Hippie's Vacation Usurped by Prolific Painter

If I were a lobster, the Downeasters would throw me back and shake their heads, "Lobstah sho ah furry an ugly these dayuhs."
If I were any thinner you could see through me. That sucks because I tried to put on weight for the trip to the arctic circle. Maybe it's my beard that makes me look thin.


"Look, I can see the spots I missed on the staircase from here!"



Shortly after this picture was taken the Ft. McClary guards approached us and asked to see some identification. I said, "I'm from the future and don't have any identification but I'm wondering if you've seen an arctic wolf?"



All this play was in preparation for a painting gig with the Chicken Farmer that saw more paint hit the surrounding plants and deck than the handrail. By the time that job is done he'll owe the company store more than he earned.

Note: KDHX is an awesome indie radio station in St. Louis.

Tar sands pipeline to disaster

Did anyone else see the latest climate progress post? Ominous. It might as well read "End of World planned" It's so bad I definitely placed myself on the Dept. of Interior's black list with this email. My internet activity will forever be monitored because of this and Canada is probably getting my name right now to detain at the border. And if I die in a single car accident don't believe it. I drive 45 mph and never drive at night. Follow the money.

From: Oggy Bleacher

Date: Sun, Jun 5, 2011 at 10:15 PM
Subject: Tar sands pipeline to disaster
To: keystonexl@cardno.com


Regarding the current project to pipe oil derived from tar sands from Canada to Texas. WHAT? ARE YOU JOKING? It's like someone is trying to destroy the environment as fast as possible. While you may say this is a link in the chain of progress that man is ever climbing to his date with some technological utopia I would like to exclude myself from that category. If this is how you get to a utopia THEN I DON'T WANT TO GO.

I went hiking today and on the return trip I saw a huge snapping turtle in the middle of the road trying to get from one pond to another. The cars and motorcycles were nose to ass traveling at 50 mph. How am I going to help this turtle? It's going to probably cause an accident that kills me and the turtle and where will that leave us? There was no hope. The turtle would be crushed and that BREAKS MY FUCKING HEART.
I know there are turtle protection projects but when I look at the scale of this tar sands project then I believe an entire army would be required to conserve turtle habitat. But that army is going to busy CLEANING UP THE OIL SPILLS WHEN THE NEXT SWARM OF TORNADOES BREAKS THE PIPELINE.

By many estimations this tar sands project is crossing the Rubicon either intentionally or unintentionally. I have strong suspicions that the full dangers are known and this project is strategically putting mankind in a position of no return because the dangers involved will require such abundant resources that the project itself will be required to succeed. If true, this is diabolical genius. It sounds like the financial institutions that are "too big to fail". It takes some brains to weasel your way into supporting the foundations of a building even though you couldn't hold up a cup of coffee. Naturally, you will always appear relevant. I'm not fooled.

I have to consider this when composing my argument because if I were to believe you only needed more information then I would use that tact. But I suspect you know plenty and it is environmental ethics you lack. Your pursuit of profit has led to the natural position that either the tar sands project proceeds or the oil industry itself will become obsolete. So, this would be an act of willful war and ecological terrorism. Am I missing something? Please tell me I am wrong. It gets to the point where a project becomes so monstrous that the lie can no longer hide the truth, that the minds behind this project are putting mankind in check. Only an act of defense will avoid checkmate and like a lowly despot invading a weak nation you are hoping no one will step up to the challenge. This is how I see it because I think the worst motives are pushing this project forward. The cloak of progress has worn so thin it wouldn't hide a speck of dust on a rabbit's ass. Yes, petroleum has fueled an incredible development of gadgets and growth. But this project in particular smells like something sinister and foul. When we cross this line it will make the way of the turtle and the wolf obsolete. You know this. You know we will no longer be able to choose both. One way of life will have to be sacrificed for the other and the turtles will be excluded from a world that sees tar sands as viable.
You are asking me to take it on faith that oil companies have my best interest in mind. This project obliterates any hope of my reaching that conclusion. This project is evidence that an ecological genocide is taking place willfully and secretively. There is no part of this project that works for me. I need only look with my eyes to see this project is a blight and a curse. I think you would only proceed with a project with such horrible return on your investment if the profit was not the motive. This is a strategic attack on all sensible people.
Everything about this project defies common sense. Only a mind numb populace, fattened calves who reside on their asses by bowls of toxic potato chips and watch "two and a half men" greedily slurping sodas, and jerking off their prides into the condom of defeat while the continent's natural resources are defiled, would ignore your project. It's repulsive. This project offends me. It's an abomination and anyone who supports it is choosing a side that will forever be my enemy.
I choose the side of the snapping turtle and the deer. Yes. And I'm not alone.
My phone number is 310-425-XXXX. I live in a van and I'm going to Canada to save the arctic wolf. Even that doesn't sound as crazy as the tar sands project.
Oggy Bleacher

Major Nature Voyeurism

Today was the kind of day that encourages short memories. Winter? What winter? Will kids decry the petroleum addicts who burned the climate up for a quick trip to Honey Dew donuts? No, because once or twice a year will be a day like today that makes them forget everything else and bask in the humidity free sunlight that filtered through my protective beard.
Mt. Major was packed. I heard "This picture will be my new facebook avatar" about ten times today. or "I've got a new picture for facebook." or "Can I post to facebook from here?" And it was true, thanks in part to those hundreds of hours I spent placing aluminum fins in huge heat sinks and crimping fiber optic cable in gigantic harnesses, Mt. Major has total internet access. But the facebook references were out of control. Is any moment private anymore?
Also, I had a short history lesson thanks to a 1981 Midway arcade game:

"In the year 2003, the Omega system developed a method of training its warriors to protect their star colonies over the city of Fomap. Android controlled fighters freed to engage and destroy these Omegan warriors."

There is either some serious coverup happening that the government should be aware of or these guys were way off the mark. The game was called Omega Fighter or something and involved a fighter going around a box shooting triangles. It was old old old, considered monochrome/vector graphics for the black and white, linear design. I'm bored just talking about it.

This was the weekend of the classic video arcade game championship. I didn't get too excited this year since I still had tokens left from last year. But I did play some games since it's next door to Mt. Major. The guy chasing the Donkey Kong record was there with his video camera on his game. No one cares, but that'll be a movie sometime.

On the way through Durham I had a slice of Pizza from Wildcats and Durham house of Pizza and Wildcats won my taste test by a pepperoni width. They are both average slices. I wouldn't get out of bed for either one of them. But right next door was pandemonium as that repulsive show "Man vs Food" was in town as the fat guy tried to eat 15 sliders and ten pounds of french fries. OR something. The show is so fake with fake audience cheering. Everyone was trying to get in the picture*. They interviewed me and I stuck my finger down my throat and vomited on the host's plate of food and then I ate it with my hands.
"What? Isn't that what vultures do?" I said as the vomit dripped off my beard and the cute coed girls (paid audience) ran for cover.
"Get out! You filthy hippie!" they yelled.
"Hahahah." I laughed and washed my face with coca cola. "Not crazy enough for you?" and I leaped through the air and landed on a man's back and bit deeply into his throat with my teeth. "Is this crazy enough for you? Man versus Man! Hahahhhahahaha"
It'll be on the Travel channel in a few weeks. Should be good. Stay tuned.

*This seemed very strange to me. I heard someone say, "Do you want to be on T.V?" And it didn't have the same appeal as it once did. I vaguely remember fame and fortune being tied to television and today it's understood that television is simply better produced and promoted internet...and we can all be on the internet if we want. You want to be on the internet? I'll put you on there today. No problem.

In Defense of The Beatles

I read this attack on The Beatles and I felt it needed a response even if the blogger isn't posting anymore and won't read the comment. Somehow, I think it matters. He doesn't like The Beatles. Considers Rubber Soul a piece of trash. How could I let this stand?

Here's a quote I took from him to begin my comment:
"For sure, these guys have a grand collection of incredible tunes; if only they had opted to consolidate such greatness over two or three albums instead of the numberless albums, international editions, compilations, singles, etc." -Mad Hatter

Hatter, please remove "Band Manager" from any list of future aspirations you have.

Brian Epstein managed The Fuck out these four guys who easily could've ended up playing The Cavern Club for five years and then returned to Liverpool to work in the coal mine.

The lifespan of a good/great band is ten years. Unless you are REM (talk about numberless albums) and fool everyone for 20 years then you have one decade, probably less, to make sure you don't end up opening up for a Poison tribute band in your twilight years or performing karaoke style lip-syncs like Harry Nilsson in his final days. Newsflash: Your opinion is not factored into most musician's game plan.

Surfers don't have the luxury to wait for "that one perfect wave". Surfers surf. Writers write. Musicians make music. They don't sit on the golden egg waiting for it to hatch #1 hits. It's pop art, not commissioned operas. Their career happens in real time and there were so many bands throwing down incredible albums in 1965 and 1966 that if they skip a year to ponder their craft then The Beach Boys or The Hollies or Dylan OR ANYONE basically takes their place and Let it Be and Abbey Road never get recorded. Every song on Rubber Soul is good enough to record. Are they all "Stairway to Heaven" good? No. But they're good enough to record and that's what musicians do.

That's what keeps music vital: it waits for no man. You play and record RIGHT NOW and if you are talented under the gun then you produce great music. If you can't take the heat then it all crumbles. Either way, you can't call a time out in the music business. The blitz is always on and if you need to wait for inspiration then you can collect your welfare check with everyone else. I'll pay you $5000 to write me a publishable essay on the Israel/Palestine conflict that doesn't repeat anything already written about that topic. Can you do in it the next 24 hours? A good writer can. If you need two weeks then welcome to blogsville.

The Beatles recorded for 7 years and they bowed out with dignity. It's not their fault the zeitgeist beatified them in a way The Seekers never enjoyed. Don't confuse your music reviews with your pop culture criticisms.

Eat this:


"They cried the tears, they shed the fears,
Up and down the land,
They stole guitars or used guitars
- So the tape would understand,"

It's a dirty business and I like it that way.

Oggy is Out of Shape

I want to blame the quiche for my lack of health. This is the second quiche this week and this one has jalapeno pepper slices in it. I'm immune to peppers after eating real Mexican food for 8 months. Maybe I burned a hole in my esophagus.
ex:
I'm bicycling past the Babe Ruth field after a tour of downtown. I'm still in my painting clothes because I don't much care what I wear. My beard covers half my chest so it's not like a clean shirt is going to make people want to shake my hand.
So I'm watching the kids play baseball and pondering my lost youth when I hear "whapwhapwhapwhapwhap" real fast over by the tennis courts where I had been practicing serves about half an hour earlier. I know that sound and it is someone hitting against the practice board. That means it's someone without a partner and I've got my racquet. So I fly over there like it's a date and I can hear by the speed, consistency and echo of the ball off the board that this person doesn't miss and is slamming the ball. And the visibility is terrible because it is 9PM. I haven't even seen them swing and I know it's a player. As I think this I see the guy flub a swing and sends the ball over the board into the court I'm in. I fetch it.
"Up for a game?"
"I'm waiting for someone but we can volley until he gets here."

I'm thrilled because I've been hitting 50-100 serves a day to practice and I haven't found a partner to impress. My beard scares everyone away.

He comes over and has a perfect top spin on every volley that makes the ball pick up speed when it hits the ground. I find myself competitively swinging for the fences and ignoring my swollen knee pain. I grunt involuntarily like Bjorn Borg in the French Open.
"You've got skills," he says as his volley sails past my gizzard. I swing and the ball hits my forearm but manages to bounce back over the net.
I want to respond but I'm out of breath.
"Yeah," is all I can sputter out.

He's got me running all over the court so I charge the net and he lobs it over me and I run back and hit it left handed. His backhand swing is with two hands and is flawless. His forehand has a nasty spin that kills it dead before my worn sneakers.

Finally, I step back to serve. This is where practice takes over. The serve is all about technique and method. It's the same motion over and over. It's the one part of the game you can control exactly, like free throws. Everything else is competition. Serves are about perfect routine. The serve is you against yourself. So, the method involves toeing the line, bouncing the ball once with my hand and once with the racquet, tossing the ball straight up with my left hand as I rock back on my heels and then eyeing the ball until it just begins to come down at which point I use my 6ft of height and 3 ft of reach to hit it at the highest point with a slight side spin so the ball doesn't take off in flight over the fence. Even though we're practicing I try to show off and I haven't mastered the serve yet so the ball goes wide. He returns it easily. My next serve is the best I can do, right down the line. He hardly moves and returns a wicked slicing ball that I merely watch sail past me because I never got in position for a return.
"I played in high school," says the guy.
After some more volleying his partner shows up and I'm flailing at the ball because my perception is failing since I'm light headed and thirsty and seeing spots as I gasp for breath. I figure we played enough points for two games (unless his serve is atrocious he won both of them), so barely half a set. and about 1/16th of a match. And I couldn't breath.
"My name is Mike. Thanks for the volley."
"Yeah....my....name....is.....Oggy.... Thanks...."
"You look pale, Oggy."
"Can't....catch....breath....need....water...."
"You need an ambulance?"
"If....I...do....then....I....deserve.....to....die."

So, I'm going to try to make this a priority. What is more important than health? If playing tennis is wrong I don't want to be right. When was the last time you were out of breath?