The Adventures of Trotsky: A Siamese in The Southwest

6/30 –

5:20am: Library/Roller Rink

9:04am: Mall. I walk over to Roger to ask f he had a fun birthday last night. “I guess. But you were supposed to be here hours ago.” I look at him and see that he is serious. “Don’t you remember you asked if I needed you to work, and I said yes?” He’s pointing a finger at me aggressively as he speaks.

“No way,” I say. “I asked you if you needed me, and you said, ‘No, take your two days.’ You said it was important to have my two days off so I’d be ready to work when it came time to have a day like last night.”

“I am so mad,” he says to me. “I was about ready to hit you when I saw you, coming in hours late like this.”

I’m using a sponge in the right-hand sink and look over towards him and say, “So, you need me to work, then?”

“Uh, yeah!” He says with angry sarcasm.

Before this, two soda kiosks at mall… the one the young men and I are working at is not working, but the other one – which is vacant – is.

Mom and me… our low fat treats at Starbucks, hers is chocolate, mine is like a pecan sticky bun or something. Mom insists on paying at the counter, to my embarrassment, and the pretty young lady barista there says “I’m not getting in on this one,” to the young man ringing us up.

Mom and I are walking away from Starbucks now, and I tell her we forgot to go back to our tables where out treats are. She keeps walking, won’t go back, so I tell her that I will go get them and meet her outside.

I get the pastries and come out to a big, grassy lawn between the mall and the parking lot. I can’t find Mom anywhere, so I start to head back inside to see if she went back into the mall. I find a dvd of a music video or musical in the grass called “I Love Delaware.”

Inside the Mall, beneath the covered eating area where we’d been, a dance is happening. Roger is there, as is Ron Huett, Heather Haley, and other people I know. I pass the kid who worked on the train and said he was an actor and trying to get into improv. He is eating a corndog, and he puts an incredible amount of ketchup and mustard on it, so much that I don’t know how it balances on the corndog. It’s part of a corndog-eating ritual he performs, I hear him explaining to Roger and the others at his table. Now he is filling his tray with the condiments, and using the dog to swirl the red and yellow around into circular patterns.

Driving down road with the gay couple from modern family and Nathan Lane in the back of an SUV with me. Uncle Paul is in the passenger seat. Mary Jo might be in the car too, perhaps Brent. There is some kind of singing game going on. On the second or third song, I begin to tap out a simple hip-hop like drum beat that Jesse Tyler Fergeson seems to be getting into, but Nathan Lane says, “Please stop that.” I’d been using a baby blue plastic drinking cup and the inside of the car door for the beat.

Now I see that our group (different folks now, possibly including Eric I… who somehow was involved with the I Love Delaware dvd) is driving down a dirt road, and that the whole area is being hit by swarms of something black. They look like moth-sized bats. There are carcasses of these things nearly covering the dirt road, and cows and small black-and-grey terriers are all over the road as well. “Can you imagine living out in this country?” I ask no one in particular. “Yes,” says Jesse TF forcefully. Apparently he’s lived somewhere like this?

We arrive at our destination, where our group will be a work crew in residence. Wood shack farmhouse. Young black men. Two are talking in the open door between the yard and the kitchen, and one goes outside, inhaling out of a vaporizer bag. Another guy passes him, and he talks about the benefits of vaporizing. I look out on the river. From the other side of the house, I see a young Japanese guy with spiky hair running down on the river. The house blocks my view of his path, but once he gets to the other side of the house I see that he has a pole and is attempting to vault the gridded red plastic net/fence that divides the property line along the river. He comes up way short of the netting, misjudging with the pole.

Piano place. Looking for Giuliana. Piano on ground with buttons and pumps that a young man is experimenting with. Middle aged couple walks by and Asian lady says “Oh, they added a pump to that model. That will help with the playability.”

June 27

3:30am – Biking on west side of Anza, on sidewalk, just South of 190th. Coming back from the fight with bottles in supermarket parking lots. I manage to hop up a curb on the road bike, which has frilly wrapping bows on the handles. I cross Entradero over by the Nursery and head for Sturgess. At the bottom of the hill on Sturgess and Towers, a stage is set up and there are several female singers engaged in an accapella chorus. I dismount my bike to walk it up the hill past the crowds… a lot of people are lined up everywhere on Sturgess, towers, and the part of Sturgess North of Towers. As I begin to walk my bike past people up the hill, I see Lily Marlene and say “Hi Lily.” She has short hair. She says hi and when I am up past her I hear her bragging to a girl next to her – also named Lily – that she must be looking good. I have to lift my bike to get past the crowds on the sidewalk, including Chi and Alice. They are talking and have trouble moving enough to allow me past… Marie says to them “Hey! The dream-guy is coming through,” and I laugh at her teasing.

Up at the top, I go into the bar, which looks like it was as busy as ours today. Few people are around, but Priscilla is cleaning up a crazy mess. I doubt it was as crazy as the other bar today, though, where Nick H quit and Taji and apparently many others were arrested for stealing. At one point Roger asked if I was stealing from him and I just shook my head and rolled my eyes. He didn’t pursue it any more.

Afterwards, at market, I put two opened Fat Tires in the inside pockets of my rain jacket and am about to start grocery shopping with my silver duffle bag… but I’m stopped by a short Hispanic woman and a tall black man who want to inspect my bag and jacket. I tell the woman that I am going to go outside and come back after I’ve gotten rid of something. They are already in the middle of busting someone else, and perhaps because of this, they let me go.

Outside in lot, the manager and another guy are frantically trying to get rid of all the open containers in the lot. They are dumping beer out into the lot from bottles. The manager is taking his stress out on his subordinate, and suddenly hits him in the thigh with a billy club. The employee protests, only to be hit again. Now he is raising a bottle threateningly at the manager. In another part of the lot nearby, a different group of men is yelling at one another and raising bottles at each other. I try to edge between a group of them and the building on my bike to get out of there, but a guy who says something about being from Boston is in the way. Someone yells to me “You’re part of this now!”

Later, up the hill on Sturgess in Roger’s other bar, I avoid the agents with my open containers but following Roger, who leads me through some back rooms and into a swanky restaurant. I try to take the fancy personal pizza out to a table from a bleach-collared waitress, but she only laughs at me and shows me how you have to use your other pinkie for balance.


I just ate one third of a chocolate mushroom made by some friends in Southern California. The last time I shroomed was with a couple of friends from SoCal who came out here to visit. They had driven from SoCal without stopping other than for gas and for filming. They cobbled together a movie script from their travels that involved a woman who one of them had been friends with and who had disappeared but, according to rumor, had showed up somewhere in New Mexico. That was about it for the plot until they came out here with their GoPro cameras, but once out here, we fleshed out the story a bit. Part of that included the three guys all having a mushroom trip together in a house out on the Southwestern Prairie.

This evening, a long conversation with some boy scouts started with me telling them about how I’d run a marathon under the influence of enteogenic mushrooms. I didn’t get into the subsequent stories of my ex-girlfriend and I taking a “ride” on her couch, or trippin with my friends, or NOW, because NOW was at that time a vague and only possible future… but I did tell them about training for, and running, the Los Angeles Marathon back in 2011 Under The Influence, and all that it entailed: the bright blue lightning storm, the conversations with The Triathlete which turned into nonsensical utterances, the disassociation that had my perspective entering into that of fans on the sidelines seeing me run by, and the post-race “medical tent” that I was directed to after nearly passing out after clearing the finish line.

And hey, now I’ve eaten a third of a chocolate shroom given to me by peeps in my Joshua Tree Crew, and I have another third of that chocolate left over from the night my boys from SoCal and I took their shrooms, and I guess we’ll just see what happens, won’t we?

Tomorrow I hit the road to Denver to fly to SF for their annual Marathon. I’ll stay Friday night in Oakland with my friend who I’d planned on moving in with back when my life seemed to be taking me to Oakland to live and work and finish the book.

I guess I’ll post this and maybe come back to edit it once the Ride starts…

Breaking The Sound Barrier: The True Story of Mime League Baseball

Today I was off of work (yesterday) and so I called Houston to check in. He’s my editor, although we’ve never met in the physical world. We precede The Age of Phishing, though, having been pen pals/phone friends for many years. We are Voice Friends, able to discern auditory subtleties from one another in a nearly psychic manner. However, we remain ignorant about one another’s facial expressions or gesticulations.

He and I didn’t talk a whole lot about the book, although we did brainstorm an idea for a pseudo-documentary in the style of Ken Burns, highlighting the history of Mime League Baseball and the first mime to break “The Sound Barrier.”

This was inspired by subplot in a recent major league professional baseball game that Houston brought up. “Did you see what Pujols did the other day?”

“Poo holes,” I replied.

“Ha, yeah. But, no, he apparently did something amazing, something ridiculous, and then made a gesture like he was shooting an arrow.”

“Oh!” I say. “I read about that. He was actually doing that in response to someone else pulling an imaginary arrow. This pitcher named Fernando Rodney was the Angels closer for a couple of years. First year he was great, second year he was awful, and then he signed with someone else. This year he’s with the Mariners, and he got them out to end the 8th, and they were up by two with one inning to go. He has this move he does, apparently, when he closes out a game, where he’ll pull an imaginary arrow from an imaginary quiver and shoot it into the stands. Well, he did it an inning early this time, and some of the Angel’s players felt that he aimed the imaginary arrow at their dugout. Definitely a threatening gesture and an attempt to emasculate the competition. Or, poison their well at the very least.”

“Whoa,” says Houston. “So Pujols was simply -”

“He hit a double in the ninth to score Trout for the tying run. And Trout, as he crosses home plate, he pulls an imaginary arrow from his imaginary quiver and shoots it at Rodney!”

“No!” Houston shouts.

“Yeah, and then Pujols pulls his imaginary arrow from his imaginary quiver, and the Angels win it. Man, I hope that theatrical gesticulation and sign language take off in the MLB!”

“Right? Mime baseball!”

Houston and I were silent for a few moments, as the incredulity and utter amazement of an alternate America/American History-in-which-Mime-League Baseball-exists danced around in our respective imaginations.

And then, in a veritable shit storm of speculative verbosity, we were off. I may shitcan the fictionalized memoir now and team up with my editor on this fictional Mime Baseball League Doc. We need to hire a lot of Mime’s to be photographed in black and white.

Are you a professional Mime? Do you know anyone who is a professional Mime?

Amateur Mimes are up for discussion as well. And, should you know any baseball players who are also mimes…

Peel Onions? Cussin’Cousins”></

Well, I dreamed I saw the knights in armor come
Sayin’ somethin’ about me
There were children singin’ and drummers drummin’
The archer split the tree
There was a fanfare blowin’ to the sun
That floated on the breeze
We got mother nature on the run, in the nineteen seventies
Look at mother nature on the run, in the nineteen seventies

I was lyin’ in a burnt out basement
With the full moon in my eye
I was hopin’ for a replacement
When the sun burst through the sky
There was a band playin’ in my head
And I felt like getting high
Thinkin’ about what a friend had said, I was hopin’ it was a lie
Thinkin’ about what a friend had said, I was hopin’ it was a lie

Well, I dreamed I saw the silver spaceships flyin’
In the yellow haze of the sun
There were children cryin’ and colors flyin’
All around the chosen ones
All in a dream, all in a dream the loadin’ had begun
We were flyin’ mother nature’s silver seed to a new home in the sun
Flyin’ mother nature’s silver seed to a new home



Neil Young

Read more: Neil Young – After The Gold Rush Lyrics | MetroLyrics

For Clarity

Clarity calls through the speaker
of the brown phone receiver as
Carcasses of Car Keys spiral through the
New Mexico smoke
beef or me

She’s seven months in and can’t deal with the blowback that would come
with A Short Haircut.

Ain’t she got No Luck?

Our Son who art an arsonist
Hallowed be the names farts sparks of Narcissists
Neither Wizards nor Rat Bastard Fascists
Will get racist upon my rarefied air mattresses, these
Special Care Madnesses
Packages made in Facial(!) Fractal Chinese Dirty Knees Factories

Look at deez knees grow!

Do you remember when, in The Fall of Two Thousand Twelve
In New Orleans
We coined the phrase
“To Thou, Send Thirteen?”
It was a calling, a conjuring,
An evocation of a natural No Nation
Apostles of twelve or was it thirteen?
An Earnest Hemmingway reality
Where “you” don’t exist, only
“thou.” Only thou’s

Oily Taoist dowries make a man drowsy, see?
And only on two days’ rest
Tuesdays at the behest of the
Beheaded Mayan Beast, who
We met at That One Freak Folk Festival in Venice Beach…
What was it called, again?

Oh yeah…

!Deez Feasts!

These feasts! These feats. Deez feasts.
I can taste them only in my dreams.

Coming this Winter Solstice…
Eve smothers Adam for his skin in an
artful and/or arty
Attempt to Attain an
Alternate Garden of Eden.

Where we’ll all be eatin’ Dollar Tacos at Molly’s on French men.
Never minding to sidle up to our idolatry, giving
Moon Bigotry a Big-O-try

And you were leaning breezily
Back against the cigarette machine,
looking like somebody’s smart kid sister,
dress checkered, sans Sketchers!
All growed up,
Reading “The Unbearable Lightness of Being” and telling me about it
Something medical and critical, ethical and romantic
I couldn’t totally pay attention, kept zoning out
distracted by your
Self assured, Azure

Months later we were lying there
in your soft loft with SpiderMyMan
We spied her myth, man
“‘Tis art, Mon petit Pop Tart.”
We spied ‘er myth, man. We spied her myth, man.
“‘Tis art, my little Pop Tart
Pop spider myth trouble, man
Spied her myth bubble, yeah

(The Four Gone Conclusions
Tear Tickets at the Gates
Of Double Shotgun Heaven
No sidewalks
only Waits,
broken glass, dead grass, loose gravel, and a million chicken bones
Lawless lawns belonging to
Long-gone sluts,
Wandering Oogles jones

Until you’ll find them lying
On or under the awning
On the stoop beside generation-spanning/spawning African-Aftermathamericans
Yawning at the
Genteel Old Boy Gentile Genitalia Parade and Gala)

Gosh, Valhalla!
The Second Line will Holla!
And then, of course, Sign
having been
Sighted for
Sighing for the
Second Time, on the
Second Line…

That, and the (h)Our Times and the Minutes
That Minute Bol arrives

armed with bowls of Minute Rice

In this, my Ninth
Nude Libertarian/
“Get A Life” Disney kNight

It’s the Rite time for passage,
Play a Role, playa!’
We’re spring-heeled mammals
Equipped with sweat glands, and

We’re bipedal pyramids draped in flags of crisp geometry
and primary colors
Backpedaling through ozone
Cities purple cactus flower
Pastures red clay foot rub

Every Moon is filled to burst
True Moon Juice spews
FootLoose upon the
Flight crews
Not from the light of the
Night news

No noose; no use!

“My Muse”
Mondays at Noon
We must stay in tune
We must collect runes
To Thou, Send Thirteen
We must lay down cards
And throw the I-ching
To Thou, Send Thirteen
To Thou, Send Thirteen

The masses with spatulas ran from disaster
Away from the madness’s of the
Oilman’s varnished bannister, and
Old banished Ministers, these
Administrative Master Mind Readers
Kicked in the cremaster, in the
Cretin canisters of Trinidadian

“Get a Gander at the
Gender of your Gerbers, You Worthless Warblers!”
Shouts the proto-proletariat Proprietor
at the stage
in a rage
With improbable impropriety.

“It’s a great bar… the Bartender’s a little crusty.”

Just then, the genteel Eel Gentileman
Genitalia’d down the hatchet, where

Prairie Dogs be living in holes with Daytime Owls!
Bearded, Southern Santas are still crying Fowl!

I’ll be crushing the skulls of antelope who are
Dying of dehydration
You’ll be rushing the girls who can’t elope, little
Lamb’s in dog’s dumb nation.