Birthday

Ms Garfield III

These exhibits

A through E

the detective says

are Ms Garfield's things

Ms Garfield II

The janitor was known 

To take pictures with his phone

During the lunches 

Ms Garfield attended

Ms Garfield

we ate beef tartare

in her green Mopar

FLASH: The Beefy Gigolo

One of the many nicknames I've given this dog over his year and a half of life is the Beefy Gigolo. Look at that picture: he's a 1950's contract player for MGM, he'd look good as a cowboy or a gangster, but in real life he spends most of his time by the pool at some Hollywood hotel, where he sucks his gut in while hitting on starlets.

PICS: November

PIC: Agamenticus

LIMTUCKY: Valero

The Valero is full of crust. Old men in rancher jackets and green dungarees, wanting to smoke. No smoking inside the gas station. The gas station smells like cigarettes.

Truman says, "Oh here's a sight. Hammerin Hank. Where's yer hammer, Hank?"

"If it were up your ass, you'd know."

"Never heard that before."

-- Truman had a beard like a Quaker, red and some grey now, completely off-putting with no mustache to go with it.

"Hank, you know what my problem is with you? You think yer better than me. Admit it, you think yer better than me."

"I don't think I'm better'n you," Hank says. "My thoughts on me, what I am, wouldn't come into play were I to consider my dislike of you."

-- The old timers taking note now.

"You think yer smart?"

"This minute, talking with you, no, I don't think I'm smart."

-- Truman is looking around at a lot of old timers. Grasping for an out line, but cleverness was never his thing.

-- Hank turns around to leave. He doesn't hear the man again until he's in the parking lot.

 "Hank."

-- Now Truman is with him, gently, ever so gently, invading his space, his hand on Hank's arm.

"I could use an extra guy over at the pit, at least until the snow, and after, maybe."

"You keeping the pit open through the winter?"

"If there's business."

"Is there?"

"Probably not."

-- Hank thought about the man walking the cat. He considered telling Truman that he didn't have any other prospects. He thought how brave it would be to just admit it, especially to this guy. But living in truth had a limit. That limit was Truman. Some people weren't safe with honesty.

 "Too be honest, Truman, I got this other thing."

HOTEL: Trade Winds

Been awhile, Rockland. A long while, October Rockland. Halloween? Maybe I'll go out as the ghost of my early twenties.

PICS: Art Bell's Dog

FLASH: Cold Open

Right is right. All day he'd been thinking this until the words had lost meaning but gained power, become a chant, grown a melody. Right is right. Right is right. Right is right, he thought as he stopped in the middle of the dirt road and tried to remember how he had been wronged.

POEM: Vague Vin

he knew the girl we asked about

and answered with queer platitudes:

She were a freight train in the night

She were a sight
she were a curse

comfort werent her thing

dressed up like a nurse

he talked to himself:

a devil a dragon

a tiger back a'wagon

a chickadee with one bad wing
shes a waitress 

a bee sting
a tiger in the jungle

smells of apple crumble.

He says she always proclaiming herself:

ima queen ima pixie queen

ima wear a hat sunday afternoon

ima daddys girl im everything mean

im my own little world my daddy the moon

(1oct13)

he knew this girl

We asked about her

all he had were platitudes:

She were a freight train in the night

She were a sight
she were a curse

comfort werent her thing

when she dressed up like a nurse

What she were

he talked himself into:

a devil a dragon

a tiger back a'wagon

a chickadee with one bad wing 

a bee sting
a tiger in the jungle

a waitress smells of apple crumble.

He says she one whats always telling you what she is:

ima queen ima pixie queen

ima girl wearing a hat sunday afternoon

ima my daddys girl

ima everything mean

ima my own little world

my daddy the moon

(30sep13 #2)

Says he knew this girl

We asked for details

all he had were platitudes:

She were a freight train in the night

She were a sight, she were a curse;

comfort werent her thing

when she dressed up as a nurse

What she were

he talked himself into:

a devil a dragon

a tiger back a'wagon

a chickadee with one bad wing

a jungle a bee a sting

a waitress smells of apple crumble.

He says she one of these whats always telling you what she is:

ima queen ima pixie queen

ima girl wearing a hat sunday afternoon

ima my daddys girl

ima everything mean

ima my own little world

my daddy the moon

                                         
30sep13 (phone)

RATHISTORY: Presidential Historian

Professional hobbyist and amateur historian Al Muskrat Jr. thinks the 'Merica would have been better had G. Washington become king.  Below are his highly negative opinions on some of our greatest presidents.

PICS: Isle of Crete

PICS: Rebar

FLASH: Steak House Waitress Cuckold

1 one of those ideas. not a story alone. an event. I imagine this while eating my supper. the note i take to remind myself is:
'roider rages over guy making eyes at his waitress in a chain steak house. saugus.'

I imagine this bulky dude. a juiced up dude who looks to effort getting steroids more so than lifting weights. he's in a steak house with fake animals on the wall. he's with his gym rat friends. all order the same thing: well done sirloin, double broccoli. 
the waitress is cute. friendly. cute. great smile. but something is up with her. bulky dude notices every time she comes by -- to refill diet soda, to up-sell sides -- she's looking over his shoulder rather than in his eyes. Bulk looks behind him, spots a frowzy little dude wearing a scarf. and Bulky realizes his waitress has not given him his just due as a customer, nor as a man. he's been cuckolded by a scarf.

when she brings him the wrong soda he f-bombs his friends. they are confused.

PICS: Goodbye Skyrim Vol.1

GYPSY: 58 Atomic Boogie Hour 80

Tennessee.  Mississippi. Doing the once-over twice.  Back in '52 an engineer named Sam fancies himself a record producer.  In '46 a boy named Danny moves from Tupelo to Memphis.  In '67 a star wants to be born, and her name is Leigh Bullington.

PICS: Yard Work

MERCANTILE: Tapo Meru/Sind

tapo meru

after days of nothing but hills of sand, the black trees appear on the horizon. 

they will always be the horizon. they are the highway of Tapo Meru.  

an orchard of gargantua speared deep into the sand.
the Arboretum Infelix.

BIT: Shitheel Dialogue

brring

-- What up

-- Dude, the 57 year old you is guarding the water fountain at Target.

-- What are you doing at Target?

-- Getting Timothy a present for his Guncles.

-- What's this now?

-- Susan's gay uncles just got married in Vermont. She's bringing the kids up there for the weekend. But I got out of going. Told her we're doing Chuck's intervention.

ON: Watching Wrestling

If you didn't love wrestling when you were nine years old, you probably won't get it after. When I was nine years old Vince McMahon's WWF ruled the wrestling business, and had done so by selling saturday morning wrestling, with Hulksters, and Ultimate Warriors, and crazy barbers, and dudes with pet snakes, and all the other cartoons, to nine year olds like I was in 1987.  By the time I was twelve I was over it. Other interests, other delivery systems for stories came along -- wrestling just didn't seem cool anymore.

PICS: July 11 12 13

july 2011

REPOST: Something Wicked This Way Comers

The story goes Tolkien read Macbeth as a boy, (as an English boy, at the turn of the century, they all did I would guess), and he was taken with it: his imagination sparked by the Weyard Sisters' prediction that until Birnam Wood comes up high Dunsinane Hill, Macbeth is safe.  Tolkien was sorely disappointed at it's fruition: ten thousand camouflaged men moving through the forest and up the hill to the castle appeared, to Macbeth's servants, as a moving forest.  It's a killer visual, a showman's move; I'm not sure Brian DePalma meant consciously to use it in Scarface, but there they are, on Tony Montana's security feeds, the boys come to finally do in a thug climbed too high, (Macbeth could have been subtitled, The World Is Yours).  The greatest swipe version is Kurosawa's Throne of Blood, a perfect film climax, (and I mean one of possibly five perfect film climaxes I have ever seen); only the man who made Rashomon could have swayed the forest this way, (and Mifune's Macbeth, the best).  It is, again, so beautiful a set-up, one can get sick fantasizing about Shakespeare as a filmmaker.  
So why would Tolkien carry a lifelong bitterness over Macbeth?  Because he wanted the trees to walk on the castle, to come to life.  Weren't those witches after all?  Even a floundering appearance by Hecate the dark goddess!  There were ghosts, (and not the first time!), in the play.  So why not pay off, and bring a great and angry forest alive, at the witching hour, to revenge a villain for his crimes?  
-- Of course Tolkien did his rewrite some forty years later, when Treebeard and the Ents march on Orthanc to capture and punish Saruman.  Saruman gets away where Macbeth does not, and suffers his punishment later.  This is not the only part of Macbeth Tolkien weaves into The Lord of the Rings; Galadriel's mirror predicts the future much like those Weyard Sisters, it is tricksy, it gives partial story: Macbeth is told no man of woman born can slay him, MacDuff was untimely ripped from his mother's womb; whereas in the case of the Lord of of Nazgul, who is himself considered unkillable by man, a woman and a hobbit cashier him.
-- Tolkien in letters seems snobbish about William Shakespeare.  His own creative work betrays the truth.  Tolkien was not just a professor of ancient languages, but considered at the time an elite linguist; he knew better than we what Shakespeare was, and maybe it depressed him; it clearly pissed him off.  I read somewhere, a theory by a younger professor who knew Tolkien, that Tolkien's bitterness over Shakespeare came out of that childhood disappointment of Birnam Wood not being Ents; in his honest moments Tolkien would speak of the stories and histories, those that later in life would become his great fantasy books, that were born in trenches, France 1914, World War I,  and made there for the purpose of righting a wrong: meant as a mythology for his own country, a true British mythology, rather than the emigrated French stories of King Arthur.  He never meant these stories to be The Lord of the Rings.  He meant only to fulfill his own emptiness.  And to get through some bad nights. 
-- So then. Shakespeare. Tolkien considered Shakespeare running off to London, writing plays, putting asses in seats, a waste of such talent.  Tolkien wished William Shakespeare to have stayed in the shire of Stratford.  Had Shakespeare even known what a novel was, (before likely coming across Don Quixote, already into his own career by then), and had he attempted just such a thing as staying in the country among the shirefolk,, writing, building, deepening a thousand page epic; had Shakespeare created one great universe, a Middle Earth peopled with Hamlets, Falstaffs, Rosalinds, Iagos, and Macbeths; had A Midsummer Nights Dream existed in the same world as Macbeth the way the Shire exists alongside Mordor, what kind of literature would we have now?  Tolkien took it upon himself to do what he felt Shakespeare should have.  But, alas, Tolkien was not Shakespeare.  Still, Lord of the Rings: not bad.

(originally posted july 2011)

PICS: River Swim

WORK: Lines With No Home

1. the double-wide trailer of my heart
2. an emulsifier of spirit
3. free spirited chicks trading with them some proper man

LIST: Dog Day Pod Set

Been awhile.  Trying to finish some writing.  Here's the playlist to finish it:
Tossin and Turnin -- Bobby Lewis
Wildwood Flower -- The Carter Family
Doin the Best I Can -- Elvis
Why Baby Why -- George Jones
Cocaine Blues -- Johnny Cash
Partyman -- Prince
Release Me -- Ray Price
Be My Baby -- The Ronettes
Carmelita -- Warren Zevon
When the Levee Breaks -- Led Zepelin
Keep a Knockin -- Little Richard
Sympathy for the Devil -- Stones

ON: The Book I Wrote 2.0 Wrasslin Book

(A version of this was posted in May of 2011)

ROAD JOURNAL: Dick Cheney Trolls You

DICK
I forget now which year was the sweet springtime from Arabia to Biafra, but it was one of these last few that has slipped by.  All because of Twitter.
2.  Anyway, I was thinking: were I Dick Cheney, were I sitting around in 2003 figuring out how to maintain my power over the world even up to and despite my ousting via election in my home country, it would be a two-fold strategy:
a -- ARAB SPRINGS via TWITTER.  That's right, as any old pro wrestling booker will tell you, the people want to believe; for instance they would love to believe change comes from uprisings by the people, not by the incremental downdrafts of the powerful.  And, were I a Dick Cheney, (or fill in any dictatorial right-winger you like), I'd want the people to think that a decade of chaos caused by the military and intelligence agencies was actually due to a year or so of Twitter... because then, well, people get wit that.  But only if if we enact B.
b -- Give them there guy.  That's right, feed them, (in pro wrestling parlance), a babyface, a good guy -- because as I, (as Dick Cheney), knows, when this babyface gets into office, when this babyface gets the intelligence reports we gave the last hero, well, he'll do exactly what we need him to do, and, as Americans are stubborn folk, if they stand in a field for the guy, they'll excuse the guy for any decision he makes.. but this really only works so long as we mark these people out on the fact that their Twitter and their Facebook makes a difference..  These poor bastards will be so busy posting placards that make them feel good about their beliefs, that, before they know it, we'll have revolutions wherever we need them, and they'll be congratulating themselves for them, as if they had something to do with it besides for remarking on it.  Sweet victory.  And if they question for a minute, we'll throw them some cultural bone, something we all knew has been coming for twenty five years anyway, because when it comes to the people, nothing softens up their revolutionary belly like allowing them to clap each other on the back for evolution.
3. Okay, I was just trolling you up there.  The truth is, Facebook is a tool to keep you from revolution.  That itch you used to feel of changing things, well, hey, there's always a new placard to share from your favorite website.  Look, I'm not like you, I quite unashamedly love my world of Playstations, and NFL football, and so long as Apple will always allow me access to Blue Christmas by E Presley, I'm fat and happy.. but you, YOU! -- you, the would-be revolutionary -- what the fuck are you doing watching Jon Stewart?

ON: The Last of Us

The Golden Age

PICS: Two Years Ago -- 81 South

PICS: Lolly's Lost Limtuck Weekend

ribeye

and veg

MLH: 1 Dead Cow Bounce At Little Indian 10

Perhaps this is the draft to an opening chapter.  Perhaps you've read about RR Beth's car crash before.

BOOKS: Hamlet is The Son of Anarchy and Lion King

I watched the pilot episode of Sons of Anarchy from 2008; I don't know where the show goes beyond this episode, but one can guess.  As a pilot, a mission statement of what a show will be if it survives beyond it, this show intended to be Motorbike Hamlet.  I watched it to see just how Hamlet it is.  And it is.
+ Libraries are filled with writings about Hamlet; of language, parallel storylines, and the deeper meanings -- it is a holy text, (one would think the Writer carved it on stones at the top of a mountain).  So much of the text over all these years has masked the plot that SOA copies: a dude's dead dad started a motorcycle gang; presently the gang is at a moment of truth where it will either rise or fall down the food chain of tough guys, as the gang's new leader, (who had been second in command when the kid's dad was alive), knows well.
What I would guess comes next on this show is further muddied waters for this young protagonist as questions of his father's death arise, and he becomes suspicious that the new leader of the gang had something to do with it, (and, by the way, the new gang leader is dating the kid's mother); in stark relief the kid begins to see the leader no longer as a caring uncle reminding the kid he'll be king one day, but as a jealous second banana covetous of the juice, the crown, and the wife.

PICS: Buffalo, Limtucky, Self-Portrait

FLASH: Drunken Poet of the Riverlands

This is Aram Steeds, who claims to be the Poet Laureate of Limtucky.  Below is an interview I conducted with him at his tent home behind the sandpit.

HOTEL REVIEW: Cheektowaga Comfort Inn

This hotel is full of middle aged couples here to see Niagara Falls.  Caged chimps on the television behind me, ganging up, screeching little humans they seem.  I might have had too much water today, bottle after bottle of generic aqua vitae.  The water of life, yes; Niagara was the waters for which at least two generations of easterners chose as the starting point of their lives.  Honeymoon central now seems to be a take-two destination for mid-life crisis second, (or third), attempts at love, by the looks of the crowd.  Not so many nineteen-year old virgin brides here to bungalow for a day or two and watch the awesomeness of nature in those falls even as they make their first honeymoon entry into that other frightfully awesome natural game within the game of life, that being first sex with the new hubbs, and, (if lucky), rushing together within the act, losing all identity, and figuring out just what IT is all about.

Too much bottled water, and so it is an accidental and unfortunate detox, the waters rushing through me, diligently sloshing me.
Another lost day to come while people bigger than me decide whether to pay for work.  Another day of niagara bettys and berts, of going to the best supermarket in the world, Wegmans, for zuccini and eggs and kraut; another night of plugging in to laptop, and audiobook, and digital book, and blog, and screenplay program, and drawing tablet; and maybe one of these days some engineer will explain to the money how his computer program couldn't explain to him the obvious signs of the water table, and how ultimately to dig down seven feet now costs double; maybe after the mobilization of heavy equipment, rebar, and labor, maybe we can get a day of work done out here.  But I doubt it.  It's never that easy.  Not with water.

Is life a circle?  I hope it is a river.  But I fear it is a plastic bottle of wa.

AUDIT: Last May Pics

CHAZZ: Rumford Is For Lovers

+ Rumford, Maine was settled in 1782 by a gaggle of dopes out of Shrewsbury, Mass who ran up north as conscientious objectors of the Revolutionary War.  While Rumford has moved on from the fact that these cowardly coats loved their king, there are other bad Shrewsbury habits that have been passed on even up to today's generation of Rumfordians -- for instance: Rumford is the birthplace of the horrific Maine accent, an accent I can only describe as, "Mark Wahlberg ate a jar of paste".

FOOD: Value Meal

23 cents worth of lentils

STORY: I Live On A Spaceship

*** *** *** *** *** *** *** *** ***

Lines of pale people snaking around the concourse.  Beyond the rampart they amble in the bulky suits they have purchased.  Fog, fog, fog.

You are watching Episode 8: 

"The Day They Put Us On The Spaceship"

JOURNAL: Fuck Star Wars

In conversation a week ago this kid bemoaned the fact that Disney is planning about seventeen new Star Wars movies.  This kid was upset that Disney appears to be maximizing the possible profit on their massive investment, because, as this kid believed, this would result in watered down product.
I said something like, "Who cares?  Star Wars isn't good."
"Phantom Menace, exactly."
"Not Phantom Menace.  Star Wars.  It's not good.  It never has been good.  And it has always been about selling merch."
"But Star Wars is the most influential film of our lifetimes."
"That's like when a Bin Laden is named Person of the Year.  It's not celebratory, it's proof of our demise.  Star Wars made three generations think vapid robot movies are deep mythology; it's like when some kid starts watching porn at age 13, and blows out his still developing brain to where he is incapable of appreciating true beauty or eroticism: he can't get hot over a little stocking because his brain only registers fake boobs and bumholes."
+ And that is what Star Wars is: fake boobs and bumholes.
+ It feels like a culture where others' juvenilia have been made monolithic: where Justin Timberlake is a genius, and Drive is a great movie; where Walking Dead warrants Shroud of Turin levels of anthropologic study.  I wonder if this all started with Star Wars having been hoisted on us as a great movie.  As if Star Wars had depth.  
+ Star Wars Nerd quote: Chicken nuggets drowned in barbecue sauce is the greatest food of the century.  
+ Stop mythologizing porn, and read some poetry.

PICS: Solar

CHAZZ: Hiram Is A Den of Iniquity

So gone to seed are the lascivious residents of Hiram that Father Rusty Steeds has proclaimed their souls lost to Satan -- from the Castine Columbian Gazette 1808

RAT: Vote Muskrat in 2013!!!

Al Muskrat Jr. has thrown his mullet in the ring as a candidate for mayor in East Dinksborough.  Below are the leaked bullet points from his campaign pamphlet.

SMILOS: No Be Friends With Hipsters

This is Chazz's great-uncle Smilos who came over here from the island of Mypos in the 50's.  Having recently retired from driving the bus down to Foxwoods, he's a new addition to our pantheon of bloggers.  Today he uses his life's experience to warn against befriending hipsters.

FLASH: Diesel Can Love

Town full of monsters.  Murder eyes, chewin on a hot dog.
I tried to save a girl.  I did all.  She gave it back.  
At the Valero her man takes a poke at me, I pour a diesel can on his head; more a symbolic gesture lighting the matches.
I had a way out for her, with or without me she could go.  Pick whatever she wanted off the floor of that trailer to take with her.  I had a new town, an apartment, and a job for her way up where she could eat her cheese and crackers by the ocean.  She stayed put.  She never spoke to me again.  Her man showed my love letters to everyone at the Valero.  This hurts the worst as diesel at the Citgo is eight cents high.  Always.  

FRAG: Open to Horror Movie 11-281

The rolling pine hills of northern Maine.  Aroostook.  Trees and trees and trees and a lake.  A little village around the lake, and then some trees, and one high mountain lording over it.  THE MOUNTAIN: is that a stone tower?  CLOSER.  Yes, like something out of Skyrim, or Castle Crag; but more intriguing: built around this ancient stone tower is an ultra-modern mansion, all glass and steel..
CUT TO: Standing on one of the high porches of this construct is a doofus white character with thick prescription glasses.  He's drinking a can of beer, and puffing a joint.
The sun is setting just for him.  But he isn't all that happy about it.  All goes dark and shadowy around him.
+ As the sun sets we descend to the village and the lake.  Villagers, who look like lumberjacks, get panicky.  It's the opening to The Wizard of Oz.  But no tornado.  You've never seen weather so peaceful.  Christ, it's nearly summer, and these hicks are running for their lives.
+ As things get dark, one little boy peeks through the window of his house..
+ The mountain is a silhouette.  The castle atop it is lit up for a holiday.  Then.. THEN.. the shadows come running down the mountain when she comes.
Shadows like dogs, or as Shakey said, Let slip the dogs of war! --
+ Shadow dogs howling, baying, in the lack of moonlight... Like smudges of black out of a Rembrandt they ski down the brown of the mountain, these Fenris-shapes.

PICS: Out Of Connecticut

FLASH: Freaks and Leeks

He's sore at you.  Tilma says.
She sniffs the beets.
I said what I said.
Oh, you're honest.  She says.
Put the beets in a bag.  He says.
What did you say to him?
I said he deserves to be alone.
God.  Come on.  Be honest when you have something to gain.  Lie when there's something to gain.  When there's shit to lose, keep your mouth shut.  Who doesn't know this?
She scratches the skin of a leek with the nail of her pinky.
Can't you help yourself?  Are you a child?  Tilma asks. 
He puts space between them.  He turns and counts shallots. She fake laughs, too loud.
Her name is Tilma.  She loves vegetables, and making a scene.
The discomfort you feel with my volume, that's some straight-up narcissism.  He hears Tilma say.

CHAZZ: Shapleigh's Tribunal of Nanas

Last month Cousin Chazz posted his first dispatch from his travels across the state of Maine while hiding out from various authorities.  It was called KEZAR FALLS IS MAGIC, and can be read HERE.

He's back this month with a story on the unique traditions of marriage and governance still followed in Shapleigh.  

PICS: Foundation Work

JOURNAL: Gay Sam @ Taco Bell -- A Great American Novel

What a dinge town.
there.  that's the opening line of the book I've decided to write just now.
I don't mean now-now, but that this is the moment I decided I would.

PICS: Rott Race

MLH: Two Old RR Beth Soliloquys

2
my fantasy is the invention of a fool,
Yet, is has power, and today it came again as a fit,
and I climbed from the revery with lost time.
It was a naughty daydream months ago --
it combated anxious thoughts;
it was my entertainment,
scheduled like a boy's favorite program.
I ignored that, with repeated viewings,
the vision rended, and re-rendered,
to this iteration capable of scheduling its own showings.
Thus the fits.
But roll that film through the projector!
Where once it was a crude wish, now it is
a curse, a riddle, and a revenging ghost
appearing unannounced to work me with a proposition.
I refer to the student.  William.  The hand-raiser.
The fawner with snake-scales for a face,
the yeti with a tin-can voice.
He interrupted me with her name.
The name powered the fantasy, and let fly.
And I heard him tell me my secret.
1
Did I mention the rain?
Steam on pulleys up from the alley
crowd us as we pull focus to that open window.
Spite the rain.  She courts our looking in.
Folded into the womb of her desk
her face painted with grey fire,
and she is transformed.
Hunched before the screen,
she plays the Christmas darling knelt to the fireplace,
counting the licks and strums of flame.
Look her closer: she's lank, she's paunchy;
she's a polyp on the desk.
with filthy hair.  with yellow fingers.
And her kaleidoscope shimmering age, from childish
to something what's been out in the weather,
signs to her wasting away.
Sick.  sick.  Sick as the screen,
a cursor blinking in and out;
she makes and breaks a thousand pacts a night with that keyboard.
Now rewind.
Out the window, up,
above her building, in an angelic holding pattern.
Subtitle:
the girl in the room.
the writer in the room.
the thief in the room.
Her first book was an optioned commodity.
A paperback with stickers.
Now her wasting is the fight with book 2.
And her screen shows something afar: her former quality.
Swoop, you, swoop again, and peep, Tom, on her ruin.
She suffers a challenge, but also
a secret.  One she has avoided until now.
She's a thief.

JOURNAL: Elvis Or Rapper; Buxton Wizard; Pixar Sucks; Pig Prose?

"Puppy Yojimbo 2" -- Below a bundle of bits copied from the journal that's traveling around connecticut in my truck.

PICS: February-Hartford

CHAZZ: Kezar Falls Is Magic

thought I was done with my Cousin 
Chazz, (what with his going into hiding), unfortunately he has as many readers as I do.  It being what it is, Chazz has proposed, (as he is still in hiding), to write a travelogue of the many towns and hamlets he visits, (always long after he has moved on to the next location).  As had been rumored, he spent much of last year in the hills of Kezar Falls; I asked Chazz why anyone would want to read his notes on the culture, flora, and fauna, of these small Maine towns; his answer was this, "Have you ever been standing in line at the Valero with your beer, cigarettes, and your scratchers, and overheard the dolt in front of you refer to a certain town as Limtucky?"
My answer was, "Never."
"Exactly.", Chazz said, "I'm like a cross between Italo Calvino and Emilio Estevez: I'll make'ya famous!"
On to the Chazz + Kezar Falls journal..

MUSKRAT COMICS: Thumbs

To peruse some failed thumbnails, CLICK HERE, or go over to muskratcomics.blogspot.com

PICS: January

BOOKS: Hamlet Is A Prick and Rock God 2