Thursday, January 31, 2013


Of course you know modern culture is repulsive to me and symptomatic of a corroded worldview. But when something forces itself past my blighted and depressed attitude then I will share it. The sr500 ibanez bass guitar for instance. Or the credit card sized HIV test. Or tacos made with Dorrito flavored tortillas. And a few songs by a band named fun. Their "Some Nights" album is not bad. It has at least 5 quality tunes. Probably won't win best album grammy but maybe best song. But the title track isn't my favorite. It's a good video but the song is actually unrelated to that video so I have to object. This song, "Why am I the One" is reminiscent of The Beatles with a strong chorus and good phrasing and good structure.If George Martin were alive today he could make this band huge.

Trivial Facts You Would Know if You Were A Man

1) How does an underwater welder manage to weld metal underwater? Don't worry, it's only something that your entire destructive way of life depends on. Nothing too serious. I'm sure you could figure it out given enough time and starvation was sniffing at the door of your emaciated children.

2) How many volts are the power lines carrying when the linesman works with them? When the electromagnetic pulse occurs at random intervals during the day what must the linesman do in order to avoid being cut in half by invisible electrical currents?

3) Average lifespan of an Ivory Coast gold miner? Yeah, GOOGLE IT! THAT"S REAL FUCKING IRONIC>!

Take your time. It's only a short quiz to demonstrate the stark difference in what you like to think of as your life and how ignorant you actually are of the foundations it is built on. Then you can get back to the coffee and donuts and reality television about fat chicks in tight dresses hiked above their ass like baboons in heat.

bread and circus

it's a demo with audio bleeding through the vocal track because I'm recording in a van. the band in a box software is so complicated.

Tuesday, January 29, 2013

Really? 90 degrees?

If it's 90 degrees in late January then I'm pretty sure it's going to be 150 this summer. I did the math last year and figured it would be 130...and that's exactly the temperature my van reached this summer around late july when I was patching drywall in crumbling mobile homes in Flour Bluff. 130 degrees in my van as I tried to sleep on the street, my thrombosed heart palpitating with fear and revulsion as the thrum of 10 million air conditioners mocked my lifestyle. The most ridiculous situation since I was north of Quebec City in the van with no heat, balding tires, frozen face no destination or visa. But it's too late to talk about warnings. America has turned into a clan of freaks who counterfeited money for so long they bought power to make real currency illegal. That's the solution to debt: Make it illegal. Good luck.

Monday, January 28, 2013


My time off from the oil field after the embezzlement and fraud scam cost everyone their job was mostly spent in recovery as my spine, shoulder, neck and knees all revolted. And I made the mistake of putting my television near my bed so I could watch it at night when the spasms of pain made moving impossible. I also have a mirror so I could watch myself lose my mind as network television has sunk to incredibly low depths of reality shows and then shows that show bloopers of the reality shows with commentary.
 It reminds me of the lifestyle and mentality of Hollywood when I lived there and you don't know vacuous and frail and vain behavior until you spend some time in Santa Monica. That you can get paid taking pictures of celebrities picking their nose and then get paid to mock those celebrities while your video plays in slow motion with thought bubbles and sound effects and then you get a spinoff sitcom based on your own celebrity stalking...that was all considered totally acceptable and even desirable. Killing someone is only cool if you behead them or do it to perpetrate a race war.
As a friend said once of L.A. culture: "If this isn't tasteless, then what is?"
Truly, if you took the most depraved person in Labrador and brought him to Santa Monica he would be immediately humbled by the most commonplace events perpetrated by average Starbucks baristas. I almost let that kind of paradigm suck me into the moral mire when a friend ran into a homeless lady and her shopping cart riding his motorcycle and THE ONLY RESPONSE I THOUGHT OF WAS HOW TO TURN IT INTO A CLAY-MATION MUSIC VIDEO OR COMIC BOOK SERIES. Before I could even finish plans the homeless lady had her own agent and a fan club on Twitter and her panties were up for auction on Ebay. We are talking about essential corruption, poisoning the well, core rot. I fled in the nick of time.

Tire Failure

1974 Vespa Ciao in the shop
I admit I am living with one foot in the past and one foot in the present. The future and I never cross paths. My moped has a bad crimp in the rear rim from someone going over a curb in Mexico drunk on false love and tequila. Then a spoke broke so it was like riding a fucking Carousel horse down the street. I got a replacement spoke (real easy to find for a 1974 moped) but the whole rear wheel and chain assemblies have to be removed for this to happen. I did that since I'm finally feeling human and mobile and Spring has apparently arrived on January 20th to Texas (84 degrees) meaning humanity is totally fucked because the climate is completely upside down.

Recuva data rescue review

The outpouring of concern over my losing all the footage from one of the most implausible adventures of the 21st century was overwhelming. The letters arrived from all corners of the globe. But never worry! I'm too obsessed with the past and my ego would not allow the loss of all these photos of my crippled feet and Bakeapple or Bunchberries and birds and hundreds of pictures of my bell bottom pants. I decided to get serious. There was at least $1000 worth of music on that drive not to mention irreplaceable pictures of me wearing 70s clothes in Labrador. But Three different computers coughed and laughed when I tried to get that hard drive to mount. The computer repair place looked at me like I was trying to dub a John Denver cassette tape from 1982 to Blueray DVD. Another failure. I even put the thing in the freezer hoping it would work but it didn't. Maybe I should've baked it at 350 for an hour. The external drive had no fan so it always would overheat. I was a fool to use it to edit video. It was strictly designed to be used while it was backing up files and then shut down. I mean, it had an ac/adapter plug!

Sunday, January 27, 2013


If by some miracle I fathered a child then that child would never know his great-grandparents. He wouldn't know Abraham Lincoln either so that might not come as a big surprise. But my point is that he would not know people who were instrumental in his own existence and formative to my own.

I drove both of my grandfather's cars. They preferred larger 8 cylinder cruisers with power windows and blue or brown interiors. Neither of them owned as much as a socket set. Their cars smelled like baby powder and aftershave. Their words as we cruised down the street were casual references to my beard, job prospects and girlfriends.

Saturday, January 26, 2013

Digital Memories

Maybe it's a blessing in disguise but my previous laptop computer didn't have enough memory to fit my whole library of wolf quest video footage so I put it all on my external drive, which was supposed to be my emergency back up drive, but when it has the only copy of data then it's a primary drive. I meant to transfer it all to my new computer but never got around to it. Well, that drive failed the other day with no warning after 3 years and this picture of me walking into the New Foundland gloom wearing my bell bottom pants is the only thing I saved to my computer of 8 hours of footage.
Maybe I was spending too much time obsessed with the past and now this failure has freed me from the bonds of editing that video. It's all gone along with 190 GB of pirated porn and music.

Thursday, January 24, 2013


The North's National Defense Commission said the moves would feed into an "upcoming all-out action" that would target the United States, "the sworn enemy of the Korean people."

You know, war leads to more war. There is no military solution and as the escalation of critical climate related resources being lost continues to obliterate a gluttonous way of life I melt into obilivion. I watched a hedge fund futurist speak with total glee about the future of technology and it was obvious he knew only the technical details about gold mining, tar sands, oil, solar, circuit board assembly. He's scratched the surface of many fields and kept his own reality isolated from the cause and effect of his choices. Some people can allow laborers to do their dirty work but I'm repulsed when those same people pretend the dirty work is clean and the lettuce pickers of America sing work songs in merry solidarity. Their ignorance is the fiber in the pillow they lay their empty heads on at night. Because the disparity of lifestyles now allows this effrontery even Charlie Rose nodded happily. "Yes, tell me more about the future of the world for white imperialist Americans."


1976 Jawa Babetta Moped 207

American Restoration would never hire humbled Oggy
In an effort to barter my services at a garage so I can use their car lift to remove my transmission I have been trying to "restore" this Jawa moped. Maybe restore isn't the right word since that would imply a restoration and I'm not in that league. I'm trying to get this thing to run. I'm trying to fix it. You might say this is crazy but I've seen the restoration folks totally restore a 1964 Worlds Fair tour buggy. Why would they go through that $7000 expense? Or to restore a gas powered washing machine? That makes no sense. This moped will actually be useful.

Monday, January 21, 2013

Minnie And Me

My girlfriend, 88 year old Minnie on vocals. She's more alive to me than the vacant minds in tight jeans at the local bar.


Forgive me, Errol Garner, for not having your nimble fingers  with proper flat knuckles to paw these chordal Melodies into transfusion of starlight and sadness. I'm an oil field worker with no inherent musical ability and I only read the notes while you inhabit them.

Friday, January 18, 2013


If I buy the product advertised on tv then why do I have to watch the commercial again? Shouldn't I be exempt?

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Blues School

Earl's Tune - Errol Garner by boberwig

 I had no idea Errol Garner was a brother. One of the ladies at the rest home asked for this tune, Earl's Tune, and now I'm schooled in the playing of blues. If my father was Garner or Ray Bryant or even merely listened to Garner or Bryant, then I'd play like this today. But no, I got a psychotherapist and now earn a gold medal for mentally masturbating. So I've got 40 more years to devote to playing in this style. (or about 8 if I die when Garner did)

I'm not a Jazz snob. Misty is a song I've probably tried to play for ten years. I took a piano class once and this was the song I was supposed to accompany a singer with. It was terrible. And I remember reading Errol Garner as the author and not researching anything about him. I figured he was white because the lyrics are real margarine flavored. (Garner didn't write the lyrics) But no, now I see him playing his own melody and I understand. To discredit songs like Moon River is to discredit Garner because while Mancini isn't a blues musician he wrote during the same period and all those songs are lumped together. Misty is one of the all time classics with All of Me and Ain't Misbehaving and Some Enchanted Evening. You can't play lounge piano without knowing this song. You probably won't play it like Garner but you have to appreciate the tradition of lounge piano. I will post my recording of it when I get to the real piano at the old folks home.

Don't Shoot The Piano Player

I tried about 10 takes of this song hoping one would be good enough to put it rest but invariably I fumbled over one of the licks. I'll memorize before I can actually play it right...but for now this is the "before" video to compare what I will play in a few weeks of practice so I can go to the press room and impress the jazz snobs.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013

News Cycle

The predictability of our chew toy mentality and devotion to the lap dog media is grotesque. I force myself to watch the television to see what America is being spoon fed like fat babies with Gerber juice flowing out of our mouths and down our gullets. So, the nation has borrowed its limit, 16.5 trillion. I'm tempted to fillibuster my own ego in the pursuit of justice but the truth is that none of it is real. It's all a manufactured "event" to keep media whores occupied until the next mass murder or celebrity divorce. My disappointment in American mythology is so deep that it can't be salvaged. We live in a false and phony nation full of mysticism and superstitions and sports fanaticism and lip service to Jesus with an unread bible in one hand and a rifle in the other espousing peace through mystical dimensions.  There are over 7 billion people on Earth. 400+ million Americans. A million could die from flu outbreak this year and it wouldn't even turn the population graph line down. We are the ant colony that immediately forgets about the tidal wave of Big Red soda that drowns our habitat. The reality is that we're all redundant except to our own fabrications and the media feeds our false acceptance of the lies.

The common response to the Oggy Problem is that a quest to rescue wolves from Shell Oil or learn Hindu ballads on the Ud is pointless because it doesn't recognize reality. But my rebuttal is that those with loose lips and chicken scratch intellects only suck on the medium hot salsa of the world and ignore the countless arrays of picante. Basically, monitoring their own toes in the limitless cold water of reality to the depth that they can accept and then imposing their own shallow delusion onto others. It's all disgusting to me as are the television programs that horrify me. This is mass media and I will turn my back on it one day but it's like studying the cartel trade of broken virgin whores and then playing dominoes on slippery barstools of defeat with a crooked smile under sightless eyes.

So there is no solution as long as media influences reality perception. If we even took the $17 trillion debt as reality and accepted that the stars and stripes are like that junkie stoner kid you meet at a Phish concert who has a stolen credit card and he is buying everyone cool stuff and you can sleep in his luxury suite hotel for free. That's the reality of our negligent pride. The entire premise of America is to outlive our pimp so eventually we can fuck and give blowjobs to addicts in the cold alleys of our grotesque indifference and keep all our money. Maybe, we collectively hope, the pawn store will burn down and we can scavange the debris for our blood diamonds. We pawned our children to spread disease and pollution to every corner of the continent and then we hired marketing executives with counterfeit money to wed strippers wearing assless chaps made from Kickapoo Indian chief hides to promote the glossy new world as progressive and the manifest destiny of our nightmares. Congratulations. I always wondered how the Germans living outside the death camps rationalized their inaction. Now I know. They read the propaganda pamphlets and made excuses. Don't cause trouble. Don't ask questions. Protect your own. Fear the unknown. And they have a point because the American and Russian Liberators only made the citizens dig mass graves as their punishment for doing nothing...while the Nazi soldiers definitely would've executed them all. And that's the painful product of indifference and the demise of sad repose: it usually is safer to be the coward and after 40 years of an environmental holocaust we've manufactured the most indifferent citizenry with Fox news puppetry in our assholes making our mouths move like Kermit the Frog. The collusion is complete and the ironic generation now mocks rape...because that's their defense mechanism in an insane culture. Everything is a greater symptom of madness that becomes one more illness to ignore in our all u can eat buffet of greed.

But that's the road the media wants to invite me down. They want the futile conversation, the rant, the blog, the fillibuster; they goad people to revulsion because that's the best strategy handed down from Socialist Republics and propaganda specialists. "Ensure the public never has a moment of peace unless we manufacture that peace. Always keep them on uncertain ground." In two weeks, Fiscal Borrowing Limit. Next in line...Asshole Propositions Balls for Shit Legislation. It's excellent think tank strategy but I'm a hippie with conspiracy theories as my breakfast sandwich so pay no attention to me and keep watching American Dad and Football.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013

Mad Without Him Blues

Look no further for awesome pre-rock blues...ridiculously good. This song is in my fakebook and I'll stop at nothing to learn it.

Monday, January 14, 2013

Hottest Brand Mascot Ever

Me encanta

The chips were ok. too salty.
Seriously, is there a contest between the cheeto cat and the hot latina? Conchitas are the Mexican Frito chip. Fritos don't have a mascot for some reason so I'll have to put her up against the Cheeta cat. You can sort of tell the cat is male by body language but he's not camel toe sexy.

I'm bored.

Bad Transmission

Bad Transmission

Oggy's neck was bothering him and the reek of his arm pits reminded all present of his decaying insides, the lack of good attitude and diet, the rotting putrescence of his bitter bowels. It would all rupture eventually and be filled with maggots. John Updike said of a close call with death, “The Big Guy is getting my range.” like a mulligan taken in golf or a practice toss in cornhole...reducing our demise to a random mortar shot from the almighty. And why can't God take a practice putt before calling in our soul?
Oggy was underneath his dashboard the other day trying to repair a random electrical problem that caused his tail lights to fail and his turn signal to work intermittently. It was that stupid decision to update his turn signal cam switch returning to haunt him. His arthritic knees and besieged spine grated with global indifference to his agony. He only had a few hours to drive to San Antonio and back to return that transformer and look for gifts for the mythological prisoner of Oggy's meandering focus in Mexico. He was sweating and gasping for breath as his ragged lungs mocked his efforts. But was he sweating so bad that his ass crack was soaking wet? Oggy was confused. Maybe he had sat in a puddle when he rolled underneath the van to tighten the worn transmission bands.

Thursday, January 10, 2013

Ban Assault Rifles

And while we're at it we should ban cocaine and crystal meth because those are bad also and then the problem will be fixed because no one in America does anything that is illegal. And when a guy kills 20 kids at a school then we can add "Possession of a banned weapon" to the list of crimes he will be charged with. FUCKING AWESOME PLAN PEOPLE>

Wednesday, January 9, 2013

Back to Freezing

It took three weeks to determine the problem with the electric furnace and fix it and it took Joe 1 day to almost burn the house down. I restrung the elements with nickle plated coils and he turned the heat way up and then shut the breaker off to the fan...which I've told him does nothing to control the heating they burned and burned with no fan to cool them and melted like the snow cone from Oggy's face in Pierce Island 1982 summertime madness. This is like blowing out the pilot flame on a natural gas stove and then cranking up the temp. But naturally the coil is like a live wire and it drooped down to ground against the metal frame electrifying the whole furnace housing, shutting the fan down permanently as the dogs whimpered in electrostatic fear. I'll take a picture of the half dozen signs and notes I've arranged to warn him from touching the fan breaker and I'll also take a picture of those same memo notes torn down by him in a senile rage. He's used the breaker switch for so long that he is like a zombie who returns to the insanity. The last hope is a padlock on the door to the air handler cage and only I will have the key...and I feel that's already pushed beyond the limit of my responsibility. I have to lock him out of his own breaker box lest he burn the house down in an attempt to stay warm.

It's sad and desperate and there is no solution except chaining him down at night.

On an unrelated note, this song might be the most classic American folk song...It breaks my throbbing heart and my arthritic shoulder moans with misery at the honesty of it. But then I see the world through a pinhole in the sky that is shaped like my own ego. Sadly, I am 32 years too late to the country music scene as today's music concerns beer money, tight jean shorts on sluts, and finger fucking in the back of a Chevy truck. Decay like zombies brings a rain of ignorance on the blighted land.

Monday, January 7, 2013

Nanook of the North

Oggy gone to seed

So I've begun the editing process of my wolf quest to Labrador and can tell I will need some major creativity to make a watchable recollection. As I suspected being my own cameraman did not work. The scenery was supposed to be a background to the madness but there isn't enough madness. Maybe in a few years this will be interesting but right now it's a flop.
Any ideas on how to assemble this mess? I think I'll video myself watching the video and narrating it. That might work.

Saturday, January 5, 2013


I think I have walking pneumonia with lung congestion and aching bones and torn ego fabric. Every day I limp across the street to the long term care facility and talk with Minnie. The three people who sit in the chairs and listen are in various stages of decay. One has swollen feet. The other is in a wheelchair. A third uses a cane. "Thinking about all our younger years." It's a tribute to nostalgia...and I wish someone would overlook the despair of momentary madness to sing this with me...but the vintage decor of my face's ragged patina wards off mystery affairs.

Friday, January 4, 2013

Night Sweats

Oggy awoke last night in a fit of fear and revulsion as he realized he is the same age that Ted Williams was when he retired from baseball. Any doubt that Oggy's golden years are in his past vanished like the ghost of Enos Slaughter racing around 3rd base in 1946.

Thursday, January 3, 2013


It's awful for me to kick a dead horse but the ghost of Steve Jobs has been on my mind as a biographer is making the publicity circuit espousing the genius of Jobs. It's a representation of how far we have withdrawn into confusion and Orwellian doublespeak for someone to look at an Apple computer and think "Simple". I want to punch them in the face and say, "Love" and defend myself by saying that punching someone in the face is basically a variation of hugging them. Ok. OK. I'm the asshole.

That's Entertainment

The Yamaha Baby Grand is so ridiculously nice to play that I wanted to record this song on it for future reference.

Jarritos Buckle #2

!Que Buenos Son!

The first buckle attempt resulted in evidence that my brain is decaying invisibly as I arranged the bottle caps upside down when worn how I usually wear a belt. I tried to put the belt on backwards and while that fixed the orientation of the caps I still felt like an idiot. So, I had to wait 4 months until I had a moment of peace to really apply myself to my chosen calling. This was an improvement but I can't pretend it looks pretty. Try to make something out of bottle caps and you'll know quickly what your standards are. For the record, I drank dozens of Jarritos soda to make this buckle.

Tuesday, January 1, 2013


The arthritis in my neck keeps my head bowed in reverence for the demise of humanity. But it's not on purpose. I spent too much time looking at my past below my feet and my neck got stuck in that position. January 1st is a time to look forward because regardless of whatever Irish or Chinese railroad crew was slaughtered because the contractor didn't want to pay them, time plods on and the living can either gripe about past injustices or move on.
Creative Commons License
Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.