Fuck Baltimore. Pray For Nepal.

Yea, Baltimore is a mess. I remember it being a shit hole in the early 60's. My Mom absolutely refused to live there when my Dad was at the Naval Academy in Annapolis. She wasn't a big fan of "Navy Housing" either but, that's where we ended up.

How about the thousands of people that have died in Nepal over the last week? They deserve nothing less than complete empathy and aid. Get it to 'em quick! I find myself wishing that I had taken someone up on their offer to be an emergency aid worker for the American Red Cross when I had that chance. I'd be in Nepal, not Baltimore. Let's contrast the two places: People in Baltimore are looting and burning their own neighborhoods. People in Nepal are trying to pick the dead bodies out of what's left of their villages. It's a shame the two things are occurring simultaneously. The "News" is all Baltimore. Nepal is deserving of WAY more coverage and support. You can thank the Rupert Murdoch's of The World for that kind of reporting.  

My current residence is well within striking distance of a big quake on the Mendocino Triple Fault, off of Cape Mendocino. It's where the Big One will either start or finish. I don't think about it much. I was a Nipper right on top of the San Andreas in San Francisco. The street cars were shakier than the earthquakes. I still don't notice anything less than a 5.0. I certainly "noticed" the 6.7 we had a couple years ago. My old solid wood house (built of Red Oak 2"x4" flat stacked lumber the same year I was born) is still here. It's 60 years old and still solid as a Giant Redwood. Huff and puff all ye' want...

Spent a few hours today Mastering off a cassette to send to my Pal, Lou Seal, in Seattle. My Spastic/Cosmic Cowpunk Dance Ditty, "Ted Kaczynski Shack" (about a little converted Gardener's Shed I once rented, not the Mad Scientist guy in Montana's house) ought to get a smile outta' her. The Ted Shack was ridiculously small but shelving and a low loft solved that problem. It was an "inbetween house" anyway. Next to the radio station in a tiny North Coastal 'Burgh in Mendocino County. I know the disc jockeys heard me and wondered what the heck I was up to. Anyway, I finally found the many feet of tape I wanted to edit and re-Master. The one song took at least five or six Maxell XL II 90's to get the piece "right." I still want to tweak it some more but, there comes a time to just walk away and do something else too. I'm pleased with the mix on the vocal cut and the instrumental underpinnings of it. I should just digitize it and forget it.

Baked pork chops with Chipotle spiced potatoes and tomatoes, curried rice for dinner tonight. I started cooking later than usual, which means that eating will probably make me go to sleep. I rarely eat as late as 20:00. It'll probably be dark and sleepy around here right after I finish, if I finish.

Listening to Widespread Panic while cooking. The "Ain't Life Grand" recording right now. It's pretty bitchin'.

Remain Calm And Get Y'er Hands Out Of Your Pockets,
-Doc      

  

What's New In Baltimore?

Quite the shit-storm, is "what." Doc Anchovy, a private entity with almost zero political affiliations, has no other comments to make. I have decided to be Apolitical on the issue and let Baltimore take care of Baltimore. I wish all concerned a peaceful and as-pleasant-as-can-be-had kind of evening.

That being said: "Sinclair Lewis was right. It CAN and probably WILL happen here." Sinclair Lewis said lots of stuff. Lots of times, he was right. For instance: "When Fascism come to the United States, it will be draped in the flag and carrying a Bible." Michelle Bachmann is currently stirring her Witches' Pot with a Pitchfork Full of Fear and Loathing, telling her Fan Base that the Rapture will happen on Obama's watch and that it's all Oil Can Barry's Fault. But, like I said: "I am fairly Apolitical" about the whole shiteree.

This rather raucous piece of Mothermania is from some undisclosed location, although it sounds like they're in Helsinki, given the stage banter that's somewhat revealing. No matter where you are, it's still relevant today. If you want the "straight version," you can look it up on YouTube. Maybe you own a copy of the LP record, like I do. Who knows?

Then, there's always this, as a fall-back:

I remember the D.C. Riots of the early 60's. My Dad was going to the Naval Academy in Annapolis, Md., at the time. He was a member of the United States Navy's National Band. I'm a White Kid and am from San Francisco. In D.C., I went to a Public School that was 90% Black. I thought it was interesting and had a swell time until the Vice Principal yanked me out of my desk for "talking during Graham Crackers and Milk Time." Yanked me so hard that something inside my ear "cracked." I decked the V.P. with a swift kick to the shin (I was a Portly Kid) and ran all the way home. My Mom had me go to school "on base" after that. Then, thank God, we moved back to San Francisco.

Frank Zappa was born in Baltimore. I think there's a statue of him there.

Yesterday, in my own little peaceful community/neighborhood, I was asked/yelled at by some Punk-Assed, 20-Something-ish, Chickenshit driver, after he came roaring up to a crosswalk I was trying to use: "What, Shit Head? Didn't you think I was going to stop?" Too bad he immediately had his power window rolled up and I didn't get a chance to respond. I just thought: "Fuck it." and walked home, stopping at my friend, the German Car Mechanic's, place to chat a bit.

In the end, NOT confronting Mister Chickenshit was probably the best choice, although, if I would have had a rock in my pocket, he'd be replacing a windshield. There are way too many idiots fucked up on crank, whizzing around town like Pedestrians Don't Exist. I don't "know" what ANYONE in a car is "going to do," Period. I am not a fucking mind reader. I do not weigh as much as your Souped Up Rice Grinder Automobile. I enjoy being alive.  

People need to remember that we all have an asshole. In our pants and in our minds. I don't let the one in my head get out of control very often.

"This, too, shall pass."
-Doc



 

The Unusual Suspect

Actually, the header could also be: "The Very Usual Suspect." Coffee, cigarettes, History Channel, reading "The Newz" (I don't watch TV Newz anymore). I prefer to tweeze articles of interest from written source material. AP Wire, UPI, Reuters, Christian Science Monitor, Indie Press, etc..

Rupert Murdoch, much like W.R. Hearst in print before him, ripped the guts out of and ate the fuzzy puppies of TV Newz (and, The Wall Street Journal). Damn you, Australia, for letting this Yellow Journalist out of your sucked up former Penal Colony and turned loose. First, in the checkout line Tabloids (Think "Bat Boy versus The Woman With Three Tits" here) and then onto the World Stage. No singular worse thing has ever happened to the reporting of Objective News. The travesty soon spread to Other News Outlets. Americans, in particular, LOVE gossip and finger pointing. The English aren't far behind. If a Network didn't adopt the Rupert Principle ("If you don't know what actually happened, just make some shit up and/or do the bidding of the Conservative Right and Big Money") people just stopped reading/watching your newspaper or TV Channel. They want the really stinky asshole of news reporting. They want: Somebody To Blame. (Sounds like the antithesis of a Jefferson Airplane song, huh?) It's a brief synopsis of Western philosophy: "Fix The Blame, not The Problem."

Anyway...Fuck Rupert Murdoch. He looks dead already. He probably smells like a Nursing Home, too.

Little birds are waking up outside my cubicle. Also part of the "Usual Deal" for mornings. The little chirpings are something I enjoy. My worst paranoid delusion is that they're all talking about Sarah Palin and/or Bat Boy. The Aleutian Geese have all flown back up north. Probably not all the way to the Aleutians but, that's where they're ultimately headed. At altitude, THEY may be able to "See Russia" during that sojourn. There is a flock that stays around here, year 'round. They decided they liked it and just stayed, like many Tourists and San Francisco Ex-Pats.

I think I'll go see if I can find some "back-story" about the earthquakes in Nepal now.

Have a swell day! Unless you live in Tornado Alley and then the advice is: C.Y.A..

Ernie Lancaster, guitarist for Root Boy Slim:

Unfortunately, Ernie didn't "make it" through cancer and passed away on 07.17.2014. He was one of those true gems that shone brightly and burned hot.  http://www.ernielancaster.com/

A signature piece (2, in fact) with Root Boy Slim:

"Who Loves Ya', Baby?" -Telly Savalas

Rock on,
-Doc




     

"Agreements"

I have a Pet Peeve. The Cliff's Notes version of the story is: I HATE waiting around for people that don't show up, don't call and "waste my fucking time." Not like my time is worth $100.00 an hour or anything anymore but, I consider the act of being "stood up" for anything a basic violation of Common Courtesy if not downright "Rude." I don't do it to others and I sincerely wish that people not do it to me. It's not that hard to find yourself with a Pink Slip in your Catcher's Mitt around The Anchovy Ranch. I honor my agreements with people and I ask the same of others. If you "can't make it" due to unforeseen circumstances, have hands with opposable thumbs and know how to operate a telephone, at least have the courtesy to call and let me know that I'm chasing my tail waiting for your No Show.

I have someone on my "Crew" that isn't showing up for their wheel watch right now and it doesn't sit well with The Skipper. It's not a Gang, it's a fucking boat, f'er cryin' out loud. The rocks are really hard and will sink this SOB if you don't show up or go to sleep instead of paying attention and glancing over at the Loran every so often. Tie up the wheel and do a "walk-around" every couple of hours if you need some leg stretching. Tired? There's always coffee on the stove, No Doze in the Med. Cabinet. Rub some Cayenne pepper on y'er balls or a stick a Thai Bird Chili up y'er butt hole. It WILL keep you awake, I promise. Taser your scrotum if need be. If the vessel catches fire, wake my mangy arse up (I'll smell it before you do anyway, trust me). We'll put it out and head for the nearest Port Of Call. I'm NEVER that asleep. Few things in life are as scary as having your boat catch fire 200 miles offshore.

Anyway...You get the idea. It's Night Time In The Switching Yard. Don't fuck up, go to sleep and crash a couple 100 car trains head on.

Lazy sort of day around here. Tossing some stuff out that is either "broken" or that I haven't touched in 6 months. Making a bit more space to walk through and clear paths to stuff that I do still lay hands on and can't get to because of basic clutter. Listening to Phil Lesh and Friends and Lesh and Bob Weir's "Crusader Rabbit" shows from Mill Valley (?). I think my Buddy, Michael, ran monitors or something for those shows. They're pretty danged good. You can find them on archive.org . I burned them to CDR a couple years back. The Winter of CD Burning. When I first moved into the current version of The Anchovy Ranch.

Hundreds of 700 Mb CD's. Printed labels from archival photo's for them all, made liner notes, set lists and filed them away in The Holy Dresser Of Music. A whole chest of drawers full of CD's and posters, etc.. Danish Moderne, of course. One of these days, I'm going to have that piece of furniture "tank dipped" in a caustic agent and refinish it in nothing but spar varnish. The stuff you use on masts of sail boats. A wonderful varnish. It darkens White Ash to a really bitchin' mellow dark cream color. It's a well made piece. Worth saving.

Back to The Drudge (with a good soundtrack)...

Hugs and kisses, Cupcake,
-Doc



 

Notice Of Agreement To Mother Earth

Mom,
          It has come to my attention that my existence on your/in your/of your Planet is "temporary and of the nature of an unbound and day-by-day sort of contract." Feel free to contact my office if anything changes. In the meantime: "Thanks for all the fish!"

-Doc

P.S.- "My Wig Fell Off."

Auld Triangle

I know allot of Irish Guys. Best Mates, Pals, Friends, Dead Fuckers, Etc..

Hence: A tear and a sniff  f'er all o' y'er.

Black Velvet and coffee. Just what God wants in a bar: "A Wide Awake Drunk German."

Instead, I'll type at home, thank you. (This is, after all, a journal, of sorts.)

The compass wanders. I'm looking for music to go with this tango. Wish me a fish!

Watch out for volume! You've been warned.

-Doc

add: "Anything might happen. Don't discount chaos."

MORNING CONCERTO

Der Mondo-Bondo, Concerto mit Katzen Flamen, Schadenfreude und ein Berliner. In other words, for you Non-Krautenmenchen, Frank Zappa and coffee for breakfast. Nothing better to get the old juices flowing. Yea, I know...It's "Bullshit Low German." Whaddya' expect? I'm fourth Generation Amerikanischer.

Typical Bullshit Weather out there, too. Fog, 47 degrees. Liquid Sunshine. "It NEVER Rains In California"...Hah! Whomever the 60's Dipshit (Probably those sick bastards, Boyce and Hart) that wrote those lyrics was, was obviously: Not A Golfer. Be sure to stick some flowers up your ass and walk on your hands, if you're going to San Francisco. Get yourself a tear stained McKuen poetry book and a leather headband, maybe a pair of knee-high Moccasins, a "Real Mexican Poncho" or something. A tambourine, perhaps. Take drugs of questionable origin and get a really bitchin' case of the crabs or worse. Yep. You're a "Local," now.

Right now, I'm heavily grooving to "You Can't Do That Onstage Anymore Vol. 4." Heavily studio overlayed and re-tracked, "tweezed," live performances. Zappa was such a Studio Denizen. Not to mention a fucking amazing onstage performer/Conductor. I got to "meet" him once in 1973 or so. I asked him if he'd like to have some grapes. All he said was: "Get away from me." I was enthralled. I have a wonderful "mirror image" photo (Done by my Old Pal, Mister Jelly) of him hanging on my "Wall Of Hideous Grunts" in my house.

There's some kind of Revolutionary War crap on TV. I am not "listening" to that though, as I have headphones on. My Uber-Groovy Sennheiser's. Nothing beats German Engineering. Drive a BMW (or a Mk2 Panzer) for awhile. You'll "get it." I had a "Quasi-Stock" '77 230i for awhile. Bavarian "Family Car." Beat the wheels off of some souped-up Kamakazi Mobile on the PCH near Mendocino one afternoon with it. (I drive very  well on twisty roads with 300' cliffs on one side.) Did a clever little drift move through a 40 mph corner at about 80. Scared the shit out of the kid in the Kamikazi. When I pulled over to get a snack, he followed me into the store and asked something like: "Jesus! What's in that thing, anyway?" I replied: "It's Bavarian and so am I, Sparky."

"What can I say about this ELIXIR?" (ANY real Zappa fan knows that line)

I "have to" clean out my closet today. Line up some stuff to throw away/give away. Call it "Spring Cleaning" if'n ya' want to. I call it The Purging of Useless Personal Ephemera. Next month, I need to buy some lumber and shelf brackets and make a cassette tape storage space in the negative space where there used to be a door to the next apartment. (In the closet. Huh?) It's the Perfect Place for it. Out of the way and stable, temperature-wise. I have boxes and boxes of cassette tapes. I used to volunteer at a thrift store and the idiots that worked in the pricing room would want to throw them away. I finally told them: "Just put them all in a box and I'll take them home." They, of course, "didn't get it." Anyway...Thousands of hours of cassette tapes, gratis.

Oh. You want more? You got it. This is a KILLER show from 1980, in Seattle, Wa..

That's All The Newts That Fit To Print...

-Doc



    

Earl Grey And A Favorite Album, Or Five

Nice restful sleep last night. Lord Baltimore (The "Neighbor") came home from his dialysis regimen, ate something and went to sleep. It was actually quiet. I had a salad, some mashed potatoes and a pork chop for dinner. I was in bed by 19:00 and asleep by 20:00. Slept straight through until about 03:30. A nice: "block of shuteye." One of "reasons" I get up so early is: I get to avoid Lord Baltimore's Non-Stop "Reggae" Shindig, which drags on and on, everyday he's hanging around his apartment next door. By the by, L.B. wouldn't know "Reggae" if he had both testicles in an alligator's jaws, while being asked to name some actual Reggae Artists. He might get one or two. The shit he listens to is nothing more than repetitive electronic drum-tracked Hip-Hop that's horribly over bass processed with an Island flavor. Which, totally blows dead bears as it seeps through my kitchen wall. If I weren't such a swell guy, I'd blast Hank Williams Sr. back at him, endlessly.

Woke up  to David Attenborough's High Queen's English voice and the Planet Earth series. I don't care how many times I've seen it, I'm always fascinated. At the show's content, not Attenborough's voice, Jocko. I can't hear it anyway. I'm listening to Neil Young and Stephen Stills' "Long May You Run." It always makes me think of my time living in Hawai'i. Four years and change back in the 90's.

Hawai'i is a weird place. Some parts incredibly beautiful and pristine, other places despoiled by the tourist industry to the point where it looks more like parts of Southern California than Hawai'i. Lahaina and Kona being the worst offenders of the latter. The other strange thing is what is commonly referred to as "Island Fever" or, "Rock Fever" wherein, when you first move there, you feel like you're trapped on some desolate deserted atoll. On Maui, for instance (where I spent most of my time) you can only go 60-something miles in one direction before doubling back to from whence you came.

I did enjoy sitting on the lanai at the Pioneer Inn in Lahaina having a cold drink and listening to old slack key guitarists through the house system. Sol Ho'opi'i, Gabby Pahinui, etc.. Plus, there was the mystique of The Pioneer being one of the settings for Bernard Mickey Wrangel's wild escapades. (Read Tom Robbins' "Still Life With Woodpecker," if you haven't already. Somebody should seriously make a movie out of that fucker. It's a playful prose romp about "how to make Love stay" that, ostensibly, "takes place in a package of Camel cigarettes." So says Tom, anyway.) Would it translate well to film? I don't know. Somebody ought to take a shot at it though.

Looks to setting up for a nice day in Fog City today. It may hit the mid-60's and get clear outside. Well, we'll see.

My All Time Favorite Neil Young Song. The first one I ever heard, about a million years ago...

Of course, it's not the only favorite as, there are many. I have a very hard time picking out "favorite" anythings. What's "good" at night might suck in the wee hours of the morning.

Ad addendum: Took out the Walrus Arc 2, 4 Season tent, hung it over the porch rail for a few hours, set it up and aired it out. Patched a tear in the rain fly, which is showing marked signs of UV deterioration. I have decided that it has become a "1 Season tent." Summers. I'll use it until it, literally, "falls apart." That's what I "do" with stuff. I will be buying a new tent soon though. I LOVE camping in the rain and wind.

-Doc    

   

Goat Roper Of The Pacific

Or: "Providor of scrumptious treats to fish lovers everywhere."

I've had my belly shaved, had buckets of disgusting gurry, guts and God know what poured over me. Let's just forget the dress code. "The Tuna Highway." Cross the Equator, you get to be a Shellback.

Someone, we'll call him: "Mister Jelly" for now, asked about one of my nicknames. After the Loudon Wainwright yarn. His Artsy crowd got a kick out of it. So do I.

Anyway: "Goat Roper..." It applies to a hack fisherman. A guy that will pretty much take any assignment tossed his way. A "One Stripe." No Hashmarks.

Icky, rainy, colder than snow/ice on a Subaru windshield around here yesterday. Sat around drinking tea and later a couple of beers. Made soup. (Good for all that ails ya')

Typical Northwestern shit.

I don't know much about Kid Rock but, I like this tune.

Gary Coleman and the other guy dukin' it out is priceless.

Another "Cowboy" song. First concert I took my Wife-To-Be to.

-Doc

SHE CAUGHT THE KITTY BUT...

...The kitty was dead. (Yea, I know, it's "Caty" but, this isn't literature. I reserve to right to license.)

Dead animals tend to stink up just about everything. Roads, that place under the porch, under the floorboards of and old truck, that place behind the freezer that doesn't get checked out too often, all that junk.

Some live animals make the entire Planet reek. Don't land a skiff on a Walrus' beach. Barf all ya' want. It ain't gonna' go away. Your puke will be Chartreuse. There ought to be a medal or a T-Shirt for that shit. Earned, I assure you.

Certain sorts of farts will turn your guts.

Beluga breath really wrecks a party atmosphere.

Mitch Miller (During a bad engagement) may do the same.

Dead stuff is all over the place. Other animals eat it. I guess we all do. Some of it tastes pretty good. Just for the record: "I have never eaten Roadkill." Maybe if I were, literally, starving, it might not be that bad. I'd still be a bit picky about what it smelled like. I think I'd have a "time limit" on The Stink Factor.

All this having been bandied about:

"It's dead. It's in the middle. Come on, STINK!"

I love Loudon Wainwright III.

-Doc



    

MY GOD

O.K., so: "Somebody's God." Ian Anderson's, perhaps. Although one would not arrive at that conclusion from lyrics. Nor Jeffery Hammond-Hammond's body language. You had to "be there" I would suggest. I was. Not for: "My God." More like "This Was," "Stand Up" and "Bouree." Saw them blow Led Zeppelin off the stage in '72 or so. They were "fired" after that outing. You know the rest of the story. Zep went on to ripoff all the dead Delta Bluesmen they could dig up and Tull became the Heavy Duty Judy version on Renaissance or something like that. Still like the band. "Cross Eyed Mary" is good stuff. There're a couple dozen more.

Hammond-Hammond, who definitely gave David Lindley a run for his money regarding his penchant for really weird double knit fabrics, was a great bass player and an all-around crowd pleaser with his improvised 1.5 step spastic soft shoe moves. Did I mention that he was a great bass player? Not John Entwistle "good" or Stan Clark, Jaco Pastorius or whomever, "good" but...

Things change. Times change. People change. Worms become butterflies. O.K., so they're not "worms." Words change. Unfortunately, I can't draw like Ralph Steadman. There would be lots of worms. On EVERYTHING.

"I didn't mind, if they groomed me for 'success', Bleatch."

"He's not the kind you have to wind up on Sunday."

The house smells like chicken soup, notes of onions, mixed Italian type spices and celery in there, somewhere.

The World smells different. It looks O.K. but there's decay in the wind. Except for the Redwoods doing their usual Jig or River Dance Whatchamacallit.

"I ain't no Porcupine. Take off your Kidd gloves." -John Hiatt

Don't expect continuity, an even flow of words or meaning around here. It's Hide-And-Seek, not running out steam or anything else that shows a certain portion of pluck.

Good luck, Paisano. It's just some Porcupine, taking the gloves off and challenging The All to a knock-down, drag-out, to-the-death, duel. I bleed an interesting shade of Crimson. It would make nice paint.

I sent my Brother a graphic of Beavis, picking his nose, earlier today. Right about the same time I was shaking off the 16 ounce Everlasts.

Speaking of lyrics and John Hiatt, or Beavis' Boogers, not in that order...These are some of my favorite lyrics. It's like witnessing Rembrandt, soiling himself, on shaking knees. For me, anyway. You can just shit can it if you want to. Sad songs about girls just grab my nuts and won't let go. Well, not until I soil myself, anyway.

"Just ask The Axis. He knows EVERYTHING." -Jimi Hendrix

-Doc







     

Good Friday, O.K. Sunday

Easter. Days like that mean something to some people. Jesus rose from the dead, all that. I wrestle with the concept. Neither do I "count it out" nor declare my personal disbelief in the phenomena. It may have happened. Call me "Agnostic." (YOUR'E AGNOSTIC!) I call myself a Pantheist. Then again, I may just be a pot of Petunia's. Thank you, Douglas Adams. And: "So long and thanks for all the fish."

Then again, I don't "believe" in Bigfoot, The Swamp Monster or Yeti-like and/or mythical creatures of any sort. I've spent allot of time in the wilderness and the strangest creature I've ever imagined was a Platypus with nice breasts. But, that was actually something that manifested itself in someone else's weird dream. I have seen: A Grizzly Bear take a Beaver out of his pond and munch on it, a pack of wolves run down a Caribou cow and eat it and geese take a nose dive into the ground in a down draft. A Hoodoo. That's what Alaskans call them, anyway. Except Sarah Palin. She sees Vladimir Putin's ghost "Rearing his little head" (it is kind of petite) from her back porch in Wasilla. Which, is impossible. I've been to Wasilla. My friends own property there. You can't "see Russia" from Wasilla. You see mountains, trees and speed freak Hillbillies.. I have seen snarling dogs with heads that looked like very deep water fish, the ones with stiletto teeth, in dreams caused by fever. None of them looked like Sarah or Vladimir.

So it goes.

I digress. March 5, 2015. Easter. (Seemed early to me but, what the hey? Not my kind of Holiday anyway.) Painted eggs, scary huge Bunnies, etc.. My Neighbor's birthday. I took him one of those "wrapper in paper Apple Pie" things, with a scoop of French Vanilla ice cream and some Cinnamon Schnapps poured over the whole mess. Made him blow out the candle immediately. Slight chance of ignition. 100 proof. He scarfed it right down after being warned of the fire probability. No burns incurred. Not enough facial hair.

Rain today. Sunny Tamale. Beer later. Breakfast, first. I slept late. It'll be Noon soon enough. Coffee will "do" until the beer thing. Might as well be both "awake and high." Put on the rain gear, take a walk, later. Thank God for rain gear. I like the sound of water hitting polyethylene.

Watching "Life After People" on H2. It's an entertaining premise. Life with nobody around to fuck things up.

MY shit. So far...Is not: "fucked up." Give it a few years. I'm sure something bad will happen.

-Doc

  

Bad Friday

Call me crazy ("You're Crazy!") but, Good Friday never seems to work out for me. The cab ride home was the best part of my day. Well, except for the wine and chicken sandwich which led the way to movies and sleep.

Went shopping. Was mistreated by the Dragon Lay check-out Gal, who got the "fuck you" (A regulation issue "snap." Anyone that's been around the military know it as: "The Kiss Off") salute at the end of our te-a-te, my back was beginning to bug me, there was no Frank Zappa soundtrack, a seagull crapped on my hat, I got couple of dirty looks for no good reason. Nothing resulted in violence or injuries. The tail end was best.

The Positive: Found a very hip "window fan" for the Anchovy Ranch. Dual fans, fits right where I want it to, sucks air out like gangbusters, keeps the joint at a constant 68 or so...On and on. Bought Velveeta cheese. Best thing in the world for making a grilled cheese sandwich. No shit. I suppose it's a leftover from my Gubment Cheeze days. It's not really "cheese." Oil, yellow dye n' shit. Screw it. Still makes a superior grilled sandwich. Health food be damned.

Nothing personal. Do your worst. All shall be consumed with glee and a grin.

Beauty Day out there. Couple of clouds offshore but, Bluebell where I'm roosting.

Listening to Jean Luc Ponty. Jazz violin. Go figure.

-Doc O' The Walk and the Bay, Clock, etc..

April Fool

1. Your dog's missing. He was delicious.
2. Please come over and get your girlfriend's shoes. They're stinking up the place.
3. Congratulations! You've won an lifetime supply of Bat Guano!
4. There is intelligent life on Earth.
5. Have I got a surprise for you!
6. Free Beer! Tomorrow.
7. Your FICO credit score is 900.
8. Arkansas is in the United States.
9. The Grateful Dead are getting back together. Jerry was just kidding.
10. E.G.B.A.R.. (Everything's Gonna' Be All Right.)
11. We Don't Mess Around.

Now, put your Clown Nose on, wear your pants backwards and go downtown.

-Doc