espinaza del diablo

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never again that sierra occidental mountain road crossing. still weeping tears of fear. worst road on planet.
wouldn´t be so bad if I was driving but taking a bus was brutal. like a 6 hour roller coaster ride in a curving tunnel where you can´t see what you are about to hit. the floor was wet with vomit but I managed to hold  my lunch down.
the return trip will be los mochis to Chihauhau on the train.

News Cycle

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The predictability of our chew toy mentality and devotion to the lap dog media is grotesque. I force myself to watch the television to see what America is being spoon fed like fat babies with Gerber juice flowing out of our mouths and down our gullets. So, the nation has borrowed its limit, 16.5 trillion. I'm tempted to fillibuster my own ego in the pursuit of justice but the truth is that none of it is real. It's all a manufactured "event" to keep media whores occupied until the next mass murder or celebrity divorce. My disappointment in American mythology is so deep that it can't be salvaged. We live in a false and phony nation full of mysticism and superstitions and sports fanaticism and lip service to Jesus with an unread bible in one hand and a rifle in the other espousing peace through mystical dimensions.  There are over 7 billion people on Earth. 400+ million Americans. A million could die from flu outbreak this year and it wouldn't even turn the population graph line down. We are the ant colony that immediately forgets about the tidal wave of Big Red soda that drowns our habitat. The reality is that we're all redundant except to our own fabrications and the media feeds our false acceptance of the lies.

The common response to the Oggy Problem is that a quest to rescue wolves from Shell Oil or learn Hindu ballads on the Ud is pointless because it doesn't recognize reality. But my rebuttal is that those with loose lips and chicken scratch intellects only suck on the medium hot salsa of the world and ignore the countless arrays of picante. Basically, monitoring their own toes in the limitless cold water of reality to the depth that they can accept and then imposing their own shallow delusion onto others. It's all disgusting to me as are the television programs that horrify me. This is mass media and I will turn my back on it one day but it's like studying the cartel trade of broken virgin whores and then playing dominoes on slippery barstools of defeat with a crooked smile under sightless eyes.

So there is no solution as long as media influences reality perception. If we even took the $17 trillion debt as reality and accepted that the stars and stripes are like that junkie stoner kid you meet at a Phish concert who has a stolen credit card and he is buying everyone cool stuff and you can sleep in his luxury suite hotel for free. That's the reality of our negligent pride. The entire premise of America is to outlive our pimp so eventually we can fuck and give blowjobs to addicts in the cold alleys of our grotesque indifference and keep all our money. Maybe, we collectively hope, the pawn store will burn down and we can scavange the debris for our blood diamonds. We pawned our children to spread disease and pollution to every corner of the continent and then we hired marketing executives with counterfeit money to wed strippers wearing assless chaps made from Kickapoo Indian chief hides to promote the glossy new world as progressive and the manifest destiny of our nightmares. Congratulations. I always wondered how the Germans living outside the death camps rationalized their inaction. Now I know. They read the propaganda pamphlets and made excuses. Don't cause trouble. Don't ask questions. Protect your own. Fear the unknown. And they have a point because the American and Russian Liberators only made the citizens dig mass graves as their punishment for doing nothing...while the Nazi soldiers definitely would've executed them all. And that's the painful product of indifference and the demise of sad repose: it usually is safer to be the coward and after 40 years of an environmental holocaust we've manufactured the most indifferent citizenry with Fox news puppetry in our assholes making our mouths move like Kermit the Frog. The collusion is complete and the ironic generation now mocks rape...because that's their defense mechanism in an insane culture. Everything is a greater symptom of madness that becomes one more illness to ignore in our all u can eat buffet of greed.

But that's the road the media wants to invite me down. They want the futile conversation, the rant, the blog, the fillibuster; they goad people to revulsion because that's the best strategy handed down from Socialist Republics and propaganda specialists. "Ensure the public never has a moment of peace unless we manufacture that peace. Always keep them on uncertain ground." In two weeks, Fiscal Cliff...now Borrowing Limit. Next in line...Asshole Propositions Balls for Shit Legislation. It's excellent think tank strategy but I'm a hippie with conspiracy theories as my breakfast sandwich so pay no attention to me and keep watching American Dad and Football.

Blues School

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Earl's Tune - Errol Garner by boberwig

 I had no idea Errol Garner was a brother. One of the ladies at the rest home asked for this tune, Earl's Tune, and now I'm schooled in the playing of blues. If my father was Garner or Ray Bryant or even merely listened to Garner or Bryant, then I'd play like this today. But no, I got a psychotherapist and now earn a gold medal for mentally masturbating. So I've got 40 more years to devote to playing in this style. (or about 8 if I die when Garner did)


I'm not a Jazz snob. Misty is a song I've probably tried to play for ten years. I took a piano class once and this was the song I was supposed to accompany a singer with. It was terrible. And I remember reading Errol Garner as the author and not researching anything about him. I figured he was white because the lyrics are real margarine flavored. (Garner didn't write the lyrics) But no, now I see him playing his own melody and I understand. To discredit songs like Moon River is to discredit Garner because while Mancini isn't a blues musician he wrote during the same period and all those songs are lumped together. Misty is one of the all time classics with All of Me and Ain't Misbehaving and Some Enchanted Evening. You can't play lounge piano without knowing this song. You probably won't play it like Garner but you have to appreciate the tradition of lounge piano. I will post my recording of it when I get to the real piano at the old folks home.

Jawa

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1976 Jawa Babetta Moped 207

American Restoration would never hire humbled Oggy

In an effort to barter my services at a garage so I can use their car lift to remove my transmission I have been trying to "restore" this Jawa moped. Maybe restore isn't the right word since that would imply a restoration and I'm not in that league. I'm trying to get this thing to run. I'm trying to fix it. You might say this is crazy but I've seen the restoration folks totally restore a 1964 Worlds Fair tour buggy. Why would they go through that $7000 expense? Or to restore a gas powered washing machine? That makes no sense. This moped will actually be useful.
But I've got one foot in the water and one foot out. I want to restore it but I want to use exactly the same parts that I've got on the moped. That almost can't be done except rewinding the 40 year old coil magneto by hand or dismantling the  carburetor that sat for 3 years with old fuel until it crystallized and pitted the throttle sleeve and needles and everything. It's frustrating because the only reasonable thing would be to buy a used carburetor but Oggy insanity has me in its grip and I have to use everything that was originally on the moped and shipped from Czechoslovakia to be ridden around Texas. Maybe a serviceman brought it back during his secret service operation to subvert the soviet empire. But this is a different kind of project than the 1950s electric furnace because I don't really care if the moped ever runs. I'll learn a bit about eastern block mass manufacturing and maybe move it a step closer to working and stay busy and out of my room that reeks of dog fur. The furnace was life or death with additional stress of desperation and back pain. The moped is a hobby.

For some reason this Star Wars creature was named after my moped

In case you are wondering my Vespa design is superior to this cheap Czech slave factory knockoff. No wonder they lost the cold war! There is something called a Thrysistor and the carburetor is installed backwards. The fuel tank is removable, which is a nice feature, but the gaskets appear to be made from Stalin's underwear.

However, if anyone has any idea where the ignition coil is mounted then I need to know. This one was taped to the back rack since the piston had no rings. The owner is the owner of the garage and he had it apart 3 years ago and has since left it to rot. I'm the last hope.

War

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The North's National Defense Commission said the moves would feed into an "upcoming all-out action" that would target the United States, "the sworn enemy of the Korean people."

You know, war leads to more war. There is no military solution and as the escalation of critical climate related resources being lost continues to obliterate a gluttonous way of life I melt into obilivion. I watched a hedge fund futurist speak with total glee about the future of technology and it was obvious he knew only the technical details about gold mining, tar sands, oil, solar, circuit board assembly. He's scratched the surface of many fields and kept his own reality isolated from the cause and effect of his choices. Some people can allow laborers to do their dirty work but I'm repulsed when those same people pretend the dirty work is clean and the lettuce pickers of America sing work songs in merry solidarity. Their ignorance is the fiber in the pillow they lay their empty heads on at night. Because the disparity of lifestyles now allows this effrontery even Charlie Rose nodded happily. "Yes, tell me more about the future of the world for white imperialist Americans."
I'm trying to do the math on the number of slaves in 1840 compared to the number of black people in jail in 2013. I'm thinking the inmates have the slaves beat. Percentage-wise there are more free black people but the net number of slaves is higher today. There is an breakdown in ethics that I want to go on record as having strong concerns about. I'm puzzled as the pallet of my experience fluctuates like a bullfrog's throat.
There will either be an age of enlightened peace or there will be endless conflict until climate prevents any form of tenable existence on earth. Our digital memory will capture our gluttony and ignorance like dying lions in staged safari parks. The blighted desert will be renamed "paradise" and the meek will flock with peasant skirts and ragged faces to bow before the bleak fortress of the mighty. The lexicon is already under siege.

"If humans make it possible then one day it will be necessary." Oggy Bleacher

Digital Memories

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Maybe it's a blessing in disguise but my previous laptop computer didn't have enough memory to fit my whole library of wolf quest video footage so I put it all on my external drive, which was supposed to be my emergency back up drive, but when it has the only copy of data then it's a primary drive. I meant to transfer it all to my new computer but never got around to it. Well, that drive failed the other day with no warning after 3 years and this picture of me walking into the New Foundland gloom wearing my bell bottom pants is the only thing I saved to my computer of 8 hours of footage.
Maybe I was spending too much time obsessed with the past and now this failure has freed me from the bonds of editing that video. It's all gone along with 190 GB of pirated porn and music.

Heritage

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If by some miracle I fathered a childthen that child would never know his great-grandparents. He wouldn'tknow Abraham Lincoln either so that might not come as a big surprise.But my point is that he would not know people who were instrumentalin his own existence and formative to my own.
I drove both of my grandfather's cars.They preferred larger 8 cylinder cruisers with power windows andblue or brown interiors. Neither of them owned as much as a socketset. Their cars smelled like baby powder and aftershave. Their wordsas we cruised down the street were casual references to my beard, jobprospects and girlfriends.

My mother's father, Sam, rubbed hisknee replacement while he drove with a hand covered by white hair onthe knuckles, his blue polyester slacks binding at the thigh. He worepatent leather loafers and white socks and button up short sleeveshirts with a white tank top underneath. He wore silver dollar bolo ties and didn't think that was unusual. He had a way of working thesteering wheel like it was a ship's anchor line that needed turning.That was a sturdy steering wheel, by the way, strong, indestructible.It's probably still out there somewhere!"Well, Oggy, you won't get richdoin' nothin'. Clothes a mess...face all a hairy. Boy-o-boy!"His tone, a toothy New England farmfolk slang, said it all, that I was hardly worth lecturing with mygirl hair length and fake frame glasses and flowery tank top shirtwith nothing to cover it."Good looking boy like you hidingbehind all that hair? Look, there's a barber. How about it? I'llpay!"Never mind that this grandfather hadlost his hair by the time he was thirty so the option of growing amane like mine was never one to choose. I would nod because when heframed the topic thusly I really had no rebuttal. He had enjoyedtaking photographs and one picture he took of our house in Maine willforever represent an idea and image I have of my early childhood. Icould have argued that like his interest in photography had bornfruit, I too had amateur designs on a life as a writer and my firstassignment to myself was to read. But raising the lofty example ofHermann Hesse or Jack Kerouac would have been futile so I was contentto listen to the talk radio station and watch the college studentsmerrily march their books to class. Our big blue Oldsmobile thundereddown the street under my grandfather's sure hand. I'd say he was 83at the time and we were on our way to visit his wife in the long-termcare facility. He made me banana pancakes for lunch with maple syrupand butter and considered it the height of acceptable gluttony. Hiswife liked playing scrabble and getting postcards from her daughters.She didn't drive at all from what I could remember.
The last time I drove with my father'sfather, Bob, the source of my middle name, it was down a tree linedcorridor in the college town of his adult life. I was certain wewould crash because he was genuinely oblivious to other drivers,pedestrians, obstacles, stop signs, lights, cats, everything. Hesquinted through his glasses and muttered with grumpy dissuasion.He'd had a stroke some years earlier and a man of few words became aman of no words. He was probably 92 years old and we weregoing to fill a prescription at the drug store."Stop sign!" I blurted as weglided through a four way stop.He muttered while I gripped the doorhandle.His wife had been the talker of thefamily...her elocution and mannerisms borrowed from KatherineHepburn. Bob was the keeper of the cigarettes, the guy bringing inmore wood to the fireplace."School?" He askedtentatively as he had long abandoned my fate to the Gods.My college career had beendisillusioning so I'd decided to take some time for independentstudy. I summed this up by saying, "One day. But latelyI'm reading.
I emphasized this last word like he washard of hearing, but he wasn't. His lack of voice command made methink he couldn't understand words either."Bullshit!" he said andmuttered something to the effect that this was blowing smoke up hisass and that I was malingering. I tossed my hands up futilely,surrendering. I had to save my strength up for real arguments with myfather about the nature of violence and the effect hunger strikeshave on world affairs. My two sets of grandparents lived inthe same small town for most of their lives, a detail that isn'tcommon and is becoming less common as biology and chemistry becomeless reliant on sociology.
If my son were born I would tell himhis grandparents live in Australia and Holland and I'd need a map ofthe entire planet to show him where those places are. Mygrandparents, on the other hand, lived in the same zip code andprobably shopped at the same grocery store and had their paperdelivered by the same paper boy. I could find both their houses on asingle town map. More importantly, I'm thinking of the lack ofemotional connection my child would have with his predeceasedgreat-grandparents. Most of us don't know who our great-grandparentsare so we can all relate. We come into the world and can only hearthe echoes of their voices in the behavior patterns of ourgrandparents, whom we hardly give a second thought to until they dieor are stricken or send us large Christmas checks, and in the barelycontained battle our parents wage for control. It's already laid out,our genetic infrastructure, and the architects are dead. We drivethrough town oblivious to the stop signs and intersections theypreviously paved, plowing through the fields they planted and parkingon their flower beds.