BO KNOWS

I don't have 19 kids, but the boss man needs to give me another shot. On my last job, I got fired because I was 'too slow'. Well, he was slow mentally.

One of the coolest musicians of the 20th century, for serious.



Bo Diddley—Say Boss Man

ODE TO THE ORANGE

Lately I've been eating oranges—lots of them. Upon returning from the supermarket I never know where to put them all; they always overflow their designated areas. It is not unusual to find an errant orange beside my pillow or on my bed stand. I've seen one as far as my studio, eyeing me from its lodging in a tin can. I might need to build an orange hutch by year's end.

What with my chronic unemployment, sometimes I know my best friend is not the peach, pear, or plum. Nay, it is the orange (and the stealthy ice cream sandwich). They never let me down, even when their graces are slackened by an overly extended purgatory in a less than fabulous refrigerator.

You might be wondering why I love oranges. It might be because they were aplenty in Morocco. But I can't be sure. That oranges fulfill a powerful function in my daily life is enshrouded in mystery. Unlike any attempted description of God, Who can only be circumscribed in things he is not, an orange's power can only be touted as it is, as an orange-colored spherical entity.

Firstly, I love the rind and how it comes off the flesh like a bunny's hide. I love how nature has presupposed the orange eater, mostly human, likes things pre-sliced. It's like Trader Joe had a say in their making.

Ripping apart an orange creates a bitter spray. I don't recommend putting it in your eyes. Sometimes the object of love hurts you in return. Like the snake charmer and his spitting cobra, you can befriend the orange. By eating it, you both become one, just as the horn thingy makes the snake dance to the pleasure of fanny-packed tourists.

If only the orange could talk. What might it say? Sweet, a tad bitter, and stripped nude, the orange can only say one thing: yes.

R.I.P. Lulu Belle (1997-2009)

I hope you find some Pup-a-roni wherever you've gone, sweet Lulu. We'll miss you.



Animal Collective—Doggy

Y PANTS

This goes out to, you guessed it, Pants. If I can't make you feel better the sun doesn't rise.




Y Pants*—Off The Hook


*One member of Y Pants is Barbara Ess, Bard college photo professor, so I guess this is a two'fer.

SHRUG IT OFF

First off, Google has to get its act together in the 'shrug' search category. Slim pickin's over there. I was hoping to find a female middle-aged African-American supermarket worker shrugging, but I guess I was out of my element. Why would I be looking for something like this?

That's because I just encountered somebody who happens to fit this description at the supermarket near my apartment. The market seemed to only carry one size of coffee filters and when I asked about it, the cashier shrugged and said "If you come walking into this supermarket, don't be surprised." She said I might have luck in the produce section, half sarcastically, but I guess I saw the glass half-empty. I paid for the filters and left. Ha ha, it was first time I've seen a worker so obviously blasé about his or her own place of work in such a long time.

AWARD

Get your meathooks off, douche.
Even though 2009 is far from over, the shoe-in for Knotty's A-Hole of the Year award goes to movie director Brett Ratner, the man behind all the Rush Hour(s), the last X-Men installment, among other things you will forget about—even while watching them. But the guy is powerful, as proven by the many ass-kissing ads that were taken out in his honor in Variety Magazine. I would 'place' these ads in their system slightly against my will when I worked there once.

I read a Vanity Fair exposé on him awhile back, in which he claims that he is an artist and that he's misunderstood. Afterall, he says, his films make lots of money. He probably gets the print space and air time because he's a loud Napoleonic Jew as well, a man with a bundle of Jewisma.
He's also buds with producer Robert Evans, the man behind Chinatown, Marathon Man, Rosemary's Baby, etc. I watched a film about Evans recently called The Kid Stays in The Picture, which I HIGHLY recommend. Not only for it's animated visuals, but for the story about his trials and tribulations as a studio head, a majestic producer, and a befallen coke head. The man is a real piece of work and I truly realized that true character and charisma can propel anyone quite far if you have lots of it. He has the charm and wile of a master salesman, which always comes through first. He had an eye for sure, but he made lots of mistakes too. "Was it all worth it?" he asks himself, "You bet your ass it was. It was one Hell of ride."

Only a little ways into watching it, did it occur to me that
Bob Odenkirk was spoofing Evans in a Mr. Show sketch when he played God recording his audio-biography in a studio.

All things told Evans might be as 'empty' as Ratner, but he has the charm, style, and charisma that that bratty jackass only could hope for. Does charisma only work for art? Julian Schnabel pulled it off, as did Kippenberger, though we realized there was substance under the addictive fumes. It remains to be seen about Ratner.

MALIAN MUSIC, CHEMICALS, & SUNDAY

I remember Lequin complaining about Sundays on her blog and I totally agree. If nuclear warheads were to come raze Los Angeles to dust, I'd prefer it would happen on a Sunday, please. Even though I am unemployed and have nothing to do tomorrow, for the exception of meeting with my 'art' accountant, who will hopefully hustle Unkey Sam for the highest tax refund possible, it still feels like the end of the times today.

However, there's one thing about Sunday that rules: no traffic. All those church-going folk and such are in their lazyboys watching basketball games and at the park grilling wieners, so people like me could drive to the beach in 5 minutes flat. But I didn't go to the beach today. I ran around the neighborhood and made happy on Skype with Pants. So I was contributing to the joys of Sunday by not driving. I made a difference.

Off the subject, here's HANDS DOWN the most beautiful recording I've heard coming from the African continent. It's of Malian origin and apparently sanctioned by the government. Mali is the 6th poorest country in the world, but at least they are siphoning the money to something that does a whole lot of good for the ears.
Here's a quiz, is Timbuktu a real place or a fictional place? Think of the answer and look it up.

Don't sleep on this stuff. It's HIGHLY recommended.




Ensemble Instrumental National du Mali—Side 1

Ensemble Instrumental National du Mali—Side 2


P.S. I happened upon a DEA press release regarding the crackdown on 'research chemical' websites, sites that peddle esoteric drug compounds. My interaction with one of them was not one too far away from when their proprietors got thrown in the can. Scary. As was the 'trip' they supplied me!
At any rate, look here, I can't get over the email names people use when doing their biz....

These website operators attempted to give an appearance of legitimacy to their websites by presumably selling these chemicals to bona fide researchers; however, a review of customer lists revealed purchasers with e-mail addresses such as acidtripo420@; ecstasylight@; madtriper17@; moontripperdipt@; partys_with_glow_sticks@; professor@; psychedelic_stoner@; and ravergirlny@.

I can't make fun though. My email was: trippingballshalfjew@aol.com