I just spent sixty days in the jailhouseFor the crime of having no dough.

You know that song, "Damn, that DJ made my day?"

Well this is an excerpt from Stacey's blog:



I ride bike past this car almost every time I go out to my Rivendell daydream drool bike store of choice.

I think about these bumper stickers all the time, usually while at work, and start laughing.

I have lurid and fully-developed preconceptions about the person that drives this car and I am currently oscillating between either somebody straight out of a John Waters movie (that toothmissing long-haired skinny naked guy...or maybe the egg lady!) or else the black-clad trenchcoat Columbine shooter.

I know it's a man because women don't drive Cadillacs unless their husbands have died.

It would be a horrific letdown if the driver of this car was not a magnificently stylish and classy individual.

This small aesthetic bullet fired into the culture war ether certainly has brightened my day on multiple occasions.

Bravo, Stacey.

That bumpersticker.

I mean, damn.

I am speechless.

And awestruck at the brass balls it takes to slap something like that on the back of your Caddy.

We're not worthy.

i fell onblack daysi fell onblack days

I received this from a friend via email today. Please take a couple minutes and read this:

Joe, just catching up on your blog tonight. *** is asleep on the couch and nothing good on TV, Oh. St. is crushing Iowa. I can't get your blog at school so I catch up at home about once a week.

Spent some time with my mom and dad today. Yesterday was a, hopefully, once in a lifetime day.

I'm not as faithful as I'd like, we get to church once a week, but that's pretty much what I'm comfortable with at this point. Yesterday I left work to go pray, never done that before.

You see, that principal that was killed in Wisconsin yesterday, he was the principal at Weston School District. Two years ago he replaced my dad.

For the previous 8 or so years my dad had that job. My mom called me up crying at 8:15 a.m. yesterday, this was before any of this hit the news. At that point she had heard that the principal had been shot in the head.

I really didn't know how to react. It was sort of like when I first heard that the twin towers had been hit, I remember that my reaction was "cool."

Fucked up huh, I remember that all I could think to say that day was "cool."

Of course I didn't really think it was cool, but that's what popped out.

Anyway, when my mom called I didn't know what to say either. My dad worked with that guy, both my parents knew him. He had/has a family, wife, kids etc., I felt bad for him and his family but also lots of relief that it wasn't my dad.

For that I felt guilty and I guess all that stuff piled up so I went to pray.

Then the guy, John that's his name, I should at least call him John, died after surgery.

So, I hung out with my dad today. He's retired now, works part time running Sunday school for his church, but as soon as he heard he went over to his old school. We talked about fun stuff today, we didn't talk about that.

I remember when Jeremy by Pearl Jam came out, and then later school shootings in Kentucky, Arkansas, and after that, of course, Columbine. I didn't have a good high school experience (one of the reasons I got into education).

Kids can be assholes you know, and I was more on the receiving end of that.

Then, for a period in my 20's I an tangent to the Goth crowd in Madison. So, with those previous shootings, there was always something in the back of my mind saying, "well the school should have seen it coming" or "maybe some of those kids had it coming," basically, empathizing with Jeremy a bit.

But now with this it's different. I've been to that school. It's not a big scary place.

Everyone knows everyone. Basically, it's small enough that no one can fall through the cracks. I don't think there's anything that principal John, could have done in days, weeks, months, previous to help this boy. So now I wonder, what is it?

I always thought blaming video games, music, violent movies and TV was a cop out. But now I actually wonder. How does a 15 year old (rural kid, not like a kid from the Wire, fighting to survive) come to rationalize killing someone?

Was he desensitized?

All these school attackers are white males. No black kids, no girls.

So who's studying that?

Anyway, sorry to ramble on like this, especially in light of Nort's son and Demi's mother and stuff.

Maybe just encourage your readers to hug their dad tonight or give him a call. And for any dads reading, tell them to really talk to their kids.

Being 15 can be tough, we all really need guidance at that age.

===
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Thanks, ****.

That is heavy.

Really heavy.

As for the rest of you...

Give your dad a hug.

Stand up to bullies.

Embrace the underdog.

If you hate something, don't you do it, too.

The needle tears a holeThe old familiar sting.

I want to drive along the coast.

South.

Start in Carmel, and drive, drive, drive.

Big Sur.

San Luis Obispo.

Santa Barbara.

(The surf break at Rincon. Perhaps the finest peeling right break I have ever seen. Like a metronome.)

Ventura.

Watch for the Topanga exit.

Malibu.

...

...

A quick stop in Hermosa Beach, just because.

Just to see if the magic is still there, in the South Bay.

I had my mojo working when I lived there, back in the day.

Unemployed, livin' with Romano, shooting 500 jumpers a day, playing Sega, talking shit, playing volleyball and just kinda soaking it all in.

%%%

I'd have to stop and throw some dice in the LBC.

Just to mentally prepare to go behind the Orange Curtain.

The OC.

Here is my OC story:

When I was unemployed, living with Romano, shooting jumpers, we had another roommate.

His last name was Austin, so that was only a short trip to Steve Austin, The Six Million Dollar Man, or, as we ended up calling him, The Man Barely Alive.

He was from the OC.

Laguna.

One day, his buddy from Laguna was having a fiesta at his parents' house.

It was on a private cove, perched on a cliff above the beach.

Ab-so-fucking-lutely beautiful.

We played volleyball, grilled, partied.

Anyway, this house had a shared driveway.

There was another house, right next door.

Nice house, too.

We were standing around the kitchen island, drinking some beers, and I went to the frig.

There on the frig was a hand-written note, from Mom:

Jason-

Food is in the frig.

Remember to feed the cats.

And, don't block OJ's garage.

Yeah.

The Juice was his neighbor.

So, I see that note, and I am like WTF, mate?

We went and peeked in the garage window and there was OJ's fucking Ferarri with the personalized JUICE plates.

(While I was there, I tossed a bloody sock in his side yard.)

$$$

San Onofre, another perfect break.

&&&

San Diego, ahhhh, San Diego. The Whale's Vagina.

Then TJ.

Rosarito.

Ensenada.

Allllll the way down.

To Cabo.

That's the drive along the coast.

It'd take a month to do it real proper-like.

***

I went out tonight with a friend.

We hung out at this wine & tapas place. This is the place that has the cucumber concoction. It's "hip and trendy," at least for Bozeman.

You know what I am talking about.

People go there to see and be seen.

Brick walls, tasteful lighting.

Dudes in fitted shirts.

$ 15 two-bite appetizers.

Blackberries and Razr phones.

Complicated shoes.

A DJ spinning pretty cool mellow techno music.

Glasses frames that Make A Statement.

Edgy bangs.

Surreptitious glances.

Some cougars prowling around.

Overheard, "So, are you into boys or girls?"

I was driving, so I did a lot of observing the scene, such as it is.

Some crusty dude sitting on a bench on the street, septum ring, drinking an Olympia beer, telling vulgar jokes.

Vulgar, I tell you.

I know I'll never lose affection for people and things that went before.

I know I'll often stop and think about them.

In my life...