I'm not a bad person, I'm just pathetic

I am in love with the Evil Empire.
Where else can I cater to all my narcissistic tendencies so quickly and so cheaply?
I upload a pic to their website, push a few buttons, hop in the car, drive for about five minutes, and bingo ... it's already there waiting for me, and at only 19 cents a print it's better than crack cocaine.

My kind of month

Enough with May.
Let's get on with June.
The months of weddings, and graduations, and father's day, and flag day, and Monica Leigh Mitchell's birthday, and Donna Roski's birthday, and my mother's hair dresser's birthday, and that guy who had the bunk across from me in barracks 2004 in the 3392nd Training Squadron down at Keesler AFB birthday, and Jim Nabor's birthday, and Anne Frank's birthday, and Genghis Khan's birthday, and the Lady of Charm's birthday, and Dr Pepper's birthday, and Fritz the Cat's birthday, and Mr Bojangle's birthday, and Pop Warner's birthday, and Mother Goose's birthday, and both of the Grimm Brother's birthdays, and Humbert Humbert's birthday, and Lolita Davidovich's birthday, and the 5th Beatle's birthday, and the 6th Stone's birthday, and Little Richard's birthday, and the Big Bopper's birthday, and my cousin Greg's birthday, and Little Annie Fannie's birthday, and the guy who took the picture of Lee Harvey Oswald holding the rifle's birthday, and the Last of the Mohicans birthday, and the First Lady of the Blue's birthday ...
Blahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Happy Memorial Day

Actually ...



I was dancing to The Beast of Boz #3.

Zonking my life away

This is weird you know.
Amy is moving this weekend.
From San Francisco to Big Sur.
Well, actually she was supposed to move yesterday.
Then that got changed until today.
However, it may even be moved back till tomorrow.
And we have been playing zonk tag on and off all day today.
I mean ...
How can I start missing her, if she doesn't leave???

Momentarily

Life is really boredom connected by a string of memorable moments.
My memorable moments have been all over the map lately.
Today's moment ...
Moments ...
Moments ad infinitum ...
Are the kind that makes the boredom bearable.

Memoryless Day

It's been a long day.
It's been a long night.
It's going to be a long whatever the fuck it is you call the time between now and morning.

I can see, the moon, and the stars, and a streetlight

Here it is, dead calm, dead quiet.
It should be dead spooky, but it isn't.
It's peaceful and serene, with just an occasional car driving by.
I think I could live like this forever.

What did you expect?
Tap dancing midgets?
Evil clowns on unicycles?
Your mother in combat boots?
Snakes in the grass?
Evil among us?

Life is really quite simple,
And when I say life, I mean my life.
I'm just going to lay back
Close my eyes, and listen as my present becomes my past.

You are cordially invited

Did you ever feel like climbing up to the roof of your house/apartment building/tent, and just howling into the night?
Naked, with a million stars in the sky, and a full moon.
All animalistic, primal, knowing, in touch and in tune.

What if we all did that?
Yeah, all of us.
Pick a night, any night, fuck the full moon it isn't that important.
We need a night, a night when all of us, yeah, you, you, you and you, when all of us can strip down and just fucking howl, just fucking howl.

It's a holiday in the states this weekend, what about now.
I'm thinking Sunday, no Monday, I'm thinking Monday night, just to make sure all the tourists are gone.
Ok, Monday night, this Monday night, the 30th of May, naked and howling, all of us.

It's a pact then, right.
All of us, on the honor system, no cameras allowed, naked and howling into the crisp, cool moonlight.
I can feel the rush already.

Is it time yet?

So, yeah, here it is, after three, going on four.
Me here, again, as usual.
Trying to pound out a post.
Trying not to complain too much.
Trying to be a little bit funny.
Trying to be an idiot savant.
Trying to raise my spirits and lower your expectations.
As if you had any expectations at all.

It feels like there is a white hot steel boot pressed hard into the back of my neck.

I'm not Thomas Edison.
I'm not Frida Kahlo.
I'm not Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
I'm not Edgar Allen Poe.
I'm not Hellen Keller.
I'm not some half crazed syphilitic genius slowly descending into madness.
I'm just, hey bozzie, can you come out and play for awhile?
Which is alright.
I guess.

When you hear the beep

It's just after seven in the morning ...
And when did my posts start turning into time checks?

Time is on my side.
Time is running out.
There's no time like the present.
Three sides of the same coin.

I can hear the mourning doves just outside my window.
I can hear the birds that mock me in the next room.
The birds that mock sound happier than the birds that mourn.
I know why the caged bird sings.
But I ain't saying.

What new ache, or what new pain,
Will I feel today?
I'm just asking,
But can you stay away from my heart,
And my nads.

Timing

I stopped at a party store today, to buy a diet coke.
The clerk, a woman with a mullet, and several missing teeth,
And a tattoo on her bicep that read "Jake Forever"
Called me honey, and asked if I wanted to buy an instant lottery ticket.
I told her no, and walked out of store.
I didn't realize until I got in the car that I had forgotten a straw ...
Honey.

Stay away from the brown acid

The last six CD's I have burnt
1. Back In The USA - MC5
2. The Band - The Band
3. Songs From A Room - Leonard Cohen
4. Abby Road - The Beatles
5. Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere - Neil Young
6. Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band - The Beatles

Or part of the solution

Excellent deal offered by the evil empire that is MSN - Music.
They are offering buy ONE music download @ 99 cents and get FIVE music downloads free.
Seriously, it is a good deal.

Fuck, just take me out and eviscerate me now.
I am actually paying for music downloads.
But, hey, I've been sick.
You know this back thing has really cut into me bigtime.
I'm not thinking straight.
Pay for downloads???
What was I thinking?

But it's so fast
And so easy
And so addictive.
It can't be wrong
Can it?

Is this the end of Bozzie?
The rebel without a clue.
The 20th century schizoid man.

Have I bought into the prize?
The dangling gold ring.
The rainbow, the myth, the reality.

I can rationalize
Six hard to find tracks by The Band.
Levon, Robbie, Garth and the two guys that died.
I mean shit ...
The Band!!!

I hang my head in shame and hit
Publish Post.

Win a date with Tad Hamilton

I'm trying to stay awake.
I'm trying not to go on a spending spree.
I'm trying to talk myself into shaving.
I'm trying to make my bed.
I'm trying to get dressed.
I'm trying not to eat.
I'm trying not to get over wrought about the fact that the neuro-surgeon's office hasn't called yet, even though it's been seventeen days since my MRI and he has had the results since last Thursday.
I'm trying really hard not to buy a new telephone with caller ID.
Speaking of telephones ...
I have unlimited long distance calling, so if anyone wants a call from me, just leave a comment and I will get in touch.
Wow, that sounds cool.
Win a phone call from boz
Except you don't have to win.
I'm really magnanimous today, aren't I?
That phone call thing is only applies to the continental United States.
Why would anyone want me to call them?
Anyway, that's the plan, and I'm sticking to it.

Typical behavior

I was able to open the bedroom window for the first time this year.
And I could hear three kids running around all over the place.
And I still haven't gotten my how to play the harmonica book.
And I still haven't gotten my results from the neuro-surgeon.
And I still haven't gotten my toilet paper cozy from belle.
And I just noticed that I have a fresh inch and a half scar on my right forearm.
And both of the local supermarkets were practically empty because the new Wally World opened this week.
And gas is down to $1.98 a gallon.
And milk is up to to $2.39 a gallon.
And used Sheryl Crow CDs are going for 75 cents each on half.com, and I guess that's what happens when you fuck Eric Clapton and Owen Wilson, among others.
And I didn't read anything today.
And I didn't shave today.
And I only spent 20 cents today.
And I purged The Real World ... Blogger Style.
And I took a shower and used up the last of the shampoo in the bottle, but I've got about ten more bottles laying around.
And I didn't watch any tv.
And I used the microwavable rice filled heating pad on my neck and it helped.
And I listened to a radio broadcast from 1975 of a duet by Lowell George and Linda Ronstadt.
And I listened to a radio broadcast of an episode of Gunsmoke from 1952, and the guy who played the mayor on the Andy Griffith show was Chester, and the guy who played Doc was Floyd the Barber on the Andy Griffith show, and the guy who played the Fatman on Jake and the Fatman was Matt Dillon.
And I made a post.
And I went to bed.

The long one

Amy has a blog now, it's a couple weeks old. Why don't you check it out if you get a chance.
Stone/Star Strobe

I am really tired, and don't really have anything to write about.
I did read another of the Salinger short stores, the long one, about the ...
Seriously, I'm tired, and I'm going to bed.
One of these days we should get together and talk about that short story by Salinger, the long one, that I read tonight.
It would be fun.

Friday blah

So anyway, if you look down at the bottom of the blog you'll notice that I've added a web stat thingie. I know, I know, I'm a sell out, but shit, at least I didn't add links or nothing, and the cool thing is I just found out that I have a return visitor from the great state of Hawaii.
Aloha, Mr. Hand!
Anyway, I'm tired, and I want some ice cream or something, so I'll catch you later.
Friday's are always pretty lame, aren't they.

Little wheel spin and spin

The infamous Buffy Sainte Marie nip pic.
From one of her albums in the early 70's.

Weird dream #1786

I just had the weirdest fucking dream.
My mother and I were discussing death benefits that my dad was entitled to with the union representative from where my dad worked.

At on point in the meeting, the union rep, played very convincingly by Alec Baldwin, showed me some kind of savings account that my dad had through the union, but Alec sort of blocked my mother's view of the document.

When I looked at the account I could see that there had been an $11,000.00 withdrawl made by former Miss America Bess Myerson back in 1962, which had eventually been repaid by Miss Myerson, if this wasn't disturbing enough there were all kinds of hearts and little coochie coo notes written all over that part of the account.

Before we left, I took Alec aside and asked him what he knew about this. He sort of hemmed and hawed, and said he had just started working for the company around that time, but yes it was common knowledge that my dad and Bess Myerson had a thing going.

At first I was just shocked that my dad could do such a thing, I thought about my mother and how things were going back in 1962, and damn, how could my dad do something like that to my mother, and damn, no wonder we never had any money, he had lent it all to Bess Myerson.

Then all of a sudden it hit me. Bess Myerson, damn, she was a former fucking Miss America.
Way to go dad!!!

Bess Myerson Miss America 1945



I remember reading that Bess Myerson had been a very controversial choice for Miss America. Not only was she from New York, but she was also Jewish, and by looking at her pic you can tell that she was also the earthiest Miss America that there has ever been.
She also went on to become a televison celebrity in the 50's and 60's as a panelist on the game show I've Got A Secret, yeah, and we know what the secret was, don't we Bess.
She also went on to become some kind of state appointed consumer affairs advocate for the state of New York, but resigned in disgrace after some kind of scandal involving abuse of the power of her office.
At least that's the way I remember it.

Bess fucking Myerson, way to fucking go dad!!!

A little too late, a little too lazy

A little while ago I had the urge to write a poem about Karen Valentine.
You remember her, the Gidget-esque student teacher from Room 222 back in 1969.



I mean she was seriously adorable with whatever it was that goofy hairstyle was that only a college age girl could pull off.

She was a twenty two year old actress in a tv sitcom and I was a nineteen year old airman first class in Biloxi Mississippi, and doesn't this sound like the start of a John Prine song?

Don't worry, I'm not going to get all Donald and Lydia on you, but seriously she was out in Hollywood mingling with the likes of Lloyd Haynes and Stanley and Barry, the Livingston brothers, while I was trying to learn to like the taste of beer at some little honkey tonk just outside Gate 2 at Keesler Air Force Base. So it could never be, am I right.

But shit, a guy has to have dreams doesn't he, about some special girl, somewhere, even if the odds of connection are a billion to one, am I right?

So the poem I wanted to write turned into another half assed post, of me rambling on and maybe slipping a gist of a thought or idea in amongst the words and references.

Who knows, I wanted to write a poem, now all I want to do is take a shower.

Thoughtless without prejudice

I am so susceptible to the power of suggestion.
Someone tells me that I am supposed to hurt
And I hurt.
I feel like lashing out at someone, or something
But I don't have a clue as to who, or what.
Maybe I should just sit here with my head in my hands
Until I get dizzy enough to realize that I should just go back to bed.
I'm turning the light out now and going
Back to bed.
Tell me, is that what I'm supposed to do?

One more post and I'm going to bed

So, what will I dream about tonight?
Playing guitar with a rock and roll band.
My sister, my uncle, and my dad.
Driving too fast without any brakes.
A tornado heading my way.
Images on my computer screen.
Losing my car in the parking lot.
A noise outside my bedroom window.
A motel room and an ice machine.
Deer in a field.
An unfamiliar campus.
Dying, and then waking up, and shaking my head in disbelief.

Ten in a row on the Dave Prince show

Ten Random Songs on Media Player
1. Eve of Destruction - Barry McGuire, from the days when I was so naive that I actually gave a shit.
2. The Battle of New Orleans - Johnny Horton, all us cool kids in grade school loved this song.
3. Spirit in the Sky - Norman Greenbaum, if only religion had this much fuzztone.
4. Skinny Legs and All - Joe Tex, ya'll know the lady with skinny legs got to have somebody too.
5. Fernando - ABBA, perfect driving the back roads through the country just before dusk on a Sunday evening song.
6. Look Through Any Window - The Hollies, an anthem to voyeurism, ok, my anthem to voyeurism.
7. James K. Polk - They Might Be Giants, seriously, I knew all this stuff before I ever heard the song.
8. You Send Me - Sam Cooke, honest you do.
9. What's New Pussycat - Tom Jones, when it was hip to be hip.
10. Nowhere Man - The Beatles, fuck, what an appropriate song to end on.

Feeling blah at 1:30 in the morning

Seriously, I am pained, to the max, and ...



I feel like walking down the street drunk, and barefoot in the rain.

The whores can come

I wasn't going to mention this because frankly I am getting sick and tired of even dealing with it.
But, what the fuck.
My family doctor sent me a copy of the radiology report for my MRI from the week before last.
Ok, there is a lot of doctor speak but what it boils down to is in the radiologist's opinion I do not have a herniated disk, but instead I have moderately severe spinal stenosis.
Which I guess is like saying ...
Well, I don't know what the fuck it is like saying, just that spinal stenosis is no better, or worse, than a herniated disk.
And after reading up on it, yeah that pretty much sounds like what I have, but I'm not a fucking doctor, and I've never played a fucking doctor on TV, and when the fuck did I start talking like Al Swearengen?
Anyway, I'm going to wait till I hear from the neurosurgeon before I break into my next Shakespeare inspired soliloquy.

How sad is nothing

Just write dammit.
Shouldn't that be our battle cry?
I mean, if you don't write, all those words get crammed up into your brain and you become sluggish and constipated and hard to live with.
Who cares if your writing is shit?
I mean, if it's shit you can always delete it, or swear on a stack of bibles that somebody else wrote it and put your name on it.
But if you don't write it, shit or not, you've got nothing, and how sad is nothing staring back at you from your very own personalized template?
Let me leave you with this.
Write or die.
Too harsh?
How about fifty four forty or fight.
Or, the best laid plans of mice and men ... something ... whatever.
Or, we're waste deep in the big muddy and the big fool says to march on.
Or, Mrs. Robinson, are you trying to seduce Benjamin?
Or, I knew a man Bojangles and he'd dance for you in worn out shoes.
Or, the country that controls magnetism controls the world.

Anyway, I had this dream last night. It was one of those profound dreams, that even though I can't remember what it was about it just sort of lingers there ready to explode into my consciousness if the right sensory button is pushed, but that button is never pushed, and after awhile whatever it was just regresses back into the sublime nothingness or your memory banks, never to be heard from again unless you have some life crisis, and then it all rushes out slowly at first and then all at once like like the air out of an ever expanding hole in a pricked balloon.

Shut me the fuck up, good night.

What have you become

Does anybody read this anymore?
It's alright, you can tell me.
It's not like I am going to stop writing.
I'm just curious, you know, and quite frankly, I'm probably not reading your blog anymore either, if that even matters.
And what's with all these blogs that are mysteriously disappearing, or that have just quit posting.
You people know who you are.
I don't have to point you out.
So many of you used to be so good, and you had such a flow, and you wrote so well, and I enjoyed you so much, but you've just dried up, and I'm just too lazy to find new reads.
Dammit, I cultivated you people, what happened?
Ah, forget it, you never listened to me in the first place.
But shit, ehhhh!

It's 11:11, make a wish!!!
Well, it was 11:11, but it's later now ...

And they will kill again

I went to the video store like I said I was going to do and asked if they had the movie Henry and June, and the clerk said
Benny and Joon?
And I said
No, Henry and June
and she said
Let me check
And I said
Ok
And she said
We have Harry and the Hendersons
and I said
No, Henry and June
And she said
Let me check some more
And I said
Ummmmmm
And she said
We have D-Day the Sixth of June
And I said
No, Henry and June
And she said
Hold on ...
And I said
But ...
And she said
We have Harold and Kumar Go to White Castle
And I said
No, Henry and June
And she said
How about Kill Bill Volume Two?
And I said
No
She said
Donnie Darko?
I said
No
She said
The Soprano's Season 5?
I said
No ...

So, ok, actually, after she said
Benny and Joon?
I left, but ...
Wouldn't it have been funny if it did actually happen like that?
I mean, seriously, it has all the makings of one of those wacky basic cable hidden camera shows hosted by Eric Estrada, or one of the cast of Star Trek Voyager.
Man, Star Trek Voyager was a great show, even though I never actually watched it, but if I had watched it, say, in the basement of my parent's house, I would have totally loved it.

Looking for clues and shoes

I'm sitting here.
It's a little after six pm.
The game just ended, we won, but I only watched the last ten minutes, because I was sleeping, blah, blah blah.
I have an urge to get out, but it's early Sunday evening in a small town, and unless you want to go to church, a bar, or Kmart there really isn't much to do.
I thought I might drive up to Oscoda ... again,
Damn I spend so much time up there I might as well move up there, but if I moved up there I'd have to change from boz48730 to something else, and really, is it worth it?
If I went up to Oscoda I could rent a movie, and even though I have about 250 cable channels, that doesn't sound like a bad idea, what!
If you read the last post you'll remember that I am sort of trying to get into Henry Miller and there was a movie released in 1990 called Henry and June which is about the relationship Henry and his wife June had with Anais Nin, based on the novel by Anais Nin and told from Anais Nin's point of view.
The movie stars Fred Ward, yeah, the Fred Ward who played Kevin Bacon's dumber friend in Tremors, and also stars Uma Thurman as June, and another soon to be star of Pulp Fiction Maria de Medeiros, you know Bruce Willis's french girl friend in the hotel who liked pancakes, or was it ice cream, or maybe it was pancakes with ice cream, hard to tell.
Anyway, Maria de Medeiros plays Anais Nin, and damn that name is fun to type.
Anais Nin, Anais Nin, Anais Nin ... tra la la, la la.
I'm out of here.

Maria de Medeiros



Oooh, I like pancakes, or is it ice cream, or is it pancakes with ice cream.

To be the boz

Anyway, I received my present from Big Sur yesterday. It's a totally mind blowing Henry Miller T-Shirt, that if I remember I will post a pic of said shirt so I don't have to describe it, because actually, words can't describe it.



To be honest with you, I have never read anything by Henry Miller and I was informed from said giver of gift that I'd damn well better actually start reading him or be branded a poseur, which I think is something like a poser but with a "u" added for emphasis.

I thought that might be a good idea, the reading of Henry Miller that is. So I lit on over to Ebay and began my quest for the holy grail. There was one auction of three 1963 hardcover editions of Black Spring, Tropic of Cancer, and Tropic of Capricorn with an hour to go and a current bid of 10 bucks that I considered, but when I read the book sellers description of the items, she, and I am assuming she is a she because she called her ebay store, Pussy's Place, or Kitty's Place, or Mouse's Place, or something equally as none masculine ...

Anyway ...
Wait, before I do the anyway ...
I think I read somewhere that Henry used to call his wife's boobs Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of Capricorn, or I might have just dreamt that, and that wife's name was June but not June Cleaver and she wasn't played by Barbara Billingsly.

Back to the anyway, I decided not to bid when I read in the booksellers description of the item that Henry Miller had once been married to Marilyn Monroe, even I fool such as I had to cringe, because fah, everyone knows that sweet little Norma Jean was married to ARTHUR MILLER between her marriages to Joe DiMaggio and Elton John.

Ok, cutting to the chase I found a BUY NOW auction that offered a single soft cover edition that had Tropic of Cancer, Black Spring and The Colussus of Maroussi for three and a half bucks plus three bucks s&h so I BOUGHT NOW.



Yours truly, and without a shadow of a doubt, Boz.

You've got my back

In the past couple of days I have gotten a few emails and IM's asking what the fuck is wrong with me.
Seriously, honestly, and beyond a shadow of a doubt, nothing is wrong with me.
I'm just trying to write some different stuff, explore different things, let the dark side peek through for awhile.
I am happy, see me grin, see it, see it, see it!!!!
I mean how many Top Ten Dumb Things I Did In Jr High School lists can I do?
I mean how many pictures of Jennifer Jason Leigh, Milla Jovovich, and Shalom Harlow can I post?
I mean how many times can I write about what a lovable goof I am?
Umm, those are rhetorical questions. I don't expect an answer, well unless you want to, but why would you, but you could, but still ...
But anyway, I'm good, actually, except for the back thing I am fantastic, well, mostly fantastic, most of the time.
And yeah, thanks for the concern, seriously, I mean it, but yeah, you can cut back on the novenas.
Really, seriously, thanks.

Astronomy 101

I really need to be someplace else.
In California
In Katmandu
In some magical town that probably doesn't exist.

I really need to be in somebody's dreams
To be part of a whole
To not be alone
To have someone wake to the sound of my voice.

And the moon and the stars in the sky.

I don't want to talk about it either

I think Warren Zevon said it best when he said ...
Poor, Poor, Pitiful Me

Sitting in the bleachers minding my own business

If I stare at the screen long enough maybe something will happen.
Maybe words will fly out of my fingers, or monkeys out my ass.

I have become such a coward.
Afraid to take chances.
Afraid to even try.
How will I ever know how much I can do.
How will I ever know how much I can't do.
If I never do anything.
Is the gain worth the pain?

I put my life on hold.
And let someone else make decisions for me.
Conservative thinking has cost me a year of my life.
It's my fucking life, and I agreed without a whimper.

I am a goddamn chameleon.
I am whatever anyone needs me to be.
Without their knowledge, without their asking.
I am so eager to be all things to all people I have become almost irrelevant.

When life doesn't kick in

My present from Big Sur didn't come today.
My how to play the harmonica book didn't come today.
My MRI results didn't come today.
My heart breaks a little bit every time I am fucked over by the man.

I'm OK, you're OK, this is just a post to fill in the blank spaces of my day.

My yurt or yours?

I want to crawl into an unmade bed
And smoke cigarette butts
And listen to Leonard Cohen
And scratch my balls
And make random long distance telephone calls
And kick my shoes out of reach
And recount the 35 ceiling tiles
And make my nipples hard
And try to remember the title of that book
And fall asleep on the cool side of the pillow.

There is no heaven
There is no hell
There is no milk
There is nothing like a dame.

Kerouac and Cassidy walk into a bar carrying a penguin and the I Ching

This blog is just going to hell, isn't it.
Oh well, there's a lot of cool stuff in hell.
Like good intentions
And bad posture
And chinese fire drills
And golf balls the size of hail
And Roy Orbison's Only the Lonely
And the Angora Debs
And brown rice
And yellow matter custard dripping from a dead dog's eye
And popcorn balls
And that one album by the Jefferson Airplane
And the Pillsbury Doughboy
And two floored Woolworth's stores
And time
And a bunch of guys named Joe
And tin foil
And all things slightly off center
And green gelatin
And movies about a guy, a gal, and that thing called love
And I think I'm going to barf
And seriously I think I am
And ok not seriously
And but I am feeling a little queasy
And what the fuck am I doing up at this time of the morning/night
And my computer has updates ready to be installed
And sixties chicks
And the road goes on forever
And the party never ends
And Sonny
And Cher
And dammit, I could have sworn it was Cher
And it's an inside joke, so if you're wondering, don't
And I'm so very tired
And I love you all
And yeah, I mean all
And yeah, even you
And I'll catsup on the french fries
Good night.

I like marshmallows

Happy birthday to Linda Evangelista.



I don't know, but I get a special feeling deep inside whenever they make a super-model look like a tard.

A miss is as good as a mile unless it's a thermo-nuclear device

I think I am going to try humor again for awhile.

Yeah, humor and blues harmonica.
I told you that I bought a harmonica the other day, didn't I?
It's a Hohner Hot Metal something something something diatonic, or something like diatonic, and it's made for the blues, just like I'm made for the blues.
Also bought a used copy of some supposedly cosmic how to play the blues book from Amazon dot com, cause all us blues guys buy their stuff from Amazon, cause Amazon has the blues too, don't ya know.

So, yeah, I'm going to try to get back to my comedy roots, I want to be the Medowlark Lemon of comedy blogging, I want to be the prune danish of comedy blogging, I want to be the Arthur Fiedler of comedy blogging, I want to be one of those Star Wars Darth guys of comedy blogging, I want to be the Debbie Boone of ... say did you know that Debbie is making a comeback? I saw that on the Today show while I was sitting in the neuro-surgeons waiting room the other day, and do you find it annoying on my part that I try to work in the fact that I am seeing a neuro-surgeon in as many posts as possible?

So anyway, on the post before this, I was way out of line talking about the Beatles like that, I mean heck, without the Beatles we'd still be referring to Beatle Boots as Astronaut Boots, if we even referred to them at all.

Man, I miss my Beatle hair cut, and my sideburns, and my turtleneck sweaters, and my penny loafers, and my bleeding madras, and my paisley, and my cranberry socks which were actually burgundy but cranberry was the color of the year for 1966.

And I miss Double Cola in the big 16 ounce bottle, and Tackle, the refreshing skin medication, and Lucky Strikes, and Gilette Trac II, and 5 gallons of gas for a buck, and stuff, and more stuff, and even more stuff.

But yeah.

Frank, you bastard, I read your book

I'm listening to Sgt Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band for the first time in over thirty years and I've got to say, man, it didn't age well.
Face it, the Beatles were the original Boy Band.
1. They had an aggressive manager, Brian Epstein
2. They had a brilliant producer, George Martin
3. They wrote catchy little pop songs
4. They couldn't duplicate in performance what they did in the studio
5. They had the rebel, John
6. They had the bubbly one, Paul
7. They had the shy one, George
8. They had the cut-up, Ringo
9. They were never as good as the sum of their parts
10. Boy band ... boy band ... boy band

Jumping the shark

Guess which former child star just had her 41st birthday?

Smells like

I will stay up until 3am this morning in hopes of ...
1. Finding Nirvana
2. Finding spare change
3. Finding my wits about me
4. Finding the light at the end of the tunnel
5. Finding the tunnel at the end of the light
6. Finding the Spock connection
7. Finding bats in the balcony
8. Crap this is sort of turning into nothing
9. I just made up that thing about the Spock connection
10. Finding out that the first time in your life that you just start stringing words together in any manner or form that eventually you stop typing.

Yeah, I'm a Jerk

So, what do you do when you find out at a little after midnight on Mother's Day that you bought your Mother a For A Wonderful Aunt on Mother's Day card?



Happy Mother's Day to all my Motherly friends out there in Bloggaritaville.

Five Seconds

I woke at 4 am and turned on the television.
A movie had just started about a priest who was searching for miracles and a reason.
I watched for about an hour and then turned it off, and went back to bed.
In bed, in the dark, I looked towards my window, and there was light, and everything fell into place, and it all made sense for about five seconds, and then it was gone.

A noble experiment

Ok, I tried.
I tried going to bed early.
It was a noble experiment that lasted twenty minutes but failed.

So what if I stay up half the night searching for sites which deal with ...
The history of florida professional wrestling
Famous people who have died while having MRI's
The history of dollar stores
Superman cartoons from the 30s and 40s
How to play the blues harmonica, da da da dun, dun dun
The Weimar Republic
Bogus letters to Dear Abby and Ann Landers
The folk music revival of the early 60's
And
Stuff you can get for free

I mean, so what.

I just had a coconut popsicle, and man, it was really good.

Perchance

I can't believe it. It's just after midnight and I am ready to go to bed.
I'm not tired, or sleepy, or bored, or anything, not even a tempa-cheer.
I'm just ready to go to bed.

I'm re-reading Nine Stories by JD Salinger. I just finished Down at the Dinghy. It dealt with one of the Glass kids, Boo Boo, who was no longer a Glass but a Tannenbaum, which is German for Christmas tree, and is a Jewish last name, but not really a Jewish last name, but a last name given to Jews as a joke by government bureaucrats. Or maybe I am just full of shit.

Yeah, I'm just going to go to bed.

Tab b into slot a

MRI today.
It sucked.
After twenty minutes pulled me out from the belly of the beast and told me that they had to give me an injection that would highlight my spine on the films.
Dufus came from the lab to inject me.
Tried my right forearm, missed the vein.
Tried the back of my right wrist, missed the vein.
MRI tech kicked the dufus out and she hit a vein in my left arm.
Stuffed me back in the belly of the beast for another twenty minutes.
Finished.
Came home and complained all day.
Yeah, dufus made sure that when he put the cotton ball over my wrist that he taped over a good three inches of hair.
I guess that's it.

I'll be listening to Leonard Cohen's Song From A Room and trying to remember what it was like to be nineteen years old.
A Bunch of Lonesome Heroes

Boz-ku

Today's MRI
Will determine my actions
It's not up to me

Cream cheese in a knotty pine world

I think I have actually lost the ability to blog.
You know, I thought I could turn it on and off at the drop of a hat.
I thought I could be funny and irreverent.
I thought I could be cutting.
I thought I could be off the wall.
I thought I could be introspective.
I thought I could be that guy that used to do commercials who said that he wasn't a doctor but he played one on tv.
I thought I could be the little man in the boat.
I thought I could be the guy, who knew the guy, who was the cousin of the guy who found a mouse in his bottle of coke.
I thought it was all about me.
I thought Canada actually wanted to be the 51st state.
I thought I could have a banana in my pocket and still be glad to see you.
I thought Superman and the Flash were really going to have that race.
I thought one day I'd wake up, turn on the light, and everything would make sense.
I thought that, huh, oh yeah, I think I should go back to bed now, what do you think?

Things I know today that I didn't know yesterday

1. It isn't a disk in my lower back.
2. I have to get another MRI on Friday, this one will be of my upper spine.
3. Which means???
4. You know the thing where they tap your knee with a rubber mallet to test your reflexes? My reflexes are very brisk.
5. Brisk is not a good thing, unless you are Lipton's Tea.
6. I can walk on my tiptoes in my underwear.
7. I can walk on my heels in my underwear.
8. My whole body is sore today because of all the probing and manipulating that the doctor did.
9. He might have slipped a bad touch or two in with all the probing and manipulating.
10. None of what I have just written makes any sense.

Ok, what I am trying to say is. The problem is not in my lower back, it appears that it is in my upper spine, in my neck.
So the news isn't better or worse, just different.
I should find out next week what the next move will be, which I am still pretty sure will be spinal surgery in my neck instead of my lower back.

To be continued ...

Blues Boy Boz

Bozzie blowin' the blues

Poor Uncle Wiggily

Listening to the Beast #6 and waiting to head out for my doctor appointment.
I'm not worried, seriously, I often go to bed at one in the morning and fall asleep at five thirty, seriously, well pretty much seriously.

I just thought of something. What if I have to get more tests before he decides what to do? I mean, I can only psyche myself up for this so many times before I self destruct, explode, implode, immolate, back out, freak out, cry out, ad infinitum, baby.

So anyway, I should start trying to find my shoes and get ready to leave.
Or as the cowgirl would say: grab your boots and git.

The last day that this will be the first day of your life

So, today is really Monday.
That means tomorrow is Tuesday.
Tuesday is the day of my appointment with the neuro-surgeon.
Looking forward to it.
Dreading it.
Yeah, both.
This is just to let you know I will be writing about it a lot.
So we should both get to used to it.
It's not really that serious of a surgery.
Well, it is, but it isn't.
I'll be in and out of the hospital in two or three days at the most.
Yeah, I've had this done before.
Only on the upper spine.
Not the lower spine.
Spine.

It's still dark, but I can already hear a bird singing off in the distance.
That's a start at least.

Robinson Crusoe and Betty: A Modern Love Story

If I were to ever write a short story I think I would call it Robinson Crusoe and Betty, and it would be how this guy, Robinson, and this girl Betty, got shipwrecked on a deserted island together.
I think I'd have Robinson be really happy about being shipwrecked, and yeah, I'd probably make Betty really happy about it too.
So they'd both be really happy together, and eat fish, and berries and drink coconut milk, and send out for pizza every third week or so, and play scrabble every night after the six o'clock news ended, and Betty would get triple x and z scores almost every game and kick Robinson's ass, and they would have sex every night, or at least consider it, and they'd laugh whenever telemarketers tried to call them because they don't have a phone, and of course there would be karaoke every Saturday night at the Blue Grotto, and they'd both be perfect, and thin, and super intelligent, and rich, and beloved by one and all, and people would tell them what a great couple they were or keep their comments to themselves.
Robinson and Betty would lead full and satisfying lives on their very own deserted island and die with smiles on their faces during sex when they were really, really old, and together.
The End

Where is her Richard Gere?

Not wanting to draw attention to herself in her return from Albuquerque, New Mexico, Jennifer Wilbanks, the Georgia runaway bride, wears a blanket over her head as she is escorted through the Atlanta airport.



Yeah, she looks pretty inconspicuous being escorted by police through one of the busiest airports in the country with a retina burning blanket over her head.