Buddhism teaches me to stop following every impulse and to learn restraint. Obviously I lost track of what I was taught.
–Tiger Woods
At the turn of the century, Philly was vibrating.
–Anupa Mistry
Heard the story on the evening news
’bout the Capulets & the Montagues
On a private highway airport bound
the convoy speeds past shanty town
–Peter Case
Thirteen years before George W. Bush lied about weapons of mass destruction to justify his invasion and occupation of Iraq, his father made his own set of false claims to justify the aerial bombardment of that same country. The first Gulf War, as an investigation by journalist Joshua Holland concluded, “was sold on a mountain of war propaganda.”
–Mehdi Hasan
A big, fat con job.
–President Trump
The one thing you did that was great, you didn’t do.
–Robert Glasper
for Evan Reibsome
This will be an easy missive. I’m writing from the hated loveseat. NPR is blathering about Notre Dame and my coffee’s grown cold. If I get up to open the door the skies will be grey and full of rain. The new global climate has made this city tropical. I should crank off the radio–the French annoy me and Catholics have got a lot of nerve. I hate NPR but it’s better than any radio anywhere except for maybe KOOP or ‘KDU when the mighty DJ Diane spins. I’ve very little comfort in these end times. I can’t shit, I don’t sleep and I wake without a hardon and a headache. DJ Diane’s voice soothes me, but my comforts are a diminishing return as the global temperature climbs and the world mourns a monument to the biggest pedophile ring in modern history. Now they’re throwing it down in Britain and I’m glad about it. I’ll stay tuned, make more coffee, rage and write on.
I lectured at LSUS last Friday and the diversification of my resume is concurrent with my desire to get off the temp circuit and step out from behind the bar. I think I can do it, Good Reader, and the good news is my Art’s got legs, Hot Damn, and I won’t need the dread of my life being forfeit that’s choked every event and endeavor since I quit working for a quadriplegic millionaire in the Fall of ’17. Little Brother’s moved to town and I’ll be goddamned I might even start playing music full time. He’s looking for a band and I ain’t saying ‘No’. I’m happy to be on the road for anything except a 13-hour wedding in the sticks. Catering off-site has lost it’s charm, if it ever had any. I’m working for an alright company in town, making almost as much money as I did when I started in the biz 16 years ago, which is gross and bizarre and I’ll take it. This time last year I was hauling copper for less, and yelling at my friends on the phone, and running out and leaving my typewriter behind when I found out my roommate was into me for almost two grand. That’s life ain’t it though–reluctantly grinding from catastrophe to stasis and all the while one hospital visit away from total destitution. Just ask Jussie.
A washed up celeb who lied to cops.
-Kim Fox
I can’t complain. I live in a country where the internet isn’t controlled by the government and I’ve no felony charges to face. Besides, I’m always happy to write. My workshop at LSUS was about the practice. What I do here is self-publishing and compartmentalization and living room bullfighting. My biggest problem is running out of coffee and I’ve written myself into the arena ain’t it though you bet motherfucker. I’m less than thrilled with this life but I can’t go back. I’m looking forward, truth be told, and whatever slog and grind awaits–bartending the Blanton this weekend or running corporate lunch today, I know there’ll always come a day when I can put my feet up and crank out these words, paint a picture with the oils of rage and somehow come through, diaphanously with love. 600 words is all it takes to rouse the muse and have her sit here with me, on the hated loveseat, and patiently wait to fuck me senseless as soon’s I wrap this missive on the end days of the Final Century for you, Good Reader.
You’re welcome motherfucker.
Ab irato,
TRAINER
Austin TX
Going for the Throat 