Friday, February 28, 2014


I've been looking for a good example of this word because people often confuse it with "underachievement". Fortunately, I have a lesson in current events to clear this misinterpretation up.

Here are Obama's recent words regarding the Ukraine:

"However, we are now deeply concerned by reports of military movements taken by the Russian Federation inside of Ukraine. Russia has a historic relationship with Ukraine, including cultural and economic ties and a military facility in Crimea. But any violation of Ukraine’s sovereignty and territorial integrity would be deeply destabilizing, which is not in the interests of Ukraine, Russia or Europe. It would represent a profound interference in matters that must be determined by the Ukrainian people."

Here are what those words would look like if Obama wasn't a hypocrite:

"However, we are now deeply concerned by reports of military movements taken by the United States inside of Iraq. The United States has no historic relationship with Iraq, excluding previous unjustified bombings and invasions. But any violation of Iraq's sovereignty and territorial integrity would be deeply destabilizing, which is not in the interests of Iraq, The United States, or The Middle East. It would represent a profound interference in matters that must be determined by the Iraqi people."

These are empty words made by a political puppet. He's not a hypocrite by accident, which could be said for all hypocrites. There is a design to the hypocrisy and as long as people fear change we will ignore the cues and be led by a fabrication of power.

Thursday, February 27, 2014

PG Rated Vs X Rated

I intend to one day gather my oil field experiences into one essay. In fact I have an essay that is partially finished called "What the Environmental Movement Can Learn From Halliburton." That's the title you give to an essay you want to publish in a magazine like Mother Jones...if you indeed thought life was worth giving a fuck about and cared about something other than paychecks and pussy.

That essay will never get finished.

But here's a sample of what another essay will try to accomplish. I want to juxtapose the generic bottom feeding of Huffington Post who can not publish a single non-generic article on anything other than their own pitiful ethnocentric shit of affluent cunts with Yale communication degrees buying designer jeans with usurped vocabulary. Fuk Huf Post! Fuck them! My farts make more sense.

So I will give you one of their generic, cliche paragraphs and then I will follow it up with the reality. They published a skin deep article on North Dakota man camps. I could analyze the lack of depth this reporter displays, his pathetic, junior high school level vocabulary and softball approach but I will just quote the article and then write what I have to say, which should metaphorically be a giant shit in your mouth.

Huff Post version: "TG, manager at this camp, probably doesn't feel the same way [about the lack of women at the camp]. He is hours away from a two-week leave after six solid weeks at the camp since his last break. He's dreaming about his wife, and his Harley, back in Arizona, where he makes his permanent home. A lengthy to-do list sits on his desk."

Oggy version: Ian, who quits days after this episode, points across a deserted, garbage filled lot to a school.
"It's illegal to have this man camp here [in an abandoned long term rehab hospital] because it's so close to schools. See, most of these guys have guns or prison records or both and we can't be this close to a school."

I'm tired and yawning. I promise myself each night to sleep early but that leaves no time to play guitar or watch porn so I keep getting to bed late. I don't care if everyone at the man camp has Sig Sauer 20 round pistols. I don't care about anything.

"Que chavala," hisses Ian, "Look at that hot little piece of ass."
He points at a teen girl on the playground.
"I'd tear that pussy to pieces."
I nod and look at the girl. From a distance I can't even tell what she looks like.
"They're all cunts. They're cunts now and they grow up to be bigger cunts," I mutter and yawn.
Ian gets a call from one of the girls he has been running around with on the side. He talks sweet to her but I know most of what he says are lies to keep her from finding out about his wife and kid. He admits he has a kid but calls his wife his "baby mamma" which is like saying she's nothing more than an sperm incubator.
"You're the one I really care about," he coos to the phone.

I stare hard at the playground of teen girls and bite my lip. Ian tells me to get changed out of my work clothes because we're driving to Odessa to go to the strip club for cage wrestling and cheap drinks. Another field tech has rented a whore for everyone. When I voice my feeble moral objections he says, "We're supporting single moms."
"I just don't want to fuck a fake blonde stripper with plastic tits," I say, but no one is listening. "At least can we get a brunette?"
They are laughing at an amateur porn video that Ian has uploaded to a revenge website of him and his girlfriend. On the video he says, "No, I won't show this to anyone. It's for us, because I love you."
I'm distracted because I left my fiberglass hammer on top of the crude oil tank battery and probably will never see it again. But I'll buy another on credit from the tool store. They deduct money from my paycheck. Everything is electronic and my company credit card buys everything but a spine to replace the cracked and broken one attached to my motherfucking head.

Ian breaks into a dance of joy when he watches the video of him ejaculating on his girlfriend's face. The girl is moaning and Ian laughs, "Wait, if you listen close you can hear her daughter crying in the background. Because she's hungry."
Everyone laughs and since drugs are prohibited we are drinking maple flavored crown royal with a chaser of beer. My prostate is throbbing. When everyone is drunk we sneak into a coworker's room and download tons of gay porn on his computer while he is sleeping. Then we make his screensaver a huge black cock and we laugh as we stumble down the corridor of the old age home as the lights flicker.

Monday, February 24, 2014

I Love To Tell The Story

Finally, a folio of Barn Dance favorites from 1955~!

Catherine Hankey wrote the words and William Fisher set them to music around the time of the American Civil War.

Sunday, February 23, 2014

Drum Brakes

only the bottom of a swimming pool would make a more uncomfortable work space

I do not blame the drum brakes for my troubles. I actually like drum brakes and the springs and levers and "self adjusting" cable hardware. It's awesome when it works and gives me less trouble than disc brakes. The trouble is working with bleeding knees on a sharp rock landscape. And then having auto parts places send almost the right parts. Maybe they worked for 1973 Mustangs so they might work for a '69 Econoline. And then the newly manufactured parts have problems. And then there are problems with reassembly. Otherwise, the work is actually as easy as it gets.
no hint of the frustration and agony involved in this assembly.
I want to buy a garage so I can work on this van properly because now I have the resources to completely renew everything.
I didn't think it would last this long

Thursday, February 20, 2014

Oggy Sue

Got word of an impending 25th high school reunion...which means I'm in danger of reenacting the exact scenario from Peggy Sue Got Married...where Kathleen Turner goes to her 25th high school reunion in 1986 and goes back in time to 1961 and tries to change her own history but learns nothing can change without changing everything.
Then I wonder how many of my classmates would go to the reunion if it was held in El Paso.

Sunday, February 16, 2014

Production Value

I am limping and my arthritic toes bleed at the end of the day but watching "Once Upon A Time in The West" makes all the pain go away. Because that once upon a time is here again with different shades of orange, dust storms, straw hats, grim quests of vengeance, redemption and suede jackets. Villains ride over the same dirt to meet their fate. I'm part of the determined bulging of humanity, straining toward paradise, the final station called home, twin steel rails leading home. I don't feel heroic but in 50 years I hope someone will make my life appear heroic.

Over The Sunset Mountains

Words and Music by John W. Peterson

The Statler Brothers do a good performance. If you want to hear the lyrics and maybe save your soul before judgement day.

Monday, February 10, 2014

Idle Photos

14 hour commute

"Pardon me, have you seen an oil well around here?"

No explanation needed

Sunday, February 9, 2014

I Should Have Been Crucified!

Words and Music by Gordon Jensen

Sunday, February 2, 2014

My God And I

Words and Music by I.B. Sergei

The Worst Job

While oil field electrician is the most lucrative job I've had it comes at a price. I love being outdoors but when it is 9 degrees then I usually don't rush outside to work on a transmission or repair an old cassette deck under a tarp...and when it's 115 degrees my first thought in the morning is not to move hundreds of feet of 4'' rigid conduit into a trench. But that's the job and it will never change. The strong survive and the weak get desk jobs or select window trim colors for the elite snobs in usurped seaside mansions. And the Battle Harbor naturalist gig was the best job but only paid in meals and a bed. So, I pondered, what was the worst job ever? It wasn't hand digging a trench in Santa Monica for a CVS parking lot drainage pipe and then finding a $75 parking ticket on my car that was double my daily pay. No, that's standard Los Angeles bullshit. And it wasn't driving to a Kmart in Compton to assemble shitty Chinese bicycles in a dusty attic while my van gets broken into. I actually like bicycles so even though I refused to even turn in paper work for that day, basically working for free to give my possessions to the thieves of Compton, that wasn't the worst. It wasn't even the inventory job I had at the Ford Dealership because I learned the coding key for all the parts on my van. And while tearing covers off of classic novels and pornography scheduled for destruction by shredding was not challenging, I did take many copies of Barely Legal magazine home for personal investigation and intellectual refinement. No, the worst job, the most depressing job that made me grimace with agony and self loathing every time I clocked in was at Artisan Outlet shipping warehouse.

Saturday, February 1, 2014

Comanche Country

The Davis Mountains

Ansel Adams, Santa Elena Canyon, Big Bend National Park, Texas, 1947, gelatin silver print, 1975
Mr. Adams probably didn't use a 10 year old $100 Kodak for this shot in Big Bend
The Good thing about the west is that no photograph will  prepare you for the grandeur. Sure, a few Ansel Adams black and white postcards come close but in general you will see things for the first time.
A keen eye will see the violent history of this land
Getting on the trail in my hippie pants with not enough water, flirting with the brunette state park ranger, getting lost, learning about a new bird...these are things that I miss. Although I'm dedicated to the destruction of the earth's ecological balance, a part of me still pines for the wide open spaces of a rocky trail and a can of beans at night under the stars. I never needed money but the goddamn police hounded me all day long in Corpus that they basically forced me to seek shelter in a junk yard...and now I'm an industrial electrician with money to burn! Texas made a man out of the most irresponsible 40 year old child in America and I'm bitter about it. I'm resentful. The whole point was to become a professional jazz guitarist. You can go back to the early days of this blog to witness the sheer insanity of my default lifestyle...the willful disregard of gainful employment, writing protest songs, drinking medicinally evaluated soda pop, jamming with fellow gypsies on the sidewalk, throwing my life away on a dream. I actually sold everything I owned to move into a van parked on the street so I could play guitar on the Venice Beach boardwalk...where I didn't make a dime...but I didn't need a dime because I was recovering from ass surgery and couldn't eat. Those were the good old days and now I'm too broken to live like that again. The best I can do is drag ass through enough years in the oil field that I can get my escorted funeral when I die.

Just because it's black and white doesn't make it good.

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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.