Clickety Clackety!

I have never been good at saving up my money for purchases. But there was one time, when I was about six years old...

Back in the late 60s or early 70s, I collected returnable bottles and turned them in for the 5 cent bounty, and saved my 25 cent a week allowance. I busted tail to buy a pair of clackers, and after several weeks of hard work and no penny candy from Max's Smoke Shop, I had the $1.49 I needed to buy my clackers. I knew which pair I wanted, too, gorgeous royal blue with gold glitter inside the balls.

So I trotted off to Woolworth's to buy my clackers.

And the shelf was filled with Nerf balls.

I asked the clerk where the clackers were, and was told that they had all been recalled, because they would shatter and glass would fly and hurt people.

Man, was I PISSED.

Ever since then, I have wanted a pair of clackers.

Looks like they're back, but with an acrylic ball instead of glass. So I ordered some.

Because the inner child MUST be placated.

Boy am I triggered

So the death of Dilbert creator and infamous racist pig, Scott Adams, from prostate cancer this week has poked some of my buttons.

My Dad was a good man, but he was a little too damn much of a hippie. When he was diagnosed with bladder cancer, his urologist told him that removal of his bladder would get it all, and he would live a long life. Then the urologist explained that the prostate goes out with the bladder, and that's the end of the sex life.

My father was 38 when he was diagnosed. He had an active social and dating and sex life. Losing the ability to have intercourse would have really been devastating to him. So he told the doctor, let's do mild chemo, and I'm gonna do laetrile and the nothing but wheat grass juice diet, and visualizing the cancer going away and all will be well.

But all was not well. After a couple of years, his cancer was down to a small spot of atypia, due, no doubt, to the mild chemotherapy. So very "intelligently" he stopped the chemo and continued with the quackery.

Seven months later, the cancer had run wild in his body. All of his organs, and his bones.

Scott Adams was told he had early state prostate cancer. He opted for, of all fucking things, ivermectin. He gambled and lost, just like my dad.

And I am reminded once again of how dangerous "alternative/holistic medicine" is.

Folks, laetrile is poison and does nothing. The baked potato diet will bore you to tears. The wheat grass juice only diet will turn you into a skeleton and weaken you so you die faster. Vizualization is soothing and helps the psyche, but it does not cure cancer. And if ANYBODY suggests bloodroot to you, kick them out of the house with prejudice.

And horse wormer will not cure cancer, either.

Got cancer? Go to a DOCTOR!

PETA Can Suck My Non-Existent Cock And Choke On It

My argument with a crazy Swedish "animal rights activist" today (who said that Brigitte Bardot's racism and sexism were FINE because she was for the animals, and who said Whitney Houston deserved to die because she wore fur) reminded me of the time I went to a movie theater in San Francisco, and PETA had set up on the sidewalk outside. In the gutter about ten feet from PETA's table was a dying pigeon. 

It is time to shout out the truth.

 

Thank you, Deb Colburn, owner of Nomad, Cambridge and pretentiousl;y fake 79 year old hipster with the screaming fire engine red hair, the stupid glasses, and the designer dogs, for showing me a complete tour of your naked vagina, clitoris included, when I was five and you were 21, and encouraging me to hold and rub your boyfriend's penis and testicles when I was seven and you were 23 or 24. For breaking wooden spoons on my ass. For telling everybody I was a crazy liar so that they didn't believe me when I told them what you were doing to me.

For driving a wedge between me and my sister, and my father. For driving my mother away, then abandoning us when you had your own kid.

I hope you die bleeding painfully from your asshole.

I think I'll send this letter to the Cambridge Chronicle, Boston Globe, and WBZ news.

Bet you voted for Trump, too. Cunt.

Shit is going to get real, Deb. I won't hurt you or encourage people to. I'll just drive you batshit crazy.

Discovering the News of the Day and Ditching the TV

Apollo 11 takeoff

As a kid, I didn't pay a lot of attention to the news, even though it was the sixties and seventies, and a hell of a lot of history was happening.

The first major event I remember was the moon shot. Not the landing, the takeoff. My Dad told me to pay attention and remember this, because it was history. I didn't even know what history was. I was four and a half. The smoke and speed of it all amazed me. We watched it on our neighbor's big black and white TV. Looking at color photos now, I think that that would have absolutely blown my preschool mind!

We're on the eve of destruction...

From CNN. Y'all, start practicing hiding under your desks again:

Trump in a post on social media said, “The United States has more Nuclear Weapons than any other country,” naming Russia as second and China “a distant third, but will be even within 5 years.”

“Because of other countries testing programs, I have instructed the Department of War to start testing our Nuclear Weapons on an equal basis. That process will begin immediately,” Trump said on the final leg of his trip to Asia.

 

Keoni's Mele

Uncle Jack and Auntie Cathe

I wrote this piece around 2K, about my Uncle Jack. He has been a huge influence in my life, and is one of the people I love most on this planet. He's a musician, philosopher, student of life, and he is my beloved uncle and Godfather...

Casualties of War - A Poem

I wrote this poem 20 years ago about being a survivor of pretty intense child abuse at the hands of my stepmother, and clawing my way out of that shit. Trigger Warning: Child Abuse, Trauma...

Jericho - A Poem

 

This is a poem I wrote about 25 years ago, as I was making early breakthroughs in handling my life and my mental health...

Childhood Memories: The Atrocities of 60s Fashions

 

My big sister and I were hippie kids of a single parent hippie father. We wore blue jeans and tee shirts and tie dye, and funky clothes his girlfriend made for us. Pretty much everything that was not made for us was purchased at Salvation Army (or lifted out of the donation bins after dark)...

My Vegemite Initiation

I wrote this many MANY years ago about the sticky black salty ambrosia called Vegemite. I reproduce it here for your enjoyment. Brace yourself, it's gonna get weird!...