It’s All right Ma, I’m Only Bleeding

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blind_justice

Like most every time one story out of millions captures the attention of the media and the masses. There was Casey Anthony, Scott Peterson, and who could forget the OJ trial? Now we’re at it again with the Trayvon Martin George Zimmerman case. There are so many elements we could focus on in this trial. The right to defend oneself, the right to walk freely in a neighborhood, the racial profile, or the fact that it seems acceptable for an untrained person on “Neighborhood Watch” to be carrying a loaded weapon. All of these things have been selected ,inspected, and dissected until they were infected and rejected and basically been talked about over and over so much that even the hardcore trial addicts are getting weary. That’s how we do it though, we pick out one story out of millions, the one that will spark the most polarizing effect and set people against each other and beat the shit out of the story.
There’s millions of other atrocities to choose from, pick a city and chances are good an innocent person has been killed within the last few days, but if it doesn’t capture the imagination of the argument hungry public it gets no airtime. The courts are full of rapists, murderers, and liars getting away with crimes but unless there are elements that can get us fighting no one gives a shit. Give us a story with teeth. WTF, that’s our nature I guess, the ancient Romans gathered in hordes to watch other people meet a violent end and we are doing the same thing only calling it civilized. We don’t actually watch the battle but our mouths froth for the aftermath so we can disagree with each other and add some real life drama to our lives, as if we don’t already have our fair share.
So all in all its really not a big surprise that we would focus on this case but this one has taken a disturbing and disconcerting turn. The case isn’t coming down to facts, not at all about right or wrong, or racism, or unnecessary use of a firearm, its come down to who’s Mom does the jury believe. A grieving Mom or a Mom fighting for her sons freedom. We‘ve heard from both. Mrs. Martin. Who doesn’t believe that she is sure in her heart that she heard the familiar cry of her son screaming for help? Mrs. Zimmerman, who doesn’t believe that she believes in her heart that she heard the scream of her son? If it was me I would be sure it was my son, because my love for him is so strong I would believe it no matter what. So is one mother lying? Putting the two mothers on the stand is an all time low as far as I’m concerned. Personally I believe them both. I believe them to be caring and loving mothers who would go to the mat, take a bullet, die for there children. Most of us would. But they are not on trial.
Why does it even matter who was creaming for help? What about the facts? A young boy was guilty of buying candy and being in a strange neighborhood. A young man is guilty of following this youth, with a firearm in a holster, and confronting him for whatever reason. This is the debate. Is Zimmerman a protector or a vigilante? Maybe they should leave the Moms out and stick to the facts. But then again, if they do that they may lose ratings, who wants to see reality on TV anyway?

The Scream Of The Butterfly

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ping

Living in the Timothy Leary
Psychedelic ping pong theory
Turn on Tune In
All this shit makes me weary

The hard slam of the paddle
Causing gray matter rattle
Turn on Tune in
Your ass back in the saddle

The harder they hit the more you bounce back
Weathering every heart pounding attack
Turn on Tune in
Don’t come along if you don’t have the knack

Keep on with the game until it all ends
Booze pot and pills will help with the cleanse
Turn on Tune In
With a little help from my friends

So icy it chills right to the bone
The hurter the pain the louder the moan
Turn on Tune in
Why won’t you leave me alone

Lived my life like a ping pong ball, the harder they hit the harder and faster I bounced back, over and over. Over the net. Sometimes I tripped over the net, got knocked clear out of bounds, went over the line, but got up every time and I’m still in the game and ready to go. So keep on hitting me motherfucker as hard as you can but I will bounce back every time and look you straight in the eye. Even in the big sleep.

Red And White, Blue Suede Shoes

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46Flower_Power_demonstrator

Hippie Independence Day

A lot is said whenever these “patriotic” holidays come around about supporting the troops and thanking a soldier. That’s a great sentiment but waving a flag around, or making your social media avatar a bald eagle or the American flag, and making sure everyone knows how much this person———————> loves their country isn’t what make us patriots. It’s an honest and sincere belief that our country can be even better and more free. That’s why this year I’m asking you to not only thank the obvious defenders of freedom, but thank a hippie.
Sound sarcastic or ridiculous? Not when you stop to think about it. The Hippie movement has done so much to help move the country forward, but much of the accomplishments are diminished by the stigma of heavy drug use. Its true, drugs were an integral part of the movement but it wa more a celebration of experimenting and making the “Establishment” angry that weed was better than martini’s. If you look beyond the drug use you’ll see a group of young people who embodied the spirit of the founding fathers as much as any other patriotic people in our history. Its not easy having the guts to stand up to years and years of policy and say “We’re not gonna take it.” It was that spirit, in the face of tyranny to take a stand for decency and humanity. I‘m not saying everything done was right and as with any group there were some extremists who took it too far, but overall the hippie movement was one of peace, love, and rock and roll. It created a giant cultural swing that allowed future generations to stand up to power an call bullshit!
The entire globe is facing many challenges and human rights is at the forefront of so many battles in the struggle for equality but it’s a challenge that needs to be faced. I sincerely hope we are currently on the brink of a new emerging group of people like the hippies that won’t just complain about the way the country I being run but find the courage and fortitude to stand up to the worn out principles and replace it with modern and more effective principles of governing that address the concern of this new era. I hope the young people of our times have what it takes to bring our country further up the road. Hopefully they won’t need to use drugs to establish that being rebellious is not disrespect, but an honest desire to make the world a better place.
So on this holiday, July 4th, Independence Day, remember that we celebrate it not because it marks the day that we defeated the alien with the help of Will Smith, but a day in which a group of rebels believed that it is our inherent right to live our lives in peace and freedom on our terms, not the term of a tyrannical fascist. This year I’m asking you to thank a hippie. So when you see an old dude still rocking their hippie roots, thank them, give them a beer, and if ya got em, light em up. Because when you come down to it, some things never change. Peace

Is That A Rabid Rat On The Sidewalk Or Are You Just Ready To Attack Me

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GiantRatLG

The Answer My Friend, Is Blowin’ In The Wind

I was living and working in New York City as a line cook at a Midtown restaurant. It was a hot summer night an after busting my ass all night I was ready to get fired up at a happening club on the lower east side around the corner from CGBG’s. All night long I had been slicing, dicing, chopping, sautéing and frying while engaging in screaming matches with the expeditor who being French had the advantage of cursing me out with words I didn’t understand. I was some sort of “petty rast decayed-a-rrrrayso contingawn de merrrda” or some weird shit with cool “R” tongue rolls which a co-worker tells me means I am a sort of gay syphilis encrusted piece of shit. Those French, so descriptive, gotta love em for making insults sound so nice.. To be honest his French words flowed so sweetly to me like he was yelling “you sweet American hunk of a man your chopped onions could make a French women cry,” but it is what it is. Anyway, I was tired and ready to get amped up and find a lover that won’t drive me crazy. Unless of course that lover drives me crazy in bed.
At any rate, I left the 43rd street restaurant and since I didn’t make a ton of money slinging sauté pans for a living I chose to travel by foot. Besides, it was a nice summer night and I had some time to kill with not much happening in the city till around midnight. I walked the way most New Yorkers do, transverseing the streets. That is to say we walk in the path of least resistance negotiating the traffic. When cars prevent me from continuing south I head east a block or two until its clear again. This oddly normal way of walking led me directly into the path of Herald Square, a tiny little park where 6thAve and Broadway converge around 34th street. Herald Square is more of a triangle (an obtuse one for you math nerds) and I was prepared to go through this small triangular park when something caught me eye. Underneath the unoccupied benches played a bastion of rats all running and jumping right out there in the open, not afraid of a thing. At first the hippie in me thought “How cute, little rodents playing red rover or something” until a jolt of restaurant reality hit me. Rats are mortal enemies of both mice and men, especially when they choose to dine in the restaurant you work in.
That said, I decided I would ignore their usual enemy combatant status and indulge in a little herbal enhancement. This way I could amuse myself by watching them play for a little while. They just seemed like they were having so much fun and like I said, time to kill. Looking around like I was casing the street for a robbery attempt I carefully scanned the area for any blue suited “peoples friend” law enforcement officers who for whatever reason believed catching someone committing the heinous crime of getting high was keeping the rest of the world safe. The last thing the world should fear is a mellow stoned hippie and this weed was so good I would be stoned and mellow just lighting up. Not seeing any cops around I fired up a joint and enjoyed the Big Apple Rat Circus for a few minutes. They were quite agile, jumping over each other in games of leap-rat, or tag, or whatever rat games they play. I thought I may have even seen a few of them smiling, but like I said, it was primo weed. After I had taken three hits my memory bank played a rather unnecessary trick on me and withdrew the memory of the movie “Willard” which caused a shiver to reverberate from my prized Frye boots up to my red, white, and blue bandana. Suddenly the playful little rats once again became the ruthless menaces attempting to take over Manhattan one sewer at a time that I knew they were. Freaked out a tad and effected with PTSD (Pot Tokers Stress Disorder) I chose to walk the long way around Herald Square.
Around the park and on to the far side of 6th avenue I ventured avoiding those nasty disease carrying bastards. Now the memory of their game playing freaked me out, but what a gorgeous evening it was. Perfect summer weather, people out and about everywhere, and with the ratscapades now forgotten I put a big smile on my face as I continued on my journey to the hip new club. Up ahead about a city block away I saw something moving in the center of the sidewalk but couldn’t make out exactly what it was. As I got closer it became apparent that it was a sick animal and it may even be a rat. My stoned memory bank was still open so I made another withdrawal this time from much further back. Many years ago when I lived with my parents on Long Island I came home drunk one night only to find a rabid raccoon hissing and threatening me as I tried to sneak in the back door. Frightened and high I was not about to engage in battle with this masked bandit of a rodent that was foaming at the mouth. Begrudgingly I had to knock on the front door and wake my parents up because, well because the fucking thing was rabid! So I was busted for coming home not only late, but three, maybe even four or five sheets to the wind whatever the hell that means.
I digress, suffice is to say the memory of a very sick and dangerous Rocky Raccoon hissing and trying to scratch my eyes out or kill me weighed heavy on my mind as I sized up the sick animal ahead. I was convinced now that directly in my path ahead it was a rabid rat looking for something to attack. The moment of truth was approaching.
Time to summon up some composure. I looked around quick and there were a number of people on the East side of 6th avenue strolling casually totally unaware I was about to be confronted by this sick menace. I reckon I could have just crossed the street and warn people of the dangerous vermin but I didn’t want to look like a wuss. I’m not a whiney suburban boy anymore, I’m living and working in the big city. I am a New Yorker now God dammit and we fear nothing! I took a deep breath and headed straight towards the viscous killer preparing to kick that little fucker all the way across the sidewalk . I was fully aware of the other people around milling about and I was certain most of them could see me. Not willing to have them think I am anything less a fearless New Yorker I forged ahead ready willing and able to defend myself from King Rabid Rat. The very second he was at my feet a slight wind picked up as I reached my right foot back ready to put the full weight of my Frye boot into this sick rodents body it lunged at me. With full force I unleashed a Bruce Lee style kick and made a direct hit. Unfortunately as I looked down to watch the rat fly across the pavement I realized I had just kicked the shit out of a plastic bag that was blowing in an updraft from the subway grate. Oh yea, I put everything I had into kicking that bag and it made an obscenely loud whoosh which I was certain had caught the ear eye and attention of everyone within a three or four block radius.
Being a New Yorker now of course I had to save face. I had nearly lost my balance so I used that to my advantage and spun around, jumped up and did a two and a half spin, came down snapping my finger giving two arm twirls, did an about face move right into a strut/walk the rest of the way down the block repeating “We bad, we bad” like Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder.
I had done my best to save myself from a potentially embarrassing situation yet I heard some chuckles in the distance. When I think back I gotta admit it must have looked funny as Hell. Thing is, I’m not sure if they were laughing at the ridiculous attempt at a dance move from a stoned hippie, a stoned hippie freak on his way to Bellevue for a psychiatric assessment, or the fact that some stoned hippie just got busted for kicking the shit out of a defenseless plastic bag.

Samsung And Da-Liar, conclusion..(best read while mind is alrerady dirty)

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angry sam

A Pillar Of The Community?
Da-Liar was not proud of what she had done. Well, not proud of betraying Samsung, but she wished the camera phone had been invented because she thought his hair looked fab. A mullet for the ages, Spinal Tap meets Dog The bounty hunter. Samsung however did not share her admiration for the new doo. So unhappy with his mangy mallet that he removed every follicle on his head. Samsung had chosen to go all skin, his head shining like a giant…..well actually with his big oblong head shaved clean he kinda looked like a walking penis, but one proud motherhumping shit strutting walking penis with huge bulging and somewhat pissed muscles ready to engage in revenge. First he would kill the filthy bacon eating Philly-Steens then go back and take care of Da-Liar. He made his first strategic decision and turned himself in to King Davy who was overjoyed to have the bald headed joke back in chains and arranged for a party for all to see his conquest.
Posters all over town inviting Philly-Steens to a pagan revival and sacrificial extravaganza this Saturday. Come to the Behemoth Beheading Gala at the Gaza, Saturday evening at the Temple. Featured will be the disembowelment of Israelite slaves and the castration and sacrificial beheading of Samsung. The mighty Hebrew Hope becomes the Hebrew joke as he loses both his heads. Fun and game for all, bring the whole family. I tell ya, these Philly-Steens sure loved their huge ornate celebrations and this promised to be the smash of the century.
Samsung sat in his prison and planned out his moves. Even the other slaves were calling him names now, feeling as though he had severely disappointed them. Samsung had become the laughing stock of the entire Fertile Crescent. But you can’t keep a good man down and Samsung was up. Up for over six hours which is the magic amount of hard time before calling a doctor which he did.
The doctor arrived at his cell, keeping slaves healthy before killing them was one of their main obligations. “What is the problem here slave?” Samsung lifted his loincloth revealing an almost inhumanly large stiff erection and pointed to it, “It’s been like this for over six hours and it won’t go down. I can’t fight like this. Can you release the pressure doc?” Of course the doctor didn’t want to touch that so he ordered the guard to have Samsung brought to his office where he could have his nurse do the deed.
Samsung made no effort to conceal his towering totem and the very second the nurse saw it she sized up the situation in her head and smiled. “Put him in there” as she pointed to the exam room. The nurse informed the doctor she knew just what to o to release the pressure but she needs be alone with him. The doctor ha no objection, if word got out that he had anything to do with releasing the fluid of a raging hard on it would ruin his career. And then it would destroy his family practice once it was discovered it was an Israelites salami he emptied of its contents. So off into the exam room walked Samsung, followed by the nurse with a smile as big as the joystick she was anticipating. She spared no time and placed her hand on his pulsing penis, “Anyone who says size doesn’t matter never held this marvel in her hands.” She began to stimulate the bulging log but Samsung had other idea’s. “It works much better if you’ll let me do some exploring” as he unbuttoned her gown she slipped out effortlessly and instantly allowed him to take the lead.
The two lovers went at it over and over. Over the exam table, over the waiting chair, over the cabinets, over just about everything they could find in the room. Samsungs talents brought the dazed nurse to four, count them, four incredible orgasms until he finally allowed himself to explode 2 quarts of pent up love juice between her thighs. During the explosive love making session Samsung, having learned from Sa-Liar, convinced the nurse to slip him a key to unlock his chains which he stored up his…..well you know where he hid it. He promised her he was going to use it to escape and come back for another pressure relieving episode.
With his ego inflated and his erection deflated he was returned to his cell where he would wait until Saturday when his big moment would arrive. He was fed well and tended to like the fattened calf preparing for a Pagan sacrifice. The town was abuzz in anticipation of a bloody and brutal family night out. Everyone was looking forward to the fiesta except for Da-Liar. Ashamed and heartbroken at betraying her lover Da-Liar wished none of this shit had happened. She sat in her room and sulked and sobbed angry at herself for losing Samsung. The only time she smiled was when she thought back to their love sessions the time she called him “My Sam Schlang” and they would both chuckle before making love again. She would no longer feel him swelling inside her, no more tender touches on her flesh, no more tongue bathing her from toe to head. Da-Liar could take it no longer. All the money and presents and material things no longer meant anything to her. No more thrill from her Ferrari chariot, the Veuve Clicoquot was a no, going to the boutique was weak, the feeling from Louis Vuitton….gone, and from her Prada, nada! Da-Liar couldn’t take the pain anymore, so she drank a bottle of champagne, and went into the bathroom to get some sleeping pills so she could rest. “Hmmm. Maybe I better take 2 or 3 tonight?” After struggling with it she opted to take 5, a very high dose but not one she hadn’t taken before. But when Da-Liar went to sleep, she would not ever wake up again. For some reason, perhaps it was a combination of not eating,drinking the champagne and the pills, or perhaps the pills were stronger than usual, or maybe she took more than he thought. No matter, she’s dead now and will never be able to answer those questions.
If Samsung had known that Da-Liar was gone he may have been sad, or he may have felt vindicated we’ll never know. What we can be sure of however is that on Saturday he was full of determination. He removed the hidden key and cleaned it off thoroughly before unlocking the chains. The prison guards rounded up the evenings sacrificial slaves and paraded them around the Temple as the Philly-Steens jeered and called them names. “Die you worthless penny miser” or “Eat shit and live for a little while”, and “It’s just a party, nothing to lose your head over.” The crowd had a special place in their hateful hearts for when Samsung was walked by. “yo dickhead, I got ya ham sandwich right here”, or “Hey ya bald pecker-head, lose ya Bah Mitzvah?” and “Bring that monster schlong over hear and do me one more time’ (The Nurse). But all of it just bounced of Samsung, he knew that in a short time all the revelers would be crushed by the stones of the temple they worshipped. When they walked him past the pillars that held together the place of Philly-Steen worship Samsung threw off his chains, ran up to the pillars wrapped the unlocked chains around them and pulled them down in a feat of strength even Hercules couldn’t pull off.. The Temple collapsed killing all the Philly-Steens and crushed the entire city of Gaza. Samsung was now the hero of the Israelites who were free now and he was able to put them on the family plan with a new invention he had dreamed up in prison using two cups and a string. All that was left now was taking out his vengeance on Da-Liar.
The second Samsung learned that Da-Liar was dead the anger exited his heart. He couldn’t stay mad at his lover and even began to miss her. He paced through her bedroom remembering their intense love making nights and began to feel sad. He opened a bottle of bubbly and began talking to himself out loud. “Oh man, why did it have to be like this? Only two women I have ever loved and who could satisfy me and both gone. Da-Liar dead and God only knows where Semedar is.” Samsung thought he felt someone in the room when a familiar voice answered him. “I’m here Samsung. After you destroyed the Philly-Steens I was no longer banished an I’m back. Maybe we could start over where…….Wait! What the fuck did you do to your head Samsung?” Semedar walked over to the stunned Samsung and gently put her arms around him. He looked at Semedar and was very angry at first, when suddenly she slowly gyrated her hips into his and that six hour menace threatened to return. Like most men when teased in the right spot Samsung relented and began grinding back. “It’s a long story Semedar, it’ll grow back. Everything grows back.” Words were replaced with moans and groans and the two once again found comfort in each others arms. And legs. And mouths. And….use your imagination.
So things were back to abnormal, the Israelites were free, the promised land was given back (sort of), and Samsung and Semedar lived in coital bliss for the rest of their days. Promising to be honest and to never betray him again, Semedar changed her ways. Burt before making the promise she had one last deceptive gesture she had to attend, so she poured the bottle of opium pills she had replaced with Da-Liars sleeping pills down the toilet. No one would ever know. No one that is except her little sister, Cleopatra.

My Brush With Racism

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It was the early 70’s and race relations were better than they had been in the 60’s yet still a bit strained. I was a hippie, which back then was code for stoner, and having grown up on Long Island I was a Jets fan. The area in which I lived was semi integrated at best with certain area’s known as “black” hangouts and others “white” hangouts. Emerson Boozer was a fullback for the New York Jets and had opened a bar in the next town over and Named it Em Boozers 32, which was his number. Having past it many time I was always curious if the man himself hung out at the pub like I don‘t know, maybe tosing the football around or something cool like that. One evening I decided to find out with the faint of possibly even seeing Broadway Joe Namath chilling there too.
The drinking age was 18 and so was I so I could legally go into a bar and get a cold beer which were my exact intentions on that moonless dark night. I pulled into the parking lot and could hear a boisterous crowd partying inside from all the way were I was. Friggen awesome man, my kind of place, lots of partying and music, slightly rowdy crowd, what could possibly go wrong? Of course it was what could bet be described as a little “seedy” and while I didn’t like stems and seeds, seedy was not a stranger to this hippie so off I ventured into Em Boozers 32 for an ice cold Budweiser.
As I opened the front door the decibel of revelry increased dramatically being driven by loud laughter, but as soon as I entered the bar became silent. Not a peaceful and serene happy calm silence, but a menacing pin dropping what the fuck kind of silence. Even the jukebox stared quietly in disbelief. I looked around and noticed that I was the only Caucasian in the entire pub. Instant paranoia shot up my spine and began dancing on my slightly weed numbed brain. What to do? Every single open eye was focused directly on me. That’s me in the mirror, that’s me in the spot -light, losing my composure.
I was shaking like tall skinny snowflake with vertigo but it was too late my legs had already made the decision to head to the bar and all I could do was follow. As I passed there were people sitting at tables, some dudes playing pool, and at the bar was an extremely large intimidating barkeep. With my optic nerves shivering wildly it was hard to focus clearly but it could’ve been Emerson himself, he was certainly big enough.
The silence morphed into whispering and not to sound narcissistic or anything but I was relatively certain the hushed conversations were all about me. But it was too late, my instincts had taken control which in retrospect was a good thing because if I just turned and ran I have no idea what may have occurred. So I walked up and with all the strength and determination I could muster up I walked directly to the imposing barkeep and in my most weak and pathetic voice stuttered , “B-B-Bud please” The barkeep glared at me, reached own under the bar and to my delight it was not a baseball bat or a shotgun but an ice cold bottle of Budweiser in his hand which he promptly placed in front of me asking, “You ant a glass with that….sir?” Noting a touch of sarcasm in his voice I defiantly mumbled in the same weak voice as before, “Um ,no thank you.”
I was beginning to regain my composure a bit and boldly I showed no fear or sign of uncomfortableness, looked directly at the imposing figure behind the bar and said “Cheers”. I lifted the bottle to my relatively steady lips and guzzled that beer like I was at a frat party with my fellow pledges urging me to swallow in a single gulp. I placed the now empty bottle on the bar, wiped my mouth with my sleeve and noticed the noise level had picked up from a whisper to a low murmur and now only about half of the open eyes were on me with many getting back to their own conversations. I turned toward the door and bravely and evenly walked slowly and methodically determined to make it look as though it had been my plan all along and I knew where I was. The second the door opened up I began to get a feeling of massive relief heading at warp speed to my car. As I turned the key I heard the noise level of the bar go back to what it was before except with an added amount of laughter which, perhaps egotistically, I’m guessing again was about yours truly.
I’m relatively certain they had much more of a laugh of it than I did and I imagined guys going home saying to their wives, “You shoulda seen the face on that white boy, he looked about ready to hit his pants. I never seen anyone drink a beer so damn fast. The boy sure could drink but what in the Hell was he thinking?” What the hell indeed, it just hadn’t occurred to me that I would feel unwelcome, and in the long run it wasn’t so much that I was unwelcome as it was unexpected. In the years since I have maintained my deep rooted belief in equality and stand by those convictions for everyone regaurle of looks or beliefs. In addition I spent more toime in those “black hangouts” and forged many great relationships based not on our differences but our commonalities (not the least of which was a love for good quality weed) But I have yet to meet anyone who claims to be at that bar on that dark moonless night I had my brush with racism and I’m sure anyone who was enjoying their evening at Em Boozers 32 that evening will never forget the time they were entertained for 45 seconds from shivering snowflake….PEACE

I’m On Top Of The World by The Woodworkers (A song parody)

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Such a feelings coming over me
I feel vertigo in everything I see
Not a cloud in the sky, but some ashes in my eye
And I won’t be surprised if its your spleen

We burned just as soon as you were free
In a funeral pyre especially for me
And the reason you burn, is to fit you in this urn
It’s the nearest thing to heaven that you’ll find

I’m on the -top of the world looking
At your cremation and the only explanation I can find
Is this cheap urn that I found
Makes me feel like you’re around
I’ll put your ashes at the top of the world

Seems like in the wind I hear your name
I look at you I see you’re not the same
Your on the leaves of the tree’s and your blowing in the breeze
And that’s a pleasing sense of happiness for me

There is only one thing on my mind
When this day is through the urn I dropped I find
And tomorrow will be the end for you but not for me
All you had will be mine now that you’re free
I’m on the -top of the world looking
At your cremation and the only explanation I can find
Is this cheap urn that I found
Makes me feel like you’re around
I’ll put your ashes at the top of the world

The Man Behind The Curtain, Unraveling The Emerald City Mystery

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Prologue
I’ll See You On The Dark Side Of Oz

The wonderful wizard of Oz. If ever oh ever a wiz there was the Wizard of Oz is one because…If you can’t finish that in a capella then you need to check your pulse. Wizard Of Oz is not just a story or movie its an American institution. Nay, a global treasure. To many of us who grew up before the age of instant information and entertainment on demand viewing The Wizard of Oz was a ritual. Originally airing on Sunday evenings it was a movie so powerful it pre-empted such great shows as Lassie, Gunsmoke, and The Gale Storm Show. We had to wait to find out what happened to Timmy, if Hoss was able to save Little Joe, and what new mischief My Little Margie got into. Why? Because watching The Wizard Of Oz was a family night obligation where we all sat around the television set with buckets of popcorn and cuploads of soda. On Monday once we returned to grammar school our elementary minds engaged in deep discussions over the twisted tale and many a young boy could be seen doing his spot on imitation of the lollipop guild, or young lass showing off her Lullaby League ballerina skills.
The movie mesmerized and hypnotized us with some parts scaring the shit out of us, but helping each one of us to exercise our imaginations and dreams. As children we were intrigued and believed in the story in a somewhat literal sense. While it was a fantasy, it revolved around real lives. And to boot it left us with a beautiful message when it ended. We learned that its okay to dream but we need to face our fears head on if we want those reams to become real. We learned its best to fight as a team and rely on each other because each person has something to offer. We learned that evil is wrong and good will always win out in the end. We learned that “the grass always seems greener on the other side” but in the end “there’s no place like home.”
As a child I absorbed these and other not so clear messages from movies like a subliminal sponge. Absorbing all sorts of life lessons from movies, TV shows, books, fairy tales and children songs. But as I got older and more cynical I took on more of a culture of “nothing is ever really what it seems.” I began to read into and interpret things in search of truth. I wanted to know what was underneath so I interpreted underlying meanings in movies, stories, poems, and songs. A personal fascination for me was the underlying meaning in rock lyrics.
So before taking our journy into the more profound messages in Trhe Wizard Of Oz I want to explore some rock lyrics. Rock and roll is the beating rhythm of many a generation. I view the world through abstract eyes and as a writer I report what I see. But rock song lyrics more than anything get deconstructed by my jagged mind and then placed back in an order that might tell an entirely different story. Sometimes songs were written with a hidden meaning on purpose and that offered a challenge as in the case of Don McLean’s “American Pie.” As teens my friends and I spent hours digging in to the layers of lyrics in an attempt to extract the inner meaning of that tune. Even when I hear it played today I still think of all the symbolic references and allusions to various celebrities both famous an infamous. To rock events like The Beatles playing Shea or The Stones at Altamont, McLean had deftly hidden all sorts of innuendo and culturally iconic references and brilliantly he had masked the clues leaving it up to us to interpret. To me that was a stroke of genius, similar to the musings of the lyrical concepts of Bob Dylan, The Beatles and The Stones. Those young talents had intuitive understanding of life far beyond their years and successfully conveyed those ideas into words. Some lyrics are crystal clear, some seem to make no sense, and many are written so abstract its difficult to see through into the artists vision at all.
With many songwriting perhaps even the author doesn’t fully understand the complex structure of their own words. Maybe sub conscious or maybe totally unaware of what the brain is trying to express from them in such an abstract way they deny its very true underlying theme. I lay on you as an example the song “Space Oddity” written by the one and only David Bowie. Bowie himself claims it’s a song he wrote about space after seeing the movie “2001, A Space Odyssey” while he was stoned (I believe he called it out of his gourd) Both that movie and the moon landing were popular events at the time and he claims that was his inspiration. He even wrote a follow up or sequel to the tune called “Ashes To Ashes” in which his purported Major Tom reconnects with earth. I don’t buy it for a second. I look deeper into the embedded subliminal inspirations and I believe whether intentional or subliminal this song is about David’s very own struggle with his sexuality. Its pretty well known he went through what has been described as an androgynous stage and the song reeks of innuendo surrounding the freeing of ones sexual inhibitions. In a phrase it was David coming out of the closet and exploring his own sexual desires. Let me explore for, dare I call it, a deeper meaning.
Ground control to Major Tom, take your protein pills and put your helmet on. Okay, relatively obvious, semen and protein almost synonymous and a condom is the helmet to protect from disease. A common practice back at the time was to bolster the system with protein to increase a males sexual prowess and stamina. (Pre Viagra practice when ED was the name of a talking horse on TV) Ground control is his mind, and major Tom is, well lets just call him Major Woody. The papers want to know who’s shirt you wear or which team are you on. Are you with the hetero’s or the non hetero’s? Maybe he’s not sure himself! Now its time to leave the capsule if you dare. Here then is that closet I mentioned David leaving. As he steps through that door he is walking in a “most peculiar way“, two derogatory comments used at the time to describe a gay man. He walks funny, like a girl, and he is queer or peculiar. No wonder the stars look very different today! Planet earth is blue and there’s nothing he can do. Back at that time porn was described as “blue movies”, to him the world is obsessed with sex and there is not a thing he can do about these new feelings. Or is there? He’s past one hundred thousand miles (around the block with women) he’s feeling very still (no zip to his ship). But not to worry, his spaceship knows which way to go. His compass points to experimentations with the North Pole! Tell his wife he loves her very much, she knows(love is not just sexual). He is feeling sorry and a tad guilty for going off on a sexual excursion. She already knows because you can’t hide your real self forever and your partner will likely be the first to sense it. Now the circuits dead there’s something wrong. He has no sexual electricity any longer for his woman and he can’t understand why. So that’s my offbeat take on the tune. Or maybe its about an astronaut that was lost in space and cut off from Huston. Floating in a very peculiar way without gravity around. I merely offer an alternative view like the one I will give on the Wiz.
That’s what I do, I listen to words then try to make sense of what I hear in the more abstract fashion. I reconstruct words in search of the true meaning beneath the surface. I also enjoy using the same mental exercise in cinema and this interpretation is my reconstructive take on my all time favorite tale, The Wizard of Oz. The Wizard of Oz is not just a tale of young girl on an adventure but the story of finding your inner strength, learning that what truly matters is not how much gold and glitter you acquire but how much love you acquire. “A heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.” The underlying messages in the tale are important and a dynamic learning tool for children but there lies underneath it all a message intended for adults as well. At least I believe there is so that’s why I am looking deep into the story of Oz to find out what meaning it can have for us as presumed adults. Join me down the twisted path of an existential quirky mind to explore the underbelly of a time honored traditional story. If nothing else, you will have an opportunity to exercise your eyes and hopefully your imagination, and perhaps achieve a smile or two as well.

Samsung And Da-liar, episode 4..Rated IA (Immature Adult) Not recommened for ignorant prudes

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betrayed800

just a little off the top please
Da-Liar was at one time a true dominatrix with men she walked around on leashes, drinking vodka from bowls, and very often licking her boots. Samsung was different though, Samsung was the only man who had ever returned sexual pleasure to her without complete direction and much work. It was like he had a magic flute that played beautiful love tunes in her labia. His touch on her skin was so enticing her body fluids boiled over and stained the walls. Now however she was in a difficult position, in a pickle over his pickle. If she extracted the secret of his success he would be taken prisoner by King Davey and she would lose the most ardently skilled lover she had known. She had more orgasms from him in one night then she had previously gotten from anyone in fourscore. Although there was that one time when she was in a va-jay-jay jamboree with Trixie and Crystal, but that was one of her darker secrets. On the other hand, if she doesn’t break her stallion and turn him over she not only loses all the promised bounty but the non trustworthy king would surely take his anger out on her.
The constantly copulating couple had found a bed of bliss in Da-Liars bedroom and if the stained walls could talk they would blush as they described the explicit events which occurred within them. The walls woul be barely able to contain themselves. Samsung was not quite at the boot licking stage but he did feel the grip of the vulva wrench when she tightened her velvet glove on his one eyed monster and could be willing to give away trade secrets in the heat of heated moments. Reluctantly Da-Liar began using her never fail coital confession inducing tricks on the big guy. She spent a lot of time on dressing just right. Jet black strappy pumps with stiletto heels, an excruciatingly tight teddy that revealed every curve and muscle in her body, a heavy dose of eye make up and burning bright red lipstick. Samsungs gonads went ga-ga at the sight of her sexiness.
As if that wasn’t enough, in her hand was a bottle of very expensive champagne an two glasses. She walked up to Samsung gently allowing their groins to touch, peered up at him teasingly and asked him if he would like some champagne in bed. At the height of arousal his hardened giant redwood pointed the way in affirmation.
The moment they arrived at the love cushions she began to polish the purple helmet bringing Samsung to near vein popping ecstasy. “Slow down Da-Liar, I feel like I’m already about to explode.” Knowing she needed to stretch it out she let his muscle rest while she paid attention to other parts of his body. As soon as she had him at the breaking point again the bedroom talk began. “Oh my god Samsung, you are so big and strong, and wow what a lover. How is it you are so much stronger than any other man?” Samsung flipped her over and got ontop of her, “Oh I have been given a special steroid from God himself that gives me my strength.” Wham Bam thank you maam the jack hammering began and Da-Liar had difficulty staying on point. The harder he thrust the more she gave in to him and finally it was she who could take it no longer as she came to a screaming orgasm. Da-Liar collapsed in exhaustion both of their bodies throbbing, heaving, and pulsating. She knew she would have to continue her quest manually.
After regaining the ability to breath normally the two lovers finished the first bottle of champagne, then the next and one more after that. Sufficiently drunk Da-Liar began phase two of her sexual extraction. She skillfully reached down under the sheet and Samsung responded quickly. Not thirty seconds had passed and his soldier was once again at attention awaiting command. Da-Liar positioned herself so they could enjoy mutual exploration and as soon as she felt his pulse raise to the right point, and his breathing to increase to the right speed she made her move. Samsung laid in anticipation as Da-Liar used first her feet and next her hands bringing him once again to the breaking point. “Tell me Honey, someone told me you have another secret about your strength, that there is one way you can lose it. Is that true?” Her fingertips began working overtime and she placed her mouth close enough to his unit that he could feel her warm breath on his muscle sending goosebumps through his loins. Promise her anything but give her……ANYTHING!! Da-Liar kept the teasing to an all time Guinness record until Samsung couldn’t hold out any longer and as she finished him off he blurted out “Its my hair. My Mom said I can never cut my hair or I’ll lose my strengths!” Even though her lips were locked onto his throbbing phallus he still didn’t feel her lips curl up into a giant smile.
Unaware he had been infiltrated during infiltration Samsung returned the favor with an equally skilled hand and mouth combo until the couple once again collapsed wrapped together in a love embrace. When they had recuperated they finished off three more bottles of champagne, laughing, chatting, and what would one day be called drunk texting. They simultaneously either fell asleep or passed out from the excessive amount of alcohol and sex. Hours went by the walls hearing nothing but snoring now and Samsung slept so heavy he didn’t notice Da-Liar getting out of bed. It would be anther two hours before he woke up from his champagne and shag induced sleep.
When he did wake up he was feeling sick and hung-over. He reached to his nightstand in search of some aspirins and steroids but the steroids were missing. Frantically he jumped up and headed toward the bathroom not noticing the locks of curly hair strewn about. He made a bee line straight for the bathroom to look for the pills and the image in the mirror caught his eye. He stared at it curiously at first, then in confusion and mystification which descended rapidly into anger. It was at that point he realized the unfamiliar figure in the mirror he was looking at was his own image. “What the? Did she? What? That’s me? No! How could she? I can’t believe this……… she cut my hair into a mullet!! That bitch cut my beautiful golden locks into a God damn mullet! I’ll fucking kill her. Her and every fucking Philly-Steen I see. They’re dead! All of them! DEAD!!”
Never before had Samsung felt so much anger and rage. Betrayed twice by sexy beauties of the same family. That slutty Semedar and the God damn greedy Da-Liar. Samsung thought back to the lion he had slain and decided that was what he would be the fate of the entire Philly-Steen nation. But first he had to do something about the hideous haircut.

What Not To Wear….At My Funeral

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blooooo

No Shoes No Shirt No Problem., But Keep Your Suit For The War
Full Disclosure. I’m a tree hugging, peace love-a-dovin’, free lovin’ hippie freak. I was there at peace rally’s, sit ins, and assorted forms of demonstrations involving what they call “civil disobedience” We may have been a bit too disobedient but the authorities were far from civil. But that’s buried in the past and it’s a brave new world today. I am still a hopeful idealist and believe we have a chance, but I also believe its our species that is destroying the planet and totally fucking up nature an disrupting the survival strategies of other species. That said, old age is angrily and mercilessly creeping up and forcing me into considering issues younger people believe to be too far in the future.
Two things can happen as you reach those misnamed golden years. Nothing gold about them, its more like the weak porous bone years, but I remember when my father turned 80 he went the direction I see many go in. Pops found the religion that had mysteriously avoided him in the old days. He didn’t go to church too often, in fact if I saw him there 10 times as a kid that’s a lot. Of course he had no problem making sure his kids attended mass and sang and prayed but he spent that time in the firehouse across the street from the church. But at 80 he found religion and I’m guessing it was a way of hedging his bets. If they’re wrong and there is no heaven, no harm no foul. But on the other hand, if they’re right he wanted to make damn sure he prayed himself a ticket to the up escalator. He crammed and studied and before long was quoting scriptures previously foreign to him. But I’m not going that way. If I’m right I didn’t waste any time praying, and worshiping something that never even existed, along with Santa, the tooth fairy, the Easter bunny, and my imaginary friend who caused all the mischief and mayhem I was blamed for. And if I’m wrong, and I head down to the caves of hell at least I’ll have some good company, like drug dealers, hookers, and other ambiguous sinners. I’ll just have to make do with what’s there.
The other thing us old farts begin to think about is the event before traveling out as billions of particles into the cosmos, or up or down that religious elevator to determine our eternal fate. Death. Not a happy subject, and we don’t really like talking about it, at least about ours, but it is a reality that inches a little closer everyday. Once my ride of life ends its over and I’ll get off and let others take their turn, but I do want to make sure I am honored in death in the appropriate way.
Of course I want a party with lots of booze and singing an dancing, but I do have one very serious request. Like I aid, I have lived most of my life as a peace loving hippie and as such I wouldn’t want anyone at my funeral wearing a uniform of brutality. I’m not talking about assault weapon carrying military fatigue wearing soldiers, I mean the silent soldiers of war, the soldiers of fortune. They come in an assortment of uniforms, but most are something like collared shirts and ties, a jacket with matching slacks, and polished shoes. They try to appear different but they all dance to the beat of the same doldrums in bored rooms. (not a typo, those board meeting could make an insomniac snore in a matter of minutes) The weapons they carry into battle are briefcases filled with documents and battle plans. They use money as their motive and they wave flags of corporate logo’s. They sneak silently into our lives and disrupt them under our noses and we may not even know they’re there until they foreclose on our home, or audit our taxes, or just remove our ability to feed, clothe, and raise our families by annihilating our savings. And they do it with a smile, often even a smirk. They may not all be out to destroy our financial institutions but suits have become a symbol of corporate greed in the war against humanity and I don’t want anyone like that at my funeral. So if you’re coming to my funeral keep in mind it’s a celebration of my life and put on a tee shirt, a pair of jeans, shorts if its hot enough, let your hair sown, sing and dance and drink and indulge in whatever makes you happy, but leave your suits at home, there are no battles to be waged at a celebration of life…. PEACE