2005-11-09 21:57:00
Huh, David Allen Coe's "Perfect Country and Western Song" really is perfect
Went to this poetry slam thing the other night. I enjoyed it for the most part. Well, half of it. But it's alright, it got me out gave me a place to drink and smoke and just get out of my own head for a bit.
I'm not a poet myself, and frankly, I don't always get it. I don't mean it's a requirement that a poet blows my mind, because most people who call themselves poets just aren't capable of that. Hell, only a handful of musicians can pull it off. Science blows my mind. Nature blows my mind. ****ing plants that camouflage themselves as rocks or get their nutrients by trapping insects with their nectar and flute-like design blow my mind. The mother****ing frogs that can suss out that these plants are one part Denny's and one part abattoir for flies and hang around the entrance to jump one or two that might be daydreaming on their way in...they blow my mind.
Poets for the most part piss me off. And then there are the times that even the most shit poets can impress me just by adding a little bit of showmanship into the mix. Now and then you get one that is a bit of a carnival barker or a bit of a jazz musician, and I like that. I admire those who can do that because I want to be entertained. That's all, really. If I want to see life from a different angle, I'll put some sort of lens to my eye and look at it from whatever angle I choose.
So, I guess I've been doing that lately as I've started getting into photography. Now, I've always had a Polaroid camera or a pocket camera of some sort since I was a kid, I just never thought of saying that I was "into photography" or "a photographer" and various other "labels" that can be wedged between "quotation marks." Just as I always had tape recorders and drumsticks around the house, I still find it difficult to not state my occupation as "in a band" to actual, real live, gen-u-ine "musician." The only difference now is that Manson gave me a pinhole camera and wants me to do a show. Gidget told me to get a Holga, and I did. I was a little surprised when it arrived in the mail, because when I opened it, I couldn't remember sending General Mills any cereal box tops. Then I remembered that last year I sent away for a Boo Berry bobblehead and that little bitch still hasn't arrived.
I think I'll send the cereal company my latest Polaroid titled, "One-Eyed Albino Snake in Natural Habitat."


Tim:Those camo plants are sexy, but it's not good to put your thing on them.
Holga me. I ghost real pretty.
pogo:Those camo plants are sexy, but it's not good to put your thing on them.
Well, the good news is that the rash is almost cleared up now.
I think if I used a Holga on you, I might see you in focus for the first time in my life.
manson:We'll have to showcase everyone's secondary art and have one show. My watercolors, your photography and Tim's... well, Tim will just have to be there. When people ask what his other art is, we'll just point at him and they'll understand.
pogo:Can we duct tape him to the wall and call it art? He might enjoy that, leaving one hand free for lighting his cigarette, of course.

2005-07-2603:13:00
Strike that, reverse it.
Reading too many esoteric books at once is very dangerous.
Lying open in various places I hang out in are Asimov's The Human Body, The Tao of Jeet Kune Do, and a paperback of mostly-****ing-awesome zombie short stories called The Book of the Dead.
This brain-wrenching combination, plus some recreational chemistry, led me today to the revelation that we still carry the signs of the first forms of life--something like a worm. Not much to differentiate head versus tail.
This is still visible in the symmetry of the parts of the face and head and parts of the genitalia. Nose-type structure attached to various glands; clitoris or penis type structure attached to various glands. The rectum and the mouth feel about the same inside; have the same ring-structured closure. Eyeballs seem to be the head-version of testicles, even down to the tear-ducts still being connected to the nose. Nasally ejaculating tears happens when you cry, of course. Fortunately we seem to have re-assigned the muscles that lead to this being so forceful, since spurting mucus and lachrymal fluid at distant bystanders would make funerals very, very messy.
This is all kinds of fascinating in a yin-yang balance kind of meditation. However, I'm betting I'm not going to be happy if I remember this revelation while on a strong psychedelic. Seeing a pair of hairy balls in my eye sockets is the kind of thing I could do without.

manson：The mental image of my eyelids peeling away from a pair of testicles has severely creeped me out. I'm afraid to unzip. Though this begs the question: would I have one brown ball and one blue ball?

2005-05-1715:01:00
I was just thinking...someone should invent chocolate pudding flavored bubble gum. And I know what you're probably thinking: why chocolate pudding? Because I've already tried making beer bubble gum and the alcohol doesn't last for very long. And really, what's the point of non-alcoholic beer? Do people actually drink it for the flavor? That's as insane as drinking water, which, to me, will always and forever be a mixer. Nothing more.
So what's everyone doing for Memorial Day? Working on some memory erasers, hopefully.

manson：Those were my plans exactly. Well, more or less. Consume mass quantities with the quality costumed masses.

2005-03-1521:43:00
First of all, I like meat. I love the fact that I was blessed with the dental equipment required to tear and finely shred animal flesh into easy-to-swallow chunks. Barbeque ribs, t-bone steaks, pork chops, lamb kebab, fried chicken: if it moo-ed, baa-ed, clucked, or starred in a rural 60s sitcom starring Eva Gabor, I'll take it.
However, at one point in my many years, I had some dental work that somehow left my pearly whites with the kind of chewing ability of a busted pencil sharpener. You know the kind that when you put a pencil into the hole, instead of pulling out a writing implement shaved and buffed to a point you could give a Prince Albert with, you come back with a pencil that looks like your dog has been using as a chew toy. And you can't even attempt to sharpen any more pencils, because there are so many chunks of wood and lead in there jamming up the works that it's decided it's lost the will to live and has called Dr. Kevorkian.
In other words, I get food stuck in my teeth. And unlike some other people, I shun toothpicks, because I figure if I stick one of those things in there, the tip will just break off, and I'll have bits of wood stuck in my bridgework. Then, I'd just end up sticking something else in there, and it'll get stuck, and before you know it, I'm going to pick up my date with half the interior of my desk jutting out of my mouth.
So, I attempt to work out the offending bit of food with my tongue, which almost never works. No, I'll be sitting there--perhaps with a lady friend--poking and prodding and disfiguring my face in such a way that makes me look like I'm a D-student of the Actor's Studio that she'll have to take it upon herself to find a magazine or pretend to be really interested in the menu if we're in a restaurant in order to make it look like she's not completely horrified by this rock musician who looks like he's trying to swallow his own tonsils. Eventually, my tongue will get tired and I'll concede defeat, excusing myself to go to the bathroom where I can whip out the dental floss and have a party. And when I say party, I mean party. Because as soon as I do that, I'm in for the night. With the same piece of floss, I'll go between each tooth at least ten times. Like an archaeologist searching for a lost civilization, I keep hoping to find something below the surface if I'm patient and just keep at it long enough.


2005-02-1512:03:00
Typical finish to a Mexican concert. I end up dressed in a cassock taking peyote in the desert with the ghost of Jim Morrison.
It was Ash Wednesday. So, it starts with the religious protests, but what they don't know is that they're dealing with some bastards who are armed to the teeth with Catholic dogma. The cassock just helps me blend in without fans getting a whiff of what's going down.
In a series of verbal thrusts and parries I either convince them that we're all ****ed and going to hell or that they can relax for a bit. There are always Last Rites and deathbed confessions. Plenty of time. And who says Purgatory is a bad thing? Who says this isn't just a little bit worse?
While my resulting smugness is nothing to sneeze at, I tend to feel a little unclean myself about the whole experience and seek purification. Unfortunately, tequila isn't the metaphysical Drano it used to be, and something a little more solvent is required. Jim's usually the only one who speaks enough English to point me in the direction of the nearest bus station.
So, I just got home, and this time without having smuggled a few migrant workers over the border. That's what I gave up for Lent, you see.


2005-01-0510:14:00
In other news
We've had to cancel our upcoming concert in Bangkok, which sucks. I guess they have enough destruction over there without having to worry about cleaning up after us. I might take a trip there myself whenever they're up and running again. For now, no Thai food, no Thai beer, and no getting to reveal to Mark that the hot Thai chick he's been making out with is actually a man, baby.
So, a guy came up to me the other day and asked, "Oh, wise old Pogo, does this disaster in Asia foretell of Nostradamus' predictions about the end of the world? Has the earth been thrown off its axis, and will we soon be spinning into the inky blackness of outer space? Or is this God's way of bitch slapping us into reaching out to one another in the spirit of the brotherhood of man?"
Well, I took a sip of my drink and looked long at him before putting his mind at rest. I told him that yes, indeed, it was the end of the world. However, God could bodyslam us onto concrete and rub our faces on it like Ric Flair to Ricky Steamboat, and we'd still only reach out to lift our brothers up enough to throw them back in the ring.
Plus, we still have just a little way to go before the true end of the world. At that time, California will drop into the ocean, and I will look forward to it, because drunk guys can then stop asking me if it's the end of the world. But yeah, try to be nicer to each other anyway.
Disenchanted 10:58:37
2005-01-0509:46:00
So, you're still around, eh?
Happy birthday,Mr. Mother****er. I don't love you, but I have grown used to you and think you're kind of cool and all that.
Manuel will be knocking on your door this afternoon to deliver my present to you.


2004-12-0911:51:00
It wasn't his ****ing time. Safe journey, Dimebag. I'll raise a few glasses for you tonight.

2004-12-0214:03:00
I'm still here, but I'm sick. Good thing I've been drinking lots of liquids--about a case of long necks each night--and taking my meds. So what else is new... The day before Thanksgiving, we performed on the Late Show With David Letterman. I called my grandma the next day to ask her if she watched the show and how did she like it, and she said that she was proud of me and that she was thrilled to watch me playing keyboards all throughout the show. Unfortunately, I had to inform her that it was actually Paul Schaffer she had been watching, and that I was that little white blur at the back of the stage towards the end of the show. She said that was nice and that maybe I could try out to be the bandleader for that nice Carson Daley or something. Then I believe she wandered off to harvest a few buds from her private garden. We're back in Florida for the tour for a bit, so Grandma and I will be hanging out for awhile later on tonight. She's promised to take me to her favorite biker bar, so that should be fun. I'm still working on that bachelor party, which no one will help me with, so I may be a little busy this month and such. However, I'll post again soon with much more interesting stuff, along with my extensive Christmas wish list.
Buy buy!

2004-08-30 11:32:00
So bored I could kill myself
Bored, bored, bored. Damn you, ADHD. Why don't they bring back electric shock therapy? Seriously, back in the day, you went to your local mental hospital, got a nice white gown, robe, and slippers, and some nice brain damage later, you "rested" until someone put you in a wheel chair and carted you home.
Mom says I should get a girlfriend. That's not a bad idea, because I could use someone to keep watch should my house catch on fire while I'm blacked out. For now I do my drinking on the ground floor, so I don't fall down any stairs. At least I have that going for me.
I did manage to watch Manson on the MTV Video Music Awards last night. Yeah...Ok, I was less than impressed by the majority of the show, but it occurred to me that the VMAs have always sucked. Every year it's a contest of one-upmanship. Gotta do better than the year before. Gotta do better than the band before. Gotta be outrageous. Gotta make an impression. I'm bored with the bigger and better. The only good acts that show has ever had have been ours and Madonna's first "Like a Virgin" performance, and she went and destroyed my teenage memories by doing what she did last year. Yeah, I'm bitter. Feh, I say.
And where have the Osbourne kids gone? I didn't see a trace of them there, and I feel kind of lost and don't know what to do with myself now. Oh, Manson, good job, by the way.


2004-08-10 09:47:00
The greatest show on earth
As some of you may know, Pogo is not my given name. To others, this may come as a shock. Madonna Wayne Gacy is also not my real name, but merely a nom de jeu, and the moniker people know me by was taken from the life of one half of my namesakes. Pogo was in fact the name of the clown John Wayne Gacy used to entertain at children's parties.
Gacy, as you may know, was a bit of a ****head, right up to his dying day. While other serial killers out there garner some grudging respect or fascination from the general populace, Gacy didn't have a lot going for him. He wasn't an evil mastermind or a brilliant tactician. (Madonna was. Not anymore, but was. So, I guess I'm alright with that.) But if there is anything that impresses me about Gacy it was the sheer number of his victims, and how he managed to keep that many hidden buried in his crawlspace . I heard in the past year, the authorities went back to the site of his home to look for more. You know, like they wouldn't put it past him to have some stashed close to the earth's mantle.
Gacy was a big guy, so I guess you could say he was a good old boy who was good with his hands and put his back into his work. In essence, though, Gacy was the living embodiment of the Boogey Man. And what face do kids often associate with the supernatural enemy of children? The clown face.
Clowns are freaky, man. Even the most so-called beloved clowns of all time are just not happy things. Look at the classic hobo clown, Emmett Kelly. A homeless, manic-depressive. Is that what a five-year old wants at his birthday party?
So, why did I go with the clown theme onstage? Well, the inherent evil does have something to do with it, but mainly it comes down to seeing the circus when I was about 10 years old and watching the dozens of clowns jumping on one another. In particular, I remember seeing a baby clown and wondering how one produces a baby clown. I later came to the conclusion that clowns have clown sex, and if you even try to imagine clown sex, they become a more managable form of evil. Especially if you try to picture some of the props. Of course, when I later found out there was a such thing as a clown fetish, I wasn't the least bit surprised. Oh, I stay far, far away from the clown kink, but I always try to remember that clowns need good, good lovin' too.
Enjoy your breakfasts, folks.