Speaking Of Which...

Back in college my favorite browser was Microdot Explorer.

Jesus. I have to play Palmer tonight. Home of the working Right. What am I going to do? How can I be silent? And tomorrow? Springfield. What am I going to do? It's getting harder. And I'm like everybody else, man. I gotta get paid. I haven't got much left to sacrifice for my beliefs.

Registered trademark.

At least I get to do The Elevens in Northampton on Monday with King Radio. The better the music, the smaller the pay package, though. Like, my music? Great stuff. Guess how much I've made off it?

'Bout negative a quahter million dollars.

Tee hee. You think I jest. No siree, I have convinced many goodish souls to throw good money after bad.

I did three nights last summer with this thing at the Majestic Theatre in West Spgfld. and the band leader Joe Canata, who is a Vietnam vet and a 25-year DARE cop actually stopped the show to speechify against the Iraq war. Wow. Burst of applause at end? Fuck no. Uncomfortable silence. Very uncomfortable. Idiots. I told him he was my new hero.






Smoke Rings

Holy cow, what's going on at Chalkhills? Whew. I don't go there much but I'm on you guys's email list and I'm watchin' something fly. Not sure what.

Apparently there's this guy Eamonn Pasternak who sounds like a first rate fucknut.

And there's this nice-sounding Brit named Dove who's had it.

All I can really think to say is hey, if ya like XTC, I can't imagine how you could possibly like guns. That's sort of like bein' in the Third Reich and having a soft spot for Jews, you know?

Or lovin' cock and hating men.

Which, from what I can surmise, might be just about what's up with this Pasternak character.

I mean, how could guns possibly be a good idea? What are those for? Oh, yeah- killing folks. I forgot. See, killing folks isn't big on my daily agenda. How could that be something you could be all up in and shit?

Unless you're a fucking blithering moron?

In which case, hey, they probably are a good idea. Just remember- the little hole at the end is supposed to face you. Not the bunny rabbit.

Hey, Eamon- what th' Christ? Dude, if you need a loan or some weed or something whyn't you just say something? It's Chalkhills, man.

And Holy Shit, now- who's this Mormon now? With the prying the gun from her cold dead hands and that? Is that a chick? I couldn't tell. There's like two names. Oh, it's extra-scary with the ladyfolk.

you're on Chalkhills? What th'?

Man, Partridge would fuckin' hate you. You'd have a conversation of like two sentences and the guy would like brain you.

And he doesn't go in much for that crap. Unlike me. I'm big, big, big on th' braining. Of people who love guns.

Unless they're kids. Kids always love that crap. Hmmmm. That's edumacational.

What the fuck is happening to the neighborhood over there at Chalkhills? Jeez, I useta post there in like the '90's but I got out because I'm kind of an asshole and I didn't want to be one there.

Holy crap! Compared to these people I'm like St. fucking Francis. Man.

Yeah, I'm missing something. I have to be missing something. People who love guns can't possibly like XTC. It's profoundly illogical. Don't you realize these guys would think you were total fucking tools?

I think you guys must be thinking about another XTC. Yeah, that's it- there's some lame bowhunter band of flyover muslims in like Kansas called XTC and they're like a total tool band and you guys think you're posting to their list.

No, see, this is actually this band from England that has always been great and they would think you were huge dongs. Chambers might find you mildly amusing, I guess.

Man, I was in love with this chick in high school and she thought I was a weiner? Hey, it's O.K., man- eventually I got over it and stopped posting on her list, you know? When I realized she thought I was a dick?


See, I could never listen to a band that if I met them they would think I was a dick? I mean, there are some of these dudes from O.K. bands that I met and they were sort of assholes, but hey, they're supposed to be. But, see, if they thought I was a big fistula I probably would stop listening to them.

And trust me, XTC? Jesus. Oh, man.

You'd be like at Colin Moulding's house for a party? And Andy Partridge would be there and who else, oh, John Leckie. And yeah, Harold Budd would be there and he'd have like this killer hash and they'd all be smoking out and listening to like the Beefheart box set one speaker at a time? But not all of them would be smoking out. But they'd be, like, completely cool about it, you know?

You'd be hanging out and these two security guys would show up. They'd be super-polite and they'd usher you from the premises and put you on a bus to like fucking Abilene. Sweet. Your hearts would be broken! I know mine would in a situation like that. I mean, one minute you're hanging out with these great musicians and writers and artists that you admire and the next minute you're at the Wal-Mart in fucking Kankakee but all would not be lost, because their gun selection is impressive. But it has to be, see, because otherwise we won't all fucking


Man, I gotta say. It's hard when shit like that happens. There was this guy in my band who was all over drugs and whoring and everything, and he was a republican. I'm serious- he was all into Bush and that. And we were at this christmas party at our manager's and I was all psyched because there was a million cool people and professional contacts there that I wanted to schmooze. When I was all about that.

And this fucking guy is spouting this stuff and it's all lost to me. And I'm like "dude, the Reagan stuff is just NOT going to fly here," and he doesn't get it and I'm like, "dude, did it ever dawn on you that Reagan would HATE you and want to see you do HARD TIME??"

And he just didn't see it that way. Trust me, dude- Reagan didn't hang around with the People Of The Glass Pipe very often. Not his style.

So, anyway, where was I?

Oh, yeah- that's what you guys are doing. I'm just telling you so you can save yourself some embarassment down the road if you're ever invited to a Swindon Shindig. And like Patti Smith and Andy Summers and Bobby Lightfoot are there.

I mean, if I'm there, I'll keep it quiet about you guys, you know? I'm not that much of a dick. But it's going to get out and if you fuck it up for me? You know? If you start pulling that fucking American shit? That fucking American crap that people just ain't up for in this day 'n' age?

Oh. Ohhh. It will NOT be pretty. There'll be nothing but faint marks on the carpet when the polite security comes to usher you out. Because I will eat you in one gulp and


with that fucking crap you're always on about.

Don't you want people to like you? Because boy, I'm like the coolest guy you could ever want to meet? I have a trillion utterly insane stories but I want to hear yours too, you know? I mean, I write cool songs and play instruments like they were growing on me? I've like, been everywhere on the planet and I have a double major in music and th' political history of the Mideast? I've, like, pulled cell phones off of fresh corpses and called the federales in the middle of San Felipe? And I'll make you laugh until you have to excuse yourself and go find the bathroom?

And I'm always on the tip with like the coolest, craziest new sounds?

And I think you're dicks.

Man, that has to have a heavy sting. A heavy, heavy sting.

That has got to be the face of your father in the window when that windowpane is kicking in.

I'll Make You All A Deal.

Hey, fuck! New Orleans 'n' Biloxi etc. is ALL fucked up. It's not even funny.

So I've been thinking. I'm going to do two things now.

I can't donate much. We'll get a few bucks together I'm sure. A few. Trust me- I'm a musician. I'd make more flipping god damn burgers. It's my choice. So I volunteered with the Red Cross today to ship out. I've got a good back, you know? It'll be a while because there's classes and shit. Who knows how it works. Me being absent from my local economy for a week or two will not adversely affect it. Quite the contrary, in fact. And this thing is going to go on for years. Years.

In the meantime I'm not going to go on about this fucking nightmare all that much. What the hell do I know? I don't know. You'll have plenty of media sources to tune to for outrage and info and disinfo. We're going to keep it funny and angry here at The Orchestra, O.K.?

Then maybe when I go down there to pump sludge I can blog it. That'll be sort of cool.

I think if I don't do this I'll lose my right to Call Out The Cocksuckers, you know?

And this is NOT the time to lose that right. I would say, in fact, that the next six months is going to show us a lot about the cocksuckers. Oh, yes. It's going to be really, really ugly.

I have a luxury that a lot of you don't share- a two-income household where my income (though hard won) is a little chuckle-inducing.

But oh, the talent. And oh, the charm. The charm of me. Man, it's striking. Striking. I can speak on a wide variety of subjects; body fluids, sexual deviance, big jazz chords, all that.



Thank God We Have Michael Moore To Protect Us


What an idiot THIS guy is.

I only say it because I saw "Farenheit" expecting something revelatory and it was like some cheesy Inside Edition crap. I was really, really pissed about that. what a fucking bringdown THAT crap was. Made me think people must just be really, really stupid to think it was good.

The thing is is that this government is so profoundly fucking lie-drunk out of its mind that attacking and exposing it should be the EASIEST thing in the world. And IDIOTS like M.M. come forward and THIS IS WHAT THEY HAVE???? "yeah, I'm going to stand around in front of the Saudi Embassy until a security guard naturally questions me and then I'm going to go in fronta Congress and show how Congressmen won't talk to me."

Incisive. Brutal. Undeniable. Incontravertible. Or however you fucking spell it.

Big dufus.

I bet he's eating a bigass cheeseburger RIGHT NOW. The odds are INCONTROVERTABLE. Or however you fucking spell it. Yummy yoummmmy burrrrger.

I'm going to EMPTY MY BANK ACCOUNT and put a doolar fitty down on this guy having a clothing line in 3 years.

Tell me I'm wrong about this lug.

Houston We Have A Motherfucking Problem.

Ooooh, yes. Oh yes, in-deedy-cocksuckin-doo. Where the ever-loving fuck am I to start? Where indeed?

Sometimes I don't write for a few days? Why? Because there's just too much. Too much for one downwardly mobile musician to wrap his addlepated pate about. Indeed. My outrage, it becomes as a torrent. A motherfucking torrent. There isn't a font large enough to express the hate and rage and yea, the terror of this age.

You know what I'm talking about. That feeling. That feeling of utter powerlessness in the face of this motherfucking crap. it's like a huge wave that bowls you over and what can you do against that? What can you do? Drink? Drive? Huh? Christ.

Um, by the way- I can't fucking deal with New Orleans right now. Although a little bird told me Rove is involved.

OH, the pain, pain, pain. The pain. You think I'm joking. Yeah, I mean, I am, but oh, it only hurts when I stop laughing doc. Oh, eeh, ehhh, oooh. There goes another perfectly good two inches of colon. Fuck. You run out of that shit, you know. Colons don't grow on trees. Or maybe they do now. I'll have to be sure and ask my MINISTER.

My "minister". ha. I'd rather have a sucking chest wound than a minister. I'd rather do to myself what Kathy Bates does to James Caan in "Misery" than have a "minister". That "hobbling" shit. I'd rather smoke eight packs and cover my entire body with nico-patches than EVER set foot in one of your cathouses. You craven fucking whores. You ridiculous little lie-junkies.

God damn christing fucking shit cunting fellatiating breast cock shitsmear. Where to take it? Where? They won't take it at the fucking dump. They don't need my white Gen X fear and loathing. Fuck, man. No one's buying that White Rage shit I try to pass. When I come upside some fuckwart down to th' clubs. Guess I'll have to eat it with my MOTHERFUCKING ARM, then, won't I? Yum, yum. Tastes so good. My stomach has no more lining. My esophagus Has Erosions that a steady month-long Purple Pill fucking I.V. ain't gonna fucking DENT.

You think I'm joking. That's O.K.

Number 1: All the things that the War On Terrah has in Common with World War II:

1. Cripple in th' White House.
2. Fought with bullets.
3. Takes place on roundish planet.
4. Ultimately the fault of th' Jewish International Financial Conspiracy.
5. Holy Grail Not Found again, dammit.
6. Bush sort of like Macarthur, except instead of having corncob pipe, pleasures wife with corncob.
7. Ummm...ummmm...ummm...oh- Cripple in th' White House.
8. Starts with plane attack.
9. Not even th 'Foot can come up with ten things the War On Terrah has in Common with World War II. But see, I don't have Karl Rove on my fucking side. He tried, but he insisted on blowing me and I don't swing with guys. If I did it sure as fuck wouldn't be that prick. If I was gunnin' for gay love it'd be Rufus Wainwright or Stipe or somebody 'cause they play music and they're cool and something tells me they're on top of their game. Actually, I don't know if Rufus is cool. I just assume anybody got the brains to drop th' E root outta a E9 chord and make it a Abm7b5 has to be cool.

Rove? That cocksucker couldn't boot a fucking MACINTOSH and get a major fucking chord. Idiot. Chimp fucker. Child eater. Guy couldn't get a tritone outta a fucking TRAIN WHISTLE. God DAMN it.


I'm going to start killing you at stoplights. You got a SUV, a yellow fucking ribbon, a Jeebus fish and you're on the cell phone?

I'm going to kill you and your fucking brood. Right there. No questions asked. A public service. I know you don't know it, but there's this thing out there called The World and there's People there and they Think Differently.

This whole fucking country would've gone fucking Bastille 'n' Guillotine a fucking YEAR ago but see, the people who would be on the front lines don't have MEDICAL so they can't risk a bayonet strike.

Very well planned, Rove. Very nicely done, you craven christing buggerer of infants. You bloodthirsty idiot.

That's it. That's it. I'm going to Washington and do what's right. I'm going to open up on the lot of them. Sure I'll go down but, babe, history is written by the winners daddy and I'm going to be the ANTI JOHN WILKES FUCKING BOOTH. gotta do what's right. Might even sell some CD's out of it. Move some fucking units, you know?

It's not right that I should have to feel this way day after day. How long can I hold on? Eventually I'm just going to take a seat in th' morning and my entire lymphatic system is going to shoot out my ass like a questionable fucking HOT DOG. Is that right? Is that right? Is that? Is?? I??????

Is it fair that I should have no defense against disease because I'm starting to really really BLAME AMERICA FIRST? yeah? Yeah? Yes? Is it my fault that this country has suddenly devolved into the Land of the Shit Heads and the Home of the Dick Heels? Huh? My fault?

No. It's not. But I am seriously eventually going to start bitch slapping cock sucker a-feared-a-gay-marriage folks like Moe Larry Helen Curley Brown. Slip slappity slap. fucking bow hunters. That's what they are- you heard it here at the Orchestra first. Fucking Bow Hunters. "Hey, Bow Hunter-fuck you!"

Fucking Bow Hunters. I coin it, you spread it. Get to WORK. Fucking Bow Hunters. Fucking Flyover Muslims. That's it- Flyover Muslims. Bowing and scraping in th' direction of Wal-Mart six times a fucking day when you take a fucking break from sucking infant blood and teaching lies and de-tasseling corn so you can more easily fit it into your insatiable anus mouths. Your mouths- my god- they open like a-holes the better to fit whole fucking COUNTRIES into. To fit IDEOLOGIES into.

They open retina-like. The better TO SHOVE THE ENLIGHTENMENT INTO. And then your assholes open like big, red-painted MOUTHS and you shit out the TRIPE of this age. Feasting on truth and logic and Swift and Dickens and book learnin' and crapping out shitty dogma and ignorant justifications for being so FAT and so STUPID and so VENAL and so fucking CRAVEN. And FAT.


Aside from fucking each other swiftly and pleasurelessly so you can shoot SOLDIERS OUT YOUR CLOACAS. "Oh, guh, look out, young 'ins...mama's gonna blast out another PFC...uhhhh...uhhhh..." So you can splat out cannon fodder and then when they get blown into mist by a roadside bomb outside a Ramadi you can SOB and WAIL and be all GRATEFUL that your CHILD stood by their CONVICTIONS and DIED for what they BELIEVE in.

I hear this shit about you assholes being proud of your poor blown-apart children for dying for what they BELIEVE IN. At 18? 18? What do you believe in when you're 18? Huh? Oh, you fucking idiots. Oh, god fuck you. I am so violently opposed to you stealing my FUCKING AIR. God DAMN it. For what they believe in.

You know what kids that sign up for this shit believe in when they're 18 and they're stupid and they've never set foot outside of Bow Hunt Iowa or Los Angeles California? Huh? They believe what YOU TELL THEM TO BELIEVE. So stop saying they're dying for what they BELIEVE IN. gOD FUCK FUCK FUCK. They're dying for what YOU believe in. How's that feel, you fucking Flyover Muslims? Huh? Forty virgins, right?

So, just so you understand- they're dying for what YOU believe in. THEY don't believe in anything. How can you believe in anything when your only window on the world is FOX News and Skipp Diggity Dawg, the Angry Gangster Negro, huh? So just so you understand- you're killing your children.

You're killing your children. Have a nice fucking day. Have a nice day killing your children.

YOU were the fuckers shitting your knickers at those fucking ball games in high school. That was YOU, wasn't it? Oh, you fucking killed me. You killed me. I had to get so fucked up just to walk the same halls as you. So fucked up. That was your TRAINING. Just so ya know. That's when you got TRAINED so when your administration commenced to using YOUR offspring to do something SO STUPID AND UGLY AND STUPID YOU'D BE ALL RAH-RAH ABOUT IT.

Jesus, I could never understand what you were so all up in it about at those fucking games. Now I get it. Your fucking education is complete.

Have a nice day killing your fucking children. Support The Troops.


2. The Question Of Gasoline.

Let's use an analogy to go through this one, O.K.? I know you Bow Hunters are all into analogies because they have "anal" in them so they remind you of feeding time and you sit up and your li'l pupils widen up in anticipation of advertisements for tasty and inexpensive PRODUCTS. you are so into PRODUCTS, so I'll appeal to that in you.

This is really, really simple, O.K.? The Oil Companies are a dildo the size of Walla Walla (see, it has "Wal" in it like Wal-Mart) and you, my foolish little eloi, you are a rectum the size of a pinhead.

Get it? Get it?

Now, they're going to keep telling you about SHORTAGES, right? They're doing this for THREE REASONS, O.K.???


Look, assholes- I fucking LIVED in California when that "energy crisis" went down. I was payin' 150 a month to power my tiny li'l beach cottage. Don't tell me this shit is above board. I know how these scumbags operate now.

FUCKING REASON NUMBER TWO: 'Member those Terror Alerts? Huh? Kept you glued to Who Wants To Be A Hypocrite, didn't they? Worked good!! Whilst these cocksuckers stole your souls and your children in the night?

Boy, I tell ya. If watching a little picture go from yellow to orange keeps you fucking Flyover Muslims so fucking entranced, just think what watching gas go from $2.55 to $3.00 IN TWO DAYS will do. Woah, dude!!! Woah, dude, where's my paycheck????? It's like a really engrossing movie, huh? Like "The 40 Year Old Virgin". Hey- I got a great sequel for that- "The 50 Year Old Virgin".

GOD DAMN CUNTING FUCKING SHIT REASON NUMBER THREE: Jesus. I forgot. Oh, yeah- these cocksuckers are eyeing that fucking Alaskan Refuge like frat boys at a fucking cheer leader rally. Oh, yes. And you know what? Few more months of this?


Boy oh boy. It's right here, man. This is classic Rove. This has Rove written all o'er it. Vintage motherfucking Rove. This is going to be the week we talk about when we're huddled in our fucking bunkers. "Boy, 'member that last week of August '05? Ohhh....that's when the shit really went down, man. That's when we knew it was over."

Oh, Houston. O, Houston. We have a motherfucking problem. A motherfucking problem indeed.

Send rations stop send quinine stop


Nature Is Shitty In Tooth 'n' Claw.

Saw a funny thing today. Better'n I can say for most fuckin' days. Some days I'm forced to make Mick Jagger faces in the mirror for a god damn laugh. Plus it was a Monday, ne-ce'st-pas Brutus? What happens on Monday that's funny? jack doodley shit is what happens on a Monday that's funny. Except when unfortunate things happen to people. That can get a rise outta this karmic crusader. Watching folks float by on houses can be good.

So, I'm watching this spider climb up the outer wall of a building and I figure, hating spiders, that I'll wait 'til it's eye-level and ruin its day with a well-aimed looger. so it scurries on up, and as I'm horking, it stops, its abdomen gives a little heave and the tiniest of miniscule spider poops drops out its ass. Then it clambers on up and out of my astonished view.

Needless to say, I'm dumbfounded.

It's really fuckin' funny, watching a spider shit. Much funnier than, say, a retiree. My friend Paul used to visit his grandfather and at night he'd hear this pounding through the house. Bam, bam, bam. It was disquieting.

Turns out the old man would bang on the radiator next to the can in pain and frustration as he tried to move his ancient bowelies.


This spider had no such problems. Skitter, skitter, shit, skitter skitter. That oreo that you ate after dropping it the other day? The five second rule?

Skitter skitter. There's some digested dung beetle blood for you. To enjoy.

With your cookie. Your yuummy cookie. Cookie cookie cooookie.

Your lovely, delicious chocolate sanwich cookie.

With spidercrap on.


Definitely Half Empty.

Yeah? Huh? That's some half-empty motherfuckin' crap right there. Looks like it's even more than half-empty 'cause you know how glasses get a little thinner at the bottom so the actual level would have to be a tiny bit over one-half for it to qualify as fully half-empty.

But it's beautiful that it's half-empty. I mean, I don't know about you, but I certainly can stumble through my day without some crummy half-full glass crap. Plus, when it's half-empty less will spill on your crotch so you won't look like you whizzed y'self. Y'self.

It's only funny to have a stain on your crotch when it IS piss. That's funny. Having a crummy wet spot there from some glass half-full of water is just being a poseur. Just a damn pussy Pollyanna piss poseur.

That would be funny to piss yourself and go to a party and have everyone be like, "hey, hyuck hycuk ("hycuk"??) you look like you pissed y'self", and you're like, "yeah, I fucking did". You'd be all "yeah, I pissed right before I came to the party because it's cool to. Everybody knows that." You could turn it into the latest statement. it would be the cool thing to walk around with a big old stain o' piss on their trouser or slack fronts. Women, theirs would be a little lower. It's be a "hers" piss stain.

They'd sell pants that were dyed to look like they had the piss stain. There'd be like a ad cam-pain and there'd be some hip hop songs about having the piss stain at the front of your pants.

I guarantee you could turn it into the latest Fashion Statement. They'd have those magazine ads like those repulsive ones with the celebrities wearing the milk moustache except they'd have the piss stain.

And then the nu-pseudo-neo-metal guys would start having the full urine-drenched outfits and pretty soon it would be this whole thing to just be COVERED IN PISS. EVERYONE WOULD JUST BE SOAKED IN URINE. EVERYWHERE YOU WENT IT WOULD JUST BE PISS, PISS, PISS. PISS EVERYWHERE. WET CAR SEATS. WET RESTAURANT SEATS. EVERYTHING SOAKED IN PISS.



Hey Dribbleya

Why don't you just STAY on vacation?

Bobby Lightfoot's Starving Musician Tips #14

Always wear a condom when sharing needles.

Bobby Lightfoot's Starving Musician Tips #13

There's only one way to keep pesky motel bills at bay!