October 2015

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Okay. I'm not big physically. But I have a big heart.

Okay. I’m not big physically. But I have a big heart.

Call this moral support. Why is the Temple team the “Owls”? Because they started as a night school, a place for aspiring blue collars to learn and acquire a degree through extraordinary extra effort after a long working day.

Remember this. The owl is the most exceptional of birds, able to fly silently at high speed. And they have those eyes.

See me?

See me?

I see you.

I see you.

But I guarantee you'll never hear me coming.

But I guarantee you’ll never hear me coming.

Per aspera ad astra, noctuae. Go Temple.

Notre Dame isn’t the only one who can ask for divine favor.


On Wings of Angels

So he was sleeping on my left cause Raebert was on my right, and I happened to say to my wife, how come all cat poems are bad? For example:

So he was sleeping on my left cause Raebert was on my right, and I happened to say to my wife, how come all cat poems are bad? For example:

Da Cat

There was a cat.
He was fat.
Nobody liked that.
Nobody wanted that.
Fat was bad,
And so bad was cat.
Da End.

When Elliott woke up.

Somewhat agitated.

Somewhat agitated. Actually, he was kind of mad.

You know how cats lie on papers and books. He was sitting on a dog-eared (or was it cat-chewed) version of the light humorous works of that great comedian T.S. Elliott.

I hate it when he steals my reading glasses.

I hate it when he steals my reading glasses. Always screws up the temple pieces.

“Ever read this?” He asked.

Rum Tum Tigger

Rum Tum Tigger is a Curious Cat:
If you offer him pleasant he would rather have rough,
If you give him a bed he would much prefer not.
If you offer him soft, He’ll pick all that’s tough.
If you show him a deerhound, he signs on the dot.
If you show him a Scotty, he laughs just enough.

If you'd rather have stupids, you've no need of me.

If you’d rather have stupids, you’ve no need of me.

No excerpts from “Cats” tonight. Elliott is still the king of the township.

The best costume.

The best costume.

No need to worry about political correctness. Go totally pagan.


The best mood piece.

I’m pretty much the best game in town on this topic.

For people who are forced to go out into into the new urban guerilla zones. Cops hiding in their cars. BLM activists looking for blood. Random thugs punching old ladies in the head for YouTube videos. Thank you, Obama and Holder.

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Your death toll is higher than all the mass shooters in the country.

Yes, ever once in a blue moon, a dog food bowl DOES stand on end..

Yes, every once in a blue moon, a dog food bowl DOES stand on end..

Spilling his food is Rae’s idea of a first course. Second course is about what you would expect.

Wake me up for the pizza crust course.

Wake me up for secondo piatto (the pizza crust course).

Sometimes it takes hours. The servants get mad mad mad and then go home. But he always has room for dessert. In that he takes after his mother. And mine.

Surprised?

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Stupid guy wants to get beat up.

Stupid guy wants to get beat up.

Yeah, there’s Krav Maga. There’s also Muhammed Ali, Fedor Emelianenko, and Rhonda Rousey.

WAPO. Should be Jewish. In denial.

WAPO. Should be Jewish. In denial.

What can we say? She’s such a coward she never answers her commenters on her Facebook page. She’s such a shill she writes every day, three, four, five times about how bad Trump is and why we need Jeb.

I know they pay her money, enough to pay for her condo in DC, but all she ever writes is Jeb! Jeb! Jeb! Jeb! JEB!!!

Did she go to school somewhere? Does she ever emerge from her condo? Does anybody at the Washington Post know or care that she’s a paid factotum of the Bush family? Or is the fact that everybody else is a paid factotum of Hillary rule that out? Except George Will. Who is a paid factotum of the Chicago Cubs. And now he’s lost yet again. Which is why his hobby, explaining how Republicans can win the White House, is so uproariously funny.

Alfalfa.

Alfalfa.

William Blake. He got tired. There’s only so much time you can buck convention. Then you have to die and let history fight the fight.

William Blake. He got tired. There’s only so much time you can buck convention. Then you have to die and let history fight the fight.

It happens a lot. Old men get tired. Mark Twain, Friedrich Nietzsche, and Leonardo da Vinci.

Don’t claim to be in their league. But the pessimism steals over me. An astrologer called the Witch of Yellow Springs once told me I would never run out of energy. I’m thinking she was wrong.

I write, but there's nothing left to say.

I write, but there’s nothing left to say.

Tired. Through and through.

Because MSNBC’s Melissa Harris-Perry said this…

How stupid can you be and still be a college professor? No limit!

This guy.

This guy.

Used to do a lot of business in the Bahamas. They thought I was this guy. Holly-Wood-Movie-Star.

Bad attitude. I was always nice to the desk clerks.

Bad attitude. Yet I was always nice to the desk clerks.

Baffled. Until I figured out it was this guy.

Name of Billy Drago.

Name of Billy Drago.

But I shot him down in my home town of Bridgeton.

Gotcha. I was always that fast. Ask my wife.

Gotcha. I was always that fast. Ask my wife.

And then I was so dead.

But I’m not really him. I’m a poet and a killer. You know how that goes.

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Because I’m still Instapunk. And that’s what I do. Every damn day.

From top to bottom. All in a death spiral.

Unless it’s not.

What do they say? The perfect is the enemy of the good.

What do they say? The perfect is the enemy of the good.

Oh. And then the super-uneducated millennial lefties come in. Cool. If you point out they don’t know anything, you’re ad hominem. I could live with that. If any of them were hominem in the first place. Know that’s not correct in Latin grammar. But I’d hate to trigger them by using the correct word ‘homo.’

P.S. There was a guy who tried to lecture me about World War I at the Charles Murray page. Lloyd Thomas Sloan. We went back and forth. Now he’s removed himself and all his comments from the thread. The way lefties are. Lose and slink away. I never stop. Why this is still Instapunk.

How to sum it up. The basis of all that was great in rock and roll.

Zevon and Tearson. How to sum it up. The basis of all that was great in rock and roll. Michael Tearson was our little cross-eyed monster. He talked slow. He loved the music. That was MMR in a nutshell. The Radio Station. WMMR, Philadelphia.

Haven’t listened to rock music stations for ten years. Then, this week, I just turned off talk radio. Local guy named Dom Giordano. Got on a tear about a poll about Trump and Carson. Women Don’t like Trump. Women Don’t like Trump. Women Don’t like Trump. Women Don’t like Trump. And so on. Caller makes a perfectly good point. Carson got beat up in the mass media. Got a bump in the polls. Giordano right back on his narrative. Therefore, Women Don’t like Trump. Women Don’t like Trump. Women Don’t like Trump.

So. I. Bailed. First to my wife’s awful station, WMGK. Then to the Radio Station of my youth. WMMR. You know how long it takes to hear a Stones song on WMMR? About five minutes. Makes me sad. I hear them all the time. Don’t need ancient DJs to play them for me. But it’s better than hearing lame brained radio hosts pretending they know what they’re talking about. Just a shot away from hearing sense.

Can’t watch news, can’t listen to news or commentary anymore. Any. More.

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Your face and your neck can be okay. Your tummy can be flat, or flattish, and you don’t have to look at your own butt. You might not be bald yet. But the hands. You see them every day. And they keep getting more gnarly. Turning slowly into claws. How you know you’re getting up on seventy. How you know you’re old.

But guess what. They’re your hands. Knuckles have been sprained, digits have been broken. They did the hard work, the punches, the caresses, the good and the bad. They’ve done amazing things for you. Been everywhere, explored everything, felt everything with the most exquisite touch, hard and soft and hot and wet. No wonder they get old. It’s okay. They’re yours. Don’t sweat it.

Well. I pretty much am.

Well. I pretty much am.

Carlos Sainz Jr. Yeah. He's the best looking. Where wouldn't he be?  But basically they all are.

Carlos Sainz Jr. Yeah. He’s the best looking. Where wouldn’t he be? But basically they all are.

She loves them all. And the speed. And the cars. And the sound. It’s all good for her. Right now, we’re watching the U.S. Grand Prix. Lewis is winning so far. And he likes dogs.

Not as pretty as Carlos. But pretty enough.

Not as pretty as Carlos. But pretty enough.

What could possibly be better?

It was Shakespeare who said it best: “Life is a bitch and then you die.”

Oh. He didn’t say that. Well, he should’ve.

“Why are you rooting for New Orleans? You like Andrew Luck, all Stanford and everything. You said the Redskins should never have taken their first draft pick to choose a quarterback who’d have a knee injury in his first season. You said Luck was the natural heir to Peyton Manning in Colts Kingdom, where you’ve always lived as far as I can determine. And now, today, you’re cheering on Drew Brees and the slapped-ass Saints.”

Taking this rationally and in order. Don’t like Andrew Luck’s beard. Plunkett established the rule that Stanford quarterbacks don’t have to be as good looking as all the other quarterbacks are. But there’s a limit.

And where did we get the rule that no Colts team can ever have a running game? Is this some religious thing nobody told me about?

And I’m not nearly as anti-new Orleans as I sometimes seem. Because I do love Zydeco. If you don’t know what that is, look it up. No, I won’t be visiting Nawlins anytime soon. Not fond of the smell of sewage in a modern city. But I do love that music.

So, today, I’m rooting for the “Who Dat” bunch. Ça va.

Every day is No Bra Day.

Every day is No Bra Day.

Why the Brits do better gardening shows than we do. No bras. Charlie not only knows her plants and things, but she also goes slinging and slonging through the garden like a mesmerizing force of nature. Haven’t watched HGTV since Ground Force went off the air.

One last look.

Ivy makes her nipples hard.

Ivy makes her nipples hard.

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