North Korea: Failure to Launch


I never watch the news, but you know what I saw on the news? The fucking humanitarian aid, the food and supplies, North Korea receives?  The North Korean people are told that these are tributes. To their Leader. Then, if they’re lucky, I guess they get to eat.

I imagine the sun shines and the rice grows to the greater glory of the current Kim. I imagine all of creation has been made into one big tribute—especially the bad parts. For there is no one for turning his own crimes into personal glory like the professional narcissist. But even if all you know is the amateur, it’s all the same. The absence, the carefully cultivated inability to acknowledge other people. These people are the Sun King, in their own lives.

Continue reading “North Korea: Failure to Launch”

There Be Dragons

My Dear Ms. Sessum,

Will you quit blogging such nice things about me …

How much easier to give than to forkin’ receive …

Most people never get out from under the rainshadow of their parents’ gaze …

It’s hard turf, hard to chart, hard to navigate. No maps. Lots of dark matter. A black hole or two, to marry.

Fate would bring a sweet soul into my life …

That awful noise you hear is some rusted hinge inside. Damned Fate, prying it open again.

Yours Truly,

Eliot Spitzer’s Professional Grovel


“I failed in a very important way in my personal life.” via

Eliot, baby.  Sweetcakes. This is not an apology. This is not making amends. After all, we have it willingly or no, imbedded in our brains, fuckhead, that you had sex with a hooker with your socks on. Stylish, silk business socks? Little clocks up the side? Were they the kind that stay up by themselves (no pun intended) or did you wear little garters, Eliot. Cookie-baby.

Not that I want to know. I think that’s the point.

“I think one of the largest, most difficult tasks that he has is to control the outrage that is brewing in the public, sympathize with it and garner it, but use it to get good policy, not policy based upon anger …”

Continue reading “Eliot Spitzer’s Professional Grovel”

You Don’t Understand

Bill Hicks on Letterman, Finally …the routine began with a segment about a new TV show he was going to do called, “Let’s Hunt and Kill Billy Ray Cyrus.”

The next episode, Hicks said, was—even better—going to be

“Lets Hunt and Kill Michael Bolton.”

I once tried to explain, on a YouTube comment list (talk about futility) why Michael Bolton was despicable. Continue reading “You Don’t Understand”

Over It

I am sooo over yesterday. You ever had the experience where you wake up the next day, and it’s not that you are somebody else … it’s, what makes you think a person is one single point of view. Hell, no. The art is to get bigger than all of it, you little hydra you, and like the membrane of a balloon, contain it. Affectionately. I am an asshole—now and then—and besides, I was dealing with a lawyer all day. A middle-aged white male lawyer.

Someone sent me a cartoon: a couple in a car, the wife is driving, and she says, “Oh, dear, I think I ran over a lawyer!” Husband says: “Well if you’re not sure, dear, back up and do it again.”

Nothing personal, if you are a lawyer (and reading this blog? why?) but as far as I can see, these people are paid great sums of money to lie. And after a while, the lies kinda slip into the category of normal, and if that isn’t morally compromising. How the hell do you keep track of right and wrong?

So about 3 a.m. I started at the beginning of Mystic Bourgeoisie, and right off saw that the title means something! All these clever blog monikers. Honey, we are the mystic bourgeoisie and of course I am never going there again. Tomorrow morning, first thing: torch all those self-help books left over from Eighties. Marianne Williamson? Up in smoke. I bought that stuff whilst involved in a romance that should never have happened, which will make you grasp at any manner of crappy straws.

From October 2005:

“Forgive me if I’ve already told you this, but I have a plan to claim the local Target store for the Queen of Spain. I figure if I can get an outlaw biker gang to back me up with stolen heavy construction equipment, I might be able to hold onto it long enough to make CNN. I’ll spend the rest of my life in the slammer, sure, but imagine the cred … ‘What’s he in for?’ ‘Who, that guy? Him and a bunch of berserker biker dudes claimed a Target store for the Queen of Spain.’ ‘Whoa! Far fuckin out.’“

What a pity. Finding the man you want to marry at my age, when I want to marry like I want to cut off my foot with the butter knife. It’s a sentiment, but no less sincere. The way to a woman’s heart is through her eyes and ears. What? No, never met him. That matters? Through their writing ye shall know them, and it was good.

No, it was Far Fuckin’ Out.