Tuesday, November 29, 2011


This speaks for itself.

Monday, November 28, 2011

Honey Badger

One of the funniest internet memes to come out is the honey badger video. I've heard people in casual conversation say, "He doesn't care. He's like a honey badger." It's widespread and even I use it. One day people might not know where it came from. This graffiti at the Portsmouth Library is a good example. It can only have one source.

Sunday, November 27, 2011

'80s nostalgia at Clipper Home

Stuffed shells and salad. The soup also has penne pasta that was boiled so long it had the consistency of stewed tomatoes. And apple turnovers to stuff in my pocket for a snack in the van. Oggy has finally reached the stage where he plays for his dinner.

It's a little soon to be playing Open Arms and Beth for the residents of Long Term Care facilities but the nurses liked it.

"When I heard you play that Kiss song I stopped in my tracks. I hadn't heard that in years, from when my big sister had it on her record player," said one nurse.
"It's a good one," I mumbled. "I finally got my old songbooks out of hawk."

Saturday, November 26, 2011

Emperor Concerto By Beethoven

Let's take a moment to appreciate something other than our own flawed egos and instead appreciate the flawed egos of L. V. Beethoven and Glenn Gould. The good stuff starts at :36.

In light of the recent debates maybe it would be more fitting to share the "Eroica" (Italian for Heroic) Symphony #3 by Beethoven because it was dedicated to Napoleon Bonaparte and then renamed when Napoleon pronounced himself the Emperor of France.
See, I'm out to entertain and amuse myself like any good court jester would do but it seems lately that my schtick is not found amusing by my audience. Why, pray tell? Dost thou not need a jester to mock? Dost thou prefer the mere predictability of sit coms like Two and a Half Men to the unpredictability of my own antics? No matter, the goal of any court jester is to amuse without the audience knowing they are distracted from the other daily grinds of their lives. That is my job and I've done it well. But it comes at a price and that price is having composers rage in my direction. Hypocrite, lazy, incompetent, pig, filthy, stupid, dirty...these and other accusations are slung casually in my direction as though my skin were as thick as the hide of an arctic wolf. It must be nice to sit on your velvet cushions and throw insults in my direction when I am merely doing my job as jester to a court gone mad. Let's all watch Oggy dance and make merry while the plague sets in.

Three Legged Rocking Chair

This is either a chair with one rocker or a rocking chair with a bad attitude.

Ordinarily, a mouse or mice living in your engine compartment wouldn't be a problem. I had several living with me in the van in Mexico who made the long journey across the continent. All they did was shit near my Footloose record album and eat my fruit. But in the Grand Marquis it's a whole different problem. See, this is a shitty car built for old farts who take it to regular $200 maintenance appointments and put the mechanic's kids through school based on the horrible design of $187 headlight changes and 8 hour heater core replacement. Case in point: The fucking spark plugs. Now, plugs should be replaced yearly on a v8 in New England because of the abuse from weather and at $1 each it's like two gallons of gas every year for good performance. So, what do the engineers at Ford do? They hide the spark plugs so far under the fuel injector tubes and wires and individual coils and then create this huge boot that extends like 7 inches into the cylinder head to get to the plug that you can't even see without a flashlight. Ok, that would suck already, but if someone happens to leave their car dormant for 14 months and mice from Greenland and Rye start charging rent to the grasshoppers and rats from Newmarket for luxury apartments in the engine compartment then all their nests including lip stick smeared cigarette butts, tin foil, lint, cat fur, trash, cotton, clothes, electrical insulation, fire retardant lining, leaves, acorns, beard fur, etc. all fall into the spark plug hole until it's impossible to take the spark plug out without calling O'neil's Landscaping Service to dig a hole down to #1 plug. If it isn't the dust, it's the fucking mud.

Thursday, November 24, 2011


I'll be attaching this video to my resume.

Wagon Hill

If you go to Wagon Hill there down by the water is now a granite bench that commemorates a community movement in 1974 to stop an oil refinery from being built there. The lesson is that sometimes you make a stand. I wonder exactly at what point we have to reach before only action is required. New Hampshire is represented by granite and wood wagons and now we all want to be foreign currency traders. Rock Bottom is close at hand.

Wednesday, November 23, 2011

Oh No

This is tops on my list of favorite Lionel Richie songs. When I try to write a song about love it sounds like a car commercial but Lionel makes it look easy like Sunday morning.

Calm Before The Storm

Here's the incinerator for my resentments.

 The cold weather has arrived and I keep the fires burning nightly in my van. Even though the resentments are fuel enough for my cold heart.

Azek is some kind of PVC material that was molded into a board and is supposedly indestructible. That would include the snowflake fine dust particles that filled the air and our lungs around the playset. But I guess wood is also a cause of lung problems so who knows? My conclusion was that if there were a way to make living in a van seem luxury then rich people would buy it and brag about it at their holiday cocktail parties.
"What brand of van do you live in?"
"Ford. 1969."
Sips glass of whiskey.
"What kind of gas mileage does that get?"
Pops shrimp cocktail in mouth.
"None. It is on blocks made of indestructible plastic that I bought for $11,000 at an exclusive Home Depot Outlet sale. Typically it cost $30,000, but I know a guy." Wink wink.
"Wow. Honey, we should live in a van as soon as the kids are in college."

A guy lives in a plastic and aluminum single-wide trailer in Strafford and he's some kind of junkie/lowlife but when the wine and cheese set spend 4X the price of a piece of wood to put plastic on the side of their house behind the police station then they are suddenly trendy fuckheads.

Here's an interior shot of the van at dinner time. Lentil soup and hot dogs have been a staple lately. Last night, I stuffed the stove full of trash I found on the ground and when it finally combusted flames shot out the top high enough to make me quickly rehearse grabbing the fire extinguisher. It was about 20 degrees and the freezing rain pelted the fiberglass roof but I was warm enough to sew patches on all my worn knee pants. If anyone has wood let me know.

 Here are the new rotor and brake pads installed on the Grand Marquis. That bracket gave me some problems but it was only because I forgot I had an 18mm socket hiding in the bottom of my tool bag. And there was no room to leverage the torque wrench. I'm mailing the old rotors to the junk dealer in S.F. so he can sell them at the flea market. The roof leaks on the Grand Marquis of course and a puddle forms in the backseat. Totally false prestige that personifies the inauthentic paradigm of wealth equating status.
 When I wasn't looking, Elmer Fudd stole my moped.
The story behind the Fred F. juice bottle and the orange capped madman is too strange. I will say that I took a sip of the 38 year old Flintstone juice and hallucinated for 40 hours. No wonder the country is so fucked up.
Speaking of things that make me lose sleep, I fully intended to spray some wd40 on these rusty outlet screws but I forgot because we had to rush rush rush like ants moving grains of sand. Now I'm going to have to sneak over there in the middle of the night and spray them so the rust will not inhibit the flow of electrons. Also, I'm pretty sure I reversed the white and the black wires when I put it back together.

Monday, November 21, 2011

Blurry Vision

I can't see well enough to drive but I will try to type a Rain Man summation of my recent two days. 18 mm socket, specialty for use in removing the caliper bracket to expose the rotor to remove the rotor on the grand marquis...also, turn the steering wheel to allow for maximum leverage with torque bar. Finishing rotors moments before driving to Delaware to get closer to Cuban utopia village farm....
lost in Seacaucus, NJ.
"I'm asking for direction."
"No. Just go straight. I can see the Meadowlands."
"Excuse me, which way to 95? Back the other direction? I thought so."
"He doesn't know what he's talking about. EVERYONE LIES!"
"This is a dead end? Really? Thanks. I'm turning around."
"I'll pick this truck up and carry it across the meadow. Let me out. I'll walk home."

Hooters waitress paying for college with cleavage credits. I drink silently as Ultimate Fighters Pound each other into submissive headlocks and knees to the nose. I yawn as the violence is boring and eat a depressing pumpkin donut that bounces my glucose level off the ceiling so that it falls like a Lionel Richie melody onto the pits of my diabetes basement. I fall asleep watching TruTV Stupidest Criminals hit their nutsacks on railings. America is abomidable. I'm not proud of anything. Hunter Thompson is turning over in his grave.

"Riders Start your engine!"
The Star Spangled Banner ends in a roar of 2 stroke engines and a cloud of suffocating fumes. One rider makes it half way up the first hill and breaks his chain in half, stalls, falls down the hill, is disqualified after 80 yards. Oggy doesn't care until he stumbles down a steep trail and a tree branch as sharp as a nail punctures his shoe, his sock and the bottom of his foot and soaks his foot with blood. He goes back to find the stump and saws it off underground with his teeth. He's like the Honey Badger and falls asleep in the truck after waiting for 50 minutes to see someone he recognizes. Goes back to the truck and sees the human lawnmower limping home after crushing a tree with his ribs. Tree collisions are a theme as another rider was impaled by a tree branch through his boot to a depth of two inches. He saved the bloody stump for his 40 something war stories told through a gray beard.

Then WAWA milkshakes and Hot Dogs and french fries fuel his diabetic coma and he slurs words and nods off for 7 hours as he drives halfway across Pennsylvania before he realizes his mistake. Luckily, the chicken farmer is passed out in a Percocet Dream with demerol nymphs flying him to a land of luxury so he never notices (though he suspects) the mistake.

Irresponsible actions breed pain babies too numerous for nurseries. My ego is a charity case and my foot has a chunk of wood in the soft bottom and my shoes have no sole. Land of the Fee, Home of the Naive.

Friday, November 18, 2011

Officer Tompkins Put Me To Work

Resenments harboured toward wolf killers kept me up as the rain pelted the van and air crafts jammed their air brakes down my throat. The night was alive with ghosts haunting my fearful sweats. These are trying times as I learned that Marajuana helps us forget...and since I stopped smoking marajuana as part of my boycott of the Mexican Drug War I have basically remembered every conversation and crooked smile and darting eyes and the countless shirts I see pulled down to hide love handles of women drinking jugs of dunkin donuts coffee. And these images do not ever diminish or intesify but they gather like screaming Labrador flies over my head in the van and are countless like demon sheep jumping skeleton fences. I can confirm that a flawless memory is not such a good thing. Oh, I'll forget leaving my registration to my van back at my van requiring a trip past the pizza place with no sign and the midday joggers huffing to their tunes as I retrieved it, but I won't forget the trip to get it and the laugh of the DMV lady, "I love it when a plan comes together," and I'm wondering if she'll ask why I left with no nose ring and returned with a lip ring, but she says nothing and I am pushed along as A22.
"Forgetting well is as important as remembering well," said author Michael Pollan and I seem to be unable to either.

So, these images haunt me nightly among other regrets, though I can say the window doesn't leak so I finally don't have to worry about my Xanadu album getting wet along with my other precious LPs.And it was hours and hours of compulsive obsessive resurrection of my family of dead dreams until I wore my brain into exhaustion around 6am, like my timex automatic (self-winding) watch that only stops if you don't wear it for two days, my brain finally ran out of energy after gnawing on the petty complaints salt lick for 4 hours and I drifted into a tormented sleep...only to have the awful sound of a police baton on my van awake me from some fantasy of nymphs and labrador caribou.
"Blah blah blah....Oggy....Officer Tompkin.....Open Up!"
Even in my feverish sleep I realized I'd been sleeping through at least two minutes of pounding on my van. I could hear a police radio dispatcher calling out my license plate number.
"Eh?" I called out as I untangled my neck from my filthy fleece blanket.
"I want to talk to you, Mr. Bleacher."
I almost said, "About what? Am I double parked?" but I said instead..."Alright. Hold on," as I climbed out of my sweaty sleeping bag to piss in a nearby milk jug. This was automatic. I tried to remember where I had parked the night before but when you move and move for three straight years you tend to forget. If I looked out and saw the gulf of Mexico I would not be surprised. Or the court house, or an iceberg or the Rocky Mountains. It could be anywhere. I wake up and start my day as I can. I figure out where I am and then move on from there.
I muttered, "Jesus christ. Can't get a full night's sleep to save my life." as I hunted for my underoos. I couldn't find them and put pants on with my balls swinging around the ragged pockets. Couldn't find my socks either so I figured, "Fuck whoever books me into police custody. They'll get an eye full of my halitosis and tonail fungus."
Did I say this out loud? I've been talking to myself lately and having good conversations.
I found my shoes and was prepared to say, "Can't a guy take a nap in the middle of the day?" and I chuckled as the background of this statement would be a wood stove, a disco record and an unfinished bowl of macaroni and cheese perched atop a pile of dirty laundry and a moped. I opened the door thinking at least my DMV license would give them a laugh. But I couldn't find my wallet. Oh, christ, this would be an interesting conversation with the police. Where's my camera?

I opened the van door up and nearly hit the side of the Chicken man's resurrected lesbo truck. He was having a good laugh, assuming I had opened my curtain to see who was pounding on my van at 8:30 AM. But I hadn't and believed I was confronting Portsmouth's finest in a showdown like Dillinger outside the Biograph Theater.
Thus began my day that produced a self-explanatory poem:
"I ate a fiberglass sandwich for breakfast,
A sheetrock calzone for lunch,
A broken glass pizza for dunner
and a kick in the ass for brunch."

I should be an expert on busting up tile but nothing about demolition is easy. If someone before you did their job right then their work will not collapse under a sledge hammer or a nasty look. You will have to burn your fingers on glowing hot sawzall blades and chew your nails as the toilets overflow onto your shoes. But it will fight you with every slotted screw they jammed home back in 1991. But I'm not picky and I have to respect that my buddy was trying to save me from myself by keeping me busy and maybe buy me a few hours of distraction from my own worst intentions. So I will take a sledge hammer to a toilet or a claw hammer to a bath tub because I have painted myself into a corner of despair with long drying laquer that will take weeks to dry and every step I take leads to another corner and I dream of playing piano until my resentments turn into lyrics that lonely poets kill themselves while singing and dreamers etch on subway walls. Until then I will live in a self absorbed bubble of egoism, digitally kicking tires of motorcycles I can't afford.

Wednesday, November 16, 2011

Day In The Life

Two accused about to have their day in court. Their shuffle with the ankle cuffs spoke of shame unredeemed. Tinted because I took the picture through my custom spy window. I quickly moved my van because I don't feel comfortable sleeping next to the court building.

This Bull Mastiff just ate my moped. I went to Kittery to look for work at a lobster pound and was told to come back in a month. I ended up buying some designer clothes at a thrift store, helped move furniture into a building, bought an apple and a tangerine, learned about the unglamorous pawn trade in Kittery ("I just need money for gas. I'm having the worst week of my life. sniff. I've got a two year old at home and...$30 for my engagement ring? Ok.")

Pictured is an AJs prosciuto slice with white sauce. This was damn good but I followed it up with a slice from Savario's on State Street and I have to admit that Frank Catalino knows how to sling a slice for $1.25. His daughter graduated from PHS and is one of the rare talents that is making it work in the real world. "I taught my kids to do whatever brings them joy. There are more important things than money," said Frank, who is spending his retirement happily making pizza.

More advice from the Memorial Bridge. For once, I did as I was told.

What you see here is the remains of a gluten free peanutbutter and chocolate chip cookie from Ceres St. Bakery. Now, I'm not alergic to gluten. I don't even know what gluten is. But I do know that every time I get a gluten free something I usually love it. This delicacy is no exception. It's not doughy, but it is chewy and sweet but doesn't fill up my decaying teeth like normal cookies like the gross expired Lorns Doones I bought the other night from Richardson's. I think I personally shelved those cookies in 1989 when I worked there the summer before going to Alaska. Ceres St. Bakery won't dissapoint.

Naval Shipyard hard at work without me.

On the way to the library a car broke down in front of me. I ran out to direct traffic as a woman in nurse scrubs pushed. Then we pushed it into the fire depatment parking lot.
"Run out of gas?" I asked.
"Belt," she said simply.

I have all the tools in the world to fix this, even if a pulley seized, but the two women were not interested in being damsels in distress so I left as it started to rain on my designer clothes.

Tuesday, November 15, 2011

I Need To Move To Mars

Some comments about the Occupy Movement that have me thinking it didn't stand a chance.

OWS: Thunderdome
Click to view Peanut345's profile Peanut345
3 hours ago
I read they netted them like in the Planet of the Apes.
Click to view Peanut345's profile Peanut345
4 hours ago
Keep drumming away OWS. Wall Streeters listen to shareholders, politicians listen to voters. NO ONE listens to raping percussionists!

Click to view Peanut345's profile Peanut345
4 hours ago
Sore losers!  They master in "cool" topics such as poetry then wonder why jobs aren't landing at their feet in this down economy. This is a land of opportunity, not guarantees.

Click to view meangene52's profile meangene52
4 hours ago
The park looks real fine when clear of the rabble.  It would be much better if the OWS crowd would occupy a cattle prod. 
Click to view therock0267's profile therock0267
4 hours ago
Good for the mayor! Time to take out the trash!!
Click to view FrannyMc429's profile FrannyMc429
6 hours ago
Looks so much better with all the scum evicted.
Click to view Peanut345's profile Peanut345
3 hours ago
5pm "Judge rules that OWS protestors can't return to Zuccotti Park with tents"

Where's Joan Baez now?!?!

I'm going to write a song with these as lyrics. Especially the "Raping Percussionists." I'll call it "Joan Baez, the raping percussionist."

I think it's admirable that a leaderless movement would be their goal but we're about 4000 years away from that on the evolutionary timeline. Today, celebrity is king and only a bearded person with some charisma or a guy in a homespun toga and walking stick will make an impact. I mean, if you shaved Fidel Castro then you might have casinos in Havana right now. That's how precarious the leadership game is. If George Washington had been called Augustine Washbucket II then we might never have a revolution. We need leadership because consensus is too evolved. Media and media junkies do not process group-think very well. Only a spokesperson will advance a cause as serious as social reform. No chance we're ready for an egalitarian consensus based economy. Ha! I wish I had my santa cruz book written as it touches on all these topics.

Occupation Of Our Minds

Health and safety concerns are being cited as reasons to shut down the protest camps in Oakland and Portland and New York. So the police march in and start bashing the freezing hipsters and they cry "Police Brutality" which I guess is a lesser evil than the drug use going on at the camps...and the mortgage broker mentality that artificially jacks up prices on land for easier plundering. It's all too complicated to analyze in one essay because it's an illustration that we reap what we sow. What have we sown? Insulated and ignorant families breed slaves to feed military machines.

I try to connect the dots and I'm pretty sure the primitive tribal culture of 7000 B.C. was too egalitarian for some elite egoists so they thought about it and manufactured a need for their skills at people management. It takes a lot of work to construct a population of slaves so you don't need to work. It's like the old joke about a teenager who works hard to avoid work. I'm not sure the comparison is way off because financial advisers have no function in a primitive culture/tribe. They have to sell themselves as functional in the modern world and have done a great job so far. I think you can major in finance at school. Like that's something tangible. Yes, it's important in the realm of the modern world where Hannah Montana gives advice on abortions, but it's not tangible. In fact, it only exists in a pharaoh/slave economic paradigm.

Speaking of paradigms, the ownership of land in North America is only 500-600 years old. It was a concept that was imported by the Europeans and brilliantly forced onto the native populations like Catholicism was forced onto the Peruvians. Colonizers of Northeastern America were religious freaks who didn't feel a need to inflict their religious beliefs onto the natives, (I don't know of any missions in New England while California is full of them) but they did enforce the rule of land ownership, which proved to be just as devastating to the Indians. See, I'm trying to trace back the modern problems and I'm telling you it goes back a long, long way beyond Reaganomics. As soon as I hear someone try to blame modern politicians for modern problems I tune them out as infants who need to take a philosophy class. Speaking of philosophy, they say "History Repeats Itself" and "The more things change, the more they stay the same." And they also say, "Those who ignore history are bound to repeat it." My conclusion is that history repeats itself no matter what. The seeds of modern strife were planted centuries ago...and maybe are inherent in Human Nature. Democratic or Republican leanings are irrelevant.

Then there are the benefits of modern civilization. Electricity, water treatment...medical triumphs...etc. I can't forget those because I try to put them all on an ethical balance scale to see if the fading humanity I see is worth the obsolete technological garbage we can buy. And It doesn't balance out. Sorry. The economy is a manufactured "which hand am I holding the marble" game that is rigged in favor of whoever is holding the marble. It is not related to the basic human needs of shelter and food but billions of dollars are spent to erroneously tie the two together in the minds of the public. It exploits the sheep/shepherd paradigm I see dominating the cultural battlefield. One company sells us the disease and their subsidiary company sells us the cure. Here's a motto I'd like to paint on the town sign: "PORTSMOUTH: 40 HOUSES, 40 LAWNMOWERS." It sums up the success of a corporate marble game to mystify the masses into acting against their best interests. Did that start with Nixon or Bush? No, it didn't. When will it end?

Which brings me back to the city councils' decisions to end the occupy protest gatherings by claiming they are doing it to save the protestors from their own dirty habits. [begin sarcastic tone] Well, god bless their bottomless hearts. I'm so glad they have everyone's best interests in mind. What would we do without them? [end sarcastic tone]

I'm pretty sure a cultural genocide and ecological holocaust are in progress right now and even though they are taking place in broad daylight and reports are available every day the media washout is so complete that reality visibility is down to 20 feet. That's perfect for the status quo because if you question it then you can effectively be called a crackpot and everyone who loves college football will go on blindly raping small children in the shower.  I'd say that whole Penn State scandal is a perfect metaphor for modern life: Heinous crimes are going on literally under the noses of 107,000 fans cheering for the next first down. We're all guilty of ignoring awful things because the chip bowl is empty and my point is that our ignorance and disempowerment is built into our culture and until that changes then nothing will change and if the Mayor of Portland thinks she is doing anyone any favors by evicting hipsters WHO ARE TRYING TO START THEIR OWN UNPOLLUTED CULTURE, then she's delusional. Or she's playing her part of the establishment rube to perfection. My feeling is that the occupy movement is not dead until there is a spoof/parody about it in The Onion. Arthur Miller said "“An era can be said to end when its basic illusions are exhausted”. I very much want to hasten the exhaustion of these illusions.

(non-sequitor comments too good to delete and too random to work into the thread of the essay)
I've said before that if modernization requires the elimination of primitive cultures then A) you aren't very modern. B) You're doomed.
If the existence and commoditization of an abomination like Los Angeles can be ignored then I guess anything is possible.
If you can't hide the elephant in the room then at least you can dress it in a bikini and call it a super model.

Well, my spa treatment/pedicure is in half an hour and I'll be getting my daily cookie fix at Ceres Street Bakery where for a mere $2.50 I can eat an oatmeal cookie the size of a quarter. Then I'll go to popovers for my $6 slice of toast and then to Philbrick's for my $9 Caesar salad. Who doesn't love Portsmouth?!

Monday, November 14, 2011


Here's Oggy pondering his futile life, the only thing that keeps him sane is the guitar and clipper home performances. They worked me like a Greek Prostitute with no breaks for 6 hours and then cut a check that won't pay to replace the clothes he wrecked at the job. There was some drama that led to my early dismissal that I don't want to get into right now because it only reminds of how incompatible I am with humanity...not in that Vincent, "This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you" type way but more in that "Lock him up and throw away the key" type way. Let's just say that if there's a way to fuck it all up then I will find that way accidentally and everyone will shake their heads, Like trying to hide the used engine oil on the merchant marine ship instead of throwing it overboard. And really, the old bathrooms were completely fine and this was a huge waste of resources to replace totally functioning accessories and floors. Like we are some kind of Egyptian princes and princesses who have to be pampered as we shit? even if I took any pictures of the joint I wouldn't post them here. Go piss in their toilets if you want to look. Library Restaurant on State Street. downstairs bathroom. Feel like a Big Fucking Deal as you wipe your ass after your $25 hamburger.

Gabriel is a disk jockey at KDHX in St. Louis. Independent music plays here. He's got the best and most authentic rap I've ever heard from a DJ. He's not a man who will try to sell you something you don't need like a $10K tile bathroom. Bunch of bullshit. "Ain't one thing right in this world," says Gabriel during his shows. It makes me want to punch these fuckwad hosts who get paid to play Bohemian Rhapsody and sponsor tequila and play pranks. fuck them all for being cheap and disposable, like me.

States of Decay

The dreaded Foxconn

This iPod had to be resurrected because it has all my Lionel Richie songs

I want to emphasize how everything is in a state of decay. Not only 1969 vans and iPod classics, But 2003 Grand Marquis sedans. They are all in a state of decay and they are all equally in states of decay. But some have newer parts that are not as far along the road to terminal decay. But to argue a newer car is an improvement over an old car is to deny that they are all victims of physics equally. So, then the only question is how easily can components be returned to the top of the state of decay ladder?

This metal hacksaw has never been used on my van. I had to use it within a few minutes on the sway bar link bolt that protrudes from the kingpin assembly. Why? Because home mechanics shouldn't do this work in the park and ride parkinglot. Also, my cheap chinese tool set didn't come with the critical tool for this job: A 7mm wrench to hold the edges of the bolt end so you can use your 15mm wrench to loosen the rusted lock nut. There is no room to fit a socket because of the rotor...blah blah blah.

I was worried the new sway bar link was too heavy duty, but it works. Unfortunately, that was the least of my problems.
Here are the ever-difficult-to-work with caliper brakes. I had been told the rear brakes needed to be changed (along with the sway bar link to pass inspection) but this was untrue. But I bought rear brake pads. FUCK! So, stubbornly I decided to change the pads anyway and there is an odd bit of feathering on the pads, but I wasn't prepared with a giant C-Clamp so this proved impossible as the piston must be pushed back in the cylinder to make room for the new pads. I swore savagely. Why had I trusted someone to tell me what the car needed? And how often do the rear brake pads wear out? Infrequently, as the front pads do most of the braking. The front brakes were completely ruined and I only saw this when I took the tire off to change the sway bar link. This was a problem that didn't get resolved as the darkness forced me to use a headlamp and then the battery of the car died. I pounded on the steering wheel like Dirk Diggler in Boogie Nights, turning the key as a click click echoed off the trees. Futile. MOTHERFUCKER! The car had been left to die for 14 months and driven infrequently for a year prior to that. The alternator pulley was seized and nearly burned the serpentine belt out, which would've been another $160, and the tires have flat spots and there is no gas, and my ulcer won't fit in the trunk.

Chili Dog A La Oggy (AKA) Ulcer Fuel

Saturday, November 12, 2011

Not That You Care

The Keystone XL pipeline project has been delayed by an outpouring of protests from pretty much everyone except the readers of my self-absorbed blog. Congratulations for watching college football while your country falls apart around you. We are rapidly approaching a sink or swim time. I see it everywhere I go that the acceleration of depraved culture and events and reliance on oil and global events is leading to a gigantic collapse of modern civilization. Something will survive but I'm pretty sure X Factor and College Football and "Hog Hunter" television shows and gay pride merchandise will all fail to thread the needle. Oggy might not make it either as his back is broken from one day of work and his ulcer is occupying his esophagus. But that's no big deal. Something will survive.

the exxonmobil article talking about how Obama is missing the point and concentration on short term political gain. JOKE!

Here's my response
"The only thing "short term" is the use of fossil fuels in a flawed and wasteful energy paradigm. Don't spin this like a loss of jobs because the logistics of a smarter infrastructure will require as many hands on deck as the construction of new pipelines. Really, the pipeline is a misappropriation of human and economic resources and the three years of research was basically an irresponsible and unacceptable waste of time and money. Tar Sands is a flawed source of energy and the pipeline is merely one flawed element of a misguided whole. It demonstrates that when a flawed premise is accepted as true then a series of failures and chaos will follow. Will anyone at ExxonMobil admit they were wrong to begin with?"

I Am Gorgeous

It's a long road to phrase this song. I don't much care about the melody because I will sing it differently every time but the chord progression is the only way to make it sound like I put some time into this. Cmaj7-Ami7-Dmi7-G7

I'm inspired to write original songs because I learned lately that places like the Press Room are hounded by ASCAP reps who spy on performances because if someone plays a song written by Tom Waits then the venue must pay royalties...and not necessarily to Tom Waits but to ASCAP who then divides the total net amongst themselves and their artists according to some logarithm of popularity. This doesn't sit well with me because who profits by me singing Tom Waits to an empty bar room? In fact, I was almost thrown out of the Press Room because I didn't even have enough money for a $2 ginger brew so I asked for water and the bartender said, "Why? You need to take your medication?" and I felt like punching Gandhi in the face but I also wanted to play the songs...etc...as my sober humility mixed with my shame into a Virgin Cosmopolitan on the rocks.

So, I only want to perform original songs in public now because it is a rude and complicated world in music and I don't fully understand how my $2 ginger brew must be split amongst Lady Gaga and her cunt friends. Really, I don't want to play in public at all because ethically it is too complicated.

Things Are Looking Up

Popovers overcharges for their shitty sourdough bread and egg sandwich that I could make for $1. And the girl asked me my name and I said "Oggy" and she spelled it "Augie". I was disappointed on both counts.

The only reason I was downtown at the ungodly hour of 9 am was because someone had thrown me a life preserver and offered me a chance to tile the bathrooms of the library restaurant. Instead of buying milk and bacon to cook in my van next to the courthouse I splurged and bought a $6 fake egg and cheese sandwich that left me hungry and broke. Then I busted ass all day staging hundreds of 50 lb boxes of tile for the floor and walls...walking up and down stairs and dodging waitresses with fake hospitality voices. The work should last for a few days but will fall short in funding my trip south.

Thursday, November 10, 2011

Oggy Bleacher sent you: Driving directions to Portsmouth, NH

The sign said "Closed Wet Paint" but I walked up the Stratham fire tower anyway and got paint on my jacket, disco shirt, worn shoes, broken hands and tattered gloves. Here I am looking for my common sense.
The chicken farmer and his pace dogs leaning into a curve. He has no idea how loose those front wheel axle nuts are.
1974 Vespa Ciao

Oggy is a safe rider.
I had my doubts about riding back to Portsmouth from Nottingham on the moped but they were warrant-less as I made it with fuel to spare and before the rain. I am organizing a canoe trip into the Great Bay via the Newfields boat lanch. Let's go kill some ducks.

---------- Forwarded message ----------
From: Oggy Bleacher
Date: Thu, Nov 10, 2011 at 4:52 PM
Subject: Sent via Google Maps: Oggy Bleacher sent you: Driving directions to Portsmouth, NH
To: asshole@gmail.com


1.Head southeast on NH-152 E/Stage Rd toward Church St Continue to follow NH-152 E9.5 mi
2.Turn right onto NH-108 S/Exeter St Continue to follow NH-108 S3.2 mi
3.Slight left onto Squamscott Rd1.1 mi
4.Turn left onto NH-33 E/Portsmouth Ave Continue to follow NH-33 E6.8 mi
5.Slight left onto Islington St1.7 mi
6.Turn right onto Summer St0.2 mi

Personhood and Assholes

When does life begin? There's been some debate about this in Mississippi recently and I want to see what y'all's opinion is. I'm thinking that there are 7 billion people and if women don't want to have babies then they can do what it takes not to have the baby and whether a fetus is called "life" or not is irrelevant, except in terms of how fundamentalist crackpots can further punish and dominate women. You might as well make being an asshole a crime.
What is your opinion?

When Does Someone Become An Asshole?

I've met a few women and they are generally stubborn to the point of insanity so if they don't want to have a baby then they'll sooner kill themselves than give you the pleasure of dictating their reproductive choices and where will that leave us? On the flip side, if a woman wants to have a baby then you should lock your balls in a bank vault if you don't want to be the father. Furthermore; Save the Fetus, Starve the Child mentalities aren't doing anyone any good. What do I know, I'm only two years old.

Let's have another poll so you can express yourselves anonymously.

When Does Life Begin?

Wednesday, November 9, 2011

Moped Mania

Even the Memorial Bridge is trying to tell me something.

Dr. Oggystein at work in his laboratory.  Note the healthy salad in the foreground.

 Naval Shipyard at Night. I could get a job there but I'm like a born-again farmer looking for evidence that people still eat food that comes from the ground.

Step 1) Get the drill gun. Chicken Man gets thanks for buying me a dry turkey sandwich at Marcos on route 33, taking me up a hill that I couldn't get down. HE said I needed exercise because I'd been in my van for three straight days but I ended up on my side in a  mud puddle with a moped wheel spinning on my shin and my nose full of thorns while my cathedral shirt caught on fire from the exhaust pipe. And I got a hernia. Is that exercise? He provided the materials to build my $2 moped legal upgrade. I didn't need to get legal with the moped but I really wanted the license plate for some reason. It legitimizes my insanity. And I also get a moped endorsement on my driver's license. All for $3 a year. It pays to be eccentric, you loser SUV drivers.

Randomly, the lady I flirted with at the DMV reached into her dusty moped license drawer and pulled out one with lucky numbers...Bleacher. It doesn't say "Live Free Or Die" because moped riders are obviously about to do both.

Tuesday, November 8, 2011

Dominicana Salvatorio Comedia

I downloaded a piece of software called "Freemake Video Converter" and this allows me to convert and edit the dreaded .mov files that my trusty Kodak camera films in. See, I have two cameras that enable the video entertainment you watch and enjoy every day.
#1 is a cheap kodak camera I bought in 2005. The video is captured in .mov format which can't be edited on my pc. The majority of the short clips with no editing are from this camera.
#2 is a JVC minidv camera that captures to tape that then must be captured to my computer via firewire and edited into a movie file and saved and then uploaded. I can edit that stuff all day long but on my 2002 laptop computer it takes literally 7-10 hours to capture, edit, and save and upload a 5 minute video. So I prefer to video things spontaneously with the kodak and skip the editing. This feeds my need to improvise entertainment because I know I can't edit it. (this camera is ruined and I need $1500 for a new one and until that happens I can't capture all my arctic wolf footage and edit it.)

This video of me and the chicken farmer calling tech support for his Nikon camera's pink screen problem is an example of what goes wrong with the kodak film crew. We filmed 15 minutes of video that I can't edit...until now. With this software I can now spend 5 hours editing that video in half and then saving it and then uploading it. And I can convert the video to other formats so I can edit it freely. That's a bonus. Of course this video is only funny for 30 seconds so I made a mistake of filling google storage banks with unnecessary amounts of data.


My pranks are getting more serious. The arctic wolf quest was a stepping stone to DMV identity tampering as I went out and got my lip and nose pierced specifically for the dmv photo as well as wearing my Silk Shirt from India and gypsy necklaces. I looked like a hungover Los Angeles Rock Star who got lost on the way to Hampton Beach.
I can't wait to get the color license in the mail. It 'looks like one eye is looking up and the other eye is looking down. Why That?

Monday, November 7, 2011

I'm Wrong For The Right Reasons

...another 8 hours spent under my van. Awoke with the solar flares warming up the blood caked on my lips by my vagrant ulcer. Radiator coolant pooling in pockets on my water pump. I thought it was the water pump failing like I know it will soon along with my arthritic knees, then decided it was loose hose clamps like the prostate gland that pulsates like a broken heart on valentine's day, then decided it was loose bolts holding the thermostat on from when I changed it in a walmart parking lot in Cornerbrook, Newfoundland. I don't know what will fix it. Should I work 8 hours a day on other people's cars so I can pay someone to fix my van or should I personally spend the 8 hours working on my van every day? I replaced the exhaust donuts/gaskets two months ago but the other day one of them blew out and it sounds like death race 2011 rolling up on the school yard where I park to self-inflict my own misery as penance for the injustice that runs like a swollen river through our diseased culture.

Yes, my blindness is pointed out repeatedly by other blind mice. It amounts to compromise and indifference of my spineless adventures through Oggy Land.
I'm the bitter monkey left outside of the pack. I'll dance for your nickle but I'll resent the attention I crave more than brown hair on my head.
"Chasing time" with razor blades and men's health pills. The creatine has helped my shoulder pain but it moved into my lungs as gaseous fumes became trapped in the diseased fibrous tissue of my left lung.

Watched an upsetting set of television about liars and crooks and child rapists and blind acrobats. It should remind me of my luck at avoiding the criminals of the world but you could also look at it as unlucky because now I only have myself to blame now.
Tom Waits (the writer of the song the blind boys from alabama sing in the video) said that the world is full of "The Dead on Vacation" and I think my vacation time is going to expire soon. Maybe I could ask for an extension.
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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.