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!

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.

Ground Control To Major Tom

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

Disneyland

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!