Thursday, November 15, 2012

Monday, October 15, 2012

Truth Be Known...

Hey Y'alls, Long time no hear. I've been away from my desk muy mucho this Summer, researching my ancestral history as it were. It all started when I casually mentioned the fact that I was one-sixteenth Native American to a friend of mine. Dude! She said. You have native rights as such, you should look into it. Perhaps! I said, but that road was pretty much barricaded by my  father's maternal grandfather the staunch, WW1 Army Captain and American Federalist Party Member and primary father-figure to my dad, Roland Willis. You see, a million years ago, my Great-Grandfather Earl Gilbert Seely ran off at age 16 to join in the Klondike Gold Rush, from his home in Southern California. He and 100,000 other 'would be prospectors' of whom 30,000 arrived and 4,000 found gold, stampeded north in search of their fortunes. Old 'Dad' Seely never struck gold be he found himself a beautiful wife, my Great Grandmother Bessie Wyatt Seely. She was half French-Canadian and half Aleut Alaskan Native. Earl (great Grandpa) and Bessie (great grandma) moved back to So. Cal. in 1901 where they were pretty much ostracized by the Old World Seelys, but together they built a good long life, raising their twin children, the boy of whom was my dad's dad, Earl Jr.  Earl Jr. married the daughter of Capt. Roland Willis (Patty Willis/Seely) and together they failed at building a good long life together, divorcing when my dad was 11 or 12. Captain Roland Willis hoped to completely erase the memory of the Seely debacle (as did the other Seelys, they being my dad's Uncle and Aunt and Cousins) by pulling strings with his military connections to have all traces of Bessie Wyatt's birth records expunged, allegedly in the form of a single hand-written certificate in Dawson City AK that Roland used to light one of his ubiquitous stogies with. And the rest as they say, is history.

Sunday, July 29, 2012

Rallying Cry Protest Protest, speakout, rail! Act!

Reject the cartridge! Poor quality blades, two dollars a piece. Reject canned goo! Unnatural smells, numbing agents. Scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape. A better shave with obsidian and fat. Reject burning faces, rashes, and blood on the collar. Reject the siren of marketing- five is not better than four, better than three, better than two. Countdown- five, four, three, two- one is the only one you need! One blade, machined with care, shiny, (razor) sharp. Treet, Tiger, Feather, Dura, One fifty for ten, not ten for five. Embrace the gestalt. First, hot water. Then, a brush, profuse with lather. Rose, lavender, citrus. Menthol. Soft. Soapy. Hot. Smooth! Upon your face, the brush and lather coaxing your beard to attention, The menthol a continuing cool upon your face, tickling your smell, making the cat sneeze. Grab your shaving instrument rescued from the scrap heap of Aunt Polly’s Interesting Junk shop, loaded with just ONE blade. Blue Tip, SuperShave, Merkur, Weishi. Glide. No pressure. No pain. Like shaving a peach. Like shaving a balloon. Shaving, not scraping. The sound of ice being scratched resonating along your jawline. With the grain, against the grain. Rinse blade. Lather. Repeat. The civilized man emerges. A bracing splash of Floid, Porasso, Tabac, or Anherb. No sissified, over-priced scent-of-the-month. Leave those to the metrosexuals. Join the underground. Transform the morning! Electric? Blasphemy!

Saturday, July 14, 2012

Salmon On My Bagel...

...makes me happy. Pickle on the side, makes me high. I don't care who listens, I'm still kosher. Salmon in my life, gets me by.

Friday, July 6, 2012

Ground Control To Major Tom

Take your protein pills and put your helmet on. That is all.

Tuesday, July 3, 2012


Disneyland House Captain · Anaheim, California I am chief bean-counter and administer of unfair punishments. Finding my missing manuscript Dec 13, 1975 to present Yes indeed! I grew up in Eagle Rock (born in Glendale.) In 1969 my folks moved us up to Red Bluff where I attended 8th grade at Reed's Creek elementary, then High School at R.B.U.H.S. Class of '74. Then, thanks to my mom's father, I moved to the Shasta College Dorms where I lived (and partied) for 2 years (Art Major.) Failing to complete my A.A. during this time and in perhaps one of the most ill-conceived, over-priced endeavors of all time, Grandpa decided I should move back to L.A. and enroll at Oxy for the Fall semester of 1976. And so it was, with an enormous bag o' weed and 100 hits of purple micro dot, I moved back to Eagle Rock and jumped into the (then robust) ceramics and glass studios at Oxy, with a heady connection/reference from good old Cliff Sowder and Max Penington. The whole gig ended in disgrace around Christmas Time 1976, when one of the many lavish partys I hosted at Grandpa's mansion ended in a raid (Symbionese Liberation Army connection) and with me fleeing back to Dairyville. I never went back. Willy Wonka & the Chocolate Factory Meanwhile, back at the chocolate factory, the oppression persists. As the only "straight" Oompa-Loompa in the joint, I am often the "whipping Boy" to Charlie's manic rage against the state of the economy and his business affairs. It's an extremely difficult life here in what looked, at least on paper, to be a veritable cake-walk of a job and a wonderful opportunity to advance myself in life. Now... well, there are times so dark I just feel like diving into that river of chocolate and sinking away to that eternal obscurity. College In a Goddah-da-vida Baby! In a Goddah-da-vida Baby!

Friday, June 29, 2012

The Search For Slavko

When I was a young lad, I had a friend named Slavko Limonczenko. We lived on the same street in Los Angeles back in the 1960's. We dreamed of the many things we would together, when we were grown up. One of the things we put at the top of the list of things to do was to attend a World's Fair. The ruins, depicted here, are still standing in Flushing Meadows in New York, from the 1964 World's Fair. I am still interested in visiting the site, all these years later. I also hope to someday visit Chernobyl in the Ukraine, where Slavko's family immigrated from.