No, Jesse Welles is NOT pro-Charlie fucking Kirk

Yes, Jesse Welles wrote a song about the killing of Charlie Kirk. NO, it was NOT a pro-gung ho-Charlie is a martyr song.

It was a song about gun violence and freedom of speech...

Beyond the Lip Service

 

I remember the first time I saw Boy George. It was 1981 or 82, I honestly forget which. I was in a bar with my guy, Scott, having a beer, and they had MTV on. Do You Really Wanna Hurt Me came on, and I saw Boy George and my jaw hit the fucking floor and I started laughing in hysterics.

I was utterly astounded that this queer looking guy had the sheer guts to be on TV dressed like a woman. I was amazed that MTV allowed it on their programming. I was too caught up in staring at him and being half amazed, half grossed out, to notice that that motherfucker could SING. I think back now to how I felt, how I was kind of horrified and freaked out, and I think...

Jumping the Shark: The Fonz’s Funeral and Henry Winkler’s Last Laugh

It's a classic case of a show becoming a victim of its own success. What started as a grounded, nostalgic look at 1950s Milwaukee - centered on the Cunningham family - eventually morphed into the "The Fonzie Show," and that’s where the wheels started to come off.

The Surrenderist Guide to Optimized Existing

 

Lets be honest, the rise and grind culture is exhausting, and most life hacks are designed for people who actually have goals. If I see one more suggestion about waking up at 4 AM to drink goddam lemon water and manifest productivity, I'm going to fucking scream into a pillow until I pass out for another six hours. We do not need to optimize our workflow or shred for summer; we need strategies for when the mere act of perceiving reality feels like a full time job with no benefits. This isn't about winning at life - it's about negotiating a peaceful surrender with the pile of mail on the counter.

The Holy Trinity: Why I Keep Buying These Same Three Records

 

Most six-year-olds in 1971 were vibrating to "The Wheels on the Bus" or whatever upbeat nonsense was playing on the radio, but not me. No, I was already deep in the trenches of acoustic melancholy. I was sitting there in my kindergarten class, probably staring at a pile of blocks, while the haunting melodies of Joni Mitchell’s Blue, the earthy warmth of Carole King’s Tapestry, and the gentle drawl of James Taylor’s Sweet Baby James played on a loop in my head. 

I’ve owned these albums on vinyl, 8-track, cassette, CD, and every digital format known to man; at this point, the only thing missing is a reel-to-reel copy, and frankly, my wallet is grateful for that one omission. 

And now, the albums.

The Great Kitchen Standoff: A Bubbly Backwash Production

Left to right: Romeo, Connor, Cubby, Rocco. Cats in order: Not Bob, Mary Ann, Ada

I’m currently living in a low-budget nature documentary where the dogs are hairy potatoes and the cats are fuzzy dictators. Between Not Bob’s entitlement and Romeo’s vibrating tail, the kitchen has become a high-stakes war zone. Send help; or bacon.

I now present a world premier: The Great Kitchen Standoff: A Bubbly Backwash Production

Why Celtics Fans Need to Stop Ignoring Kevin McHale

Kevin McHale wasn’t just part of the Big Three. He was the piece that made the whole thing work. Bird was the genius. Parish was the anchor. But McHale was the matchup nightmare that turned Boston’s front line into something the league had never seen before. Without him, the Big Three isn’t the Big Three. It’s just Bird and Parish with a missing limb.

What’s wild is how often he gets ignored now. Modern Celtics fans talk about Bird like he carried the entire decade on his back, and they treat McHale like he was some nice supporting character instead of the guy who put half the league in the torture chamber. He was the one opponents dreaded. He was the one Barkley and Olajuwon openly admitted they couldn’t guard. He was the one who could drop 30 on you without breaking a sweat or saying a word.

The Gormless Quayle

I miss Dan Quayle and his absolutely harmless idiocy. Don't you?...

Creating, Growing, and Returning to Life

For a long time, I thought my creative life had gone quiet. Not dead, just sleeping under a pile of exhaustion, pain, and the everyday grind of being a human with a body that doesn’t always cooperate. But lately something has cracked open again. I’ve been wandering back into the arts like someone returning to a house they used to live in. Everything feels familiar, but also new in ways I didn’t expect..

New Art

 

There's a WHOLE bunch of new art inside...

Who has time to be bored? Not me!

Today was not really an art day. I diddled around with the Gimp for about an hour, then my writing muse slapped me upside my head. I have written six articles for my blog today about all kinds of things:

• Impeaching Trump 
• Chicago and Music being in my bones
• A bit about a portmanteued proverb I love 
• One about nicotine addiction
• One about god, or the idea of god, or whatever
• And this one, which only kind of counts

It was a productive day.

I really am an eclectic freak. Playing uke and recorder, doing digital art and zentangle and making jewelry, and writing from my gut. Between all that, I talk to people, make new friends, share a gazillion memes, play computer games, and more. And when I go to bed, I read for at least an hour before turning out the light.

I don't have time to be bored. Considering that I'm basically housebound and can't really leave my bedroom due to the difficulty involved in hauling my carcass from room to room, my life is incredibly rich and full.

I am a very fortunate old crone.

Chicago: Where the Music Took Hold - TWICE

I am willing to bet good money that the first music I ever heard was my mother singing to me in Chicago, the city where I was born and where I lived for the first three months of my life before we moved to Boston. 

The year I was eleven, life went pretty cattywumpus. I'd been living with my mother for the previous year, and that pretty much imploded due to my special needs as an undiagnosed bipolar person. I returned to my father's home, and since he was in the middle of relocating across town and setting up housekeeping, he asked his mom, my Gramma Mary, if I could come to Chicago and stay with her for a month or two. Gramma said yes...

No Time For Nazi Shit

[Verse 1]

You crawl out of the gutter with your bargain‑bin hate,

Waving plastic flags like it’s 1938.

You scream about “purity,” we scream “get a clue,”

’Cause the future isn’t waiting for a coward like you.

[Pre-Chorus]

You want a world that’s small and petty,

We want a world that’s free

And every time you open your mouth,

It’s fucking blasphemy.

[Chorus]

No room for your shit in the streets we claim,

No throne for your fear, no crown for your shame.

You can march in circles, but you can’t rewrite the past

We’re the generation built to outlast.

[Verse 2]

You hide behind symbols you barely understand,

Pretending you’re a soldier in some holy homeland.

But we’ve read the history, we know how it ends

Your empire of delusion collapses again.

[Bridge]

We’re louder than your slogans,

We’re brighter than your lies.

You can’t drown out a chorus

That refuses to die.

[Chorus]

No room for your shit in the streets that we claim,

No throne for your fear, no crown for your shame.

You can march in circles, but you won’t rewrite the past

We’re the generation built to outlast.

[Outro]

So keep your brittle hatred,

We’ll keep our rebel fire

’Cause every time we shout you down,

The world climbs one rung higher.

More Zentangle

 

Punk Lyrics: Nuremberg For Today

[Verse 1]

You signed the orders, you built the hell,

You watched the bodies drop and said “Oh well.”

You called it legal, we call it war

And we’ve got receipts, you corrupt little whore.

[Chorus]

The trials are coming, better learn to plead,

For every stolen breath and every dirty deed.

You wore the badge, you played the part

Now the reckoning’s here, and it’s tearing you apart.

[Verse 2]

You caged the kids, you fed the lies,

You let the sick die while you monetized.

You laughed in court, you rigged the game

But history’s a bitch and she remembers your name.

[Bridge]

No more silence, no more spin,

We’re carving your legacy into rusted tin.

Every file, every tape, every bloodstained page

Will scream your crimes from a burning stage.

[Chorus]

The trials are coming, better learn to plead,

For every stolen breath and every dirty deed.

You wore the badge, you played the part

Now the reckoning’s here, and it’s tearing you apart.

[Outro]

This ain’t revenge, it’s righteous fire

A courtroom choir and a funeral pyre.

We’ll drag your name through every verse

And bury your legacy in the motherfucking dirt.

Mogen David's for Donna Zentangle

 

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.

Zentangles r Us

 

This is my first zentangle in seven years. I am getting back into the art form.

Much Butt Toy. So Prostate Stimulator!

Demi Moore with her Golden Globe.

They really need to change that design. It's so very...

Sex toy shaped. Not currently being sold, but after this fucking photo of Demi looking delighted by it, they will start making them and selling them. 

Who the hell passed on that design?

Adolescent Adoration and Adult Music Taste

Eric Faulkner of the Bay City Rollers was such a handsome man in the 70s, and still is, really. 

Even when I was ten and had just discovered boys, I leaned toward older boys who had a more MAN look to them than that pretty adolescent boy stage where they could just as easily be a girl. For instance, all my friends wanted to marry Luke Skywalker. I wanted me some Han Solo. Han looks like a MAN, not a teenage girl.