Monday, January 30, 2006

No Straight lines

Everything you've learned in school as "obvious" becomes less and less obvious as you begin to study the universe. For example, there are no solids in the universe. There's not even a suggestion of a solid. There are no absolute continuums. There are no surfaces. There are no straight lines. -- R. Buckminster Fuller

The Border

The border between the Real and the Unreal is not fixed, but just marksthe last place where rival gangs of shamans fought each other to astandstill. -- Robert Anton Wilson

Buy the damn Motor Primitives new EP


Go to their website. Buy their cds. Obey me!

Squeeze that fat bag



Fresh Batteries



Saturday, January 28, 2006

Why I hate Dentists

It's not the pain, it's not even those crunching, tearing and grinding noises with the high piercing whine of drills, or even the smell of burnt bone wafting up to my nostrils, or that fucked up numb with no fuckin' coke high feeling you get for hours afterwards, or the wired smells and ugly lights and repbulican values reflected in the way out of line costs for somebody who is not even a real doctor.
It's the way they think my time is worth nothing when they over book and leave you sitting for too long as they work on seven friggin' patients at once, the way the force you these days to get a cleaning when you know god damn well that the last time you were there you had cavities you still have, the way they force you to watch not only your gums on TV monitors as they flay, floss and bleed you, splattering your DNA everywhere without a care, the way they make you watch some stupid fucking damn ad with HAPPY NEW IMPROVED WHITE TEETH LIKE A MODEL!AND PERFECT DENTAL CROWNS AND CAPS AND WHILE YOU'RE AT IT WHY DON'T YOU.......... with all those perfect young white people with Stepford Wife smiles and how they morph rotting and blackened teeth into shining white walls of clenched teeth, never having a clue that it looks like a bad acid trip when they do the cheap special effects, the way they say you need a crown here and here and here and here and your teeth aren't quite straight as they do a walletectomy on you when they should be saying this tooth pays for my new nine iron, this one pay little dimwit timmy's day school lunch fees for the year and this one will buy me that nice hotel room in Cabo San Lucas.
May the dental marketing people rot in hell, next to all the bastards who buy their stuff.
What really yanks my fuckin' crank is that this in not one of the teeth they said needed a crown.
Do you need all your molars at 48? Don't get me started on root canals.

Sick, sick sick.

Sick As A Dog All Week.
Bleech. More later. Must go drip drip hack cough

Friday, January 20, 2006

Lettuce be poetic now

I like radicchio, don't ya know
shovel it in till my juices flow
and red leaf lettuce does not suck
unless it's hauled too far on a truck
iceberg heads are worthless to me
unless they're sticking up out of the sea
ramming my ship in front of me
some like bibb, green leaf and cabbage
but they are often just a vegetarian savage
ripping the heads from the ground
chewing them down by the pound
I prefer romaine from my garden
with a steak that makes my arteries harden
with a fine ceasar dressing white as old snow
anchovies mixed in, don't ya know?

Tired and Rich

He was tired, old and felt worn thin. The long years had worn him down, even though he had looked young for a very long time now. Tired of being cold, always, of seeing his loved ones die off one by one, of watching everything he loved fade into nostalgia. Tired of seeing the world turn, year after year, knowing there were so few challenges left, so few things unseen or unwanted.
He'd been young when his choice had been made, when he begged his way into the Organization, exicted at the power and wealth connected to it, the promise of being something bigger and stronger than anything he'd seen before, knowing his entrance had a seriously high price attached.
He hadn't cared or thought about it much, given how worthless and weak he'd felt. Anything seems better than being of no value or consequence when you're young and impatient enough to feel needed.
He'd risen up the ranks, made good long term investments and setup his people in positions of power and comfort, investing in pharmacuticals and biomedical research. He lacked for nothing he wanted. He'd been head of a powerful house for some time now.
He'd found that none of it mattered any more. He wanted to feel alive, to feel the warm sun on his face, to be back among his long dead family and friends.
So he took a long walk along the beach in front of his mansion, found a fine rock and waited for the sun to come up, letting go at last of all he was and could be.
It was the next night when the younger ones found his ashes, out on a lark to suck on some fresh teenage blood on the beach, even though they had plenty of good blood on tap back at the mansion from the new plasma/blood replacement biolab.

Play it in the closet

It was supposed to be something holy, for God's sake, when old Ernie sat down at the piano . . . I swear to God, If I were a piano player, or an actor or something, and all those dopes thought I was terrific, I'd hate it. I wouldn't even want them to clap for me. People always clap at the wrong things. If I were a piano player, I'd play it in the goddamn closet.

-- Holden Caulfield, The Catcher in the Rye

Burning one at the bar



Pubic Militia



Tuesday, January 17, 2006

Cowboy eyeball woman



Mortality

I never, ever take my used stuff to the local thrift store. Few things are more freaky than walking back into it a week later and seeing your stuff on a rack, waiting to be bought by somebody else who thinks it's cool to own stuff dead people don't need anymore.
Once I had a bad Hawaiian shirt collection. I stuffed it into the donation bin. The next day one of my bandmates, smiling at how happy it would make me, handed me a whole pile of ugly shirts he'd filched from the bin.
They were the ones I put there the day before.
Having cleaned up after dead people, emptied Rug Doctors filled with diluted blood, cut away the carpet where the decaying remains dripped into rorsharc test blotches, and tossed lifetimes of junk into dumpsters, I think I'll take my junk to distant thrift stores.

Dark eyed beauty



Thursday, January 12, 2006

Religion is for those who believe in hell, Spirituality is for those who have been there.

David Bowie


Busy doing another blog, here:

http://ellieguitarstwo.blogspot.com/

Here's what I do to keep out of the mental hospital.

Wednesday, January 04, 2006

Monumental Hand Job


Sometimes, it takes both hands to handle some big phallic object.

The Hand in early 2003


Early in March 2003, Joel met the Hand. Now he's living in Berzerkly CA, and is an out Heterosexual, and a Unitairan High Preist in Training. Hint of Dementia disavows any involvement in this "lifestyle" choice of his, but respects him for having the courage to admit his formerly latent Heterosexuality, if not his choice to become a man of the cloth.
We actually prefer black leather.

More Hand Job Momentum



The hand sometimes squeezes french Hobbit heads.
This is not one of those, although at first glance it appears so.

The Hand Strikes Again


We here at Hint Of Dementia Brain Stretching Research Labs apologize for that last image, it was in good taste, offered no gutwrenching wierdness or even a trace of sardonic and bile filled intent.
To rectify matters, we offer up the following images. Please accept our profound apologies for that moment of clartiy and beauty.

Sunrise, Kitty Hawk, December 2004


Sometimes it's worth getting up at dawn and walking down to the beach.

Tuesday, January 03, 2006

Don't tell me you're a dyke, Dude.

I been thinking about all those guys I've met who tell me they're really a dyke inside. I think they're full of shit.
You hear it a lot. "I'm really a lesbian inside" they say, but rarely do they ever think long and hard about how dumb that statement is.
They enjoy the hell out of sex with women, or claim to, and proclaim that this somehow makes them a lesbian. Right. Sure. Tell me another good story.
I love Mexican food. Does that make me a Mexican?
I want to know a few things when they say that.
Do they spend long hours doing things without penises when having sex? Weekends in bed having sex during the early stages of the relationship that don't involve them panting, squirting and rolling over and snoring?
Can they even imagine that sex is something that does not have to involve Tab A going into Slot B, programmed as they are with their errector set approach?
The penis is a fine thing, although I think it's overated. They can be fun and feel good, but they're attached to things that smell wrong to me, and are covered in stubble and wierd urgency. And they usually make a big mess. I've known a few in my life.
But I doubt few of the guys I know who claim inner lesbian status ever thought about what sex, or a life without a dick would be like.

Scary love

You should be scared if you're paying attention
the sex may be great, but so is the tension
she carves your initials in her arm with a knife
she fills your life with pleasure and strife
you never know what's coming next
she works without scripts, a text or a net
you would be running scared it it didn't feel good
but you think she might snap so you knock on wood
she's dangerous and dark
not a walk in the park
but she's alive in a way
that takes your breath away
faster than sunrise on a tropical isle
scary and weird with reckless style
you know it will end but you can't tell how
and you'll hang on to her till it all turns vile
You're hanging by a thread
so very alive but feeling half dead
you think of the things left unsaid
and replay the tapes inside your head
there are moments stuck on a permanent loop
things lower than you ever thought you could stoop
pleasure or pain mixed up in your brain
you hope when it happens that it happens quick
the thought of her leaving makes you feel sick
still it's better than nothing to feel so alive
but you just need a break from the squirming inside

Monday, January 02, 2006

Huldah Erickson, My Grandmother


She died 20 years before I was born, at least. She spent her life thumping bibles, raising babies and arguing religion with my grandfather, two jesus freaks, one from Norway, one from Sweeden, both fighting over the same repressed dead guy nailed to a stick.
I see her face and hair in mine, I see her dark eyes too. I'm afraid I see my future figure too, although time will tell. I'm glad my father was immune to the Jesus virus, and I inherited that immunity.
She was older at 60 than my mother is at 78, and I wonder just how freaked out she'd be by today, my "lifestyle", our strange family and a world filled with sex and violence and opportunistic hacks masquerading as concerned politicians and self declared "family values" issues.
I hope she's resting in peace with her lord, because my long dead father described a life of strife in the house he grew up in.

Sunday, January 01, 2006

I dreamed you were here again ©1993

chalkboard nailbrain

Sometimes I think the rest of the world can hear the scracthing of my fingernails as I slide down the chalkboard of my mind into a gibbering state of burnt nerve endings and bad tape loops of memory.
Sometimes I know they can.
Self control is over rated.

Her Mom's Bathroom, 1977

Toxic Geese and a New Year

Step outside
Bright stars, cold air slaps my face
drunks babble on the street like toxic geese
cheap trick screams from the speakers in the townie bar
"I want you to want me"
Seems like a desperate mantra to me
nobody wants to go home alone in the cold
my ears are ringing,

my feet are sore
Last set's over

tear it down and pack it out
point the big mercury home
keep an eye out for the drunks and cops
a strange new year is here.
another spin around the big fireball
it's 3 AM, my bed calls.

"Sometimes a scream is better than a thesis." Ralph Waldo Emerson