finnegan's wake

on Sunday, the family of the house of usher celebrated a life.

showed some movies the bastard had never seen.

translated these events to the wife as she doesn't know the massive as much as some do.

took the piss as well.

nemo was a storied guy.

and the best way to celebrate a life is to tell the stories.

especially the ones never told.

the babby got to play with her family.

which she doesn't do as often as the bastard likes.

and I came to conclusions.

ASIDE: the chairman and the prince of darkness adjourn to the inner sanctum to chat. what about? none of my business. I just took care to keep the babby out of their space. grown ups need they time.

the bastard takes his at night. he takes it with the voices.

they do this as the prince has always taken an interest in the welfare of the chairman. I've always been glad for this.

you see. it's because the bastard didn't have mentors growing up. he had adults telling him shit.

not listening to shit.

not shepherding him through his career. I woulda been a damn insurance salesman if not for sheer force of will and a damn good skill set.

nah.

the bastard instead has contemporaries or perhaps professional betters. benevolent souls who have offered the benefit of their knowledge and experience and during the hard times, a drink, a kind word, and for some, a carry over the worst.

and for that I'm grateful.

this is what I learned at finnegan's wake.

—the bastard

the pipes...the pipes are calling

"Lo there do I see my father. Lo there do I see my mother and my sisters and my brothers. Lo there do I see the line of my people, back to the beginning. Lo, they do call to me, they bid me take my place among them, in the Halls of Valhalla, where the brave may live...forever."

nemo was a painter.

nemo drank diet cherry pepsi because he was diabetic.

my mom says i look like him.

nemo was the second born.

so am i.

nemo is the first of the magnificent seven to leave the fold.

he left this morning, in a hospice in cape coral.

my dad tells me he didn't go there quietly and i'm glad in a way. 

i'd prefer to run before i go down if i can.

most of all though, his name was danny and he was my uncle.

rest well.

—the bastard

down with the ship

so the bastard has this uncle...

and he's not doing so well.

well, he's dying really.

and now the mind reels

when captain nemo used to live in shirley which may as well been in florida anyways,

sitting on his barstools as a kid.

him sneaking us point fives which wasn't my first taste of beer but it was more sanctioned than sneaking a sip of dad's bottle of schmidts on a friday night.

nemo sneaking the mofo onto grandpa's boat knowing full well that the dinghy was overloaded past capacity.

nemo spinning tales of sticking his fingers in the mash to piss off my aunt.

nemo sharing the attic with dad because they were 7 under one roof.

the magnificent seven as mom refers to them.

here's a tale. 

dad and nemo are sleeping in the attic on the hottest night of the year and all they have is a fan.


the fan blows between their beds to keep both slightly less than sweltering. and doing it badly.


dad falls asleep.


wakes up in the middle of the night in a pool of sweat  to find the fan had been turned away from him.


begrudged, dad decides to sleep out on the porch instead.

upon the retelling of this tale, nemo lets out a throaty laugh that sounded like an old prospector.

but louder.

so loud.

so infectious.

captain nemo laughs like a man who loves living and now that he's dying the bastard can't help thinking that he'd give anything to be able to dish more dirt.

tell more stories.

make us all laugh about how well he fucked with his siblings.

and how much...

despite it all...

they'd love love to hear him tell it right now and laugh about it along with him.

—the bastard

…on definition of terms part 2

waiting by elevator,

I hear the familiar clack kachunk the bastard hears when he's getting company for the ride downstairs.

my neighbor who curiously looks and sounds like delroy lindau greets me.

all ten feet of him in a parka.

"how you been", I ask

"alright," he responds. "you been out in this hawk?"

"yes indeed I have sir. the hawk is out today".

I thought the phrase , " the hawk is out" was only to be used by my uncle nemo or perhaps run dmc but delroy and I rock that phrase

cause it pays.

too bad it's going up to fiddy this week, I enjoy the cold. at least until I get sick of it.

—the bastard

smoke

"Those who say the past is not dead can stop and smell the smoke."—Ben Folds


So I made it, my life packed into a '95 Celica, I escaped from the clutches of purgatory in the nick of time. Apparently I got out of there so fast I left tornadoes in my wake. So the ol' celica and me lit out of town early last Friday. The same Celica that was a point of contention the last two weeks of my existence there. After telling Nemo about my intentions to leave, the first thing that came out of his mouth was "what about the car?" I bought the car three years ago from Nemo's daughter and we decided that $1,500 was a fair asking price for the vehicle. After paying $500 to them and spending over $1,500 keeping the car on the road within 8 months of title change, Nemo's daughter—the co-title holder at this point—said to me that I shouldn't have to pay the other $1,000 for the car. Cool, right. Seeing as I put all that money into a car she didn't take care of (plus another $1,500 since, give or take) it was a nice gesture. Of course it turned out to be just another broken deal between the Nemo's and I.

smoke.

Packed to the gills, I was off to restart my life in the NYC. Some say I should have never left. I don't regret going down there. It needed to be done, if it wasn't Florida it would have been somewhere else. Southern California was a destination in mind, but the Texan (the ex now lives in Texas) put the kibosh on that. I learned a trade and enjoyed the weather and natural beauty of the gulf. It just that I didn't count on the junkie fucking shit up. I had to leave New York City to live next door to oxycontin shooters who break into their own cousin's and fellow employees home and steal said cousin's digital camera. Fucking Florida, man. The worst part is, the revealing of the junkies' habit came during my trip up to NY for my birthday. When I came back my cousin, the junkie and Nemo tried to cover the whole thing up like it didn't happen. Until two days later when the junkie broke in through my window and stole a digital camera and printer from my cousin's room.

It should be made clear that the junkie is Nemo's Daughter's cousin, there is no blood relation between the junkie and I thankfully. Explaining away a worthless fuck like this would be a source of embarassment to the fam worldwide. So, then, it turns out a week later Nemo tells me his daughter was also taking painkillers and that's one of many reasons why over the last year the company had lost and owed so much money to creditors and why the next six months of my life would suck. Working non-stop for the next three, having a grandmother die and then spend the next three resenting everyone you know and live with in Florida for the mistake, betrayals and just down-right business mismanagement that has made the last two years a personal fucking hell for me. As I look back on the 3 and a half years I spent there i see a pattern of selfishness, and denial that is the purgatory electric family. Good riddance to that psycologists nightmare.

As I explained to my cousin and roommate why I was leaving I stayed on the high road—it was the only way to go. I said to her that "it was unfortunate that things couldn't work out." What I really meant was fuck you. And i guess that's all there is to say about that.

smoke

It's funny how you become comfortable with certain things and then they become second nature. This econo lodge in Florence, SC was where I would stay when driving to and from Florida to New York for the holidays. It's almost exactly half way from door to door. Florence is your basic interstate city, it has two that go through it, 95 and 20 and has a US highway as well. Train tracks run right through the city and there is a train that will wake you every morning at 5:30 or so—no need for a wake-up call. It's main attraction is the Darlinton Motor Speedway, it hosts two NASCAR races. I've never been to the track, it's a couple miles up th eroad and my modus operandi in Florence is check in, eat, sleep, wake up, check out and drive. It occurred t me when I got on 95 north last saturday morning that I may never see Florence again, it's no big thing, I mean its Florence, but it was like closing a book. Now let's see if i can't sell the movie rights.

smoke

mofo

on rosetta stones

We all have them, what is literarily referenced as the rosetta stone. A missing link, or that one thing that everyone has strive for over ages and ages, the brass ring, we have all them—in different shapes and sizes, but you have one, you're thinking of it right now, and how it has escaped your reach for so long and broken your spirit time and time again. Here is a story of triumph.

A few years back when I worked the US Open Tennis Tourney in the old airplane-gas swamp we had some downtime. During this downtime many things could occur, Wolfie ordered two-foot shocks, a roll bar and lights for the top for his easy-go (golf cart), I painted the crew's ezgo sky blue with and orange racing stripe on the front and flames on the sides, and put head lights on. We palyed hacky sack, balle, drew did crossword, played video games—but mostly we went for rides on the ezgos around the park. On the outskirts near College Point Blvd there was a Western Beef, meat store and market.

As the tournament approaches employees spend more and more time at the facilities for obvious reasons, it's the single most profitable sporting event in the United State not counting an Olympics. Only Super Bowl week makes more for a money for a city, but that's only a week, this tournament strecthes over three weeks, one week of qualifying tournaments and then the two weeks you see on TV. During the time leading up to the event, each segment of the gargatuan staff become squirrels (funny story about, but I am currently contractually obligated to stay mum on the subject), in a way, stocking stuff away in our little offices and nooks on the stadium grounds because while the tournament is on, there isn't much of a chance to leave the grounds and believe me there's only so much Restaurant Associates you can eat. Even if it is free and even if Moose is cooking Filet Mignon at 2:30 in the morning. One of the precious thing we pick up from our many travels to the Western Beef is cereal. Yeah, breakfast cereal and milk.

One day in late July, Buns (he used to refer to getting laid as getting BUNS!. The way he said, you know that goes), Dark Sol (Self named and for good reason), Eightball (who on more than one occasion on flights to and from Syracuse to NYC carried an 8-ball in a sock as protection, AFTER 9/11! At the time, and you may remember, TSA had a list of things you couldn't bring on a plane, an 8-ball in a sock was not one of them), and Myself formed a Cereal Club. One of the four of us would buy a box of cereal, buyer's choice, and that would be the cereal we ate until it ran out and the next member would buy the next box. I can't remember which of the other three bought it but one choice was Frankenberry. On the back of the box was a map to a secret treasure that Frakenberry, Count Chocula and the blue ghost from Booberry were hiding. The map was to be continued on the other two types of cereals boxes'. We all decided the next logical step would be to buy Count Chocula or Booberry next. Chocula was in stock and bought and two pieces of the puzzle were complete. Finally, only Booberry remained.

Long story short, Booberry went missing for months, during which time the four of us, searched supermarkets far and wide in the Queens and Brooklyn area for Booberry, no luck. Soon enough, winter was upon us, Buns was getting his, Eightball was back in Syracuse finishing his Fine Arts degree—he sent me an email later in the winter that three was no Booberry in Syracuse either, Dark Sol was married, mysteriously, and living in England, and my ex was breaking up with me, setting in motion the events that would occur over the next four years that would find me riding my bike up the trail alongside Veterans Pkwy when my phone rang—I keep my phone with me in case get caught out there with a flat, I can call Nemo for the old pick, see, I tend to ride pretty far and this ani't New York, the only mass transit around here is the heel-to-toe express—it was Judge Roughneck, who by the way had no previous knowledge of the aforementioned quest, he was at the Stop and Shop (for this I will advertise) on Metropolitan Ave in Forest Hills, and he was standing in front of a well stocked section of yeah, you got it, Booberry. No Map, but that was a dream long lost, at least the cereal still exists.

This evening, the ride out to the Starbucks downtown I have affectionately dubbed "the office", the sunset was that much more beautiful, the grande hot chocolate—sweeter, and I'm sure the beer or two I plan on drinking after this will taste better than the ones at the bottom of Uncle Peter's cooler. The world is a better place today. Enjoy yours.

mofo

the hawk is out

So it's been nippy in South Florida of late. Yeah, I know, anyone located at or near an area encompassed by the Tropics of Cancer and Capricorn wouldn't necessarily consider mid-50's blustery as nippy at this time of year, but there it is. That's the old Mofo with a wool cap in a scarf put the finishing touches on an electric service, and man, I'm fucking cold.

I'm also quite miserable, considering when this cool snap came in Thursday night it turned my tonsils into bowling balls, which a change in weather often does. Works gotta get done,

I used to be one of those guys who put on a wool cap a pair gloves and shoveedl snow in my shorts. Tempature had no effect, that is except for my ears—as the Human Microwave, otherwise known as Triple B, could attest. I should say it doesn't help that most of my work is done outside, therefore, even with a roof over my head in a framed house I am still a victim of the wind. I came home yesterday with a bright red face, not from embarrassment—like every other day— but from windburn. My point is yeah, it's 55 degrees, and If I was strolling the old QV today 55 would be kick-ass, but let's see how you feel when you spend 8 hours in 55 and blustery weather with no break from it. You would all be singing the same song. I feel bad for the dudes who do this up in New York this time of year. Nemo was telling me that in his days up there it was close to impossible bend aluminum to your wishes when building an exterior service (aluminum is used as a conducter between the telephone pole and the circuit breaker panel). He also told me about a guy he used to work up north who, when the first nip came through, would say "the hawk is out." I never heard the expression before, Nemo said the dude was from somewhere near Chi-town, so it kind of made sense. Every region has it's own slang. Either way, I like it.

I got home and took the world's most hottest and best shower ever, the kind of shower you take when the hawk is out.

mofo

...on Ernesto

The mountains of Cuba bitch-slapped Ernesto, which was always a pussy name for a hurricane anyway, weakening it so much so that it was nothing more than a rain shower when it got to my neckbone. Instead of taking the day off wih every other faggot who gets spooked when the west coast of Africa spits one out of its ass, Nemo and I went to work. We got wet. I get bigger storms in my morning coffee.

Better work today then ruin the three-day tour of my eyelids I got planned for this coming holiday weekend. Pa Dukes always used to lambaste me for sleeping late, saying, among other things, that you cannot make up sleep. I've always said he was wrong. After the three months I've had going back and forth to NYC and working every other day in between, I'm about to prove the ol' foagie wrong.

mofo

Duce, Duce, Duce!!

Nemo and I were putting the finishing touches on house for a dude from New Jersey, let's call him him Mussolini cause fuck-all if he doesn't look just like him. He works through local 3 en el norte and commands 50-60 guys doing comercial work. This guy has been a number one pain in the duce from day one. I understand it's his house and all but Nemo has 20 year's experience doing a house just like this one so don't hassle the man, it only gets him spinning. Over the past six months or so on a job site with the captain, I would here his phone ring, it would take a moment for him to look at his phone to discern the caller id Magoo style before I would invariably hear, "Fucking (Mussollini)!!!!!" sounding eerily like Heston belting out "It's made of people, it's made of people" for the fellas back in the day. Duce would call about the septic hook up, the trim, the ac hook up, 'oh, when are you going to get that generator set up for me', all the while the guy was leading the fascists to war up in Jersey, I mean, guy, relax, you have the best in show working you're electric. Tend to your own and everything will be cheese.

The thing of it is, you might of heard that the bastard (aka Bastard Nephew of Nemo) myself and all others in our surrounding clanm lost a matriarch recently. And between me you and a bastrad, neither one of us has had the sun shining on us all that much lately. The same is the double truth for old Nemo, who pushing 59 and still kicking old school on a 20 foot extension ladder tied with #6 wire to a stand up 10 footer (I saw him do it, I've only seen one thing crazier in my time just for a job: The dude who changes the light bulbs at Arthur Ashe Stadium. Not the 650 watts in the offices, the fucking stadium bulbs, (tune in to the US Open starting next week for the gist)in a lightning storm. Whoah). He's trying to run a small business in a system that makes that close to impossible (and for that, I don't blame anyone, I blame everyone!). So with nme jaunting back and forth to the homestead twice before in the past month, Nemo and I went back up to bury his Mom. So suffice to say we fell behind a little.

Long story significantly shorter, we finally made time for Mussollini, cause he was spending his vacation overseeing the trim-out of his house. And I don't know, maybe he thought who the hell we were, like we were some hayseeds he saw on Karpocolypse or whatever, maybe he wasn't thinking but everything became Electric 101 with him.

"You guys put wire nuts in those lights". Nah, I like to keep wires exposed when I got 110 power running through the house, this way you can grab at 'em and see if you're grounded. It's a little game I like to play.

At one point I'm putting the finishing touch on the string of flourescent wrap lights in his garage, two of which are lit up while I'm adjusting the third ever so slightly to match the others on the same line (I added that detail to illustrate how little we at Surfside Electric fuck around, ya' heard!) when he says to me "So, we gonna have light in here?" Man, I don't know, the candles I lit in those other two wraps may go out before the sun goes down, we'll see.

"Nemo, I got the alarm guys coming in next Thursday, am I going to have power in his receptacle . You know the one I'm talking about? You need me to show ya'" Dude, we wired the fucking joint, we knew where the alarm receptacle was before you archetect drew up the plans.

I said to Nemo later on that we should change our company name to Turnip Truck Electric. That's apparently where we fell off from. I don't know why I chose to return to form with this nugget, maybe I just had the time to finally sit and write something. Point is I need a pass. I'm exhausted and dreaming of Labor Day weekend. I know my role is to pick up the bastard's slack (aka the slack jawed bastard)but the last three or four months have been a real motherfucker to the motherfucker. I'll tell the story in my next How To... book--How to Cut People Off, and the Art of Heroin Junkie Maintenence and Removal.

It's made of people.

It's made of people!


that's yer motherfucker

20,000 Leagues Under the Gulf of Mexico

This is Nemo, incorrectly tabbed Ahab by King Kong Union Thug.

Normally we don't work together because it's like putting Shaft and Superfly together--TOO MUCH POWA!

mofo

They Call Me Action Jake Gyllenhall!

Just an update, now that the Bastard (aka Bastard-The Motley Crue song)cares so much about the weather. Wilma's still pulling out here, but man, she kind of got bitchy at the end.

The "meteorologists" down here were talking all sorts of smack about how the incoming cold front would meet Wilma at the OK Corrall somewhere out in the Gulf of Mexico and tear it to shreds making it weak as it approached the coast of Southwest Purgatory. Instead, Wilma beefed up to 125 mph and pounded the shit out of Naples and Everglades City, about 50-75 miles south of my own self. But Wilma was so massive in size that the home-piece got hit up to, but not where I would have expected. The first half of the stormwent by without much incident, tropical storm force winds with an occasional gust, no big deal. Then the backside came in and wallopped us. The cold front that was supposed to weaken Wilma with its wind sheer did the opposite, strengthening it as it went over us and spitting 90 mph winds at us. It seems the cold front waas allowing cold air into the hurricane causing it to become a Nor'easter type storm on the back end. The tempature dropped 25 degrees within a 2 hour stretch, it was almost like "The Day After Tommorrow" without the bad acting or contrived drama. The acting was replaced by awestruck weasthermen on the radio commenting on how little they really know about anything let alone the weather and the contrived drama replaced with, well, real drama as Wilma bitch slapped the west side of my house for two hours. Fuckers. But all is well here, now I have to see how Nemo and his crew made out in the old Nautilaus.

I'll do my best to get some pics on the blog for ya' I took a few during the storm and will go out disaster-spotting directly. First I'm waiting on a call from Dennis Quaid. Does anyone halve snowshoes?

mofo

the bastard suddenly cares about the weather

you know, it's a good thing that the mofo is living in florida during these blustery times, i wouldn't have been paying nearly as much attention to the weather as i have been of late. well that's not completely true. the bastard still has family down there so i would still be concerned for their safety. hell, they're family. i will be equally concerned when california finally breaks off from the mainland and lex luthor's evil real estate scam comes to fruition because i will have to kayak to visit the cousins in california. i only hope frikkin otis can get me a good rate on one of those kevlar models. anyway the bastard was just thinking in passing if during this storm, if captain nemo's daughter bumps her head and falls unconscious through the length of the storm, will she have fever dreams of the mofo riding a bike that turns into a broom telling her that her will get her little dog toto? hmmmmmm. i think the bastard needs to ratchet down the drugs.

—the bastard

Ya' See, this is how the pros do business

Yeah, Wilma's coming. She looks like she'll be running a bit south of the old joint but I should see some tropical winds and a boatload of rain, but as worrisome the prospect is of the power going out, and maybe not working for a few days (which means not getting paid) I'm not fretting. You see, down here in Purgatory we know how to work these things. Evacuations, the Keys broke north days ago, and Naples (about 50 miles south) took a powder as well. Plus those evacuations were predicated on the proximity to the gulf, not a factor for me, I live 15 feet above sea level, it would take a cat 5 to make me shit my pants about flooding. Water and food, done Wednesday morn, along with gas, got a full tank in the work van and a enough in the ole' Celica to get me to Jacksonville if I really needed to, but I won't. Plywood is up from last year on Nemo's 19 year old abode, and I live in a duplex built after '92's Hurricane Andrew, so it can withstand 160 mph winds, and this bitch Wilma isn't getting there by a damned sight.

Big Bad Jeb rocked the mic today to let everyone know that he's got blackhawk helicopters ready for any rescue manuevers needed, and that he already has stations at the ready with food and water. He also assured the state that there is millions of gas sitting at various ports in the state so there shouldn't be widespread panic after the storm. Jeb finished by adding that this was not counting what FEMA had to offer, then when he was done he broke it down en espanol ese--no interpreter needed, holmes, and that was impressive. See, we rock hurricanes bilingually down here motherfucker. Here in purgatory we basically have hurricanes locked down to a science. The country could take a lesson.

Years from now when Jeb Bush retires from public life I'd like to be his agent. I would advise him to write a book on how to run a state before, during and after a hurricane because if nothing else, he does this better than anyone. Odelay Jeb!

I'll see you on the other side.

mofo

When the fantasy goes awry

You know when Billy and Papa Bush get together, something has gone horribly wrong. I'm speaking of our former presidents of course. They got together with W to reach out to the fortunate (A.K.A the private sector and filthy rich) for help with the recovery of the victims of Hurricane Katrina. They got together for the Tsunami in the Pacific and were able to put together quite a relief package for the victims of the nations effected. But when they have to get together to call upon the upper class and private business communities to pitch in for this latest disaster in New Orleans (least we forget the rest of Coastal Lousiana and Mississippi) there is obviously a problem.

The thing is, there was a problem long before Hurricane Katrina came along. About 40 miles north of here is the County of Charlotte. Within Charlotte are the cities of Punta Gorda and Port Charlotte, both decimated by another Hurricane, Charley. There are still people living in those areas that have tarps covering their damaged roofs, people still waiting for their insurance companies to pony up what they promise in the TV commercials. Chris Rock said it best "they should call it 'in case shit'." In case shit happens, those companies, after taking premium after premium, deductible after deductible, will pay you back in order to restore what you have lost. But people in Charlotte County wait. On the Florida panhandle when you say the name Ivan people twitch. They are still punch drunk from a hurricane that came and went almost a year to the day. Insurance companies are doing the same dance. I'm sure those companies are in warm ups now for the dance of the century, cause let's face it, New Orleans will never be the same.

The interesting thing about it is that most of these people you've been seeing in pictures and on news reports were dirt poor before the storm came blowing through. When they said they lost everything they had, they did. There is no insurance for these people. They were struggling to pay the rent, much like a growing majority, including myself, are trying to do. We're trying to do it in an age where inflation is out of control, a child's education is an after thought, and our president is taking a vacation. For a month and a half! Yes, I realize that W has the all makings of the oval office down in Crawford, but it is paricularly intriguing that during his time at his ranch the country has gone to hell in a handbasket. And all he seems to be able to do is ride his horse and play the acoustic guitar (I imagine he is playing it badly, it makes me feel better). In other words he's hiding, not just from a woman who's son died in Iraq, but from a country he has failed. Iraq had free elections, great. They wrote a constitution, super great. But how is that helping me, how is that making me safe. How is that making my dollar worth more. Yeah, Sadaam was a bad, bad man, but is he as bad ass as the dude in North Korea who can reach San Fransisco with a nuclear missle, I think not. One of W's first actions as president was to give everybody a tax rebate, followed by a tax cut. Now I'm not an economist, but I've taking enough finance classes to know you can't fight a war without income. And where's your tax cut now? You are paying more for gas, milk and other essentials than you ever had. If you leave the country and exchange your money for say Euros or Yen, you're getting the short end of the stick. The tax cut was a scam to let the rich get richer and the poor get poorer, the oldest trick in the book. Reagan pulled it in the '80's and I was too young to matter and anybody my age back then was too coked up to notice, which brings me back to Billy and Papa Bush. Why were they sitting there hat in hand, asking for corporations and upper elite in this country to give to help those in New Orleans? Because the country is flat broke, "sorry Nawlings, we spent our last billion giving our soldiers in Iraq substandard equipment and my bonehead son gave y'all a tax cut a couple years back. Our bad." The Bastard (AKA He supported W in 2000 so he really is a bastard) was right, this is going to get worse before it gets better-but not just for New Orleans, but for everyone.

Florida gets a large portion of it's gas from the refineries in the Gulf of Mexico off the shores of Lousiana and Mississippi, so I woke up this morning to gas stations without gas. I work in a business that relies on new construction, without gas I can't get there to use my genenrator in order to use power tools on wood or steel or concrete that was delivered by a truck that takes gasoline or diesel in order to run. A family business that at the moment is two strong that could simply be wiped out because we can't get gas. And I live in THE fastest growing area in the entire state of Florida and one of the top five fastest growing areas in the country which means we can't build enough, but just take away our gas and inflate the housing market and check back with me in six months. I'll be back up in New York living with my parents apologizing to the elder for bad mouthing the Dark Lord of the Sith-I mean Local 3.

No, Captain Nemo and I aren't there yet, but do you see how easy it is to make that jump. These poor people in New Orleans were victims before the storm. Victims of government that, more often than not, has turned it's back on them, or worse, pretended they didn't exist. My cousin, who works in an administrative capacity for the company I work for, sent $100 dollars to a relief fund for the victims of this tragedy yeterday. $100 we didn't have, but it was the right thing to do. I joked today, after seeing that food and water was finally being air-lifted into the makeshift shelters, that if it wasn't for our $100 they still be thirsty and hungry. In hindsight it wasn't ajoke. If it wasn't for those $100, $50, whatever donation people could make, it wouldn't have happened. The Red Cross can only do so much. They are still reeling from last hurricane season, a mudslide in California, and a Tsunami in Asia. I think it's high time the insurance magnates, the Haliburtons, and old money establishments of this country pony up some dough for those of us who have given them their good fortune by not not burning them down to the fucking ground. Yes, I realize this is a capitalist society and that's the way it goes but there is no sale without a client, and the clients are getting restless. The American Dream is a fantasy, most of us aren't living it, we're just living...barely.

the motherfucking motherfucker.

People have commented that I come across in rage on this blog. Well, yeah, it's a writing style, but much more than that anyone who truly knows me knows I get a little nutziod when it comes to truth and justice. I put it to you this way: When it comes to this blog, consider the Bastard (AKA Viva Las Bastard) the Minister of Information, and consider me the Minister of War. "Me say war"