Friday, June 23, 2006


The thieves, they broke into my car. They went rummaging around the car, these thieves, and they made off with my cassette tapes.

They took the whole shoebox full of tapes.

And this, on the surface, really wouldn't seem to be the end of the world. It's not the worst thing to happen to a person. They were only cassette tapes, and many were dubs of albums in my collection.

Some were mixed tapes made by friends, and it's sad to lose them, but they are friends, and they will make more mixed tapes for me. They are friends. That's what they do. They make mixed tapes to show their affection for me. And they do other things to show affection as well. They make dinner, sometimes. They watch the cat while I'm away. They watch me drink myself to sleep without an unkind word.

They do all of that stuff. So, I don't sweat the mixed tapes. Not really.

I do, though, sweat something.

It's a demo. It's a tape I have had for a while. And I don't know where to find another.

Let me tell you a story.

Once, a boy was travelling with his family. He was heading north. He was flying in a plane.

The plane crashed. Everyone but the boy died. The boy survived, and crawled from the wreckage.

I should mention that the boy was a baby. I didn't mention that, but it's important that I mention that. He was a baby. A baby who could crawl.

See, then what happened was that the baby was found by a kindly wolfpack, and a kindly wolfmother raised him! No, seriously! This is really what happened. The boy was raised by kindly wolves!

The wolves made their homes in the body of the airplane. They ate the parents and the pilot, and the boy ate right along with them. The boy lived with the wolves.

In the plane, he found a tape player. It was a tape player with a hand-crank. Do you remember hand-cranked tape players? I do.

On the plane, the boy found tapes. The boy listened to the tapes when he figured out how to use the tape player. And he loved the music he heard.

There were Biz Markie tapes. And Stetsasonic tapes. And Boogie Down Production tapes. And Sugarhill Gang tapes. And Spoonie G. And Doug E. Fresh and the Get Fresh Crew. And DJ Red Alert. And Schooly D. Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five.

The boy listened, and he loved, and he learned to speak.

And he spoke in rhyme, all the time.

The wolves did not know what he was saying. But the boy, night and day, spit rhymes at the wolves.

And he got older. And he was, one day, found. He was returned to civilization. He was brought to the states, and studied, and cared for. And given new tapes.

And he was recorded. He made a demo tape. He was MC Raised by Wolves. MC Raised by Wolves made one demo.

Then, he disappeared. Most agree that this was for the best. He was a furiously clever MC, but he was also a very dangerous one. No one knew what to expect from him, because he was MC Raised by Wolves, and he had been raised by wolves.

The demo disappeared quickly, too, just like MC Raised by Wolves.

I had a copy, though. One dubbed copy. I can't tell you where I got it. I just had it. And let's leave it at that.

Now, it's gone. It was stolen.

Can you help me? Do you have a copy of the demo tape by MC Raised by Wolves? Have you seen MC Raised by Wolves?

No, really? Have you? Can you help me track down a new copy?

Comment here if you can help. Let's find this tape.

I can't blog until I do.

Come on, readers. Let's go. I have a space all ready for him. Do you have photos of MC Raised by Wolves? I'd like to see those, too.

Saturday, June 17, 2006


There was a TV show called MASH. You remember it.

You've seen it.

I know you have.

There was on actor named Mike Farrell who was on a TV show called MASH. Yes.

In the beginning of the TV show they called MASH (though, who am I kidding? We all called it MASH. You know you called it MASH), they would introduce veiwers to all the actors who acted in the TV show called MASH. And, one of those actors was Mike Farrell.

So, they would cut from actor to actor. They showed footage of actors doing things, and introduced them with names—yellow names on the screen—and, soon, they showed Mike Farrell. A chopper has landed at the MASH (Mobile Army Surgical Unit, it means) helipad, and it is full of injured men. It is full of patients.

Mike Farrell looks at the up, when they show him. Mike Farrell looks up, and he nods.

Oh, how that nod haunts me.

What does Mike Farrell say with that nod? "I'll take this one, Hawk. I'll take care of this injury, Hawk." Is that what it says?

Does it say, "You've got this one Hawk. This one is definately for you."

Does it say, "Too late for this one, Hawk. Let it go and let's look at the next injured soldier."

Does it say, "It's a bitch, isn't it Hawk? Isn't war—with the shooting, and the violence, and the bloody, severed limbs—isn't it a bitch, Hawk? That's life. Life is un-fucking-believable. That's a heartfelt moment of tmesis, Hawk. When I split that word, and added the explitive, I was engaging in a something...a technique...called tmesis, and doing so from the heart. Oh, Hawk. I wish I could ask you to hold me. I really do. I really, really want you to hold me like you hold those nurses. All those pretty, lonely nurses. And what of me? Forget it."

What does it say?

I don't know. I must try to know. Until I know, I just can't blog.

Friday, June 09, 2006


I'm a cute and fuzzy puppy, and all covered in the softest golden fur you've ever seen. I stumble when I run. I wag my tail so vigorously, I tip myself over. My golden fur is very soft, and when you touch it, there is so little resistence, your hand just melts into me. It melts into my belly.

I'm a cute and fuzzy puppy, held aloft by a person standing on a couch, sinking into the cushions of a living room couch, holding me high above the couch, and the people in the living room are all attending a party. It is a party for me, the brand spanking new cute and fuzzy puppy, held aloft by my person.

And all the people coo. They coo at me, and they coo at each other, and they reach up to me. But I am held high, and can't be reached.

So, the people at the party for the cute—and golden—fuzzy puppy, they throw themselves to the floor. The drop to hands and knees, and they continue with the cooing. Such a racket. The cooing they make makes such a racket.

They, on the floor, crawl back and forth. They roll, and they crawl. They bump.

All the people on the floor bump into one another, and they raise sore spots on the tops of their heads. The bumps are much too rough. They are moving far too quickly. They bump, and they hurt themselves and one another at the very same time. Really. This is what happens.

I see it from my position, held aloft.

I am held above the fray.

It becomes a fray. It becomes a fray. A carpet of bodies begins to bloody, as the people at the party begin to rip skin with their fingers. The cooing is more urgent now. The cooing sounds a little urgent.

I am held aloft, and the person holding me walks out on the wriggling carpet of bodies. Blood has a strong smell, and I can smell it. The bodies love the cute and fuzzy puppy, and they are accidently hurting one another because of it.

They are accidently violent.

This is, accidently, a very violent party.

Because of me.

Skin does not stick to its frame quite as strongly as I thought it did. Skin slips off so quickly.

I will explore this more, but not blog until I have.

Tuesday, June 06, 2006


Look, I'm not saying I'm some sort of superhero or anything. I'm not saying that. I'm not.

But, it's just that I seem to have this power.

A power. Me. I seem to have this power.

It's like this: see, wherever I go, there's the party. It's where I am. The party follows me wherever I go.

I bring the party with me.

It's like, earlier, before I came in? Remember? When I was waiting outside? At the buzzer? At the door? For you to buzz me in? Remember?

The party was out there with me. It was me, and the buzzer, and the door, and the sidewalk, and all the passing fucking traffic, and the party. The party was there, with me.

And now I'm in here, right? In here with you? And here it is—the party. I brought it in with me. From the street. Up the steps. In here. Here's the party.

Seriously, look out the window. Look down there. Do you see the party? Hell no you don't. Hell no you don't. Because the party is now up here.

It followed me up.

You can feel it, right? You can feel the party. You know it came up here with me. You know we're hear, together, having the party that I brought.

Because, man, that's what I do. I bring the party.

I mean, at least you can smell it, right? You can totally smell the party! I can smell the party! Right here!

With me.

I am the focus of the party. The party is the solar system, orbiting around me because I am the party sun.

The party radiates off me like heat.

I bring the party.

Who the hell has time to blog when you bring the party? Seriously.


Better? Yeesh. You guys are mean.


I running. Donate money.