The hippy dream has done gone wrong...

Steve Earle has a new record and a new wife. I'll leave the beauty and the beast comments to the peanut gallery.

Article here...

I don't know what 3 days of sickening, comatose bedrest does for you, but for me it fucks with the head. I cant listen to music or talk on the phone or curse or drink or smoke. I'm a fucking mess.

It makes me read books and want to buy books I'm hearing about again. I don't care that the shit thing by Sebastian Junger isn't worth wrapping fish with, nor do I care that the Jane Smiley remainder I'm enjoying has more bad sex scenes than my high school years.

There's this one I've gotta get on family business, and the other, the must have, that Richard and Larissa have finished translating so that now I can read it.

I'm sick of being in bed and miss people. I haven't seen people since I sat among the class of '66 at Cal's travesty last Saturday, and learned, among other things, there are no fat people in China, and Tibetans make everything they own out of yak. Yes, that is what I said, yak.

Tomorrow I'll go into the office. I'll flirt with a couple girls, drink my soup for lunch. I'll rally, for this weekend is for those about to rock.

FIRE!

Clearly the greatest pop song ever written is Roy Wood's "Nancy Sing Me a Song."

Just thought you all should know that.

If you missed the Black Lips on Conan last night, find it. Hilarious and ready for prime time.

The old man and the bear

Happy Columbus Day! God Bless Italians Everywhere!

Light Brigade

If you're a casual reader of dim newspapers (SF Chron, LA Times, NY Times) you might have noticed stories of late touting the initiatives of twat neo-hippies fighting for a cause deemed important, namely light pollution.

The movement is "trying" (and I use that hated word with all the fey gusto it implies) to persuade municipalities to turn off their lights at night so that fickle citizenry can enjoy a night sky and all its wonders. A noble endeavor? Bullshit. Next to the UC Berkeley tree sitters, these douche nozzles are second on my list of most wanted.

I enjoy the lights of a city. Give me the western span of the Bay Bridge, and the Embarcadero's 4 horsemen all aglow on a winter's night, and I'll quote Yeats in your ear until you're orgasmic.

I live in this globe's quadrant because I can escape the glare by hopping on the 1 or 101 and get out of Dodge and see what the city-bound residents are missing. Call it Nature, call it The Environment, but please don't ask me to support your dumb cause when there are beers to drink it the perfectly lit garden.

When Emily and I are fed up with the crunchy scene in Santa Cruz, we head 6 miles out of town to the crap burg of Davenport, known for a cement factory and a gas station. It's a nothing place abutting the Pacific, and when I say nothing, dammit I mean nothing. Pull off any poorly lit exit and park, lean back on your windshield and see the beauty of it all; an infinity span of stars, white planets bursting, and the residue of a city's afterglow. It is special because it is distant. Rewards are for the travelers, not the home-bound fops.

One can get most of life's necessities delivered to the home; dry cleaning, DVDs, whores. I am fuck all against rewarding those who double bolt their doors and cower behind their wi-fi connectivity. You have earned nothing of Nature. I do not encourage you to get out; out there is my salvation, because I motor there for it, and I want it no other way.

Reward the bold. I'm still buying the first and last round in purgatory, and the barmaid knows my name. Seek and ye shall find.

It's 1971 all over again, and since I'm the white oppressor, lemme tell you how it's gonna shake out.

First up is a 1971 flick called "The Hospital" starring George C. Scott as a boozy suicidal doctor, who confronts his demons in a derelict NYC hospital. He hates everything, and the apathy of his wife and children are driving him batty. He's raging, impotent, and smart; not an easy combination to pull off. He's almost rescued from the morass by stone British fox Diana Rigg, whom he balls after she keeps him from offing himself, but he's still a mess, and nothing is resolved. Movies didn't always suck; check it out so you too can understand this.

The other 1971 piece of entertainment is the above pictured record, The Move's outstanding Message from the Country. Jeff Lynne did not need a cello to rock, he just needed Roy Wood around to tell him when to shut the fuck up. What a great record; the title track rules, and there are a few riots on side 2.

I'm gonna read some Harold Robbins novels to complete this vicious cycle. Support the Equal Rights Amendment, save the whales, and free Angela Davis.