Wednesday, November 03, 2004

building steam with a grain of salt

one fall evening about 13 years ago, i was trying to get this girlie back to my bedroom. damm, i was real smooth…you should have seen me. anyway, the television was tuned to eMpTyV, and shit was gettin’ real hot, when all of a sudden the dreck stopped. no, no…i mean the shit on the tube. whatever garbage they were playing was replaced by sounds sweet and familiar, like a thousand angels or getting drunk outside at night. but what was it? up until that point, i had rapidly been losing hope in rock music…it seemed that the only shit worth hearing was on vinyl by some band who’d broken up when you were like 7. yet before me, swirling from those cheap fuckin’ floor-model tv speakers, was something like gold. and i’ll be dammed if it didn’t smell like teen spirit.

it was a watershed moment…a time and place i can go back to instantly, describe what it was like outside, what i was wearing, where i was, what i was on…it changed my lens, so to speak. as time passed, it seemed that people were finally getting it, tuning in, turning on, coming around to a new way of thinking. the vibe seemed less self-conscious and more self-assured. conformity seemed to be falling by the wayside. it seemed sure that soon a wave would sweep across the country and that our differences would be of no more matter than the color of our eyes…that maybe – maybe – we could get right what the hippies lost somewhere along the way. rip it all the fuck down, you know…

what happened to us all? are we still out there? this generation without a war to name it, this generation of x’s…wished it was x’d like malcolm until it found its own identity. is it searching or has it sold out, cashed in, ceo’s, and cell phones, pre-fab housing plans and that good, good blow? i think a lot of us felt like we were on the outside looking in for so long, and then it was like we found each other and just had the fuckin’ party outside, you understand. i hope we weren’t only clamoring and killing time until we found a way to get in.

sit and judge, tell me i had blinders on…that i missed a war and a riot and a trial that revealed scars deeper than we can ever understand. tell me that the revolution was packaged for convenience and all that really happened was kids were being sold to other kids. tell me i’m full of shit now and full of hope then…cuz hope is where your eyes fall when the grave is on your back. tell me i was looking to believe in something – anything – even if it was a stupid song. tell me that we are more afraid of violence than sex. tell me that the pill i’m trying to swallow isn’t as bitter as i believe. tell me that yesterday was only about the next four years and not the long-term. tell me that the semi-literate moron will not unleash an unholiness on the world. tell me that i am paranoid, that our rights weren’t whittled away, that the world won’t be plunged into instability through an arbitrary and capricious war, that a corporation doesn’t have more pull than a man's life. tell me we won’t use the name of god to hold another down. tell me that we don’t need to fuck people over in order to survive. fucking tell me.

my dream sprang from a song and perhaps that’s the problem. i failed to recognize there must be real struggle. i’ve heard and heard that the only worthy fight is the one where you lose and lose and lose and lose and lose – and then lose again – before you win. i’m just having a hard time finding where that spark may come from…that something that could bring us people together again.

it’s high fucking time we start looking. indeed…we will march on a road of bones.


Anonymous Anonymous said...

For fucks sake man. You're a poet. I'm chokeing back the fucking tears. Tears from what has just happened. Tears for my many childrens future. Tears because you and I both know you can never top what you just wrote, and now I'll have to kill you before you can further tarnish your reputation. So long Johnny. Its time to go.

6:47 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Well, ladies and gentlemen and you Nixon/Bush followers (and by that I mean you narrow-minded, ugly badgers), I wormed my way to the StClair residence. I got to his "house", a vile and evil place if I've ever seen one, with one huge tree growing out of the middle of it. I've heard stories about these kinds of places as a kid, and I don't remember any of them, but what I do remember is that there was incredible evil lurking inside.

So I get out of my jitnee (go ahead and correct me you rotten bastard), and I hear screaming. I couldn't hear all of the words, but what I could hear in hysterical voices with overtones of extreme dementia was ..."Political Capital" "Earned Capital" "Gonna spend it" "9-inch dildo up the ass of America" and "Disagree with folly".

Growing afraid I walked across that desolate landscape to confront a Johnny who more resembled a Col Kurtz. At least in my mind. Col Kurtz? Col? Fuck all that. I'm the mother fucking Col! Now fear gives way to wonderful, fulfilling rage. I stride across that vast wasteland. Silently. Carefully. And Gleefully. Knowing I am doing my country a great justice. Well maybe not, but I always feel better after a mercy killing.

And then I hear it. The words were broken. One word at first. "Jocko" I stop. A wave of fear engulfs me. I recognize that sickly sweet voice. Johnny. I've been spotted. He's been waiting for this act of betrayal. I look to my left, my God, he's been there all along. And I see his God-awful smile.

And then he says the words I fear most. And he says them quietly. Deliberately. Purposfully. Gayfully (is that a word, or is it just fitting?) "Free... Lunch". And it hits me like a mouthfull of teeth. Not Like. Thats exactly what it was... Right in the grn. Yes, thats right, grn. Say it with me: GRN. And as a final act of power, I get hit with one steaming, wet pile of shit in the face. "Dear God", I thought, it is the first ass-monkey, whom he named Michael. Still shitting like its going out of style. God, I love that ass-monkey.

So I stop. Clearly beaten, yet agian. My intelligence (albiet fleeting) beaten by his Nixon-like ruthlessness. We had a long talk. There were lots of grunts, and fucks thrown about. We discussed politics, drugs, and the duality of light. It was a good talk. we decided that if I left immediately, gave him all my money, and pledged my unwavering loyality to him and his vision, I could go about my way. Without getting my grn bit off, shot in the face and shit filling in the hole. It was good for both of us.

So as I turned to leave, I get hit with one more pile of shit. This one not so steaming. A little cold actually. Life is as it should be... all fucked up.

The good Dr.

7:29 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

By the way, I found him at Siegfried and Roys house... in a hot pink thong and bra. Wearing a choker with a chain.

I told you I'd get you back you evil schiester.

7:37 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

alright for chrissakes...let me set the record straight

election night, when it was painfully clear that the '3r' would again claim a victory, the doktor callls...

"speak," i'm real greasy when i answer the phone ya know.

"listen, you goddamm narcotics agent, i've got ten hits of blotter acid, and if i'm going to die with my head on fire from a brain full of acid, it sure as fuck won't be in some jail," it was the doktor, obviously, and i didn't even think twice about it. he hung up and i wound down.

next morning, i'm out pruning my mango tree...i named it arla cuz it's so fucking crazy...and the doktor pulls up in an ice cream truck [stolen], blaring bush's victory speech in place of the usual ice cream theme.
he's yelling god knows what fuckawful nonsense, and rolling around in the grass, seemingly trying to gain 'cover' behind some of the bushes in the yard.

"get out of that tree, swine, i'm here to kill ya."

"get a grip,'re out of your skull."

well, apparently he took the grip part literally, and latched on to his very own wayward johnson. between his grunts and groans, he's yelling for me to call my dog off. wild fucking hallucination, i imagine. always the rational one, i began to pelt him with the over-ripe mangoes from the tree. blah blah blah, "monkey shit," a few more wacks from the mangoes and the doktor is out cold. when he awakens, we have a very careful and studied discourse on the future...ideas and principles that i cannot go into at this times, falling chips, waves...

hope to see you there

~ johnny onthebrightside

10:16 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

siegfried and roy are fabulous

~ johnny o-ring

10:17 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

Deny you have the other ass-monkey! Go ahead. I have proof... You smell like shit. Deny.

Just made pudding. Gonna dip my balls in it.

Col. W Johnson ret

3:48 PM  
Anonymous Anonymous said...

retired, you filthy pigfucker...retired!

from what?

a hard day's work would kill you!

and no i don't have an angry ass monkey...a screaming rhesus, maybe...but no ass monkeys!

deny everything! deny everything!

~ crackpipe johnny

7:26 PM  

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