Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category

The title is from a new bunch of young punks called the Interrupters, who have been championed by Green Day and Rancid.  As you may know, I am a huge huge HUGE fan of ska music from the old days of Twin Tone and such like, so I am partial.  So here is a song they did featuring Tim from Rancid.

But after that, the title is the title of their new album.  And given the new blood and new women in Congress, the feeling that we can bring the fight to the motherfuckers (RESPECT TO TLAIB) seems to be energizing, you know?

Oh, hell, here’s an extra one, and this is just for mikey:

Yeah.  Look at the new women in Congress.  They are kerosene, they are.  Back the fuck up, old white guys, it’s time to take a motherfucking torch to the old ways.

Don’t look at me.  Doctor Thompson and Kurt Vonnegut both told me that ‘motherfucker’ is a GOOD word.  As did Saint George Carlin and Lenny Bruce.

These guys will be playing the lovely Turner Hall in April, and I am guessing I will be there, skanking to the extent my aged bones and joints will allow.

BUT THAT”S NOT WHAT I CAME HERE TO TALK ABOUT (h/t to Uncle Arlo).

I came here to talk about the draft.  well no, I didn’t (And have I mentioned I am the chair of my local draft board?  I figured might as well as have an unrepentant liberal on there if the motherfucking draft ever gets reinstated, you know).  But no, I am not here to talk about that either.

I’m here to talk about Wisconsin politics NOW JUST SIT THE FUCK DOWN AND LISTEN.

Because after WAY more time enduring the reign of Turd-Koch-Waffle, and all the damage he has done (not to mention the stupid amount of damage he did to the county of Milwaukee while he was the STUPIDEST County Executive we ever had to endure (FUCK YOU VERY MUCH, WHITE SUBURBAN DISTRICTS), on Monday we get to kick him the fuck to the motherfucking curb.  (I am not happy about his plans after that, as I said recently).

Last year, I attended a fundraiser for our great and good Senator, Tammy Baldwin (an openly gay politician that even my old parents supported when she was a Madison politician, for which I love and respect them) at a local brew pub, with now (not then) Presidential candidate Elizabeth Warren, but still a superstar.  And while waiting in the mob, I recognized Tony Evers, who had just announced his run for Gov.  I shook his hand and said I wished him the best luck to which he smiled (he’s got a great smile) and said “We don’t need luck.  We’re going to win.”

They did.

On Monday, Evers will be inaugurated, as will his tremendously skilled and experienced administrative staff, who have to be terrifying the Republican lege, who are not used to opposition, let alone skilled opposition.  They are already running scared, in that they hurriedly passed unconstitutional and ridiculous laws saying “You’re not the boss of us“.

To which Evers is saying “fuck off and sue me if you don’t like it“.

That’s not too bad.  That’s the kind of thing we need more from more Democrats.  OH WAIT, the Democrats in the House are already doing that.

Evers has done a helluva job selecting his administration.  Which will be necessary, not because the Republicans are cunning or smart, but just because they have changed the districts to make them able to outweigh actual votes.  So it will take, as many do, a lot of work and never stopping, but look.  People like Vos and Fitzgerald are ridiculously stupid people, and if they can’t rely on cheating, they are barely competent.

One of my Imaginary Digital Friends is well involved with the Democratic Party, and he is attending the parties tomorrow night.  I hope he has a great time, and I am completely sure that everybody there will be ready to Fight the Good Fight on Tuesday.

Stay tuned for how we take Wisconsin back from the KOCHs.

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People who’ve read this blog, may remember that I am not especially fond of ex-Governor Scott Walker, who I prefer to call Turdwaffle.  In fact, he often featured in my long-running feature, Fuck You Friday (to which we happily welcome guest-effer Congressperson Rashida Tlaib).

We often talked about his scant acquaintanceship with the truth, as well as his long running efforts to fuck over Milwaukee.

Which makes this news all the more inexplicable and enraging.

People on The Milwaukee reddit predict much food being thrown at him, and plentiful servings of Snotchos being served to him (don’t accept an offer to dine out with him).

The current County Executive, Chris Abele, has been living in a luxury condo on the same block as my office (and with a view of the Bucks Arena, which Turd-boy supported) and Abele has just bought a massive mansion on the North Shore (Narrator: Abele is independently wealthy).  Which makes me wonder if I will be seeing Turdwaffle around my neighborhood.  I cannot decide whether this makes me nauseous, blind with rage, or excited to be able to yell and spit at him in person.

It should also be pointed out that he is already starting the next fucking run at elected office.  I will point out that he fucking said, he would only run for two terms (Narrator: he lied) and that he would step down if he didn’t succeed in his promise of 250,000 new jobs in his first term (Narrator: he lied).

Why wouldn’t he take his fucking empty ball sack and enlarging Shiny Bald Spot out to Waukesha (now and forever known as That Fucking Walkersha), where they love him for the way he fucks up the minorities and supposedly makes the Libruls cry (Narrator:  He doesn’t make Liberals cry). It has already been said that the only place in Wisconsin that might provide less Turd-welcome than Milwaukee would be Madison.

I guess it makes little surprise, considering that he is angling for his next Koch-funded and Koch-directed elected position (Narrator:  he’s never held a real job), that he intends to move to the economic engine of the State, where much of the corporate power and the truly wealthy fuckers live.

I am not yet inclined to re-initialize the FYF (it was very draining to channel that much rage every week).  But it seems likely that with new Democrats running the State and House of Representatives, I would like to at least re-animate this crappy old blog.  You know, like a zombie or something.

Meanwhile, this is my farewell (and Welcome to Milwaukee) song for Turdwaffle:

We All Die Young

Posted: October 8, 2018 in Fridge Note, Uncategorized

OK, this is weird and I am not certain.

There is a local neighborhood that I worked hard to design new residential and commercial design.  I became friends with the director of the district, and had much respect for him.  He died a little while ago.

I have talked about my participation in planning efforts in the past, and I worked on several projects in the area.  And some of them moved forward, in various forms, without me.  Whatever, you know.

But there are two really cool projects being opened up this week, and I have received invitations from several participants.

But here’s the thing(s).  one of the architects on the projects was my former partner.  And one of the developers on the project are ones that I have worked with much in the past.  And one of the architects is one that I worked with on a prior project, and another one whose principals I know from college….

But I called one of the developers the other day, and he was amazingly forthcoming in how he felt that those architects were unsatisfactory.  In fact, he said they had to discharge the firm that my former partner now heads up (and since I am a bitter zombie, I will  mention that she still uses the name I came up with) and that the other firm, whose principals I know from college, were difficult to work with.  It was weird for me to hear these comments, because that is not how I know these people, even though our other history is different.  I was politically silent and thanked him for his compliments he made toward me.

So here is where I am unclear and unable to make a firm decision.  I have been invited, by two different participants in the projects, to the grand opening on Tuesday.  (they threaten attendance by Scott Walker, but since this is Bronzeville, a predominantly African-American neighborhood, I think we are safe in figuring that he will not feel safe enough to show.)

These are projects I helped to move forward through participation in the amazing charrette efforts, not to mention my prior projects in the neighborhood, that were spearheaded by Welford, who became a good friend.

So, what I am struggling with, is do I show up?  Is that the best approach? I have no doubt that I can treat my former partners and colleagues in appropriate ways.  but Should I care?

Well, after writing this out, I recognize that being an adult and being able to leave all kinds of shit behind, also in recognition of the (un-prompted) badmouthing of my former colleagues and otherwise respected professionals, is that being there, and being gracious and professional, is going to be a best approach.

But this is my blog, so I get to work out my issues right here…..

That quote, of course, is from the estimable Big Bad Bald Bastard, Fellow hardcore libtard and martial artist, in the long-ago time when we all bloggered.

Wife Sublime likes to travel, and coordinates with the basic school schedule; before, because of Young Zombie and now because she is working on here second Master’s degree.  YZ has shambled off on his own,  which frees us up to go places with better food and wider range of experiences.  but this fall, we went to…of all places… Nashville.  I KNOW!  And we did a day trip to Huntsville.  I KNOW!

So what I learned about Nashville is that this is, essentially, where the music industry discovered how to be an industry, based on the radio broadcasts of country music and what became the Grand Ole Opry.  This is where the pattern of sucking talent in, churning it in, making them play the songs selected by the labels, and doing it over and over again, became the pattern.  Sun Records; Sam Phillips took in people like Elvis, Cash, Roy Orbison and figured out where there talents were best focused;  This became what is known as A&R.  Then these folk went to Nashville and cranked out hits on an assembly line at RCA Studio B.

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Yeah, that’s me at Elvis’ favorite Steinway in the studio.  I used to be able to play a ninth interval cuz HUGE hands, but I broke my little finger shoveling snow and now I suck.

 

But here’s the thing.  There have been so many people for so long, coming to Nashville, and not just for country music, that this is a place that revolves around music, that exists for and because of music.  Jimi Hendrix said that he learned how to really play guitar in Nashville, and the Musician’s Hall of Fame had video of him playing in a standard R&B band, but you could see him starting to play.

We spent over two hours in the Cash Museum, which is small, but man how many times can you watch him sing Hurt?  Well, for me, I can always watch Johnny sing Hurt.  Trent Reznor admits that that is no longer his song.  I got a t-shirt which I will likely wear to bed until it falls apart, and a magnetic “Million Dollar Quartet” bottle opener on our fridge.

We have visited many places, and even New Orleans and Ireland did not have the high music content that we did in Nashville.  One of my sisters-in-law said she was surprised to hear country music at the party, and the thing is; much of  the music I love is at least country-adjacent, if not proper country.  Listen to Robbie Fulks and tell me that’s not country, and we have tickets for him later in fall.

We went to the country Music Hall Of Fame, of course.  Also the Musicians Hall of Fame, which is WAY less country oriented.  And a fair number of the service people we met, they were in punk or noise or other kind of bands. Everyone we met, they were musicians….

Based on recommendations of our friends, we went to a place called the Station Inn.  It is noted as the local musicians’ place to see other musicians, and once was a hangout for Bob Monroe.  We saw Jon Byrd, and he admitted that he learned everything he knew about playing guitar and writing songs in Nashville;  because there is no choice and the competition is fierce and stupendous.  And, of course, he was one of the best shows I have ever paid 12 bucks for.

Because we know history is history, we knew we needed to see a show at the Ryman Auditorium, the original location of the Grand Ole Opry (you go see a show at the overdone theme park version, there is a circle of contrast wood that was stolen from the Ryman when they figured it was going to be torn down).  Our choice was fish, as Rollins once said, so we went to see Lucero with Langhorne Slim opening up.  It was good and for my part, I felt the resonance of the structure with the spirits of the past.  They rocked kind of hard, and I felt the ghosts resonate with us….

 

But look at this; we had bunches of music in various forms, and while most were country, not all of them were.  And being a music fed zombie, I took them all; in the museums, I saw guitars that were worn and played and part of the continuum.  They all still vibrated with the energy of their players, fuck me if they didn’t.  walking through the Musicians Hall of Fame was thick with remembrance….

And so there you have it it, we spent no end of time in country music bullshit one thing or another.  Including  RCA Studio B, which was instrumental in making artists…. but even with that , the musicians in the city still work their asses off to get to one or the other levels.  Everyone in this goddam city plays or sings, and they all are working to be better or get another opening or chance….

And that, fellows and guinea pigs, is what I always say and shout out to you on an unrelenting basis.  There is an unrelenting amount of music being produced by amazing bands at any different directions you ever have seen.

At the end of the day, and tomorrow too.  There is a place for music.

But I bleed music.  And I discovered that there is a City that, while they may not bleed music when cut, they certainly ooze  music when squeezed.

And damnitall, and against all odds, I felt at home there……..

One of the most difficult bargains we, as human persons, ever make is when we take small fuzzbuckets into our lives for care and comfort.  Knowing that their span of days is much less than ours; it is at one strike both lovely and amazingly blind to the eventual end, when a beloved friend has to go on to the find their place in the heart of the sun.

In our own damn house, we have been entitled to share and enjoy the companionship of three cats, one guinea pig, and one Big Hairy Dog, and this does not count my own personal track record with dogs, cats, and guinea pigs.  Not to mention the current roster of two cats and one Big Orange dog.

And whenever any one of them leaves us, we still feel the pangs of loss and sorrow.

I have been disdainful about the Orange, leaky-ass dog, but after the Event (I guess I may have to start referring to it as different timelines, like the New Star Trek universe.  Initial Timeline, Mekons timeline, how does that work?)  We were walking buddies.  I made her walk more briskly, as that was what my Watch said I needed, when she wanted to do sniffing and peeing….

And man;  I have to salute her ability to control her bladder and dispense it in small bits on all the best doggy places in the neighborhood.  I wish.

The New Timeline Event, where brisk walks are not the issue and I came out of the hospital with foot issues, I still like to take the Aging Buddy Walks.  But she gets tired, usually before  I do, and I am considerate to let her sniff and pee and take her time.

Because she starts to limp noticeably pretty early on a walk, and if we go too far she limps for a while after.  In fact, she is having problems with the stairs.

And here’s the thing.

Lucy and I were never the best of friends in the early days.  It was when I coined the “Lucy, the orange, leaky-assed dog” moniker, when she would sit on the couch and fart at me.

But when we both suddenly realized we were old, we came to terms.  Walking is a pack activity, and we did it.  For our own reasons, but there’s nothing wrong with that, you know?

And so tonight, I watched Lucy limp to her sleeping pad in the kitchen and not going upstairs because that entails a bunch of stairs, and it became plain that this is not going to be going on much longer.  And I remember back when our previous love, Mieshka, woke up in the morning with no ability to control her back half, and we knew there was no alternative but to schedule the Final Trip.  I carried her out to the yard for any pee or poop, and then carried her into the car and into the vet’s

Lucy’s nose has gone just as white as my own damn hair.  And our joints are similarly stiff, and we both need to walk more.  After a rough beginning in our relationship, we are suddenly congruent….

But here’s the thing.

 

When walking by her in the Kitchen, on my way to get a new drink, I recognize that she is struggling.  She limps from visits to the dog park or from long walks, but dammit she insists on these activities, because DOG.

But I know she is fading.

And the thing is, after all this weird history, I can now see that this is going to hit.  Hard.  HARD. Orange and I have been through so much in the past few years, and I now recognize she supported me during the heart attack and the Pulmonary Embolism, looking up to me and being so loving and willing to go for a walk at any given moment.

But the clock is ticking on that, and that is part of the fucking contract we enter into with fuzzbuckets when we take them into our lives and our hearts.

And this goddam stupid orange asshole has become part of our hearts, yeh, part of my stupid heart, and I know that when she can no longer be a big farting part of the world, I will carry her to whatever destinations, even if I am crying while I do so.

So here’s some before and after for the Beloved Orange:

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Dammit, You big stupid orange dog, I love you.

Well, this has laid here barely twitching for about long enough, don’t you think?

Do not, however, think I am suddenly going to go all foul mouthed and rant-fueled.  I am somewhere else right now, and it probably has to do with my SECOND near miss involving my traitorous heart.

But I am currently on my third watch-through of The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, and enjoying it as much as the first time, if not more.

It is a period piece from the 50s, about a woman who spent her entire life working toward the expectations of the time:  college for an MRS degree, jobs from the parents, kids, and apartments in the best parts of Manhattan.  BUT; her husband, having a stupid hobby of doing comedy in basement clubs, leaves her because she is funnier than he is (he relies on stealing from Bob Newhart records).

The night he leaves, she gets drunk and takes the train (for the first time) downtown to the grungy basement club and stumbles onto stage, where she free associates her frustrations and anger about being left, and then exposed her tits. Resulting in arrest, and which she managed to get bailed out at the same time as Lenny Bruce.

She doesn’t remember the thing about the boobs, but the scene where she completely misunderstands the legal process of courts is fucking adorable.

And during a terribly awry family get-together, she drinks up and then goes to the club, and the bartender says “here we go” for another great free-association rant.  And she is AMAZING at quashing anyone who tries to interrupt her or heckle/.

From there, it gets better, trust me. it is awash in period details,  and it is admittedly kind of a fantasy in the way it shows women at a time they were hardly allowed any agency outside of shopping for groceries.

So it’s kind of a fantasy.  But it has the rapid fire attitude of old school farces like Bringing Up Baby, but with an attitude and language that is contemporary.

And it visits the ideas of free speech and women’s rights in a way that is clever and humorous. AND it includes a cameo from Jane Jacobs, which very nearly dropped me to the floor laughing, because I realized I was one of the few that recognized her….

In any case, it is so well done, and so fucking funny and so fucking intense, I watched it once by myself, once with my wife, and once more by myself after I listened to the star, Rachel Brosnahan, on Marc Maron’s podcast.

OK< so here we go again.  Some of you, that go all Book of Face, already know that the zombie here had another episode of re-animation.  This, then is my storification of that, my attempt to wrap my soft noggin around the simultaneous notions of mortality and that I am fucking tough to kill.

So, in the middle of the first month of Donald Trump’s second year of trying to kill all of us, we had some snowfall.  I went out to shovel, and got winded easy, but figured, what the hell, I’d take it easy and did it in a couple of goes.  And the next day, we had a little more snow, and when I went out to shovel, I got winded a bit easier.  So again, I took it in a couple of goes and still got the job done.  But with the flu going around, I thought maybe I was getting some lung crud and went to bed early, figuring I was coming down with something.

Oh yes I was.  But it wasn’t a virus, oh no. By the next day, I couldn’t stand for any length of time, and walking across the house required sitting down for a rest.  Even zombies know this is not a good thing….

It starts as what is known as a DVT, Deep Vein Thrombosis, which starts in the deep veins of your legs.  Clots form, then those little fuckers decide to go walkabout.  These decided to camp out in my pulmonary arteries, which are the ones that take oxygenated blood from the old air sacks to the heart and then to the rest of the body. Since these were now clogged up, the old heart was working hard to get air oxygen everywhere, and the upshot was that I was breathing hard and got dizzy really easy. Well, having had my heart try to abdicate in the past, it was time to make the trip again; since Wife Sublime was on a work gig, I made the obvious call:  Uber.  Quicker and cheaper than an ambulance, and I knew I was going to the ER anyway.

So, once again, I walked into the ER under my own power.  After a brief listen to my laboring heart, they put me into an ER room, and the huge numbers of medical professionals took over. They quickly determined that it was not another heart attack, and rolled me into the CT room.  After the scan, no shit, it took a bare 2 minutes before a doctor came back, saying I had a pulmonary embolism.

PULMONARY EMBOLISM.

Fuck me, that is some scary words.

They told me they were going to inject some very dangerous chemicals into my body to melt those little ambulatory fuckers, and that I could get them into an arm IV, or into a jugular IV.  The difference being the jugular would be able to deliver the chemicals more directly at the clots causing the problem, while the arm IV increased the potential for problematic internal bleeding.  I said, Doctor Vampire, please go ahead and spike me in the jugular vein.

YES, I SAID THEY INSERTED IV SHEATHS INTO MY JUGULAR VEIN.  

But the extremely dangerous chemicals did their jobs, and within 12 hours, my lungs were doing the job again, they terminated the chemicals after 20 hours, and within a day, my heart and lungs were providing more than enough oxygen into my system.

Ok, here’s the horror show.  Since the drugs involved make it very possible for bleeding to happen, it is very common to have a urinary catheter installed, to monitor the bladder output.  In the ER, a technician attempted catheterization, and botched it resulting in blood.  Now, I am only a patient, but I figured blood spattering from the penis is not a desirable outcome.  So he aborted; after I screamed at him in pain.    And, since I was on extremely powerful blood thinning agents, for the next day or so, my groin turned into a slasher movie special effect, bleeding all over fuck at random times.  O, and as a bonus, urination was AAAAARGH PAIN PAIN PAIN needles in the dick.  And although the underlying situation was life threatening, this was the part that was painful.  In a mordantly amusing factor, all the medical professionals that ever walked into my room, for like two days, asked me if I was still having chest pains; I never had chest plains.  Please talk to me about my pissing pains.

It took about two weeks all told, before the doctor in charge was able to let me go.  He was slow-walking my process, without telling me, and the blood threshold we needed was subsequently not being met.  When he finally admitted that he was doing that, I was pissed.  Still am; I respect his opinion on that, but to not let me know that he was doing so and why was, to me, bullshit.  When I forced him to let me go, and my normal doctor took over medications, we hit the blood level that is considered therapeutic in a couple of days.

But there are a couple of things I’d like to mention.  First of all, the ER staff are fucking heroes.  And two of them tracked me down in the ICU after I left their care, just to see how I was doing.  That impressed the fuck out of me.  Those are some amazing people.  Second of all;  The doctor in charge of my case during the stay, did not communicate effectively at any level, and did not involve me in his decisions on my treatment.  At one point, I had to snap at him “I am not a fucking idiot”.  It’s not just that he treated me as if I couldn’t participate in the decisions about my treatment, but that he made them without my involvement.

 

Well, since the nastiness is over, here’s some humor.  With the Uber, I got to the ER sometime after 3 in the afternoon, and after some testing, the ER staff asked me if there was someone they should call.  I knew WS was on a work gig, so when I got the chance with my phone, I called and left her a message, knowing she would get back to me or the hospital.  But for the next few hours, the staff kept asking me for her phone number, and they left a series of messages.  You see, WS has two phones, a personal and a work phone and on this particular day, she only had her work phone.  So, after they ensconced me into an ICU room, I texted her with “I am in room xxxx”, figuring she had my VM.  But she didn’t look at her phone until she was going to bed, and saw a bunch of messages.  But she saw the text first, which was just weird.  So eventually, late at night, she called me and asked if she should come in, but not really at that point.  I said that for the most part, the medical team didn’t seem to need her input…

But, at the end of the day, I find a funny aspect to this.  Many people touching base on FaceHell and others, keep asking me if I have been getting exercise, if I’ve been taking my meds,  what other things I’ve been doing wrong.  But here; the doctors have said that I have not had the typical issues that result in these DVTs.  What people want to hear, is that there is someone at fault, there is something that was not or was done that made for this occurrence.  Friends try and couch it in terms of concern, but what they really want to know, is that they are making themselves safe and that whatever health issues you have just had will never apply to them.  They are Safe, because they Act Properly.  But here’s the thing; sometimes bad things will happen and there is no fault.

Sometimes I feel like Fletcher Christian
twisting off the serpents head
for the mutiny I’ll shoot the big one
hot and hungry, far from home

Through the sun and sea my skin is peeling
but it don’t make the pictures fade
those shapes and symbols, I know their meaning
the shameless riches of another world

If I return they’re sure to hang me
so I guess I’ll have to stay
and if I should croak out in the darkness
No-one will know I got away