Sunday, December 28, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
"Quitters arn't losers..."

"...we just have better shit to do than play your games."

I'm tired of the holidays. Christmas is gone, thank the fucking Church. Looking back, it was nothing but one massive argument about god damned cookies, and I'm fucking tired of that shit. Arguments and fighting that is. I could go for a cookie right now.

I was looking forward to New Years. Nice little party, some good Guinness, which I have been starved of this past month, and good times with good friends. That went out the fucking window today and on to the asphalt of Highway 99. Somewhere between Lodi and Sacramento. I did expect to denyed my requests for the New Year, but I wasn't expecting to be insulted by my OWN MOTHER.

Now I just want this fucking season done with so I can go back to school and bury my fucking skull in a text book.


Johnny Rumble

Monday, December 22, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Winter Wonderland

I got to go wine tasting this past weekend, among many other things. By, "I got to go wine tasting," I mean, "I got to play Designated Driver for my father and our vintner friend." I still had a good time though. Many interesting people, lots and lots of laughs, a loveable and cuddly 150 pound mutt of a dog with a missing toe, and one particular winery that impressed me enough to mention it.

Pushed back, and by pushed back, I mean pushed waaaaay back, in the woods between Grass Valley and Colfax on CA 174 is a relatively new winery called Solune. It had been snowing this past week at this altitude, and while I did later learn that winemaker Jacques Mercier had put sand on the paved driveway, it was of absolutley no help. I was driving a mini-van, front wheel drive, with summer performance tires on it. We never got stuck, but we had to make a charge up hill about six times before we got anywhere close to parking spot. And I'm glad that the people I carting around didn't let me give up.

The tasting room at Solune is wonderful. They choose not to hide thier machines and thier presses and all the hardware assosiated with wine making, but rather have it on functional display six feet away, damn near polished too. It wasn't a showroom, it was a workroom, and it was charming. It was like they had nothing to hide. The afore mentioned Mr. Jacques Mercier greeted us with a smile, and for me a complimentary bottle of water. Normally, when I walk into a tasting room, I feel a bit apprhencive and get that notion that I MUST buy something there. Not so at Solune. I felt like I WANTED to buy something here.

Mr. Mercier was even willing to have friendly banter with us, and told his back story. He had been doing amatuer winemaking and judging for 20 years before starting Solune with his partner Andrea. Sadly, that's all I remember because my senses were bugging out about the surrounding enviroment.

As for the wines themselves, I sadly cannot tell you anything about the taste, and nor I am I really qualified too, but the smells were fanstatic, and I can only imagine what the tastes were. But I do know they were wonderful, and I will know in the future because my father bought six bottles from Mr. Mercier personally, and has stated that he will continue to by more from him. All I know is, if one of those bottles gets cracked before I get a chance to go up there myself and get my own bottles, I will be downstairs with my Oliver Twist routine and a wine glass.

Honestly, how many people do you know with my diserning tastes and culinary background will tell you that I will be buying bottles of wine that I have only sniffed and not tasted?

Honestly, how many people will tell you go buy wine that they have only sniffed and not tasted?

Honestly, at least one has. Because I am telling you know.

Visit Solune. You will not regret it. Unless your one of those idiots that things Bud Light is the tasty drink out there.

Snow Drifted and Foward Stuck,

Johnny Rumble

Sunday, December 14, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
There She Is!!

The series is finally done! SamBakZa finally released the final installment of the There She Is!! flash series. I highly recommend all to go see the series in it's entireity.

Found here. Click on "amalloc" to get to the proper window.


Johnny Rumble

Saturday, November 29, 2008

Johnny Rumble:

"Alan Jackson got it right"

Anybody that reads this blog with any sort of regularity will know that I lay at the feet of the idols of Automotivedom. To pull a quote from an earlier blog, "I'm libal to stick my dick in the tail pipe while giving head to a turbocharger love." It's just how I roll.

Except currently my rolling has turned into an unbridled passion for the gas pedal. I drive a Saturn SL2 with a plaid panda velcroed to the back window sill. For the past year and a half, at least, I've been trying to avoid getting that itch that starts at the tips of fingers, travels through my heart and finally ends in the frontal lobe of my brain. That itch that causes me to flog the Saturn up and down mountain roads till I pass out from stimuli exhaustion.

Associated with this itch, which I have dubbed the "Driver's Itch," also comes with the following symptoms: Increased sex drive, non-verbal communication with inanimate objects with four wheels and an engine, and acute un-responsiveness to naked women or pie. Yes. Pie.

The Saturn was talking to me today. She was nervous, twitchy even. Like a feral cat that's been caged for too long. She pleaded to be set free. "I've been stuck in a rut, get me out." I put on some black dress pants. "Take me for a drive, beat me like a rented mule." Black dress shirt, black tie. "Are you taking me to my funeral, or to my heaven?" Remove the non-essential keys, condense to one wallet, slip on the Deer-Stags. "Come on, hurry up, let's go!"

I set her free, I just held the reins as she took me for a long jaunt through the Yuba Foothills. Laughing with glee and exciment, crossing the double-yellow lines without a care in the world, running up to seven-thousand revolutions and beyond.

"It's been too long darling."

I smiled.

She came home wet, hot and satisfied.

Laid rubber on the Cali Asphalt,

Johnny Rumble

Monday, November 17, 2008

Ok so my geekiness...but still

Ok this was too funny. Anyone read Any discworld novles. Some of htis stuff had me in stitches. I mean who comes up with this stuff.

Some examples:
Obama wishes Vimes was real so he could put him in charge of the War on Terror. Obama knows Vimes would end that sh*t in five minutes and then smoke a cigar.

Obama will bring peace between the Kirk and Picard factions.

Obama had to be talked out of appointing Captain America Secretary of State, and only acceded when he remembered that he was dead.

Obama is seeking to fill the position of the Secretary of Awesomeness. Bruce Campbell is rumored to be a strong contender for the new post.

And yes John, I'm a geek
Original site:

Friday, November 14, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Things in my pockets

1) A set of car keys
2) A wallet
3) An ID wallet
4) A cell phone
5) A knife that is 4 inches long hilt to tip
6) A spare knife that is 3 inches long
7) A set of 3 throwing knife that are attached to my boots
8) A lighter
9) A spare lighter
10) A spare lighter in my belt buckle
11) A hip flask full of Scotch
12) A travel sewing kit with black thread
13) A Flash Drive
14) A Flash Drive Music Player
15) An Assortment of loose change
16) An assortment of safety pins

I used to watch MacGyver as a small child. All I need is a tube sock and a Richard Dean Anderson mask and I'd be set.

Jingle Jangle,

Johnny Rumble

Thursday, November 13, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
The Moral Man-Whore

Call me fucking insane and stupid and mentally retarted.

No, please, do so.

I've set myself up into a very precarious situation with two different women that acctually know each other and do live in the same zip code. And they know ABOUT each other.

But first I feel that I must repeat the rules of cheating.

1) You shall not cheat
2) If you do cheat, you will cheat in a way that is dignified.
3) If you cannot be dignified, they shall not know each other.
4) If they do know each other, they will not live in the same zip code.
5) If they live in the same zip code, revert to rule number 1.

I have broken all of these rules in the past 5 days. And they know it. And for some strange reason, they are okay with it.

Maybe it has something to do with the fact that I'm not dating either of them...

Me Love You Long Time,

Johnny Rumble

Sunday, November 09, 2008

College Life

So recently- Yesterday in fact, my mom came to visit so we talked and caught up then we went to Best Buy and I got the Clash Live at Shea Stadium which I thought was really good. I also got the Joe Strummer Documentry, The future is Unwritten and what a break it shows from the pubrock days to the punk scene, him not talking to anyone from that time period even though months sepereated the transition. Still super good music though, and everyones human, can't be perfect- which would maybe suck if you think about it cos you learn by what happens right? If nothing ever challanges you then where do you go from there?

Anyway now that I've done my history paper, and school in general has calmed down a bit I will be able to work on stuff so expect a bit more.


Sunday, November 02, 2008

Johnny Rumble:

I love my boots. Correction, I fuck/love my boots. They're heavy, they're solid, and they're steel toed elements of cabinet destruction (amongst other things). I wear them to work, to school, to shows, around down, to play in the mud, and on Thursday nights.

My boots should be cleaned, but the dirt, the mud, bits of dog shit, and torn and abused leather top covering all tell stories abot where my boots have been, tell a story of what they have done, and the story of whose boots they've been knocking against.

I could tell you that Lee Hazlewood penned out the famous lyrics about my boots, but it was before thier time. My boots show an irreverence for shoes. They mock them at night.

One woman complains about my boots.

"Do you always wear your boots?"

"Three-sixty-four days a year."

"Well, take them off and come to bed."

Stamped and Oi! approved,

Johnny Rumble

Saturday, November 01, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
A Matter of Life and Death

I loath hospitals. The absolute sterility of the walls, the floor, and the air itself violates my senses and forces my brain to run wild with thoughts of "Life is born that way...and the dead go that way. I hate this place."

So I avoid hospitals and clinics like the Clap or the Plague. Ninety-nine point nine nine percent of the time, I won't even walk into a place of medical worship, even if my own health is on the line. Being sick for five months straight is not a fun time, but I'd rather take that (and have) than go be treated like a pin cushion by some nutjob that has the title Doctor in front of his name.

I had to go to a hospital the wee hours of Friday morning.

I wanted to vomit on the floor of the ambulance.

Yes, ambulance. I was not taken to the hosptial, so much as shuttled there with the pomp and circumstance of flashing lights and a one man band. One minute I'm playing pool, having a few drinks with friends, the next I'm playing TACAMO with the people around me, the barkeep, the EMTs and all the wacko doctors.

Fortunatly, it wasn't me in the gurney.

Stayin Alive, Stayin Alive

Johnny Rumble

Tuesday, October 21, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Back On The Bottle

Oh yes. It's true. I quit trying to quit. A quit quitter.

But the time away from the demon drink has found me in a new train of thought about it. Where I didn't used to care about how drunk I'd get, or even where, I know look upon alcohol as an occational dose of relief from a stressful week, or the treat from doing such a good job on whatever it is that I did I good job on.

But I'd like to take a side trip down memory lane right now. And don't worry, we arn't going that far back.

This past week has been a very, very odd week for me. Starting on Wednesday, a evangelist showed up to the campus and started on the typical "God loves you so much that you're going to hell" Christian philosophy of love arguments and preaching. I learned that I was a sinner and that I was going to hell. I then learned that God does not forgive or forget the sins of men and women, and we ALL will have to atone and face judgement. I then learned that this particular Christian is a former crack dealer and gang banger. I made note of his statements, turned the tables, and he ignored me for the rest of the two hours I stood there heckling him and his "God's love" hate speech.

Then I got molested and groped twice by a woman that I don't know, and have never met in life. Don't ask, because I don't know.

Thursday night was debauchery night. Total debauchery. I got groped again by the same woman and finally learned her name. I then went to Homedown Buffet and had a deep and meaningful conversation with my friends about the differences between "cornbread" and "carn-bread." True southern cornbread with a true southern accent. Chuck in Guys and Dolls Poolhall and some Heineken Dark, and I was buzzing for the rest of night singing what I hoped was intune with the jukebox in the corner. We decided that this will become a weekly ritual.

Friday was Snookers (another pool hall) night, and I really got plastered. Balls to the wall, face in the mud, and down for the count plastered. That hang-over was the very first one I've ever had, and even then it went away after the first 30 minutes of the day. Which was afternoon.

Repeat Friday for Sunday night, this time back at Guys and Dolls, and you can imagine that my liver and kidneys are ready to call thier lawyer and request a divorce.

Sad thing is, I still have beer in the house that dosen't belong to me.

That Guy,

Johnny Rumble

Monday, October 13, 2008

Ya know what?

Yeah I know, I can't write..well not true, I know what I want to say, the plan rather. Actually writing the damn thing down is harder then it seems. So yeah, on that note, more for you to ponder.

Talk too much,
Always running in a rush.

You never know
What's going on.

So Open up those eyelids
Clean out your ears.

All those lies build up
We've got to break them down.

friends are all around
Feeling down?
Stop staring at the ground!

Erm so yeah heres another one...

Your just another obnoxious kid
With fucked up prioities
Look at you
Yell, scream and shout.
Yell, scream and shout.

The bullshit goes around
Everyone falls down.
Puking all night
Do you have control?

Running around
Around all hours.
Plaster that grin
All over your face.
Your still in the old rat race.

Sunday, October 05, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Acting As An Actor

"He's such a smart person.  He just needs to act like it."

The above words were uttered about me from a 17 year old girl to her mother after I spent an evening with that family.  They could never ring truer or make me smirk bigger than previously possible.

Well, except for that one time.  But I don't talk about that.

I've always been one to see the world as a grand stage and all the people in as the other actors and actresses or audience members.  Ever since I read To Kill A Mockingbird and became enamored with Dolphus Raymond, I have taken a direct view of keeping my thinking patterns and processes capped underneath a freewheeling, foul-mouthed and straight talking idiot.  I always revert to this character when confronted with a large group of people, and it keeps the expectations of me keep to a low enough threshold that I can continue to do what I love to do.  Observe.  Comprehend.  Understand.

In big group discussions, I don't necessarily have to join in anymore, or create flaming controveresy among the crowd.  I get to watch the converstion float from topic to topic, day to day, month to month, and birthday to birthday.  Keeping my radical and sometimes inflammitory views to myself allows those around me to feel more comfortable.  Like, maybe he's just, you know, like, one of us. 

Acting Out,

Johnny Rumble

Wednesday, October 01, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
This is Your Brain on College

My college carrer has never been one of glorious grades, or awesome clubs, or even wild out-of-control parties.  I've always kept to myself, and distanced my desk away from others.  I continue to watch and learn, try to understand, and ultimatly either fail or succeed at whatever I'm studing at the time.

Presently, this focus has been "others."  Outsiders, if you will.

Those people that fall into catagories that may or may not exist, but are somehow shunned by society due to thier physical apperance, thier ideas and thoughts, or just the way they walk and talk.  I'm amazed at how society has negelected these others, when it should be the other way around.  Watching, listening and talking with The Others has provided a great amount of insight into how the world really functions, and why toilets flush counter-clockwise in Australia.  These Others are brilliant masters at thinking and analysing the situations around them.

Eccentrics are also Others.  At least, the really odd ball eccentrics.  Militants enviromentalists fall into this catagory.  But I'm not going to talk about them.  I like my house too much to see it burned.  But those eccentrics that have the insane ability to make thier own clothes from scratch, and make them look as good, or better, than the store bought versions.  I especcially love the eccentrics that are eccentric at many different things.  Interior decoration and design, automotive engineering, fashion, art, scale modeling...imagine an Other that became not only knowledgeable, but skilled in all these areas of study!  How fabulous it would be to both observe and talk to this Other!

Unfortunatly, I'm in college, and as such, I have the displeasure of watching an entire groups of Others become reshaped into something more marketable and professional.  Certainly, there are few that can make it through and get degrees and go on to have excellent carrers doing exactly what they desire to in life, but how many peoples dreams and eccentricites are lost in the pursuit of a degree that will only tell a potential employer five, ten, fiveteen years down the road that the person is "trainable."

I'm starting to view the world, not a place to let dreams fly wild, where innovations superceed staid works, but as a 9-5 heartache, with all the lovely bits stored in a garage in the suburbs, waiting, like little children, to awaken and become different and engaging once again.


Johnny Rumble

Tuesday, September 30, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
The Hits Just Keep On Coming!

This blog, as it seems to have become in recent months due mostly to me breaking the established rules in the name of nothing, has recently had a massive upswing in hits lately.

I'm talking triple digit weeks baby!

But I now know why there seems to be such a huge upswing. Google and one particular post. I'm not sure why that one post seems to show up on Googles image screen so much, but it does. And I can't complain about it.

I've also found out a one other interesting fact as well.  Input into Googles search box "testical tattoo," and this post shows us as the number 1.  No shit.

Your Hit Single,

Johnny Rumble

Saturday, September 27, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
To Hampton, Virginia

It's been a long time since we last had a fight, and I for one, am rather glad of that.  Right now, I'm under too much stress trying to finish my associates degree to deal with the extra stress of anymore conflict.

But that isn't the point here.

Since that last time, I have done an incredible amount of maturing and growing, I've seen a multitude of counselors for various subject and reasons, I've made many new friends, and written a lot of new works.  I finally took that trip to Oklahoma City that I had always talked about.  It was refreshing to see Kyle again.  He teased me about you a bit, in fact.  Sadly, I don't remember enough of the weekend to satiate my appetite, mostly to do the excessive amount of alcohol I consumed while I was there.  I, in fact, came back on the plane completely trashed and had to explain to my creative writing teacher why I had the trash can next to my desk.

Next semester will be my last at Yuba College, for I will have a a General Education degree in Arts and Humanities.  Not the greatest I could have gotten, but enough to get me to a four year institution.  I'm pretty stoked about it.  I'm still working for my old boss, but I'm looking for another job to help pay for tuition next year.  I also quit drinking 100% completely.  I found that I was turning more and more to the bottle, and that's not where I wanted to be.  So I'm sober now, and while craving a beer, and upset that I cannot have one, I think i'm happier for it.

So, you know, I've done my thing, and you, you've done yours.

But since that day way, way back, I've come to realize a few things.  I still have feelings for you, but only in the vein of hoping for the best in your life.  It's odd to hear me say that I know, but it's true.  I've also realized that we weren't that compatable.  You were quiet and reserved, me boisterous and loud, with two completely different philosophies on life, love, and the general world around us.

I'm not angry or upset or hurt about what happened.  I've accepted it and moved on.  While I haven't yet found another serious relationship, I'm okay with it.  I'm getting by emotionally with I have.  I can only hope that with this, any ill will that I may have bared toward you can be at least forgiven, and at most, forgotten.  And while I may a hold a slight bit of animosity toward you and and toward everything that we, at one point, had, I would have you understand that it is just the way I deal with the turmoil that any lost friendship and relationship brings to bear on my soul.

I can only hope that your life gets better, and that you find all the happiness you can stand.

Much regard,

Johnny Rumble

Friday, September 26, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Six Gallons of Serial Head Fuck

Some of you will recognize earlier works that tied into this, noteably, SGSHF: the original text, that inspired the rest of it, Reve Liberte, and Nickles.  They were all a part of this overarching story.  I decided to release those seperately due the fact that I didn't know if I could get this done.  But, here it is!
Gallon #1: I, Being I

He was running. Sprinting. Trying to escape. Trying to get away, under the brush, over the wire, on his way to Granny’s house for all I, being I, could manage to write and direct. But I, being I, did not matter in this story. For he was running, trying to escape his ultimate fate.

“You might as well stop running David. I, being I, have created the world for you, and I, being I, watch everything and everywhere you go.”

His lungs were heaving, his body screaming, but still he ran. Trying. He ran, and I, being I, watched until he could run no more. Collapsed in a heap in the middle of a barley field, He and his lungs were still heaving from the stress he exerted on Himself.

“Why?” He cried, “Why me, Why now?”

“Because I, being I, am a writer. And I, being I, must write. I, being I, wrote you. And since I, being I, wrote you and created you, I, being I,, can destroy you, kill you off, put you on ice, make you disappear. I, being I, have condemned you.”

“But I could have done good things for this world. Told them the truth!”

“That matters not Gregory. I, being I, have condemned you.”

“Aww fuc-“ And He was gone.

I, being I, should apologize to you, the reader. I, being I, am afraid that you, the reader, came into the story a bit too early for I, being I,’s liking. Perhaps I, being I, should explain better. I, being I, am a writer. I, being I, am forced to create world where I, being I,’s characters live and breathe and eventually succumb to their fate.

I, being I, should introduce myself. I, being I, am Icarus Iambic Ian Istanbul al Icherman. I, being I, to those that worship my I, being I,’s deity-es-ness.

But enough about I, being I. You, the reader, came for a story, and I, being I, will give you a story. A story about chaos and order, French cars, Anarchistic voices, war, hot Nazi assassins, San Patricios, and the death of everybody. And Eggs.

I, being I, need to start with a character. I, being I, will start with a female lead this time. Better results I think.

It was a cold blustery night…

Gallon #2: The Story of Him and Her

The house was quiet except for the sounds of rhythmic moaning and grunting coming from the upstairs guest room. It could only mean one thing to her.

“Hubby found his partner for the night.” She sighed. “Least somebody is getting some action around here.”

She slid silently into the kitchen to fix herself some scrambled eggs, yet found none to be had in the fridge. Her thoughts again turned to the steady pounding upstairs and scrunched her face tightly. That’s going to stain the sheets, She thought to herself. “Might as well hope they haven’t used them all up in their fun and games.”

Her footsteps were intentionally heavy going up the wooden stairs to tell them they were about to be intruded upon. She paused at the door and the moaning got louder and more vulgar, but She continued after taking a deep breath. Barely touching the doorknob, the entire door seemed to keel over, and then it did, falling to the floor with a great clatter that was sure to wake the neighbors at this time of night. Her husband was unfazed by this new development in his quest to plough his partner senseless and kept at it, even taking the time to turn his head and wave to his wife between thrusts.

She watched them for a few moments before recognizing her husband’s partner. “Hey Steve.” Steve lifted his head off the pillow and smiled at her. She walked over the bed and kissed Steve on the cheek in friendship. His brow was sweaty, or it wasn’t sweat at all. She curled up on the stripped mattress next to Steve and watched him accept her husband from behind. She herself would be turned on if She wasn’t so bored with the idea.

All three of them made small talk while She watched her husband plunge his self into Steve. Finally, She asked, “Have you two used all the eggs in the house? Or are there a couple left over?” Steve reached over to the end table and handed her a couple of eggs. She again kissed Steve on the cheek and kissed her husband, on the lips. The both of them looked quite bored with what they were doing, but She left them to their own devices. As She exited the room, her husband came and She witnessed yellow yolk run down the inside of his thigh. She shrugged and lifted the door back on its hinges.

It was the next morning when He walked down the stairs. He was fortunate enough to have gotten a shower that morning to rinse of the trails of egg and semen across his body. Seeing his wife sprawled across the couch reading the morning paper, he padded over to her and kissed her. “I’ve got the next three days off. Why don’t we go on a vacation? To the redwoods? Or to see your mother?”

“That sounds like a good idea honey, but not to my mother’s. Last time we were there, she thought she was a prostitute,” She responded.

“At least she didn’t get the Furry idea in her head. Come is so difficult to get out of fuzz.” He dug around in the pantry and found what He was looking for. Chocolate cake. Thick, dark, moist with a cherry garnish. He giggled to himself at his own dirty thoughts. “So it’s settled then. To the Redwoods we will go.” He heard his wife gasp in shock and looked up from his cake. “What is it?”

“There was a crash on the I-5 last night. Hundred and fifty people killed. Police described the scene as a slaughter of human flesh,” She read aloud. He just grunted that he was listening. She continued, “Among the dead were a Nobel prize winner, five nuns and Jean Luc Godard. And-oh god this is tragic-a truck full of Prada and Gucci merchandise!”

He dropped his plate on the counter. “No, it can’t be true! A whole truck! What a disaster!”

“Yes, it says it right here, ‘purses, clutches, various articles of clothing, and the driver of the truck.’ An epic disaster indeed.”

The road was a long and winding one. If She wasn’t so used to his driving fast, She would be retching out the side window. As it stood, He was actually being rather conservative today. He had only hit about a half dozen woodland creatures in the two hours they had been driving. She turned down the rather violent rap music that was booming out of the stereo. “You know what really bugs me today? Humanity. Humanity bugs me. Whatever happened to culture, museums and education. Look at the younger people. All they care about is clothes and music that extols the virtues of ‘bitches and hoes,’ playing violently bloody video games. They don’t care about anyone else but themselves. Me, me, me, mentality. It’s sickening. Heck, the other day, I saw a young man mug an old lady, and another pass a car crash without a thought about stopping to help the poor people in the car. I tell you, society has failed. Look honey, an Afrikan on the side of the road, get closer and I’ll get him with the door.”

She flung open the door at the right time and sent the man sprawling on the pavement. She was sure She broke his back. “I mean, whatever happened to class and helping other people in need and being kind to your neighbors? It’s a sad, sad world we live in darling. The youth are lost.”

They drove along in silence for a few miles before he hit the brakes to avoid an overturned car on the side of the road. They slowed down and passed the wreck at a crawl. Blood was everywhere. On the asphalt, the grass, the trees, the car, limbs were strewn about, a half a head was lying on the dividing line. Part of the car was engulfed in flames, and a rather large, portly woman was hanging out of the sunroof screaming in pain and screaming for help in saving her luggage. Both the husband and wife surveyed the chaos around them. He quipped, “That’s what they get for buying cheap French junk.”

“The woods are nice this time of year. So much fresh air. The smell of pine trees and flowers. It’s great!” He really was enjoying himself thoroughly. His wife stopped momentarily to look at a flower.

“Such beauty, such innocence, such frailty,” She said, crushing the flower between her fingers, “such is the way of life.”

“Look,” He poked his wife in the head, “Down the trail. Somebody’s coming.”

They watched intently, and heard the person, now distinguishable as a woman muttering to herself and reading from a notebook, “My word, this story is excellent. ‘The old lady was clever enough and he thought that if she had started from any of the right premises, more might have been expected of her. She lived according to the laws of her own fantasy world outside of which he had never seen her set foot. The law of it was to sacrifice herself for him after she had first created the necessity to do so by making a mess of things.’ How deep! ‘If he had permitted her sacrifices, it was only because her lack of foresight had made them necessary.’”

The husband and wife just looked at each other with quizzical faces. He reached into his pocket slowly and brought out a lighter. A twinkle was set into his eye as He flicked it to life. He whispered to his wife, “Let’s burn her.” She nodded in agreement and jumped on the woman’s back. He brought the open flame to the woman’s simple dress and caught it on fire. Husband and wife held hands as they watched the old southern mental case become consumed in flames and let out agonizing screams. Smiles crept across their faces as the screaming died down into horrible silence. When the woman was nothing up a pile of ashes, He turned to his wife and said, “I never liked Flannery O’Connor anyway.”

“Wait”, She heard him say, “Do you hear that? Like a dialogue?” She paused and focused on the sounds of the forest. She heard nothing though. “Hang on, maybe it needs to be tuned.” Her husband went over and kicked a tree a number of times, each time a sound becoming louder and louder.

“Static,” She said, “simple static.”

“Hang on,” He snapped a tree limb off and everything came into starling clarity. A voice from the heavens opened up.


“Where is that voice coming from?” She looked around and spun in circles until her husband grabbed her.

“It is the divine command! We are listening to the divine being right now! Listen!”


“It sounds like His Divineness is an anarchist. Big time anarchist,” She flatly stated. “Perhaps the Government got it all wrong.”

“Of Course they did my dear, the Directive is soaked in the blood of millions. HE hates order. Listen.”


Gallon #3: Rêve Liberté!

With the final sacrifice,
Lives within world without sin
And a world without borders
Blue Helmets die for the peace
Lots the idiot lives for war
Chiens de guerre, Chiens de guerre, We must go away!

Human right kill, shift blame time
In opposition to all
Millions of rotting corpses
Lie restless in their mass graves
Betrayed the hopes which remain
Temps asservi, temps asservi, don't runaway!

Constant stream humanity
Shortwave broadcasting for all
Revolution of thoughts
A rich man grins, fat man sings
Liberty a dream away

Solidarité, solidarité, a-okay!

Vote the no confidence line
Remove the inbred office
Human reeducation
Personal renovation
With a birth of liberty!

Internationale, Internationale, What say you now?

Claim new peace for all people
A door held open for them
Equality and Justice
A social contract agreed
Never to be breached again

Rêve liberté, rêve liberté, n'oubliez jamais!

Gallon #4: Latex = Sexy

“Yes my Fuehrer, I understand my mission. No, my Fuehrer, I do not mind at all. It would be my honor to pleasure the Fuehrer in any way he wants,” she cooed as she licked her lips in anticipation.

“That’s a good fräulein. Here, why don’t you play with this for while,” the Fuehrer smiled wickedly.

“Heil Hister,” she cooed again, and set to her duties.

Das Fuehrer leaned back in his chair and was enjoying the minutes ticking by, until a box on his desk buzzed and lit up politely. Frustrated, The Fuehrer pressed the light and spoke, “Yes?”

The disconnected voice was gruff and near hostile, “My Fuehrer, I have news about our impending attack on the unclean in the northern reaches of the 4th Reich.”

“Is it vitally important General?”

“I would say more important than the girl under your desk my Feuhrer.”

The Feuhrer lifted his finger off the box, sighed and looked up at the ceiling while speaking to her, “I am afraid duty calls my fräulein.” She looked disappointed, but understood. Un-mussing herself with practiced efficiency, she left as He, The General walked in. Performing the request salute, The General started to apologize before being cut off. “What is so important that it cannot wait 15 minutes?”

“My Feuhrer, I felt it pertinent to inform you that our glorious armies have encountered more resistance than expected. The resistance in Norway and Sweden collapsed at the first sight of our troops, and Ireland fell within days…”

“And what of Scotland?”

“That’s just it, my Feuhrer. We have heard nothing from Scotland. Nothing at all. No radio communications, nothing. It’s as if the army have ceased to exist!”

A page burst into the room, panic stricken and sweating quite heavily, “My Feuhrer! Communication from Scotland!” He handed the written communiqué to the Feuhrer and stood ram rod straight waiting to be dismissed. He would have to wait a bit longer.

“Your Army is dead,” the Feuhrer’s voice crept higher in octaves, “Scotland is free, Your Reich will fall like all others, Long live San Patricios.” The Feuhrer lost it with the last words. “San Patricios?! Saint fucking Patrick?! The ghosts of The Battalion of Saint fucking Patrick?!” The Feuhrer smashed a lamp and kicked over an end table before storming to his desk to retrieve his side-arm. The general came to immediate attention.

The page stood straight and true until his brains painted the wall behind him.

For good measure, three more holes were placed into his chest before the Feuhrer was able to calm down enough to spit out a few words, “Kill them! Kill them all! I don’t care what it takes! Just kill them!”

The General straight arm saluted and marched out the door while he still had a chance. He heard down the hall the Feuhrer call out to his fräulein. “God help her if she fails at her mission.”

The phone rang. And it wasn’t any phone, it was The Phone. Straight from the top. “Yes?...No sir…Yes sir…Yes sir, right away sir…thank you sir…what?...oh yes, Heil Hister.”

It was Her time. The Feuhrer needed Her. An important mission. In Scotland. Kill San Patricios. Her smile turned devilishy evil as she became moist in all the right areas. The thought of bathing in Her victims’ blood became intoxicating to Her, and she knew she must leave right away.

Latex, she thought to herself, walking to her wardrobe, Might as well give our friend the Saint a little something to ogle at as I slit his neck.

Men are pigs, they can never keep their eyes to themselves. And the flight crew couldn’t. At least, until She nearly twisted the flight engineer’s head completely off. Serves him right. His corpse lay in a heap on the floor of the aircraft, unmoving and untouched. But She was still getting her fun out of him by exploring his body with Her bare feet.

“It’s too bad,” she spoke loud enough for rest of the crew to hear, “he might of….oooo…he did have potential. Oh my.”

The rest of the crew stayed dead silent for the rest of the trip (and banished all thoughts of what She was wearing) while She studied maps of the Scottish Highlands and read all the reports She could on Her prey. “If I were a man who dared called him a Saint, and Saint Patrick no less, I think I would be taking refuge, not is Scotland, but in Cumbria.” She stared at the map a little longer. “Where are you hiding little Saint? Come out come out where ever you are.”

Cumbria was empty of her target, and the latex wrapped assassin was getting frustrated. Her blood thirsty tendencies were really starting to come out of the coffin. She was hoping that she could at least keep some of them at bay and satiate the beast within her.

She had a gun to the temple of some 18 year old British Army Private. The prison warden had let her check this young man out of the camp. He seemed genuinely excited at first.

How the young are so stupid.

Her finger trembled on the trigger and started to slowly squeeze as she neared the point of no return, and punching him in the face, she finally reached that point. Her whole body seizing up, her finger squeezed the trigger completely, and allowed her inner beast to feed on the spirit of a fresh tender soul, while her physical body gorged itself on the good tidings.

Satisfied, she left the body and headed north.

Gallon #5: San Patricios

The mosquitoes were flinging themselves into the hills fast enough to cause little tufts of mud to radiate outward.

Damn deadly mosquitoes, he thought to himself. San Patricios quickly moved down the line of his men, keeping his head down, slapping each guy on the back in a sign of solidarity and brotherhood. A few men fell after he passed, and a few men fell before he could pass them. One lad caught his eye, hunkered down behind a group of rocks, visibly shaken. He laid his rifle down and placed a hand on his shoulder.

“What’s the matter?” he asked loud enough to be heard over the rapid bursts of rifle fire.

“I…I can’t do it. I don’t want to die. McTaffy…he’s dead. He’s dead…oh god.” The young man was crying full tilt now, and suffering serious battle fatigue. Patricios looked behind the young man and saw a body, minus a face lying in the dirt, rifle across it’s chest.

Patricios picked the young man’s rifle out of the dirt, and gently placed it in his hands, and told the young man to fall back to the rear. “It’s only going to get bloodier, and you’ve seen enough.” The young man looked in Patricios’ eyes questioningly, and he finally did move, but didn’t make it ten yards before five red holes opened up in his back. The lad was dead before he hit the ground.

Patricios looked on in pity but did nothing. He knew.

Turning over the still corpse of McTaffy, He took refuge behind the very same rocks and trained his rifle across the field, squeezing off a few rounds at the bobbing helmets of the oncoming French Nazis. One or two fell, but Patricios wasn’t sure if it was his bullets or somebody else’s that took their lives. In between all this, a radioman had joined by his side.

“Sir, report from Edinburgh. They say their falling back to Greyfriars Kirk, and they ask if you think Bloody George will keep the French out, and if not, will Bobby watch over them?”

Patricios laughed at the question and responded heartily, “You tell them to throw a grenade in that damn crypt and to kick the mangy mutt, ‘cause damned if they’re going home with toe tags.”

The radioman laughed and passed on the message. “They say sir, and I quote, “Good to hear, all we’ve got in our pockets are nickels.”

Patricios smiled at the words, turned to the radioman and asked, “What do you say we fuck off outta here Sergeant?”

“Claymores sir?”

“Pass the word along!” Patricios fired another clip.

It had been four months, and The Battalion had been harassing the French as much as they could. Unfortunately, The Battalions number were dwindling as more men died under the guns of the enemy, were captured, or threw down their weapons and walked out of the fight.

Patricios couldn’t hold grudge against those that had left, for he himself had thought about ending his fight and going home. But fought on he did.

Except right now. Sitting in a field yet untouched by the destruction of war outside the ruins of Inverness, the hundred or so men left in the Battalion of San Patricios were enjoying a meal of Beef Stew, hot coffee, and Scotch whisky. They were all tired, but spirits were high among the men, as they laughed or danced around a jury-rigged radio that a Corporal had managed to make.

Patricios stood up looked around at his men and smiled. He looked to the grey sky and wondered if he would ever see home, and whether or not if all of the men singing “Finnegan’s Wake” in front of him would see their homes as well. He hoped they would.

He turned and decided to take a short walk to clear his head and prep his mind for the next three months of combat. He marveled at the snow beneath his feet and how it made that childhood satisfying crunch as he trudged through it, he passed an old barn that looked on the verge of collapsing. Stopping at the top of a hill, he looked to the horizon and saw the River Ness flow gently in its banks. I wonder how Nessie is getting on with all the blood in the water. Patricios laughed inwardly. Probably out in the North Sea thinking, ‘Stupid humans.’

“It’s a cold but beautiful day, sir.” Sergeant O’Toole stepped up next to Patrick and handed him a cup of coffee. He accepted and took a sip from it. Together, they stood in silence overlooking the scenery like sentinels of a long forgotten era.

O’Toole broke the image. “Why are we doing what we are doing sir? I mean, if that’s not too much to ask.”

Patrick stood, gazing the land around for a few minutes, sipping his coffee before answer, “I can’t tell you, to be honest. Every person still here is doing it for their own reasons. I’ve never asked for a fealty. So I guess, why are you doing what you are doing O’Toole?”

O’Toole considered his words for a moment. “For my family, sir. So that they can know freedom again. And so that my daughters children, and their children will know freedom too.” He took a drink from his flask, and offered it to Patrick, who politely turned him down. “What about you, sir?”

“What about me?”

“Why do you do it? Why are you fighting?”

“For that,” Patrick pointed toward the horizon, “and for that,” she said, turning around and pointed back at the 100 men celebrating. “But top of the list, I’d have to say I fight for order.”

“Order, sir?”

“Yeah, order. Nazi’s don’t bug me so much, it’s the chaos that comes with them. You know, I heard rumors that Hister has a gay general that likes to shove eggs up his, and lights writers on fire in his spare time. He even hears voices.” O’Toole’s eyes started to go wide. “Wait, it gets better. The general is married to an assassin that has a fetish for killing people as she fucks them. Gets off on it. Scary shit. Hister himself is just an unstable crackpot that’s paranoid about nearly everything. Tulips scare the man. Go figure.”

O’Toole had to process Patrick’s words for some time. They stood there, silent and sentinel-like again. It was Patrick that broke the silence this time. “The IRA is back O’Toole.”


“The reason we left Ireland. The Irish Republican Army came back. Every single split, sub-group, splinter cell, they all came back. They all wave the same banner too.” Patrick sighed. “IRA. Irish Republican Army. You’ll never believe who’s arming them.”

O’Toole took a gander, “Armalite.”

“Their ‘Little Armalite.’” Patrick sighed again. “Eh, whatever. Danny Sullivan will do what he needs to do. To a Free Ireland.” He lifted his coffee cup.

“To a Free Celt Land,” O’Toole corrected him.


Patrick’s cup exploded.

Gallon #6: The End of Him, The Death of Her

God fucking damn it!, She thought as her head left the stock of the sniper rifle. God damned cross winds! She threw the weapon away, got up and ran to her right. She was sure that San Patricios would run quickly for his rifle, and then the game would be on.

Fortunately, she was able to “convince” a brigade major to attack San Patricios’ Battalion so that she might have the carnal pleasure of kill him herself. What She didn’t know is how long The Battalion would be engaged. If at all. I have to hurry. The anticipation is almost too much. I have kill him!

The snow around her was freshly fallen, so her footsteps, normally hidden and light, were very easy to track this time. Taking caution, She pulled her service pistol out of its holster and gripped it tightly and with practiced expertise. Checking for a round the chamber, She gingerly stepped out of the small patch of woods that had concealed Her so well.

The hill San Patricios was standing on was 400 meters away, and she knew she could cover that ground quickly enough sprinting, but that would let anyone on the other side know that somebody was coming. A deathtrap. So She took it slow, making sure that She wasn’t going to be caught without defense.

As She got closer, the unmistakable scent of blood filled her nostrils, and she became very pleased. Maybe I did get him. The smell grew stronger the closer to the hill She became, until finally She was kneeling the footprints of a man. Size 12 boots. Potential. The snow to the right of the prints was stained red, and the stain continued down the hill toward a dilapidated barn. You aren’t hurt San Patricios, but your little buddy surely is. Creeping down the hill with the same caution she used to get to and up it, Her brain was analyzing the surrounding. An old rusted out tractor, a wooden horse cart, a number of barrels and stacks of wood. Lots of places for an ambush San Patricios.

The blood trail rounded to the backside of a woodpile, and She crept up to and around it to find a soldier, a Sergeant by the looks of it, wheezing, and losing a lot of blood out of a hole in his chest. His eye’s fluttered open, and turned toward Her. Coughing up blood, he said, “So you’re that assassin bitch.”

Placing the barrel of the pistol to his left temple, she flatly stated, “Yes I am.”

“Go fuc-,” he slumped over, his brains littering the snow. She looked at this Sergeant, formerly a pretty man, able to attract the ladies on a Friday night, now missing half his head, lie in the snow. Dead.

“You know,” she heard a disembodied voice, “as sexy and provocative that latex suit of yours is, you have got to damn cold.” Her pistol immediately came up and started searching. “I mean, look at you. Marshmallow nipples.” She discovered that the voice was coming from the old barn, and she trained her sights on the door. “But then, that could just be from your idea of sex. Killing men. You’re a freak, you know that?”

She stood just outside the door, itself slightly ajar, hand outreached toward the hole where the knob used to be. But instead of pushing the door open, she emptied the clip in Her pistol across the face of it, at chest level, and fell backwards as bullets tore back of the door toward Her. Scrambling for cover behind the same woodpile where the Sergeants body lay, a number of bullets tore through the pile, just missing Her head. She heard the remnants of the door clatter open, and She stood, squeezing the trigger as fast She could, emptying another clip into the building.

“You say that I’m the freak,” She cooed as she installed a fresh clip, “but I don’t name myself after a dead Saint.” She saw out of the corner of Her eye San Patricios bolt out of the side door and duck behind the wooden horse cart. She re-oriented Her body to open up on the cart, but never got the chance as San Patricios opened up on her. Ducking, she ran for the cover of another woodpile, firing at the cart.

She cooed more, “I wonder what the death of Saint Patrick will do to his battalion. De-moralize? Or will they go out in a finally bloody push? All their blood is on your hands San Patricios. All the blood they spilled on your fields, for you. How does that make you feel? Knowing that your men died for nothing?” She peeked out from behind the pile and squeezed a couple rounds.

“It makes me feel damn good, assassin. They died for their own causes. Hey, you got any spare ammunition? I’m running low.”

A couple of rounds passed through the wood near Her.

“Sorry, none for your little pop gun,” she laughed out. “What are you shooting? Nine millimeter?”

“Nope. Fifty.” She felt her stomach explode into a burning sensation. She cried out in pain, dropped her pistol, and clutched her hands over the cavity where her intestines used to be. Slumping over, she could feel her life draining out between her fingers. It wasn’t long before she saw a figure come into her skyward vision, pointing a very big gun into her face.

Coughing blood, she managed to get out, “Somebody will get you San Patricios. You’re days are leaving you behind.”

He smiled, but kept the Desert Eagle leveled. “You forget something. I’m Saint Patrick. And I kill everybody.”

San Patricios squeezed the trigger.

In Paris, The General kicked the chair out from underneath him.

The Seventh Gallon: Burned At The Stake

You hear a gunshot, and you freeze just stand still for those few moments it takes to process, but it’s too late that guy you were about to pass is on the ground, and there’s red stuff leaking from him there’s another shot and another and the only thing you can think about it is getting down getting small but what about that guy you grab his collar and pull and pull and pull until he starts moving and you drag and drag and you hear more gun shots and hear a few hammer taps on the dumpster you’re trying to get behind you duck your head you keep pulling trying to get there trying to get to safety pulling that guy behind you and finally you’re there safe behind metal more hammer taps and you look down and there’s a pool of red all around you you look at the guy and he bleeding you hear the screech of tires but he’s just bleeding all the fucking place so much blood so much blood and you try to stop the bleeding but it’s all over the place on your hands on your boots on your cell phone and the 911 operator is trying to talk to you to keep you calm but there’s so much blood and you’re trying to save him trying to stop the bleeding putting pressure on the wound and you know that he’s dying but you try and he’s gargling something at you you tell him it’s going to be okay but there so much blood and you know better and 911 is still talking and he gargles more blood coming out of his mouth he holding on to you pulling and fighting to stay here you talk to him tell him not quit living and he bleeds more and more until there’s nothing he stops moving stops bleeding stops gargling and his hand lets go of your shirt and you know you know he’s gone but you just look at him keeping pressure on the wound, still trying crying now trying to save this man this guy but he’s gone his eyes lifeless, empty of life and 911 is now screaming on the phone trying to get you to listen, and the blood is pooled at your knees, but you tell them not to hurry, he’s gone now, as you close his dead eyes for the final time and look at him, you fish through your pockets looking for pennies, but all you have is a couple of nickels, and you wonder if the boatman has change. But it’s all you can do, just look at the nickels.

The carnage in front of me is too much.

Tuesday, September 16, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
How Stupid!

So I quit drinking alcohol today.

Now that you've picked yourself up off the floor from fainting...

I quit because I had to. I quit to make ends meet. I quit to keep a deal.

From the past expirences that I've had from the afternoon after all night drink fests, I have to wonder exactly how adapted to alcohol my system is. I don't throw up, I don't get hangovers, I don't get all the usual symptoms that plague normal people. My extended family has also had some severe problems with alcoholism, and I don't want to end up like that. This is going to sound bad but, when I have a beer in hand, I don't stop at just one. Or two. Or six, if the night is right. I drink.  And while I do so, I also do have the ability to quit drinking after one or two.  The problem is, I don't.  I like to drink.

I don't have the finances to keep a decent supply of beer or liqour in the fridge anymore.  I need to build my bank account back up to what it once was, so that come this time next year, I can choose a good college that's not in California or Michigan, and be able to make ends meet for at least two months, so I might get a job and start all over again.  I'd also like to make another trip out to Oklahoma City and commit more debauchery

Mostly with the woman that I made a deal and a commitment with.  While not going into the details, because, let's face it, it's not my story to tell, and not anybodies business but those she chooses to share it with, she was involved in some things that I, personally, do not approve of.  So in an effort to get us stop, to prevent a run-in with the John Law that we don't need on our respective records, and to hopefully improve our collective health in the long run, I agreed to stop drinking, if she would stop her actions.  She agreed.

Now I'm sober.


Johnny Rumble

Monday, September 15, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
I before E, Except after C

I find my inability to focus on writing, and getting the various writing projects I have around done, to be disturbing at the least and emotionally frustrating at the worst.  Yes, I have "broken down" when I can't get my words into the veins of cyberspace and beyond, but the problem is deeper than that I believe.  Deeper than the fact I haven't been sexed in over a year (which will irk me until I do get sexed), or the fact that I'm consistently frustrated and stress over how the fuck I ended up in California of all the fucking places, but to the very core of the issue.

I'm out of ideas.

I have no muse, so to speak, that can slap me upside the head and go, "Hey fucktard!  Write me a story!"  And aside from the typical complications of that muse (I usually become infatuated by them), the simple fact that there is no muse to had both at the moment, and probably not for at least another couple seasons, disheartens me greatly to the point of...

...not writing.

And while I can and could simply pick up where I left off on many of my "unfinisheds," I look at them and think, "Well fuck, how did I manage to write that?" or, more perpetually, "What the fuck?"  I find this weird, because the best works I've ever created have all been in the absence of this mythical muse, and only now does it decide to rear the ugly step sister known as Broomheilda.

Broomheilda, the vengeful goddess of abstinence.

Also, my beer fridge is empty.


Johnny Rumble

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Johnny Rumble:

You hear a gunshot, and you freeze just stand still for those few moments it takes to process, but it’s too late that guy you were about to pass is on the ground, and there’s red stuff leaking from him there’s another shot and another and the only thing you can think about it is getting down getting small but what about that guy you grab his collar and pull and pull and pull until he starts moving and you drag and drag and you hear more gun shots and hear a few hammer taps on the dumpster you’re trying to get behind you duck your head you keep pulling trying to get there trying to get to safety pulling that guy behind you and finally you’re there safe behind metal more hammer taps and you look down and there’s a pool of red all around you you look at the guy and he bleeding you hear the screech of tires but he’s just bleeding all the fucking place so much blood so much blood and you try to stop the bleeding but it’s all over the place on your hands on your boots on your cell phone and the 911 operator is trying to talk to you to keep you calm but there’s so much blood and you’re trying to save him trying to stop the bleeding putting pressure on the wound and you know that he’s dying but you try and he’s gargling something at you you tell him its going to be okay but there so much blood and you know better and 911 is still talking and he gargles more blood coming out of his mouth he holding on to you pulling and fighting to stay here you talk to him tell him not quit living and he bleeds more and more until there’s nothing he stops moving stops bleeding stops gargling and his hand lets go of your shirt and you know you know he’s gone but you just look at him keeping pressure on the wound, still trying crying now trying to save this man this guy but he’s gone his eyes lifeless, empty of life and 911 is now screaming on the phone trying to get you to listen, and the blood is pooled at your knees, but you tell them not to hurry, he’s gone now, as you close his dead eyes for the final time and look at him, you fish through your pockets looking for pennies, but all you have is a couple of nickels, and you wonder if the boatman has change. But it’s all you can do, just look at the nickels.

The carnage in front of you is too much.

Tuesday, September 09, 2008

Story so far

Ok, sorry for the delay, I have 6 pages down and another 2 more to go, which hopefully I will put up after the Hull game this weekend.


Sunday, September 07, 2008

Johnny Rumble:

It has been said of Johnny Rumble (aka Kilt Wearing Punk) that he was born somewhere between heaven and hell, and that while many professionals have tried to get into his head to better understand why he is so perpetually angry at everybody, every single one of them has been admitted to the funny farm themselves.

Truth be told, very few people know exactly who this man is, and the only thing that many of us have to go by is his own self description.

"I am a twenty-something adult. A third year college enrollee. Politically savvy, non-voting and politician-hater. I am a punk. I’m poor and broke everyday except payday. I live with my parents. I’m a drunk, a morality whore, ex-smoker, who doesn’t live for tomorrow. Or tonight. I’ve never done drugs. I listen to loud, vulgar music. I sing in the car. And anybody that has seen me will say the same thing. I’m a drivers driver. I love twisty mountain roads, full throttle straight-aways, and there is no speed limit. Only speed suggestions. I’ve nearly died, thrice. I go bridge jumping, Hot-tubing, traveling, cruising, I do a lot of cussing. I’m overweight, and will lie to your face about being okay with that. I work for a great boss, enjoy my job when it goes smoothly, and have named one of my tools “Bertha.” I’ve had three girlfriends, been shot-down more times than I want to recall, and lost my virginity. I’ve been told that I’m an excellent kisser. I’m overly romantic, sensitive, enjoy sunsets, raised by my mother, can give you off-the-cuff fashion advice, and feel more comfortable talking to group full of women than men. I have a best friend, and I miss that bastard something fierce. I’m Icelandic by birth, southerner by flesh, Oklahoman by heart, and Californian by unfortunate circumstance. That part about me singing? I lied. I sing about as well as Johnny Rotten. Perhaps I’m too blunt and realistic.

But all these things describe what I am, not who I am. So who am I?

I am the joy on a small child's face unwrapping Christmas gifts. I am the broken heart of a widowed solders wife. I am the tear of the just engaged, and the tear of the just lost. I am the bravery of the child hero, and the fear of the teenage incarcerated. I am whoever and whatever I choose to be. I am."

The mystery deepens. However, the one thing that can be ascertained from this collection of works is one thing…he is not a professional. And he makes James Joyce very, very dizzy in his grave.

Saturday, September 06, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Dialogue to Narration

Last year I was given a creative assignment to write a piece of dialogue to share with the class and then turn it into a narrative story. Mind, this is not a new work, it's almost 9 months old, and therefore completely deviod of anything I've picked up style wise since then.

The Dialogue:

X: Damn it Y! I’ve had it with these motherfucking snakes in this mother fucking…ow!

Y: You deserved it. That line is way over used, and at this point, quite passé. Besides, I’ve had it with these motherfucking quotes from these motherfucking movies.

X: Oh, so you get to say it, but not me.

Y: You catch on quick.

X: Ass.

Y: Hee-Haw.

X: Turn here, no here. Right there! Yes! There! I’m gonna slap you…OLD WOMAN!!!

Y: Quit griping. She was a million miles away. I’m not like you, having to hit every damn mailbox, car, sister, Nun what have you.

X: I’ve only been in eight accidents thank you. And that woman…I think you bowled her over man…no look, she’s still down. Hey, how fast are going?

Y: Sixty-five.

X: In a twenty five?

Y: Is that a problem? Would you like out? Here, I’ll unlock the doors for you. Jump out now, and you might land in those bush, nope missed those.

X: So anyway, You know that chicka from the party…um…I think Z was her name.

Y: Yeah Z, I know Z. Why?

X: Dude, she hot. Like crazy hot. And damn kinky.

Y: What do you mean? Those thigh-high Dom boots and plaid miniskirts?

X: Na man, she’s HOT.


X: Y, red light…Y red light…Y! REDLIGHT!!!


X: Jesus man. Hey, everything alright?

Y: Yeah, fine. You said she was hot? Like in the sack?

X: Ohhhh myyy goooood yes. She pulled this little trick with some hand cuffs…


X: Aw shit man. I knew I recognized those cuffs. Those were yours weren’t they. She was yours wasn’t she? That would explain why you weren’t around a lot the past few months. I’m sorry man. If I had known…

Y: Na. It’s fine. Me and Z are old bad news anyway. It was pretty much over by the party. I’m fine with it. It’s done, it’s over, and I can’t hold that night against you. Those boots are damn sexy anyway.

X: Yeah they are man…that’s what got me in….OW!

Y: Okay, now I’m over it. Where’s this pool hall? I feel like drinking some crappy beer and breaking a few sticks.

The Narration:

“Damn it Y! I’ve had it with these motherfucking snakes in this mother fucking…ow!”

“You deserved it,” I sneered at him, “That line is way over used, and at this point, quite passé. Besides, I’ve had it with these motherfucking quotes from these motherfucking movies.”

X turned toward me and sneered right back, “Oh, so you get to say it, but not me.”

“You catch on quick.”

He flipped me the bird, “Ass.” I bleated like a donkey.

It was a typical Saturday afternoon. Fortunately, both of our schedules finally lined up enough for a day of stupidity and nonsense. Naturally, as per tradition, we were impaired with alcohol, and driving. X stuck out his sausage like finger and pointed to a cross street.

“Turn here,” he said. I pointed at a different street. “No here.” I still pointed at the wrong street. X was amused, frustrated, but amused, “Right there! Yes! There!” I gave him a quizzical look. “I’m gonna slap you…OLD WOMAN!!!”

I barely managed to avoid her and her walker laden arms as we skidded around the corner. Nonetheless, I played it off, “Quit griping. She was a million miles away. I’m not like you, having to hit every damn mailbox, car, sister, Nun what have you.”

X took mock offence, “I’ve only been in eight accidents thank you. And that woman,” he turned in his seat, “I think you bowled her over man…no look, she’s still down. Hey, how fast are going?”
I peered between the spokes of the steering wheel and fixed my eyes on the orange needle, “Sixty-five.” X didn’t even blink.

“In a twenty five?”

“Is that a problem? Would you like out? Here, I’ll unlock the doors for you,” I reached over him and thumbed the door lock, “Jump out now, and you might land in those bushes…nope missed those.” X just laughed.

“So anyway,” he continued, “You know that chicka from the party…um…I think Z was her name.”

I flashed back to last night and thought about everything. “Yeah Z, I know Z. Why?”

X held his hands in front of himself like he had pair of tits to clutch, “Dude, she hot. Like crazy hot. And damn kinky.”

I gritted my teeth silently, “What do you mean? Those thigh-high Dom boots and plaid miniskirts?”

“Na man, she’s HOT.”

I zoned out. I thought about everything and nothing at all. I didn’t even hear X talk at me, “Y, red light…Y red light…Y! REDLIGHT!!!” We blew right through it. Cross traffic, pedestrians, everything and everybody. I was unfazed.

After X opened his eyes and got his heart rate back to normal he cautiously asked, “Jesus man. Hey, everything alright?”

I gritted my teeth further and cocked an eyebrow, playing it off, “Yeah, fine. You

said she was hot? Like in the sack?”

He let out this long, extremely contented sigh, “Oh my god yes. She pulled this little trick with some hand cuffs…”

He paused several heartbeats, and his face distorted like he had just eaten an over ripen lime.

“Aw shit man. I knew I recognized those cuffs. I’m sorry man. If I had known…”

I interrupted him, “Na. It’s fine. Me and Z are old bad news anyway. It was pretty much over by the party. I’m fine with it. It’s done, it’s over, and I can’t hold that night against you. Those boots are damn sexy anyway.”

X considered my words for a few moments before saying, “Yeah they are man…that’s what got me in….OW!” I punched his arm.

“Okay, now I’m over it. Where’s this pool hall? I feel like drinking some crappy beer and breaking a few sticks.”

Old, but still worthy to be on this site I think.


Johnny Rumble

Thursday, September 04, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Better Than Marysville

"Measure Your Success"

I got back today from probably the most relaxing and invigorating vacation I have ever had.  I don't remember some of it, it was that good.  Sadly, I'm starting to think that maybe I do slam the alcohol too much.

But, that is not the topic of this post.  This post is about this place.  And all it's terminal Hospital White-ness.  The black scheme was starting to annoy me.  This place has been black since February of 2006.  It's time to go white and harmonic and heavenly.  In a demonic sort of fashion naturally.

"The only thing keeping the halo up is a set of horns"

So I pretty much did hook up with my ex-girlfriend, for all purposes of telling pub stories.  It was good to get a little action after a long time since.  I don't regret it at all, which is really kind of weirding me out.  I always regret to some manner of bedroom antics.  Maybe it's because I wasn't in my bedroom, or her bedroom.  Just a bedroom.  The garage bedroom to be exact.  Uncommital and unregretable when people don't have to lie on the same sheets attached to the same mattress in the same room the next day.

Speaking of which, I've been getting that itch to completely re-shuffle my room again.  Don't ask why, cause I can't tell you.

I've decided to expand the Six Gallons story into a Seven part 'ballad/skunky opera.'  Everything will connect to everything, if not related and if not making sense.  So look for that probably in it's entirety around the turn of the month.  Here's a teaser for you...the writer is an active character that calls himself I, being I.


Johnny Rumble

Saturday, August 30, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
I'm All Outta Wack

I should be on a plane by the time anybody reads this. My Labor (or Solidarity, depending on whe you talk to me) Day plans are as follows:

1.) Get fucked up.
2.) There is no number 2.

When I get back, I think I'm gonna freshen this place up a bit. Give a new coat of paint so to speak. All the black dank is starting to look old and antique. So be ready for a glaring and jarring new look to things by September 7 or so.

But onward to the general thought process of the day. Sex. Or uncommited sex. Without relationship sex. One night stand sex. I'm talking fucking and dumping.

I've been pretty much told by both my best friend, and by my #2 ex-girlfriend that I'm going to banged like shit-house door while I'm tagging the Streets of Oklahoma City. I'm conflicted about this opportunity. On one hand, this excites my to no end. Sex. What's not to like?

On the other, I'm not the kind of person that can just get naked in front of, well, anyone. Not in front ex-girlfriend #2 to much either. I'm to much of a romantic to have that kind of night. Or Day. Or Morning.

Granted, when I'm writing this, it's a Wednesday afternoon, and you'll be reading on a Saturday at the earliest, so perhaps my feelings will have changed by the time I'm "boots down". More on this particular thought after Solidarity Day weekend though.


Johnny Rumble

Johnny Rumble:
St. John's

“Here, take your fucking cab fare! Fucking use you were last night!”

I fell on to the cold morning concrete of her front stoop, still wondering what the hell happened last night. “Hey! Can I at least get some water?”


That’s lovely.

Squeegeeing myself the best I could, I wrapped up against the snow. The street was empty this morning…or was it afternoon? I was never sure anymore. Either way, I was lucky the street was clean of people, because the trees were looking a little parched of water. Relieved, I struck up an inhaling contest with a fag, and he was giving me a good run for my money. Unfortunately, the fag was done for after two blocks. I had to find another one, and soon. Watching one’s own footprints disappear into the horizon is an interesting experience, so long as you don’t run into somebody else’s garbage cans or themselves.

The lines at confession were one deep. An altar boy waddled awkwardly out of the priests office, followed quickly by the priest himself.

“It’s not what you think,” he stammered.

“Whatever you say Father Jonas, just light a candle for him next time.”

God’s frozen piss was starting to come down again, and I had to find my way to Saint Brigid’s pronto. My vision was becoming clearer by the minute. The footstep trail got longer as the wind got faster and the white shit got deeper, and my mood got sourer the soberer I got.

“Fucking fuckers! I’ll fucking kill every single one of them. I’ll kill them all. For Ronny. I’ll kill them all for Ronny. Ronny and Pete. I’ll fucking kill those fuckers! And where’s the fucking Eddy?!”

I watched a shit brown rabbit scurry through the snow.

“Fuck this!”

I trudged through the shit weather. I kept thinking of Ronny and Pete.

“Saint Brigid’s. Fucking finally.” The oak door was solid. Fortunately, the lazy-ass barkeep was there. “Gimme beer and keep it coming,” I shouted at him. He was hesitant until the bar rattled. I wiped the water from my cheeks as I chugged my glass and pushed it back into the keepers hands. My face was getting wetter and I tried to hide it with the second glass of gold.
“You can’t keep running away forever Dan. Ronny and Pete lived well.”

“Fuck you!” I cried into my empty beer glass.

Thursday, August 28, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Johnny Obnoxious

My friend Annie wrote out a rhyming poem when she found out that I was going to be visiting my old stomping ground of Oklahoma City over Solidarity Day.  When I read it, I got so giddy that I was hyper for the rest of the day.

No shit.

Tell the city to watch out
Close your doors, don't go about
When the people ask me why
I'll tell them it's because the plane your on is in the sky

When the metal sky yacht lands
In the place of red dirt not sands
People are warned to be precautious
All becasue of johnny obnoxious

They call okc a safe place
But they must be referring to outer space
The police will have to take on a full load
Becasue johnny obnoxious is back on okc roads

Hahahahaha!!!  I love it I love it!!!

Johnny "Obnoxious" Rumble

Tuesday, August 26, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Waxing Philosophy

I try to live my life by three simple, yet effective, rules of thought.

1.)  It's the best day until tomorrow

2.)  Live for today, plan for tomorrow

3.)  Don't like life too seriously, you'll never get out alive.

It's only been in the past two or three years that I've really adopted these patterns to life.  I used to be that really quiet in the corner that looked like he could bring in a Kalashnikov and go nuts.  Always the brooding, introverted kid that seemed to sit back and watch the rest of the world have thier moments of zen and let the possibilties of life pass him by.

No more.  I now live by those three little rules and I have found my life has turned around for the better, and I'm able to interat with my peers much easier than before.  I, for one, am enjoying it.

Johnny Rumble

Monday, August 25, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Trying Haikus

Spring time butterfly
Flutter through the quiet woods
A bird has a snack

Slumbering giant
Kodiak bear hibernates
Await the season

A sleepy puppy
Nose twitches at tortilla
Pleading eyes of want

Eager planet rings
Shuttering with excitement
Off into the night

A crappy haiku
That I have written tonight
One beer too many

Johnny Rumble

Saturday, August 23, 2008

Johnny Rumble:

Oi Oi, Mr. Professer of Creative Writing

I read the little outline you gave me for this letter, and then promptly threw it in the garbage. So I’m not green, sue me. And I don’t follow directions either. I’m too punk rock for that anyway. But you asked to get to know me, and I can appreciate that. So I’m going to give a small treat to snack on. Or a small pebble. I’m random like that. I’m doing this completely off the cuff. No edited thoughts. Period. Okay, so maybe it’s a small boulder.

1.) I have no aspirations to be a professional writer.

I’m no where good enough to even think about that. Sure, I might have A fan-boy, but that’s nothing. So instead I just write for myself. I keep it private and all the family. Extended, non-blood, adopted, you-me-him-and-her included. By the way, how old is Lauren anyway? That outfit she showed up Wednesday was hot. Capital H, lowercase O, lowercase t, lowercase t hot. Anyway…

I think it would be cool if I saw your head spontaneously combust into flames after reading one of my pieces. Problem is, I don’t think I got anything better after 6 Gallons of Serial Head Fuck. I’ve been toying with something completely random and off the wall called either pornocopia, Pornation nation, or 3 iNCHS oF cRONIC cOCK aCHE…



Where did that come from?

I swear to you and your god, that was completely random. I had it typed out before I even knew what I was typing.

But I’m going to try to keep it clean while still really screwed up. No sex, no drugs. Maybe just some random blows to the testicles. And a penguin. And God. Again.

I learned last laughmester not to walk into this class with expectations. So I have none. But this one seems to be gelling quite nicely. Everybody fits in like a piece to a jigsaw puzzle. And I think this good. It should be a good semester, no doubt. So really, I have no goals this time around other than to have a good time and not take anything too seriously. Seriousness is a kill joy. And I’m riding my high all that way to the finish line. Like a flying couch. Snoopy’s got nothing on this trip.

Point 8.) I’m graduating this semester.

Wait, don’t breathe a sigh of relief yet. I’ll be around next semester again. Won’t that be exciting…


Johnny Rumble

Wednesday, August 20, 2008

Johnny Rumble:

I've always been interested in getting tattooed. Really tattooed. Not just an arm inking and small back tattoo. I mean REALLY tattooed with good stylings and real messages.

Messages that would acctually make anybody who read them to stand up and go "woah."

The first tattoo I ever thought of getting was a three stage tattoo on the sides of my skull and over my heart. On the left side would the Polish Flag for the analytical side of my life and the right side witht he creative thinking would have the Welsh Flag.  Over my heart would the Scottish Saltire and Lion Rampart on crossed poles.  Right below that would be my sporting love of West Ham United F.C. in a simple grey scale theme with maybe some light color highlights.

After finding out about how the Japanese did thier traditional tattooing, I have desired a traditionally done Lotus flower on the inside of my right ankle.  The subtle shading differences and complete lack of powered tattooing guns is something that intrigues me as a bit of a art appreciator.

The really big one that I've been wanting to get for the past year or so would take up my entire back.  A full color tribute to UN Peacekeepers.  I would take the classic fallen solider memorial of boots and rifle, but use a blue helmet with the UN logo on the side in place of the standard camoflague helmet.  The background would be the United Nations flag, and as the third and final layer, a word for word copy of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights as a spacer between the memorial and the flag.  This would a tattoo that would take up the entire back. 

Finally, I think I would get a pair of bright lipstick pink lips on my left butt cheek.  Just to round out the entire package.  Maybe I'd also get "P-U-N-X R-I-O-T" on my fingers in black light ink for the hell of it.

Either way, it's money.

Tuesday, August 19, 2008

Ok, whats going on...

Well first things first, May as well start off...Hull City have won their first ever Premierleague game, and looked solid overall so thats a super duper plus. Oh and John should be happy, Hammers won too, with Ashton scoring even, and get this..twice. So yer on to other important stuff. I'm going on vacation this next week, then I come back and drive down to school for start of term. I got four pages done in Canada and will continue writing in Cancun with dad, so far reaction has been postive to the first 3 pages with page for being crap(had to end it for plane ride) So I'm gonna start there when on vacation.

Secondly I am trying out ubuntu and can actually watch videos on youtube theres sound...but I think that was because I had pidgin running, not sure might have to test this some how. Though I do kinda like Fedora 9 and am used to it. Ubuntu help seems target to the Noob, and as much as I sell myself short, I'm not some moron who has to be told to read the fucking book first, thanks but did that before I popped into IRC. SO yeah Look for another update by me with the full introduction in the first two weeks of September- there I did i set a date.

Sunday, August 17, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Testical Sweater

"Hey, I got a question.  Have you ever shaved your pubic hair into a mohawk?"

I laughed.  Hard.  "Into a mohawk?  No.  Other things though."

"Like what?"

"And why do you want to know?"

She didn't have a good answer.  "Ummm...because?"

"Lemme think."  I took a swing of my beer.  "A heart.  I did a heart once.  Had a little curly tail too.  There was a Cross-Bones once.  I tried to do a skull, but I fucked that up royally.  Umm...shit, I did a pot leaf once.  Or at least tried."  I took another drink before nearly spewing it all over the table, "Oh, there was the time I did the anarchy symbol.  I was proud of that one.  Took me half a damn hour.  After ward I named it.  'Captain Anarchy and the Boy-Penis.'"

She gave me THAT look.

"What?  Some times the testical sweater needs to trimmed..."

Monday, August 11, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Greasy Fingernails

I love automobiles.  By love I mean that there are some cars out there I'm libal to stick my dick in the tail pipe while giving head to a turbocharger love.  The love I have for automobiles is that kind of primal savage love that nothing can get in the way of.  Not even girlfriends that think they arn't getting enough attention due to my savage love.

I love imports, domestics, hot rods, kustoms, rusty, new, old, concours winners and junkyard heaps.  I look at every single car of the road and my mind turns immediately to what I could do it to make it better, stronger, faster, more agile.

I pick up car magazines like Import Tuner, Makes and Models, Hot Rod, Ol' Skool Rods, Street Trucks and study them like they are some kind of bible for freaks in the church.  I saw an old couple in a 1950's era Chevorlet sedan and I gave him a thumbs up.  Two blocks later, I saw a girl in a Citroen 2CV.  Naturally, I rolled down my window.

"Hey!  Wanna drag race?"

I smiled, she laughed, and I told her she had a beautiful 2CV.  I turned right because I didn't have the heart to roll away from her by just barely tipping on the go pedal.  She was cute and the car was cuter.

I respect guys in ratted and rusty T's and A's while thinking of ways to piss off the those same faithful with thier own Rat-Style.  This fantasy has occured to me over the past few weeks.  That fantasy is to build a daily Rat-Rod that would piss off the Import guys, the Domestic guys, the Rat and Hot Rod guys while leaving all thier jaws on the floor. 

Imagine if you will, building a custom frame that would have a pushrod suspension, both indepedent front and rear, capable of taking the stresses occasional track days and still be supple and smooth for street duty, using either Technical Innovation coil-overs or comparable, dropping either a Toyota 2JZ-GTE or Nissan RB26-DETT between the frame rails tuned for about 400 horsepower, and then wrapping the entire thing in a Rat style Model A body, rusty,  converted to right hand drive with a laid back 1934 Ford Model B front grille.

This fantasy Rat of mine would piss off the Hot Rod and Rat Rod guys for using so many "non-Domestic" parts (read: Japanese Import), not using the traditional Chevorlet 350 motor or Ford Flat-Head, and worse of all, showing up to Rat and Hot Rod cruises.  The Import tuners would hate it for the Rat-Rod looks.

This is me.  I strive to think and imagine and eventually build custom and tuned cars that bust molds and stereo-types.  Most of all, I strive to have the cars for fun and adventure and to be different from the rest of the car culture.

Wednesday, August 06, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Shillelagh Law

Somedays I wish I was a better writer than I really am.  I compare my writings, my musings, and my stories to those of Sean Santa, Tatsuya Ishida, Rob the Bouncer and countless others, and compare my lyrical stylings to practically everyone, and find the I routinely come up short in terms of over all "goodness."  I respect and admire these people because they can wrap words around thier fingers like they were made of Twizzlers and make thier own come out so delicious.  Writers so good, they can create whole worlds with just a few strokes of the keyboard. My stories and expirences may be amusing and worth a laugh to some, but these artists are capable of so much more than I.  I envy them to some degree.

Then I think about this for a while, and I eventually come to the conclusion that they are in fact super-human writers, incapable of creating terrible works, impossible of screwing everything to hell.  I, on the other hand, am completely capable of this. 
I use Google for words I can't spell.  What kind of fuck uses Google for spell check?
Instead, my writing style is horribly chaoic, sprinkled with cuss words like that of above for added flavour, and then try to use British spellings to make me seem more learned.  I talk about love, people, relationships, anything that comes to mind, with out any sort of managment to thoughts and management and thoughts and managment...  Perhaps this is my strong suit however.  The ability to capture exactly what's flowing in the grey matter as my fingers hunt and peek the keys with the practiced efficiency of a 12 year old.  I had to Google 'efficiency.'  Pathetic.
But perhaps the errors and mistakes tell us something.  Maybe it tells us that the monkey behind the screen is really just a human looking for an outward expansion of his thoughts and feelings and emotions.  Maybe it shows us that we, and I, are just humans looking for that piece of happiness in our territory.

Sunday, August 03, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
Ecstasy = Alcohol

Occasionally, I like to write posts that are completely unrelated to the title. This isn't one of the posts, but it defiantly isn't the core issue. In fact, the absolute insanity and hilarity that has ensued over the past few days is the core punch line.

I find that peoples relationships to me to be interesting at the very least, to comical, to extremely fucking hilarious. Throw perhaps one or two moments of absolute depression, and it’s easy to figure out what happens to most of the people I know. They disappear from my life. Those that can appreciate my own quirks (mostly of me being a bastard) tend to stick around the longest, and perhaps for life. These few friends that have stuck around to see who I’ll piss off next I count as my greatest treasures on the shelf.

Right next to a plaid covered Panda with big plastic claws.

So many others have disappeared into the twilight of my life that I can no longer count them. Ex-Girlfriends, Ex-Best Friends, Ex-Cohorts, Ex-Crushes, I remember every single one of them for the good things they brought to my life, and I remember every single one of them for the bad things they brought to my life. Sometimes, one of them will re-appear in my life for a brief spell, which is cool, because that allows the rare glimpse to see how each of them has grown in their life.

When these people pop back into my life, the end result is usually grief and stress for me. Arguments tend to develop, feelings are hurt, and eventually, these people will leave my life once again with a bad taste in their mouth.

I, for one, am okay with this.

I’ve accepted that I am a bastard, and that I have the power to make people’s lives just that much worse. I exercised this power once unwittingly and without intention a couple of days ago, and with intention to avoid a situation I found myself Saturday morning. Both times, I do regret to some degree doing, but the incident Saturday Morning (which could probably be best described as stubbornness) was done out of necessity. I don’t break vows. I just don’t.

While Friday Night/Saturday Morning, with an extremely good party, extremely good alcohol, and extremely good friends, was an absolute de-stressor for me, its Labor Day weekend that I am looking forward to. Oklahoma City and the OKC metro area will be left in moral tatters for sure.

Johnny Rumble

Sunday, July 27, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
CD Mixes

As I sit here listening Jenny Rom vs The Zipper's Waka Laka on played on the speed on a crack addict, I do wonder about organizational sanity. In a very real sense, I put media (books, CD, DVDs) in thier alphabetical and chronological orders, and will get completely bent out of shape if just one of issues/box/cases gets out of wack. So much so, it will spur a complete break down of my typically strong willed senses.

This happened today.

Right now, I'm typing on the floor, my moniter is standing on the computer box, which is sideways, only because I have yet to get my furniture in thier rest places. My clothes are ripped out of the closet and dresser, my books and magazines are in a massive unorganized pile in front of the door, and my TV is upside down with SkySports reporting on the transfer season.

This is what happens when something goes astray. My cell phone just went off. But I can't find it. I think it's buried in a box.

But back to the real subject. Mixed CD's. I love them. I love CD mixes. I have a CD dedicated to War songs, to drinking songs, to Footie songs. I used to have a CD full of bagpipe music. I have gone through about five CD mixes of Electronica Music. I have other peoples mixes. I have mixes I found on the road.

Sometimes my organizational sanity will cross breed with my love CD mixes. Usually, I will just organize songs by thier titles, and call it good. Not this time. This time, I went through damn near a spindle of CD-R's trying to make the perfect mix. A love songs mix. Note, I have created exactly two Love Songs albums previous to tonight. And I gave both of them away to the people that inspired them. This one...this one however, has no muse. Call it Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Tasty...Perry Como's Papa Love Mumbo.

Normally, I would allow a slightly lengthy delay between songs if I forgot to program the delay out. Here, I refined it. Coal to Diamonds. And the order of songs. It's spot on. Fifteen perfect songs in the perfect order with the perfect delays with the perfect transitions. It would get me laid if I had a girlfriend. And if I hadn't snapped the disc in half 20 minutes ago.

Let's chaulk it up to memories that are better left suppressed. These memories are in fact a good reason why I haven't been terribly blatant with a particualar girl that asked me out for drinks back in May. I like her, and I can't really find the words to say that. She's smart, sassy, funny, quite beautiful looking, and if she can ever find the modeling work that she really wants, I'm sure that she could make it. And I can go so far as to say this, she's a bit of a hopeless romantic, but with a fiercly independent streak.

Quirky too. She has this phobia of movie theaters.

I'm laughing right now, beacuse out of the 203 hours of music that's on my dear computer, it decided to play Aqua. But no just Aqua, but Aqua's Barbie Girl. Cute.


Thursday, July 17, 2008

Ok, finally actually have time to sit down and think.

So I've been thinking a lot lately. Mainly about how the Little Dude is gonna interpret how I do things. Which leads me to be even more of a dork, ok I mean I've never really been a big rule breaker but now, I don't want to do anything that would encourage Little Dude to do something that is not ethical or whatever. I mean Right now I'm listening to Mega Bottle Ride by Joe Strummer and just relaxing. I'm thinking of the world that he will grow up with, How different it will be then the one I'm experiencing. Here is an example, at dinner tonight Dad said that in his lifetime, a presidential canidate was able to run on essentially a rasicst platform, and now the canidate that is the favorite in the polls is the opposite of that platform.

What else might change in his life time and later on between myself and my brother?

The Sky is grey
As the day does decline
I see one more bright ray
You've yet resigned.

Between innocence and cynicism
Will grow maturity
To have seen you grow
And the seeds you shall sow
Will the world need change?
Your gonna have to turn the page.

Don't grow up too quick
For you'll not get it back
For the next trick...

It's left up to you
If it's not yet untraveled.
Theres a road to take.