Assumptions

Assumptions and an unnecessary suicide intervention caused by cold weather smoking.

Interviewing The Baby

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Granddaughter experiments with video camera by interviewing the baby.

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Food Karma

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Celebrating the gourmet diversity of Los Angeles. A true story involving tabouli, couscous, hummus, Greek food, three-cheese pizza and Polish pierogi.

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Marquisdejolie, Nalts and ChristopherMast Break Dancing

breakdancers
Click pic for some serious break dancing!

The Fart Heard Around The World


(CLICK ABOVE FOR REVVER FARTAPALOOZA VIDEO)

What happens when a teenager brings a fart machine into a public library? Wackiness ensues. What happens when Nalts posts a video of those antics on Youtube? He gets an amazing 1,416,705 views. 200,000 of those views just last night!

Quote from a case on nuisance horse farting that went all the way up to the Montana Supreme Court in the 80s:

“These horses and their egregarious divestitures of abdominal gas echoing through the hills and vales of this otherwise peaceful area, closely akin to the point blank discharge of a double-barreled shotgun have no place in this quiet, residential hamlet of Big Sky.”

(I used this quote in my humor column, The Reactionary Rattler, on the St. Mary’s University student newspaper, The Rattler, in a column entitled The Politics of Flatulence” and have not forgotten it since)

Farting, human or otherwise, has been a bane on civilization for as long as I can remember. It’s a volatile subject. A hundred million Americans suffer from Faux Defacation Syndrome. Someday, we may find a cure. One thing’s for sure, though: when a teenager farts in the library, millions of us stop to listen.


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Happy Hippie Adventures

 

No one reaches a high position without daring.—Publilius Syrus

Illuminate me. Please illuminate me. I have wanted you to illuminate me for so very long, my hippy shit adventurer soulmate.

I wanted you to illuminate me in that San Antonio public park near the water basin when you were wearing that sexy black dress.

I wanted you to illuminate me in Satan’s living room after the spaghetti dinner (you were wearing his giant white tee shirt).

I wanted you to illuminate me in my Datapoint living room where I took that picture of you that I always keep.

I wanted you to illuminate me in the Bone Club parking lot and in your Austin house where we chain-smoked cigarettes until we were green.

Illuminate me, my hippy shit adventurer soulmate. Come illuminate me.


Excuse me. There is a giant red, yellow and blue 40 pound exotic parrot
screaming outside my door and I must investigate. No, it’s not a dehydration-induced hallucination. It’s there. Looks like another hippy shit adventure for me.

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A Hitchcockian View of Crack Motel Stooges


OFFLINE JOURNAL
Motel Marquis
Dept. of Little Humors

Every time I open my crack motel room door, it’s a pageant. Today was a bald headed deputy sheriff and a child services officer facing down a young man on the motel stairs. He was waving a clothes iron around (I think it was a Westinghouse Mark IV, 5 nozzle steadystream steamer. You hardly ever see those around here).

Yesterday it was child services officers doing a routine inspection of the usual suspects. Looking for child abusers, finding only dumpster divers, gypsy cabbies and subletting streetwalkers.

Do you remember those old Three Stooges chase scenes where you’re looking down a hallway at a bunch of doors? A stooge runs into one door at the end of the hallway and immediately runs out a closer door as the person chasing him runs in to a third door out of which the second stooge runs?

Well, my doorway view is like that. A sheriff runs into 213 while the perp tiptoes out 117, another deputy backs out of 204 while Killer and Cabbage Patch fade into 108.

In the midst of all this is my roommate screaming into the weak courtyard payphone trying to pick up a movie extra ‘rush job’, the man with the mutant belly button is walking his three coyotes, Margo and Marie are on the sidewalk trying to pick up construction worker tricks and the smoking fat man is standing in the doorway of 118, watching. Smoking and watching.

As John Pascucci writes in his “Manhunter” prologue (entitled “Let Me Tell My Story”) : “I know more about the world than most people do. At least, I know more about what’s commonly called ‘the real world.’ But I’m not bragging. I’m confessing. Knowledge never comes for free. It always comes at a price, and I paid too much. Far too often, the price I paid was hurting people, breaking laws, and looking too long at the dark side of life.”

What I’ve got here at the Motel Marquis, gentle reader, is an Alfred Hitchcock’s “Rear Window” view of a Three Stooges routine. Forgive me if I find little humors from my long look.

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