‘Twas the Night Before Christmas in Humboldt

‘Twas the Night Before Christmas in Humboldt

 

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through Humboldt County

Not a creature was stirring, not even Sheriff Mike Downey

The herb was all trimmed up and packed into bags

For smokers of taste, who will not smoke swag

Me in bed naked, my wife in her panties

It’s that time of month, so it’s the ones that are ratty

When out at the gate there arose such a racket

I got out of bed and put on my jacket

Threw on some pants and picked up my rifle

So they’d know I was serious and not to trifle

I stepped out of the door and into the rain

“To be out in this shit, this guy must be insane”

I thought to myself as I trudged up the path,

“This better be good or he’ll feel my wrath”

What did my dumb struck eyes then behold

But a bearded old man in a late model Olds

I yelled “It’s Christmas Eve, are you out of your mind?”

He said “I’m Jewish, you’re Pagan, why’s this a bad time?

My friends all need weed, and I’ve plenty of cash,

At $3,000 a pound, I’ll take your whole stash”

I thought to myself, “Well that’s quite a laugh,

These days I’d a probably sold it for half.”

He showed me a bag that was packed full of bills

I opened the gate and we drove down the hill

I made up some coffee, and rolled up a jay

And showed him a few of the buds on the tray

“Oh, this is the stuff that my friends all love.

They say that your stuff is a cut above.

They’ll pay what I ask for all I can get.

Did you have a good year? Is it all trimmed up yet?”

“This year I grew more than ever before,

It’s weighed up in bags just behind that door.

You can inspect it while I count this cash,

Hand me that ashtray, and I’ll knock this ash.”

We packed all the weed in the trunk of his car.

I said, “You found me out here, you must know where you are”.

“Oh yes, he said, “I’ll find my way out from here,

And I’ve many more stops to make, far and near.”

He started the car, and then turned on the lights,

And I heard him say, as he drove out of sight,

“Marijuana to all, and to all a good night.”

Poem; At The Poetry Slam

I don’t know how you feel about poetry, but I don’t care for it much. To me, it’s just a job. I write poetry to pay the rent, and finance the work I really care about, like this blog. You’ll find information about how to acquire my recently released book of poetry at the end of the poem.

At the Poetry Slam

So who have we got here at the poetry slam

A paunchy, and balding, and bearded old man

 

What could this old fart possibly have to say

He’s not young, he’s not hip, and he’s not even gay

Well there’s nothing on earth that my verse can’t reveal

If I can’t describe it then it can’t be real

And the poems that I am about to read

Will make you all laugh till you fall down and bleed

Then when you try to get up and sue

Just about the silliest thing you could do

Because I am a poet without any money

I’ll write on your summons a note to my honey

Fill it with lots of vain sentiment

In hopes that I can get her to pay the month’s rent

Now when it comes to poems, there’s a lot to hate

And even the best really ain’t that great

Some read Cummings, and write in blank verse

That crap is always some of the worst

Some act thuggish, and all hip-hoppy

Those beats are so lame, and the lyrics are sloppy

Then there’s the ones that are strung out on booze

Thinkin’ they got nothin’ else to lose

They scribble a line when er they are able

At least one or two before they’re under the table

What does it matter if their poems are good

If they can’t keep their head up off a floor made of wood?

So who have we got here at this poetry slam

You know that I really don’t give a damn

Unless its a chick who digs guys that can rhyme

Then its my lucky night and I’ll have a good time

The above poem, and about 40 others like it, appears in my recently published book of poetry, titled: Please, Not Poetry, Anything But Poetry; A Terse Book of Verse for the Poetry Averse. You can purchase your own copy of Please, Not Poetry, Anything But Poetry at Booklegger Books in Eureka, and at King Range Books in Garberville, the only bookstore in Garberville that celebrates local writers.

Two Short Poems About Death

When Death Comes Knocking

When Death comes knocking at your door

He is not one to abhor

But ring his bell and run away

For that, my friend, you’ll dearly pay

 

Now you’re Dead

You’ve lived your life, and now you’re dead

Was there something else I should have said

Last rites, to you, have been read

Now the worms will eat your head

My 100th Post, and First Apology

My 100^th Post, and First Apology

 

First the apology: if you read this blog regularly, you know I’m an idiot. Last week I included an image in a post that I very much regret including. I have since removed and replaced it with a more appropriate image. The image included text in a foreign language that did not say what I thought it did. While I am an idiot, and stupidly neglected to translate the text before I posted it, I’m not that kind of idiot. I very much regret the mistake, and sincerely apologize to everyone who saw it, and especially anyone it offended.

 

Other than that, anything else you found, or find offensive in this blog was intentional. Fuck you.

 

By now, there’s plenty else here to offend your sensibilities, because this is my 100^th post here at lygsbtd.wordpress.com You might not think its a big deal. After all, for you, this stuff just magically appears every Tuesday. For me, however, this blog is a constant struggle to find something to write about. This 100^th post means something to me. It means I’ve reached a milestone worth celebrating. It means I have a body of work here to reflect on, and most importantly, it gives me something to write about this week.

 

I started this blog about 6 months ago. 100 posts later, the blog has begun to take shape, develop its own character and attract its own audience. So, you have here, a collection of everything I’ve felt like writing about for the last six months.

 

Clearly the most popular regular feature at lygsbtd is “On The Money, Financial Advice for the Working-Class”. While the airwaves, internet, and newsstands overflow with financial advice for the investment class. I recognized that Working-Class Americans have differing financial needs and economic interests from the investment-class. You’ll find the advice I offer, radically different from what you find in Barons or The Wall St. Journal. You’ll find 17 “On The Money” columns among the first 100 posts.

17 “On The Money”

It’s Smart to be Dumb

Who’s Default is it Anyway

Double-Dip or Banana Split

Labor Day and NPR

Too Much Information

Why Can’t We All Get Along

Time v Money

Work

The Collapsing Middle-Class

Cultural Bankruptcy

A Golden Opportunity for Investors

The Blue Chips

Stock Market Investing

Unemployment

The National Debt

Public Education

 Investment

You will also find 17 “Word Power” pieces. This is kind of a “milk-carton project” for lost words. I regularly scan the dictionary for words that seem to slip through the cracks of our modern lexicon. I post them, with their definitions, and encourage people to use them in context. That way, these words can get out and socialize a bit. Words that only appear occasionally in print, rarely get to associate with the spicier expletives that pepper my, and my readers daily speech. My blog is one place where where the vulgar and the arcane can mingle.

17 “Word Power”

Misericord

Myrmecophagous

Cathect

Jeroboam

Crepuscular

Zymurgy

Thaumaturge

Balanophagy

Zeugma

Isochronal

Vulpine

Perionychium

Apotropaic

Suigeneris

Picaresque

Emolument

Invaginate

Among these first 100 post you will find 12 poems. I don’t know how you feel about poetry. I don’t care for it much, myself, but it pays the bills. Ever since my first anthology of autobiographical poems about growing up in an old New England whaling town came out, I’ve had the luxury of doing what I want in life without having to worry so much about money. “The Man From Nantucket” quickly became an American classic, and I still receive royalties every quarter from the x-rated film adaptation, which I also starred in.

12 Poems

The Second Dip

Please Vote for This Blog

We’re Going Bowling

For the Birds

Dr. William Gilly and the Humboldt Squid

Patriotic Poem for Ronald Reagan

Moderation

An Apotropaic Moment

The 3:00am Phone Call

A Wife’s Discovery

An Existential Poem

Poem???

My real passion, however, is writing, including the occasional poem.  Like many writers, I often write about my local community:

Local Humboldt Co. Flavor

A New Emerald City

Humboldt’s Lesser Known Festivals

Riot at Romano Gabriel Exhibit

Economics of Shit in SoHum

Andrew Goff, Romano Gabriel Win Me a Sundae

SoHum Suffers from a Shortage of Homeless People

New Courses HSU Should Offer

Stay Away From the Water in SoHum

So Long, Old People

Only in Humboldt County

SoHum Town Attempts Bold Makeover

My Blog Ties for 5^th

When I really can’t think of anything else to write about, I’ll review something I like. So far I’ve reviewed one band, one album, one zine and one grocery store.

 

4 Reviews

Grocery Store Review, Eureka Natural Foods

Album Review, Aphrodite’s Child 666

Zine Review, The Black Lamp by Ocra

Band Review, CMKT 4

Of the remaining 38 essays, These are some of my favorites:

Some of My Favorites

How to Party now that the Party’s Over

How to Score With Women

The lygsbtd Giftshop

A Feminist Critique and T-Shirt Offer

How to Mainstream The Tea Party

Hello Necrophiliacs

Terrific New Product, and Site Sponsor, MyPee

I Report From the Paris Air Show

New Drug Infused Junk Foods

Don’t Call Me a Journalist

Invasion of the Google-bots

Including this post, that adds up to one hundred posts, enough to build a pretty long fence.

Word Power, Myrmecophagous

Word Power

Building Your Vocabulary One Word at a Time

Myrmecophagous

myr me coph a gous (myrrh meh ‘cough eh gus) adj, feeding on ants

 

With ants in my esophagus

They called me myrmecophagous

I really didn’t know what to say

My mouth was full then anyway

I just think its kind of neat

To be described by what I eat

Poem, Please Vote For This Blog

 Please Vote For This Blog

Please vote for this site as Humboldt’s best blog

Even if, in this fight, you don’t have a dog

Perhaps you are one who lives far away

And you’ve never seen Humboldt or the NCJ

It’ll just take a minute to complete the survey

So just copy the text and do what I say

If you’re one of the folks who lives around here

Then voting for me can earn you free beer

If this blog wins that contest, through the votes of my readers

Then I’ll throw them a party with beer by the liter

So, let me buy your vote by the mug or the Stein

That beer will be yours when the contest is mine

If you are under 18 or perhaps 21

I still need your vote even though you’re too young

To partake legally of the beer that I’ll buy

So, I’ll bring a few joints so you still can get high

So fill out that ballot while you are right here

And by this time next month, I’ll owe you a beer

 

OK, now get out the vote!!!

copy this text: www.lygsbtd.wordpress.com

This link will take you to the ballot

don’t waste your time voting in the other categories, just click through to the page for “Local Media” then scroll down to “best blog” and paste the text you just copied. Continue on to the end of the ballot and press the button to submit your ballot. Please do this at least once before Sept, 7 If we win, we’ll have the party in October in Garberville, and all you’ll have to do is show up thirsty. Thank you!

Zine Review, The Black Lamp, Thong of the Thaumaturge etc, by Okra

Zine Review: The Black Lamp #1

SoHum has a new underground zine! The Black Lamp, A Spear Jabbed into the Eye of the Panopticon, a real underground, black n’ white, photocopied zine with no advertising, butchers and flame broils most of SoHum’s sacred cows. The Black Lamp rakes the muck over the coals with funny stories about the Sheriff’s Log, John Cassali’s Eel River Cleanup, and the huge toxic clown nose spill.

We meet a charming cast of characters who reside in Garberstan, an alternative universe where cops make ice cream in their hollow prosthetic limbs. Barnabus the Banana Slug tells us about his campaign to become Sheriff of Humboldt County. Stephen Horking, a crippled, trans-gendered chicken, looking for a good deal on a lot of land mines, tells us the recipe for his high-octane horkleberry wine. And, Area Man believes we should all copyright our assholes.

The Black Lamp investigative staff: Wide Mouth Mason, P-Trap, T-Post, Rig Atoni, Patchy Fog and DJ DifLok tackle the hard issues of the day with a critical eye and sharp wit. With collage graphics and anti-copyright notice, The Black Lamp stays true to punk zine principles, and excels at the form with this well written, entertaining read anyone would enjoy. Relevance, perspective and local focus make this a “must read” for SoHumers.

A local character named Okra puts out The Black Lamp, as well as numerous other punk-aesthetic publications, like The Thong of the Thaumaturge, Le Somnambulist and The Invisibles. I really like his perspective, his playful use of language and the artful layout of his zines. He’s always a good read. You will not find Ochre’s work online. He does not trust computers, and computers don’t trust him. If you want to read his zines (you do!) befriend him, and give him money. If you haven’t met Okra, or are frightened of large, bearded, tattooed men, put some money in an envelope and mail it to:

 

Okra’s Zines

P.O. Box 654

Redway, CA 95560

Word Power, Thaumaturge

Word Power

Building Your Vocabulary One Word at a Time

Thaumaturge

thau ma turge (‘thaw meh turj) n, working miracles

…as in the title of Okra’s recently reviewed zine The Thong of the Thaumaturge, or roughly translated from the proper English, the underwear works miracles. Here’s a brief (pun intended) excerpt:

 

“A miner had sex with a canary and got chirpies. It was untweetable. The Dr. looked at his watch,it winked back and blew smoky number zeros up his asshole. The voice of Marvin Gaye could be heard seeping out of the speakers of a quadilac across the red hills “Oh I twy and I twy and I twy.” lovers hold hands secwetly in wust with each other. The canary was related to a chicken who was a pullet and a scholar, had won a pulletzer for poultry, and lived in a coop in Canarsie. This chick knew to scoop when the poop flew, and she knewed that eggs is a lot older than chickens.” …and so on…

To get your own copy of The Thong of the Thaumaturge send money (as much as you can afford) to:

Thend Me The Thong of the Thaumaturge

P.O. Box 654

Redway, CA 95560

Poem, We’re Goin’ Bowling

Introduction:

Even ultra-violent video games like Grand Theft Auto do not satisfy the visceral human need for violence as well as that all American family pastime, Bowling. The physical exertion of heaving a heavy object at a bunch of pear shaped white things in bow ties, and the crack of thunder when you hit them just right makes bowling the ideal diversion for the rabble. Bowling’s popularity continues to decline in favor of video games, but the rise in serial killings like Columbine or Virginia Tech indicate to me that video games lack sufficient physicality to subdue the masses.

We’re Goin’ Bowling

We’re goin’ bowling, that’s what we’re gonna do

Put on your polyester shirt and your bowling shoe

You get us a lane, and I’ll go get some beer

Call up all our friends and tell them that we’re here

Go and pick a ball and aim it at the pins

Give it a good heave, try not to hit your shins

If it makes it down the alley without going in the gutter

Then all of us will cheer, if not, then you’ll just mutter

Sub-audible curses at the warpage of the floor

Then go and take a seat and pour yourself one more

Can you think of a better way that we can have some fun

Without a suped-up racing car, some whiskey and a gun?

Poem, For the Birds

For the Birds

In pentameter iambic

In my sweater most Icelandic

Reading you my latest verse

Your response was very terse

Struggled I to choose these words

You said they were “for the birds”

I wondered why you thought that those

With feathers might just like my prose

So, I went out to the feeder

To see just how they liked my meter

After just one stanza read

Some poop came down upon my head

I came inside, took off my shoe

The birds have said my stuff’s for you