Heard My New Pollack Joke?

Every country has an armpit. America, never one to be outdone, has several. Without equivocation, Florida lies well beneath even this most dubious of honors. Florida is nothing less than the asshole of America. As for Texas, despite being a state I find I like more and more, it’s still very much like the land of armpits.

But as I’ve stated above, there is a duality to Texas’ armpititude that kind of crawls up your ass and lets you know it’s sticking around for a while. In a good way. Ya gotta love the yin and yang of it all.

And here in Houston, here in this sweltering marsh of oil-soaked money, here in this morally retarded den of individualistic followers lies countless gems of humanity, under every rock, behind every stained glass door, and lingering at the bottom of every 40 oz malt liquor bottle. Houston is a treasure, a city of down-and-outers, semi-pragmatic and somehow simultaneously reckless labor-drifters, in search of a buck and a place to settle down.

I, like so many others, am a northern transplant, a Midwestern immigrant left behind by his parents and stuck insomuch as I am unwilling to deny the pull this place has on me.

One can sum this town up in so many ways. One can take so many examples of Houston’s genius and manipulate them to demonstrate the ragged glory that is the experience of being a Houstonian - a badge I wear with equal parts honor and shame.

The 80s were a decade that came to paint a face on the shambling mess of rib joints, honky-tonks, and whorehouses that comprised the facade of Houston. With all the yankees heading south for the promised mountain of jobs created in the oil boom came a need for housing. Since we can’t all be executives, many people were relegated to supporting the lifestyles of the wealthy, and Houston’s middle class not only was basically born but exploded in an almost out-of-control big bang of sorts.

Apartments became the living choice of so many hundreds of thousands needing some place to kick up their feet, watch some Oilers games, and learn the joys of air conditioning.

Enter Colonial House Apartments.

Houston’s Southwest has been, as far as anyone can remember, an area that has hung on by the skin of its teeth. By the early 80s, Southwest Houston was a place that really did little to give anyone the warm and fuzzies. There was plenty of gang activity, and plenty more of that Houston brand of semi-urban dilapidation that seems to escalate beneath the blazing might of the summer sun. The fine folks that brought Houston the Colonial House Apartments recognized a need for plentiful, affordable apartment living with a certain amount of amenities to sweeten the deal in their favor. With so many places to choose form, and with their being located in a part of town that wasn’t exactly stellar, this was a development in dire need of some PR.

For starters, the place, built in the 60s, was needing some serious work. It took the developers just 3 months to overhaul the entire complex. What you need to know is that the complex was, and still is, totally fucking massive. The place contains almost 1800 individual units. On top of this, the investors needed to make the bloat seem inviting somehow. This also was not an easy task. Take a few minutes to Google Map the place (5700 Gulfton, Houston), and you will see that the complex looks like a damn penal colony. There are 36 separate buildings, which means there are roughly 50 apartments in each of those 36 buildings.

To sell this beast it would take something equally fierce and ferocious.

Enter Michael Pollack.

Anyone who lived in Houston in the early 80s undoubtedly remembers Michael Pollack. His role as the spokesman for the Colonial House Apartments has rightfully earned its place in the annals of Houston lore forever eternal, he was that good.

The commercials are geared towards a young, partying sort of resident, ready to do some blow at the drop of a pin, dance on the pool patio, and fuck half his building at the foot of Pollack’s cheetah just because that’s what people do at Colonial House.

The ads are notorious around Houston, and deservedly so. Pollack is the quintessential douche. He has brushed back blond 80s hair, two-toned shitty-assed polyester suits that open into bell-bottoms, and a voice that screams rim jobs. As he prances towards the camera, prattling on about free furniture, workout rooms, and a promised move-in gift of a VCR that apparently will be delivered to you by hand from a young lady who will jump out of the pool, giant 80s VCR held aloft, you are supposed to notice the carefully placed dancing imbeciles in the background, coked to oblivion, and ready to get this party started.

And what a party it must have been. By my count, the place currently has 17, maybe 18 swimming pools. Can you imagine how many gallons of human fluids were deposited in those pools over the course of just a few years?

Sadly, this zenith of human accomplishment couldn’t last forever. Eventually, the “dream-suite” fantasy of Pollack and his magical land of eternal sunshine had to come to an end, and reality came crashing in behind it.

Today, the complex still stands. The place is now called the Lantern Estates, and seems to be the home of at least half of the Hispanic immigrants that have come to this country in search of work, the ever-popular cheap housing, loose party babes, and blow.

Honestly, 50% ain’t half bad.

Stock Post

WRITTEN BY: REBSTOCK (TOO DUMB TO POST HIS OWN DAMN SELF)

I had considered less than a week ago giving up on my current career for one in Austin selling weed. That seems like a year ago. I briefly thought a few hours ago, I was moving to Latvia (probably to do the same) but it looks like I may stick it out hold on. “Cookie?”
“That’s a cracker” “cracker?” “ Yes a Ritz cracker, it’s written on the box”
I remove my headphones and the comforting familiar wail of Mark Arm. The kid offering me the “cookie” is Portuguese, he points to the massive molten blob of pink fire on the horizon” is solstice.”Oh cool is all I can muster. Things get distorted on the water, perceptions askew. The moon rises huge, so it didn’t seem that unusual that the sun was so massive tonight. the kid from Portugal and I speak for a while, he humors my broken kitchen Mexican and helps me limp through our conversation then asks me what they all ask me when they have a free night in Houston, where is hard rock café? I tell him I don’t know and give him directions to jimmies icehouse, in the heights, ask for Buzz I tell him. I walk inside to be confronted by my hair doppelganger from” Myanmar?” (What I don’t know could fill a book). It’s got to be a country; they’ve got passports and everything. I saw this guys head from the deck of our small boat before he was brought down in the basket. British / Japanese rockstar hair. Cool he let me take a picture to show whoever cuts mine next. It is what I believe Bowie is alluding to in the song Ziggy Stardust” screwed up eyes and screwed down hairdo, like some cat from Japan”, and ive achieved it, if I can only keep it. Florence Henderson had it for a while, Wayne Gretzky, Jeff beck has had it forever and so has his twin Nigel Tufnell, and of course some of the cooler Frankenstein’s. The mynmarian holds up his phone he wants a picture of my doo. Fine. Im just a big enough ham to enjoy a picture of me circulating in weird circles in some foreign country ive never even heard of. I take the picture and settle down to right next to an Indian named Dashit.Im not kidding. One name, like Sting or Oprah. DashitI filled out the passenger log it made me cringe not because it was funny, I am above making fun of someone’s name but because the rednecks that fill this industry will have a field day with this and ill have to listen to it. .
Let me go back.
The Latvian. On the way out here a kid from Latvia and I had a long conversation in witch we traded stories, mine were better. But his weren’t without their charm. He made Latvia sound wonderful. I told him about the chick who liked to wear a dog collar and get walked around her condo. He told me of the warmth of the Latvian people. I told him about the woman that made me throw her in the tub and pee on her( something I wasn’t really into, but she was hot),and slipped and knocked herself out, got a mild concussion and made me scared I would be an episode if CSI.. He spoke of Latvian art and music, I told him about the time I was telling the story of a friend of mines dad who, in college knew a girl that could lean forward in a three point stance like a center and pee over a car, some drunk chick heard me telling the story and tried it, unsuccessfully, then peed in someone’s open window and passed out on her face. He told me about Latvian women, I was enthralled. He actually had me convinced that I should jump ship and go to Latvia with him. I said I’ve only got 1500$ cash, he said it will go a long way. I told him I have no passport. He laughed and said”goto consulate, your American. I said I’m a felon, he said”no, your American felon.” It was pretty convincing. I asked” what would I say? ".He said you were drinking on boat, you woke up, he held up his hands and looked around, Latvia!
Actually anyone with access to my record would have to believe it, im pretty surprised it hasn’t happened yet. How many times have I woken up, I held my hands up and looked around, Mexico! About this time I hear a familiar sound. The pronounced peristalsis and the thick wet splash of Greeks throwing up. It looks like a combination of cream of wheat and watermelon. I passed out placentas de infirma but these guys were obviously in too big a hurry to use them. I will stop here and just say the urge to bail on my life and start a new one in Latvia was pretty strong. I keep telling myself that im getting closer and closer to a captains license. That with every broken bone, every floor covered in hurl, I am getting closer, but some times it doesn’t help.5 days ago I dislocated my elbow, I think I have a broken thumb I breathe diesel fumes so thick I cant see the wheelhouse from the deck for hours at a time. I can’t tell anyone when I get hurt or they would pull me off the boat, no pay. It’s an investment in my future, if I have one. I seem to bitch about this a lot. Fuck you it’s my blog. They treat me like a dog, work me like a mule and ride me like the only whore in town. They can break my back, but the wont break my will. Does it smell weird to you? Is that vomit or is the dude next to me Dashit? Sorry I couldn’t resist if anyone else here makes fun of him, I will replace their Larry the Cable Guy vehicle movies with Big Black cds. Where was I? Oh yea, Moving to Austin to sell weed. Or maybe Australia.

Grappler's High

I spend more time training to fight than most people spend watching TV. Six days of the week are spend between Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu, Muay Thai Kickboxing, and MMA (Mixed Martial Arts – think UFC), and one day is spent on conditioning. My ass gets kicked frequently at the latter two, but I'm working on it. I typically miss one day of training each week because I fall into a sleep induced coma to let my body heal, just so that I can repeat the process. There is a torn muscle in my back, a new scar on my face, numerous bruises, my right rib hurts lately, my lips are always busted, and I’m getting used to having to drain fluid out of my ear with an insulin syringe when it swells. This is my idea of fun. External beatings keep me mentally, internally, healthy. In comparison to my training partners though, I am something of a sissy. At least I didn’t have my leg broken in five places like my buddy.

Other hobbies take up some of my time, but for the most part, I live what has been termed “The Jiu-Jitsu Lifestyle.” My diet, my surroundings, my overall mood, and often times, my company revolve around my training. It went from being what I do to who I am, and I’m content with it. Wouldn’t trade it for anything. Here’s a link to drive home what I’m talking about. It’s really its own culture, in a way. The first link should give you links to parts two and three, if you get that far.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4lhIU0MiU6w

There is one problem though: I suck, especially when it comes to competing. Some people were born with that little voice in their heads that tells them they have to win. On the other hand, I was born with the who-gives-a-shit gene. As badly as I want to want to win, come fight time, I become apathetic. I don’t know if it’s intimidation, nerves, or what, but the only thing on my mind when I’m fighting in a tournament is nothing. Absolutely nothing. I have out of body experiences, which remove all concept of proper technique and the urge to win or beat the shit out of my opponent. Some were born to compete; I was born to commentate. My record is something like 3-25. The 3 I am sure of, but the 25 is only a guess. Could be more.

My main focus now as far as tournament training is to look to go in for the kill (and not to smile at my opponents, damnit). My conditioning is fine, my technique is fine, but my nerves (desire to win, or whatever you want to call it) suck. The only way to eventually get past that is to compete as often as possible, which I have been. I went to a tournament this past weekend in Austin, and though I lost, I didn’t get completely destroyed like I did a few months ago. Until I get past my Achilles heel, I will continue to help people attain good records. When I finally do get over it, I aim to try cage fighting. Just like it’s hard to have a toy and not play with it, it’s hard to learn skills and never use them. It’s time to train smarter. I’m considering doing the Jiu-Jitsu World tournament in LA in November. As a goal, it’s far enough away that I’ll have time to really dedicate myself. We’ll see.

If the links work, here is one of my earlier wins, as well as my most recent loss. Both are fairly short, considering we were allotted 5 to 6 minutes. The win (I'm in the orange) starts off we me getting taken down (2 points - if no one submits, the winner is decided on a points system, each having to do with being in an advantageous position) which is followed by me pulling guard. In grappling, if my opponents torso is between my legs, I am in an offensive position. When my legs flail about for a second, it's because my opponent applies an illegal move; one which could have injured my neck if he were stronger. Though it's hard to tell, I attempt many submissions, but I can't make anything work for a while. I eventually get his arm across his body and submit him with an arm-bar. The loss (I’m in the blue) is due to a collar choke. We pause in the middle because we go out of bounds. I always get taken down. Hope you enjoyed a peek into the life of a masochist.

Say NO to the shutdown of the NEW AFRIKA SHRINE by the Nigerians Authorities ! Petition

Say NO to the shutdown of the NEW AFRIKA SHRINE by the Nigerians Authorities ! Petition

The First Cut

I had a great piece all ready and spellchecked for the butcher and ill send it someday but this isn’t it. On review it wasn’t grandiose it wasn’t dark or whiney, so I chucked it for this crap. I actually have a level of resentment about forcing myself to be negative. It doesn’t suit me, or that is to say, it doesn’t suit my image of myself. In reality im probably as dark as anyone I just cant focus on it. The result would no doubt be me lying in my car listening to the Afghan Whigs next to a few empty bottles of pills. Negativity filtered through an already disturbed mind has a tendency to amplify.
Ive been contemplating my life since I accepted my current vocation and have made an observation. For the last few years ive made a point of not really processing any thing on a serious level. An unfortunate event (which I wont bore you with) has left me avoiding introspection in any substantial way. It was just tempting enough to believe that blind positivity could help the situation. More likely it would have the same effect as a batter calling his shot and pointing into outer space as he steps into the batters box, a fastball in the mouth. Instead I did what any rational adult would do, I started drinking heavily and quit thinking about it. It seemed to work for a while, and I did forget, but I didn’t heal.
Now years later, I find myself with a job that affords me time, lots and lots of time. Sober time.
The veneer is still in place. Im fine. In fact its actually had some good side effects. Im more patient than ive ever been and seem to be able to focus my attention without getting distracted. But my recent, forced sobriety has made it all to clear that I have this unresolved issue to deal with. Journaling or blogging or writing is a thinly veiled art. The nature of it seems to stay light and spoon feed people what they want. That seems to be the right way to do it. It has recently been proposed to me that since there is no wrong in art then there really is no right either. At least that’s what I got out of it. Im not sure if this was an allusion to morality or quality, or both, or neither. I have a history or missing the point, but im going to take it as an indication that if wish to sit here and work out my personal shit on someone’s blog site without the vaguest hint of it even posing as entertainment, than anyone reading it can just fuck themselves and come along for the ride. Your still reading. Wow your really fuckin bored. Nothing on T V?
So where was I?
Oh yea somewhere between avoiding an unresolved issue and hinting that I might actually work it out here, on the butcher, in front of god and everybody. OK if you want blood, you got it.
Just kidding. Im way too big of a pussy coward to face my own shit sober. What is interesting is that If I were ready to deal with my internal shit, the scrutiny of a public forum would do just as well as a therapist or a bartender or a friend(if I have any left).According to this premise I can actually write about not writing about my personal shit and you can still go fuck yourself. Unfortunately since I cant be right either , it limits my range. But I can bitch. Wanna hear? Actually, I cant. Without a viable solution to a problem, or at least a rant that makes people focus on the problem in a solution oriented way your just looking for sympathy , which I don’t deserve, or attempting to make other people as shitty as you. Its like staring at the sun isn’t it? Reading something you know will have no point, that’s probably going to leave you feeling worse that you felt when you started? Relax, Bill Hicks thought me not to forget the purple vein dick joke and its coming soon.
How about this for a joke. I have a job that consumes a full two thirds of my time. I see my son one day a month. My job will more likely that not, cripple or kill me in the next few years. Im so lonely and bored that I opened a facebook account for attention. When I get off of work every two weeks I binge drink until my brain feels like beef jerky. Ive given up on having any kind of meaningful relationship with a woman as I would never see her anyway. I spend more on tequila than you spend on rent. Ready for the punchline………. Everyone’s proud of me! Oh sorry, I said I wasn’t going to bitch. Now you see why its important for me to stay positive. To focus on something else. The next drink. A good friend. A piece of ass. Whatever it takes to get you through. I will survive, its what I do. A friend of mine once signed a letter to me “ I love life and will never surrender” he hung himself a few years ago. That’s the big unresolved issue. I miss Mark Davis. You got your blood so fuck off. I hope the first cut was the worst. No, I don’t want to talk about it. Acknowledgement is enough for now. Beautiful, sadly mortal and confusing. Very cathartic.

Two Things

At an intersection in Greektown, I stopped for the traffic light as a young lady pushed a stroller carrying a baby girl across on the opposite side. On the side closer to me, a middle-aged lady pushed a wheelchair carrying an elderly lady. As descriptive fiction this is corn ball, but it happened in real life so it's earth ballet.

R. Crumb just published a graphic version of the Book of Genesis. The story of how and why, along with a lengthy excerpt, are in last week's New Yorker.  Reading the BoG for the first time in decades, I was reminded of the obvious and almost immediate symbolism in the form of two trees. The Tree of Life and the Tree of Knowledge and Wisdom. Crumb must have thought for a while, how to depict these trees. I must now look into how literalists imagine these trees.

So That Must Be A Mango ... Hmm ...

I have breached the wall and made a run for the throne room. Thing is, once there it’s not really clear where “there” actually is. You’d think with all the ornate tapestry and fresh exotic foods pouring forth upon hand-fashioned tables of the finest imported woods that I had entered the very chambers of the monarch; but there is simply no sign of a threshold, of a promontory housing the painstakingly embroidered and cushioned marvel that seats the hindquarters of his highness.

Peculiar.

Peculiar to think that for all the effort spent in reaching this place, all the blood shed, lives lost, and souls consumed by the darkest depths of my blade, that I am presently at the place for which has been my calling and yet simultaneously nowhere in particular.

It is, quite possibly, my due. And who could argue with that?

We work overtime in our land, and it is my lot to serve as both laborer, journeyman-warrior, and fool. Heavy emphasis on the latter. (Not so much the other two.)

All that has been spent in the name of this quest - and yet the teeth of the ravenous just beyond the great door, chattering, drooling, and stunningly mad with rage - the time is nigh.

It all began with a message brought forth on the wings of a legless eagle (unable to land) - a scrolled plea to rescue these lands from the grip of the horrid Blind Butcher who has ruled over his minions without remorse, without mercy, and without the slightest shred of anything but greed and wanton lust.

Here in his throne room, the very place from which his demonic orders were set forth like a plague upon his subjects causing previously unimaginable agonies.

And yet, the gnashing outside the door, impossible to ignore, work of the very same subjects I would have thought to have been prostrate before my feet as I made my triumphant march towards victory, and their ultimate emancipation. They are undeniably enraged at my presence, clearly motivated without distraction to take my soul to the darkest place a man could imagine, and then much darker still.

What hold must this Blind Butcher have over them? What powers are contained in the four-fingered hand of his perverted lordship? How is it that a great many people could come together, in unison, and defend the master who has forsaken them time and again?

It is not clear.

I do, however, find solace in one single and seemingly irrelevant mote of insignificance, and it is this practically imperceptible bit of knowledge which will insulate me from the pounding madness which awaits me beyond the rapidly deteriorating door between us ...

... the first cut is always the worst.

And this strangely fragrant fruit? Very, very tasty.

Welcome to Delta Downs

Cost of admission: your sanity and the use of one lung.

I took some time off from one of my jobs to get adequately rested and ready for an upcoming tournament, which meant that my weekend was free. Two of my teammates had fights yesterday at the Delta Downs event center, so I decided to go. Plus, I’ve only been through Louisiana, but never to it, so, I figured what the hell. Taking I-10 to Austin is a nice trip; taking it west to Louisiana really sucks. According to all of the billboards, the world’s best everything lies on the Texas-Louisiana border. Who knew?

So, after what felt like a longer ride than it was, we came two a secluded two lane road that surely could not have lead to a big casino, right? Wrong, according to the directions on the billboard. We drove down this little road that was lined with what looked to have been meth houses, houses with little to no paint, and lots of mobile homes and RVs with tie downs (they’re there for the long haul, apparently), when suddenly, poof, there’s a giant casino and horse track. Think of a mirage in the middle of a desert, and that’s the impression I got.

The mirage turned out to be pretty messed up. The casino’s exterior looks like someone really loves pink flamingos. Upon entering the place, I expected to see numerous ambulances because the patrons of this place are the very same people you see at Golden Corals, Luby’s, and every other buffet/steak house in the south. When I actually walked into the place, cigarette smoke hit me right in the lungs. It actually became hard to breathe. I used to think concerts were bad about ventilation, but not anymore. I already felt like I was on another planet. Then I went to the bathroom.

When I was washing my hands, I looked at the wall next to me, wondering what the red box was all about. As it turns out, the casino has a “sharps disposal” box. The fact that it was there was not as disturbing as the fact that it was full of syringes. Full. So wait, are you trying to tell me that diabetes and an unhealthy lifestyle are somehow related? Get out of town.

I then went with my group to get some food. Thankfully, no one wanted the buffet, so we opted to get financially raped to eat some real food, which turned out to be fairly bland for the price. The water had enough minerals and crap in it to make you sick. I felt out of place enough to do three shots of tequila when my group decided to do some shots. My comfort level did not improve.

While the fighters were getting ready, I hit the casino. I had never gambled before, so I figured I’d give it a shot. I was going to place blackjack or roulette, but the only, I mean only thing they had were slot machines, and they all made noise. Three tequila shots, suffocating tobacco smoke, and thousands of noisy slot machines make for an out of body experience. I put twenty bucks into a machine, at one point was up five, but eventually lost it. I don’t see how anyone thinks that playing slots is fun.

The people watching was great though. Apparently, Louisianans don’t like flowers. I noticed that people would pick, hit and kick the flowers on this one plant on the way into the casino, and not just children either. The best person I saw all day though looked just like the “teenage girl” from the show Little Britain. I couldn’t tell her age, but she looked far too young to have a three year old. She even had the plumber’s crack going on. John, I know you’re jealous. For those of you who don’t watch the show, here’s a visual:






After that the day greatly improved. Fight time. My instructor was able to get all of us backstage passes, which enabled us to go wherever we wanted. I milked my privileges and walked backstage to watch the fighters warming up. When I found my teammates, I was able to help them get ready as well. I held Thai Pads for one of my teammates while the other went and fought. When the second guy went out, I got to stand cage side to watch the fights. My teammates went 1 and 1 for the night. One lost to an arm-bar and the other won by TKO. No injuries though, so that’s good. I got to sit right next to the cage for the rest of the fights, right next to the EMTs. Some really good fights, and a really good organization too. They even had a guy who sounds just like James Earl Jones announcing the fights. The only problem I had with him is that he doesn’t know the plural for “foot.” You know, “he stands 5 foot 10 inches tall.” I forgot that I was in Louisiana. I even saw my first female MMA match, and even sat with and talked to the winner. If and when I fight, I hope the show is run just like this one.

After the fights, everyone met up in the lobby. Some drank, some drank too much, while I ate. Fried catfish. It was awful. There was, however, a soul cover band playing, and they were really good. They covered the likes of the Four Tops, Tina Turner, and regrettably, Usher, but even the shitty songs were done well.

We were all pretty beat by then, so we decided to skip the cross burning and head on home. All in all, a good, though bizarre day.

Operation: RESCUE THIS

Facebook... what an embarrassing engagement. It's like Homer Simpson exclaiming, "Don't Look At Me!" and his peanut tray flies into the air, and a single nut lands on his Pan Am issue ascot as his kids realize he isn't a pilot at all.. he's a male flight attendant.

Over the past few months since I joined Facebook, I have courted something like 400 friends, and every few weeks I get rid of a large percentage of them. I currently have something like 150. I am constantly looking for friends to lose.

A considerable chunk of the friends I have or have had on facebook were from highschool or junior high. Mostly I friended them out of curiosity, some I friended because I really liked them and looked forward to catching up, and some I accepted friendships from because I honestly couldn't remember if I liked them or not... and was just bored.

A thousand picture views and a handful of weak and brief correspondences later, the experiment is proving some solid shit. I was never that close to most of them. I was never that close to 400 people.. what a surprise. What does surprise me, is the handful of people that I remember as being very special to me who seem SO different to me now.

They live one street over from their parents. They have the same amount of children as their parents. They have no sense of humor that they care to share publicly. They haven't done anything even remotely exciting save for their crazy trip to the Grand Canyon where they spent wads on trinkets in the gift shop or when they took pictures of their heads inside the plywood barrel at the lip of Niagra Falls. ( I made that one up. I am not incriminating anyone there.) I once posted a status update asking someone to explain the appeal of dressing your children in matching outfits to me. SILENCE.. which might have stung, except for the fact that most of these old friends give me silence across the board. The only answer that actually made sense to me, was when a friend said the parent wore the same shirt as the child when they went somewhere with large crowds to help identify each other...

I didn't realize there were large crowds at Olan Mills.. the family portrait studio.

Whatever, you know? What the hell ever.

I am not suggesting that to be my friend you have to have a heroin needle sticking out of your arm, or a legendary laundry list of exciting failures, or an arsenal of Pulitzer successes.. You can be boring. You can be average. You can also be a lunatic stuck in front of the mirror.. You can think McCain eats pussy and cleans his gun better than any man on Earth. You can want to shoot an abortion doctor because you were stuck in line FOR GASOLINE behind some Uber hippy pseudo punk dissident who thinks that God is dead... while you have to suffer through Sunday service after Sunday service because your mom and dad bore you into it, and you don't have the desire or the guts to bore your way out of it... Fine.. Who cares? I see you everywhere.. I am BEHIND YOU as you pump gas, and God is most certainly dead. If myth could only die.

But for the love of your god... and for the sake of your precious politics...

Loosen the fuck up. Taking you in is like breathing in Ricotta Salata cheese.

I know your family is as fucked up as the rest of ours. I know more than you think I know, but at least I appear to have a heart, and think that the crazy fucking struggles we face in life are far more worthy of MY respect than envying the fact that you have a flat footed hold on one of the most insipid and lackluster dreams on the PLANET. Congratulations. Stick this one in your chest.

Welcome to stability and prestige.
Eat my Delete.

I hope you choke on it.

Subject: I hope you choke on it.

WARNING: The following piece is very disturbing and extremly funny. It will most likley cause you to hate me.Im fine with that. This story is true.It happened. To me. I am telling it not to brag.Christ who would? I know its fucked up. But funny is funny and I wont be comprimised at this point by good taste, good judgement or even shame.Also ,it starts like a Penthouse letter, but trust me, it doesn’t end that way. Your comentary is apprecieated as always. If you wish to keep your annonimty, e-mail your comments to me directly and I will post them that way. Thank You,
REBSTOCK volitious@http://www.facebook.com/l/;gmail.com


In the last piece I wrote for Blind Butcher, I had a lot to say about nothing.I went on about the nature of sanity, Fillepinos, forklift physics, Black Sabbath and how much I hate Jhon Cramer.When I submitted “ Soy Hombre” It was a mess. No real puncuation. No paragraphs, no caps, no spellcheck. There were only commas, lots of strategic, extremely, well, placed, commas. It was in fact, ONELONGMISPELLEDFUCKINGWORD. Because, that’s how I roll.Cramer meticulosly edited my copy for consumption. Sadly he could do nothing for the content. Elegance was never my forte. I never asked him to do it, he never asked if he could. He just did what needed to be done with peak effency and total disceretion.He made the inarticulate digestable, he polished the turd.
As I write this it occures to me that I have not seen John in over ten years since I worked at Emos and the Project Grimm would play there. We have spoken only once, on the phone , a week ago, briefly.Familarly is not a requisite here. Polite, is just a word. He and I have a tacit understanding I cannot define, nor have I inclination to try. John knows nothing of my life and I know no more about his. We don’t even know each others childrens names. But I trust him, completely and implicitly.He has earned that trust on a battlefeild that does not exist in space or time. Jhon Cramer, this ones for you.
Amber was a short blonde with huge fake tits. She was a sweet girl and had only been stripping a few months.I met her the first time at Expose in Austin on south congress while out “dining” with Jasper.He knew pretty much everyone there but her( Jasper knows pretty much everyone everywhere). Amber and I had a lot in common. We both loved her Boobs, Jagermister and cocaine. We both also thought it would be a great idea to talk her roomate Tanya into a three way. We became fast friends.
One wendsday nifht ,I got the call. I was helping claen up the Austin club on 8th st after a wedding reception I had bartended(beer and wine only(I chose wine(a nice Merlot))).I was exhausted when the phone rang. The LCD screen read Amber. I get my second wind. I awnser and hear loud tittybar musicWith Amber talking wildly to someone. I say nothing. Eventuall it registers with her that the phone is no longer ringing. She says “hello?” now I have her attention.”Hi” “Im at work, come pick me up”” ok but first I have to” “My roomate bought a video camera” “Ill be right there” I hung up the phone , pounded my Merlot and ran to my car.
Police don’t write tickets for driving like I did, they just call it “public endangerment” and put you under the jail.As I pulled my flat black , Crown Victoria Police Interceptor up to the door a bouncer was bringing her out. As she spilled into the car he looked atr me and said “have Fun” I said “we Will’. She crawled across the seat and attached herself to me.She was wasted. She was half naked . She was happy to see me.Excellent. Often a man looks back on past relationships. The wemon that wrer his intelectual equal.The ones that could share deep meaningfull thoughts. The ones that understood him. This was not one of those times.We got to her apartment and Tanya throws open the door with a drunk chick yell. She has a small camera and is filming all of our feet in broad sweeps. This is the greatest night of my life.We got drunk. We did blow. We had drunken three way sex.We filmed it. Now it gets weird
It becomes a sorce of contention between them, that Tanya likes it in the butt, and Amber does not. While Tanya is trying to to convince her to do it , she has a great idea,(probably her first ever). Actually I have to give her credit , it was fucking genuis. Amber hikes her ass up in the air and we dump a half gram on her butthole, I give it a minute to get numb, and then snort it off.
Lets go over this again,
I did blow......... off a strippers butthole.
My mother is very proud.
Tanya and I run a few specs Tests. And were off to the races. After a few munites Tanya is calling for a moneyshot, I am trying not to gag from a massive drain. I concentrete and soon am ready to ablige.
OK
What happened next, could not be planned.
It could not be orchastrated.
And it is the absoulte truth.
The next three seconds of this tale are amazing. Individually they are perhaps the strangest three seconds of my life.That the seconds were back to back is phonominal. That there was a camera there, was just dumb luck.
I pull out. (Start the three second clock now). Iam looking down and there is unchewed corn on my dick. For the first time in my life , I am speechless. I look up at tanya and her eyes are wide in horrer.She exhales sharply and a glob of snot blasts out of her right nostril onto her right boob. As good of a reaction as any I guess. Amber looks back over her left shoulder sensing our silence and I trigger and come in her left eye.
You can stop the clock now.
It finally happened,
A perfect moment.
Now I can die.
Amber screams , gets up and clmusily runs to the bathroom but her left eye is squinted thght and she has no depth perception(she is also very drunk). She almost makes it through the bathroom door. Slam! Now she is layed out in front of the bathroom holding her face and kicking her heels. My mind is officially blown.
We get her to one of the sinks in the bathroom and turn on the water. Both girls are now crying. I am just dumbfounded.I hoist my package into the other sink (balls and all) and begin scrubbing. I am attempting to process what has happened when it hits me, that’s all on film. I shouldn’t have done it, It was insensitive, buy sometimes you just cant help yourself, I started laughing, and I could, not,fucking, stop.
“Its not funny asshole!” Amber yells. I think to myself, Oh the fuck it wasn’t. I say, “ I know , im sorry”. They have gone from crying to pissed off. “stop laughing at me!”Now im the one that’s crying,”I cant”. I am on my knees. As I am being thrown out with my clothes in my hands, It didn’t occur to me to steal the tape. Coppola, Scorsae, Kubrick,Rebstock. Danm !I know theres something I could have said, something sweet and sympathetic, somethingappoligetic and humble to keep me from fucking off the best booty call I would ever have, but all I could come up with was “ you know your supposed to chew each bite twenty times before swallowing!) The front door slams.There I was naked in public and very, very amused. It must be wendsday.
REBSTOCK

Si, sis. Isis is.

Before I post about my subject, I just want to commend John on the whole helping-that-woman-find-herself thing. I know she still can’t recall much, but she’s much farther along much faster than she would have been without his help. If nothing else, it’s another good story, among many. It surely beats the hell out of what you're about to avoid reading.

I’m always tired and usually lazy, so this is yet another post about music, specifically about a show.

Firstly, I like Isis' new album, but I would not say that it’s their best effort. Each album has a slightly different feel, and so far, The Absence of Truth is my favorite. I saw them when they were on tour for that album in (I think) 2006, and that show blew me away. This show seemed a little tired to me, though it was still good. The last time I saw them, the singer was downright scary looking. I know how to fight, but the intensity of his appearance alone would have been enough to make me back down. His current look was a cross between Hillbilly Jim and Bob Ross.





They also seem to have David Dramon on bass. Why am I making fun of a band I like, you ask? I make fun of everything.

Pelican was good for all two songs I saw them play. Thankfully, those two songs totaled about twenty minutes, so I don’t feel like I missed much. I don’t know if it was the order of the songs they played, but it seemed like that kept repeating their signature sound over and over again. I think it’s sometimes called “Doom Metal” if I am not mistaken.

I missed Tombs altogether because I was training. If given the choice, I’d be torn between choosing a favorite between fighting and music, so I followed the middle path and showed up late. John, I'll write about fighting one day; maybe after my next tournament. A little advice: if you have a really hard workout, don’t drink soon thereafter. Bad choice, especially if you’re like me and you go straight to liquor.

All in all, not a bad show, but not a great one either. I got two shirts out it, so, forgettable show or not, it was worth it.

In other news, I bought a drum set recently. Anyone have any tips for a beginner aside from constant practice? So far I’m just trying to get my rhythm down by drumming to a metronome as well as getting my legs and arms/wrists in sync. It’s harder than I thought it would be.