Left Turn Chapter’s 16 & 17
May 26, 2012
Well hello, back fer another post today, first of all wanna say hi specifically to anyone jes on board the ol’ Dysfunctional Unit. I noticed a sudden up swing in followers through the last couple posts, and before we agree to get 
married or anything like that, you may jes wanna get to know me a lil bit better…I mean I don’t wanna scare ya away and I’m glad yer here and all…but one of you joining over the last month seems like jes a straight forward nice christian kind’a guy…jes I mean, a nice regular kind of person…so like…what the hell are you reading my blog for?
Okay that sounded wrong, or could be read wrong on the page. I welcome you, welcome everyone, but I am still gonna write what I write here on this site, so jes take this as a little friendly…”clarification”. Nothing I ever post is meant to offend (well never solely to offend) and almost always I mean to stimulate open and honest dialogue through outrageous hyperbole of undeniably sound logic and I not only welcome those who disagree with my views but welcome and will post any and all comments (even if all you wanna do is mock my parenthesis[...and/or ellipsis]whose explanation of usage is forthcoming in OPPTWD Pt 6 or 7[oh it is to laugh]).
But seriously my dear followers, if later, once we’re back on track with mostly politics and culture I say something that you find not only unbelievably offensive (which is highly likely)or offensively unbelievable compared to everything you’ve learned and come to hold sacred and dear as modern right thinking Americans (also highly likely) step up and say so. I say a lot of crazy ass shit on this site, but I have sound logic and a life time of stripping away series of “a truths” to get to “the truth”
As you’ve seen, I write other stuff and have other blogs going here on WP, so if this site ain’t yer cup, I’m cool, though as you’ve seen even here on the DYSU site it isn’t always topical, issue driven rants…I can rant about pretty much anything….
Oh and there’s any poetry or writing that Lil’ Mouse doesn’t want easil;y accessed by FB friends like the following…oh wait…Adult themes…did I mention that…I’m posting chapters 16 & 17 tonight…this will be my 99th post on Dysu…I’ll try my best to make my 100th extra special..in the mean timeI hope you enjoy
16.
“Fuck!”
‘We better find me some pussy!’
‘Oh shit I need this now?’
‘What you need is pussy, cunt, Satan’s flower’
Of course I tell myself I have no idea where I’m going.
‘Why the fuck didn’t you fuck that ol bitch?’
Just storming off randomly into the night. Ignoring the ranting lunatic in my head.
‘Shut the hell up!’
It’s weird trying to tell your own brain to fuck off. even weirder when it doesn’t listen.
‘We need it, if you don’t motherfucker I do…do you know how long…’
‘Shut up! Shut the fuck up. Of course I do.’
I suddenly realize I know exactly where I’m going. And if you’re smart, if you have been paying attention, you do too.
‘Then why didn’t you at least finish that slut, could have least coated the inside of her pussy with our man juice instead of our han…’
‘Jesus just shut the fuck up’
‘Get us some pussy. It’s that or worse motherfucker, fucking or fighting you know the score.’
I really should turn back. I could feel the pressure building, the itch, the never ending itch running from the back of my skull through my body to the tip of my still semi swollen dick.
‘I ain’t fuckin around. You gave me a taste now I want the whole fucking pie!’
I mean that bitch. Jesus women really had no clue. She had come slumming. To her it was just a game but…I mean fuck. I should just have finished. I certainly wouldn’t have given a fuck about it before. So why did I now? Was it just this right turn business?
‘Yea what did we turn faggot and you not tell me? I mean since when do you give a fuck? Why the fuck do you care?’
‘Fuck yea, I don’t give a shit!’
The soft sticky night did not answer back. I mean what the fuck? Why was I getting so worked up? Behind me the faint thrum of music from Wennler went suddenly quiet, a voice muffled voice announces thank yous, good nights, final happy fourths. Must be twelve, the festivities had been scheduled to end at midnight, a big deal for Midwesterners. Of course the random pop or whistle could be heard as I walked. Both from behind in Wennler and ahead out among the dirt roads and farm houses, where ever young kids still partied. Every once in awhile a series of larger balls shoot skyward to explode in sparkling color, nearly matching professional displays. These Dakotans really know how to do the 4th up right. As I watch one such series of fireworks jump into the sky some ways east, I see God match the show with lightning. It streaks through the building storm clouds, backlighting the red white and blue sparkling flowers as they slowly rain back to earth.
The fireworks fade and disappear. The lightning does not. The storm is distant enough that I don’t hear any accompanying thunder. But the clouds, towering well into the night sky, pop and crack with regular frequency. Just like the circuitry in my head.
“Fuck yea I don’t give a shit!”
I dig the joint out of my pocket, smooth and straighten it between thumb and forefinger. I have to stop walking for a minute to light it. It isn’t really big so it takes a few matches as they have trouble staying lit in a building wind that smells, past the sulfur of the matches, suspiciously like rain
Looking north I can’t tell if the storms any closer. The clouds light up with electric pulses. One jagged bolt, crackles up through the thunderhead in yellows and pinks, leaving a retinal ghost as my eyes track back to the dark road. It is only a little farther until I turn right to head down the hill to my destination. A right turn. I like that.
I don’t know if I hear the music before the next fireworks go off, or if they draw my attention and afterwards I can hear the steady thump of bass rising from the hollow.
I hadn’t but thought of the positive signs regarding the right turn when twenty five or more rockets launched themselves from close by off to my right. They exploded to whoops and hollers and when the whole commotion died down I could feel, then hear the music.
Rounding the corner I see the light from a handful of fires throwing, jumping, cavorting shadows among the trees at the bottom of the gully. I didn’t start down the hill right away. I still held the joint in one hand and the book of matches in the other. Turning my body south, I hunched over the joint, trying to use my whole body to shield the match from the building wind. The match flares quickly off the striking pad, I quickly raise it to the little “pinner” trapped in my lips and inhale…
“Whoa…shit!”
I tried to hold it in, to avoid coughing, but it was some good shit. Smoke exploded from my lungs, wracked my body in hacking fits as I fought to regain control.
“Jesus.”
I of course had smoked weed in the pen when I could get my hands on it, which of course wasn’t easy but not nearly as rare as you straights think. But still it had been awhile. Years now probably, and I don’t think I’d ever smoked anything this, this, delicious.
I took another drag off the tiny joint. It kinda had a grape kool aid taste. Wild. I of course had heard about “chronic”, medical marijuana, high breeds or whatever. I had just never smoked any. The weed does its job, as I raise the j to my lips for another hit I can already feel it spreading through my body.
“Mmm, oh fuck yea!”
This was really gonna rev up my engine. A lot of people I know turn into shit brained zombies when they smoke fucking weed. Not me, it is like a stimulant, a mild hallucinogenic stimulant. It has always been this way for me. And as the THC starts to infuse every fucking cell, starts to get my juices really boiling, my mind races off down the hill ahead of me. I can hear the music pretty clearly, again some rap song I don’t know, or do they call this hip-hop? Who the fuck cares? She is down there. Or we could just go home.
Yea like I’m gonna do that fuck wad. Another deep drag. Jesus this weed is fucking strong. Voices rise from the gully below me. Counting down: three, two, one, there is a pause and again a barrage of rockets burst from the canopy of trees to streak skyward into the night.
‘Fuck yea!’
The revelers below let loose with celebratory noise again as the rockets burst and this time I join in.
“Woo! Fuck yea!”
I take the last good hit off the now roach and let the wind pull the burning bits of paper and weed from my pinched fingers. They flare in their own little firework show as they are whipped away then quickly fade into nothing.
Oh man I am feeling good. I can’t believe I haven’t gotten stoned since I have been out I mean what has it been like two months. Okay well two months may not seem like that long but, prior to being locked up I hadn’t gone two days, maybe even two hours, without getting high. I mean most of my life was spent getting high. And look how good that turned out.
Okay so like yea I mean fuck off. Maybe things didn’t always fucking work out perfect. But I was also drinking, I mean drunk most of the time and then there was all the speed and coke, as well as all the other shit, the guns and…
***
Fuckin A where could I get my hands on a gun. That’s something I really need.
‘Like ya need another hole in the head.’
“’Again fuck off Dickless.’ A gun is just what we need, a gun and some more of this fuckin’ weed.
“Jesus, he he he”
That little fucking teasing bitch was down there with more. My right hand drifted down cupping my cock and balls.
“Well we got all the gun we’re gonna need for this tussle”
17.
I really did not want to be here. I know it seems crazy to you. That there is one part of me talking to another part. But if you pay close attention inside your own head you will discover you do this too. Hopefully your voices are symaptico, work together to achieve a common goal, me I got the beast.
‘Goddamn you fucking pussy quit whining, I’m gonna get us some poon, not like that MILF you been chasing after, but some good fresh young pussy. ‘
‘I know you’re asking yourself why I…’
‘Listen no matter what you say we’re the same person. I am you and you are me so shut the fuck up with all of your bullshit.’
‘That’s true’
‘And you know you wanna do everything I do, you’re just too much of a bitch to do it.’
‘That’s not the exact truth…’
‘Oh yes it is. Fucking all this left turn right turn bullshit, that’s all prison shrink talk, that’s just shit we were saying to get out of the pen.’
‘Maybe’
‘Maybe my fucking ass’
‘Maybe I wanted to try to make the right decision.’
‘You wanna make the right decision?’
‘Yes!’
‘Then let’s go get us a little girl meat yea?’
‘I think…I’
‘You wanna fuck something?’
‘I do, but I don’t think…’
‘Ahh what the fuck do you know…You don’t even know that I am you.’
That shut ol’ Dickless up. Which was a wonder, he’d become a real pain in the ass whiner since we left the pen. But I’m back in charge now. And I know how to get us what we want, And right now we want to fuck the peach fuzz right off Jenny’s tight little pink pussy.
So like I hope yer not all beginning to feel like Bastion, and I hope you know, of course, that I have other stuff that I’m itching to get to, I have chapters of Left Turn to put up ( a couple quick ones [16 & 17] before things start 
really heating up in Chapter 18), I swear I will post one tonight……plus there’s all this politickin’ and acculturatin’ goin’ on, but though I am nearly incapable of being responsible, almost assuredly one of the biggest Manyana-ites yer ever to meet…, writing down the crazy ass bull shit of tornadic activity that takes place in my brain on a second by second basis is probably the one exception to this rule…oh and I do hate to leave things unfinished (again probably mostly referring to fun creative stuff more than anything else lol…)
But okay anyway and again Cat’s N Kittens it’s me
So I wanna finish the story in a few hundred words(meaning of course under 1000) not counting links to poetry. So lets see we’re in the early 90′s right? My life is less topsy and his fabulous turvys, ( age, maturity etc, plus I’ve stopped doing coke, meth,[completely] and hallucinogenics[mostly] oh and there”s the disability money)I’m attending a lot of local open readings, and as my poetry improves I begin to pick up some featured spots…
First ya have to understand that I learned pretty quickly how bad and exactly why and where my early attempts at performance poetry and more importantly and specifically my poetry sucked weak ass(thanks to tough and brutally honest older poets[thanks again Lee & others unnamed])…but like I said, I was a quick study.
One of the best and most valuable pieces of advice was to change how I lay my poems out on the page and to drop the whole ee cummings lower case thing (seeing as it was “his thing not mine”…lol great advice old poet whose name is now lost to time). His second point regarding my poems structure on the page was as eloquent and simple as was his guidance fer the “ee” dilemma…”ya do want people to be able to read it right?” he asked.
His point once I understood it was this, without an extremely valid reason as to why, making the poem more difficult for the reader to decipher draws attention from the words…
Sound, sound logic. I immediately changed both features of my written word.
The next advice, stop being so freaking overtly overbearingly preachy when you read….beats, hippies, they already ranted and quite possibly raved about it all, so if yer gonna do it, try bringing something new to the table besides the same tired old all injustaphores and opressionisms, and fer God’s sake, if yer gonna talk about politics and the culture, be funny.
Okay I was ready fer all that. I had been, ever since my six year old Ogden Nash period, a fan of funny over frowns. Here’s a great example of the next stage in my poetry story…click on the homeless guy’s sign.
S0 we’re at about 1992, the Aguanga kid is born, I’m living with his mother, on SSI etc so I don’t have to worry ’bout work and can concentrate on art. I’m doin features and making, at least in my little corner, a name fer myself. As I mentioned in the last post I did well in “poetry contest”, and honed much of my poetry production to producing poems matching my somewhat unhinged performing persona particularly (oh lol) suited to these contest (and as yet off my radar slams[though I am to 'understand' they are happening soon])and in the process my “voice” was born…While the above links are some of the “audience favorites[hits] the following poem really captures (I think, and is one of my favorites) what I am trying to do..just click on the persimmon fer the link…
This poem really, I feel exemplifies my voice, stripped of all the performance gimmicks, focused on a moment, the poetry of life, in this instance the conversation becomes the metaphor, at least I think, I hope, I feel that’s what I am going for…in hindsight, cause ya see my faithful readers, I didn’t set out to write this way, this is the way I write…when all is stripped away…when the pretense, and manufactured intentions, and tryin to be’s, and tryin to sound likes, and the pretentiousness of the Artie Mann, are all killed off through diligent applied effort, what is left is the real voice of the poet…in my specific case it lead to many people (all super cool poets) saying “It’s not really poetry though is it?” “Where’s the imagery? They’d ask…( I mean I always thought personally that “The old guy wearing California skin…” was halfway okay, I mean not Neruda or anything…)but imagery’s not my strength, and I decided long ago that being real, the poet I was, was far more important than either a: teaching myself to be someone elses idea of a poet, or pretending to be the same?
The misspelling of my name went unnoticed (at least by me)till the Aguanga Kid pointed it out yesterday
So that’s what I rolled with by late 92′ early ’93 I was pulling at east a couple featured readings a month, either sharing the bill or gong solo and carrying the night on my ever expanding body of work, always entertaining performance, all the oddity expected, delivered guaranteed ….this was just one of the reasons I got the nickname “Psycho Boy“
Okay so rock ‘em sock ‘em robots Cat’s n Kittens I swore I’d get outta here at less than a thousand words (though I may have implied I’d finish er up also….well it is what it… lol)….comin soon Pt 6
I was asked to feature a number of times by the wonderful owners. They were also the first to agree to pay me as a featured…but we’re getting to that…hopefully…in part 6 fer sure
Illustrations fer an early book made on a Mac 512k. summer of ’91
Well Double Yee-Haw everybody it rootin-tootin 
…pull out yer beret’s and bongos…I’m interrupting my long ass somewhat weepy tale about my poetry story(but featuring very little actual poetry)with some god blessed actual poetry…plus this will be shorter, which means faster to post…’cause truth be told Cat’s & Kittens I am one tired ol unit…I usually get up about five thirty, six am (no matter what, ever since I been a boy)and well…lol-ing here we are past midnight…but I really wanted to have a little fun with some of the crap I been digging out of my “box o’ writing” (a large plastic lidded bin stuffed full of stuff [some material now over thirty years old]including early art(eob?), poetry etc)…
Anyway before we start that goofiness…how about one of my top ten favorite poems from a great poet(no, not mine, not me, haven’t you been paying attention)
This is a lot of poets “favorite” poem. I don’t know if it’s my “favorite”. I do someday plan to put the first strophe on my body somewhere in tattoo form, maybe forearm with fancy script…anyway
Eating Poetry by Mark Strand
Ink runs from the corners of my mouth.
There is no happiness like mine.
I have been eating poetry.
The librarian does not believe what she sees.
Her eyes are sad
and she walks with her hands in her dress.
The poems are gone.
The light is dim.
The dogs are on the basement stairs and coming up.
Their eyeballs roll,
their blond legs burn like brush.
The poor librarian begins to stamp her feet and weep.
She does not understand.
When I get on my knees and lick her hand,
she screams.
I am a new man.
I snarl at her and bark.
I romp with joy in the bookish dark.
Oh…mmm was that delicious or what…grrruff…now compare that to the poem below…I mean keep in mind that this was…1991, I was thirty-one-ish homeless, or just nearly close to out of being homeless by this point, and one opinionated bastard, I mean I was really quite full of myself back then…I mean…yes of course I’ll let you stop laughing before I go on..(wait till ya read a couple of my “Psycho Boy” columns in Pt. 5)
I Chameleon
Lazy lounging lizard
Watch the world through roving eyes
As I sit upon the one great tree
Oh I mean it is to laugh…there were, are some bad poems in that box…but that’s the point isn’t it…writing is really about the process. It’s about writing, and re-writing and perfecting yer craft…speaking of that I’ll leave ya with a funny example of the ‘process’.
Here’s a little poem. I considered it an old poem when I posted it in Golden State Years (the name of a chapbook I have ready to be published hint hint anyone out there interested…anyone…anyone…[insert sound of crickets chirping here])…oh it is to laugh…jes gotta have fun with it…
Anyway I’ll leave you with this…I believe a great example of the editing and growth(I knew this poem had been part of a larger piece but had forgotten just how…differently the same[lol] they were…
First the version as it stands today
My Little Dog
When
Sitting alone not lonely
Does your brain become a little dog
Mine does
Chasing it’s tail
Round and round
Sometimes I talk out loud
I used to fly
In some odd past life
Maybe we all did
Okay and here’s the earlier untitled version, from the chapbook “I Chameleon”
so you’re driving down the road of dreams, you’ve got the brights on, but still ya can’t see everything. what’s that at the side of the road? you turn your head but it’s gone, might have been nothing.
tell me your dreams
and i’ll tell you your name
not the one you’ve given to flesh
but the one you use to keep yourself sane
only one pillar holds up your head. it takes more than that to hold up the sky. little man who wears sheets and eats bloody burgers wants to knock em all down, his tongue is his hammer, his God is white.
tell me your fears
and I’ll tell you your faith
not the one you profess you believe
but the one you use to justify hate
and watching GTV, the silver haired, silver tongued, fatherly figure said you’d better believe or God will shut the door on you. smiling he said you’ll be left out in the cold. i went to get my jacket on.
tell me your loves
and I’ll tell you your doubts
not the ones you try to build on
but the ones you use to keep others out
when sitting lone not lonely, does your brain become a little dog? mine does going round and round chasing its tail. sometimes i talk out loud. i used to fly in a distant past life, so i think did we all.
tell me your thoughts
and I’ll tell you your dreams
not the ones you use to dance
but the ones you use to make believe
i used to fly in a distant past life, so i think did we all.
Okay well anyway I couldn’t remember how the poem stagnant blue went exactly at the end there but I hope I caught the spirit of it…and I did add the snazzy picture.
So yea lets see…poetry in college now, is that where we are.
Took Poetry 101, 102, etc then went back and did it all again at a different school a year or two later. Lee Malloryinski at Rancho Santiago College was one of my best poe-fessors, whoops, okay well I went back and altered his name in case he doesn’t wanna be mentioned here. It might have been he that gave me the Bukowski book (he used to brag that Bukowski punched him in the nose once), I wrote a poem about it but I won’t put it up here, it’s slightly…mean spirited…and I only have respect and thanks fer the guy now…but hell I’m getting a few years ahead of myself so lets jump back shall we…
I was still sometimes in theater productions (as I mentioned above I attended community colleges while continuing to be mostly homeless [some times in and out of jails or institutions, some times sleeping on friends couches, sometimes breaking into vacant houses/apartments most times sleeping outdoors]). But the whole band(s…numerous attempts) thing never really panned out, never got famous, never made millions.
In the mid eighties(ish?), having just finished as a chorus member in “HMS Pinafore” (that is a whole nother post and I can’t get into it now or we’ll get way off track[hell I'm gonna be toppin a thousand words again Ma...). Some of the guy's involved in that were also involved in putting on variety shows for a local coffee house in Fullerton Ca named after a rootish vegetable (...if you know you know). They were pushing me to do something fer the show, put together some skit or something....I kept putting them off...finally one of them suggested I take some of my punk songs and turn them into poems, he talked about beats and stuff (I of course had already a few years back read Kerouac etc) so I got really into the idea...here's a sample of one of those first poems
Suburbia suburbia
You think life is TV
Soap opera wives with flash dance lives
And moral hypocrisy
Suburbia suburbia
It's sad that you can't see
From your mini vans to your plastic bags
How your killing society
It was called, in case ya couldn't guess Suburbia...and in the long run it wasn't that great even with the screaming and thrashing music. Okay so even though the poems weren't that great, they went over well and I had fun doing it. I heard about some other poetry readings and began to semi haunt a couple. Then at the tail end of the eighties, after an extended period of tequila and coke fueled binges (I was living with Doidman and an ex stock broker turned coke dealer and his chickee [who were both from South Carolina (maybe?)] at the time in a rented house in Lake Forest, California [churning out poetry on my little Mac 512k] I ended up with an extended stint in the Royal Treatment Center, which is of course not nearly as royal or treatment oriented as it sounds…
The point being two fold, one, I had written a hell of a lot of poetry(notebooks full) both prior to and once inside the institution(one of my best known, 51/50, is from this time period) and when I got out some months later it seemed there were poetry readings everywhere…
And this is when my poetry story really takes off. I kinda become the new kid at all the local readings. My stage presence makes me a hit with the audience, even though much of my poetry is, by the other poets in the room, judged to be inferior. Over the next year or so I really developed my own voice. Not that I wasn’t told over and over, “It really isn’t poetry is it.”…many of the other local poets, especially those who were big on the So Cal scene when I started making the circuit, were not fond of my loud in yer face, take no prisoners attitude…this was Poetry after all…(after one reading , where I had three costume changes on stage while reading, and an electric guitarist playing thrashing chords to a multimedia slide show an important player in the So Cal Scene and host of the reading Michel *Somebody* actually told me I would never get another featured reading “in this town again”, later I learned he was a big deal being professor of English at Chapman University, but I didn’t give a shit, and of course I went on to have hundreds* of featured readings, including eventually being invited to Chapman as part of the “Four Tom’s” but again I am getting way ahead of myself…
I started back to school, I was half way settling down with a woman and going to have a kid (I know, I know haven’t I already discussed left turnism, what else can I say) but I was on SSI & SDI (lol man is that a story) and semi solvent so…back to school I went.
This is where I meet the famously smooth Lee Malloryinski, and begin to attend the Factory Readings in Santa Ana. This is early 90′s, the Auganga Kid is not born yet, but I am living with his Mom, going to school, and really trying hard to make money doing what I love…thinking stuff up and writing it down. It’s also about this time where I am introduced (finally many say) to Bukowski’s poetry (then prose later). Reading him, though we are not exactly the same, still gives me a feeling of validation because in many ways (I’ve been told over and over) our styles are similar. He was just so f-ing depressing, I mean I lived it, why did I want to read about it. But we did share some stylistic and subject commonalities, and I was afraid if I read too much cB, my own voice would drift more toward his…after all he was making money by this point, having movies made about his adventures in left turnism…and I of course…okay off track…
Ooo I like yer stuff!
In Lee’s class I hone my poetic style, and at “The Factory Readings” I polish my delivery. As always, again, God, fate, whatever, I am blessed with great stage presence, as my poems become more stylistically constant, I become a solid audience favorite. My popularity grows so much so that first Lee, then soon other hosts begin to put me as opener to their respective readings. (I’m not saying my poetry was that great, just that for many reasons, including my poetry, I was a good opening act)It isn’t long before I become quite well known on the performance poetry “coffee house circuit”. I still hadn’t had a featured slot, (I sure thought I was ready [man I must have been an annoying pompous lil fuck])but I am all over the so cal map, hitting easily ten or more readings a month. At this point I have yet to hear the term “Slam” but there are performance poetry contests suddenly springing up at nearly every venue and then some. I rarely take first due to low scores by the panels of experts, but I always place in the top three (really truly, never placed less than third, and by far most common is 2nd place*) if the audience vote is considered. In fact I do so well, and it is so common I write a poem called “Call me Mr. 2nd* Place” it wasn’t that good, I don’t remember more than the first line or two and anyway here we are running long…
I hope to God this will at least be interesting to my kids someday ’cause Jumped up Jesus, this has become like some albatross around my neck and, though now determined to finish what I’ve begun, I can’t believe any of you out there are still reading let alone wanna hear more….and I still haven’t gotten to the “Four Tom’s“, Psycho Boy & “Next” Magazine, “Homeless to House husband” my last chapbook and one man perf po play at the Ritz on Hollywood Blvd, and boy-howdy Slam action galore! So yea…If yer at all interested you can check out my latest poetry here at 409…otherwise I will continue with Part 4 of this…this…whatever it is I’m doing here…at some point…you’ve all been attendant and faithful friends….I should take at least a little time and do the same…but no promises this morning Cat’s & Kittens….I mean I’ve been so good at keeping them the last 48 hour…so
Imagine if you will my Cat’s & Kitten’s, if you can oh my most competent readers, that I’m not this ol’ cantankerous, clankity, assholeyish, fist ready, sin soaked, dysfunctional unit. Instead let’s imagine me as I was earlier in life, as
a young fresh unit, inherent flaws not yet exposed, not yet fissured under the coming pressures. This little Unit(a part of me that still exists in it’s own way)liked animals, nature(I wanted to be a biologist), plants, flowers, stories, and poems, puzzles, games, crosswords, chess(still suck due to lack of patience) even dabbled in stamp and insect collections lol…of course these things aren’t a boy’s best friend, especially bigger boys who look like they might someday play football or some other real mans past time…oh it is to laugh.
A lot of this little Units ideas about who he was are lost to me now( I only remembered about the stamp and insect collections while typing [I actually had to stop typing and almost went and told Lil' Mouse so I didn't ferget, but she's still sleeping, and as I went it dawned on me I'd just typed it down...])but this is about poetry so lets get back to that…
I remember in general that I loved the gentle fun of poetry, it’s often (in kids poems especially) twist on words, meanings, puns, word play in general. I remember specifically and most my enjoyment of Ogden Nash(OMG you bastards I jes remembered how I used to go around reciting Shel Silverstien’s Boa Constrictor) and now obviously I must have been familiar with and enjoyed Shel Silverstien (I did buy his books of poetry for my own kids but…and…anyway…) I’m going to get off of talking about little Unit ’cause this is gonna make me puke if I keep having these memories regurgitating up like this…
This is just about Poetry…I know I wrote a lot of poetry…not only in my memory but part of the collective family memory, those stories passed along such as “You were always a happy child.” It is yer memory about yerself, but is it truly something I “remember” or just know (though this is true about me, as much still now as it was then[or so I've been told] because the weird thing is even when I’m sad, I’m happy to be sad fer awhile)…and see poetry fits with this little unit perfectly
Unfortunately, call it fate God’s plan whatever,the now growing Unit’s family was not as fond of poetry and or poetic type people (and all the rest that came with the above…oh it is to laugh).
So let’s jump a bunch of years (mainly cause I don’t remember and don’t wanna sit here and possibly do so). The next poet I really remember was in High School (ya know back in that English class where you learned about the poem that was shaped like an umbrella or atom bomb and ya thought that was really cool)when I was introduced to ee cummings. I was of course one of those troubled (but also still in general “happy” figure that out lol)high school units who wrote poetry, the kind well meaning young female English teachers take a shine to and pass on enough positives to explode an already overly intrigueable mind..wow it’s too bad you will never see the previous sentence in it’s pre-edited form…lol, a complete mystery even to me. But I’m sure the time this is posted it will be fixed.
The point is I was of course growing in my “social awareness” and my well meaning teacher draws my attention to this
Buffalo Bill's
defunct
who used to
ride a watersmooth-silver
stallion
and break onetwothreefourfive pigeonsjustlikethat
Jesus
he was a handsome man
and what i want to know is
how do you like your blueeyed boy
Mister Death
Okay this not only had me saying “Yea! What do ya have to say Mr. Man?” But also “hey I like the way he writes poetry.” and like many young poets after first reading ee I began to write all my poems in lower case (lol, I did, and I stuck with it fer years, even down to the lower case i).
Here’s one of the poems from this period, notice the similarities (except mine was condensed from a lines written during a mushroom tripp)
I continued to write poetry, but I was also in theater and was one of the leading “men” in our school productions. I was also beginning to dabble in drugs and alcohol, had already spent more than one night on the street(by the end of h.s. I did not live at my parents and siblings home [many nights I slept on the beach and walked the three or so miles to school]). I was also a fan of this new fun, angry, anti man, intellectually quirky music called punk. And fer awhile my poetry became lyrics and combined with my natural clown like public persona (and almost acceptable singing voice)I was a natural to front bands. So poetry of course took a back seat ’cause I was sure I was going to be famous(rich was secondary in my head it was fame I craved)…I mean I was sure of it…lololol….(praise Jesus of course in hind sight that it was not to be and that God had other plans in store fer me).
Left Turn Chapter 15
May 19, 2012
Hey and double post ho everybody the ol Dysu is rockin right along on his to do list today, which includes actually readin others blogs at some point my WPals, don’t know if I’ll finish up Pt. 2 of “Poetry & Prose” (jes needs editing 
and that one perfect pic[don't even have a clue what it might be yet lol])prior to midnight, but I’ll post before I go crawl my ol ass into bed, jes keep the coffee and smoke coming and it should be no problem to power through…
Anyway what the hell where we doing here…Oh wait Chapter 15 Left Turn…
Okay so yea I kept tellin ya ADULT THEME’S and now I’m warning ya again before ya continue. Don’t bitch later if’n it offends yer delicate sensibilities. Don’t worry if it doesn’t yet, yer turns probably coming..it’s a story about bad people doing bad things….
15.
Val steadies herself for a moment against the side of the car then, laughing musically, launches herself across the street toward me.
“What’s a matter Mac?” She giggles lightly.
She keeps talking, but all I hear is that light laughter like fairy music. I say something back to her, it must be okay because she laughs again and crashes into my arms.
I only have a brief second, but as we move to kiss I see that her eyes are gray and gold. Then our lips meet quickly parting so that the tongues may engage in courtship.
I was already hard as Val brought her lips to mine. Now as she leans fully against me and comes into contact with the swelling snake in my pants, she moans audibly into my mouth and begins to grind up against my hardness.
Somewhere a cell phone starts ringing, it takes me a second to realize it’s on Val. The ring tone is “Stand By Your Man” by Tammy Wynette. She does not pause in her attempts to grind her way through our clothes so I ignore the obvious hilarious irony and let her continue
The force of her need is so strong I am propelled backwards into my door. Fumbling with one hand behind me, the other has a full grip on Val’s deliciously meaty ass cheek, I grasp and turn the knob and we are falling backwards into my room. The phone cuts off as we land. I hope we didn’t break it. Not like I’m gonna stop to ask though.
She gives a little squeal as we fall. My arms wrap instinctively tighter around her. I meet the hard floor with my back. My head bouncing off the rock hard cement. Val lands full on top of me. And for just a second we are both stunned. I look into those eyes, her hair has fallen around my face like a silver curtain making us the only two people in the world.
“Oh my God are you okay?” She whispers breathlessly a look of true concern warring with the animal lusts inside her. “You just conked your head pretty hard.”
I had no words, no dirty comeback, she was too adorable. I wanted to think of something cool, something tough, but I lay there, I’m sure with this pansy ass grin on my face, saying nothing.
The phone started ringing again. Now my mouth was coming open. Was I going to say something? Something responsible? I t couldn’t be. Val put one of her fingers on my lips.
“Shhh!”
Then she was leaning in and we were kissing again. Her hips slowly gyrated, her pussy slowly ground against my rock hard cock. The rings cut off but I barely notice. I do notice the heat, even through my shorts, coming from her pussy as she rides her hips up and down the length of my cock.
She moans again into my mouth. Finally I find myself and my right hand starts pawing at her breasts. As one of her tits springs free, Val starts fumbling with my belt. I blindly kiss my way down her neck across her collar bone. Val lifts herself with one hand, cupping the breasts with the other she brings her soft nipple to my waiting tongue.
The cell phone starts to ring again. ‘Stand by your man, Give him two arms to cling to…’
“Shit!”
This was Val, not me.
She sat up straight abruptly, her nipple leaving my mouth with a comical popping sound. That made us both pause, then laugh. Val threw her head back laughing, her beautiful hair flying, her face lit up , flushed with passion, her eyes full of youthful sparkle like Jen…Jesus why was I thinking of her.
The phone finished up and went to voice mail once again before Val pulled it from the pocket of the little white sundress I liked so much. Crap. That was not a good sign. Her face, still flushed with passion, but indecision was cooling the fire behind her eyes. My dick was harder than I ever remembered it being. The tip, semi exposed and oozing fluid began to demand it’s prize. She stared at the phone but did not open it. I knew what was coming, though and before she could slide away, I sprung and rolled us over. Val let out a little cry and the phone spun out of her grasp and onto the floor. A look of sudden uncertainty re-flamed those fires, and the beast roared his approval.
I lifted myself off her for a brief second, pushups style, reached down with my right hand and in a swift motion yanked down my shorts and fully freed my throbbing cock.
Both our eyes tracked down to meet its own glistening one. Val let out a gasp, a mixture of fear and passion. I knew what was going through her head…I want it, I don’t want it, I want it, I don’t want it. Using my right still I pulled the crotch of her panties to the side and exposed the dusky lips of her inflamed pussy. She was as wet as I was hard.
“Mac..”
I lowered my lips to hers. I wanted to lower my hips. Was screaming and insane to lower my hips but. I don’t know. I wanted her to want me. And so I kissed her, gently at first. Her indecision melted away swiftly and I knew I had her when her tongue stabbed into my mouth. I dropped my hips and did likewise. She spreads her legs fully and I penetrate, entering her in one swift motion breaking our kiss. My back arched, I drive deep in her, lifting her ass off the floor and sliding her back an inch on the rough cool concrete. Together joined at the pelvis for one brief glorious second, her hands rake up and down my lower back, and I begin to match her rhythm.
She moans and grunts with an animal passion nearly equal to my own. I try not to look at her bouncing tits, the perspiration beading up on her, mixing with my own sweat as it drips from my brow and pools in the low spot between them
I wanted to go slow, in all my fantasies I have started slow. But I here I am fucking her good and proper right off the get go. I know I am not going to last long. The familiar feeling builds up inside of me, boils up inside, and I know I am near to cumming.
Then the phone starts ringing, doing its own dance of the interrupting dick across the concrete floor. Val’s eyes track to it, a look of horror, fear, lust, anger all war in those beautiful eyes. Somewhere, me, the me that is me and not the beast, got an inkling that Val really wanted to stop. Trust me I know how that is sounds to you straights. The beast was having none of it though, after all he reasoned we are so close.
All this is going on in my head while, of course my body continued its relentless assault, and now that I was paying attention I could feel Val’s hand move from my back to my front sides.
“…By your man…” the phone croons.
Even before I felt the pressure of Val’s hands begin to try and slow my pace the beast was raging. If that fucking phone hadn’t started ringing I may have already fucking cum by now, but…
“Fuck!”
Whoops that was me out loud, really loud, and angry sounding. Val’s eyes now flood with fear, for her the game is over, maybe forever.
“…to cling to…”
“Mac?”
I stop. Okay. Is everybody happy. Yea I stop. I do the right thing. Make the right turn. Not perfectly mind you. I jump off her, jump to my feet, my deflating cock swinging around like an angry cobra, spitting sticky pre cum. I kick at her phone as it falls silent. But my shorts are around my ankles and I nearly stumble and fall. Val giggles, I mean of course she does, I’m sure it looked hilarious I was just in no mood to hear it.
“Mac?”
Fuck it. Fuck it. I pull my shorts up.
“Mac I’m sorry I…”
Fuck it fuck it fuck it the mantra runs through my head like a piston. I cross the floor to my jeans and retrieve the crumpled joint from the pocket.
“Mac…?”
She looks beautiful, still sitting there all disheveled like that, looking at her makes me feel weird, I mean I don’t understand the feeling, hot but also weak or, I still I mean…fuck it
“It’s all good.” I lie “I’m great, I’m sorry I was so…
“No I’m sorry…” She begins
The phone chimes in with its own opinion.
“Stand by your man…”
Val’s eyes are full of sorrow and hurt and I don’t know what the hell is wrong with me. She begins to put herself back together pulling the front of her dress back over her tits. I should be, would have normally been pissed that this bitch didn’t fuckin put out. But instead I don’t just feel pissed but have other warring feelings. I feel bad, I feel sorry, I wanna go to her and cradle her in my arms. Jesus feelings are fucked up.
We look into each other eyes. I don’t know what she sees in mine. But I see pity in hers.
“…two arms to cling to.”
I walk out the door and into the night.
Ola Gato’s y Gatitios…it’s me the Ol Dysu back fer another fabulous round of…whatever the hell it is I do here. So here’s the dealey-o fer today…
Recently I have been in a wonderful series of discussions (here on WP) with Bluebird (obviously not her real name) revolving around writing, both prose and poetry. She is by far more technically savvy than me. Let me get that in the open right off the get go, especially regarding prose in case I inadvertently (somewhere in the following piece[or part two fer that matter]) imply anything to the contrary. In this process I have uncovered interesting hidden truths about not only some of my past works that I have been posting here, but the new pieces and posts that I pepper this imaginary place we call the world wide web as well…
An actual Bluebird, not Blogger Bluebird
Okay, as usual, I’m not going to go straight to these “hidden truths” but head there circuitously by way of the next reply I was gettin ready to post on her page entitled “Reading Poetry in the Big Chief Years”…I hadn’t planned to do things this way(yea like I usually plan anything). I had planned to write my poetry story (some thing she had asked[as well as a sonnet coming miss BB]), ya know like, well wait I guess ya don’t know, anyway the point is not like this…but well, here’s the deal, and those of you who I follow and comment on yer posts will easily back me on this….My comments and/or replys can often at times ramble on…sometimes longer than the original posts I am commenting on…oh it is to laugh…Anyway the point is that at some point, as the reply stretched on I realized that I was practically telling my poetry story right then and there, and though I’d promised to say it quickly…I’ll wait till yer done laughing…of course like always I was quickly easily topping 5oo words…
So, instead I decided to firstly, not post another long reply on this poor Gal’s Blog, (really ya gotta go and read not only this specific posts, but her other posts regarding writing, her poetry and…hell just become one of her followers you won’t regret it [I mean, Five Minute Dance Party alone often makes my day(I mean not this one but often)])…but, and again as usual, anyway…secondarily, this is a great chance to not only tell my poetry story, but explain some of what I have learned about what I have ended up (somehow unknowingly) attempting to accomplish with this weird writing style I have (somehow) accidentally (on purpose)found myself trying to write with and you the reader ending up left to puzzle over….and you should see the first draft sentences….
Anyway, and so okay her we go…the following was my reply, in my own particularly peculiar way…
B.B-Bukowski of course was a huge inspiration fer me especially when it came to “finding” my own poetry voice…mmm…tryin to figure out how to say this quickly…weird-o kid, 
dreamer, good fer nuthin, had a bad(?) family/home life, left home ran the streets, into weirdo arts etc (mostly writing poems, plays, lame early teens despair and darkness stuff lol)…But I didn’t read books outside of school…which was limited to short fiction and poetry, so no novels at all…(I had read earlier, as a little boy, Tom Sawyer etc…I especially remember loving the Hardy Boys). But I was too cool to read books(actually if you read my earliest post[links added above not part of original reply obviously] you can see I was trying to look tough more than be cool), in my experience, little boy units who are programmed to like reading got their asses whooped. please no “so sorry’s”, water under a long passed bridge. I laugh about it now.
Okay, so late teens early twenty’s By this time I had been in theater(all H.S. and) first year of college,making underground(deep, deep) arty (unintelligible, pretentious or sometimes both) films with friends, still mostly homeless, a 
father, and was in was in a variety of punk bands (writing and singing)I bumped into a guy who gives me a Kurt Vonnegut book…”Cat’s Cradle” still one of my favorite writers to reread. Then came the beats but most importantly Kerouac…reading 
“On The Road” changed my whole idea of who I was…even though we were temporally, of course, years apart I felt a real kinship to whatever the particular variety of madness he suffered from….”On the Road” was my “Catcher in the Rye” so to speak
The next big author fer me was of course HST, like Vonnegut and Kerouac before him I read everything he had published in a few short months. Okay whoops major bullshit alert, Freudian omission whatever, I have not read everything that any of the above authors have written….there is a distinct example of how someone can become a victim of their own bullshit…oh it is to laugh…I know I have made that statement more than once sitting around with other arty pretentious bastards each trying to out cool each other…(and it is a perfect example of what I rant about all the time; the difference between a truth and the truth)…Anyway like take Vonnegut fer instance, I do not think I finished “God Bless you Mrs Rosewater”, I don’t remember why (this must have been early 80′s remember) but more than likely it bored me somehow. I distinctly remember not liking “Welcome to the Monkey House” that much either….I liked Kerouac s prose, but hardly remember reading much of his poetry…but there have been a hell of a lot of drugs between here and there and so maybe I’ve jes fergotten that I have read them…L and his fabulous o l’s,
And then as I was giving up on the punk “rich rock star dieing young of an overdose” dream I first discovered the poetry scene in LA about 87 maybe 88, I was still homeless then, but turning up at these events, and having heard some of my stuff (again my old punk songs turned into not so good poems,) an older poet suggested I read Bukowski…I have now read much of his work (more his poetry than prose (through the early nineties) but I began to feel as I often do that (but especially with C.B.) his style, his voice was beginning to bleed into mine or compromise my…now don’t laugh…”artistic integrity”…in reality BB you are far more of a craftsman than me regarding the actual process of writing prose. Like with the eclipses issue (lol, originally I think it was simply me doing ya know…hmmm…punk stuff…anti stuff) Often I do or think first and, usually through some sort of secondary process (such as discussing why I don’t use punctuation in poetry with yer lovely self in this case) understand the truth of the thing after…
So that’s about where I stopped Dude’s and Dudette’s…I mean that wasn’t the end…that’s where I realized that I had really only briefly talked about poetry, let alone attempted to clarify some of the odder statements I had made already….but I was well on my way to another long ass rambling semi coherent reply…I mean look here I am well over a thousand words already so I am going to split it up as I often am wont to do…
I probably won’t get Pt. 2 posted till late tonight, cause I’m sure you’ll all be waiting by yer computers (plus Chapter 15 [find out what happens between Val & Mac]is edited and, c.m.f. ready to be posted)’cause i got laundry to do before Lil Mouse gets home.(jes don’t tell anyone I do laundry, it will ruin my tough guy male chauvinist asshole image that I am so carefully crafting)
In part two I will (I promise) talk strictly ’bout poetry, at least at first, I hope, then a bit about my attempts at prose including here on WP, then I will try to wrap up the post with clarifications ( hopefully answering the hows they came abouts?[and whys' ya keepin ons?])discussions of style content etc of my other writings here on Word Press…including my lonely little “nice” Blog (shameless self promotion I know) “Random Rite’s & Wrongs”…wow okay reading that it seems just a smidge of an over reach to think I can get that all in one post…
Until ya see me tryin then, keep it dysfunctional
My Little Dog Gets the Last Laugh
May 17, 2012
http://cnettv.cnet.com/av/video/cbsnews/atlantis2/cbsnews_player_embed.swf
Okay so it won’t let me embed it fer some reason (paranoia seeps in) so here’s a link to the story but I’m gonna leave what does come up anyway…
A…Uh….Lolololololol…uh…wait….lololol….okay hold on…oh…whoo!…oh okay…olol…wait…oh lolololololol….
Okay, well uh ok..cstm…oh it is to laugh isn’t it Erica?
I mean we all make mistakes and we should be able to laugh about them…huh?
Oh and maybe an apology would be in order. But don’t worry, I’ll graciously accept it as long as you promise not to do it again…
I mean I know you won’t and I know that most Americans will still believe exactly as they did before this story(ya know those who think he’s guilty will still and etc…)And most will ferget and in a year or two we can repeat this ride…Whee!
So hang in their Erica you’ll get a chance to convince American’s that we’re racist yet!
Left Turn Chapter 14
May 16, 2012
14.
Laying in my creaky bed, praying for sleep, thinking about everything but the joint in the pocket of my jeans, which lay on the floor at the foot of my bed. Which means of course I was thinking of nothing but that fucking joint. Somewhere beyond my walls the deep throbbing bass line of some classic rock song entertaining the last remaining partiers at the Wennler street dance did not help my attempts to ‘turn in early’
‘It wasn’t like one joint was really gonna make that much diff…’
I stopped myself. That was wrong thinking, I knew I had to be tired, which means I was more likely to make a stupid choice, but I couldn’t afford to make even ones wrong turn. The problem was I was tired but I didn’t feel sleepy. It seemed like the time between last night, and tonight, the similarities, the sweaty heat, sticky sheets, the hard cock and visions of nubile teens kneeling naked before me, made the time between, the parade and picnic and fireworks, dream like, like it had almost happened to someone else. But at the same time there were moments where I felt, however briefly, like I could belong here
In some ways, if I let go, I could almost see myself as one of those kids, those farm boys, what would that be like? One particular tow headed boy, being carried from the field by his father after the fireworks had ended caught my eye. His little blonde head resting on his Dad’s shoulder. After a spectacularly magical day, his eyes, glazing over with the onset of sleep, a peaceful smile spreading across his pudgy face, his little eyes momentarily locked with mine. It was a brief second, but he did seem to focus, even just for that short time, and this weird moment, it seemed, pass between us. He was like ‘S’up just hanging with my Dad, worlds great, I’m safe, gonna go to sleep now’.
Hell I didn’t know what to do, I gave the little fucker a nod. ‘You go little guy’, I thought and then his eyes closed…and I mean…
Why the fuck not me? I mean what happened to me…Is it God, fate, was it all a series of accidents, my being born, my being born into the family I got born into? I mean mother fucking shit! Is there some deeper meaning or is it all for nothing. Fuck I wanted to smoke that joint. And why not, what is being good getting me? This sweaty room, all alone…I suddenly wished I had a gun. The itch was building. Sweaty and uncomfortable in my little place, in my bed, in my own skin…
“Fuck!” I mean “Jesus Fucking Christ!”
I was off the bed and kicking and swinging for all I was worth, trying to fight off this weird stress, these demons, these fuck ass feelings that were welling up inside of me. Spinning back kick, three fast blows, chest, chest, face. Swinging for all I was worth and at some point tears start welling up in my eyes. Fucking tears.
“Fuckin Pussy, Fucking Goddamn baby, down to the floor fuckin fuck ass!”
Down, in three point, toes extended, palms flat, I started whipping those push-ups out. I swear to God I was past fifty before I even thought about counting. But still the crybaby tears wouldn’t stop. They pattered the floor along with my sweat, puddling below me, the puddle rippling in time with my own exhaustive efforts. I squeezed my eyes shut, berated myself further, pushed myself farther, yet still the tears came on, redoubling their own efforts, a sob wracks my body. A snot bubble swells and bursts out my right nostril. I mean what the fuck am I five years old? I have lost it, out of control I collapse. Laying on the floor in my own fluids, I am completely gone, wailing cries of agony escape me as the sheer hopelessness and of my situation overwhelms me. Whatever I had started out meaning to become, had somehow gone hopelessly wrong. I must have had some sort of dream, some sort of idea of what I had wanted to become. When I was that little boys age what did I dream about? Where had those memories gone? How had I lost the drams of me the little boy? How did I end up becoming this, this thing this dysfunctional machine inhabited by some monstrous beast? What was I to do with myself if I could not learn to conquer it?
The sobs had settled down to quiet weeping now. I’d never experienced anything like this before. I slowly realized I was curled up on my side like a baby. Lucky I hadn’t had my thumb in my mouth…
“If that happens I’m ending it” I laughed
It didn’t sound that funny. Hadn’t I been considering ending it a lot lately. Had I been thinking about it right now. The real problem was that I just didn’t have the tools to guarantee the job.
No that was a lie. There were some lovely long and wickedly sharp shards of glass in the outside dumpster. Now there was a plan. And a man needs a plan.
“Up and at ‘em ya puss ass fuck”
There was this guy in the joint who had this kick ass ink, anyway the pictures not important, just a weird bunch of bats. It was instead the accompanying words I remember so well and want to relate here, “He who makes a beast out of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man.” He said it was by some famous writer named Gonzo, I only remember ‘cause it was that one Muppet’s name.
I don’t know what it has to do with anything. No as I stand up I do.
The fucker who wrote that was lying. It just puts the pain off till later.
Heading towards the door I understand that I wasted most of my life chasing that principle without knowing it. And I wasted my whole life. The people here, most of them, people like Steve, they didn’t make beast of themselves and tonight leaving the fireworks display reliving the various ohh and ahh highlights the sulfur smoke still hanging low over the Wennler Lyons League Field, they all seemed to be pretty fucking happy.
So really the jokes on me and its pretty god damned fucking hilarious and, opening the door I think that I can’t wait to meet God and tell him so.
The music is much louder as I step outside. Voices raised in drunken celebration. Three blocks over roman candle’s colored balls leap into the sky. The breeze evaporates the tears and sweat from my cheeks. I shiver involuntarily. Not because of my intentions. It seems a fine and right thing to do everything considered. And either there will be nothing, and I can finally put a stop to this travesty, or Heaven will be real and I can tell God off to his face, before he sends me to eternal damnation for stuff I had about as much chance of changing as I did leaping into the sky and catching a flaming roman candle ball. I watch their trailing arc as they cross the star filled night. It is incredibly beautiful, and a nice vision to end it all on.
As I turn toward the dumpster, my eyes following the dimming balls as they wisp away behind the trees across the street I notice a car. A champagne colored Cadillac, one of the new ones. It was as out of place as the vision now climbing from the opening drivers door.
Now why had I come outside?
Daft Shallows
May 15, 2012
Well hello all you little cat’s and Kittens out there, I know it’s been a long time since I “posted” posted. Yes I been throwing up (?lol) chapters of LT, but there has been a ton of cultural/political/social shit happening and I been silent on it all…I know, I know, well actually of course I have a f-ing huge back log and some things are so topical (and I have been so busy) that much of the “pencil” outlines, as it were never see the light of the computer screen. Ya know ’cause my little couple paragraph rants always spin out of control lol…
Ahh but this morning I am presented with something I can make quick work of…oh it is to laugh here is a quote off of one of my “friends” f-book posts
Okay well I have blocked out the names(just after the first block is the word I)…even though I don’t actually care whether or not they find out I am mocking them…if I posted something like this I guess I’d expect to be mocked also. I know (and I actually literally do know in this instance) that the people in question consider them selves green friendly(after all they buy all the “right” new products), still edgy and alternative (like all their friends), in support of many of the most liberal agendas (regular updates on hoodie issues etc) including a deep and abiding(so they say) compassion for the poor (as they and their girl friends drive by them in a new Toyota Highlander Hybrid, on their way to a movie they’re pretty sure they are not going to hate, a little tipsy from the forty dollar wine they started “girls night out” with)
And people wonder how these crap movies keep gettin made.
My New Movie Review…”well it wasn’t as bad as a kick to the crotch, I’ll give ‘em that”…oh I mean it is to laugh
Anyway, that’s all this morning, runnin super late already lol. Chapter 14 coming, and I promise I’ll get to all yer groovalicious posts tonight….
Thanks all
