Dedicated to all and SUNDRY and those who like mundane tuesdays and who skip past wednesday when they get too thirsty for friday. Also dedicated to the many of those with a gift for making things more difficult than they need to be. And to gladiators everywhere gladiating..


The SHORELINE'S everlasting grace is that its arms refuse no tide.


Just because it hasn't been figured out yet, doesn't mean it hasn't been approved.


Overheard in a downtown bar. 'Sir, I have a sudden idea, may I quickly use your DICTAPHONE?' “No, you cheeky young man, use your own fingers like everyone else!”
(truthful disclosure. We did not create this, but heard it a few years ago. But I like it, it fits my 'profile').


Acceptance of our contradictions expands our vision and appreciation of who we are.


Using what we have now already, is the best way to prepare and clear space for more. 
Hanging on to it until you receive more, keeps more from you.


The venerable Snowman, Frosty, could have told new arrival SNOWBOY, that unless clear about who you are, when the ice melts, then SNOWBOY is really no boy at all. Frosty advised him to tattoo his name on the carrot, or travel with monogrammed personalized coals. Next year, SNOWBOY goes for a longer impression and gets a logo.


I have a NUCLEAR CLOCK. The long hand counts down the hours while the second hand smokes… which I stay clear of, since second hand smoke kills.


The shoreline grew to accept that it would never be a straight line. And that was OK. Shoreline come in shoreline shape, all twisted and bendy. And every time. Spitting new life ashore in one breath, while swallowing its suffering, in tears of brine the next.


The man chasing perfection is the man chasing a tail too short to be caught and too long not to choke on.


From the Zooathalon's Space labs came a new hybrid: 
The SACRIFICIAL LAMBORGHINI! It can be a pain getting there. But you do get there a little faster! And, this one can outrun the lions easier. Lions more easily winded by the exhaust of the lamb's engine, running at full speed, and dancing like horses whose nostril mist, blows past the steeds of vengeance.


What to get the PANCHEN LAMA who has everything (and nothing)? A PANCHEN BAG! 
To help him keep in shape!


A few years ago, I were asked by a Tibetan monk if I knew what was the sound of ONE HAND CLAPPING. That old chestnut of a zen conundrum. I told him, “Of course silly guy, I know the sound of one hand clapping- MY CAREER SINCE BEING WITH SONY !”


To all of my eager friends in intelligence, be warned that there is a new terrorist organization, 
called THE Y FRONT, which claims to be dedicated to a revolution in men's underpants. A secret state source calls them, “A stain on the fabric of our conscience. We suspect that they are attempting to foment a new BOXER REBELLION. They are out to make us look like a bunch of asses”. We will pay more attention to see if we can receive more “leaks”, and pass them on.


Our mistakes have every right to exist and we to stop cursing them. Our mistakes may not have followed the lines and curves we painted in our minds, but they are brushstrokes on the canvas nonetheless. A masterpiece takes a lifetime to paint, even when you paint by numbers.


The Mathematics department and teachers union were adamant; SLIDE RULE! And they would hold out for as long as they felt it necessary to achieve. They let the PROTRACTOR handle the negotiations, in case it went on for some stretched out length of time.


…We at the Medical Pun Center Hotline are sorry that you were put on hold, now for PUPILS, DIAL 8.
For Pupils, DIAL 8!


But it had to happen at some point. And at high altitude. As far as seating arrangements went, this were a most unfortunate oversight by the airline. NEVER SIT A SITARIST AND A SATIRIST NEXT TO EACH OTHER on an airplane! Particularly when the satirist is mixing medications with bourbon, and currently unemployed. 
It may happen that strong turbulence may induce short term identity loss as well as temporary displacement of irony. It may happen that the satirist confuses himself with the sitarist, deluding himself that he is Ravi Shankar, with perhaps even a struggle ensuing after de-boarding the plane and they fight at baggage claim over the sitar. And it may be that the sitarist has a crisis of confidence and suspects the satire to be about his sitar. Whatever may or may not be, they now sit next to each other, eyeing the other warily. THERE IS A SATIRE IN THIS, thought the satirist. All the sitarist knew, was that there were 3 other sitarists and a tabla player sitting in the back of the plane. None of whom would hesitate to bust out of their turbans and get busy, just in case Mr. Satire man wanted to start something, and cloud it with his slanted satirical perspective.


SIZE IS RELATIVE. One can almost forget about the mountain of obstacles one had to climb from being distracted by the pebble in ones shoe.


In all of its facets, light shines. What it incubates in the darkness is grace unfolding from its umbilical cord outwards. And where it bleeds, it breeds new shapes.


The darkness of our spirit comes out at times for review. What to do? Light a candle and THROW A PARTY!


Everything will kill you. That is the good news, so you may as well enjoy it.


Remember ladies, IF YOU LIVE WITH A MADMAN, then live in the city, around people who can hear you scream….(and if you are going to tolerate a madman, at least make sure that he or she has a job, a regular one. With benefits).


GRAVEYARD ETIQUETTE: Never race past a graveyard. This might wake up the ghosts, who'll begin coming alive in your draft, and racing along side you, to where you are going. And if you tip toe past it, do not rattle coins. Or next time, you may be asked to pay a fee. Not everyone in a graveyard is dead. Some just went there to rest. Yet even some of the dead have ghosts there in attendance. Who owe them time and service. Go respectfully to graveyard about your business and respect and little blessings leave with you. Not all ghosts are evil, some are just bored. And certain that they still have some time left on the solar clock.


The letter Y wasn't too worried about its future. Sure, he'd volunteered for early retirement after word circulated that the ALPHABET were to be downsized. He knew that a case for his redundancy could be most easily made, what with the whole A,E,I,O,U and 'sometimes' Y vowel revolution having cast him in a less than stellar light. He knew that a long I could stand in for him as well as pressing double E's into service to appropriate his contribution to whatever literary conceits he may have found his way into. Besides, he'd saved some money, strung along a few investments and still had his proprietary interest in what remained of the YMCA franchise, though it were valued at less since his dispute with his partners left him hanging when the rest went on to found MCA, the music company and agency. And as far as reputations went, it didn't hurt the ego of Y that after the letter X, he were probably on more terrorist watch lists than any other, and walked a bit cockier because of it. Not to mention that he and X's chromosome monopoly would ensure a healthy pension for many years to come. Y felt now to be a good time to walk away, what with the spread of 'dumb post', Twitter and the like, reducing the need for 26 letters of an underused alphabet. A time would come soon when he foresaw the disappearance of letters altogether as we reverted back to caveman drawings, in 15 lines or less, becoming the next generation's communicative norm. If he wanted, he could just bide his time and wait until the word why and the question mark accompanying it, would revert to simply being Y again. All things being cyclical, even our reductionist phases and how it affects our phrases. Y could now spend more time with Mrs.Y, still somewhat more bitter than her more egalitarian husband that they were never given credit for having, in a fit of amorous passion one wine besotted sultry summer evening, inspired the idea behind the letter X and perhaps what later came of its meaning.


The burning question tearing up the laboratory at HARVARD UNIVERSITY, was WHEN DOES LIFE BEGIN? Upon its birth in nature OR upon the securing of the copyright for its genetic code?


PHELAN GOODE, the singer for the punk reggae hip hop group, PHLEGM AND THEM, whose debut disc, 'Caught Between Phlegm and Them' was a multi-media sensation, have announced that their new project, 'Mob Hit or Bong Hit?', will be postponed by a few weeks while their lawyers settle the lawsuit brought about when the singer appropriated the classic song 'FEELINGS', to be the sole basis of his 'remake', 'IT'S PHELAN'S (Nothing More Than Phelan's)'. The group are said to be eager to address the legal matter and resume focus on their career. The singer and writer did defend himself in an earlier statement, “I'll blame the thorazine. I thought I made it up in my sleep. I didn't realize that I fell asleep with the radio on”.


In Babylon's wake, THE LONE WHITE GUNMAN NUTJOB archetype, pressed into action again and again, is getting old. And must they all manage to keep 'diaries' which are always found afterwards pretty much giving the game plan and their intentions away? We Americans are certainly by the look of it, possessed of a peculiar strain of assassin, all with literary pretensions as the backdrop to confessing their sins. This old ruse of Babylon's must work, because when the play is staged, the same guy keeps getting cast. They just keep changing his name, though the profile remains about the same. And it seems like every single one of these accusers could be played by Ed Norton in a movie. The methods begin to change as we see the methods being used changing us.


The ZOOATHALON'S CAROUSEL returns again and again. And always with the same horses on it. All that changes are the riders on the ponies. And what excuses they carry with them as they get off. One does not have to be a prophet to see the 'turn' of things. One only has to trust the carousel and its spin. And that the blankets may change but the horses remain the same.


THE GOOD NEWS is that, eventually, TIME WEARS DOWN ALL THEORIES of life. And simplifies all. Or we die trying to keep up with the changes.


Half of the battle is in seeing it. The harder half is committing yourself to what you see.


We owe the immense LITTLE RICHARD, as a culture, far more than we have been courageous enough to comply with. He is a pillar of Western Civilization. Even a cursory glance at the true history of Rock, or even a remotely fair one, would attest to the fact that he was pretty much the wheel the axle at the crossroads turned to produce our fabled early rock heroes and their mimics.


My colleagues at the venerable LPSG (the Large Penis Support Group) are reprimanding me by saying that I am getting too big for my proverbial britches (I like proverbial britches, they come with more space in the waist). It may have been a little envy. I was quoted as saying that my penis (my Moby) could only be measured now in COLUMN INCHES. Can I get a witness?


We are sometimes asked by our German friends why we are apt to make Penis jokes. Truth is, they are easier to get away with. Far more difficult is trying to tell PIANIST jokes without a bunch of those guys getting mad at you. AND, they have a union.


And while the crocodiles were somewhat pleased with the current sponsorship dilemma regarding the holdout between the ALLIGATORS and their GATORADE representatives, the PUFFINS were under no circumstances going to be talked into smuggling some 'smoke' onto the multi-dimensional craft constituting NOAH'S ARK. Were it not clear how obvious it would be to suspect the Puffins of sheltering 'puff induced' products aboard a ship meant for a very long and uncertain haul? And who wants to be busted and stranded just that ONE PUFF SHORT, of their ZOOATHALON dream?


HERCULES WAS KNOWN FOR HIS STRENGTH, and for his scathing wit. But what got him bookings, his agent never failed to point out, were his compendium of fart jokes and noises. Face it, not too many paying customers want to see a man bring down the pillars of a building which said paying customers might be standing in or near, to watch him pull down. Hard hats were not required during this time. And building code requirements and zoning laws made it too messy to use abandoned dwellings as demonstration zones for tests of his masculine zest. The money were in seeing the world's indisputably strongest human being, slaying them in the aisles with some of the filthiest and most deadly accurate fart reenactments of local politicians and high priests (some often a little higher than others), ever seen or heard in the great and ancient BABYLON and its suburbs. 
Hercules may have made his legend with his feats of strength, but his money were made staying as close to toilet humor as he could get away with and expand. Though he were a little annoyed that it were his now forgotten rival HIMCULES, who patented the term, in accordance with his particular specialty as 'FEETS OF STRENGTH'. HIMCULES could lift the back of a baby elephant off the ground with only his two big toes. While sitting on his butt in the dirt. Hercules was sure of one thing, that never again would he work construction. Though he got paid a double salary, it were for doing the work of 10 men, and the other workers got lazy when he came aboard for a job. And jealous of his abs. And always teasing him about his love for a good hero sandwich. Building things were not a big pastime for the mighty Hercules. He knew who he were. If he were not destroying large edifices, or making steel surrender to his massive fists, he went into depressions which could last for weeks. And for this reason, after he helped to build the world famous pyramids, he were cautiously by management never asked back to Egypt again, though allowed to keep a couple of bricks. He settled and retired upon his advancing age, to the beautiful area then known as the 'azure basin', now called; AZERBAIJAN.


And with great patience, the mother hippopotamus informed her young nursing hippo that 3 birds had already been crushed that day. “I keep telling you honey, it's the other way around, the bird sits on YOUR shoulder. Yours! Not you on the birds, OK? They are not as strong as we”.


And even unto death there were some consolation. As Hatfield slammed the water for the last time before he went down, “Fido's stick! My dog's stick! He's been looking all over for this!” And as he swallowed his final 'glug', he managed to throw the stick ashore, to the immense delight of his tail wagging friend. Then again, as he surrendered to his watery tomb, the thought quickly passed his mind that, perhaps by holding onto the stick a little longer, he might've kept himself afloat until help arrived.


Prince Hal's babes could get you into serious bother. And this FALSTAFF found out for himself. He'd been commissioned to guard the Prince's stable of beauties while the young Prince were away on reconnaissance. Problem was that old Falstaff proved time and again that his attention span and stamina were compromised by his propensity for good long afternoon booze-ups and naps. To go with his morning nap, as well as early evening siesta catch ups, his snooze fests, his 'SNOOZAPALOOZA' (when not engaged in a 'boozapalooza'). 
This is why he subcontracted the job out to the safest possible solution, the blind eunuch, ENIS. Who were renowned kingdom wide for his unique FALSETTO vocalizing. Said to rival any woman in any opera anywhere, and said to be able to break glass windows with his songs about love and its accompanying follies. And you would have to know that Falstaff were a most sentimental fellow and could not get enough of good falsetto singing. It were to his delight that he got to listen to the velvet tones of ENIS, who sang to the young harem even while describing the events of the day to them. He did not sing about love only, but about 'things', topics beholden to the interests of the day. Being blind were a boon to his employment, as men with harems felt more secure with a penis/ 'minus' guarding their brood. This was why ENIS' equally talented younger brother Elvis got little work, as he were only circumcised. Hal had women from all over the world, like a model agency, lovelies for all and sundry occasions. A lady for each frame of mind. Even ladies who didn't mind massaging the occasional mother in law's aching feet. But as a few lucky women can attest, a blind man is a dangerous man to know. 
It is said that their touch can send sensitive damsels into wordless ecstasies, 'What distress?' And Enis possessed an acute sense of smell. Which randy ladies liked. A lot. A former employer, a distaff King, didn't mind in the least sharing his amanuensis with his stable of fillies. He liked that the blind Enis used his keen sense of smell to keep the King's ladies aroused. “You sniff 'em, I'll stiff 'em”, the king used to utter, to the delight of both his eunuch and his giggling consorts. A distaff Falstaff understood that Prince Henry, his HAL, would be none too pleased to even suspect that falsetto boy were a 'serial sniffer'. And should he be discovered, would be eligible for collecting his pension as a double act. Because surely he would be cut in two by the sharp rapacious slice of the Prince's blade. It has been written upon parchment that no woman has been loved until she has been loved by an anatomically incorrect man, whose compensation issue motivates him towards heights of insatiable creative expression in the arts and crafts of love and that it has been said, ONCE YOU GO ZACK, YOU NEVER GO BLACK! On account of eunuchs being nicknamed 'Zachs', since they were often referred to as 'sack-less wonders'. As in, no ball sack, hence ZACH. And that they could even break the vaunted spell some black servants were said to have over the sun fermented minds of fevered farm girls. 
Falstaff worried that he might be held responsible for the falsetto he'd set loose on the swaying lasses who filled out their flowing robes with heaving exasperation from being the neglected crew of a young Prince always away conquering new worlds and negotiating old woes. He sang to them like an angel and sniffed their damp air like some devil dog from a glass fragmented alleyway. They were kept in such a state as to require the further attentions of an additional washerwoman (who soaked her hands quite often). The falsetto would often sing to Falstaff one of his favorite arias, and all worries would be forgotten as he drifted into one of his many sleeps. 
The question of how to break the news to Prince Hal were made moot one eerily silent evening when upon waking from yet another of his daily and evening enhancers, a strange sight tempted him to peer outside his sleeping chamber to see a strange and revolving light rapidly approaching near the window he peed from nervously while rubbing his eyes into a further shape of disbelief. There were no exact word for SPACESHIP then, though that was exactly what made its way closer to him. There were no doubt that whatever ales or draughts had poured past the drooling lips of Falstaff, would cease making his throat their waterfall anytime soon. Neither were there much doubt, the drowsy man were sure, that as the ship spun closer, he could vividly make out the shape, inside the ship, of the falsetto raising his voice in song with what appeared to be a monkey shaped being, though definitely a large and spirited dancing bear. It didn't matter how often he rubbed his chin or scratched his head, this hovering monstrosity of amazement then quickly turned on its axis, and went to the separate building which housed all of the ladies in Prince Hal's hospitality suites. 
Around 12 maidens there were, dusky hued sensuous mouthed beauties whose lips were shaped like a bee's bonnet, blond warriors who fought as hard as they loved to be fondled and cuddled, slant eyed angels with silk for skin and the sweet taste of milk still alive in their dreams, brunette tresses whose breasts glistened with something like the secretion of pearl drops that feed honey to butterflies and sweats like a milk bath for coral. BUT NOW, at least 8 were being floated up in their sleep (or trance state), and into the spacecraft, wrapped in a woven beam of frosted light, and a flattering light as well. He could see right through their night dresses. 
God they were lovely, their thighs the portal through which the heavens feed manna to hero's, saints and thieves alike! The craft then, with all of the wind's speed behind it, took off like a crystal blur, leaving but a stroke of smoke to mingle with Falstaff's uncertainty. Then just as swiftly, it returned and grabbed what were left , about 4 more girls and what appeared to be the washerwoman, awake and screaming with her bandy legs flailing away in the electric starlight's breeze. Then again, in the blink of an eye, ship gone again, seen no more, with the heavy Falstaff tasting the tingling night air with his dangling, confused tongue. Could he manage to explain ANY OF THIS TO THE PRINCE? He figured that, for as long as he'd known the Prince, THERE WERE NO WAY THAT HIS STORY WOULD BE BELIEVED. Falstaff then took it upon himself to do what any decent man in his situation would at that time have done in those days. He quickly packed a bag with some clothes, a couple of bottles of wine and some cheese, some legs of mutton and some chicken drum legs and started looking earnestly for new lands and employment. And as far away from his former life as his bowed swollen legs would take him, over fields far and very wide (and sometimes muddy and deep). The dogs followed Falstaff because of all the meat he had in his sack. Of course legend would later have it that Falstaff had what prowess and focus the good Prince lacked, and that is why the harem left with him and were no longer housed on Prince Hal's luxurious, but now heavily mortgaged estates.


IT IS HARD TO PULL A RABBIT OUT OF A HAT FULL OF EXCUSES (but easier pulling a rabbit out of a rabbit if you are willing to wait).


Dedicated to master Frank ZAPPA and his galactic brood and their tentacles. His spirit has helped me a lot. And who is not dead, but just calling the shots from somewhere else where his kind is more at home. And more accepted for what they bring to it.


Master Sinatra also had a profound influence on me as a lyricist. The songs he chose to articulate were of the finest possible examples of song craft, diction, enunciation and often exotic wordplay. Elemental to them were their directness emotionally and their romanticism. And it is true that they do not write that way anymore. We have grown too callous and cynical, and afraid of being seen as soft and in need of a little tenderness.


…if a band turns down a suggestion from the record company, it is due to their 'vision and integrity'. If a solo artist turns them down, it is because the artist is 'difficult'.


THE WHO-LIVE AT LEEDS (return to this at once!) and an impassioned masterwork from 1953, THE QUINTET-JAZZ at MASSEY HALL, TORONTO. It features figures like CHARLIE PARKER, DIZZY GILLESPIE, BUD POWELL, CHARLES MINGUS and MAX ROACH. All staunch members of Mount Olympus from where we sit in the valley with our mule. I first got into this recording upon initially moving to London, the 'big smoke', in my mid 80's last incarnation, when there were still skin left on my buttocks and not as many cameras to dodge. But beautiful things return and we are being reminded again of what it sounds like when the sound of giant footprints are captured coming through a room, coming through a town or berg and spilling its gravity into a mic. All smoke and whiskey, curling into a vaporous dance. It gets no more real than this. My wife was educated by the ORSALINE nuns. Me by the THELONIUS Monks.


If it isn't the dog collecting, then it is the fleas ON the dog using the dog to collect. So look no further, nor deeper than the dog.


Eventually HUMPTY-DUMPTY did manage to get over his mugging by the King's guards. It took loads of couch time, and many in the way of nightmares and medications before a semblance of his former sanity were restored (but not really). What he found far more difficult to get over was THAT DAMNED EGG TIMER! 
It never let him rest. Always pushing, pushing, pushing. And ticking away at his nerves. A martinet this egg timer was, though fortunately it were on the State's dime, insurance paid for the time the egg timer timed as the right time for timing, times double for overtime. TIME TAKES TIME. And then charges for it. Quite a few narrowly averted crack-ups were put down by HD to the presence of this brutish timer, an alarmist for dread. Once they broke HD's trusty hourglass, smashed it, withdrew the sands and deliberately scattered them to the lunar winds, he were assigned the Egg Timer. His life negotiated in increments, ever since. The weather mainly inclement. His life measured in clicks and more clicks. And he would never get over the King's brigades having stolen and marketed the idea which would in his mind have created his fortune. HUMPTY-DUMPTY TELEVISION, or HDTV, was for Humpty, his 'piece de resistance', but during a most brutal interrogation after which they cracked him, he spilled the yolk on his idea and the state took it and ran with it. 
Of course Humpty-Dumpty's vision of HDTV was somewhat different from what it became, AND they reneged on the cooking show they promised Mr. Dumpty. At least someone in the ministry had the heart to make sure Humpty became a regular mail order recipient of free Blu-Ray discs. He is currently hard at work preparing a recipe book for omelettes.


TIM caught on. To notice that simply by adding an E to the end of his name, he could become, TIME! And become concurrent with time because of it. Asked once for his ID at a bar, he was overheard to have said, “yeah but ID would make Tim, TIMID, and I just can't have that, it might stick around and screw up my brand”. The life of the party Time was, the drum major of its parade. Oh, the power of but one letter to change one's whole perspective!


'If you build it they will come'. What was left unsaid is that they may demand better seating arrangements.


How did they eventually catch and subdue KING KONG? They got his agent to tell him that his Q RATING had slipped. That got his attention real fast.




The master NOAH had a message he needed physically delivered to his and LUTHER MEANS' good and ancient ally, PROMETHEUS. One mainly, if on his wavelength, telepathically communicated with Prometheus, who had taken a vow of silence once sentenced by ZEUS and chained to his mountain side where each day the torture birds came and pecked at whatever presentation he had erected as his salvation for his wearied mind. Failing that, they swooped down and took his fading liver, which would regenerate just enough the next day so as to offer itself as chopped liver for the thorn birds again. It wasn't as if the mighty Lord of all Lords, father Zeus, had wanted to punish Promo (so called by his close associates), in fact, it were the opposite. 
As the last of Zeus' 'illegitimate' indulgences, the product of his father's one night conquest of a Mediterranean milk maiden fresh from its fertile crescent, it were he who'd shown a mutated promise and possibility not even noted amongst the grandest of the full fledged Gods, who naturally despised and were suspicious of any upstart among the demi-Gods. These 'lucky mutts'. These half god, half human but mainly to the other Gods, half wits, were seen to be taking up too much of Zeus' time. Policy were beginning to favor them. Expenditures were also being allotted to them which would otherwise have gone to APOLLO and his minions, who particularly resented the half breeds, and his ally when not main rival, DIONYSUS. Of course swift master MERCURY, himself another half and not a full Nelson, sided with Promo and welcomed the messages he delivered to his close half brother from their father. MERCURIO had had to beat back grave challenges from both Apollo (whom he loved to agitate) as well as others of his father's sons who were not welcoming of the family brand being extended to bastard claimants. There were therefore immense political pressure placed on ZEUS, to terminate Promo for the heavy gravity of having taken the light-source blueprint, the family franchise as it were, and given it freely to the humans capable of holding it. Which illuminated their lives and caused evolution in thought, word and deed. But it also made it a bit more difficult for some of the more mischievous Gods to screw with man as ground based sport. To take his mind, like putty and mold it into something of a God's folly for his delight. 
This decision, taken, to remove Promo from the house of the Lords, pained greatly the heart of his proud papa Zeus. But this were what had to be done to placate the team of raging Gods who would one day be lining up to replace him. Or overthrow him prematurely. Apollo considered the job to be his birthright, though Promo WAS THE TRUE UPGRADE. Most of the other Lords had grown pretentious and soft. Manicured. Expectant, guarded, obtuse. And mostly adamant about nothing much to do at all. Not so our boy Promo. Who was all about graft. Graft and then a brief respite, then more graft. Chafe a little, then graft some more. He didn't fear work, he embraced it. It were not he born with a gleaming silver spoon toying with his tonsils, but a piece of branch from the tree beneath where he were given birth, while his earth swelled mother held firm to a low hanging root. A tree of pomegranates which he never took for granted. His ladies in waiting (and they would wait for as long as it took, as lonely as it were), called him the POMEGRANATE GOD. He smelled as sweet to them. And granite would remain his favorite stone, as he is soothed by offerings of grain. 
Zeus had to trust, and did, that his youngest son, his baby boy, would survive his term in the wilderness and from there gain the rule of many new lands, pre-paid by the blood which dripped from his daily wound. Venturing up the side of a mountain now located in what is called IRAN, LUTHER MEANS followed the circling buzzards until at last he came upon the old friend, Lord Prometheus. Even for the ultra-fit Means, this trek mountainside were a most vigorous challenge, for Promo's hillside was steep. Even but a few brave mountain goats would traverse it without the proper neuroses attending them. One false step and A NEW OLYMPIC RECORD! Spotting his good friend Luther, Promo, through his mind waves, warmly greeted Means. 
The message to be physically transferred to Promo was delivered and a walk through and up the mountainside, tugging his endless chain behind, ensued. Animals would come to greet both associates. Different ones. Only the birds of prey were constant, who looked mean and frustrated with the eternal wait. The message Noah had sent to Promo via Luther were intrinsic to the success of the ZOOATHALON. Promo had the knowledge of new coordinates created in space since the last ones were fixed in space by the time barons, and NOAH would not dare cast his ship upon the waves of spinning vortexes alive in the universe without them. Going back and forth in time to deliver messages were one of the essential reasons that creatures like Luther were mapped out and drawn forth from the primordial clay of life. He were used to it, though at times, the portal wait between 'time shifts' could be too long, scary even. Will one ever return to one's own time? And where IS one's own time after one has been gone from it for some time? But here is where it got a bit more interesting. 
At the moment of the question forming itself in the mind's twisted gates, THE SPHINX, now 'space-shipped' and time traveling in and out of time as the ships technology could process, suddenly hovered above the nesting spot where upon the treacherous mountainside, the two old comrades in arms were resting and Luther Means were soon 'caught up'. He looked once inside the ship to see what form the Sphinx had taken and realized that it had taken the form of the ship itself. Its entire vibration WAS the ship. Then unexpectedly, hoovered up into the craft appeared PROMETHEUS. And for what was the first time in what seemed like millennium, the young rabble rouser Promo spoke! “Good thing you did come today Luther, as me and the Sphinx had already made arrangements that when HE got it together to get out of here, I'd choose that day also to defy my father's mandate, and get my freezing ass off of those cold and stingy rocks. I've paid my dues, if not Apollo's also, if not the full measure of ANTIGONE'S lance, or the weight and worth of all of LEDA'S Swans, those spoiled rotten sons of bitches, who are as demanding as eagles but as diffident as flamingos. As for DIONYSUS, well his drunken bones can just follow me down a south wind and smell my bitter …” 'I get it', interjected Luther. 'Man, you must have more than a few harrowing stories to tell!' “ You betcha I do, though this time, the content won't be free, but will come via a proper publishing house. You gotta know that if God is going to come after me this time, PROMO is going to be getting paid! In fact, you just gave me a very 'royal' idea. I think I shall call them ROYALTIES and start some persons collecting on my behalf . After all, I am a blue-blood and this is my birthright.” Just then, after their orbit had been assumed and flight coordinates arranged, a loud and eel like thunderbolt came this close to splitting the craft into smaller broken units. But PROMO and the Sphinx both knew that any powerful energy that hit the spacecraft would only harness that energy to be used when it were otherwise low on energy or used for missile defense. He would never again see Mt. Olympus as he'd left it. He thought it too provincial if lofty, and out of touch with the people it had created to breed, raise and instruct. The ship would drop Luther back off at NOAH's camp, to prepare for their own ship's launch. Meanwhile, PROMO would be heading out into the nether reaches of space where he would reboot his mission statement, perfect new techniques for strengthening and meditation, and build a missile shield which he would from time to time, direct towards the lands of Apollo, his great and now even more exacerbated rival, and make sure to disturb what crops of harvest weighed most specifically on the powerful Lord and legend's priority list. 
For PROMETHEUS, it were simple. He possessed the gift of fire. Were he not to use it to enlighten the brows upon those he loved and his father created, he would use the same fire to burn the other God's crybaby butts with, and to screw with their master plans, JUST BECAUSE HE COULD. And who was to stop him? He'd been painted as a rebel and now filled out its meaning with impressive zeal, not to mention frivolous guile. In his mind he were a God as fully formed as the rest, not only despite his half bred pedigree, but in his mind, PRECISELY BECAUSE OF IT. He did not feel himself the child of a lesser MYTH, but the son of an expanded one. MORE to the point, he knew that whatever the full scale of Lord Zeus' dimension's, all he needed himself was just ENOUGH of the father's blood to KNOW WHO HE WAS and that he were also, by extension, the father. He knew, that the rest would take care of itself if he knew this, and that the blood grows as the realization of its acceptance grows, and as acceptance grows, so grows capacity. He also knew that one day, he would return to Olympus, after the elder sons had succeeded ZEUS and fallen asleep, and mount what would later be termed a hostile takeover of the ELYSIAN FIELDS. He would then take and make Apollo's vaunted team of horses, his personal property and wheat field tenders. He would feed them nectar and pairs. He would take the famous golden apples and redistribute them to the favorites of the families he loved and looked after on Earth. Including the few who still live within its vast inside domains. And to one of these families to whom one of the sacred golden apples fell, their fortune was made when their first born son was credited with having invented the wheel.


THE BEARDED LADY, after the downsizing of the circus, decided to head on off to HOLLYWOOD, where she was told she might find PLENTY OF WORK.


I probably shouldn't write before taking my full medications. Problem is, I haven't gotten them yet, nor do we even know what to begin taking.


Even JANE understood 
as the underwriters conferred,
that they are not dead 
if we can feel them, nor 
will they die if we can compel them. 
And that to snatch and quell chaos 
was the root cause of impulse, 
its primal urge. It pays us 
in the way that like minds converge 
and keeps its graces simple. 
And that you never get to 
Heaven hanging on to the vines, 
but to the veins. Which drains 
what drips into the chalice of 
symmetry's loose and ample chains. 
Drunk from a cup which washes itself 
after wine and saliva have 
been exchanged. Expunged 
from the lips, before they merge. 
A shrine to grains, a waterfall, 
a thrust of the hips, 
a fig that falls in its own sweet time, 
like the confessions of those clergymen 
who are always on the verge. 
Like a leaf falls in free verse, 
while looking for validation in rhyme. 
And then, where 
is 'them' in the absence 
of adrenaline? In the vortex of 
crucible, at the wellspring 
of phenomenon's wake, 
at the doorstep of moratorium, 
and in the decisions a woman had to make.
Though things were good, 
the jungle might destroy your mood 
if far too many creatures stirred 
and fled their tracks to further brood: 
A PURGE ! (and then a shake), 
As and when it feels 
it should, 
was far less likely than to 
find it rude, and stuttering 
like a beaten bird, whose beak 
was broken nightly. The roots 
of insurrection sprouting from seeds 
that are sown and known for debt, 
Image only paralyzing what it 
does not genuinely reflect (and rightly). 
Jane claimed Tarzan harped at his herd 
and broke her clutch. That 
she'd have sued him but he 
wasn't worth much. Though she fainted 
still when she fell beneath the musky 
smell of his tainted touch, whose barrels 
blazed beneath his chest when his temper 
burned out slightly, 
which guaranteed her rush. 
It seems absurd: 
Temptation shows no distinction 
between Gods and men, and 
only the wind separates US from THEM. 
Gasping and grasping at finger foods 
and coughing on hands crude 
knuckles deterred, and often on a whim. 
As regret feathers for a final surge, 
a trapezoidal free fall twist where 
guilt informs collusion, while snapping 
at her quilted wrists. And forgetting 
the catcalls she might have heard 
while knitting in her seclusion. 
A lady did what she could, 
blocking out the sunlight 
with cleavage and grapes, 
as she swung past the lewd 
in her neighborhood.
Who hung on her every word 
from Sophocles to slur, 
from limelight visions 
to twilight blur, 
that fell through her ragged drapes 
and challenged what shapes she could 
not yield. 
Her vines once fractured, worn frayed 
by contusions. 
She braids them now into her hair 
and as they occur, 
bleaches the intrusions. 
How slowly the amber fields 
turn the grieving embers that 
scorch the earth, into bloodlines 
the bitter larvae can never heal. 


“Hello, Mr.Jenkins, this is Mr. LACTOSE. So why are you so INTOLERANT of me? Can't we talk this out?”


In deciding to narrow his dating choices to only those women who could lick their own breasts, while humming the national anthem, Woody the Woodpecker, now out on tour with he and Late Night Nate's group, knew he'd saved himself enough time to work on his compositions and arrangements with the band.




….because if you are cheating and losing, you are not cheating enough.


Mr. Lactose instructed his lawyer that it was war. He believed that he were being discriminated against for the simple fact that he were white. That this were a pigmentation issue. Did diversity have to mean extinction for his color? Was his color his fault? Did he even think about it unless it were brought to his attention? No. So where does this Mr. Jenkins get off accusing Mr. Lactose for Mr. Jenkins' digestive problems? He would see Mr. Jenkins in court. Mr. Lactose had heard enough of this besmirching of his reputation. And he had his milk concessions to protect. Babies to feed. Strong bones to grow. To his way of thinking, maybe these accusers were themselves, just intolerant people. Maybe even before Mr. Lactose showed up. Or maybe they didn't think they deserved him, so they blamed him. The bigger matter was that Mr. Lactose had awakened to his higher purpose. He would curdle himself if necessary, if that is what it took to produce his vision of a world, where all men are entirely free of the insidious prejudice of LACTOSE INTOLERANCE. If the domino of this intolerance fell, what domino might next fall and threaten our society, FOOT FETISH INTOLERANCE?


SUPERMAN were incensed. Radioactive. He Googled himself and there he was sharing. Being leaned on. Even on, he would look at his licensed products and see himself listed in the 'If you like this, you might also like THIS', cart section of the webpage. He had gotten used to being usurped over the years by the iconic rodent Mickey, but this SUPER MARIO were really beginning to get to the fine small hairs in his nose. The ones that make you cry when you pull. Everywhere Superman went, Mario tagged along like a mutant unwanted little brother across the merchant stalls of the real and cyber marketplace. Target marketing? More like brand stalking and invasion of personal space. Superman didn't, like his friend and rival BATMAN, have much patience with the endless brooding it seemed to take, to absorb the manner of evil which crime fighters spent their lives largely consumed by, trying to understand and overcoming. He favored quick simple solutions. Intelligent as he were, he were still at heart a rural small town farm boy, who answered his destiny's whistle in becoming a figure steadfast in upholding the honor, which would drive men to place themselves as barriers between harm's way and an innocent wayfarer. Preserving their right to live, their will to prosper. Justice were more than a concept to the Man of Steel, it were the force which before the camel's eye flickers, leading him through those droughts which desert journeys place between far too few oasis'. 
What gave the right to this short dumpy Italian cheesy mustache wearing plumber, to take up so much placement in the same sphere of culture superhero's reside and sweat in? And more to the point, WHO IS THIS ASSHOLE (and is he a communist)? And to Superman, normally amiable and encouraging, what powers did Mario have that he himself lacked? Superman thought all of that leaping and jumping around and picking mushrooms, just a bit too 'soft in the loafers' for his tastes, but rationalized that Mario's more limited skill set made it easier to translate him onto a video screen for young minds. He's a pixie, thought Superman and pixies are good with pixels. As well as the people who populate pixels with the points that paint the pixies for people tickled with all things pickled. Whereas, Superman acknowledged willingly, his own skills were too broad and unpredictably explosive for a mere video game to contain in just so many gigabytes. Still, the MAN OF STEEL were a patriot. And although he and LOIS LANE had fallen out some time before, after Lois had had the slippery tongued audacity to inform CLARK KENT that, whoever he thought he were, he were still being 'outsourced' by BRUCE WAYNE, he still loved her. Call it the triumph of love as informality. As afterthought to reflex and embrace. As prelude to forgiveness. A fumbling of the self into its own lap, but a graceful, patient fumbling that unties its own knots as it goes. She told him later that what she had said to him that whiskey laced midnight were untrue, that she had been trying to arouse his animal anger. Her little secret being that she liked to be roughed up just enough before their explorations of ardor ('yeah, that's it, 'ardor!'- she cried), before she received him. And you couldn't write off easily the empathetic wistfulness which hung between them and would forever bind them, doomed both, to share a love that could not exist save what could be scribbled onto the page for the chaste of heart and the easy to convince. Better still thought Superman, that LOIS, since having left publishing some years ago, now worked as a government official in IMMIGRATION. The Metropolis' guardian angel knew what he had to do. 
Being Superman had its perks yet. He would see if he retained enough clout to get SUPER MARIO deported. On suspicion of being an agent of a larger left wing globalist conspiracy. He DID know that at the very least, his friends in the DEPT. of TREASURY, would look into this (non union) plumbers taxes and hit him hard in the wallet he carries tucked inside his red denim overalls. And next to it a small electronic device which kept a growing list of cell numbers and e-mail addresses of some of the same ladies who once whispered urgent fidelity to the MAN OF STEEL. It also doubled, the device did, as a taser. And sources close to old Kris Kringle suggest that SANTA is also none too happy with this stun gun carrying, magic mushroom promoting creep. A little too PIED PIPER for old St. Nick, who sees conspiracy in all that his bags do not conceal.


…as it turned out, the enemy of my enemy is my friend! Seems, Superman got wind of MICKEY MOUSE'S displeasure with Mario's invasion of his home turf. And was NOT getting used to being outsold game wise by Mario. All of that unmanly twirling and leaping. As far as the mouse were concerned, he'd already done all of that Mario Nintendo stuff and the stunts to go with it, in DISNEY'S FANTASIA, when he were a mere mouse under contract and not a mouse with shares, as he is now. The fact of the mouse's disgruntlement left Superman open to a new plan as he and Mickey began to realize their real value to the other, and that (who knew?), they even kind of liked hanging out and spending 'bonding' time.Which encourages 'synergy' between brands. Superman grew in this interim, to recognize that Mickey's business acumen were incredible and THISCLOSE to some of the criminal masterminds Superman had to fight in order to keep faith with the values of truth, justice and the American way. But what an advantage to have that kind of stealth criminal mind, ON YOUR SIDE for a change and not just trying to kill you before the page turns and the ink runs out. And even the robust Superhero were moved to learn about the secret program that Mickey funds, for rodents abused by clinical testing. Including those with 'transgender confusion issues' due to their being used continually in trials, to test blush and mascara.


And very late happy 66th birthday to one of my all time heroes, the grand ROD STEWART. Better late than never unless you agree that it is better LATTE than never. And for a great latte, do come to Milano!


The good news is that BUDGETS DO BALANCE out. It might cost a lot to clothe a model, but it doesn't cost a lot to feed them.


These writings dedicated to my dear wife's 35th birthday, this Dec 30 past, 2010. From the two men in her house who love her, me and our boy Mingus.


In any event, WE ARE STILL CANNIBALS! We just now consume one another through lawyers and corporations.




Anyway, don't forget, YOU ARE NOT GETTING any OLDER ( you are just getting more on my nerves) !


Woody: Nate, are you asleep?
Late Night Nate: No woodpecker, what's up?
Woody: You never answered my question from yesterday. If you were a publisher, wise owl, what would you have done with D.H.Lawrence?
Nate: Easy. I would have played him at first base against left hand pitching.


I sometimes feel very much that I exist in a vacuum where my sound cannot be heard, nor publicized, but its echo is heard for miles around. And its image assigned elsewhere. That what is in my hands today will be in someone else's tomorrow (and without shame). That while we dance, someone else is filmed doing the same steps, with naming rights and laughing all the way to the bank. And that we have given, and willingly, far more than we have ever in return received, while being mocked for giving it. And that we seem to exist ONLY as a model for others to take from without guile or impunity, swimmers all up in your pool, though none bring any water to it. What fields you find and furrow, 'Hey, give us that, we'll take that thank you.' But hey, (as forewarned by Pink Floyd), WELCOME TO THE MACHINE!


There is a difference between work and invention. Though it takes a lot of work to begin to notice the difference.


The greatest therapy I know is believing that you are right and that time exists to prove it. And that you are worthy of your highest dreams being fulfilled.


These writings inspected by number 6. (then reinspected by number 9, since 6 is dyslexic and on his back most of the time).


Next writings to contain more details about the availability of THE SPHINX mastered Mp3 and CD. 
We know that, barring the unforeseen, we shall be ready very soon. The next missive will announce how soon, and provide what information allows for safe entry into 
THE ZOOATHALON and its time of arrival.

The Sphinx release will also coincide with a new look for our website. We hope more exciting and accessible.

Also soon to be released, the live Mp3 project: 



An instrumental version of THE SPHINX will also be made available.

Thank you & Stay tuned!


Dedicated in full to MARCO FULCINITI. A Kawasaki cowboy with Kawasaki dreams. R.I.P. 
-Jan 15 2011 No more horizon, just flow. We leave you now to the branches of Endymion and its starlight mists. Trail on, and forever climb! There IS NO WAY BACK DOWN, that is the whole point.




This space reserved for solicitations of your favorite asian recipes for the charity cookbook that I am compiling with Master Steven Tyler of Aerosmith: WOK THIS WAY!