Top Twelve Racist Jokes

White people...worst people ever?

When I tried to move my hands I couldn’t. When I tried to lift my head I couldn’t. I wasn’t tied down. Figuratively, I guess you could say I was. When I got to the room, it was bare and empty as usual. I enjoyed these little rooms. There was room all over the walls for my clippings. There was a lot of wood on the floor. The floor was made of wood, so obviously, there was a good amount of wood within my eyesight. I worked off of the floor with different index cards. I had things written on the index cards. Directions, recipes, live concert set lists, different meals I’d eaten on the road, ex-girlfriends, cars I’d owned. My whole life, a series of index cards. I moved from city to city, and rented these cheap rooms and would stay up for three or four days sorting them out on the wood floor. Days of coffee and cookies, cigarettes and bourbon. Long nights of alphabetizing, putting in chronological order. There were all different patterns I could follow. “Let’s put 1992 in order tonight” “Do I put my Ford Tempo before Jennifer Daynes from Cleveland?” I got into a rigorous schedule with the cards after a month. Nobody knew where I was. “Just sorting my life out” I would tell them. Literally, with index cards. My obsessions had ballooned to this. Becoming some sort of freak trying to find himself in a foreign town somewhere. This particular night I could not hold on though. I lost it and the sounds of Charlie Mingus filled the room on repeat for a whole evening. I was done. My life could not get sorted out in Memphis. Here I sat, the ceiling looked wonderful as I rolled over finally and looked at the alarm clock. It was time to move along.




Frank was the one who wanted to do it, not me. He used scissors to do it, and we were now the proud owners of not only a wedding band but the lightly freckled finger of a dead woman.



“really, who is he?”
“Just some guy”
“just some guy huh?”
“yup, just some guy. Are you going to listen this time?”
“I doubt it”



I can’t even waste time talking about ghosts and goblins in lower places than I have been to I come out and try to listen for a few minutes maybe finally finally they will have something good to say the cocksuckers though I mean these motherfucking cocksuckers they call for gifts and messages I bet you don’t know which I speak of the people you know come on the people who even bring you down the motherfuckers you know these motherfuckers I fucking know you do the whores of the streets that shake their asses in your face these fucking motherfuckers need to be destroyed these motherfuckers I swear I swear that if I see one of these motherfuckers on the street and I have the flame thrower on I will burn you and the motherfuckers to the fucking ground I really really really have no time for this

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So we were in some fucking strange ass town on the ocean somewhere, a whole bunch of friends, I have no clue who they were. Faceless friends, hmmm, that’s kind of funny now that I think back to it. We walked through covered bridges, and up dirt roads lined with colorless cottages and oak trees as old as Bob Hope (is he dead yet?). At one point, one of my cohorts attacked a visibly stunned James Garner. They ended up knocking James Garner over in this covered bridge, and he was down for the count. I eventually ended up in one of the cottages somehow, with a midget. The midget was short, and had long hair and glasses. He was trying to tickle me for some reason. I kicked him, and then realized I was kicking in my sleep, so it did no good. The air at 6AM this morning was amazing, it looked like it would be a good day for a long drive, and a head full of flattery.



We had an aunt that made this meatloaf that had chocolate chips in it. Now, when I was a little kid. Now, when I think back to this. I make myself try to make sense of all of it. When I was a little kid. We had an aunt that lived upstairs, she made this meatloaf with chocolate chips and garlic. We had this awful aunt that made us watch PBS and eat meatloaf with garlic and chocolate chips. We had this goddamn fucking aunt.



You can't really count on any of them. They ignore and push and ask too many questions and then never answer yours. Long letters sent over thousands of miles and a few feet down the highway sitting there collecting dust, at least that's how I see them. Like the sound of a phone ringing infinitely. Other ones though, they receive adoration and whatever else you will never know about, yeah they see that all day every day.

Dun

I can drink two hundred shots of espresso a day and still feel exhausted as I’m drinking the last one as I get in “bed”. Perhaps it’s just that nothing is going on here at all as I arrive one day ago. The last week was kind of a blur so of course I was in bed relatively early all week. The time change thing messed me up all week and continues to now. I keep thinking if I call someone here in Massachusetts on the phone that they are three hours ahead of me even if I am a few miles away from them.

I almost wish I was back driving again, which makes me think perhaps I should have become a truck driver. Or should. I don’t really like sitting still, and I imagine yeah I am excited to be back here in Massachusetts, but I give myself six months before I feel like leaving again. I guess I realized I don’t really like attachments, and I don’t like counting on people. You can’t count on anyone else really. I can’t at this point. Maybe I should have realized looking up to people and that kind of thing is not really a good way to operate. At this point I am always going to be paranoid and not trust people, or at least not trust certain things about people. Everyone is in it for themselves, your friends, your wives and husbands, your cousins and brothers and sister and parents. They are all lying to you constantly, once you realize this and you grow those eyes in the back of the head, well, yeah. Try it.

Anyway, 24 hours into this move and I’m ready to leave and go somewhere in the middle now. Or go somewhere to get a new head, I hate the way this one operates.

Rippinest Town Pt I

Imagine the worst U2 song you can possibly imagine, multiply that by ten and then have Jack Johnson sing background vocals while wearing six thousand white UMASS baseball hats at once outside of a Starbucks. That is what my third solo album will sound like.

Flew into Boston a few hours ago and as usual, at least the five years or so, I always play Radiohead on the headphones for the last half hour or so. I mysteriously don’t have Kid A on my iPod for whatever reason. I was somehow able to avoid taking them off throughout the whole landing. I mean really, would a person listening to an iPod REALLY mess up a landing, I hate that rule.



Imagine the worst possible Bob Seger song, but sung from the top of the Washington Monument, which is now covered in swastikas and portraits of John McCain. At the end of the song a gigantic bald eagle swoops down over the crowd and vomits the blood of every single Goddamned fucking Iraqi baby all over everyone. This is what I want the music to play right after I kill someone if I ever get to kill a human being at some point. Like if there was an apocalypse or I was attacked, not just a random deal.

Oh yeah so Radiohead on the plane, good times. I spent the majority of the trip listening to Mouth of the Architect who I can’t get enough of right now. I have been in that mopey mood lately and listening to them and Mono, Explosions in the Sky, Mogwai, etc. I think I have had my fill of delay pedals at this point. I also jammed the new Converge, Daughters and...I can’t remember. Oh Interpol. Maybe I should get out more and stop being such a fucking pussy.

Imagine the worst possible Her Space Holiday album cover divided by the pattern on your current girlfriend’s shower curtain multiplied by seven. Now imagine wearing a sweater that looks like that.

So the flight was fine for the most part. I used to bring multiple books and magazines, etc and then realized the best way to make the trip go fast is to not sleep at all the night before and then play music in your head and fall asleep. This works for me, although I did read for a few minutes. Man this book is intense (especially the piece on Billy Eckstine), check it out if you’re a music person, or pop culture person.

Imagine the worst Kanye West song you could ever imagine hearing, which is pretty much any of them, now imagine the song is being played through speakers made of Lady Gaga’s skin, which was just removed in front of a classroom full of Mexican children who have no idea who their father is. This is the type of music I would like to hear right before I jump off a bridge.

I can’t write much more as the battery on this laptop is almost done. I left the power supply at a hotel in Grover Beach, CA over the weekend and am having it Fed Ex’d to here in Massachusetts. I hope it comes tomorrow; I at least need to write a few hours a day, mostly just nothing, to myself, but it makes the day go better. Today on the plane I briefly wrote in the notepad thing on my iPhone and then realized how ridiculous it was and went back to sleep.



I guess I’ll get back to complaining about women or how my Joy Division CD's got scratched or whatever tomorrow.