A La Boom Boom (knot a poem)

When the doves sing in the willow trees

Or when they croon with



As each day

Becomes dusk

Do you think they tweet about love?

I have my doubts…yet

Their sounds are sweet to the ear

And Lord knows you don’t have to try

To hear


God damn thing

That is whispered, murmured or mumbled

In your zip code

See if you can hear this…

My love for you is not a song

That for a spell



Then in a moment,


My love does not

Spill all over you

Like a vanity fair

With compliments,

Promises and

Flower petals.

I will not write

stanza after stanza

About your eyeballs

Or the sound of your voice

I won’t become fanatical with the length of your legs

Nor will I stir up hysteria with lines

About the contour of your hips,

The delicate breath,

The end of winter

Or the last time we danced.

I will not place upon the page

That which has been said

By all the other


Concerning love and its many traps

I will only say this,

I see your spirit


It is a flawless


The magic between you and I

Is that our spirits dwell together

And they have known one another



SB277 hits California affecting K-12 and College students alike

Senator Pan authors bill under heavy scrutiny of private agenda, bypassing committees and severing constitutional state rights

Imagine you come to work and your supervisor calls you and your coworkers into a large room and informs you that you need to get injected with a vaccine that contain carcinogens, gastrointestinal toxicants, respiratory toxicants and a cocktail of aborted human fetus, neurotoxins and a splash of antifreeze that may or may not cause you to stop breathing depending on your genetic make up.

Imagine the financial aid department at your school required you to do the same thing.

What if your child’s admissions department said your child could not attend school next year unless your child was vaccinated?

What if you are a single working parent attending college and you can’t afford to home school your children?

Will you sacrifice the health of your children for their education or sacrifice their education for their health?

There is no need to imagine or speculate anymore.

Governor Brown signed SB 277, the most stringent vaccine mandate in the United States on June 30, 2015 and families that do not comply will not be able to exercise their state constitutional right to a free and appropriate education.

In 2016 parents will be forced to allow their family doctors and nurses to inject their children with over 40 doses of federally recommended vaccines and the language in SB277 allows the state to add more vaccines to the list.

Debra Baretta, an opponent of SB277 and a Bay Area mother of three healthy boys, was on the Petaluma campus of Santa Rosa Junior College in September 2015 urging students to sign a petition that would allow Californians to vote on the vaccination mandate.

“My boys are 10, 12 and 16 years old, they rarely get sick and have never been vaccinated, it was my choice for them and now this bill is taking that choice away from me and parents all across California” says Baretta.

“This petition needs a little over 36,000 signatures statewide to stop the bill and put it to a vote”

The petition fell short and the deadline came and went leaving concerned Californians baffled.

In an interview after the petition failed to provide the required number of signatures Baretta added, “I think the reason we didn’t get the signatures we needed is because most people trust their family doctors have their children’s best interest in mind, what they fail to understand is that most doctor receive very limited training in vaccinations”

Dr. Suzanne Humphries:

We learn that vaccines need to be given on schedule. We are indoctrinated with the mantra that ‘vaccines are safe and effective’—neither of which is true. Doctors today are given extensive training on how to talk to ‘hesitant’ parents—how to frighten them by vastly inflating the risks during natural infection. …on the necessity of twisting parents’ arms to conform, or fire them from their practices. Doctors are trained that NOTHING bad should be said about any vaccine, period.”

In the beginning of this year Disneyland officials confirmed a total of 45 cases of the measles in California spawning a push to vaccinate. By February of 2015 Senator Pan had written and submitted SB277 to the Senate Health Committee. Less than 90 days later this Senate Bill 277 was amended in order to bypass the appropriations committee and then quickly taken to a vote on the senate floor.

The lead in the Sacramento Bee on May 11th 2015 read as follows:

“California’s controversial proposal to eliminate the personal and religious belief exemptions for vaccinations could come up for a vote in the Senate as early as Thursday after amendments were quietly made to the bill last week”

Senator Pan of Sacramento is quoted saying “This bill now is really about abolishing the personal belief exemption”

SB277 passed in the summer of 2015 and will be in affect in July 2016 making California the third state in the nation along with Mississippi and New Mexico whose state rights to personal and religious belief exemptions have been completely eliminated.

Due the grandfather clause in SB277, children in 2nd grade through 6th grade will not have to be vaccinated unless they are transferring from another school district which means there will be a large number of students that won’t even be vaccinated under the new schedule.

A quick recap of the timeline for the purposes of clarity; 45 cases of measles reported at Disneyland in January. In February, Senator Pan, who received over 90,000 dollars in contributions directly from the companies who produce the vaccines and a positon in the research department after his term, wrote SB277 eliminating personal and religious belief exemptions in California.

In the beginning of May, the bill was amended to bypass the appropriations committee because the safety of California’s children was of “vital importance”

By May 11th the senate committee was ready to vote on this bill authored by a man who has never written a bill on health care.

One month later, in June, Governor Brown signs SB277 adding California to a list of only two other states in the nation whose personal and religious belief exemptions have been eliminated.

In July of 2016, when SB277 takes effect, over half of the students in California under 18 years of age will not be vaccinated for another 1-7 years according to the new schedule.

Senate bill 277 that eliminates state rights of religion and education affecting over 39 million California residents went from pen to vote in less than 5 months.

Some believe that the bill is more about agenda than safety.

Dr. Lynne R Mielke of Pleasanton stood before the senate on the day the committee voted and stated, “I am deeply concerned about losing my freedoms and inherent right to make my own medical decisions and that of my child”

Nearly all of the major vaccines contain aborted human, cow or swine fetus which has, for years, been an issue with those Californians with personal and religious beliefs that oppose injecting themselves or their children with the remains of dead humans and animals.

Under the former guidelines their beliefs have been protected.

SB277 has eliminated the personal and religious belief exemptions that Californians already had on file with their respective schools and physicians.

Parents who do not wish to vaccinate their children under the new vaccination schedule, which has doubled the amount of shots in the former schedule, will now have until December 31st of this year to get their physicians to sign a new Personal Belief Exemption form.

SB277 contains language referring to the addition of immunization record into financial aid folders for colleges in California.

“If you are attending any college in California and you need financial aid to ensure your education these vaccination schedules must be met, if they are not, this will be noted in your scholarship schedule and financial aid portfolio” says Baretta.

SB277 is a forced vaccination mandate and once a vaccine is given it cannot be undone.

Depending on an individual’s genetic makeup, the downside of vaccinations may only be the sting of the needle for some it could mean permanent disability, stroke or death.

The question arises once again.

Will you compromise your education for the sake of your health or compromise your health for the sake of your education?

In 2016, millions of Californians will be forced to answer.

D.A. Medina

Smokey Robinson at Green Hall article

Smokey Robinson stirs up a Quiet Storm at Green Music Hall

75 year old pioneer of Motown is still the ‘Genius of Love’

“No one can sing, quite like Smokey, Smokey Robinson” penned by the pop-funk band “The Tom-Tom Club” for their 1981 hit ‘Genius of Love’ remains a valid ode to the Hall of Fame inductee.

On September 4, 2015, William ‘Smokey’ Robinson performed before a sold out crowd at the newly constructed Green Music Center on the campus of Sonoma State University in Petaluma, California.

The founding father of the “Detroit Sound” stepped on stage garbed in a green metallic suit kicked off the sold out show with the 1961 hit “Tears of a Clown”.

Robinson, wearing that solid gold grin, crooned his way through the opening tune written by Stevie Wonder and made famous by Smokey and his Miracles.

Singers of Robinson’s popularity are in a rare group of entertainers; a majority of their jobs on stage are accomplished by the audience. The sold out crowd of 4,261, composed primarily of those in the Woodstock demographic, were singing every lyric in motley harmony.

Smokey and his band upped the tempo with another hit “Going to a Go-Go”; the baby boomers joined in the fun dancing all over the grassy dancefloor, “The white man’s overbite” replacing “The Monkey” and “The Mashed Potato” respectively.

Robinson slowed things down with yet another Motown chart topper “Ooh baby baby” which he delivered in a tempo that resembled a Sony Walkman low on AA batteries.

Fellow Motown label mate Martha Reeves told Rolling Stone Magazine in their 100 greatest singers of all time issue, “With his tone and delivery, you could easily fall in love with Smokey”

Some of the female spectators seemed like they would have given Reeves statement an “Amen” as they hooted like a flock of drunken owls.

The only “Vegas” moment in the 95 minute performance came when Smokey’s background dancers pulled out umbrellas under the stars of a muggy summer night, put on raincoats whilst Robinson sang “Quiet Storm” as the dancers wiggled all over the stage. Wisconsin has never witnessed more cheese production.

Besides the silly Las Vegas moment, the performance was chocked with outstanding singing and phrasing from the most inimitable voice in pop music.

34 years after the Tom-Tom Club hit, Smokey Robinson proved in he is in fact ‘The Genius of Love”.


D.A. Medina


Sex Hole 4

SEX HOLE (PART 4)Monday: Instead of succumbing to the “Monday Blues”, the old lady and I decided to head to the big city of San Francisco and ride the Double-Decker bus with all of the tourists. We put on our best wigs (mine was fashioned after the real Whig party so I looked like I was in Parliament, not to be confused with the outstanding funk band from Minnesota) her wig we purchased at the dollar store.
After we were all geared up we jumped on BART, Bay Area Rapid Transit, we both doused our seats with Lysol (it was a judgment call and a fine one at that) and we were off to play in “the Sco”.

Mr. BART delivered us safely at the Powell street stop where we finished our fierce argument about the price of doughnuts (she won, apparently those bastards all got together and raised the prices) gone are the days of the 35 cent bear claw, it is what it is.

We proceeded swiftly to the Double-Decker bus and secured two seats at the rear end of the top deck where two small Asian ladies joined us, one of which kept turning back and giving me dirty looks me whilst tightly clenching her purse and false teeth. I walked up behind her to ask her what she thought of the writings of Li Po but the bus lurched and I fell on my back knocking off my wig, which was very embarrassing. As we toured the city the bus driver/tour guide sprinkled us with factoids about our fair city and its numerous hills and Asians.

For example the wedding pictures of Joe DiMaggio and Marilyn Monroe taken on the steps of St. Peter’s church is actually a bit “fugazi” as the Catholick church does NOT recognize divorce, they were in fact married at City Hall and just used the front of the church to take pictures. I wonder if the church recognized them at that point, I raised my hand and asked if the church recognizes sodomy or fraud or lies in their interpretation of the Bible.

My lady took her wig off and smacked me with it.

Apparently the true address of St Peter and Paul’s church is 666 Filbert although they will never post those numbers on that gaudy cultural farce. Some folks think they should be issued another address, I say it’s a fine fit.

My woman is an altruist in the purest form and I am constantly sharing her affection with wayward folk, lost dogs, bums and sodomites. I had to laugh when I saw her picture up on the wall at the St. Peter and Paul’s church, as she is a lukewarm Catholick at best. I must say she does put feet to her so called faith, the picture was of her and a filthy homeless person whom she was bathing with a hose, a squeegee and some BBQ tongs…. too funny.

We jumped back on the bus and made our way over to the Tenderloin section, which, as my friend Dave Chappelle would say, there is, nothing tender about at all. We jumped off the bus again and waddled into the nearest watering hole as my nerves were a bit fried from the whole church experience and I needed some of the other spirits to calm my weary brain.

Back in the old days the police would never come to the T.L. because of the crime factor so the butchers who lived in the area at that time brought their finest cuts of meat to entice the SFPD to do their jobs in that part of the city. The “tender loins” worked of course as most police are ruled by their potbellies and mommy boy syndromes.

I spoke with a few of the local crack smokers; warning them that their unhealthy habits and sinful ways would lead them straight to jail or Hades where they would no doubt burn for eternity. They were not receptive to my humble olive branch offering, I tried to get my lady to give them a bath but she refused as she was wearing her good boots, back on the Double-Decker.

My lady was hungry so we jumped off the bus again and strolled into restaurant on Van Ness avenue where one of the waiters was singing a Judy Garland cover song, I almost turned around and walked out but the old girl was hungry and who was I to deny my queen of her repast. I ordered a New York steak with all the fixings and ordered my bride a nice bowl of corn pops.

She was a bit angry about my choices but after I read her the back of the corn pops box she was happy again. I told her “it’s all you care to eat mac n cheese when we get home lover” just to smooth things out.

We skipped BART and treated ourselves to a lovely cab ride home where my lady ate two boxes of mac n cheese and fell into a deep sleep dreaming of the next moron she could help out whilst snoring; the pictures fell off the wall and woke her up…she blamed me.

Social Note: No bastard ever won a war by dying for his country, the idea is to kill the other poor dumb bastard not let him into your house and pantry.

Tuesday: Saved my lady from saving a wayward jaywalker on El Camino Real…sorry no details folks still too angry.

Wednesday: Barely made it.

Thursday: One of my old lady’s success stories was singing Karaoke at a bar in Millbrae and she coaxed me into attending, I said I would be happy to join her as long as my opinions were not suppressed. She looked confused but agreed to my terms. Bob was a former speed freak who my lovely bride nursed back to health.

Poor Bob had a terrible tick from all the years of abusing meth and one leg was much longer than the other besides that he was a happy son of a bitch.

My lady introduced me and I congratulated him on graduating the Amber Sheraton School of Etiquette for Monkeys and Morons (A.S.S.E.M.M). He kept referring to my wife as a miracle as a matter of fact he referred to almost everything as a miracle. The guy singing was a miracle, the fact that he was standing there was a miracle; the guy next to him was a miracle and so on. Something happens in those 12 step rooms where people’s brains are washed clean and instilled with this damn miracle malarkey.

My wife left to use the restroom and he turned to me and ticked for a while then in the most sincere tone informed me that I was a miracle. I told him that I’m pretty sure he does not know the meaning of that word and he should stop using that word so shamelessly. He was not affected and kept smiling at me insisting I was a miracle.

They called his name to sing his song, which my cynical mind told me, would be completely laughable. I was wrong, that bastard could sing like Luther Vandross or maybe it was because he chose a Luther Vandross song “Love won’t let me wait” which is one of my favorite songs by Luther.

On the ride home my lady was in rare form, maybe it was the cocktails or the Karaoke, but she looked directly in my eyes and said she is done reforming 3 time losers, crooks, drug addicts and sodomites.

I thought of Bob…”It’s a miracle”, I said and drove us home.

Ray and Alice- Da kine love story

The love story of Raymond and Alice

Dearest Family, Friends and Criminals,

The story you are about to hear is mostly horseshit.

The truth has been twisted quite a bit, but only for the sake of laughter in the face of miserable times.

Our fairytale begins on the lazy island of Oahu; where the coconut trees sway in the easy breeze, the unemployment checks fill the mailboxes and the diabetics dwell in sweet teriyaki harmony.

There on the leeward side of the island lived a handsome young pig farmer named Raymond Souza Victorino. Raymond and his brothers worked on the farm day and night without lunch or piss breaks.

Life was hard on the young man and each night he prayed for his own true love, that he might start a family of his own. One evening while he was sleeping and dreaming of warm malasadas, a bright light in the barn woke him from his dreams.

“Who dat?” cried Ray.

Just then his fairy godfather appeared, “Howzit Bruddah Ray …..”

“Who dat?”

“It’s me da kine fairy Godfaddah… get one good lookin Kumu ovah deah on Kalihi side….dats yo tru love Brah!”

“Way ovah deah? No mo one good girl mo close?”

“Nah, only one true love brah…her name is Alice, she is Potagee, but she can read, write and only get fo kids!”

“Only fo kids…too good eh?”

So it came to be that Raymond bought a small donkey, packed it with beer and sashimi and set off to find his true love.

After a day and a half of traveling our hero had eaten all the fish and drank all the beer. By the time he reached Kalihi he had developed a powerful thirst. Luckily for Raymond there was a small bar on the corner where he tied up his donkey and sauntered in for a drink.

Earlier that day our heroine, the sweet and sour Alice Robello, was walking on the beach. Alice was the only woman in Hawaii that could not and would not swim in the island’s pristine waters but instead would walk along the shore daydreaming.

Just then a giant wave crashed on her poor Portagee head and sent her reeling into the surf. While she was underwater drowning in the surf a giant sea turtle swam underneath her and pulled her safely to shore.

While she was lying in the sand coughing up salt water the giant turtle began to speak.

“Wheeesh! What? Cannot swim sistah? Lucky fo you I get one message…yo true love stay comin ova to dis side riding one donkey”

(Cough, cough) “One donkey? What a lucky lady I am!” said Alice sarcastically.

“I’m sorry Honu…I get fo kids and two full time jobs and no time fo love!”

So the giant turtle turned back to the ocean and said “Whateva…his name is Raymond Souza Victorino, he is one pig famah from da leeward side…he will come to da bar tonight”

“One pig famah!! You think I’m stoopid or what?” cried Alice.

“Hey Tita…you da one talking to one turtle…aloha oi”, and with that the giant honu swam back into the sea.

So it came to be that night that Raymond walked in to the bar where Alice worked as a cocktail waitress.

Ray sat down at one of the tables and started eating out of a small bowl of boiled peanuts.

Alice came to take his order. “What you like…beah?”

“Yeah…bring me two beahs”

Raymond looked up and their eyes met; the love light filled the tiny bar room and they were both stuck in its glow.

Raymond wiped the peanut shells from his shirt, “Is yo name Alice?”

“Yea”…she said stunned by his good looks, “did you ride one donkey ovah hea?”


“Is yo name Raymond?”

Raymond nodded his head and smiled, within a few hours Alice was pregnant again.

They had found true love and giant grocery bills. They moved to the mainland and raised their family with lots of love and lots of steamed rice. THE END.

Don’t bring me Down

Don’t bring me down

Don’t bring me down with you

to stare into the hole of regret,

where the light switch is cemented

and still smoldering from the heat of my failures.

I am alone in the dark

searching for you

to bring me some light

and a blanket for my bed of stone.

Don’t step on my heart

that beats only for you,

that swings and sways

to the rhythm of your golden spirit.

Please don’t coax the worst words

to come flying from the blackest caves

of my mind,

they only live to bring destruction.

Remember, in their stead, when you were hungry

and I was your world.

I brought you food and shelter

with every piece of my soul singing;

“I love you my Angelitas”

Love is patient and kind;

it has no room for elbows

of spite and vengeance

or dull knives that woodpeckers hold

When you were naked and afraid

I clothed you with my warm hands,

bathed you in oil

and spoke words of comfort and peace

into your tiny ears.

I fed you truth and made you strong again,

I held you when you came to me in tears

with a broken body and mind.

Now I am the one who comes crying to you,

I am the one who has perpetuated a pain

in your soul spawned by the seeds of evil men.

I feel nothing but shame and loneliness; wearing the guilt

like a guilty man should

as he looks at his hands covered in blood

from the only true heart he has ever known.

I would never ask forgiveness for that which is unforgivable,

I only ask for kindness in my time of need.

SEX HOLE PART 8: Grab your hairspray Bon Jovi! Meet my Gun Makers! Thor is my Grandpa x 18!

SEX HOLE PART 8: Grab your hairspray Bon Jovi! /Meet my Gun Makers! Thor is my Grandpa x 18!

Sunday: Had breakfast on an airplane bound for Southern California, the place where I was born and breaded, deep-fried and burned. I was worried I was going to be late to meet up with my close friend Jon Bon Jovi and his hairdo. We were slated to talk about his band’s new album, “What About Now?” and his somewhat newly found humanitarian costume he has been parading about so pompously. In 1984 his band, Bon Jovi (such an egomaniac) released their first album entitled’ “Bon Jovi” (ego whore), since then the group and Mr. Jon Bon Jovi have made paper millions.

I have known Jon for over 20 years now and I am surprised he still shows up for our meetings in L.A. as I verbally and philosophically have been bashing his music and hairdo since meeting number one back in the 80s. Jon is what I call “a little feller”, he might be 5 foot 2 inches tall without his 80s mullet that stretched him up above 5’10. He loves his tight clothes and Crest white strips.

Sunday (noon): Jon Bon Jovi’s security pats me down before I enter his hotel room which infuriated me but was wise on behalf of the guard. In 2010, I hit Jon with a pipe wrench when I found out he was not only consorting with the President but had been appointed to the White House Council for Community Solutions where he would be helping “underprivileged” (I detest that word) young people find jobs. So we sit in the living room of his hotel and he rants a bit about the new album which was, unfortunately for me, buzzing in the background as we spoke of matters both big and small. I pulled out my notepad from the last meeting we had, “Any luck on getting ahold of Roberto?” I asked.

“My brother, you ask me that every time we get together, Roberto Duran does NOT want to come out of retirement and fight ANYONE ok?”

Needless to say I was a bit perturbed, I went on to goad him about his lack of clout and “juice” in the world. Why couldn’t he get my childhood hero to “lace em up again” he plainly did not possess my superfluous mouthpiece or salesmanship abilities.

We moved along to new business. I opened with a passage from the Bible, Matthew 6:4, “That thine alms may be in secret: and thy Father which seeth in secret himself shall reward thee openly”.

Jon sat in his oversized chair smiling “Right on” he said as his little feet swayed back and forth, not quite touching the carpet or her fibers. I knew he was confused and I would have to translate.

“This Humanitarian thing you are doing Jon, must you have cameras around whilst you are giving your alms/ doing your thing?”

I continued, “It is grandiose my amigo, not to mention that you are flying your flag of altruism in the face of God’s holy word”.

He stopped swinging his feet. “WHAT?” “Dude, I spend hours and hours of my time with these people…why do it if it can’t be recorded? I mean for posterity sake, you know what I am saying?” he said as he ran his fingers thru his hair and checked his IPhone.

“Yes… I do know what you are saying and that is why we meet up every so often Jon, you need constant counsel and I am your humble yet opinionated “consigliere”

“I am not saying stop helping these poor kids but let’s drop the vanity, leave it at the door along with the hair sprayed egotism”

Jon was nodding his tiny head in agreement, “You are right D, I need to do these things privately and like it says in the Bible…I will be rewarded openly!” his face changed from one of introspection into a face full of glee and overly whitened teeth.

It was amazing to me that this man would be on any kind of “Council”; it was shameful of him to accept the President’s offer back in 2010. A council on grooming, yes, I would accept, anything else is and was absolutely futile.

“Great Jon, hey listen I really have to go, I’m meeting up with Big Kev from USA Today on the other side of town and I do not want to be late”.

We shook hands, did the “guy hug” and I told him I was very proud of him; the security guard chuckled a bit sensing my sarcasm. I reminded him of my other requests; Gap Band for my birthday party this year and music lessons for our oldest daughter, her teachers could be Bonnie Raitt for voice lessons or Raul Midon for guitar lessons…Oh and don’t forget we are going to get the A-Team back together as soon as we find “Face”. I gave him a priority schedule and a Word document listing my favors. Persistence beats resistance.

And with that I left Jon to ponder his evil ways and headed to the Westside.

Sunday (early evening): I make it my practice to stay in touch with my schoolyard friend Kevin Johnson who is a journalist (term used loosely) for the USA Today Newspaper (which barely qualifies as a purveyor of journalism). I am secretly jealous of his title; as I myself have had dreams of being a journalist. These dreams may have been well served in their proper place for if they were manifested I’m sure I would have been fired…and frequently fired. Who wants an overcrowded resume’ filled with short-lived dreams?

Big Kev walked into the bar on Santa Monica Blvd. and I shook his hand and we exchanged normal boring conversation for a few minutes. I opened the February 27, 2013 front page of “USA Today” which read “MEET THE GUNMAKERS”. He looked at me circumspectly, “What you like it…or should I get ready for a sermon dude?”

“Yes I did enjoy the information and Big Kevin made the front page, congratulations Broham!” I said.

I continued, “I just have some questions and I know you are more than qualified to answer them Kevin”

He sensed my tone was indeed condescending,

“Come on D…can’t we just chill and have a few drinks without the constant questioning and never ending tirades about the quality of my newspaper?”

I waved over to the bartender, “I will have a Bohemia and my dread locked friend here will have a…?”

“Cosmo!” I laughed a bit and at his order and pulled out my notepad once again.

I have never seen a man order a Cosmo, I guess I haven’t been out in some time; apparently the metrosexuals have made their place in society, especially in the bars on the Westside of L.A.

“The article explains how Stag Arms has built and I quote “a thriving business” on the AR-15 semiautomatic rifles…is that correct?”

Big Kev sighed, “Please don’t start with the lawyer jargon…”

“What lawyer jargon?”

“Is that correct…and I quote?” “Like this is a deposition or something, we are just having drinks!”

“Yes…I (pause for effect) am having one of the finest lagers ever produced in Mexico, you (pause for effect) are having a girly cocktail…I am sorry about my tone Kevin, I tend to nerd out on these topics, please FORGIVE me I have elementary school children and don’t want them to DIE in an AR-15 rifle shoot out whilst they are playing hopscotch!” I raised my voice like the lion-hearted man that I am.

Kevin swallowed his sissy drink, “Ok OK!”

I continued, “Stag is making a mint on AR-15 rifles and they have a 2 year back up of over 70,000 orders!”

“Correct D”

“Are they selling directly to the Houston Police force?”


“Are the back orders all private buyers?”


Sidenote: Why do we need to be so heavily armed dear friends? I am afraid I am a pacifist deep down inside and will not subscribe to the NRA hoopla and the rapidly increasing fervor for weapons that were NOT meant for hunting game but for shooting humans.

I pushed on…

“He seems very proud that his Stag rifle was used to end a gun fight involving the Houston police department, he keeps a note taped to his wall proving that his Stag rifle was used to shoot 3 three armed suspects, right?”


“Did you ask him if he has any notes taped to his wall showing the Stag AR-15 helping cuckoos slaughter youngsters and teachers?”

“Of course not!” Kevin started laughing.

“Not the time for laughing…do most hunters use AR-15 rifles to hunt game?”

“I doubt it, I didn’t ask”, he was holding back his giggle.

“So it’s safe to say that AR-15 rifles are used to shoot holes in human beings”

“Sure…whatever man…damn check out that one over there in the short shorts!”

“Whatever my ass!” “I should have known your shit rag of a newspaper would NEVER ask the important questions!” “The owner, the guy you quote at the end of YOUR front page article says and I quote “I’m all for making stuff safer. I have two children. I want to make the safest (products) possible” “How do you keep a straight face when you scribble this crap down in your notebook?”

“Stuff?” “Products?” “Why can’t he just say rifles?”

The sun was setting and Santa Monica Blvd was shrouded in gold and orange lights as the buildings casted their shadows over the psychedelic, smog infused light show.

Kevin was stoned and he ordered another round, “I knew you were going bring that up…I knew it when I wrote it and I knew it would be worse if it made the front page”.

“You got a follow up with this jack ass?”


“Ask him a few more questions…for me and my little girls”

“Dude… you are one in a million, so dramatic!”

“You may be correct, just get tough, go off the record Kev!”

“Ok D, just remember this isn’t your script to write, I do what my editor tells me to do that way I keep my job and you can keep coming down here acting like you are in the movies asking me ridiculous questions”. Kevin shook my hand and headed for the door.

I put away my notepad, finished my drink and said goodbye to Kev. I thought to myself and it sounded like Samuel Jackson for some odd reason, “This IS…MY script, mutha fucka and MY story, mutha fucka and I… am the HERO in MY mutha fuckin stories…little dread lock mutha fuckin sissy BOY!”

So I mumbled for a few minutes went back to my hotel called the family, wrote some crap poetry and fell asleep.

Monday: Woke with a terrible thirst.

Ah! The chalice of the devil,

muddy …water, hops in the rusted mug…Alas!

A beer in the morning!

So wretched a man am I to indulge in the brew whilst the witches are still simmering in their slumber;

far from their crockery and yellowing grins.

The idea is planted in the brain

of a bender around 430am,

A seed,

watered with the foulest language and

then sprouted in the morning toilet.


she comes to fruition in the mind around 9

30am whilst the hashed browns are snuggling with their eggs and sour toast,

waiting for coffee conversation.

The beer was so cold and I sipped her so slowly and perfectly that some would have thought me a madman.

Monday (afternoon): The afternoon beer buzz makes a person believe in dreams; the budding actress becomes Dunaway, the sophomore singer becomes Sinatra and the local fishmonger believes he is Valentino (wearing another man’s cologne).

I fell asleep on the Metro on my way to Downtown but awoke in time to hear a furious tail end of a strange conversation that must have been stretching from the Long Beach station to our current location.

I vaguely recall them speaking of the major motion picture, “The Wizard of Oz”. A name you cannot say without coaxing the darkest youth from his frowning.

The two ladies had been complaining about our beloved Oz flick because of one of the last scenes, where the Good Witch comes and tells Dorothy she could have went home all along if only she were to click her shoes 3 times and repeat the words “There’s no place like home, there’s no place like home”.

“Oh hell no!” “That bitch coulda beeeeen told me that about the shoes an’ shit” one gal complained.

The other, like a tennis player with her retort perched upon the net’s line, “And she went through all that bullshit with the othah mutha fuckin witch and the mutha fuckin flying monkeys?”

“Oh hell no bitch!”

Their voices leaped thru the air with a strange grace, sliding up and down ghetto scales with all the proper changes in time signatures, moving through neck and hand gestures, they waltzed, skipped and sometimes spit.

The song of the two gals rose and fell as we clicked and clacked our way to downtown. They made pacts to never watch that movie ever again.

I got off on the downtown exit and handled my business, arranged a rental car for my drive home and fell asleep in the hotel bar, woke up, went to my room and went to sleep, again.

Tuesday: Dear Diary…I guess one could say this is a diary of sorts, but I wouldn’t be the one to say that. This isn’t a diary simply for the fact that diaries are non-fiction and these writings my dear sweet readers are most definitely bullshit.

The sweet people at Avis car rental lent me a 2013 Ford Focus to drive back to San Francisco from the smog filled, traffic laden plastic world of hipsters that is Los Angeles and I mean that in a good way. In order to cut through the thick wooly blanket of boredom that comes with any six-hour drive, I decided to riff on the Motown double CD by the Master Blaster that is and was Stevie Wonder.

The idea was to write in my head as each track would come and then go. No rules bro, just jamming!

I pulled the Focus onto the 5 freeway headed north and plated the first track on the album, it was Love’s in Need of Love Today. Stevie starts by saying that he is our friendly announcer and he has some serious news to share with us, when I say “us” I mean the Focus and I.

He recorded the album in Hollywood (1975-76) and in the Bay area, which was super dope as I was traveling in between these two areas of California. He also recorded some of the album in New York just in case anyone is back checking my research, which I am quite sure “they” are not.

So with the musical stars aligned per say, I began my ranting.

Love IS in need of love today as it was in 1975, 7 out of 10 Americans don’t like or hate their jobs and since we spend a large majority of our lives on earth working it’s a fair assumption to conclude that most of us Americans are NOT happy.

The record sales of anti-depressants and opiates are the wet cement cooling in the wind of my one-man debate.

The government has not changed and we are all in debt in the same way that a man drowns in a storm in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.

There are no love songs. Yes, sweet reader, there are a mountain of songs about mounting each other like beasts in an unknown club somewhere whilst sipping champagne with women with over-sized bubble butts, BUT there are no love songs according to the Daniel Dicktionary (emphasis on Dick).

Oh Stevie… Love is lost my friend and in need of GPS and of course in need of more love.

The next track was “Have a Talk with God” and it is filled with wisdom, however, when it comes to Stevie’s spiritual and lyrical references its hard to tell what the hell he is referring to.

The songs on the album are so infectious that I spent more of my time singing than riffing on their respective topics. I skipped a few tracks; “Pastime Paradise”, as we all know, Koolio has forever tainted Stevie’s track with his version and I refuse to play that song as an informal boycott to “Gangstas Paradise”.

I also skipped “Saturn”, the lyrics are so awful I can’t bring myself to sit through them. I mean I can’t even give you an example, as his writing would then become my writing and I can’t have that my dear sweet readers. Just Google the lyrics and you will be not only laughing but in agreement with your humble literary manservant.

Ok… here is one way I can let you smell the lyrical dung heap with out staining my silver page pan. He talks about living on Saturn; people live to 205 years old, there are rainbows and orange snowflakes, people can fly and are constantly smiling on Saturn. He makes a comment regarding the air quality claiming it is much better than here on Earth as well. He keeps reiterating the fact that there is no violence or hatred on Saturn, everyone is happy in complete opposition to the “unhappy” people on Earth!

Someone should have spoke with Steve before he released this turd; I will only spend a small amount of time on this topic. Each year on Earth it takes 365 days to revolve on it’s axis around the Sun, when this happens we all get cake and cards.

It takes Saturn 29 and a half years to make one rotation around the sun, so if you can miraculously live on Saturn for one year(29.5 years) you will celebrating your birthday song once every 29.5 years and they don’t have the Cheesecake Factory there to help you and your friends welcome another year of life.

I must say if you lasted (which scientifically speaking is impossible Stevie) for 29.5 years on a planet where the normal temperature is 306 degrees Fahrenheit and winds clocking 1100 miles per hour you would be as my L.A. friends would say “ super stoked”.

Not to mention there is no television, pornography or “smart” phones, most of you bastards won’t even read up until this point of this writing, what in the Saturn makes you think you could last on any planet without modern conveniences? The only point I can agree upon is that we here on Earth are unhappy.

But I digress.

Back to the road trip my sweet reader.

There were so many giant freeway signs up and down the 5 Freeway and none of them offered a tiny slice of comfort. One in particular caught my eye; it was a sign for a mortgage lender. Mortgage is French word meaning “dead pledge”, strange etymology on that one…anyways. The sign read: “Give us a call and we will inform you of our plans to own your home!”

Talk about a Freudian slip.

We need more encouraging freeway signs, something that will lift the spirits of the weary traveler not signs that remind him of the hole he is in.

I will volunteer to write the text if someone will put up the cash for the sign and running time. “If you are alive then celebrate life, you beat all the other sperm to the egg some time ago, meditate on that victory, out of thousands of sperm you swam the fastest…forget about your troubles and live”. We could be easier on our selves and just put up Jack Johnson lyrics and let it go.

I was on the northbound 280 around 5pm when the “signs” idea left me and was replaced with the manic feelings of incompletion. I needed to finish my book and my script but I have/had no formula to my psychosis and I can’t afford an editor until I make some bread first.

I walked into the house around 530 p.m. it was so quiet that I tarried awhile in the living room and resumed the reading of my new “used” copy of Villa Incognito by Mr. Tom Robbins of Seattle and New York Times bestseller fame. I swear nine dollars was well spent, plenty of pleasure, laughs and inspiration (if that word still exists).

My lady came home from her workhouse in a heap of nerves, she was lapping the room and lapping the table before she sat down and pulled out her research on the wild turkeys that somehow infiltrated her dear sweet Antioch, California. “Hey Angelitas, where is my sugar? Da me un beso!”

I have stated previously that I have been gainfully employed as a tiger trainer for the last 5 years…SHE is said tiger. My motto is “Tread lightly and carry a thick whip!” Imagine a female tiger that speaks English, drinks vodka and is handy with a blade, if it weren’t for my god-like dexterity I may be missing a limb. Needless to say, it’s impossible to find a Hallmark card that can encapsulate the comings and goings in our strange universe of love. Back to La Tigra…

She stopped pacing (get the whip) stared at me for awhile (get the fucking whip) then out of character, gave me that smile that always kills me dead in my sneakers. I put the whip away. Her lips are the softest I have ever kissed and I used to work the kissing booth at the San Francisco Zoo. Her lips are like small baby goose feather pillows that some nut would make for the ultimate dollhouse bedroom set and her breath is definitely, at least, two notches above the Orangutan.

So we kiss and start to plan the strategies for the rest of the night. We ended up playing Monopoly, and she beat me handily, we ate some leftover pasta brushed our teeth and waddled off to bed.

Wednesday: Woke up with thoughts of debt dangling in my head but I was determined to be stress free and pleasant. Three days until Marvel Comics releases their new book about the end times called “The Age of Ultron”. That idea calmed me a bit and sent me into my reading socks and cup of coffee. I believe the writer should read far more than he/she writes. So I crack one of the three books I am reading now days, it’s a history book dealing with the genetic makeup and location of the “Mexican” from the 1500s on the Iberian Peninsula (modern day Spain) clear to the year 2000 in the United States it’s called

Mexicanos ” by Manuel G. Gonzales.

Wednesday (Lunchtime): Had lunch with my good pal Chucho a homeless man I have befriended over the years. We go to lunch once a month, if he shows and we speak on all topics from world economics and politics to literature and religion. Chucho was an All-State champion wrestler and earned his bachelors’ of science degree, he was very intelligent and engaging. We met on the boycott line at Walgreens on Van Ness Ave 5 years ago and have been friends since.

He was in a bad mood because he didn’t get a job he had applied for at SFSU as a janitor. Usually we philosophize our way out of the doldrums but this day was different than the others and we could not quell his sorrow. So I bought him and I a grape soda and we ate our lunch in silence. I was sad for Chucho, he managed to get clean and sober on the streets without the convenience of a home to get his act together not to mention he was using public transportation to get to meetings and meet with his sponsor.

I know plenty of people that can’t get 3 years clean with all the modern luxuries of life and a bank account that doesn’t resemble the eyes of an owl. Bravo Chucho! We need more human beings like Chucho in this world.

Thursday: Barely made it, no comment.

Friday: Same shit

Saturday (Noonish): Watched the major motion picture “The Avengers” as I was prepping myself for the comic book release of the Age of Ultron. Not too many people know this but I am related to Thor. My great-grandmother was 1/16 Norwegian, which makes me 1/128th Norwegian and blood related to a god (small kine).

For this tale we need to go back to 12th century Norway, Bergen, Norway, and a fishing town.

Christianity had taken hold only 100 years earlier and folks were beginning to unglue themselves from the oily residue of paganism and were collectively learning to “walk in the light”. My 18th generation (or if you prefer Grandma18)

Grandma Ethel was a barmaid in a local tavern near the fish market. The town was buzzing over the shortage of fish and they tumbled into Ethel’s barroom yelling and screaming for steins of beer.

The bar was dimly lit with candles as the sun had made her way to meet the moon for that one last goodbye wink leaving the Earth dark and lively. The smell in the bar was earthy; the odor of the fishmonger’s dry sweat and the gambler’s lucky paw, the fingernails of the working man and the faint perfume of the working girl.

Ethel and her barmaids went to work straight away serving up sudsy conversation and smiling at the drunkard’s pinch. No one complained about working conditions in those days, as there were no other conditions to compare them to. The folks, back in those days, were indeed a tougher, more calloused breed of humans.

Now it was true that the city was facing famine if something didn’t change and all those present in the bar knew it, some spoke boldly about other propositions while others looked for the answer in the bottom of their steins, still others looked to their new found faith to deliver them from famine.

“If Thor and Odin would come back they would settle this matter for us” cried one of the fishermen. “Do not speak that name, we are Christians now and we must petition our God for help in times of need” answered the local deputy sheriff.

There ensued a fistfight of epic proportions, which gave Ethel some time to imbibe in the spirits herself.

Around midnight the fighting cooled and all the countrymen made peace, hugging and kissing one another as they guzzled beer and sang Old Norse folksongs.

It was just past one in the morning when Leif came in with his herbal tea bottle. Leif had found psychedelic mushroom patches in the valley near the barnyard and commenced to develop his tinctures a few years ago.

Ethel was feeling the effects of four or five (she couldn’t remember) steins of beer and she welcomed Leif with open arms and a quivering clitoris. “Welcome Leif, will you care for a beer?” Leif smiled precariously as Ethel had beaten him with an empty beer stein last week when he could not pay his tab.

“Yes Ethel that would be nice” Ethel brought him the beer and asked him about his teas. “What do ya feel when you drink these teas you make Leif?”

“Oh my dear sweet Ethel, I cannot describe the feeling just as neither you nor I can describe love or hate or bewilderment” “You must try some with me one day!”

Ethel looked at him circumspectly. “Yes maybe one day” her sex drive began to rustle.

Leif went back to the outhouse to do his business, as he was walking out he saw Helga the barmaid tapping another keg of beer. When she put the keg down on the wagon Leif snuck around the back and poured his entire bottle of mushroom tea into the tapped keg, Helga came back and plugged the keg before rolling it into the barroom. “Now she will know, now they will all know how it feels to be free!” Leif thought to himself.

The party continued in the barroom well into the night after the “special” keg was tapped the party changed drastically.

Ethel was feeling strange, more than strange, her barroom became fuzzy, the Vikings in the oil paintings began to scream and the rain fell as the ship breeched the stormy sea. She started singing an old folksong and the “baked” crowd began to sing along… that was when Ethel first started to laugh. She laughed hysterically no other Norwegian barmaid has ever laughed so impetuously in the all of ages before her. Ethel was only 22 years old at the time but her sexual appetites were that of a large man and her clitoris was like a swollen cherry especially with the “special” beer.

The fishermen, the hunters and the gamblers laughed. The working men laughed as they mounted the working girls who were also indulging in never ending orgasmic laughter.

Never did a Norwegian seaport saloon see so much foolishness as it did that night. One of the politicians proposed the townspeople “take a break from Christianity for the night” and get back to their pagan roots. He stood on the bar, “Here now listen town folk, let us caste aside the ever tightening restraints of the Trinity and call upon Thor and Odin to help us in our time of need!”

“Yeah!” they all screamed.

Leif produced the key to the room that held the special horn that was needed to call said gods.

They all went outside the bar near the dock laughing and drinking. They sounded the alarm; they blew the horn ad infinity they woke the gods from their slumber.

At once Odin and Thor appeared in the bar demanding beer and explanations.

Ethel brought them two steins of beer, Thor’s mighty paw touched Ethel’s hand and sent spasm though her back and in between her legs. The mushroom tea had her in its clutches swaying her like a wild demonic babysitter swinging her back and forth.

The townspeople explained the situation to Thor and he threw down two more pitchers of beer and ran out and dove into the freezing waters. He worked out things fairly quickly with Neptune and was out of the water looking for dry clothes when he saw Ethel coming out of the outhouse. She saw him there bare-chested and wet under the moon glow and her clitoris almost jumped out of her granny panties.

The moon and the tea had her and so did Thor. He came to know her in the biblical sense of the word and they had twins; one boy and one girl. The girl was my great, great, great etc. 17th generation grandmother.

That is how I am related to Thor. The blood of a god runs through my veins and I feel the Norse power in my bones especially when confronted by evil powers.

Stay tuned Sex Hole addicts…more to come.