THE APPEARANCE OF THE UPSIDE DOWN SCOWLING SATAN

Just when you think you got it covered and everything's going paisley, there it is- another bad neighbor. You've all heard the story of my Mafia neighbors erecting a chainlink fence six inches from my house. I won't even bother updating that. Suffice to say status quo. No, this is a new one, out at the White Sulfer Springs Project. This one's been a puzzler, very passive aggressive. At first I thought it was about me out bidding the guy, but now I don't think so. Recently the neighbor removed a shitty old trailer and allowed me to mow the grass. I saw this as real progress. Then I asked the wife if I could paint the garage that sits directly in front of WSSP's porch. She said some girls were going to paint it. There were already ugly squiggles from last year. Could be the same girls. I waited.
This morning I drove out and there he was. Take a pentagram (5 pointed star) turn it upside down and draw a scowly frowning face in the middle in red, white and brown. And paint it 8 foot tall! That's what the "girls" left me. I'm freaking out. What the fuck? So , I try to calm down and get to work, but every time I look out the window there he is. I CAN'T TAKE IT! I know where my neighbor's father works, and I get along with the old timer, so I lay it on the line. I ask him what his son has against me? As events are still unfolding I can't really talk about it. It involves hillbilly love triangles and the internet. I also want to apologize for the lack of photos of pretty girls in various states of undress recently, but you understand I got my hands full. Thanks to all the photogs and girls

I've decided to end this blog and start a new one called MOHUNTINGWITHSUPERMODELS.BLOGSPOT.COM.

Thanks for checking in.

MO
om

BRONK AND CANDY'S TANGERINGE TIME MACHINE

Yesterday, while standing in Kutsher's tacky ballroom, listening to technocrap, Care-a and I got to talking about She-who and her flamboyant past as a teenage lounge singer in Japan. "I have a movie she's in." I bragged. "She gave it to me for my birthday." I had yet to watch it. Then today, after moving woodpiles around I came in the house and popped the VHS in the machine. You can google it. It's called BRONK AND CANDY'S TANGERINE TIME MACHINE. It's from 1982. I was a bit shocked by the title but Shewho assured me it wasn't porn. "Is there titties?" I asked. She rolled her eyes and nodded. I'm there.
Now I've known Shewho since the 1988 and one of the best things about her is I haven't even scratched the surface. There are many layers to this little onion. So, I dusted off the remote and settled in. "Is that her?" I asked the chair. Naw. Then during the opening titles there she was, in a Farrah Fawcet do and a slinky white number. Damn! Candy was smoking! In fact in a movie totally revolving around T&A, and teenage sluts, Candy was the fast girl. Could I be objective about this? I don't know. I answered myself, as I fast forwarded to catch Candy again.
It really was a time machine. Here was Shewho in all her glory, 5 or so years before I met her. It was like a home movie...only better. There was a plot (sort of) and a Candy solo dance # in cowboy hat and daisy dukes! Christ, I was sweating. Bronk was Candy's love interest- a letter sweat wearing, knuckle head jock, but he couldn't hold her. Candy was way too much babe for him. Shewho made me promise not to show this tape to anyone. I wish to God I could. But she didn't say I couldn't review it. So here goes.

BRONK AND CANDY'S TANGERINE TIME MACHINE is a dark romp through Southern California teenage horndom circa early 80's. Complete with angry bulldyke locker room shavedown scene (that may just scar me for life), and obligatory arobocize session with lots of leg warmers and headbands, this movie will go down as one of the all time classic genre pictographs, bypassing such aping lesser fare as Porky's and Going All The Way. Dan Waldman is superb, as is Eileen Davidson as the brooding, erect nipple P.J. But none come close to capturing the essense of inner angst and budding sluttiness as ______________ in her role as Candy. Sylvia Summers move aside. A bright new talent has arrived. Bravo!

JUST ANOTHER DAY IN PARADISE

I got up about 7 AM, made coffee, checked my email and....what's that out in the field? My eyes take a while to work in the morning. I pulled up the blinds and rubbed my peepers. Yup. I was right. There stood two new additions to my neighbor's farm. Lets call them Joe and Mohammed- gangly camels. I hope you can put antifreeze in those critters. Winter's coming.
I had to meet the honey dipper (septic man for you city slickers) out at WSS to see if he could engineer a system. He showed up in a shiny pickup with a pretty wife in the front seat and two coon hound pups in the back. As the hounds bellowed he laid out a plan for a system "that would look like it's been there forever." Golden.
I spent a few hours pulling nails, then got in my truck and drove to Montgomery to see if I could score a bedliner. No luck. As I was driving back up the mountain I tuned in WFMU. They were broadcasting live from Kutsher's. The old Borst Belt hotel was hosting the Brit hipster's equivalent to Woodstock- ALL TOMORROW'S PARTYS. The noise was unbearable. When I got home there were two messages on my machine from Slick. He was at ATP and suggested I get my ass over there. The tickets were $225 for the three day fest. "Security is lax. Care-a and I will sneak you in." Slick informed me. I switched vehicles and headed for Kutsher's.
In 1969 I smoked pot at Woodstock. In 1991 I dropped acid in the Butthole Surfer's trailer at Lollapaloosa. And now in 2008 I stood drinking warm Bud out of a plastic bottle, listening to Kraut-Rock Geezers HARMONIA at ATP. All around me stood a transplanted Willliamsburg, entralled to be witnessing their heroes. I had just watched FUCK BUTTON and my ears were still bleeding. Slick left to get closer to the stage and Care-a and I just stood there. No one was even bobbing their heads. It was like being at a Treky comic book convention. These people were what I would call "afficianados". No free dancing or girls taking there tops off at this festival. This was serious business. I lasted about half the set and left.
Maybe I've finally gotten too old for this foolishness. But I doubt it. I think the Brooklyn, over the shoulder slingbag, flannel shirt, bad haircut crowd is just no fucking fun. My Bloody Valetine and Thurston Moore? Who gives a flying fuck? Plus how can they compete with just staying home and watching the camels cavort in the field? Let me know when they put the sex and drugs back into rock and roll. And please beef up the security. I need a challenge.

MO-134

Last night I made out my will. Correction- about a week ago I called Miotherlawyer and asked if he could make me out a will? "Sure." he said. Then he asked who I wanted as executor? I told him and we made an appt. to meet last night.
Miotherlawyer had moved since I went to him last. "You know where the Taco Bell is out by Playtogs?" he asked. I knew exactly where that was. I had shot a Disposable TV episode in that building. I had tried to get into the Middletown Beauty School. I got rejected. It made for good disposable TV. So I went up to the third floor and walked in his door. His name was in crayon on a piece of paper taped to the glass door. The gold leaf was pending. Miotherlawyer's secretary had my will waiting. The office was a clusterfuck of piled papers and the most gawdawful motel art on the walls. As I read the will the secretary talked to her sister on the phone. Miotherlawyer just stood there and eventually whispered that "We have to wait for her." She showed no signs of getting off the line. I finally had to go in the other room and read a Time magazine. When she got off the line, we went in a third room with a big tacky table and Miotherlawyer read me the will. There was no questions about being of sound mind or body. I guess that's only in the movies. I signed. He signed. She witnessed. One hundred and fitty bucks. Done and done. This is why I go to Miotherlawyer for such codicil duty. Can you imagine what Mi "knife throwing, martini swilling, high priced southern" lawyer would charge?
Once done I got in my pristine 1984 stepside F-150 Ford pickup, with vanity plates and drove back up the mountain. I swore I would never make out a will, never go to Disneyland and never get vanity plates. Now look at me. OH! And I saw two nice bucks behind Ray Gilkey's barn this morning. Can the Magic Kingdom be far behind?

P.S.
Indicative of the meltdown of certain feduciary instruments like toxic mortgages and those policys that insure their worth, I am responding to a trend by the public to seek refuge in concrete comodities like gold or art. Due to this shift, I have raised my price for a 54"x90" collage to $20,00. Don't you wish you bought one over the summer?

NATIONALIZE ME

When my old man came home from the Korean War, 14 months after my birth, he hung up his apron in my grandfather's butcher shop, donned the early 50's business man suit and became a stock broker. So when all the financial shit hit the fan today I naturally called him to get the two cents. "Why is it....?" I queried, "that the government is so ready to Nationalize Fanny and Freddy and Lehman and Merrill and Lynch and Stearns and Behr and be so afraid of turning pink with healthcare?" He was ready with the standard theory of pharmaceutical/insurance/doctor cabal and fat cat lobbyists. As far as the 500 point drop, fear of bank runs, and overall meltdown was concerned, I could hear him shrug over the phone. Enough wine, food and cable and he and my mom were happy campers.
What the old man really wanted to talk about was his weekend trip to visit brother Duke in Maine. The man has one good eye and one good arm, won't let my mother drive, and drives six hours in traffic jams and rain storms to visit the Maine kin. Duke suggested a restaurant, and then lost him on the road to the place. By the time the old man figured out that he really WAS following Duke the whole time (something about roof racks), he was tight. Then the bad food took forever, and the waitress was worthless, ect. Since I was a kid I remember my father can be a miserable SOB when he gets flustered. Put bad service on that and look out. Duke remembers the time he brought the whole 5 kid young family into a restaurant,unpacked us and when things went bad,he just gathered us all up and we left without eating. It was traumatic for little Duke to be pulled crying and screaming from that restaurant. He was a fragile little feller.
What the old man didn't know was that Duke had called me by cell from the table relaying the all too familiar scene. Mom ever cheerful, Esak making a Chinese boat out of his white roll and mayo "Rubin", and the old man miserably brooding across the table. Duke was giggling uncomfortably over the scratchy connection. "We make light of everything." he said "He-he." and then changed the subject. I knew exactly what was going on at that table. But this time the poor old timer would have to brood alone. Everyone else was having a fine time. I told him this, as he was trying to concentrate on the market ticker on the end of the line. He just dismissed me and passed the phone. Then my mother got on and filled me in on how much of a sour puss he was. She said she didn't have to kick him under the table, but it was close. They're both so damned cute.
By this time I had forgotten that I had called for the financial advice. They went on about my sister and brother and the grandkids and my mother assured me that as long as she could pay bills, eat and drink, she really didn't care about my inheritance. I was good with that. And to be honest I could tell that the old man was finally coming around to that way of thinking also. One more Black Monday? Big deal. My mom doesn't each much. They could let a few bills go late and put a pin in the thermostat, like gramp used to do. As long as there's enough wine.

UR SO STUPID

Everyone else may be watching CNN,waiting for that swirly red mass of Ike to make landfall in Texas, but I'm still reeling from an NPR piece on York, PA on race and politics. It just so happens I was in York a couple of weeks ago, moving neice Katie D. and hubby John from their suburban 4 bedrm, to a storage locker in Syracuse. Ringed by interstate, York is a former small town PA., Civil war battle field, turned urban sprawl nightmare, that for some reason was picked by NPR to encompass a nebulous demographic of "Amerika". Why not?
So I listened with expanded interest as the microphone went around the room regarding Obama and McCain. White and Black, the York folks made their points regarding what they thought about the candidates and how they would vote. To nobody's surprise the voting fell along racial lines. Then some white woman made a very honest admission. She said she felt that Obama had, early on, become a Muslim. And no matter what he said now- "...once a Muslim, always a Muslim." This woman was genuinely afraid that Obama, being a Muslim, would, if elected President, sell us all out to his more radical breathren. There was no way she would vote for this Muslim. Jihad mutherfucker.
The NPR host was taken aback, but did nothing to dispell this view point, other than reiterate that Obama had assured the public over and over that he was a Christian. Well, what would be so bad if he was a Muslim? Wasn't JFK Catholic? The fact that NPR never even brought this point up leads one to believe that to be a Muslim in American politics is something akin to a Jew running for Furer. I'm so happy my neice is now living in a Storage container in Syracuse. Leave York to the ignorant. I heart NY.

9/11- 7th REMEMBRANCE

The day started on the 10th. It was hot and muggy in the mountains and even worse in the city. I'd been working sporadically for Strasser and Assoc. on a job in the East 70's. But on that Monday I didn't work. Instead I got a haircut, shaved and drove to the Lower East Side to meet a woman I hadn't seen since June. We had recently gotten back in touch over the phone and had decided to do a face to face. To no one's surprise, let me just say, it was complicated.
Just as I crested Wurtsboro mountain I saw papers fluttering across the highway and knew something was wrong. Then I saw a flipped over car, the tires still spinning. In the middle of the road lay a man, face down on the pavement. I pulled over and ran to the man. Recently I had become a hunting guide and had first aid training. I put my fingers to his neck and swore I felt a pulse. A Hassidic man in an orange vest, who by now was standing over my shoulder, shook his head grimly. "That's your own heartbeat you feel." he said, and took over. I got back in my car and continued my drive to Manhattan, like nothing had happened.
The storms hit Ave. C as the woman and I walked and talked, ducking in doorways to escape the deluge. I could see the lightning flashes reflected in her eyes. I said my piece and she said hers. It seemed like we were resolving things, but we both knew better. We were just rippping off bandages and digging at partially healed wounds. As the thunderstorms rolled across lower Manhattan, bringing in a starry night sky, I got back in the Neon and headed north. I was supposed to work back in the city, in the morning, but when I arrived home at 4am I knew that wasn't going to happen. The phone woke me just before 9AM. It was my old man calling from Wolf Lake. He was watching the news. The second plane hit as we were on the phone.
Since I didn't have a TV at the time, I spent the rest of that day at Wolf Lake watching TV. Outside the sky was blue and the birds were chirping. I was only 80 miles away. It could've been a milllion. In the 7 years since that day I, for a time, moved back to Brooklyn, went to Cuba, bought a new Neon, went broke, sold some property, moved out of Brooklyn, bought some more property, quit Strasser, drove to Mexico, got a TV, tried every anti-drepressant on the market and after nothing worked, I finally cured myself. I saw that woman one more time, two weeks after 9/11. I had Ground Zero dust on my boots, after a walk down to pay my respects. She was high on heroin. That was the last time I saw her. She died of a heart attack on her bathroom floor less that a year ago. She was 39.

My life now is so much better than it was then. Shewho and I are very happy together. I'm no longer depressed. The relationship I have with her spans over 20 years and I can say with all honesty that the love we feel for each other is strong and mutual. Yeah, it's also complicated. But what else is new? Comparitively speaking I wasn't really effected by the terrorist attack on 9/11/2001. (It fucked up my TV reception in Brooklyn). But when this date rolls around every year I can't help but remember.

MORGANE D.

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HOLY WATER

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CLUB SANDWICH

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DEMOCRACY THEN

Yesterday morning's DEMOCRACY NOW radio and cable TV program featured accounts by host Amy Goodman and two of her producers of their arrest and rough treatment at the hands of the St. Paul's protectors of the peace. While trying to film a demonstration, the DN crew was swept up along with all the protesters, handcuffed, bloodied and locked up. They were all clearly indentified as press, tried to comply with police to vacate, but could not because of the sweeping tactic of the law. Once in custody it was obvious there would be no special treatment for press. Welcome to America 21st century style.
I don't know exactly when the police state started in this country but I think it blossomed in the Reagan years. All that JUST SAY NO party line had to be backed up with consequences- JUST IN CASE. Then came COPS- the TV show, crack, Gulliani Time, and you get the picture. Cultural militarization started in '91 with DESERT STORM. And now in the post 9/11 world with Patriot Act and Homeland Security added to the lexicon the boys and girls in blue are more powerful than ever. To disobey them is, well, unpatriotic.
So, last night I specifically watched the evening news in order to see some coverage of RNC protests and Amy and Co.'s arrests. CBS- That Oprah wannabe Katie Couric smiling and introducing one puff piece after another. What the hell is she doing under that desk? NBC- George Clooney clone Brian Williams chatting up scarecrow Andrea Mitchell inside the convention. Outside the hall? Protests? Nothing happening here. ABC- Another "wrinkly old white dude" introducing that sacarine bag-o-bones Garrison Keilor, weezing about "Apple cheeked Lutherans of the Twin Cities". WHATTHEFUCK IS GOING ON? Not only are protests not being covered, but the few reporters that are covering them are being silenced....and their silencing is not being covered. Free Speech Radio News did a small item on Amy's arrest on NPR yesterday, but that was it. The rest of NPR has become as flacid as the networks. Where's Larry Flynt when we need him?

JOHN AND KATE PLUS 1

Not to steal any of Bristol Palin's thunder in announcing her pregnancy at 17, but I also have an announcement. Neice #1 Katie D. is expecting her first. Not as precocious as those Alaskan girls, KD has done it the more traditional way. She dated, went to college, got married, bought a house, got a good job, sold the house, and along the way got preggers. As everyone will recall I was bamboozeled into giving a very nice collage to "Little Booger". Unbenounced to me, the fix was in. Bird already knew LB was one the way. Just to be fair to KD's sister Betheroo- I will also do one for Little Booger #2. P.S.- No hurry there.

Now that that's out of the way, lets go back to Bristol Palin's pregnancy. Within hours of McCain's announcement of Alaska Gov. Sarah Palin as his running mate, the internet began to heat up with a rumor that the Gov.'s last child, a Down's Syndrome boy, was actually her daughter's baby. In order to dispell these rumor's the McCain people confirmed that anti-abortion torch bearer Sarah Palin's 17 year old, unmarried daughter, was in fact pregnant. A caveat followed, stating that the girl was soon to marry the baby's father and have the child. Guess that makes it OK?
Don't get me wrong. I'm not against babies out of wedlock. In fact I got some in my own family and they don't seem any worse for the wear. But none were birthed by teens. What I'm not thrilled about is the possibility of a vice president who cares nothing for sex education programs, the distribution of condoms in Africa and elsewhere, and has a daughter giving birth 4 years before she can legally have a beer. Baby Mommas everywhere may be rejoicing, but call me conservative, I don't see it as a great role model.
I know winters are long, dark and cold in Alaska and Bristol's intended most likely has a nice pick up truck and hunts and fishes. I'm sure he's the kinda boy any mother would be proud to have as a son-in-law (BEFORE SHE SENDS HIM TO IRAQ). But, fer Christ's sake, how irresponsible is it for him not to wear a raincoat? Does marrying the kid make it right? Don't the Republican's worry about teen pregnancy? In a way I embrace any missteps that "wrinkly old white dude" McCain makes in his bid for the presidency. And this seems to be a doozy. But what about the family? I feel sorry for these kids and their own "Little Booger" being thrust into the International spotlight. Once again. I blame the parents. I hope those Obama girls are being taught to cross their legs.