The Girls

They have been molting for quite a while now. Not all of them but they have, as a whole, taken their sweet time about doing it. I think the last one has finished. All laid eggs today and the hen house is full of feathers.

They won't lay during a molt and they are suppose to molt in Fall. It is almost Spring and they're just finishing up. This is the dyke's fault. She always has the last say, for instance, if I go out to settle them in for the night and there is still a bit of light, she'll pop out of the hen house in defiance. How dare I try to shut the door before it's night. The fucking bitch, and if I leave any space in the nest boxes, she'll go right in and shit in it all night long. 

That's why I know it's her. Always the one to lay the last fucking egg, the one to bed down last, the last one out of the nesting boxes and the one who lays the smallest egg. And she crows. Not a cock crow, a very loud lesbian crow. Like she did something really swell, or look at that egg crow. The other girls ignore her, I wish I could but I'm the one that has to deal with the bitch in the nest boxes and her standing guard at the hen house door. As if I'm going to molest the damn chickens. 

She complains too about the feed. She wants more corn, all corn and no greens. Fuck that greens are good for you, the bitch wants her fucking corn and when I throw in a cob, she practically stampedes the other chickens to get to it. Not like they would get in her way over it, hell the bloody dyke would stomped them if they did. 

Six chickens and I get one that's bull-dyke. Go figure. 

Heartburn From a Big Mac

Okay, the mac-book now works with its new hard-drive and it's a way bigger hardrive too, making bigger--better. Who doesn't like that? And so I go to the desktop Mac, the Big Mac and prepare to burn my documents to install in the small mac, although I never thought thirteen inches was small, it is in this case.

Where I choked was on the word BURN. It is the new word for copy, I think, when you copy a file to a CD that was a diskette, that was a floppy and I have used actual floppies--both types.  But why burn? I freaked when it came to all my writing and what about Lollipop and what about Jawbone and the submission to Damnation Books and all the other shit I have in my writing projects. Burn? I can't burn. I have to save. I have to make several copies. I have to have it in print to stack in the garage and on CD's to stack by assorted years so that at anytime disaster happens, like something burning. I haven't lost anything.

When suddenly, I thought I was transferring(BURN) the info to the CD, the entire folder of documents disappeared.  Vanished. And I know it's there. There in the fucking Mac somewhere. It's there I tell myself, calm down.  But the word burn goes around again. I burned the documents and I can't find them.
There are now other files instead that won't open. I'm thinking they are the shells of their former selves before they were burned.

Jesus fucking Christ I burned the god-damn documents, what the fuck was I thinking of and I'm not drinking. No one could say, "The demented drunk did it again. Burnt the fucking documents."

I call Kevin, he'll know what to do, but he's not there, probably blocked my number, and who could blame him, a mad man on the other end crying about burning his documents, his computer doesn't work. What do you mean that's not a virus but a fly-speck on the screen? You can use a mild detergent on the glass to brighten the color? He is a world of computer knowledge and I have used him horribly.

With several calls within an hour he answered, cranky yes, but he answered.

"Oh god Kevin you have to come here and find where my documents are. I think I burned them."

He talked me through it, (I knew it was easy).  Now I'm not worried about the documents but what if Kevin died before I did? How the fuck do I save Kevin? I can't burn him.

The Farting Buddha

Recently, I came upon a very rare piece of statuary, the Farting Buddha. He is in the aquarium right now with his hands raised upward, a large smile on his chubby face. The Farting Buddha has bubbles coming up from behind and that's why he is so happy. He can fart and it's okay. Fart away farting Buddha.

The goldfish, Snagle-tooth is very happy with Farting Buddha. "It is so very feng shui." says Snagle-tooth.
And he should know being Asian and all. There is a temple gate in the aquarium for Snagle-tooth to swim through on his ever search of food.

The fart bubbles of Farting Buddha rise rapidly to the surface bringing joy to all. And, since the Buddha is a vegetarian, his farts don't stink, unlike Buster who is a real gasbag in a small canister. Which is why I think he has such a temper. I'll look for a farting Buddha for him. I don't think he can see the Farting Buddha from where he is so low to the ground.

The storm has come and it is cold. Farting Buddha doesn't mind because it is always nice in the aquarium. Ommmm, the bubbles go, passed by the Farting Buddha, time to light incense and stare at the Farting Buddha.....Ommmm....Happy..Happy...Joy....Joy.

The Gift Horse

A friend, during a conversation back in the Fall said that if I wanted a Mac Book he would send it to me. A girlfriend gave it to him and he doesn't like Mac. Sure, I said because I'm really liking the Mac tower I have.

I wait and wait and finally, e-mailed asking when was he going to send the Mac? Sorry forgot, he said. So I wait some more and after a couple of weeks inquired again. Heard nothing.

Another month went by and I get a call from him, he sent it to the wrong address but his girlfriend is sending it to me, he was off to South Africa. Okay, great.

I wait and wait and finally, today, I get the Mac in the most beat up box left at my door early this morning. I take it in and fire it up. The hard drive doesn't show up, in fact it is so clean there is no operating system for the hard drive. I used the operating disk that came with it to re-install the system but guess what, there is something wrong. there is no destination for the disks to write to.

I get a friend who works on computers to come over, pay him a hundred bucks and we spend the whole frigging evening trying to install it, after taking the case off and checking to see if anything loose. Now it finds the hard drive but as the hours go by in the installation, and the last five minutes turns into an hour we give up. Kev took it home where he has another hard drive to put in it and see if it works. So a far the free horse has cost about hundred and sixty bucks, if it is the hard drive. If not  and it is just fucked I'm out a hundred to trash the thing.

Hence, never look a gift horse in the mouth or throw good money after bad. Just shoot the horse and figure the cost of the bullet was better than the cost to cure the horse.

Socials With Straights

I really hate them, parties with straights, its like putting your head in a bowl of  ants, they make my skin crawl. The party last night was pretty typical, it's okay to be gay, just don't talk about it. You can talk about it, as long as it isn't gay sex or who's hot and who's not especially in sports. For instance when the subject of basketball came up, I told them I didn't watch that much anymore since they changed the shorts to these ones that go to the knees. Before it was a thrill, when they jumped, you might get a peek. A little cheek or maybe a jock strap but now, that's impossible. In fact, they are so unisex you cannot denote the size of their equipment let alone if they have any, I've seen Ken dolls with a better show.

I noticed that the subject was changed. Now it was golf. I tried soccer, after all, they still wore shorts worthy to watch the game, but the straights realized where I was going with this and went to chess. The women weren't much better, you would think they would have an opinion on long shorts v/s short-shorts but no, they don't watch sports they cook, buy things for grandchildren and compliment each others dress. I was wearing house slippers, so was Wally, we just bought them and they are so comfortable that I thought, why not wear them to the dinner party, after all they look almost like shoes except for the fuzzy parts. I didn't have us don our bathrobes but it would have been nice, they come down below the knees and are very warm on a chilly day.

And dinner was fussy, a steak, potato, salad and some kind of broccoli dish with not enough salt. In fact salt was missing out of everything and there was no cream for the coffee. Just that non-fat milk that comes out blue at the edges. Oh, well, at least it was free food if you don't count the flowers and wine we brought over.

Tempest Fidgets

There was a great sale at Macy's and we needed slippers, bathrobes and sweat pants. Typical old-fart attire, you see them wandering the streets dress in their old-fart attire and we have joined them.  I have to say it is quite cozy. The back room here where I work is cold in the winter and warm in the summer. And though I am one to work in my underwear, now with a warm bathrobe, it takes it up a notch. The sale was so fucking good I got us bathrobes for summer, when you want a little covering in the morning with coffee and the paper sitting in the patio.

We are very fucking smart for old farts.
It's flannel and fabrics that keep you dry,
That's what old farts wear anytime of year.
For old farts that think they're smart.

The storm is a good one. If the roof doesn't leak, I'll be real happy. And tomorrow, write my little heart out. Lollipop is coming along well, the next fabulous gay mystery.

The Hood

We took a walk today after our trip to the bank. It was stupendous. Cold air, warm sunshine and everything crisp and clean after the rains. The hood is changing. For one, this guy got out of his car and greeted us before going into his house. He was good-looking too. Not hard on the eyes at all and friendly, so I thought. But the hood itself is changing, new people are moving in and at one house they have leveled the ground, even the foundation was dug out and carted off. Usually, they leave some of it for the expense of putting in new but not this one.

I remember when I grew up here starting at age ten. It was one of the worse years of my life that year in 1956.  We moved into a seven year old swatch of a vast housing tract. The San Fernando Valley was filling up with vets  from WWII. Not far from here, across from Birmingham High, the houses all had slanted walkways for entry. An entire tract of homes for disabled vets. The high school was a VA hospital built to care for them. When the hospital was no longer needed, it became a high school but still some disabled vets had lived in the hood.

My dad, a month after we moved in, was in an accident that changed every dimension of my family. Life, in the blink of an eye, was forever altered after that. A steel beam broke at a lift slab structure he was working on and took out part of the left hemisphere of his brain. He had speech problems, motion problems and was considered 100% disabled. He didn't know what happened and neither did we, the survivors to his accident. Strange how someone in the family can have a life altering change and it effects all, not just that one person of the accident, all of our lives changed, my mother,  myself and my sister. But it wasn't just that that changed, friends too and how we grew up and what life was for us---all changed in the blink of an eye.

These were starting homes for vets after WWII. A place for new families to launch from, only here, at this particular house, we broke at the launching pad and are still here, still waiting to launch. The one guy that I knew from childhood died a few years ago, his nephew is fixing up the place. Now, it's just me here in a hood that has changed completely--twice that I know of. It is really weird, like being stuck in a time warp.  To witness it all as if I wasn't really alive but a ghost that hasn't moved on.

The Infernal Seasons

They had a sale at Kol's but then Kol's always has a sale it seems and the both of us needed these kind of sweat pants that are baggy with a draw string and elastic at both ends. Both of us wear these leisure suits now, almost all the time. Your dick wags a bit and people can see the crack of your ass and your piss dribble in the front. I have a real dribble problem, Wally, not so much but he has, late at night, confused the floor heater for the toilet and pissed in that. For myself, I dribble. No matter how much I shake it, it won't give it up and I have to pee a lot. Not long pees, just a short but if I don't, I'll dribble pee. It is very bothersome when making coffee which is why I ready the machine the night before.

Carolina and Carmen were here today, bless them. Somehow they can get the pee smell out of the carpet. It's not just the dogs and cat but it's me and Wally. We all might as well live in a barn or wear diapers. And that's why we went shopping at Kol's because, in order not to  be out of our lounging pants, and hopefully to replace the light gray ones with dark blue so they don't show the piss trail, we went there. They had two in our size, that was it and one was a damn gray which Wally can wear but for me it's like a blue dye in the pool when you pee. And I wanted to get some slippers for us and bathrobes, but we were told you have to come at the Holiday Season. Winter isn't good enough when they got bermuda shorts to make room for. So where in winter can you get a damn pair of slippers? I guess we'll go in socks until early Fall when they charge full price. Certainly not Spring or summer, or I don't know, maybe just fucking Christmas.

Rumors

When Hans died, a long time friend of Wally's and rich, there were innuendos of murder, or perhaps, to be polite, his wishes carried out. Only, it took a long time for him to die until Hans started to give thousands here and thousands there. That's when the executor-ex-lover showed up on the scene of Hans stroke. Now, another interesting thing,  when his long time and suffering ex-lover came, he didn't call an ambulance until hours later, in fact most of the day had gone by since Hans had his stroke in the morning, and still able to get help, called the ex.  During this time period, Hans began to rattle off all the people he decided not to leave out, the ex copying it down.  When Hans was obviously beyond help a call goes out for an ambulance.

 Now, what bothers the friends of this guy is that, if Hans was allowed to continue to enrich his friends, with bequithments, shouldn't the ex have called sooner than later, because they were sure Hans said he wanted to give them something. A bauble perhaps and that's exactly what the ex did. He invited all of Hans freinds over after the settlement of the estate and everything of any value, removed. The ex got millions and property, lots of it.  And the rest, those not included on the last breath of Hans, got one of whatever they wanted, left at the estate.

We're talking Beverly Hills, this prick was born rich in Germany, came here, invested Mom's and Dads money in commerical real estate and made more money. He was a prick too and I can't help  but think he got just what he deserved.

The reason?

He threw coins and enjoyed watching people fight over it. He was obnoxious, practically ignorant, boorish, and just a fucking jerk. I watched Wally grovel at times and it hurt really, but they went back quite a ways when both were younger and from what I have been told, lovers.

Now, I'm not faulting Wally. He is what he is and he's a hell of a lot better person than the rich-kraut. But it was fun to watch the display taking place  before and after the funeral, which was in the same small cemetery that Marilyn Monroe is buried in. It was pretty cool to be there, just to see who in hell could afford the property of this famous and quite hidden plot of earth. Off Wilshire, behind a bank where you have to take the entry for the bank to get to this place, it is located in the middle of the block surrounded by buildings. And the cemetery stone I stood on during the proceedings was only named 'Drago'  nothing else. It just about titillated me and was worth the price of admission to watch Hans circus funeral. I was waiting for the ex to throw coins and he did. At the estate, nicely catered, he started rattling off what he found of value and what wasn't worth the trouble. Most of it wasn't and people began to put their names on stuff.

I am not kidding. There was a sniff taking place toward the end of the fiasco, someone gave Hans a set of dishes and someone else had already put their name on them. Get Her--Girl.

I loved it and the ex asked me if I wanted something. I told him to ask Wally, he could have two things that way, I didn't like the guy and the ex said, "You know, when Hans told me the sky was purple I use to fight him on it until I realized that if I wanted to stay connected to Hans, then the sky was purple."

The bitch earned every dime---Believe you me.

Most Foul

There is a murderer afoot. Sly prick with a honeyed tongue and empty bank account. He calls himself a friend and though my friends do read this blog, he doesn't. Basically he is too fucking stupid to find it. And if he knew how, he's too fucking lazy to do it.

He does like Craigslist. He likes to go on and find some really desperate person that wants their dick sucked. It is a sight not to be seen or conjured. If you saw this guy naked, you would, and should, go blind. If not by the sight itself, it would be by your own hand lest you ever see anything like it again.

He smokes. And I have a problem with that because the fucker doesn't seem to be suffering any ill effects. Not that he can walk any distance, nor would he want to but  he smokes constantly. What kind of person would light a cigarette, take a few hits and then let it sit in the ashtray wafting away to the filter. Then he lights another one and does the same thing. They're like incense sticks, with one always burning.

I don't mind that he is killing himself, hell I bought him a few  cartons to hasten the departure and heavily buttered and salted his popcorn as requested. And sure it cost money to do that but I get no satisfaction, he isn't dead.

He's been hinting that Wally has had a long life. The creep is in Wally's will and he can't wait for the money. This fiend comes to me in a comfort sort of way and  spreads his seeds of discontent. Words that Wally isn't improving and that it might be best to just let him....drift off.

There is a host of things wrong with this asshole, he met Wally as a hustler over thirty years ago. Except whatever he had to hustle then, he sure as hell as lost now. It's hard to look at him, I'm serious.  So he thinks I'm understanding of his concern for Wally. But what I'm hoping for is his farewell to arms, legs, I don't give a rat's ass what falls off him just as long as he drops and soon.

Murder is in the air, and it seems to be a gay thing. We all know someone who did kill, or shall we say, let them go when they had a stroke, the guy got millions and we never saw him again. Murder seems to be sport among gays.

Zing & Zam

The new digital age is upon us. The phone line is hooked up to the modem and we can call across country or next door for a flat rate fee of twenty-five bucks a month. I don't quite understand it, it needs a battery backup in case the power goes out, which is okay by me. They said it was for the 911 emergency system, if the power is out, so is the phone.

Ralphs had lobster tails for $5.99 and filet mignon for $5.99 which means we eat real good tonight, a martini, lobster and steak with a bake potato and asparagus with Hollandaise. Can't beat that.  They also had angel food cake on sale and I had a sudden urge for my favorite dessert. Angel food cake with chocolate frosting. I can and have, ate an entire angel food cake that way more than once.

Worked on Lollipop and finished another chapter. I'll be looking for a publisher in a few months for it and hopefully, Damnation will publish Jawbone. If all goes well and if I ever get any money from Sarge and the Sailor Boy before I die it could be a productive year for 2011.

That is if all goes to plan, which, according to Mice and Men, often goes astray.

Life Is a Gas In The Fat Ass Cadillac

Two birds with one stone is a good kill but don't try it with dentists appointments in the Fat Ass Cadillac.  Wally had his at 1:45 and mine was at one. Both easy appointments, no heavy dental shit. And even though the two dental offices are about five miles from each other, that's the Wilshire corridor from West Los Angeles to Beverly Hills. Wally's is in the heart of, 90210 right across from 'The' Spago.   Parking in either is by divine inspiration or murder. One has to communicate to all gods ever been and those yet to come, for driving there has driven lesser men--mad.

There is the Federal Building on Wilshire. Want to protest something? Well you go to Wilshire and Federal, right where the fed building sits, next to the 405 freeway, in the Westwood area, where the  VA hospital is on the other side of the freeway and UCLA is just down the bloody street. A perfect setup for the perfect traffic jam.

It's noon and we need to go  less than fifteen miles away for a one o'clock appointment. Fat Ass is a little sassy today, it coughs and chugs, but just once in a while. Fat Ass gets on the freeway and sails away to climb the 405 to West Los Angeles still coughing but not too much. I spot a space but I need to back up fast to covet it until the van in it moves. The van's driver knows I want it, they saw me back up so of course they take their sweet ass time. Still, with the accident on the 405 and time to wait for the space, I'm fifteen minutes early. Only forty-five minutes to go less than fifteen miles, not bad.

But my dentist took in an emergency client. At ten after one I can still hear him drilling. I ask if i can come back later after Wally's appointment and hurry to the other dentists less than five miles away. It takes thirty-five minutes. Not bad to go less than five miles from West L.A. to Beverly Hills. The Fat Ass Cadillac however is testy. A light goes on that we need to have it serviced soon. It wants to stall, and coughs more, even bounces at the light so that I have to put in neutral to keep it smooth. And when we at last begin to pull into a parking place it dies. I just managed to park it, get out and hoped it wouldn't be too long for a tow truck to get there when we leave the dentist.

Miracle, the damn thing starts up, no emergency light, no coughing but we do have lots of traffic and as I weave and snake along the car begins to stutter once again. We take Sepulveda and back streets until we're finally at home and my dental appointment was rescheduled for Tuesday. I'll take the Saturn until I can get the Fat Ass in for another three to eight hundred dollars worth of junket fixes so I can do this all over again. And of course there is the gas for this hog and does it love gas.

Beat Me--Kick Me--Make Me Ride

Cabrillo canyon is a single track that's rough, steep and  not for wimps. Although I had to get off and walk a couple of times I did do it. Despite that it took everything I had, left me weak-kneed and fagged-out. I fucking did it.

The Margaretta's during the game helped, the Cheese-heads winning helped and twelve hours of sleep helped.

I'm just fagged today.

Tarnation & Damnation

Well I sent Jawbone to Damnation books.  What's nice about Santa Rosa versus Fifth avenue is that it is in California. And in CA we like sex. Damnation, of course, likes sex and demons, hence Damnation and so I figure, when they get to the second paragraph in Chapter One about the blow job using tequila and they end up dead with half of one them being ate by the demon, it might have a chance of getting published.

One catch.

They want me to blow someone. I know what Marketing Plan means. Just point to the fucker and I'll blow them. It worked when I was twenty and I still know when to close my eyes and pretend. In four more fucking payments to Kaiser of five hundred and thirty-six dollars a month, I will be on Medicare. That's when I can stop selling my blood for Medical Insurance. 

So please, if you happen to stop by a Republican Gun Show and feel the need to buy something, please do and of course there are Republicans everywhere at the gun show to test the weapon that doesn't kill people. It's the people with the weapon that kill.  Kind of like: 'I don't have poison or a knife, so I guess I'll just have to load a magazine and kill a lot more. Thank You Jesus.'   I love their choice of words. 

Blow Wind, Crack Your Cheeks

Wednesday is a ride day for me. Except when the weather is foul and I consider thirty mile an hour gusts to be very foul. There is a saying among cyclists, "The wind and hills are your friends for they make you stronger." And they do too, except they also make you crazy.

Crazy is a good word to define people who get on a bicycle for enjoyment. I have met a lot of eccentric folk but none more than those that ride bicycles. The editor of our bicycle club's newspaper who is an arch-conservative, said on a ride while I was with him that the reason so many people lost their lives when  hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans was they didn't want to leave because they were afraid to miss their welfare checks. Honest truth, and I already loathed the man but this put a new twist on my loathing of him.
When I questioned him on the validity of his statement, he firmly stood by it. Like all neo-cons, he gets his facts from Becks and Limbaughs in this world, where truth gets in the way of their mis-information package.

But he isn't the only wacko on a bike, there are plenty more of them, for instance the guy that started the flurry over invasive airport security with his famous, "Don't touch my junk," line.  This is from a guy that races bicycles on the weekends. Ever see a dude in Lycra? Well there's not much to miss and if he didn't want anyone touching his junk, all he had to do was show up at airport security in his bike jersey and Lycra shorts. You can see the head of someones dick in them so well you can tell if they are cut or un-cut.

We once rode with a dude we named feather-head. He raised chickens and would stick feathers from the birds in his helmet and I'm sure, ass. He also wore red shorts and everytime he saw a girl that turned him on would sport a hard-on. It stuck out like a dog's dick. Red, because of the color of his Lycra shorts, inflamed and gross. Really, this guy has a face that no mother could love, he had to be hatched.  Yellow teeth and there were at least sixty of them when he opened his alien trap.

Yet, there are some actually sane people who get on a bike, but you can tell the sane ones from the crazies, they don't ride when the weather is foul.