Not THIS fucking crap again.

Every day it's just the same. It doesn't matter what angle I pour that fucking coffee from. The same polesmokin' problems in th' world. EVery day worse, like we've been cruising along with HIV on meds forever and SUDDENLY WE'RE FULL FUCKIN' BLOWN. Bang. The fucking sores. Th' Cramps.

And I always think to myself not THIS fucking crap again. And it gets well-niGH exhausting. You know what I mean. That feeling that maybe th' way to think is well I've only really got another twennty figh years of this fucking crap.

The angle of th' java maketh not an itoa of diff'rence. Not an itoa. Every day it's the same go d dingth thing. I'm fucking TELLING you. And I get in that goddamn car again, my back and left leg sobbing from deep, deep insults dealt to them by a dumb, uncaring routine. And I've got that god damn cupholder thing that's round and my polesmoking coffee cup has a handle and it doesn't make NO diff'ence what fucking leg that hot, deliscious brew descends upon. It's still them fucking rockets.

And now they name them on th' nooze like they're products, you know? What's the name of that missile those kookie Hoozbillies is using? Why, it's the Katyusha, my friend. The Katyusha registered trademark. And now we have a Special this week only on the Katyusha Rocket reg. tm.:

Look- I've invented Internet Braille:

:::..: ... :.:::...::.. :. :...:

A Special on the Katyusha reg tm.: Any third-world country willing to starve another 25% of their population to death gets TWO POLESMOKING KATYOOSHA ROKKTS REGISTERED TRADEMARK FOR TEH PRICE OF ONE!!!!!!!!

Like us. Feel like I'm being watched now. South on th' 95 to New Haven now. And I'm like not THIS fucking crap again. Like my polesmoking stereo is sending my choice of cheez-o call letters to some big box that turns them into right fuckin' wing votes. And shitty t-shirts on ebay. Christ. And th' same motherfucking computer voice is blasting in my ears, right in the 2-5 Khz range where I'm a little sore in my olden days. And you know what happens next- an ad comes on and you're half-listening because you're thinking about old Christy Finklestoon in 11th grade and th' disgusting, degrading, deprived things you'd do to her now if you had the chance againe.

No, it wouldn't be holding hands and lite frotage to The Carpenters. No, my friend. And then I think about it and I want a shower and I'm all not THIS fucking crap again. Because basically I want to be good and I tire of the thoughts that are bad. The bad thoughts are fine at first but then they always have to end up in sour, floating ashes that get in your hair and you're wearing a white t. ::... :..stop

So I'm thinking and half-listening and in th' ad there's something mildly funny and before I can fucking STOP MYSELF I CHUCKLE. AND THAT, THAT, THAT, THAT, IS AN ABOMINATION. NOW I'M CUPPED IN THE HANDS OF FUCKING EXXON INDEED. JUST A HAPPY, CHUCKLING, GAS-DRUNK, PETROTAINED, FOOD-IN-SHIT-OUT GENTLY JIGGLING PILE OF UNCTOUS CANCER. AND I'M ALL NOT THIS FUCKING CRAP AGAIN.

And then I kan't recall or re evaluate the complex trapezes and sick, singleminded ruttings that were torturing my consciousness before. And I punch in some more chhezzy call letters and there's some fuckin' guy talking really fast like that legal shit in ads and I have to jump to turn it off before my brain fucking crawls out my ears from sheer, aching humiliation. And I look at all my tapes and I'm all not THIS fucking crap again.

And now I'm on th' 2 and I'm thinking about that time in high school when I spent weeks plotting the perfect robbery of th' TEen Center. Hacksaws, security drive-by schedules, till estimates, everything. But then I was only wanting money to get a lot of records and I figured fuck it I'll just shoplift them and skip a step. All my fave early records: Blondie, Eat To The Beat: shoplifted: Frankfurt, 1980. Roxy Music, Flesh And Blood: spirited out 'neath a long coat in Kaiserslautern.

So then the fucking robot consumer voice tells my arm to turn on th' fucking news and I'm still so ashamed from actually inadvertently chuckling at a commercial (fuck) that my arm does it and the Katyusha Rocket reg. tm. sales pitch is in full fuckin' swing like it always is. ANd all over the world little tinpot dickheads are sitting at their abominable furniture deciding that the economy could survive a diminution of 25% of th' population just polesmokingly fine. You know that fucking furniture they have: the Arabs have all that crappy glass and china and little graven images and the fuckin' African dudes all have that shitty Papa Doc fucking IKEA crap that's dipped in gold. And Bush has all those liquor cabinets everwhere and that big wire going into the back of his head from Cheney's anus.

yeah, I know it's a great band name. It's almost the perfect band name. It makes me wish I was 22 again and didn't ever have to play in another band with a name like Protege or Charisma or The Katyusha Rockets ever again.

So I'm rolling into this park in Bristol to do the show and it's fucking packed and the fucking gear has to be loaded through a roiling, stinking mass of brain-infected, fat humanity because the coordinators are on th' fucking take and didn't do venue plannning. And you KNOW I'm like not THIS fucking crap again. And it's 93 christing degrees and it's so polesmoking hot you could just melt into Kristy Finklestoon's little plad wool skirt like a little trail of cool lemonade escaping from her full, half-open lips in slow motion. And you know if you were sixteen again knowing what you know now you would have laid your head in her lap and savored every cool drop of sweet delicious lemonade and you would have wept. Wept at the soft sting of her wool skirt. At the sunlight through the little hairs on her forearm. And you would have willed every second to pass like an hour in her room, with the wool and the lemonade, the rough and the silky, silky sweet. And above and beyond everything you'd weep like a forlorn kitten at the memory of the scent, a morphine mix of woman and little girl. And that makes you feel a little guilty. And that feels good. Guilty means it's wrong and wrong is the new right don't you know? But still you feel a little curdled inside, like there's a date stamped on your ass and you're fuckin' past it. And you feel the worst feeling- the feeling like you're sort of like Rabbit Angstrom. Yeah, you're like an Updike character but you're not even cool enough to be Rabbit so you're more like a peripheral character, like someone his wife fucks and it starts all this crap and the baby fucking drowns in the tub. But you're already out of the story by then. yeah, you're a fucking Deus Ex Machina in a fucking marriage drama. Your purpose revealed. And all these feelings- you're like a songwriter finally realizing they'll never say anything new and you KNOW how THAT feels, incidentally. you'll feel all the same old crap all the same crap because you're just Another One OF Them and people seeee you out of the corner of their eye and then you're gone. Mr. Deus Ex MAchina. Mr. Finklestoon Defiler. Mr. Fuckin' Updike Brainfart Havin'-Used-Feelings Dude.

And then backstage I have a moment of peace at the center of the Hurricane Of Retards. And I don't want to do it I don't want to but then I do and I'm instantly glad. Glad in my soul as the liquor races hot 'n' cold down my gullet into my superior deltoid processes, bypassing the Isles Of Langerhans thanks to a harmless procedure. And I take th' stage and I play a big A on th' Rhodesey, with my head down to the thing, all in black with half-inch long bleached hair and a cig behind the ear and I'm like sweet- THIS fucking crap again. BE the Katyusha. Be the polesmoking Katyusha REg. t.m. MAYBE YOU can be a nice little product too. Maybe someday we'll all copyright ourselves so that we can get the maximum return on our SOULS. We'll all be like Bobby Lightfoot TM and Kristy Finklestoon TM and that. Oh, Jesus fuckin' wept me a polesmoking river. Not THIS fucking crap again.