ONE BULLSHIT PLANET

Friday night in Hollywood, and the cars cruise past beyond the windows (yes, stuffed with eyes) and pulsing with hip-hop bass. I swear a new generation of the stone deaf are being created. And if that wasn’t enough, the LAPD choppers circle the building, like it was 1969 in Saigon, annoying the drunks in Plummer Park with their sunguns, and drowning out my TV with that recurrent Doppler bass boom. Whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp-whomp-whompity-whomp-whomp.

Meanwhile, hearing the news today (oh boy) I learn that an HIV vector and maybe actual test-positive infections have closed down the porn industry in the Valley, or is this just some Justice Department black-disinformation op that has stilled the cameras in Chatsworth? The next advance of oppression after Janet Jackson’s Reichstag tit?

Meanwhile, a GOP propaganda web site features a game where players can be President George Bush killing terrorists who have invaded the White House. (No, I ain’t giving you a link to that.) So are you of anything approaching sound mind – you out there in Middle America, where you all believe Monkey Boy is some kinda John Wayne and doing just great? As a good socialist, I have defended you to friends and acquaintances. You the People simply can’t be that stupid. But listen, now you’re making a monkey outta me, and I cannot tolerate that. I look bad. This shit has got to go, or I turn violently elitist, okay? As I recall, the last world leader to accompany his troops personally into battle was King George II (I think), who led a quick safe cavalry charge during the War of Austrian Succession (maybe) but then headed swiftly back to his tent, his mistress, and several nice bottles of vintage port.

Maybe it’s just that it’s the nominal end of a long week, but -- despite Patti Smith singing good, but looking like Willie Nelson’s sister on Letterman, and Lenny Kaye healthy with a green Fender -- this seems like one bullshit planet right now, and I want out. Intelligent life? Forget about it. Have the greased Scotsman beam me up. Like, with some urgency?

MAKE THE PIE HIGHER!

This is a short poem made up entirely of actual quotations from George W. Bush. These have been arranged, only for aesthetic purposes, by Washington Post writer, Richard Thompson. It’s come via Roger in Scotland, where GWB is held in low estimation, laddie.

I think we all agree, the past is over.
This is still a dangerous world.
It's a world of madmen and uncertainty
And potential mental losses.

Rarely is the question asked
Is our children learning?
Will the highways of the Internet
Become more few?
How many hands have I shaked?

They misunderestimate me.
I am a pitbull on the pantleg of opportunity.
I know that the human being
And the fish can coexist.

Families is where our nation finds hope,
Were our wings take dream.
Put food on your family!
Knock down the tollbooth!
Vulcanize society!
Make the pie higher!
Make the pie higher!

CRYPTIQUE – In the sky with Elvis.

I’M BACK

The last few weeks have not been exactly halcyon days of technology. Indeed, they could well be described as Valium, Jack Daniels and wanting-to-throw-the-hardware-at-the-wall days, as the battlestar went into system collapse. But I loosed myself from the clutches of the 900-number technical support boiler-rooms of major corporations, and found a nice funky repair shop between Swing House rehearsal studio and the Formosa (venerable landmark to the alcoholics of Hollywood since something like 1931). It was run by a guy who looked like a retired roadie, and who was repairing a thirty year-old Mini-Moog for some strange low-fi keyboard player, and I knew it was where I wanted to be fixed. Now I have a new hard drive, and thus a new prosthetic memory, and all now works as it should again, although I am refusing to think about all the ideas, notes, outlines, synopses, hallucinations, dirty pictures, and correspondence that went the way of all electrons in the meltdown. But if I can’t remember them, what the hell? They never really happened, and if I can, they can be reconstructed. Thus I console myself that I also got rid of a fuck of a lot of garbage. Hell, I can work without notes. Unlike the President of the United States who can’t even work with notes, and can hardly claim English as a second language.

I must confess, though, a certain unreality lurks as I approach my cleanslated laptop. It’s all too quiet. All too normal. Ideas and even fantasies are a little tentative, like maybe they overloaded the old C-drive in the first place. There’s been too much frustration and desperately logical focus. I would like to take to my bed for the weekend, but I have a book of quotations to finish and several tons of email to answer. I swear I never worked so hard in the 20th century.

But Doc40 is tranquil and this will leave you with a short piece of harmonious inspiration sent during my times of trial by our favorite southern belle...

THE STREAM

Picture yourself near a stream.
Birds are softly chirping in the crisp cool mountain air.
Nothing can bother you here.
No one knows this secret place.
You are in total seclusion from that place called "The World."
The soothing sound of a gentle waterfall fills the air with a cascade of serenity.
The water is clear.
You can easily make the face of the person
Whose head you are holding under the water.
Look.
It's the person
Who caused you all this stress in the first place.
What a pleasant surprise.
You let them up...just for a quick breath...then ploop!...back under they go...
You allow yourself as many deep breaths as you want.
There now...feeling better?

CRYPTIQUE – Fuck you, Squiddly!

NORMAL SERVICE WILL BE RESUMED TOMORROW

The battlestar has a new hard drive, and is up and running. But after all the configuring I have no more mind or with which to post. But hang in there m'hearties. The fire and ire is building.

CRYPTIQUE -- Bleccch.

Postscript
(which in the blog world precedes the script because time runs backwards)

In this Hellmouse set-up, where Doc40 is pink on white, like a bloody wedding cake, I can't even access the comments board. Someone email me and tell me what's doing, or, better still, send me the actual comments URL and see if I can get to it that way.

I'M IN A 64K TIMEWARP
I'M IN A 64K TIMEWARP (and I don't wanna do the timewarp again!)
I'M IN A 64K TIMEWARP
I'M IN A 64K TIMEWARP
but it would seem that I can cut and paste. Hmmm.

Or should I just start to hallucinate and describe that? Maybe while watching Bush's press conference?

This may all cause me to lose my sanity. Don't all snigger at once.

Well friends, here's the story so far. Last Friday (yeah, Good Friday, that one) my computer crashed with signs of dangerous hard drive distress, and for the interim, as I seek to get it fixed, I'm working on a model T clunker without enough ram to scratch it's own ass, and that gets cranky when more than three screens are up at once, and in fear that, although the major works are saved to disk, all manner of notes, ideas and jottings are lost to the world, which as an artist kind of makes me sick to my stomach. Thus Doc40 will stagger as best he can, if it's only to be pissing and moaning about the ill fortune that has recently been besetting the technology. Like I just told Larry Wallis in an email, it's like trying to play Hendrix on a clapped out $20 mail order guitar. But, hey, thanks to all of you who have offered advice, help, possible loaners, and general sympathy. Email is late being answered, but tomorrow I see the fix-it guy and maybe all will be well.

Cryptique? Are you kidding? I can hardly read the blog itself on this machine.