Heisenberg, Marilyn & John

"Has anybody seen my friend Heisenberg/Can you tell me where he's gone...?"

101vagina.com Meets EVIL DICK

Epitaph for Jim Morrissey

"My name is Jim Morrissey, lead singer of The Doorsmiths:
Groove on my songs, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Raw Footage

The thing unspooled distinctly like an id

Escaped from penitential realms of pain;

I gasped in horror at its simple spire

And doodled tracings on a distant bag.

Revengers looked upon us from on high,

Astounded by the tapping all around,

As forty naked virgins surfed the clouds

And haystacks danced upon the raging tide.

As quickly as a smokescreen fades to grey

You synced the times at angles often missed

By trackers hidden in genetic jails

With crystal locks still rented by the day.

Back on our balcony just after sunrise,

Drinking Proustinis and playing at nothing.

The Hermetic Library Anthology Album - Magick, Music and Ritual 3

I am happy to report that Jersey Petroleum's "As The Vessel Burns" has been released on The Hermetic Library Anthology Album -- Magick Music and Ritual 3.

Jersey Petroleum consists of Ron Bass (me) and John Stanford.

You can listen to "As The Vessel Burns" at this url:

bandcamp.hrmtc.com/track/as-the-vessel-burns

 

Cruel Women, Stupid Men

I applauded when I finished reading Cruel Women, Stupid Men. Dan Roentsch’s novel made me laugh out loud and think profound thoughts. If I happened to be Desmond Cork, one of the novel’s three group-blog writers, I would no doubt have prefaced the preceding sentence with a hipster-y: “Hey cats.” Des is a rock scholar at Belverton University (BelvU), who I’m guessing wrote his seminal work on Jethro Tull’s Thick As A Brick; a more dimwitted (yet loveable) academic is yet to be created. His fellow stupid-man blogger is Barry Fest, the director of the BelvU Press group blog. Fest is a condescending snob and sissy man par excellence who is kept literally under the thigh of his wife, the dreaded psychiatrist Dr. Victoria Wharton-Stone, who is trying to keep him away from the insidious BelvU techie Moliere, a winsome goth chick whose “female musk” aroma has Fest getting more and more progressively aroused. The third member of the BelvU group blog is cruel-woman Nefertiti Snorkjutt, an emotionally unstable dominatrix who uses her perch as Professor of Human Chattel Studies at BelvU to gratify her lust to punish and humiliate every representative of the male of the species without regard to whether or not there is consent on his part. Out of these three strands of narrative Roentsch weaves a hilarious and formally innovative whirlwind of a plot that involves: Congressman Slappy Goering, the presidential candidate of the Reformed Misogyny Party (which seems to have replaced the Democratic Party), who vows not to get an erection until after election day; the Babecat, Des’s erstwhile girlfriend, who is wooed away by the studly Bruce, who previously had topped Nefertiti Snokjutt, much to Snorkjutt’s own disgust; Moo Ridley, a notorious older woman of Belverton known far and wide for trapping young boys under her skirt, and with whom Barry Fest had an unfortunate encounter in his youth; and Mickey Snaketail, a legendary private eye who isn’t quite what he appears to be. As Desmond Cork might say: “Hey cats. Good News!! Material from the second volume of the BelvU group blog can still be grokked online at lumpenblog.com.” 

Mysterium Coniunctionis

This drawing, which I did on New Years Day of 2007, was influenced by my reading of the Bollingen edition of the Collected Works of Carl Jung.  following brief description is taken from the Carl Jung Exegesis Wiki:

"The Mysterium Coniunctionis, or Mystery of the Conjunction, is considered by many to be Jung's master work.

In this book Jung reviews the vast literature of Medieval, Renaissance, and post-Renaissance alchemy from a psychological perspective. Jung contends, and convincingly demonstrates, that alchemy at this time was not, as many mistakenly believe, mainly concerned with the transmutation of lead into gold. Rather, the aim was more spiritual and mental transformation of the alchemist him/her-self. In this sense, alchemy was a kind of precursor to modern depth psychology.

Particularly because it developed prior to the excessive rationalization of culture which has occurred in recent centuries, the ideas and, in Jung's view, especially the symbology, of alchemy has much to offer modern psychology.

The "conjunction" referred to in the title refers to an alignment, joining, or resolution of conflict between poles dualities that define human beings. The poles of one duality of special importance can be variously interpreted as Solar/Lunar, Male/Female, Spirit/Matter, Yang/Yin or various other antinomies."

Ozzy Contin

Ozzy Contin had been clean for five months when he morphed from retired rock star to aspiring performance artist. His band, Having Unprotected Sex (formerly On Coke until the suits at the label made him change it), was on what appeared to be permanent hiatus. His first art piece was a video in which he was sworn in as an International Art Star, taking the oath of office with his left hand raised and his right hand on a copy of Salvador Dalí’s 50 Secrets of Magic Craftsmanship…

A Dry Proustini (in which Beauregard Coverdale makes an appearance)

Kicking out the props is not for everyone.

J and I met over a game of darts at The Wobblie Wonk. She kicked my butt and emptied my wallet. Later that evening while licking her clit I slid the second and third fingers of my right hand into her cunt and asshole and found the fourth finger of that hand entering a hole the likes of which I had never before encountered. Much later, in an aside, she confided, “It helps in processing interstellar vapors.”

Before leaving the next morning J told me she was an exo-musicologist doing postdoctoral work and asked me to meet her in Bushwick that evening to hear an ensemble I had never heard of that featured musicians on kithara, crychord, and chromelodeon. Most nights we went out to hear music, and afterwards we went back to my place.

We dated for six months and neither of us had an occasion to reference this hole again. It did, however, play an important role in our lovemaking. Oral and genital stimulation of the hole triggered the most intense female orgasms I have ever been witness to.

According to J: “There are three essentials for concocting the perfect Dry Proustini. First, use a top-shelf gin like Plymouth or Magellan. Second, add in two hundred micrograms of Clear Light. Third, use only freshly baked madeleines for dunking. And always remember that one Dry Proustini is enough.”

The only person in my world I introduced J to was my uncle Paolo, a critical theory intellectual who was involved with the Situationists in ‘68. He makes odd connections that seem perfectly obvious once you stop to think about them. Over lunch at A.O.C. on the day he and J met he compared the Occupy Wall Street protesters to Jerry’s Kids from a vintage Muscular Dystrophy telethon. He called them Michael’s Kids. I believe he meant Moore. He even sang, “Look at us we’re marching/ Looking at us we’re squawking/We who’ve never marched or squawked before.” He enunciated “marching” and “before”, with an extreme old-fashioned New York accent, as “mawching” and “befaw”. J cracked up laughing at his performance.

When I saw Paolo the following week he was in high spirits telling me about the scandal stemming from his uncle Beauregard’s will. Beauregard, my paternal grandfather’s older brother, was the black sheep of his generation of the family. In 1936 he went off to Spain, ostensibly to fight the Communists with the Jefferson Davis Brigade. He actually spent most of his time in Madrid cafes seducing young Phalangist soldiers. Once the United States entered the war he stayed on in Madrid with the OSS, and later on he joined the CIA where he stayed until retirement.

Beauregard, I learned from Paolo, was one of the pioneers in the field of holography. He made dozens of holograms but he never tried to have them shown in a gallery. Given the content of many of them, not only would they have offended public decency at the time, they would also have gotten Beauregard fired from the CIA.

The most scandalous ones consisted of holograms of men’s anuses before and after sexual penetration. His working title for this series was Assholography. Each pair of holograms had a name, and many were purported to be of people famous in the art and literary worlds, such as “Allen”, “Truman”, and “Andy”.  Beauregard’s estate contains letters from all three that seem to indicate a sexual connection with him.

Now it appears that Beauregard’s Assholography show is going to be mounted -- isn’t that a funny word to use in this context? -- at Wastrel Gallery on 26^th Street, thanks to the intervention of Beauregard’s niece Laurel, the co-executor, along with her sister Lisa, of his will.

Laurel is commonly referred to as “the evil sister”.  Lisa is “the good sister”. Beauregard’s death prompted Laurel to venture out of her lair in the Idaho Panhandle. For the past three years she had been hiding from the feds who want to question her about the activities of her 501(c)3 organization. The Columbine Foundation proclaims in its mission statement that its goal is: “to put a handgun in the locker of every school kid in America”. After losing its tax-exempt status Laurel changed the name of the organization to The Columbine Brigades and disappeared into wack-job country.

Paulo agrees with my contention that the political dispersion in our family resembles no other family so much as the Mitfords. Paulo, like Jessica Mitford, represents the far left. Beauregard, like Diana Mosley, represents the far right. I’m still not sure which extreme Laurel is on, but whether of the left or right she is the most extreme one in the entire family.

My site piece titled “Whirlpools” consists of a dozen fifty foot long steel tubes four feet in diameter that have been embedded in the earth, each filled with a different color paint, with the contents set in motion by wind-generating equipment that simulates whirlpool-like motion…

After Franz Hals

I made this sketch in 1987 while sitting through a boring meeting at work.

Cunt.

The Hidden Origins of Wal-Mart

Last evening after work, while waiting for a friend at The Wobblie Wonk on Rivington Street, I had an extended conversation with a 62-year old Scotsman named Fergus McWilley. Sporting dark blue early Roger McGuinn sunglasses perched on the tip of his nose and dressed in a vintage black and white Harris Tweed blazer, a pair of red velvet bellbottoms custom made for him by Mary Quant (in one of her rare forays into men's fashion), and a classic tone-on-tone white high roll dress shirt from a long-gone Carnaby Street shop, Fergus looked like he had just stepped out of a fashion shoot circa 1966. Here's one strand of his exegesis. He was telling me about being a scholar, specializing in the history of magic, with reciprocal library privileges at Hogwarts, where he stumbled upon a heretofore hidden history of Voldemort's family, including extensive narrative purporting to be about Voldemort's previously unidentified descendents, the best known of whom is Sam Voldemort, who emigrated to the U.S. at age sixteen. Disguised as a muggle, he established a dry goods store in Arkansas. Around the time of the World War I anti-German hysteria he changed his name from Sam Voldemort to Sam Walton, and the name of his store from Volde-Mart to Wal-Mart. Fergus ended this portion of the conversation by asking: "Now, if this is true, is it any wonder that Wal-Mart treats its workers so shabbily? How would you feel working for a miserable pittance and knowing that all of your hard and underpaid labor is just going to further enrich the descendents of You Know Who?" 

Mama's RASSLIN' TO-NITE!

Four Scurrilous Epitaphs

A thumbnail biography of the poet Billy Viscous appeared in the April 27th, 2010 entry of this blog. 

FOUR SCURRILOUS EPITAPHS

By Billy Viscous

Epitaph for Allen Ginsberg, Beat Generation Poetaster

He saw the best behinds

of his generation

destroyed by hemorrhoids.

Epitaph for Teddy Kennedy, Hyena of the Senate

He

didn’t

kill

Marilyn.

Epitaph for Dan Rather, Pompous Newsreader

He never met

a teleprompter

he didn’t like.

Epitaph for Al Gore, Phony Populist

Where would we be today

if he had not

invented the Internet?

And The Baby Bear Said

Here is a link to the latest song from Jersey Petroleum (which consists of John Stanford and Ron Bass): soundcloud.com/jersey-petroleum/and-the-baby-bear-said

And The Baby Bear Said

And the baby bear said:

"Somebody has been smoking my angel dust."

And I said: "No no no no no no no,

My little baby bear,

It's just flashbacks man, flashbacks man, flashbacks man."

And the baby bear said:

"Somebody has been photoshopping the 

Images from my 5D camera."

And I said: "No no no no no no no,

My little baby bear,

These images by definition are shape-shifters

That iteratively self-edit the way they appear."

And the baby bear said:

"A bear must walk down fourteen roads

Before they call him a bear."

And I said: "No no no no no no no,

My little baby bear,

A bear must walk down no fewer than

One hundred and eighty eight roads

Before they call him a bear."

Suprematist Sidewalk

A New Koan

The redoubtable Yogi Baksheesh, Spiritual Advisor to the Exceptionally Evolved, present his students with this new koan:

Q: How can you tell a path the Way?

A: There is no path. There is no Way. Go drink a Proustini.

Fifty Ways to Leave Mama Pajama

The bartender who brought over my Coors Light, which she said was the only kind of beer they had, was a scowling 300-pound gorilla of a woman who looked like she had just rolled out of bed. When I asked her name she pointed at a nametag that read: Hello My Name is Mama Pajama.

The peroxide blonde sitting on my right turned to me and asked, “Hey big boy, why don’t you buy me a drink? In case yer wondering, I’m Rosie, the Queen of Corona.”

I ordered her what she requested, a blended whiskey and root beer. And then I put my head in my hands and muttered, “I’m in hell.”

Rosie chuckled as she pulled my head up by my hair. Twisting my neck to the left, she said, “Do ya see that blotto priest sitting down at the end of the bar. Well that’s the Radical Preacher. Ya don’t think the powers that be would let him anywheres near the Pearly Gates, do ya?”

I sat quietly for a moment, bemoaning my fate. But Rosie wasn’t having any of that. She said, “Come on, pal. Drink up. Drink up. We don’t have all night. We’ez got business to transact. What’s it gonna be? A blowjob is fifty. A simple fuck is a hundred. Back door action is two-fifty. Anything kinkier than that is more.”

When I still didn’t respond, she turned on the faucets. Much more softly she implored, “I’ze got a big nut to make. You don’t know Julio. He’s my pimp. If I come up short he’s going to hurt me so bad I won’t be able to sit comfortably for a week. And it won’t show on my skin. That creep knows all of the no-show torture routines.”

When I finally made my purchase decision and we were heading out of the bar, Rosie took my arm and whispered in my ear, “It’s not so much Julio that I’m scared of, as that psycho killer, so-called singer he hangs out with. Now that guy is the creep of the century. I’m afraid he’s going to either slit my throat or bore me to death.”

We walked on in silence for a bit. Then Rosie fingered the lapel of my jacket, smiled coquettishly, and said, “Ya seem like a nice guy. How about ya taking me to a totally different universe where we can both make a new start. I heard of this cozy little Italian restaurant where we can get a bottle of red and a bottle of white. They even got checkered tablecloths and all.”

As I reflected that it couldn't possibly be any worse than this dump of a universe, I turned to Rosie, kissed her gently on the lips, and said, "Let's do it."

70s Foursome

Imagine.
Two couples in a hot tub
in the Hollywood Hills.
And afterwards:

The Captain & Yoko.

The Plastic Tennille Band

(Oh, To-o-o-neeeee…).

To quote Sir Mick:

“It’s only rock and roll/

but I like it.”

A Poem

Critique of Performance Poetry

Why

use

one 

word

when

twenty

will 

do.