by at 80 MPH, the three of us tripping our brains out.... seeing her breath in the air...and a sadness in her eyes that she'd ended up with this guy, knowing I'd never see her again, and hearing his refrain... "God damn woman, it's 1975..."

Driving along I got another flash of a Christmas eve car ride when I was about 7 or 8... my dad had a 1961 Comet , and I can remember sitting in the back seat watching the big lit up yellow pages sign along side the freeway as we drove home from my grandpa's house, old spice and whiskey smells  in the cold dark car, mixed with a hint of exhaust (the Comet was a real piece of shit) ... my mother huddled as close as she could get to the passenger door, her lips pursed....unhappy with my fathers drinking... her face lit by the glow from the dash and the streetlights.... for some reason this image is often the one I recall when I think of our family. I guess it sums it up.

That image flashed forward to Nicki in the front seat of my 200SX... we were driving on a wet and dark Telegraph road one Holiday in the '80s and someone cut me off. I had the reflex somehow to make just the right lane change at high speed. And she looked at me and said: "nice job"... I felt like John Wayne... and I remember her hair was so black her flecks of purple highlights shone like diamonds in the light from passing cars....

I remembered a time I was driving home from Toledo up I-75 in the crappy used Mazda I bought when Casey was back in England and "Tasha and I were living at the lake in Howell... some douche bag did a 3 lane dash for his exit right in front of me. This time either my reflex wasn't so fast or the tires couldn’t hold, but I spun 4 times at 70MPH before sliding into the shoulder grass.... all the while seeing Tasha's face wondering what would become of her...

Of course enough Christmas's have passed that I can tell how the story turned out... my folks are long dead, Nicki’s long in England, Janice and Rachael and Kevin are just ghosts of memory,Tasha remains safe at home with Casey and I, but sometimes.... when the headlights play off the snowdrifts just right... I hear a voice singing: "The rain is falling from the sky......

The View From The 39th Floor

New York is full of German tourists

They're marching around the Empire state

There's a woman on TV from Brooklyn

Drinking soup in the wind

(I guess that's news, though no one mentions the Germans)

Macy's is full of knifes and red ribbons

And the old women bitch in the basement about the service

I look out my window to the statue in the south

And see two holes in the sky

New York is full of ghosts ascending

Though no one notices, not even the Germans.

Swept Away

This time of year night falls like a razor

Landing each afternoon like the Mason Dixon line

Dividing north from south and blue from grey

As the colors fade into Christmas.

This time of year night falls and renders asunder

that which was joined

that which was promised

by elfin children,

who grow to be shadows

long now in the weak winter light.

This time of year the choirs sing the songs of Vietnamese barbers

Gloria Gloria snip snip buzz

While the walkers search the seaside for bargains

And the hunters long for love to fall

Like a razor

Like a shadow

Like a lock of golden hair

swept away at twilight.

Clean Up On Aisle Three, Cut Price Salvation, and Thar' Blows Joe (Reprise)

This summary is not available. Please click here to view the post.

With A Rebel Yell, Evening Falls (So Hard), And Major Ali Explains Things

Doing a day shift at the Tee Vee machine the other day I rode the 3:50pm train home from Union Station. The conductor is a guy named Frank, and his speciality is his boarding call at each station. Most conductors these days just use their radio walkie talkie to tell the choo choo driver it's ok to go, but Frank is serious old school. At each stop he leans out the door and gives a long loud ' alllaboooooooooooooooard....." fol owed by the most blood chilling 100% aged in the south ' yeeeeeeee hawwwwwwwww!' you ever did hear in your cotton picking life. I've ridden this train with Frank dozens of times, and until now never really considered how a black person might react to all the yee-hawing. Franks is a huge bear of a man, and I have no earthly idea if he has ever had a racist thought. Still.. given the history of race relations in this country, and given the fact that this train runs right past Antietam on it's way up to Martins burg .. I wonder. Of course if some of our Republican friends ran the railroad I suspect that all the conductors would be Johhny Reb yelling (and wearing pointy hoods).

In my nightstand I keep a report I received years ago from the adoption agency that placed me when I was very young The report reads like a blacked out highly redacted CIA document, but gives the only background information I have ever had about my birth parents. Every now and then I'm drawn to open the drawer and re-read the section about my birth mother. She is described as working as an usherette at the time of my birth, and being a 'sullen somewhat sad person'. The document offers no real clues as to her identity, and I've never tried to find her or my father. I doubt if they are alive still, but sometimes, when the evening falls just so, and the night is made of velvet ... sometimes I wonder about her. Was it as hard as I imagine to give up a child? Or did she steel herself, not let herself feel it.. never looking back? Was she pretty? What did her laugh sound like..or did she not have much reason for laughing. Sometimes, when the evening falls so hard....I take these coffee stained papers... and read them again.... Always before the morning, I fold them and place them carefully back in the drawer.


Last week my great CERT volunteers and I had a chance to participate in some cool training with a combination of Fire Rescue, Military, and Federal Secret Squirrel types for two days in Virginia. The military folks were absolutely wonderful to work with: patient, kind, funny, and competent as hell.I had the pleasure of working with combat vet named Major Ali, who swapped stories with me about stupid media types we have known. He told me a bout a dumb shit reporter who asked the Major how a battle was going one day in Sadar City as bullets whizzed over their heads pinning down our guys. Being a decent sort the Major just laughed at him and said: " What do you think Sparky?". I would have said: " I dunno, how's about you pop yer head up and take a look see...." I'm glad we have men like Major Ali serving our country, and it's probably a good thing I'm not the media liaison for anything. One time at a fire I was standing with my EMS crew watching flames shoot 50 feet into the air from the roof of an unoccupied townhouse, while our wagon and truck boys and girls worked to get a knock on the fire. A civilian tapped me on the shoulder and asked: "You guys got it under control yet...?" Stupid is as stupid does whether in Baghdad or Rockville I suppose.

The World Is Full Of Gods

Everything is made of water, and the world is full of Gods

Born in tears we vanish in smoke

The scientists say there's a ribbon of light half way to the stars

(they can make us remember things that never were)

We are all made of the same stuff, we begin and end in the same place

Heads full of vague memories

of Gods and ribbons

The scientists say that music is mathematics

the world is held together by notes, and strings, and harmonies

The lovers remember the melody

The children recall the rhythm

The dogs and dreamers remember the world as it was

as it really is

full of Gods slowly drowning.

Robert De Niro's Waiting ( Talking Italian), None Dare Call It Treason ( But I Will)

Okay ..here's what I think the 'O' man needs in this so called heatlh care 'debate': a bit more of the stick and a lot less of the carrot. This is what I would like to see:

As Senator Max Bacus makes his way to the door of the hearing room, he is intercepted by a smiling Don Rickles: " Excuse me Senator..can I just have a word with you.. on behalf of big pharma we'd just like to let you count your cash in private.. you know what I mean .. right this way". As Rickles guides Bacus through the double doors to the service corridor we see President Obama waiting with a hammer in his hand... " What's it gonna be Senator? The Public Option or the hammer?"

Speaking of dropping the hammer... the inter webs are a-buzz about the NewsMax editorial calling for ( or was it predicting) a military coup in this country against President Obama. Well Sparky..from where I sit, that there is treason pure and simple.... I didn't vote for Geo W Bush..( or his daddy, or Reagan , or Nixon..etc) but I didn't call for a coup. ( I suspect Dubbya would assume that a coup is a two seat sports car as in little deuce...). On a similar note, let me make one thing very clear: Glen Beck is just a top 40 Morning Zoo jock run amok who is in it for the money. They all are. None of those guys, Beck, Hannity, Limbaugh.. really believes most of the shit they say. Let put it another way: they mean what they say in the same way I meant it when I used to say that Pink Floyd was my favorite band. Yeah right... we are all just Ho's for the money... the only difference being that I never incited violence, racial hatred, or preached treason... (of course if I had maybe I'd be rich and on Tee Vee right now). I used to think I didn't have TV looks.. after all TV guys are just DJ's with better hair.. but after taking a look at the Glenster... well hell this guy has the wild eyed look of a chronic masturbator and Iborgaine addict.... It seems that the rant is all that counts these days. I actually watched about 10 minutes of Herr Beckenfurher the other night. He was railing on about Communism, socialism, and social justice.... and I thought: "Errr? social justice?? He's against it??" Well yes indeedy fuckie do my little snow fakes... in the Alice in Wunderland bizzaro universe of these jack booted jerk offs... up is down, black is white, and social justice is bad, bad, bad. The whirring sound you hear is Thomas Aquinas in his grave on spin dry. What the fuck is wrong with these people? Say what you will about Tail Gunner Joe, or Father Charlie... one was a drunk, and one a power mad true believer..... neither of them got into 'the biz' just for cheap blow jobs and free concert tickets. Hey Glen... come over here for a second... Don Rickles wants to see you..........

Big Daddy Boom Boom and The Children Of Light ( With Footnotes)

There is a fireworks store down the road from our condo in Myrtle Beach called "Big Daddy Boom Boom". I think that would make a great name for a swing band, and is the name I use for the old school God of the Yah-boobs. First a bit of background on our beloved home away from home in South Carolina. My wife and I were there for Christmas, and I noted that the only things open for business on Christmas day were: Pancake Joints, The Sex Toy & DVD shop, and Ammunition stores. I don't know about you friend, but nothing helps me celebrate our dear saviors birth like trying out a brand new pocket pussy while watching 'Super Shiny Butts Volume 12", eating a double stack with blueberry syrup, and firing my AK-47 at all the 'good parts' of the movie. Hoo wee buddy... hell yes... Bam Bam ! "Honey pass me some more lube and another pancake please..."(*) (**).

Anyway. here is my point: we live in country where at least a third of the people think we should base our common destiny on the 'information' they 'receive' from their imaginary invisible friend who seems to spend most of his time making lists and checking them twice. Years ago I read a book called "Your God Is Too Small" which talked about how most people have a childish conception of the divine that varies between a cosmic Santa ( he sees you when you're sleeping so get your hand out of your jammies!) and a Big Daddy Boom Boom who gets his rocks off smiting people. To believe in a 'God" who would punish folks who won't say the 'right' magic words, or get squiggly in the 'right' Jesus panties(***), or wear the 'right' special hat while facing in the 'right' direction..... to believe in such a 'God" is to reduce the almighty to the level of a cosmic Eichman: forever busy figuring train schedules for the damned. Any theology that says: "I'm in and you're out" by definition makes a Nazi out of the divine. A Big Daddy who spends eternity making people go 'boom' just because they fell in love with the wrong person(****), or had the poor taste not to be born in America.... isn't worthy of belief, let alone worship, or serving as the basis for a public agenda. The sad reality is that millions of Americans are in thrall to this ersatz version of 'Christianity' , are somehow convinced that God only speaks to Republicans.

It's easy enough to take shots at other peoples beliefs, so perhaps the time has come to put my money down and make my confession, Here is my credo:

I believe in a God who loves like a good father, who makes all that is seen and unseen.. the mother holding her sick child, the old man dying alone, the lonely and forgotten, all unseen, all dressed in 'rags of light', all his children gathered from east to west and age to age ... offering song in the morning, and blood on a Memphis balcony at evening time... I believe in a poor mans son who brings justice to workers, and eyesight to the blind. I believe in bread and wine like Melchizedek did, I believe in friends for the long road. and mercy in the small hours of the night...I believe in a Lord who is our brother and meets us in the cool of the garden at dawn.

And I believe that it will be a cold day at the beach when Jimmy Dobson, or any of those oily white boy George Wallace wanna-be's understand a word of the preceding paragraph. Perhaps one day they will, and then we can all go down to the river with sparklers and fireworks to sing a chorus of Boom Boom Hallelujah. I'm not holding my breath waiting for that day. Now if you'll excuse me.. I'm getting low on ammo and pancakes.

(*) Boom Boom: Why do all these porno movies have multiple volumes, i.e. " Big Swedish Titties Volume 16" Are there that many plot lines to explore? Does anybody ever say: " Yeah volumes 1-15 were crap, but Holy Jumpin' Jizz Rag Batman. volume 16 is the bomb!"

(**) Bang Bang: I used to hang out with a jeweler named Bobby who liked to lay around his big old house outside Detroit and snort smack while shooting a 357 into the ceiling. Take away lesson: never live upstairs from a junkie jeweler who packs heat.

(***) Wham Bam: Some Mormons wear 'special garments' as underwear, colloquially referred to as "Jesus Jamies". When I was in Salt Lake I heard the story of how some of the 'upstanding' men of the Church would wear their garments to certain types of 'entertainment venues', resulting in 'special stains".

(***) Poof!Poof!

Explaining September

They say we fall in love with the season of our birth

Maybe that explains September

Or maybe it’s something about the light, or the tress in the lane

Maybe it's about the slow release of summer... a dying kiss...a whisper

Perhaps September is about a vision of winter

Waiting over the horizon.... far off like a distant range... blue and shimmering in the long haze

Maybe September explains me, my distances, my sadness, my beautiful aches

Or maybe September is just for the tasting, the embrace, the memories,

Maybe just for the joy.

Longer Boats, Blue Jag Jag Off, and Knights in White Satin

I spent last weekend once again in the belly of the beast at my condo in South Carolina . We had a great weekend, perfect weather, empty beaches, and I was starting to think I wouldn't have anything to write about even though we were once again in the heart of Jesusland. Oh me of little faith; lo and behold on the last night of our stay we came home from dinner to find a 130 foot super luxury yacht moored at the fuel dock in our marina. Holy nautical overkill Batman! This thing was fucking huge, and incredibly beautiful. My best guess is that some scumbag banker made enough from our tax bailout to drop a cool 20 million or so on this bad boy. I noticed the ship was registered in Bikini Marshall Islands, which is an off shore flag of convenience registry for a boat built in Florida. It is also worth noting that the Bikini Atoll is where we ( or was it the French ) used to test H- Bombs. Maybe it would be fitting if we made these rich pricks actually live there for a year before they could register their super duper-look at the size of my dick- floating fuck pads there. I figure after about a year in the hot zone their balls will glow in the dark enough to help them find their way to the 'poop deck' during those dark nights at sea.

As my neighbors and I stood on the dock and admired this beautiful yacht, we were suddenly joined by a good 'ole boy in a blue Jag XK, who zoomed up and strode over to us. He loudly informed us that this gigantic personal cruise ship in front of us wasn't big enough for his tastes, he was looking for a 140 footer: and by the way he owns a fuel company, a port in Charleston, and a P-51 airplane One could only surmise he was also the proud owner of a tiny, tiny penis.The 'gent' in question then explained how he doesn't pay a "48 percent Obama tax". keeps his money offshore in the Virgin Islands, hates blacks and women drivers, and thinks we are all chumps, He snorted, said we could all kiss his ass,climbed back in his Jag and left. I turned to my friends and said: "I think we just met Joe Wilson's chief fundraiser...".

This man was full of hate, rage, and my guess would be plenty of 12 year old single malt. I felt that I was standing inches away from the angry red white and blue eyed face of the Republican Party circa 2009. Put a sheet on this rich twats head and you got yourself a Grand Cyclops..... except I believe that gig is already taken by a certain J. Wilson of Colombia S.C. Oh well, I suppose one could always start a chapter overseas... say somewhere in the Marshall Islands....... I'm sure there are plenty of extra sheets on board the yacht.

Gypsy Dreams

She said the pills make her dream of gypsies

I said, I must be getting old.... I dream of building a fire and painting by the water

I said, the summer is gone
Let's go to Carolina

Let's walk through gardens
Let's touch the waves from Africa
Let's remember music

Let us dream of gypsies

Stairway To Heaven, Jesus in The Parking Lot,and The Seven Hundred Thousand Dollar Umbrage Machine..

We ran a call last Friday night helping a woman who had her toes amputated get up her stairs. The lady was a true southern charmer, you could hear the honey in her voice, and you could see that once upon a time she had the men lining up for a taste. Her home was filled with beautiful feminine antiques, a piano with ivory inlays, a beaux arts desk, everywhere summer hats and frilly scarves... all a bit faded in the waning summer light. It seemed that she, like her home, was.. fading.. slipping away, yet still beautiful. She thanked us deeply for carrying her up the stairs to her bed, and promised us that when she got better we'd all be invited for a grand party. I knew, and I think she knew, there would be no getting better. It was a sad sweet moment, and I wondered if we all one day get to a tipping point like that; a point where we know we won't ever feel young again, a day when one notices the shadows growing longer, a day when you feel the first shiver of winter.

Speaking of shivers, I couldn't help but notice the full parking lot as I drove past the local Mega First Baptist Church Of Wall Mart or whatever the fuck they call the local yahboob palace last Sunday. I got to wondering how is it that these places can be so full, and produce people with such cold hearts. I'm pretty sure most if not all of your Glen Beck Tea Bag Anti Obama Fuck the Poor We Don't Need No God Damn Health Care type screamers attends one of these mega moron joints. And If not, I'll wager you a crisp hundred that 98% of them would describe themselves as 'Christian'. I guess the question I have for these folks is the existential Christian question posed by Jesus himself: "who do you say I am?". Define your Christ folks,,,is he not seen in the poor? In the broken? In the sick? In the immigrant? And if he isn't, then where do you find him? Whom is it you claim to worship? I'd love an answer, but I don't expect I'll get one.

When I was in college we used to joke that the 'professional' Tee Vee guys had such great equipment that they probably had a special $700,000 'glitch' machine just to make stuff look crappy when they wanted to simulate amateur video. (Our stuff looked crappy for free). I thought of the glitch machine while reading the inane comments of the Palinistas complaining about Obamas speech to the kiddies today. God forbid the president should speak to school kids... why..why he might put socialized pluralistic communistic fluoridated type scientific ideas in their tiny little head spaces, and the very next thing you know they will be smoking Ecstasy and running a death panel while playing video games. So the good folks at the Family Research Christian Family American Anti Commie Family Jesus Center just press a button and crank up the magic umbrage machine..and before you can say "Holy Shit Birds Batman", the airwaves are flooded with sweaty jerk offs whining about the latest "assault' and 'insult'. These people are every bit as crazy as the Muslim nuts who riot every time someone draws a cartoon of Mohamed smoking hash in Amsterdam. Hmm I wonder if old Osama Bin Fuckwad has anything besides a dialysis machine in that cave of his... maybe something worth about ..oh 700 grand or so......

The Derby Gets Rained Out, Lyndon Explains It All, And I Try The Methodist Diet

The last couple of days at the fair consisted of dust bowl like heat conditions followed by biblical monsoons and Woodstock anniversary mud puddles. Sweltering in the heat I realized that some genius in the "planing" department ( these guys are to the concept of 'planing' as the Detroit Lions are to the concept of 'winning') decided that the nice shady part of our worksite would be the perfect place to put the air-conditioned 'command' trailer; while the open front tents for doing public outreach could sit directly exposed to the mid day sun and heat. Bosses sit in the air-conditioned shade while workers and the taxpayers sweat their corn dog swollen sweaty balls off. Where's Karl Marx when you need him?

Friday night the skies opened just as the Demolition Derby was getting underway... causing several thousand 'sports fans' ( the Demo Derby is a 'sport' just like Thomas Kincade is an 'artist') to run for their lives and seek cover under the bleachers. Some of these die hards waited a couple of hours in the rain hoping to see some crash for clunkers before heading back home to their trailer parks. If I seem to have an attitude about "Derby Fans" ... .maybe it's because I've seen these people up close. Three hundred pounds, bad teeth, mullets, Skynrd tee shirts, and a 249 ounce big gulp (and that' just grandma). Let me put it this way: Demolition Derby fans make NASCAR aficionados look like an opening night crowd at the Bolshoi..... Yikes.....

My neighbor Lyndon explained all this to me the other day : " We just don't have no good Monster Trucks around here... you gotta go to the midwest to see that. Them folks know what's what with a big ass loud monster fucking truck.." The man has a point... my home-state of Michigan may have the economic outlook of a Kosher Deli in Kandahar.... but we sure as holy jumping fucking Jesus can make a pickup truck that's 35 feet tall and loud enough to make the Virgin Mary herself shit her drawers every-time that bad boy steps on the gas. Whoo wee!

Speaking of gastrointestinal disorders... I've spent the last nine days eating hot dogs and cole slaw from the Bethesda Methodist 'pavilion' . This seems to be pretty much a low rent version of the Hollywood Detox diets... I don't think it's done me any good from a heath stand point ... but at least I've had a chance to see that most endangered of species up close: The Bethesda Methodist. They can normally be identified in the field by their pink Izod golf shirts, and exceedingly dour expressions. In over a week of dealing with the same guy at the counter.....his entire conversation with me consisted of: " Here's your dog... (grunt)". Good PR Meth-Ohs.... I bet you'll get a lot of sign ups..... maybe even as many as the Strobe Light Wankers down the midway. Now if you'll excuse me, I feel an urgent need to shop for an Izod golf shirt.

Oh Baby Just You Shut You Mouth (Continued)

They are back again. The whacky Church Of The Holy Strobe Light boys and girls at the county fair. Once again they are set up in a tent across from our 'Safety Village" with their China Girl pantomime of whips and matrix costumes, and poses to the tune of Mission Impossible. I think it"s more like "Comprehension Impossible" ...but maybe that's just me. They have a sign that says something about the battle between God and Satan. Kind of like "Paradise Lost' if Milton had been a Chinese teenager who liked to jack off to black and white pictures of Barbara Bain.

Anyway.... they were back at it with endless repeats of the same weird skit..... until today; when the whole troupe of 20 - 30 of them made their way en masse over to our Moon Bounce, only to be disappointed that this 'ride' is only for little kids....not sexy China Dolls involved in heavy spiritual warfare on behalf of the IMF team. I was kinda hoping to see 'em bounce if you know what I mean.. although I'm sure this thought was planted in my brain by Satan.

Later on I wandered down to the food stand (next to the "Goat Barn") to get a hot dog. It turns out that the stand is run by some Methodists from Bethesda, whose idea of customer service consisted of refusing to give my friend her receipt, and insisting that her small coke was in fact a large one. I asked if they expected her to multiply the loaves and colas..but they didn't seem to find that funny at all. Bethesda Methodists are not generally known for their sense of humor. Next time I'm hungry I think I'll just follow the boys and girls from the Hanky Spanky Matrix Church. I don't know if I'll find a good hot dog, but I bet they know where to get some great pics of Barbara Bain.......

Maybe The Yellow Moon

I wake often

In the blue before dawn

Visited by the tender mercies, the sorrowful passions, the glorious mysteries

I see my daughter bent at the dishes... in the summer evening .... grown now

I add up the dead and remember the dying

Then I count the futures that got away.. or maybe still remain

in another place, seen in another light,

Maybe I live in London

Maybe New York

surrounded by children and magic

Maybe I live in California ..

and drink red wine with a blond haired woman each sundown

Maybe there are a thousand lives being lived under my name

under the morning sky,

under the setting sun,

Maybe under the yellow moon.

No Tears In Aisle Three

Back from Detroit over the weekend with random observations, thoughts, and a question or two:

I heard stories everywhere of the economic devastation. Michigan is not just in a recession..it's real damn close to a depression: A Target store cashier breaks into tears and tells my friend that she just got laid off from her full time job and now all she has left is the part time gig that won't make the nut... a woman told me that last week was the slowest week ever at the pool hall/ bar she owns, and when drinking and shooting pool are down in Detroit.. well that's like finding out folks stopped jerking off in San Francisco.... Holy Leading Indicator Batman...

I also noticed far less traffic on the roads than I remember..my friend explained that " people don't have any money to go anywhere...." but almost no cars on 12 mile road on a Saturday night was straight up spooky.....

And then I watch the Tee Vee machine to see a trash mob lady holding a bible up screaming how she doesn't want health care reform... which makes about as much sense as holding up Das Capital by Marx while screaming that you don't like commies...... God these people are extra crunchy stupid ( not to mention irony free). I suspect most of these folks also don't believe in evolution, the scientific method, separation of church and state, and multi-syllabic words.......

Last thing we did was go to a very well attended Moody Blues show... (otherwise known as an AARP rally) ... I sensed a real nostalgia in the crowd not just for the harmonies and great songs of our youth... but for the sense that we could change the world...that we were going to be different somehow, that we would balance our ideals with our ambitions.....yet somehow we ended up with the TV mob people shouting down compassion... isn't life strange indeed

Hate Speech

Thanks to the crack investigative work by our friends in tin hats on the right, we can now sum up what we know about 'President' Obama:

He is NOT an American. He was in fact born on a small planet in the Farakan star system and secretly smuggled in to Kenya where he forged his birth certificate from Hawaii in 1961 at the age of 3 months.

He hates America, and has quietly given the launch codes to Michael Moore, Demi Moore, and Dandy Don. Since our last best hope Sarah Palin quit..this means we are pretty much fucked and Putin will be in Denver by spring.

His 'Health Care' plan is really a a version of old Joe Stalins 1939 plan to kill old people and turn them into Soylent Green style meat patties. McDonalds is already building a huge plant outside Tulsa. Really. You can check it out.

He hates Christians and has a plan to force all of them into slave labor camps in Mexico working for Sonya Sotomayor making frilly underwear for 'wise Latina's".

He plans to tax us all at the rate of 120% and give the money to his homosexual robot overlords.

He hates white people,, White Castle, the White Sox, Barry White, White Rice, White Bread, and Snow White and at least six of her dwarfs.

He is a demon, a devil, an evil doer, and the antichrist. He is WORSE than Bill Clinton, and only Sean, Glen, Rush, and Dick Cheney stand between us and the eternal abyss.

If you believe any of the above, please call me immediately to discuss an exciting real estate opportunity in South Florida......

DC Confidential ( Scene One)

Interior Daytime. Sam is seated at a desk in a 1940's stlye office with file cabinets, a leather couch, ..the late afternoon sun slants through the venitian blinds as smoke curls from a ciggarette Sam lights with a silver zippo. A trenchcoat and fedora hang on a coat rack in the corner, and as the camera pans we can see the lettering on the glass door " Sam Spade. Capitol Hill Private Eye"

Sam VO: It was a slow Wednesday afternoon here in the city of broken dreams... the usual collection of bums, cheaters, and two time losers had paraded through by four o'clock.. by now they were all back in their Senate offices. I was about to reach for the bottle of liquid solace I kept in the top desk drawer like I did every day about this time when she came though my door. I smelled trouble the minute she sat down and crossed those beautiful gams.


The 'Woman In Red' enters. She is about 30, blonde and buxom with a tight red dress, high heels, long gloves, ruby lips and a sway when she walks...

Woman: " Are you Mr Spade?"

Sam: " Like it says on the door sweetheart..."

Woman: " Well Mr Spade I was hoping you could help me with a missing persons case..."

Sam: " Missing person huh ... Who might the person be?'

Woman " It's my husband Mr Spade... My husband the governor.. I think he's in Argentina"

Sam VO; So that was how it started..... before this case was through she'd have me chasing half way around the hemisphere.... not your run of mill missing governor case, they usually turn up at the Mayflower with a hooker or two. No this one was different..

Woman: " I'm sure my husband is with another woman..he just hasn't been himself ever since he fell into that C street crowd, and started hanging around with that awful Mr Kyl........"

To Be Continued............

DIY Republican Press Conference Mad Libs

Good Morning / Afternoon / Evenning / Whatever the fuck time it is....

I would like to ______________ ( 1. apologize, 2. deny, 3. insist ) that I ___________ ( 1. never was, 2. always was, 3. stopped) having ___________ ( 1. sex with, 2. anal sex with, 3. money transferred to ) my __________ (1. mistress, 2. girlfriends mothers next door neighbor, 3. pastors wife).

It has never been my policy or practice to _______________ ( 1. cum on someone’s clothing, waste taxpayer money on weak booze and bad drugs, 3. admit to criminal wrong doing).

I intend to____________ (1. fight these charges, 2. flee the country, 3. attempt to remove the evidence with dry cleaning fluid.).

My accusers are __________ (1. members of the elite media, 2. Drunk assholes, 3. a bunch of know it all motherfuckers who can kiss my dick).

Thank you and may God bless America.

Top Ten AWOL Excuses Gov Sanford Could Have Tried

10. I was holed up in a Howard Johnson's Motel in Trenton with a bad case of jock itch.

9. I was on a secret NASA mission to Uranus.

8. I was with Dorothy and the Tin man in Oz.

7. I was in line at the DMV.

6. I have no idea where I've been, last thing I remember is doing shots at the airport bar with a hooker named Trixie.

5. I was here all the time, damn it must be that new invisible suit I was wearing...

4. I was detained by the CIA at an undisclosed location.

3. I was banging the shit out of my girlfriend in Argentina... nah just kidding .... Psych!

2. Missing? What do you mean? What day is it? Oh shit where did this blood come from?

1. I was in the bathroom.

Rock & Roll High School ( With Sirens). Joe Jumps Up, Back To The Bolshoi

I went back to duty Friday night after about 4 months off.. and was once again struck by how many young volunteers we have. 17, 18 , 19 year old kids riding fire trucks and ambulances, and most of them doing a damn good job. In a lot of ways the fire house is like hanging out in the parking lot after school...smoking cigarettes, telling bullshit stories, flirting, just acting cool...the difference between these kids and my High School friends is this: we just went home, theses kids hop on trucks and fly down the street with sirens blaring. (All I had that blared was the radio in my '68 Dodge Dart.) All in all a good bunch of kids, and I'm glad to be back.

Saturday night my friend Joe's band was playing down the block so we all went to sit out at the Tiki bar and listen to them play 70's funk and oldies. Sitting with us ( on two seat cushions he brought in a shopping bag) was Joe's 80 something year old Dad. He and I had a nice chat about the Big band era while we watched his sons band play.. In the middle of a song Joe did a little Rod Stewart style leg kick thing and then his dad got a huge grin on his face and said: "Oh look, Joe jumped up". You could tell it was the same pride he had when Joe was a boy and did something right. A sweet moment, and it made me miss my dad. A fathers pride is a wonderful thing.

Sunday we were back at the Kennedy Center for the Bolshoi ballet. I have seen a fair number of companies over the years but no one can touch the Bolshoi for sheer perfection and beauty. Iam more convinced than ever that one can glorify the divine on pointed toe as well as bended knee. Magnificent!

Rock& Roll Whoppers

More Rock & Roll Stories: It was great running into my old pal Steve Kostan in the Dee last week. I haven't seen Steve for years, but seeing him triggered a couple of memories: Once we were driving to a charity basketball gig in some out of the way place when we were both jocking at the old WABX. We were pretty lost and pretty late so we pulled into a 7-11 to ask for directions. As we walked through the door we saw a long line waiting at the counter. Since time was of the essence, Steve immediately announced in a loud voice: " We are DJ's and we need directions". .." He may as well have said " We are from the planet Zontar and we are here to give free rectal probes" if one were to judge based on the puzzled looks we got. We teach junior rescue rangers in the fire department how to use a 'command voice' in an emergency, but nobody has ever done a better job of getting a room to shut the fuck up than Steve did that night.

I met Steve in college at WMU in Kalamazoo, where for a time we both lived off campus in a house with 9 other guys. Steve had a room upstairs, I had a cot next to the washing machine in the basement...and neither of us had any money, so we had to get creative when it came to the pursuit of women. I marvel to this day at the pure genius of the stratagem that Steve came up with: We would go up to the Burger King about 1:30 in the morning when the girls were stopping for a bite after drinking all night in the bars. This was brilliant for three main reasons:

1. The ladies were already drunk.
2. We didn't have to buy them anything more expensive than an order of fries.
3. If we didn't get laid we at least got something to eat.

A year or two later Steve helped me get my first gig at 'ABX, and my very first night on the air a woman named PJ that was totally out of my league and a stone cold drop dead stunner, just dropped by the studio to " hang out". I realized real quick that station 'X' was a thousand times better than Burger King, and being a radio star had a more powerful effect than springing for a Cheese Whopper. Thanks twice Steve, and it was good to see you again.

Flock Of Dingbats : I Ran.... I Ran So Far Away...."

Amazing events in Iran... these folks are very brave, and they remind me that we had two stolen elections in a row in this country and no one took to the streets... most Americans never even noticed. Anyway, in the interest of moving the story forward, here is a brief primer on Iranian politics:

Iran's election is between two main candidates:

The incumbent Mr. Imadinnerjacket best known for dressing like a parking lot attendant and acting like a complete fucking nutbag.

Other dude with a beard who smiles a lot. Iranians seem to think his wife is hot. Americans would only think so if they had not seen a woman for 26 years.

Supreme Leader, Grand Poobah, HAIC ( Head Ayatollah In Charge) : Whacky 'black hatter' with ZZ top beard and big nerd glasses. Think crazy grandpa with nukes.

Council Of Experts: Picks the supreme leader. Membership unclear, but rumored to include Paula Abdul.

Lesser know players:

The Commissioner: Person you must obtain express written permission from.

Council of Wankers: In charge of NHL playoff schedule.

Ayatollah of Rock & Rollah: The potted plant of the flower power generation. Dr. Rockenstien. Big Daddy... Whoops I'm sorry I thought I was back at WRIF.....

Department Of Official Slogans: Responsible for coming up with 'Death To_______" slogan of the day.

Rovian Advice

I have a friend who lives in a small town in a state that I should not identify, but it rhymes with Oh My Oh. My friend is reticent about taking my advice or allowing me to run his campaign for mayor of the small town (which rhymes with Sell More). My friend ( whose name rhymes with Bernie) has "moral scruples". Sigh.... It's not easy being Karl Rove. None the less, I have taken the time to list below some simple Nixonian ideas/statements/tactics that should result in an easy win:

1. " My advisers don't want me to talk about communists, but I'm gonna tell the people the truth.."

2. Campaign sign: " What about the slush fund Mr Mayor?"

3. " I don't care if I win or lose this election, I just want to do Gods will..... so tell me Mr Mayor, why do you hate the baby Jesus?"

4. " My opponent once practiced nepotism with his sister! He Has an uncle who is a registered sexagenarian. His mother was a thespian in high school!"

5. Campaign sign held by a crying pregnant woman outside the mayors office: " Why Mr Mayor? Why?".

6. Campaign sign held by crying cub scout outside mayors office: "Why Mr Mayor? Why?".

7. My opponent tries to hide his diaphoresis on a daily basis.

8. "Is Mayor X a secret muslim? Well of course he will deny it, but these rumors have been around for years and it makes you wonder."

9. Billboard: "Stop The Socialists. Restore American Values :Bernie For Mayor"

10. " God told me to run for mayor..."

Not What We Mean By Lending A Hand

BEIJING — Chen Fuchao, a man heavily in debt, had been contemplating suicide on a bridge in southern China for hours when a passer-by came up, shook his hand _ and pushed him off the ledge.

Chen fell 26 feet (8 meters) onto a partially inflated emergency air cushion laid out by authorities and survived, suffering spine and elbow injuries, the official Xinhua News Agency said Saturday.

The passer-by, 66-year-old Lai Jiansheng, had been fed up with what he called Chen's "selfish activity," Xinhua said. Traffic around the Haizhu bridge in the city of Guangzhou had been backed up for five hours and police had cordoned off the area.

"I pushed him off because jumpers like Chen are very selfish. Their action violates a lot of public interest," Lai was quoted as saying by Xinhua. "They do not really dare to kill themselves. Instead, they just want to raise the relevant government authorities' attention to their appeals."

Xinhua said Lai was "taken away by police" but did not elaborate.

A police officer who answered the telephone Saturday at a station close to the bridge confirmed the incident and said it was under investigation. He refused to give any other details and hung up.

According to Xinhua, Chen wanted to kill himself because he had accrued 2 million yuan ($290,000) in debt from a failed construction project.

On Thursday, he made his way to the Haizhu bridge, where 11 other people have tried to take their lives since April.

Lai volunteered to talk Chen down but was turned away by police, Xinhua said. Lai then broke through the cordon, climbed to where Chen sat, greeted him with a handshake, then pushed.

Photos in the Beijing Morning Post showed Lai, shoeless and in a T-shirt, saluting after Chen fell

Zen And The Ladies Man, The Big Guy Takes Notes, and Things Are Gonna Slide

I have been a huge fan of Leonard Cohen for 40 years now, his work has given me part of the language of my heart. We saw his tour this week.... it was part concert, part victory lap, and a moment of enlightenment delivered by this thin poet, prophet, and best song writer since King David. Sitting in front of us was a large man busy writing notes throughout the entire show. Not very Zen oversize grasshopper.

You can analyze poetry or music all you like, but that's not the same as dancing. I can watch all the love stories in the world, but that would never let me know what the morning light looks like as it drips across the small of a womans back when she dreams beside me at dawn. Poetry is light, art gives vision, and God is found in the silent glances more often than the explanation points.

Leonard Cohen celebrates love and what it can do to us, while .he warns of the future prepared by those 'killers in high places' . My prayer is that we continue to notice the cracks where the light comes in, and dance there as long as we can.

Only You Can Prevent Forest Fires

POTUS: Thank you everyone, before we begin I have a short statement. After consulting Doctor Roger Daltrey of the WHO and with the WHO Director Dr. Cindy Lou, here are some simple steps you should take:

Wash your hands.
Cover your mouth when you cough.
Girls should wipe from front to back.
Don't pick your nose.
Let sleeping dogs lie.
He who smelt it dealt it.
Don't run with scissors.
Wash behind your ears.
Don't eat anything larger than your head.
If you shake it more than twice, your playing with it.
Don't pull the mask off the old Lone Ranger, and don't mess with Joe Biden.

Thank you and now I'll take questions......

Look Back In Anger ( N'est pas?)

I was walking back to the TV studio from Union Station this morning when I found myself in a crowd of French tourists. My poorly remembered college French only allowed me to get the gist of their conversation, but I gathered they were excited to see the US Capitol. As one walks from the west side of the station, the Capitol dome is suddenly revealed from behind a screen of trees glimmering in the morning sun, with the statue of Freedom ever looking to the east. I began to wonder what Madame Freedom would think of the 'debate' in this country about torture, and it stuck me that all those brave men and women who fought and bled over the years under her banner are owed a profound apology by Msrs. Bush, Cheney et. al. My father and the men of his generation went to Europe with the moral authority to conduct the trials at Nuremberg. Where has that authority gone now in the wake of Abu Garib?

So I tell you what Mr. Obama, it's not for you alone to decide if we should prosecute those responsible for spitting on our constitution.... ask these tourists which country they came to see: Bush and Cheney's or Washington and Jefferson’s. Ask my father and the women and men in all those neat rows across the river in Arlington. Ask the lady on top of that alabaster building on the hill. Look back? Hell yes Mr. Obama, look back with anger.

Ghosts On The Red Line

Riding the train again.. all these years now on the Red Line..sleepy workers with chains of ID hung round our necks like talisman, screaming tourists children swinging on the hand rails, and the flickering images half seen and half imagined out dirty windows. More and more now I have these small daydreams as we rock and sway under the city......I startle awake as we stop at Dupont Circle, and then back to these half dreams.. Jan on that beach watching Lake Huron... kissing Davida under the moonlight, Sheila's scent on my fingers as I picked up my guitar, Nicki in a taxi on 48th street, blues on that Naw'lins station with sweat in my eyes, the housewife south of Kalamazoo, Kiwi in the shadows of Salt Lake... all these ghosts filling my head...and I wonder is this just the price for the life I've lived, is this the cost of loving more than once or twice?
If you could have told me all those years ago when I was a sandy virgin on that beach with Jan that some day I'd be old and dreaming and seeing her face on a dirty subway window.. I don't think I would have understood.... I didn't have the vision then...I'd never seen the ghosts.

Morons On The Edge Of America, The Price Of Mercy & Karla Faye

Here in South Carolina at the beach (in more ways than one the edge of America):

I overheard a young guy the next table over at Boots & Johns Biscuit Shack yesterday. He was 'explaining things' to his friends: The British had 'something to do' with the Boston Tea Party. And he was pretty sure (though not positive) that the Three Musketeers were French. Somewhere Msr. Dumas is rolling in his French grave. When you enter Boots & Johns there is a photo on the wall of the owner (not sure if it's Boots or John) with Dick Cheney, and Fox News is always on the Tee Vee behind the counter. Something tells me that the young idiot I sat next to may turn up at one of those 'spontaneous' "Tea Party" protests organized by Fox News. Someday when the sad history of the decline and fall of America is written, I'm quite sure that repeal of the fairness doctrine will figure prominently on the historian’s list of precipitate causes.

My friend was telling me the other day about a married couple she knows. They are both doctors, very nice people and wonderfully successful. It seems they have made their bundle by running a group of 'pain clinics'. It turns out that they have made so much money; they've managed to buy their own island somewhere. This is the point where I lost my mind and started yelling: "They have their own fucking island?? "Selling pain relief?? In a country where 50 million people have no health insurance?? How in the name of jumping fucking Jesus did we end up with a system that puts a price tag on pain? The last time I checked the words of the master did not say, " Blessed are the merciful for they shall be able to buy their own fucking island".

I am reminded of the man who only promised paradise to one living soul on this earth: the 'good thief' dying beside him at the hands of the state. I don't much care for that ' six dudes you'll meet in heaven' nonsense being sold these days, but two folks I'm pretty sure you might see there are Karla Faye Tucker and that fella from the hill outside the city.

Overheard At The K&W Resturant

Conversation in a restaurant April 2009

Older man seated alone on cell phone:


Hey yeah it’s me how ya doin?

Yeah yeah? So hows that wife?

Everybody?

Uh huh ahh yeah I see what’s that?

Oh yeah? Really?

What ..Cancer?

Uh huh… yeah that’s too bad ..she was a good dog I remember.

Yeah..sorry uh huh.

.How’s the store this year?

In the black or red?

Oh yeah we’re fine…..yeah yeah I just….

Well….I uh..yeah, oh oh..I almost forgot

Yeah when you come down

Yeah I got a set of (unintelligible) yeah I piad 795..no shit…

no no I’m gonna let ‘em go for 275 tops yeah….

You’ll see ‘em when you come down.

OK then..yeah I just you know I yeah

Texas Radio (Sans big Beat), Zen And The Art Of Quarter Hour Maintenence, And Solid Gold Stupid In The Great White North

More Stories: Years ago I was at SXSW with some friends who owned a FM station that was heard in Austin but had studios in a town some 20 miles down the road. We took a drive one day to see the place, and on the way I came up with an idea for a format. What could be more perfect in Texas I thought than a station called "Kay Bob". Being the programing whiz kid that I was, I came up with a KBOB format on the spot: All Willie + Waylon and the Boys...and all the DJs would be named Billy Bob, or Bobbie Ray, or Bobbie Sue or..well you get the idea. After pulling into the town (complete with hitching posts and good ole' boys on the courthouse steps), I reconsidered the likey reception a long haired wise guy from MoTown might get pitching a format in those parts. Sorry Hos, no KBOB ever happened.



I had another long standing radio theory that involved a simple formula: divide the total power in watts by the number of times a day you play Stairway To Heaven, then multiply by the number of trailer parks in your Metro.... and you should get pretty close to your average quarter hour rating. My stupid formula made as much sense as most of the nonsense I heard from consultants over the years. I remember Lee Abrams telling us once to "be like the mafia on the phones". I still don't know what the fuck that meant.



Years later I gaped in wide wonder when I heard a Windsor Canada station try a Motown Gold format with 20% Can Con ( Canadian Content). That meant every fifth song had to be from a Canadian Motown artist. Go ahead and name one......... I rest my case eh. They would have been better off as CBOB.

Cindy Lou Who, , Strange Scenes Outside The Train Station, And Rage On The Via Vittorio

There is a woman I see in the cafeteria of my government office building just about every day. She is there in the morning, and there until the cops kick her out at night. I call her Cindy Lou Who because she kinds of looks like a Dr Suess character. Cindy sits alone engaged in animated conversation with no one at all. She always seems to be deeply engaged, and appears to be listening to a frequency only she can hear. I always want to say something to her, to tell her that the rest of us see her, know she is here...but I don't. And I'm not sure anyone else really notices her much. Cindy Lou is just another casualty of the American Dream: alone and crazy and passed by.

Outside Union Station in downtown DC there is always a cast of whack-a- loons, nut jobs, and Lou Who's worthy of an all start roster for crazy folks. One guy is there almost every day yelling about the government ripping off his social security check. Often when I come up the escalator from the Metro stop there, the first thing I hear is this mans deep booming voice saying " The mothefucking US fucking government stole my motherfucking check". I love watching the tourists with small kids blanch and look stunned as they hear Check Boys profane tirade. Welcome to DC motherfuckers. I once witnessed a guy go to the trouble of dragging a nice portable amplifier with speakers and a microphone and everything so he could preach from the bible. The only problem was, he preached in French. Tres' Whoopsie Msr. NumbNuts. 

I thought of the French preacher when I was in Rome last year. We were riding an open top sightseeing bus past Harry's Bar on the Via Vittorio Veneto, when I saw an Italian man on the corner raving and gesturing and looking for all the world like Cindy Lou's Roman cousin. I realized in a flash that there is something more or less universal about crazy. in spite of the language barrier I instantly recognized this guys rant: it seems that mothefucker Silvio Berlusconi stole the dudes check. Ciao baby!.

God and Dog At Yale, A Timely Rebuke, Cool Gardens

Religion... always a fun topic. Watching Karen Armstrong the other night with Bill Moyers got me thinking about how best to illustrate the insanely bad theology of most American self styled 'christians'. Try this on: I love my Dog more than your 'god' loves you. No matter what my wonderful mutt ever does I would never hurt him, nor wish him anything but joy. According to the theology preached and pounded into the heads of millions of unthinking yahoos everyday in this country, their 'god' will send people to torment for all eternity if the folks don't say the right magic words, and agree to the right set of propositions. That's insane. And monstrous. Such theology demonstrates far less love than any dog lover has for his or her pet. However, the above formula is exactly where the 'christian' doctrine of "no salvation outside the church" leads. Once in the nineties I was so broke I took a job writing commercials for WMUZ, the 'christian' station in Detroit. All in all they were very nice people, a few true believers, and quite a few just there for the job. One time I was asked to write a spot for some local car insurance guy who wanted to tell people that the bible says you have to have car insurance. I asked the guy to show me where it says that since I could not find the chapter titled 'The Gospel of Saint Geico". Another day I was having lunch with one of the salesman who informed me that I was going to hell because I didn't believe in the whole 'Jesus is my personal savior' nonsense. I then asked if my Jewish wife was also condemned. He smiled and said: "Certainly". OK I said, 'what about the six million in the Shoah who went up the chimneys, what about all those children...did your 'god' send them straight to hell because they didn't believe what you do?" He said that yes, he guessed that must be so. I tried to point out that he was expressing the same philosophy as Charlie Manson who famously said, "Hitler was just leveling the karma of the Jews"... but since I was a bit hot and said something along the lines of: " You fucking people are nuts”. I drew a loud 'rebuke in the name of Jesus' from one of the church ladies in the lunchroom. Oh well..So much for the finer points of theological debates. I don't worry much about the big existential questions anymore. The Zen guys would say that such inquiries are " inappropriate" and I think they are right. I do look forward to one day meeting Him, be it in the cool of the evening or the morning garden. And when I do I’ll be walking my dog with 'nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah'.

Janice and Uncle Ted Pop Questions, Eric's Not Here, Joey Nods, Ch Ch Changes, and Lasting Effects

More strange tales: In 1980 I was working at W-4, an old funeral home in downtown Detroit converted into a rock & roll station. Howard Stern was the morning man, Mark McKewen was the music director, and I did late nights. For whatever reason we seemed to attract a lot of groupies, My favorite was a woman who called herself 'Clitoria'. Her real name was Janice, and she was a hot blooded (literally) Irish Catholic girl who was determined to screw as many DJ's as possible. I met Janice one night when I came into the studio and found her under the console table lending a hand to the guy on before me. We had a gay program director back then who didn't like me much, and liked me less after a party at my house one night. Clitoria was pretty drunk when she decided the thing to do was sit on the guys lap and see if she could get his motor revved. When she noticed he was ... non responsive, Janice announced in a VERY LOUD voice: "What are you, some sort of Fag?". I got transfered to the overnight shift the next week. Whoops. Speaking of questions, I was in the studio one day when Ted Nugent asked our beautiful afternoon lady (my friend Lynne Woodison) if she would like an "oral pap test"... radio silence followed.
There was another groupie who would ring the front bell wearing a long fur coat (with nothing on underneath) and ask if Eric Clapton was there. I would always say that he'd just left, but might be back any time..so perhaps she'd like to come in and er..take her coat off. 
Also that year I recall doing an on air interview with the Ramones. When I asked Joey how the tour was going he just nodded. More radio silence.
W-4 changed me in many ways, I met Nicki with her ribbons and bows in that place, and I was working there when my mother died. I was not the same when I left that house of ghosts as I was when I arrived, but as Clitoria would have said: It was a fuck of a good ride.

Kiss Me On The Bus, Playing Star Again ( You Know I Had It In The Ear Before) and The Opposite Of Zen

I was about 17 when I met Jan on a long bus trip. She was a combination of Sissy Hankshaw, Goldie Hawn, and Annie Hall.. and before the ride was over she had her tongue in my ear and I was in love for the first time in my life. Jan used to come over to my house in her Burger King uniform after work, and we'd lay on the couch under the Christmas lights and make out to Simon and Garfunkel. I thought that was as good as life got until I spent the night with her at her aunts cabin in Port Huron that summer. We sat on the sand watching the night freighters, then danced up the hill, and inside Jan lit a candle and played " Will you still love me tomorrow" while we slow danced and her eyes glowed warm. Later amid the sand and the sheets and the moonlight she whispered that she was glad we were lovers. Jan had told me that the affair would end when she left for college, and it did; my heart stayed broken for years. On the last night we were together she gave me a silver tankard. I still have it somewhere, but the sip I took from her loving cup keeps me a little buzzed even now.

I have another strong picture in my mind of a Limo ride some years later with my daughters mother Gwen. Gwen must have been about 19 then, with big blond hair, bright red lips, great tits and fuck me hard high heels. She liked to pop gum and talk smack, and she was a tough sexy Detroit grrrrl. Anyhow we took a big black Limo one night with some friends to see a Bob Seger show downtown, and I still remember a scene as we drove to the backstage door. As we glided down the final block, I looked out my window and saw a parking lot attendant giving me the air guitar motion, as if to ask: "Are you guys with the band?'. Since I didn't know a universal hand signal for " No I'm the late night DJ on W-4" I just nodded yes, and the guy smiled wide as we passed. Sometimes you just have to give the audience what they want. 
A couple of other stage memories come to mind: once I was asked to go out at the Joe and tell 20,000 Ozzy fans he was running late. As I stood there blinded by the Supertrooper I could not see the crowd, but I sure as shit could feel the bottles whizzing past my head in the dark. I turned and ran for the back line, and fortunately a roadie grabbed me before I went 20 feet down to become rock and roll road kill on the cement floor. I was blinded another time while introducing the Psych Furs and as I did my rap I suddenly felt an arm around my shoulder and Richard Butlers tongue in my ear. That got me to shut up and exit stage right in a hurry.

I'm not that interested in being a star anymore..at least not most days 'cause it's soooo not zen....but I am at the age where everything reminds me of something. A long black car can set me dreaming, 'a song on the air with a love you line' makes my ear twitch, and every-time I walk our beach in Carolina and see the lights of the ships under the star light... I taste something I sipped long long ago.

Losing My Religion, Wild Dreams and China On The Line, and fun with the RCMP.

When I was 16 I spent a weekend at Sacred Heart Seminary at a retreat for men who were considering the Priesthood. Sacred Heart is an old collection of buildings on the west side of Detroit with an alabaster statue of Christ on one of the corners of the property. During the riots in '68 someone painted the face of the statue black, and it was still that way 3 years later when I arrived. The overall effect was that of a white man in black face, and so an uninformed visitor might get the impression that we were worshiping Al Jolson. Everyone was talking about becoming a Bishop except for one long haired dude in the corner who I realized was Dan Carlilse of the legendary radio station WABX. Me and Dan ended up cruising around the neighborhood drinking brandy and talking about how fucking cool David Bowie was. Neither Dan, nor I ever became priests but I did (years later) end up on the air at WABX. I was too stupid to know that you couldn't get a job in a major market with no commercial experience, so.... I got the job. The Program Director who hired me was a five foot six ex top forty jock named China Jones. After I did a live audition for him, he took me in the hall and said: "Ok, I'm gonna give you the job, but remember that I keep my DJ's under my thumb". I almost asked him if he stood on a phone book when he did , but in a rare instance of good judgement I kept my mouth shut and got the gig. My first show was on New Years Eve (they let the new guy do the midnight shift so the rest of the crew could party) and I thought I was doing OK until about five minutes to midnight when a very drunk China Jones called me on the hot line. China was at a very loud bar calling from a payphone and shouting instructions to me as I held the phone up to one ear, had my headphones on the other ear, and tried to deliver his New Years message word for word like some bizarre UN translator. I'm sure I sounded like a complete fucking moron, but I learned as time went by that the average 'ABX listener was usually way too stoned to notice. ( Let alone on New Years Eve!) Our nickname for the station was "narcotic radio" ..and if you can picture a set of offices with really really loud Iggy Pop music playing, and Scarface size mounds of blow on the General Managers desk.. well you begin to get the picture. We even had some whacked out lesbian cheerleaders that would come to our softball games to chant: " A Root, A Root, A Rooty Toot Toot..." Anyhow the WABX slogan was "The Station Of Your Wildest Dreams" And it was.
Years later I was in New Orleans on my birthday and as we walked around the Vieux Carre wham..right in front of me was the big statue of Satchmo, which for all the world reminded me of that west side Jesus in Detroit. That same day I got a call from my partner to get on a plane to Toronto for a video shoot. As it happened ( CBC pun intended) Pope JPII was in town and a TV station in LA had hired our company to provide a crew at the last minute for a Popeload of cash. The plan was that the crew from MoTown would meet me at the Holiday Inn with the gear. I reluctantly said goodbye to my N'aw lins girlfriend and hopped on a flight to Chicago then connected to T.O. Since it was my Bday and all, I figured what the hell, and hit the in flight booze pretty good... insuring that by the time I got to airport customs that evening I was pretty well smashed. The Dudley Do Right dude asked me the purpose of my trip to Canada (eh?), and I answered: "We're here to shoot the Pope". Whoops. The only thing I could have possible said worse would have been to call Don Cherry's mother a whore (who was busy sucking off Tim Horton). The Mounties thought they had their man, and for the next two hours I sat in a small windowless room trying to explain why I lived in Detroit, but was coming from New Orleans on a plane from Chicago with no crew and no TV gear to do a "shoot". When the RCMP eventually figured out that I was harmless, they cut me loose about midnight. My day was capped by the cab driver singing "Happy Birthday" all the way to the hotel in his thick Pakistani accent hoping for a tip..while all I could focus on was the plastic Jesus on his dashboard. I almost asked him if he had a black magic marker......

Photo Phun

One of these men is a low down no good dirty pimp. The other just runs a whorehouse.

The Bird Strikes Out, Fear & Loathing in Jackson , An Epiphany Outside Dallas, and Leaving The World Behind.

I have decided that I've reached the time of life to begin writing my story. I often think of the dying U.S. Grant writing his memoirs on his porch, shivering under a blanket, trying to beat the reaper. I'd rather get a head start, because you never know what's next... which leads me to this story:

I first began to suspect that things might not quite work out the way I planned during the 1976 Baseball All Star Game, when Detroit's rookie phenom , Mark 'The Bird" Fidrych didn't live up to expectations. Something in the back of my mind told me that this would prove be an important lesson.When my mother died in 1980 I remember thinking that if only the Bird hadn't flamed out, maybe she would never have gotten cancer. Nutty? Yes, but grief twists the mind, (and a steady diet of booze and blow may not have helped).

I didn't hear that back of the head voice again until 1984 when we flew into Jackson Mississippi to shoot a TV story on a kid named Scooter. We bounced and banged and though the sky on a stormy night in a 727 pounding down scotch and flirting with a girl who thought we were from CBS. One thing led to another, and she managed to get her brother to open up his steak house after hours so we could get a meal after landing late, and by the time the all night party was over we were hung over, broke, and late for the morning call at an elementary school to tape a kid named Scooter whiz around in a wheelchair. While scooter whized I kept running to the boys bathroom to barf (great example to the kiddies, but fuck 'em if they can't take a joke). Meanwhile it dawned on all of us that we had blown our entire weeks hotel and meal per diem money on the previous evenings whiskey and pussy pallooza and were therefore in some danger of testing the reaction of a Mississippi sheriff to some Yankee TV assholes who welsh on a hotel bill. As it turned out we ended up borrowing a go cart from a kid named Irving to shoot a tracking shot, and then got the bright idea to wire the home office in Ann Arbor and ask for money for rental of the " Irving 9000 Mobile Camera Support System". Thank God the nice old lady in the logistics office wouldn't have a know a Mobile Camera Support if one landed on her head, so she sent us a quick $3500 to get out of Dodge without Deputy Dawg being needed. On the day we were leaving, as we drove out to the airport saying what a cool town Jackson had turned out to be and how we should for sure come back again soon and look up the girls we had met... I knew..just knew, that I would never return. I think there have been a lot of 'Jackson's" in my life, probably for all of us there are moments when we realise we won't pass this way again, won't kiss those lips again, won't hear that voice again. Such is the beginning of wisdom I guess, at least its serves as a reminder that the clock is ticking.

Later that year we did a few days in the Dallas area, and after posing for pictures on the Grassy Knoll ( pointing to the fence like the shots just happened, the idea was to put the photo on a shelf and if someone saw it refuse to answer questions), we went out to a convent near Fort Worth to do a story on the nuns there. The women were Discalced Carmelites in a cloister so it was a rare privilege to set foot inside with the sandal sisters. I noticed a young sister who was beautiful in way I had never seen before. I asked her what she did all day, and she showed me how she spent eight hours a day on her knees in prayer with her arms splayed out and face turned to heaven. I was stunned, and all I could think to ask her was: "Why do you do it?" I have never forgotten her answer. She said: " I pray for those who can't or won't pray for themselves". I don't remember her name, and I only spoke to her for a minute or two, but I remain convinced that good woman on her knees has far more to do with the future of the world than all the kings and princes on tee vee every night.

In a lot of nursing homes I have seen people in the process of leaving this world, its as if they are packing their bags, and getting ready to let go. For the most part I find the prospect almost unthinkable.... until I remember Jackson... and then I realize that I started leaving long ago; and when the good sisters call I may find that my bag is already packed.

The Beginning Of Wisdom......

Stuff I have finally figured out:

1. People believe what they want to in spite of all evidence. Case in point: millions of American morons continue to think George W. Bush did an OK job. These people are thankfully a minority, but still represent a large enough to notice swath of the population. Should we trust them with sharp objects?

2. Guys who spend all day thinking about money or pussy are dangerous and should be avoided. On the other hand people who never think about either should not be trusted with the keys to the men's room.

3. Women who say they are not at all jealous are lying. Every time.

4. Oswald didn't do it. Nobody plans to shoot the president and then escape by taking the fucking bus.

5.Tee Vee 'talents' are just DJ's with better hair. The moniker 'vacuous' would be a step up for most of these shit birds.

6. Most of medicine is guesswork. Many ailments may in fact be caused by evil jin jin.

7. My mother was right about stuff: pointy shoes DO ruin your feet, and come to think of it my eyesight isn't that good anymore either.

8. The government lies about just about everything. Mostly to cover up incompetence.

9. British people are not any smarter than us. In fact they are mostly drunkards with bad teeth. But they do have great accents.

10. The wisest souls are the quietest.

The Climb Out

I was driving west past the south lawn the other day

Watching a plane slowly claw its way north

Slowly ascending, framed by the monument and the setting sky

And I saw in the moment that morning

Framed by bright blue September

And the eerie quiet afternoon I watched

just a fighter dancing high above

We began our descent then

Until now

Until we begin to climb north again.