Something tells me that the world needs to get happy. I could go on and on with the whistling charade known as happy, but why go there?
I just cut my hair down to the shortest it has been in years! I pushed it around and pulled at it and still find myself with a bunch of strands that hardly hold my attention; I am worried about my hair loss up top for the first time in my life; I should say that I am taking this cerebral force as serious as I used to take it’s precautions many years ago, much more serious now than I ever have.
But alas all of that foolish stuff, I still stay afloat. I still smile with my milk in coffee; I still manage to make my day smile for me - even if it does involve a cat of nine tails!
Things are going really, REALLY WELL and I am proud to know that I am rocking part of the free world in a way that never even deduced me down to a derivative known as ‘filler’. A weirdo I shall be. I am proud of that. At one point in time, it was thought that it was due to my ingestion of questionable substances, but alas, it was not. It is me. I am a weirdo!
Just thought I would push one out with you and make the world smile. Ever hear a happy song? Listen now ...
Maybe next time around will be a dissertation regarding the similarities between Amy Winehouse and the early 60's soul and r&b movement; then again, maybe, just maybe, it can all be settled in the tales of being Ben Franklin. The haircut will tell.
Every night from 10 pm PST till 2 am PST something breaks through the static of the night, and even though I hear faded mariachi music in the back ground of the AM band I sit with baited breathe for the replay from 2 till 5. Most of you only get to hear the first go around of this tasty little tid-bit.
“Coast To Coast with George Noory” was originally hosted by Art Bell and is THE most popular syndicated talk show in the world.
I used to scoff at the nut-jobs that would call into this show and then I began to realize that it wasn’t the wackos calling in that made the show but the fact that they found sanctity and refuge behind it’s AM wall that really formed my affection. Art Bell had this very distinct voice and he can only be described as a Stephen Hawking left untouched by the meddling hand of God. Beyond his voice and appearance, he was left to the radio waves and his sincere yet doubting reach-out-to-all-who-called-the-programme vibe. When he left the show and started his family the reigns were left to George Noory. Art would still appear from time to time on the show or on the news channels. When Y2K came around he was predicting the end of the world. I remember listening to him that night on the radio. I sometimes wonder if it was a combination of his age, a longing for a family, AND the failure of Y2K that took Art’s hand and lead him off of the stage that we all so wished that he had stayed on. To hear his voice now, in replays or guest spots, sends shivers up and down my spine. Here is Art’s “bad-ass” photo:
When George took the reigns I was concerned about a Bigfoot loving, ex-navy, guy with a hair-lip moustache and a voice as deep as mine trying to replace Art Bell. I have grown accustomed to George much like I did John Henson when Greg Kinnear left ‘Talk Soup’; I still don’t get that Joel McHale guy, much like I disdain Ian Punnit from ‘Coast to Coast AM’. Much to my dismay or gala (whichever you prefer), George Noory was the host of ‘Coast to Coast AM’ when I truly found an affection for the programme whole-heartedly. I miss George on the weekends when Ian is on. I miss his voice while I am sleeping and not taking a third shift lunch. Here is George behind the microphone doing his thing:
So, from Aliens to Bigfoot/Sasquatch/Yeti/Abominable Snowman to Government Conspiracies to Atlantis to Economic Shadow Governments to Paranormal Activity to Tax Evasion to The Bible to Friday’s Group Consciousness Prayer … we find them all a gas to listen to. We love the call in lines: First Time Caller Line, Wild Card Line, East of the Rockies Line, West of the Rockies Line, International Callers may reach George by dialing …, Evil Line, Tell Me A Joke Line, and so on and so on. We love the bumper music, the crammed commercials allowing a compacted 18 and a half minutes of continuous ‘Coast to Coast’, the news, the calls, the guests. Hell, we even love the adds that you read!
Without a doubt, we all LOVE the theme that George has played for us every Friday night. Here is UFO Phil, playing the ‘Coast to Coast AM’ theme called “Listening To Coast To Coast”:
Something makes me smile when I listen to that song.
Weird things make me smile these days, but smile indeed!
Something tells me that I should be writing about heart shaped arrows being shot into the asses of the unsuspecting victim’s reverie. Dancing cherubs taking in the expunged lust of postulating insecurity.
To think that someone thought to continue that with confections and connections!
Ahhh, the joy of February 14th!
I slept till noon, went to work and then got home at 11 pm to find Lady asleep and the cats wondering where in the Hell their candy and flowers were! I guess they are pissed that I forgot them when I gave Lady her things yesterday. Cest la vie.
Soft rock could take me there, well, beyond the gifts and chocolates and thongs and perfume and flowers and champagne and sex. I reached a point of amoebic transgression that lead me to Michael McDonald and then I wondered where I should go. I became swirled and twirled around by the lyrics and the movement and that brought me about face to the moment at hand.
Something tells me this is it:
And yes, it was “it”.
Lonely nights looking out the window thinking of Orion’s belt.
I Miss Naugles; I Miss What It All Was; I Am Now An Old Man
I like French crossed sevens.
I don’t like Woody Harrelson’s 'green-tour-pot-smoking-caravan' movie, but I sure wish I had a enough money to start a lifestyle in a similar, non-documented way.
I am obsessed with Calvin Klein’s “Obsession”.
I still do not own a cell phone and pride myself on the fact.
Tightey-whiteys are never tight enough. As a matter of fact, wearing tight revealing briefs is the only thing I find attractive about the French Riviera beyond the booze and food - the gambling comes in to play, but far less than any of the preceding sticking points.
Two party political systems suck, as do most political systems on a global level. It is why I do not write about them too much (or at all) these days.
I like minimal make-up on a lady.
I am a firm believer that the colour of your hair should be relative to the colour of your vomit after a bender and never more extreme. Also, that the colour should reflect the bender that you choose.
Churches are great for bake sales and rummage events, but whenever you get more than four people discussing religion it usually leads to excess denial of reality and a bunch of pompous rubbish.
"There is a big difference between kneeling down and bending over." - Frank Zappa.
Something has proved to me over the years that driving too fast only leads to short stops and tickets, and I am not referring to baseball games.
If your teeth are broken … FIX THEM DAMMIT! No one likes smelly, stinky gum holes or blackened monoliths of orifices! Finance, borrow or beg! Figure out your orthodontic responsibility to us all, before we bag and tag you!
Broken chairs remind us of how unsteady the reality around us may be. I recommend that everyone own a broken chair that they sit in, at least, once a week.
Sex is best received when it is wanted, but that is not necessarily when it happens or is needed. Life is about give and take and all you need is love; so just do it!
A long time ago I thought that existence was all about how you appeared, as if we were all floating out of a black hat on stage like a magical white rabbit being tugged up and out by the ears. I now know it is all about the shade of your doody and the regularity of it in conjunction with how it affects a work shift. No one likes to hear about your doody. Everyone likes to marvel over it. Everyone does it. Thus, poo is an integral part of being. Life is about shit.
Why do the corporate geniuses of the world constantly and consistently want to re-invent the wheel? We have had the wheel for a long time. We do not need another wheel. The one we have works. It is only the people that make square wheels work that really win any accolades, not the ones that keep playing with the circle.
Something is comforting about warm bodies. When will we realize that human reaction and interaction, on a physical basis, is an integral part of existance and that mental interaction via sound bytes is nominaly beneficial?
Some one needs to stop putting words like ‘gotten’ in the dictionary and focus more on interjections like ‘shanga-langa-langa-dang’ or ‘ramma-damna-ding-dong”. Do you have the number for Webster’s or Oxford?
Nothing beats wet crotch through a pair of jeans.
Cigarettes go with necessities - sex, food, booze, driving, coffee. When will they just break down and make a healthy cigarette that is not needed due to chemical dependency but wanted for the complimentary facet it holds in our world of consumption?
Someone once told me that “things have a way of working out”; is it faith or repetitiveness that leads us to the accepting of that clause or mantra?
When will Frank Zappa get his just-due recognition as a GOD?
When will everyone wake up and finally give ‘Weird Al” Yankovic a star on the walk of fame and a well deserved nook and crany at the hall of fame?
Did you know that the former Soviet Union had eleven time zones?
Sure Unscented is my brand and I will stand by that white, pasty rubbish till they bury my ass.
It is easier when the world is silent, but it makes more sense when we all talk. This only is destroyed when ill intentions and miscalculations bleed through into our dialogues. The latter is far too predominant to dismiss the prototypical.
All of a sudden, I re-read and felt like I was 17.
Yes, the seven was crossed like the legs of a Catholic school girl.
Something tells me that it is waning; this double job reality, this grind of gorges.
My mind wraps hard around now and makes days consume each other like bulimic whores.
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