bring the noyz

Okay, look. . . I understand that in this whole post 9/11 world the Federal Government has taken an ever expanding role.

I'm am tempted, yes my dear reader, sorely so, to go into yet another lengthy tirade about the Patriot Act, Military Commissions Act, John Warner Defense Authorization Act, SPD 51, and all that other really depressing shit about how some folks think it's okay if the President feels the need to crush a child's testicles with pliers, all in interest of national security, of course.

What a buncha power drunk sick twisted fucks.

But this thing that I saw. This thing. . .

This thing that is in some ways much sillier, and other ways even more insidious and perverse.

So lemme now tell ya a sweet lil' story.

This past Saturday I found myself celebrating the rites of spring along with a few thousand other sun soaked and beer drenched hippies, freaks, and weirdos. Cripes man, do I ever love and look forward to Eeyore's. As long as it remains, there is still hope. Yes, hope!

As you would imagine or quite possibly recall, what goes in eventually comes out. It is a law of nature.

Many fine moments did I spend within the confines of a port-a-john ripe with the sun-baked fumes of beer, both before and after.

I noticed this decal on the wall:


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Okay, so this article is a long rambling piece about a kid getting out and hoping to fly straight. Yeah, he just might be on Oprah if he makes it, but if he don't? . . . well then by tomorrow you will have forgotten his name.

And if it wasn't easy with that sumva'bitch Reagan in the White House it sure as Hell ain't gonna be easy now.

But I was jus'a readin' along, all quiet and happy like, but quite honestly perhaps just a little bit buzzed because it is my birthday. And then I read this:

The number of juveniles diagnosed with mental disorders and sent to the Youth Commission has doubled in the past decade, and handling medication and other psychiatric treatment has become a big part of the agency's challenge.

For some strange and very dark reason that I don't understand and dare not imagine, that sentence made my blood run cold.
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lit by flickering torchlight. . .

Indeed, they were.

Earlier tonight I spent about three hours with three fine Canadian fellas and maybe a dozen or so thousand other fine folks.

I also spent three hours with you.

And only you. It was good to have the chance to pass an evening with a drink and friend.

It was my first opportunity to see the band since we went with Matt down to the Alamo City in what was it, 2003?

Had I asked or even bothered to try I'm sure I could have found someone else to accompany me. The Wife, who was thankfully not a suburban white boy in the 80's offered to go with me, not because she gets and fully appreciates the band (which sadly, she doesn't because of that aforementioned not being a suburban white boy thing. She's wonderful but not perfect, nobody is), but because she knew that you would be there with me.

She's heard all of the stories about our adventures, both mis and otherwise. She understands the possible perils and pitfalls that accompany our hanging out, the risk of revertigo. Being a wonderful wife she fully understands. And really now, we all know that she deals with enough of that when I hang out with Gola.

And on some level I think that's why she understood I needed to go on my own.

So that's what I did.

So um, how ya been? It's been what, about three years since our last conversation.

Oh wait, I know the answer. I know exactly how you've been. You're still fucking dead.

And as for me. . . well, sometimes I still feel like I'm caught in a Spindrift.

What am I supposed to say?
Where are the words to answer you

And quite honestly, my brother my friend, you missed one helluva show. Two sets. Total playing time almost three hours! Full on arena rock concert with cream gravy, all the fixins and every side you could imagine:

Strobe lights.
Lasers.
Fire. Yes, fire. Fire like you'd more expect at a Kiss concert.
A hunched over witch wandering the stage somewhat reminiscent of Spinal Tap.
A little bit of South Park.
And three ovens cooking rotisserie chickens.

They played Natural Science.

They played Witch Hunt.

Did I mention it was fucking awesome? I didn't? Then I mentioning it now.

Yes, you missed it. But then again you didn't. Because you were very much with me tonight.

It was a very emotionally wrenching experience for me. Very. When they first took the stage to Limelight. . .

I suddenly found myself weeping like a little girl. Because quite honestly, well. . . I miss ya man.

But you chose to exit the warrior. . .

Or not.

So I don't know. It's been an emotional night. A great show. An incredible experience.

But still. . .
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So some folks are protesting CNN because a talking head said something they don't like.

"I think they're basically the same bunch of goons and thugs they've been for the last 50 years."

Right.

And we've had the same bunch of goons and thugs running things over here for just about as long.

So here's a crazy idea: educate yourself. Pay less attention to who wants to be the next American Idol and pay more to who wants to be the next American President.

Then just get the fuck over it.

Last week was full of righteous indignation over poor bitter people.

It just continues to amaze and astound me how we have become such a nation of thin skinned pussies.
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Well my dear reader, as my father frequently says, "here I sit with a kid in the cold".

It sounds better in the German dialect he grew up hearing and speaking as a farm kid deep in America's heartland. I'm told it's a proverb about being in a jacked-up situation wondering just what the fuck you're supposed to do.

But anyways. . .

I've recently rediscovered the joys of another son of middle America. I first heard this guy back in the '80's. My then roommate and now fallen brother introduced me to this new (at the time) band that heralded from K.C. Mo.

It's been 20 plus years since I first went downstream and I am still quite proud to consider him an inspiration and count him amongst my favorite artists/songwriters.

So my dear reader, please I beseech thee from the bowels of Christ, praise Bob. Then plug in the headphones, click on a show, turn it up, sit back, close your eyes, and smile.

Bob Walkenhorst
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Now my advice for those who die
Declare the pennies on your eyes
'Cause I'm the taxman
Yeah, I'm the taxman
And you're working for no one but me
- Brother George

Ah, my dear reader and my fellow citizens, it is indeed a joyous day! It is a day for rendering to Caesar, and for celebrating the benevolent love of Big Brother!

It is tax day! It is tax day!

As do I, my doubtlessly like-minded dear dear, I know you enjoy all the insightful local news coverage of this great day. I know you secretly love the news footage of the long lines at the post office. You tremor with glee when you see an intrepid hot young reporterette conduct an in-depth interview with some bumbling yokel, an irate business man, or some anxious SUV driving suburban MILF, inquiring the reason as to why they waited until the last minute to file.

When your done with that, my dear reader, and wish to then fill your mind with meatier thoughts, then watch the video that follows. You will be flabbergasted! You will be outraged! You will be irritated, angered, and annoyed! Then be a good citizen and make sure you've paid your taxes.

Knowing the dog has rabies doesn't prevent it from attacking you if you taunt it with a stick.


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to the infamous Song of Death:

Charlton Heston died today
He's dead and gone and passed away
Never again will we hear him say
"Let my people go!"

or if you prefer, my dear reader:

Charlton Heston died today
He's dead and gone and passed away
Never again will we hear him say
"Take your stinking paws off me, you damned dirty ape!"

Please join me, my dear reader, and raise your glass high in another toast to another brotha who ain't here. Sadly, yes quite sadly, the world has lost not just one of the greatest actors, but one of the greatest over-actors of all time (only Shatner remains).

I guess now they can take his guns.
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