The Doogie Howser - 04/14/11

(daily intentions or explanations or penthouse variations, no one truly knows, 'specially not me)
#1: Yes I am toning back the output of this here cyberspot because I feel that ultimately this is a futile endeavor. Not that I don't enjoy the fact there's a hundred people that solidly enjoy what it is I do, but I feel like this is such a cluttered and hazy forum (meaning this here interwebs) that I have to pull myself back. Still working though, Southern By Birth - Raven By The Grace Of God number one will be ready either next Friday or in May or this summer or at 3:30 this afternoon. Some things have been going through my head as I diddle with this new fiddle. #2: My dumpster game is weak. I don't even have the right cycles for good days anymore. And on top of that, one of my hottest spots has mad homeless living down by the river by it so you can't get a lot of the good shit I used to out of there. But today it had plenty bok choys and loads of grapes (which are usually not bagged tightly, thus not too great for human eating straight out the bottom of the dumpster, unless you hongry), and then found the secret dumpster full of potato chips and ice cream. I left the ice cream because I wasn't trying to dump 40 pounds of ice cream into the dirt for my pigs. #3: I do these things as breezy easy nonsense gibberishes that I put at Amphetazine.com as well, as the dude that does that has conjured up big plans with me, but shit man, nobody has ever once commented on a single thing I ever put up there. And I can't see the traffic. And who cares about web traffic? Motherfuckers take one idea and turn it into 40 pages to bump up their web hits and completely fucking fakedify actual internet content into pictures of celebrity side boob. Fuck the internet. #4: Been listening to a lot of boom bap lately, actual Nas and BDP and shit and plenty of Ghostface instrumentals, that good old 4th Disciple/Bronze Nazareth offshoot of the RZA's bullshit second-level Wu nastiness. Also found a whole slew of old Boogie Brown beats with that same flavor that I've been writing paranoid ass Alex Jones irradiated seawater end times wars in North Africa rhymes to. #5: "When we start the Revolution, all they'll probably do is squeal," just said Nas in my house speakers stuffed into my tiny camper, blaring myself into deafness, furthering the damage shooting pistols with my dad all the time when I was 16 done did. My bro-in-law was using his smart phone to play those high-pitched sounds to see what everyone could hear and I was out of the game like halfway before everybody else. Fuck hearing things. I heard enough already. #6: Rojonekku Lesson One is The Revolution Will Not Be Digitized. #7: That's the next t-shirt if you ain't know. Buy one of the chicken fighter word fighting arts to the right in the sidebar if you fucking want to. If you don't, fuck it. I'll wear it to the dollar store to buy more notecards. #8: Been five months since I quit drinking, and have been drinking spring waters with a fat sip taken off the top and then filling back up with 100% non-sugared up (or corn syruped) juice. That's my shit now. I can drank like 10 a night, getting up to piss every two hours in my sleep. #9: Struggled with some heavy depression recently after getting out the bed from injury, but started back on my Soul Shine Tonic my plant voodoo wife conjured up for me, plus been eating sardines for the omega juices. Cheap ass fish in a tin keeps me in touch with my SS Va. reckless roughshod doomed from womb to tomb DNA, but also shines the soul. I have been tripping on the radiation seawater though. No, fuck you shima. #10: That's all bros and broschettas. Southern By Birth - Raven By The Grace Is God is gonna be one of those ebook/kindle/cyberbot things which will also be available via pdf through your robot mails. Also gonna be extremely limited edition hand-numbered joints available somehow, I ain't even sure yet. World might end tomorrow, ya dig?

The Doogie Howser - 04/12/11

(daily intention kinda thing but who really knows ultimately?)
#1: I'm cooking a new style, exposing a new alias of the thousand feathers to flutter at the world, and I've been concerned about what I am (...is what I am" sang Edie Brickell before Paul Simon's little ass locked her down) so I sat amidst the new growing chickweed next to my pig pen and took a handful of psychotropical matters, and tried to figure out (or in) exactly where this new alias was coming from. First thing that came to mind was I was full of shit, and too old to be tripping out next to pigs; plus, what if they ate me? #2: Initially, I was thinking on Joe Bageant dying a copule hours away in Winchester, and thinking how we are from similar cultural cloths - same state, same "what the fuck"s at the people around us who are our lifelong friends, but I would not tarnish that dude's legacy by associating myself with him. #3: Kinda feel sometimes like Oscar Zeta Acosta and Ronnie Van Zant had a threesome affair one weekend in outlaw heaven's nicest motel with Stacia the dancing chick from Hawkwind (google image search is your friend on that one), and I was their bastard soul child, condemned to life on earth, which is a struggle for me, highly depressing at times where I am overwhelmed by terrible depressions that surround me, but hey, this is my destiny to be here and do what I do, so I wake up and look at the sky and try to let the shine sink into my soul. #4: Then I was smelling the purple dead nettles on my hand that I'd thrown into the pig and thought about how associating one of my nonsense gibberish voices from beyond with anything else was itself nonsense gibberish because there is nobody who is me anywhere in the world. Who else amongst you gives rats clinical brain injuries by day and then steals produce out of dumpsters for pigs by night? Who else amongst you is southern by birth but Raven by the grace of God? #5: I don't believe in an actual "god" but I believe in actual unexplainable things which actually can be explained pretty easily, just you can't prove them using science. But what the fuck man, science and god are enemies, and I'm not gonna get involved in their Drama Triangle. It's better to just remove yourself from their conflict, let them both know you are there if they want to talk to you, and keep yourself from getting caught up in all of it too heavily. #6: I have felt my Scandinavian blood bubbling up the past year or two for some reason, and that seems to be part of this new style, as I have a strong urge to ferment herring. Seriously. We eat a lot of fermented foods in this house, and I just made like a four-gallon batch of kimchi last weekend that will be ready in about three weeks. It is sitting on the kitchen table right now, about 25 pounds of sliced and diced and shredded and crushed and mixed vegetables, sitting in brine, bubbling away. But kimchi is not in my genetics. Shit man, they've committed cultural eugenics so heavily I'm surprised my DNA has anything left in it outside of a predisposition for getting drunk and fist fighting my neighbors over trivial disagreements. But I can feel the Scandinavian blood in me. This of course could be weird Scando-voodoo as my grandmother who is the daughter of immigrants is currently old and in a home and going through another of her crazy stages, back into literal psychosis, and has been writing children's stories about turkey vultures. I told her I wanted to see her stories and have copies of all of them and I think maybe she's shooting things into my brain now, either to check me out, or point me in a new direction. Which is fine. Not nearly enough has been written about how awesome turkey vultures are. #7: There's a lot of distractions in this world, and I have been thinking about a line from an old Solaris Earth Pipeline song about people studying the fingertip pointing at a beacon light shining through the misleading night. Actually a lot of the shit I wrote back then was so fast and without thought that I became a channel for other things, and I'm only now realizing what some of it means. Unlocking those voices is important because they are inside us all, and we cloud and crowd them up with the hummmm and buzzzzzzzz. And unfortunately this leaves the important messages left to be told by people who were not born to tell those stories. That's why most writers fucking suck, because they don't write from pain and misery and tortured voices in their head, or even from the happy bliss that comes from hearing those voices clear enough for it to make sense. They just write because that's what they've trained themselves to do, and it's more like making trinkets for tourists of intelligence to buy and look at. #8: Almost as if on cue, the J.J. Krupert machine shuffled out "Heart of Soul" which was the first song Solaris Earth Pipeline ever did. Thank you robot machines, for being the chorus behind my mind there, perhaps by chance, perhaps by purpose. Good looking out. #9: So while I was sitting back there last weekend at night with my pigs, I kinda zoned out on them instead. Pigs are pretty smart creatures, and there's this whole pig holocaust going on worldwide. Except not only are they being killed, they are being genetically bred to be the exact same size so that robots can do the killing and slicing and segmentation of them. As much as civilization likes to flaunt and tout its high points, that's kinda weird that we do that, not in a simple "you shouldn't eat meat" sense, but in the strangely complicated way humans now raise and slaughter them in completely efficient ways that have no concern for certain interactions, nor do they really want humans involved more than to oversee things because the less people you have to give a paycheck to, the larger the profit, so long as you can keep selling the chops and sausage sluice to people. I am very thankful that last year when I took our two pigs to slaughter, I had to have the neighbor back his horse trailer up to the fence, and we tricked the pigs into it after like an hour, and then drove them to an old school butcher in Buckingham County, Virginia, America, Earth, who did business the old-fashioned way - we stood around talking about what we were gonna do for twenty minutes, bullshitted for about an hour, he wrote down things on a pad of paper, and did it himself. For all the pluses modern civilization has, we forgot how the fuck to do things for ourselves. Little things, like turn left two blocks ahead or don't put poison in your mouth. #10: I have rambled a lot and not really said anything, yet also said a whole lot. That is Southside Virginia pick-up bed style. In real life, I would say right now I have to go, which would mean I leave in about 40 minutes. But this is the internet...

The Doogie Howser - 04/01/11

(a daily thing of some sort, though not necessarily daily and often times not much of a thing)
#1: I am listening to a lot of DJ Screw mixes lately, because today for example it is spring but cold and rainy. I feel strong but am weak and healing. Screw music fits that because it is gangsta but mellow. Necessary in the now and here because these are very cataclysmic yet seemingly calm times. #2: The world is at all kinds of wars, leaking radioactivity into the Pacific, which will get caught up in the swirl or detritus that has created trash island in the middle somewhere, now irradiated, so the water will glisten not only from decomposed plastic down to microspecks but Cesium and Plutonium as well. #3: There are thousands of letters from children sealed in bottles in the midst of that trash island. I have started a kickstarter project to build a Kon-Tiki style boat and float the fuck out there and gather them from the detritus, collect them, translate to American, and let you read them. Except kickstarter wouldn't accept my bullshit, so you just have to paypal me money. I need $3200 to do it. I figure I'll have to collect like 200 letters to get a good sampling to end up with a nice collection of 50 to 75 translated. So if you give anything, I'll keep you up-to-date with the progress of translation once I get back from trash island, and if you give over $200, I'll give you an original letter from the collection. #4: A dude I used to work for moved to the United Arab Emirates, and he have me an inflatable boat we used to float the river with when we felt like blowing off work. I think at this moment in my mind, nothing makes more sense than floating the damn river as often as possible in 5-hour increments this spring/summer/fall while pumping DJ Screw mixes in some form of Ipod boombox contraption, if such a thing exists. If it does not then I'll just carry a for-real boombox with the bonafide Screw tapes my wife bought me a few years back. I am listening to one right now actually as I plugged in the camper to sit out in the rain and turn on the red light and blast the shit out of my mind. #5: My father Charlie Tuna and my uncle Ricky, we had a tight formative summer for me in a trailer me and my dad lived at. Very formative to what I am as a man, in the ways I think, maybe. I'm not sure really. Both are dead though, and actually on my dad's side, I'm the second oldest dude left in the family at age 38. Uncle Ricky committed suicide behind a pop-up camper. Dad had a massive stroke while smoking a bowl after work at age 46. Or 47. I can never remember. One of those two and my grandfather - his dad - died at the other age. The three of us share the same first name. Hopefully we do not share the same destiny. #6: Both have visited me in dreams. My uncle is stuck in a purgatory where he's frozen with the emotions he had when he did what he did. He's straight with it, because you do things and have to live with the consequences, but he wouldn't have done it that way if he had another shot. At least that's what I got from talking to him. My dad is in hell, but he doesn't know it's hell and it's pretty much what he was doing while alive, so he's cool with it. At least on the surface he seems to be. #7: I have a license plate placard in the camper here that says "American By Birth - Southern By The Grace Of God". I've scribbled graffiti over it that says "Southern By Birth - Raven By The Grace Of God". I don't believe that though... any of it. #8: It feels good out here, separate from the world. No internet or phone reception (thank god) and sometimes I even unplug the laptop from the one power strip everything runs from because I think the electrical cord to the house is an umbilical cord and I don't want where my fingers are poking words to be tapped into right now. #9: The internet and writing stupid shit for stupid people to have stupid good times, it is a thing, but such an ultimate waste of who I am. A parallel would be to be a girl with a pretty smile so I make amateur porn movies. But I guess that's the point of American success stories - to exploit yourself in whatever way you find easiest. Not sure I like this 21st century way of exploiting ourselves for nothing other than brief ego strokes that leave the phone bill unpaid. #10: Oddly enough it's only been in the past year that I've realized that my destiny is not to be paid for anything because anything I could do will never pay well enough to have solid gold rocketships to wreck into the moon for the fuck of it. My destiny is to throw words into the sky. I come from one thing where words are only spoken, never read. When I throw the words at those who actually read words, those are people who basically will do me like they did taking pictures of Indians - stealing souls. So I'm just gonna start (or keep) throwing them up in the air, luchini style, and throw them hard as fuck so that they get cumulonimbus on their edges, and hopefully by the time they come back down, the right folks will be spread out underneath to catch them. Luchini, falling from the sky.

The Doogie Howser - 03/26/11

(daily top 10/intentions for the next day or tonight, but not necessarily "daily" nor the top nor only 10)
#1: A good Friday night, felt tight tonight, wanting to get loose as fuck, slam like 19 beers and smoke three joints, etc. etc. but five months sober so been pounding spring waters instead, trying to keep it clean. Now I see why them dudes drink non-alcoholic beers, which always seemed stupid to me. I could go for one right now, and a couple non-amphetamine lines of uncrank. #2: I wrote one time a while back about how there was no such thing as a sober revolution, which is weird because as great as drunken vikings and all seem, there's also a good chance that outlaw types are pre-programmed to get involved in substance abuse issues so as to dullard their anti-government mojo, and keep things keeping in order. #3: You know who my dude is? When they show the riot authorities shoot a tear gas canister into the edge of the assembled crowd, and the one dude who runs up, grabs the canister and does the super extended arm fling of the thing back from what which it came. That's my dude. #4: You know why baseball is stupid? Because people should be throwing tear gas canisters back at the bullshit authorities in the streets right now. Instead at a young age across America, kids are brainwashed into creating cellular memories for their growing bodies that such a physical motion is to throw a baseball, thus squashing their revolutionary spirit before it can even really ferment in their potent adolescent years. That's why it's called The American Pasttime, because it stifles change. #5: I saw the absolute most craziest thing today while in town - a Prius with an Obama bumper sticker. Can you believe that shit? #6: My kids got to see Obama speak in Charlottesville last year during the election hype cycle, and we stood around for 37 hours to see the dude talk about nothing, and this is supposed to be a great moment, to be in the physical presence of our beloved leader. They talked this week about going to the White House, and I told the oldest that she had been to the White House before, and there were men with machine guns on the lawn, and we had to leave before they started fucking people up. All of this was true. Fuck going to the White House. If I go to the White House to visit, those assholes might try to come to my house to hang out, and I ain't letting no goddamn piece of shit President - black or white, D-brand or R-brand, living or dead - hang out in my back yard. #7: We really need to get a load of sand dropped off for the kids to play in. Also so I can have a good plentiful source of sand to embezzle 5-gallon buckets from now and then to restock the horseshoe pits. I can feel my balance properly restored with my useless appendix organ removed. #8: One good thing I'll say for the first George Bush President is he put horseshoe pits in the White House. I might've visited that dude. Then again I wouldn't have, because there's nothing worse than seeing horseshoe pits and hearing some ZZ Top playing and thinking, "Hey, these are good people," and then you're hanging out with them and they are boring and sterilized whiteness personified and their idea of getting wild is wearing sandals. And even their sandals that they only wear when they feel wild like once a year are a $140 pair of Birkenstocks. Fucking rich people. #9: When I started this list, I was gonna say something derogatory about me not drinking beer anymore, like how I had some "faggot" thinking going on, except I can't say that because I'm not homophobic, and have gay friends, and really ain't trying to come across like that through just words. So then I thought it was some "pussy" thinking, but that's the same deal. My goddess ol' lady has showed me that the vagina is powerful, and I've got three daughters and want them empowered in such a manner as well. So basically I don't know how to say I'm on some stupid shit, not drinking on a Friday night, wanting to get crazy and punch holes in the night sky. And those words aren't so much a sign of prejudice on my part in using them as they are just very hollow-point projectile words. What words can you use in that situation? And why the fuck do I think so much? I'm not sure if this is an improvement or not, this sober outlaw rural lifestyle I'm trying to cultivate in an irradiated earth. #10: Such questioning of myself is also pre-programmed into us as well. We are taught to hate ourselves, to destroy ourselves, to fuck ourselves up. When you train people to commit eugenics on themselves, to trap themselves, it keeps your own hands clean. I am domesticated more than anything, regardless of momentary substance abuse stances. Motherfuckers need to get feral, not drunk. Or if I'm gonna get drunk, it's need to be off some lacto-fermented kimchi, get my gut flora going again so my intuition is right again after their antibiotic war on my innards these past two months. Feral Ferment - that's gonna be Rojonekku Spring 2011 Slogan of Intention. Feral Ferment. Cultivate your wild, not pretend "I'm SOOO drunk" wild but for-real no hangover makes the gentrified world uncomfortable wild, fermented with all that beneficial gut intuition, feeling your actual soul inside your body and from underneath the ground and not the buzz and hum from the electronic heavens and all the insidious little soldiers of electro-magnetic weaponry you've invited into your home. Feral Ferment.

The Doogie Howser - 03/25/11

#1: Watching Duke lose to end their season is always such a joy and treat, especially when Coach K goes into hyperventilating basketball Hitler mode during the game and is turning red arguing with refs with that vein in his forehead, Sieg Heiling zone defense calls to his point guard. It got me to thinking about other sports things I enjoy watching other feel misery with. #2: Whenever the Yankees lose, that's always a great thing, though them making the playoffs (which they usually do since basically half of the rest of the MLB is their quadruple-A team) kinda takes the fun out of it, because they might not lose once they get there. It's better when they don't even make the playoffs, and hopefully you have to drive somewhere at night in a vehicle without new-fangled radios, for hours and hours, so you tune into AM 660 The Fan and listen to the fucking mongoloid New Yawkers talk and talk and talk about it. That shit is more fun throwing empty Mickey's bottles at the rundown office building across the street when you live in the city. #3: As a Redskins fan (my strongest non-sensical sports allegiance), I always feel good in my heart whenever the public at large is exposed to what a clueless asshole bazillionaire Dan Snyder is. Ultimately though, I realize he will outlive me, so I kinda hope now the Redskins relocate to L.A. as part of Snyder's descent into scientology, and we get an expansion team without a racist nickname, something chill like the Washington Fuck Yeahs, with black and more black uniforms with highlights of like a barely dark red black, and we play in the NFC West because the new owner is a secret investor who lets John Riggins and Dexter Manley do all the talking for him, and they are like, "Fuck it, we don't care. We'll play all road games in Mexico if we have to." #4: They do play two games in Mexico, and Dexter Manley becomes leader of the Los Zetas cartel, and being he's from Houston, in a moment of multi-culturalism, he bridges the gap between cumbia rebajadas and screwed music. #5: Except it doesn't show up on the interwebz, because you my friend, are a punk ass for being on the interweb. In fact, Dexter Manley is already leader of the Zetas Cartel, and there already is a professional football team called the Washington Fuck Yeahs, and you can get both their home black and their alternate darker black home jerseys with the holographic sanskrit on the sleeves at finer more dilapidated flea markets everywhere. #6: You can also usually get at those flea markets a framed display of the picture of Biggie and Tupac together with a toy gun framed in the bottom in a little box. Those things are classy as fuck. I have made one of the Hatfields and McCoys with a little shotgun replica in the bottom, and wanted to make one of the Morrises and Shifletts, to try to bring peace to my beloved Blue Ridge Mountains, but it ain't happening. Plus, I get moonshine from a Morris, and he'd get all pissy about it. I couldn't even tell him I had a 5-year-old Shiflett kid on my soccer team two years back because he would've wanted to come to the games and fucked with the kid and his single mom. #7: Actually, as a kind of Walter Matthau-esque youth soccer coach, last year our U-8 team won the round robin on the last day of the season to be champions in our league. It was the first year they didn't give a trophy to the winning teams though. Still, my kids came through. I had a pair of twins who just straight tore it up, plus every other team had like 3 or 4 girls and I had 7, so we empowered them, and started every second half with all girls on the field, calling it our Girl Power line-up. Shit was tight. #8: Years ago, there was this chump ass born again coach dude who was way too into it for kids under 8, making them talk shit on the other teams with that 2-4-6-8 thing like the Yankees on the Bad News Bears. Our team was my usual ragtag assortment of misfits and oddballs that year as well, but we beat his team in the round robin to ruin his chance to be champion. He pulled some insider shenanigans to declare himself second place, even though we were tied in record for the day and we beat him head-to-head. He had that shit broken down to some fourth tiebreaker nonsense, even though I don't think anybody actually wrote down the scores and kept nothing more than who won/lost/or tied. #9: The kids I coached the first year I coached are all nearly teenagers now. It's weird when I see them around town. It's also weird being around a town for so long that people be knowing me like that. We have neighbors who hated us at first, the dude was a retired state troop who used to call my landlord about us not cutting the grass and having junk cars. Now we own this motherfucker, and I don't cut no goddamned grass, and got a tipi and a junk camper trailer in the back yard, plus some stank ass pigs snorting around, a dog that won't stay in the yard, chickens, Christmas lights still up in March, in fact lights wrapped around the tree in the front yard for random plugging in throughout the year as that's my Tesla Coil of Lounge. He can't tell us shit. #10: His wife bought girl scout cookies from my center child, and whenever they see us out at a restaurant, she always remarks how beautiful and well-behaved our kids are. Their daughter is long-time dating the dude down the other road who had the loud ass truck that was waking up my baby all the time, and comes from the prominent country family on our road. I tried to wave them down to tell them to stop gunning it in front of my house one time, but the daughter of the state troop wouldn't stop, so I went to his house and told him he was waking up my baby and I knew how cool it was to have a loud ass fast ass ride, but please don't cut whole shots in front of my house. And he never has ever since. #11 (BONUS!): The retired state trooper sometimes for some reason drives this giant truck that's like a tractor and trailer truck, but with a tiny little pick-up truck bed. Seriously, it's as large as a tractor and trailer but with a regular 6-foot pick-up bed, and looks ridiculous. Like not even a Southern rapper would drive something like that. I bet that dude's dick is so small.

The Doogie Howser - 03/24/11

(daily top 10/intentions for my tomorrow, but not necessarily "daily")
#1: Felt crazy tonight - crazy from two months of house arrest due to health, too long in the same incubation chamber, not enough world soaked in by my eyes, not enough foreign smells and sounds and splashes of realities outside my own to feel right. It sounded like airplanes rolling upon us in some sort of formation, and I went outside and it was wind and weather with an ominous but good feeling coming towards us. My wife followed me outside because you could feel it, and I think she could feel me being crazy too and was worried I might wander off in deliriums. I wanted to just run out in the yard and throw my arms up and scream at the skies, loud as fuck, for ever, but didn't, because I could feel her feeling me feeling crazy, and man, the woman has done so much to take care of things around here while I've been hurt the past two months - feeding hogs she is afraid of, taking care of ragged chicken fencing and coop structures that are fine-tuned with my half-assed precision, stacking wood and building fires... all while still doing what she would've been doing anyways. The last thing I wanted to do was scare her worse. So I figured I'd drag the drop cord from the front porch out to the camper, plug in the power strip, and sit out in the camper trailer tonight, listen to the rain, let the music blare through my brain... fuck it, you know. #2: I am comfortable in this camper trailer, more so than most people probably would be. There's a leather chair we inherited from somewhere, a component stereo system, then a table with a couple of factory bench chairs with cushions that make you ass hurt like a movie theater seat from 1989. Beyond that, there's not much room in the camper trailer as it's stuffed with things not necessary enough to be unpacked in the house proper. But I have lived in trailers more than once in my life, and it is a psychology that I am comfortable with, in fact feel good about at times. #3: People often make fun of trailers or the people who live in them, but there's some serious psychological factors to living in a trailer. First off, it's a narrow life, so when the halls are covered in framed pictures, like my grandma's trailer was - and still is, as my aunt and her two boys sort of took it over once my grandmother died of breast cancer a few years back. Being my dad had already died, my sisters and me were part of the group that could inherit what my grandma had owned, but we all signed our rights over to my one uncle with the best credit because he was the only one who could get a personal loan to pay off the debt on everything so that we could keep the land and my aunt and her kids wouldn't get kicked out of the trailer. #4: When I was a teenager and my parents split up, my dad moved into a trailer down the road from my mom, so I would bounce between places as convenient for my teenagerly lifestyle. My room at my dad's was tiny, and we had no heat there for a while, so we slept in all our clothes with winter jackets on. We had no dryer either, so we'd wash our clothes and hang them on the line and they'd just freeze and hang there for two weeks until there was a warm day. When that commercial came on the TV about the little girl getting bundled up and her mom putting her to bed and it being an ad for broke people who can't afford heat, we'd laugh at it. I sold weed a little back then, and would keep my weed there so that my mom wouldn't worry about it, and one time sold a bag to a dude at the other end of the county, like a half ounce maybe, who then turned around and sold an eighth to my dad. I thought it funny how far that little bit of weed travelled and the money exchanged just to get fifteen feet around a couple of faux wood paneled walls no more than an eighth of an inch thick. #5: I also lived in Lindy Hamlet's Trailer Park in Hampden-Sydney, Virginia, and the guy next to the trailer I shared with a dude would always beat his wife and yell at his dog. Oddly enough, when playing horseshoes with "Pops" and the other dudes in the trailer park, they talked shit about the guy yelling at his dog but not beating his wife. I mean, you could tell they didn't like anything about the dude, but what happens outside the 1/4 inch walls with the dog on a chain is public, what happens behind the walls, regardless of hearing it, I guess that's still private. #6: One time playing horseshoes with those dudes, Pops son was there, and I was on man. We played $20 a game and I whooped them, partnering with the dude in the trailer two over from us who had twins that we always thought were named Jesse and James. Pops son wanted to play me one-on-one, for $20. We did, I beat him. He wanted another one, $5 per ringer thrown to the winner. We did, I threw four ringers and a point. Pops' son was pissed, but impressed. Me and the dude with the twins who we thought were named Jesse and James went back to his trailer and smoked a fat joint and I had an extra bottle of Beam back at my trailer, so I got it, and we got thoroughly fucked up, taking Sunday night far enough into Sunday morning that I contemplated just not going to bed, but decided to anyways as a two-hour nap while stone cold fucked up would probably do me more good than a pot of coffee. #7: Behind my dad's trailer back then, we also had a pop-up camper that I would hang out in and wrote some of my first zines in actually. It was my first personal studio I guess, which is probably why I still love having my camper trailer, no matter how crooked and fucked up it is. When my dad couldn't afford his rent on the trailer anymore (he was small engine fixing shit for the landlord there for a while, but I think the dude ran out of charity machines to get my dad to twist wrenches on), he moved the pop-up camper behind my grandma's trailer, and lived there for the most part, though he also found a woman to hang with that he stayed at a lot of times. My uncle Ricky ended up shooting himself in the head behind the pop-up camper (dad was at that woman's house), so once the cops were done with their shit the next day, my two-step grandfather Bob burned the pop-up camper up. No one wanted to see it anymore. #8: When I was a kid, Bob would go to the country store and take me with, which meant I would stand around looking at shit for like two hours while these old dudes would sit around and talk about a whole lot of nothing. I liked when people came in to get meat cut because they had an actual meat locker with curing hams and deer meat and all types of shit, and you could get pork chops cut on the spot or bologna sliced as thick as your thumb if you wanted it. I remember when my dad was fixing lawn mowers for the landlord, we'd go to the country store and get a couple pounds of bologna from them on credit, which was a little spiral notebook under the counter. We also got fresh duck eggs from old ass Ms. Pugh, whose son was in jail and was good friends with my dad, because we'd move things around the house for her or whatever. My dad also would bring home the welfare cheese and butter from the woman he was seeing. Good times man. My dad could cook up a helluva good breakfast, usually for dinner. #9: Not sure why I care to share all this shit. I was reading Deer Hunting With Jesus in the camper trailer as I had started it a month ago but it got buried on the couch underneath a pile of clean laundry. Our washing machine had been broke, so I think we kinda kept that pile of laundry on the couch to pick through for what we needed to feel like we'd never have to go to the laundromat again, because the laundromat sucks. Most of them do at least. I had ordered the parts, but like I said, been hurt and can't do shit. My wife and I fixed it last weekend though, me kinda getting her pointed in the right way, but her doing it with her own two hands - replaced the coupler and the clutch, because if the coupler's been wasted for long enough - like our's was - the clutch is usually shot too, which means it'll stop agitating completely. Took us an hour and a half, but we got it done, me doing nothing but picking out the right socket drives and helping her with anything she couldn't figure out, which wasn't much. Like I said, she's been doing it all. #10: Anyways, when we started tying up the laundry's loose ends with our newly working old washing machine, my center child found my book, so I started reading it again, like tonight. But then "Simple Man" by Lynyrd Skynyrd came on my gaypod and I kinda felt like writing this instead of reading that. That's basically why I don't read anything too much. So yeah, I'm sitting in my camper trailer on a leather chair with a pilfered laptop on top of my actual lap, and I did this instead. In the time I wrote this, various other songs came on, but now it's somehow shuffled itself back to "Tuesday's Gone" and I am still feeling crazy but not so much but goddamn man, I need something to break for me. But I should probably go inside and have my wife repack my fucking oozing wound in my side with gauze before she falls asleep from exhaustion and has to get up tomorrow to do it all again.

The Doogie Howser - 03/22/11

(daily top 10/intentions for my tomorrow, but not necessarily "daily")
#1: If I win the MegaMillions, I will rent an office space in Scottsville and just sit around and write nonsense gibberish for the rest of my life. I will not try to be serious nor make impactful highly personal pieces. I will simply do what I already do, except I'll drink a lot of that fancy carbonated spring water in the green bottles. The big green bottles. #2: I meant to say "When I win the MegaMillions..." not "If I win the MegaMillions..." and I hope the lottery is not like the Great Pumpkin and I just screwed it up. #3: Of course I know the lottery is an ignorance tax, but sometimes... shit man, being smart about things gets stupid. #4: I was laying in bed reading the new Harper's magazine tonight, feeling all smart, like I was gonna go to sleep and wake up knowing mad shit. But then I got back up and ate two pork chops. #5: This was good because we left the dog outside in the rain. #6: When I win the MegaMillions, and they do that news conference thing like they always do where I'm supposed to be a long-haul trucker who goes, "I'm gonna keep working, because that's all I know how to do," I am not going to do that. I am going to say, "I will never work for this bastard society again. I am going to buy the biggest, largest guns that are legal for me to own, and put razor wire around a mountain. If the guns I am allowed to buy are not big enough to make me feel safe in this godless shameful country, then I am moving to fucking New Zealand. Fuck yall. I hope you're happy dying thinking you're free, you fucking sheep. No more questions," and then I'll push the mic away dramatically. #7: Of course, the government will double my taxes on my winnings because of this behavior, so I'll buy a whole block in D.C., tear down all the buildings, and erect a giant bronze statue of a huge box-style rental truck, with a bench beside it and bronze Timothy McVeigh sitting on the bench holding a bronze copy of the Declaration of Independence in his hand. #8: They of course won't let me do any of this with their bullshit zoning laws and all, so I'll just move to New Zealand. #9: In New Zealand, I will continue to write intensively my offbeat brand of nonsense gibberish that is sort of channeled straight from the universal heavens but also sort of just the negative effects of too many concussions and handfuls of drugs. I will also raise a lot of sheep. I definitely feel more attached to animals at this point than people. In fact, I feel bad already for calling everybody "you fucking sheep" in my post-lottery winning press conference, because that's not fair to the sheep. #10: Yes, I talk to my animals.