We the supporters of Sarah Palin, in order to form a more perfect union, establish justice, insure domestic tranquility, provide for the common defense, promote the general welfare, and secure the blessings of liberty to ourselves and our posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United State of Alaska.
Article 1. Freedom of Religion
Jesus is Lord and Savior. Anyone who don't like it can get the hell out.
Article 2. Marriage
Marriage shall be between one man and one woman who promises to respect and obey him forever.
2a. Homos and other queers are banished to the North Slope.
2b. Abortion is illegal, including in cases of rape or incest.
Article 3. Economic Policy
Gas shall not cost more than 30 cents a gallon.
3a. The Arctic National Wildlife Refuge is hereby eliminated and replaced by the Alaska Strategic Reserve for the Eternal Refueling of Quads, Dirtbikes, Pick-ups, Big Rigs, Snowcats, Generators, Power Boats, Motorhomes, and Tractors, Especially of the Competitive Variety.
3b. Not one square inch of the Republican Republic's sovereign territory shall be off-limits to muddin' or other wheelin' activities.
Article 4.
Each house shall quarter at least one soldier.
Article 5. Executive and Legislative Powers
President-for-life Sarah Palin gets executive and legislative powers.
Article 6. Veto Power
First-Dude-for-life Todd Palin gets veto powers by virtue of his being the man of the house.
Article 7. Judicial Power
Judicial power is vested in one Supreme Court of nine judges elected by the people. The judges must be clergy of the Pentecostal Church. Principles of conflicting parties may also choose to settle their differences by a no-holds barred cage fight, or by motorized jousting. In the former case, everything goes except eye-gouging, hooking or groin shots. In the latter case, contestants will race towards one another wielding pruning-saw lengtheners, aboard either dirtbikes or snow cats, depending on the season. In either case, Jesus will see to it that the best man wins.
7a. Duane “Dog” Chapman is hereby appointed Attorney General.
Article 8. Court Jester
Trig Paxton Van Palin is hereby named Court Jester.
Article 9. Decorations
The flag of the Republic shall depict President-for-life Sarah field-dressing a moose before an oil derrick.
9a. The national anthem is “Drill Here, Drill Now” by Aaron Tippin.
Article 10. Global Warming
National policy will be for the advancement of global warming.
Article 11. Taxes
There is a flat tax of 1% on income. All of it shall be spent on the military, specifically the Corps (Semper Fi!) Taxes shall never rise. Big-government boondoggles with our hard-earned money are prohibited. A war is never a boondoggle. In case of war, taxes are eliminated to stimulate the economy.
Article 12. John McCain
John McCain is persona non-grata in the Republic. He is officially not forgiven for losing to Monkey Hussein.
Article 13. Bad Luck.
Article 14. Education
Due to lack of funding, state schools are eliminated. Home schooling is encouraged. Ideal curriculum includes field-dressing game, handling automatic weapons, wheelin', and church on Sunday.
Article 15. Drug Policy
There shall be no wacky tobacco smoking or other hippie business.
15a. No drinking on Sunday, dammit.
15b. Drinking and driving is okay, as long as you don't get too drunk.
Article 16. Immigration
No Mexicans.
16a. No Muslims.
16b. No communists.
16c. No foreign-language speakers, except in cases of divine possession.
16d. No poorly-dressed Negroes.
16e. Applicants undergo a period of hazing.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Saturday, March 14, 2009
Sugar Momma
I haven't been laid in over ten months, and that was with a 39-year-old petroleum heiress from Houston.
Kinji ridiculed me for being with such an old woman. "What other services do you provide?" he asked, "do you rub her corns?" Thereafter, he referred to her as my "sugar momma."
It was an inaccurate characterization of my fling with C. Admittedly, it was one marked by a wide disparity in time-on-earth and financial holdings between its participants. C. bought me a lot of food, and once paid for a hotel room. She paid me $400 for a weeks' worth of brush clearing on her land, readying it for a fire-department inspection. It was a fair wage. I suffered poison oak all over my body for a month afterward. I never asked for donations. If I had, C. would have laughed at me. We were both in it for the sex.
The sex was excellent. I am like a prospective employer in my sexual tastes. Her real-estate investing prowess would arouse me. Once she told me that she had flipped a pair of condos in Manhattan's meatpacking district for a profit of several hundred thousand dollars. I immediately took her to bed.
Along with the sex there was an intellectual connection of medium intensity. C. was an architect with a second masters degree in permaculture design. We would discuss aesthetic preferences and our emotional problems with one another. She had gone through a series of unappreciative lovers, several pushy upper-class people she'd met during time she spent in Manhattan, Switzerland, Paris and Los Angeles. She had aborted their children.
C. was born into a family of waspy Texas Republicans with their tentacles deep in the energy industry. She told me of her obese brother-in-law who built coal power plants in China. He had five SUVs and a part-time jet. Twice he nearly died of a heart attack because he was so worried about stock prices. C. stopped speaking with her sister, his wife, after he stole a million dollars from their mother. Her nephews were vidiots with a keen sense of entitlement. The family's annual Christmas expenditures ran around $10 thousand.
She counted amongst her friends a medley of rich people with dramatic, miserable lives. Amonst them was an executive from Lionsgate Films. His wife would call C. and complain that she was suicidal, worn out by all her husband's infidelities. Their teenage daughter needed a heart transplant because of her anorexia.
Our fling lasted for three months, or about 30% of the amount of time it has been since I last experienced a legitimate orgasm. It occurred mostly in an A-frame house on her fifty-acre spread in Ojai, next door to screenwriter Caroline Thompson (of "Edward Scissorhands" credit). C. had stolen the parcel for around a million dollars. She planned to design and build a rammed-earth residential compound there. It would never to be. A gang of corporate attorneys outbid her for the neighboring parcel, offering far more than it was worth. She suspected that they would build something ghastly in her view, and she was thereafter totally soured to the prospect. Then the economy collapsed.
Once we went on a road trip to San Francisco. We camped in a tent behind a bent juniper tree in Big Sur, right next to the beach, drinking whiskey. She got drunk and told me that she liked me but that it would never be because she was sixteen when I was born.
She left me in the city while she went up to Napa for a weekend with her mother and her other sister, with whom she was still on good terms. That sister was a real-estate developer in Washington, D.C. They'd made some money together during the boom. C. disliked her mother, however. When the other sister had married, their mother had stood against it because he was a Mexican. C. returned to San Francisco complaining that the pair had dropped $300 dollars on a meal at one of Napa's toniest restaurants, dining beside the rich and famous, and she was weary of it all. Each evening she would down a bottle of wine, and I accused her of suffering ennui.
We went for dinner with her ex-boyfriend, a German technology columnist for the Economist website. He was in his forties. She had dumped him around the time I was in first grade because she felt that they had become "too much like friends." The three of us left his wife to worry at home. He and C. should have stayed together, I reckon.
I last saw C the other day at a cafe in Santa Barbara. I had been trying to contact her for months. One day in May she had dropped me off in her Prius, and I knew that that was that. She jetted off to France to sell her apartment in Paris and deal with some "tax issues." I became a traveling hobo. I called her from a gas station in Oklahoma once and caught her on her international Blackberry. I told her I was trying to work some Kerouac out of my system.
Months later she stopped responding to my emails. I finally called, and caught her on the slopes in Colorado. She was staying at her family's house in Snowmass. She ended the conversation by saying that she had to keep skiing in order to fully utilize her lift ticket.
The date went badly. We sat on barstools and ate a dry, overpriced meal of chicken and brown rice underneath cucumbers. She didn't talk much, would only make ambivalent grunts to my attempts at conversation. I told her I was in a rut and she was unimpressed. She was moving to southeast India to get married and have children, she said. Her fiance was another millionaire with residences in Morocco and Europe. I told her that marriage was a "patriarchal anachronism." When the bill came, it was $44, and I made the mistake of hesitating to contribute. She ended the date by saying she was late to an appointment. I gave her a hug and she disappeared to Asia.
I hope she's doing well.
Kinji ridiculed me for being with such an old woman. "What other services do you provide?" he asked, "do you rub her corns?" Thereafter, he referred to her as my "sugar momma."
It was an inaccurate characterization of my fling with C. Admittedly, it was one marked by a wide disparity in time-on-earth and financial holdings between its participants. C. bought me a lot of food, and once paid for a hotel room. She paid me $400 for a weeks' worth of brush clearing on her land, readying it for a fire-department inspection. It was a fair wage. I suffered poison oak all over my body for a month afterward. I never asked for donations. If I had, C. would have laughed at me. We were both in it for the sex.
The sex was excellent. I am like a prospective employer in my sexual tastes. Her real-estate investing prowess would arouse me. Once she told me that she had flipped a pair of condos in Manhattan's meatpacking district for a profit of several hundred thousand dollars. I immediately took her to bed.
Along with the sex there was an intellectual connection of medium intensity. C. was an architect with a second masters degree in permaculture design. We would discuss aesthetic preferences and our emotional problems with one another. She had gone through a series of unappreciative lovers, several pushy upper-class people she'd met during time she spent in Manhattan, Switzerland, Paris and Los Angeles. She had aborted their children.
C. was born into a family of waspy Texas Republicans with their tentacles deep in the energy industry. She told me of her obese brother-in-law who built coal power plants in China. He had five SUVs and a part-time jet. Twice he nearly died of a heart attack because he was so worried about stock prices. C. stopped speaking with her sister, his wife, after he stole a million dollars from their mother. Her nephews were vidiots with a keen sense of entitlement. The family's annual Christmas expenditures ran around $10 thousand.
She counted amongst her friends a medley of rich people with dramatic, miserable lives. Amonst them was an executive from Lionsgate Films. His wife would call C. and complain that she was suicidal, worn out by all her husband's infidelities. Their teenage daughter needed a heart transplant because of her anorexia.
Our fling lasted for three months, or about 30% of the amount of time it has been since I last experienced a legitimate orgasm. It occurred mostly in an A-frame house on her fifty-acre spread in Ojai, next door to screenwriter Caroline Thompson (of "Edward Scissorhands" credit). C. had stolen the parcel for around a million dollars. She planned to design and build a rammed-earth residential compound there. It would never to be. A gang of corporate attorneys outbid her for the neighboring parcel, offering far more than it was worth. She suspected that they would build something ghastly in her view, and she was thereafter totally soured to the prospect. Then the economy collapsed.
Once we went on a road trip to San Francisco. We camped in a tent behind a bent juniper tree in Big Sur, right next to the beach, drinking whiskey. She got drunk and told me that she liked me but that it would never be because she was sixteen when I was born.
She left me in the city while she went up to Napa for a weekend with her mother and her other sister, with whom she was still on good terms. That sister was a real-estate developer in Washington, D.C. They'd made some money together during the boom. C. disliked her mother, however. When the other sister had married, their mother had stood against it because he was a Mexican. C. returned to San Francisco complaining that the pair had dropped $300 dollars on a meal at one of Napa's toniest restaurants, dining beside the rich and famous, and she was weary of it all. Each evening she would down a bottle of wine, and I accused her of suffering ennui.
We went for dinner with her ex-boyfriend, a German technology columnist for the Economist website. He was in his forties. She had dumped him around the time I was in first grade because she felt that they had become "too much like friends." The three of us left his wife to worry at home. He and C. should have stayed together, I reckon.
I last saw C the other day at a cafe in Santa Barbara. I had been trying to contact her for months. One day in May she had dropped me off in her Prius, and I knew that that was that. She jetted off to France to sell her apartment in Paris and deal with some "tax issues." I became a traveling hobo. I called her from a gas station in Oklahoma once and caught her on her international Blackberry. I told her I was trying to work some Kerouac out of my system.
Months later she stopped responding to my emails. I finally called, and caught her on the slopes in Colorado. She was staying at her family's house in Snowmass. She ended the conversation by saying that she had to keep skiing in order to fully utilize her lift ticket.
The date went badly. We sat on barstools and ate a dry, overpriced meal of chicken and brown rice underneath cucumbers. She didn't talk much, would only make ambivalent grunts to my attempts at conversation. I told her I was in a rut and she was unimpressed. She was moving to southeast India to get married and have children, she said. Her fiance was another millionaire with residences in Morocco and Europe. I told her that marriage was a "patriarchal anachronism." When the bill came, it was $44, and I made the mistake of hesitating to contribute. She ended the date by saying she was late to an appointment. I gave her a hug and she disappeared to Asia.
I hope she's doing well.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Remote Control Duck
Wandering along the LA river, I almost invariably stumble upon a duck or two.
I talk to the ducks like a madman. They're the only ones who will listen anymore.
I read somewhere that scientists plugged electrodes into the brains of rats and were able to direct the rat's movements by firing the electrodes from remote control. The story made me very happy. I get a real kick out of scientists and their experiments, especially when the push the envelope of decency.
The story also made me think: what about a remote-control duck? I would like to have one. I would perform a series of basic flight maneuvers with my duck. See if it could do a barrel roll. Loop-de-loops. See if I could put my duck into a flat spin at 45,000 feet and then pull out of it. What is a duck's ceiling, anyway? What kind of g's can a duck pull? Maybe I could construct a head-up display around my duck's head, and have a 3-D flight helmet from which to experience my duck's maneuvers.
Furthermore, a duck is an ideal animal for land-sea operations, with its water-landing and diving capabilities. What kind of surface speed can a duck manage? To what depth can a duck dive?
Please inquire for further details of my grant proposal.
I talk to the ducks like a madman. They're the only ones who will listen anymore.
I read somewhere that scientists plugged electrodes into the brains of rats and were able to direct the rat's movements by firing the electrodes from remote control. The story made me very happy. I get a real kick out of scientists and their experiments, especially when the push the envelope of decency.
The story also made me think: what about a remote-control duck? I would like to have one. I would perform a series of basic flight maneuvers with my duck. See if it could do a barrel roll. Loop-de-loops. See if I could put my duck into a flat spin at 45,000 feet and then pull out of it. What is a duck's ceiling, anyway? What kind of g's can a duck pull? Maybe I could construct a head-up display around my duck's head, and have a 3-D flight helmet from which to experience my duck's maneuvers.
Furthermore, a duck is an ideal animal for land-sea operations, with its water-landing and diving capabilities. What kind of surface speed can a duck manage? To what depth can a duck dive?
Please inquire for further details of my grant proposal.
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Black Fart Cloud
I didn't have enough energy to walk up the stairs, so I just stood on the escalator, looking at my feet. My peripheral vision was cut off from everything except the stairs and the railing lamps as they slid past. It could have been a good cinematic shot.
I was stuck in a black fart cloud. I had spent all day drinking beer at a social gathering, and as the alcohol wore off my spirit sunk into a Marianas Trench.
Held at the home of one Lyn Goldfarb, of Lyn Goldfarb Productions, the gathering was for documentary filmmakers. Accompanying me was a Brazilian woman who I had met at a previous gathering for independent filmmakers. I'd brought twelve Rialto Lagers from Trader Joe's and drunken about five highly superior beers from the collective cooler. I'd eaten about fourteen thousand calories from the hors' d' erv table. Overall, I'd come out ahead. The only other thing of note that happened at the gathering was that made an off-putting remark towards an attractive woman, a nice Jewish girl from New York. I said, "You look pretty Jewish," and she ridiculed me, and then walked away. For my other interlocutors, I mostly zoned out after the pleasantries.
From the gathering, I'd riden the bus downtown (too drunk to ride the Kawasaki) in order to see a theatrical performance co-written by my aquaintence Sigrid Gilmer, a playwrite I met after finding a brilliant screenplay of hers in a Hollywood Kinkos. "It's a ritual sexual sacrifice of cute white boys," Sigrid had told me.
The cast of "State of the Black Woman" was composed entirely of black women, except one black man. The audience was almost all black women with a few who had brought their partners. The theatre was inside "the black box," a room whose every wall was painted black. I could hardly see anyone in there.
Throughout the performance, several audience members drank from flasks and shouted "That's right girl! You tell em girl! That's what I'm talking about!" and whatnot at the actresses. One boozehound's heckling was so persistant that she once brought the actress out of character.
Since the bus to my neighborhood stops running at 10pm, I was then stranded in the jungle miles from the comfort of my hovel.
I get stuck in various parts of Los Angeles on a regular basis. If I can make it to a subway station, I can make it to the Sunset/Vermont station, 2.5 miles of my shack, and then walk the rest of the way, which takes about an hour. If I walked resolutely in one direction, I would make it in about 45 minutes, but I usually become distracted by such things as storefronts and birds, and stand staring at them for long periods of time.
The walk begins by passing the eateries on north Vermont, where yuppies and hipsters are usually gathered eating midnight meals and drinking midnight cappucinos and smoking. I don't like seeing people out at night, because they are usually enjoying themselves, and I feel like a dark presence blowing by them in the night. They are often couples, cuddling.
The art supply store often catches my attention here, as does the Skylight Book store. Neither are ever open at this time, of course, so I just stand looking into their windows. At the latter, I read the same titles I have several times before.
I turn east on Franklin beyond the Pyschobabble coffee shop, where they sell bagels for $2.60 and where the tables are always full. I walk past the library and a number of stately houses, and across the Gothic-style Shakespeare bridge. The east end of the bridge, I reckon, marks about the half-way point in my walk. If not geographically the half-way point, it is at least psychologically the half-way point. It is almost totally dark here.
Walking, which I spend a lot of time doing, affords me the opportunity to think about my bleak future, a black trail stretching indefinitely towards a black horizon. The years ahead will be the same as the years behind. I had an epiphany regarding this about a year ago. "Everything will always be this way," I thought. Instantly I knew it was true. I was unable to speak to anyone for three days.
Booze stopped working years ago.
I was stuck in a black fart cloud. I had spent all day drinking beer at a social gathering, and as the alcohol wore off my spirit sunk into a Marianas Trench.
Held at the home of one Lyn Goldfarb, of Lyn Goldfarb Productions, the gathering was for documentary filmmakers. Accompanying me was a Brazilian woman who I had met at a previous gathering for independent filmmakers. I'd brought twelve Rialto Lagers from Trader Joe's and drunken about five highly superior beers from the collective cooler. I'd eaten about fourteen thousand calories from the hors' d' erv table. Overall, I'd come out ahead. The only other thing of note that happened at the gathering was that made an off-putting remark towards an attractive woman, a nice Jewish girl from New York. I said, "You look pretty Jewish," and she ridiculed me, and then walked away. For my other interlocutors, I mostly zoned out after the pleasantries.
From the gathering, I'd riden the bus downtown (too drunk to ride the Kawasaki) in order to see a theatrical performance co-written by my aquaintence Sigrid Gilmer, a playwrite I met after finding a brilliant screenplay of hers in a Hollywood Kinkos. "It's a ritual sexual sacrifice of cute white boys," Sigrid had told me.
The cast of "State of the Black Woman" was composed entirely of black women, except one black man. The audience was almost all black women with a few who had brought their partners. The theatre was inside "the black box," a room whose every wall was painted black. I could hardly see anyone in there.
Throughout the performance, several audience members drank from flasks and shouted "That's right girl! You tell em girl! That's what I'm talking about!" and whatnot at the actresses. One boozehound's heckling was so persistant that she once brought the actress out of character.
Since the bus to my neighborhood stops running at 10pm, I was then stranded in the jungle miles from the comfort of my hovel.
I get stuck in various parts of Los Angeles on a regular basis. If I can make it to a subway station, I can make it to the Sunset/Vermont station, 2.5 miles of my shack, and then walk the rest of the way, which takes about an hour. If I walked resolutely in one direction, I would make it in about 45 minutes, but I usually become distracted by such things as storefronts and birds, and stand staring at them for long periods of time.
The walk begins by passing the eateries on north Vermont, where yuppies and hipsters are usually gathered eating midnight meals and drinking midnight cappucinos and smoking. I don't like seeing people out at night, because they are usually enjoying themselves, and I feel like a dark presence blowing by them in the night. They are often couples, cuddling.
The art supply store often catches my attention here, as does the Skylight Book store. Neither are ever open at this time, of course, so I just stand looking into their windows. At the latter, I read the same titles I have several times before.
I turn east on Franklin beyond the Pyschobabble coffee shop, where they sell bagels for $2.60 and where the tables are always full. I walk past the library and a number of stately houses, and across the Gothic-style Shakespeare bridge. The east end of the bridge, I reckon, marks about the half-way point in my walk. If not geographically the half-way point, it is at least psychologically the half-way point. It is almost totally dark here.
Walking, which I spend a lot of time doing, affords me the opportunity to think about my bleak future, a black trail stretching indefinitely towards a black horizon. The years ahead will be the same as the years behind. I had an epiphany regarding this about a year ago. "Everything will always be this way," I thought. Instantly I knew it was true. I was unable to speak to anyone for three days.
Booze stopped working years ago.
Thursday, March 5, 2009
Dear Hongtower, Epistolary Work
Dear Hongtower,
Consider this the first installment of what shall become a long, convoluted epistolary novel. You, Hongtower, will serve as my interlocutor, since I lack living ones.
Today I spent an hour and a half outside the Los Angeles County Sherrif's Twin Towers Correctional Facility, for the purposes of pursuing a story for City Beat. Matt Fleischer had asked me to stand around out there, looking to make friends, go so far as to ask someone to a drink, and then write five hundred words about it.
First I met a gaggle of loked-out Mexicans with tattoos on their heads, none of whom were old enough to go to a bar. Then I met a tatted-up "south bay peckerwood" as he insisted I refer to him in whatever story he thought I was going to write about him. Apparently, "peckerwoods" are white veteran cons who are not skinheads or Nazis (the latter two are "ideologically different"). I said "Hi, I'm a newspaper reporter," and he said, "and I'm a motherfuckin convict" so I got the impression he wasn't yet rehabilitated. He kept producing a comb, which he'd use to comb his mustache. He also had a habit of throwing his shoulders over his head convulsively. He said he'd been in and out of every joint in California since 1978, when he was 12 or 13. He and this "south-side loke" who had been in Chino for six years for possessing "very large quantities of cocaine" then proceeded to blow a lot of smoke up each others asses about how hardassed they were back in the Big House. The Mexican loke started out by telling me that my questions were weak. "I can read all this shit in a book, dogg. You should be asking: did you ever stab anybody? Did you ever start a race riot? Were you PCed up? Were you active?" he said, "Constructive criticism, dogg. It'll make your story more compelling." He acted like he was on very large quantities of cocaine. I think his criticism was germane, though.
The rest of the day I spent in the ghetto, driving the Kawasaki around Lynwood Correctional Facility, looking for a bar to which I could bring a recently-released prostitute. This effort proved a failure, as Lynwood is composed entirely of industrial ghetto.
I retired to a coffee shop come nightfall, at which I have drilled out this screed.
Consider this the first installment of what shall become a long, convoluted epistolary novel. You, Hongtower, will serve as my interlocutor, since I lack living ones.
Today I spent an hour and a half outside the Los Angeles County Sherrif's Twin Towers Correctional Facility, for the purposes of pursuing a story for City Beat. Matt Fleischer had asked me to stand around out there, looking to make friends, go so far as to ask someone to a drink, and then write five hundred words about it.
First I met a gaggle of loked-out Mexicans with tattoos on their heads, none of whom were old enough to go to a bar. Then I met a tatted-up "south bay peckerwood" as he insisted I refer to him in whatever story he thought I was going to write about him. Apparently, "peckerwoods" are white veteran cons who are not skinheads or Nazis (the latter two are "ideologically different"). I said "Hi, I'm a newspaper reporter," and he said, "and I'm a motherfuckin convict" so I got the impression he wasn't yet rehabilitated. He kept producing a comb, which he'd use to comb his mustache. He also had a habit of throwing his shoulders over his head convulsively. He said he'd been in and out of every joint in California since 1978, when he was 12 or 13. He and this "south-side loke" who had been in Chino for six years for possessing "very large quantities of cocaine" then proceeded to blow a lot of smoke up each others asses about how hardassed they were back in the Big House. The Mexican loke started out by telling me that my questions were weak. "I can read all this shit in a book, dogg. You should be asking: did you ever stab anybody? Did you ever start a race riot? Were you PCed up? Were you active?" he said, "Constructive criticism, dogg. It'll make your story more compelling." He acted like he was on very large quantities of cocaine. I think his criticism was germane, though.
The rest of the day I spent in the ghetto, driving the Kawasaki around Lynwood Correctional Facility, looking for a bar to which I could bring a recently-released prostitute. This effort proved a failure, as Lynwood is composed entirely of industrial ghetto.
I retired to a coffee shop come nightfall, at which I have drilled out this screed.
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