Just a few nuggets of wonderfulness for you to chew on

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heh heh heh. it's been a year already?

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wow. sorry. I guess. poor little blog, so neglected... I am back. Really. If there is anyone out there that still gets a post feed for this thing well...hello again. Let's start at the beginning of the new beginning. I am still a mortician, that did not change. My out look on this profession has not changed much either, I think it is rife with corruption, misdirection and greed. I don't do that shit so it has little bearing on me and what I do so there is that I suppose. What has changed in my world of the dismal trade is that I don't care what others do. Doing this job as a zombie (which is another thing that I believe now, I think that if a zombie attack came on, undertakers would really be the only ones that could save the earth. remember that, we may be the only hope for all of humanity in that scenario) will only serve to mess up that individual. People have choices. They can choose to be free and open and truthful or they can choose to bury their heads in convention a...
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An old review of a night out listening to a guitar player

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" Netson's performance was fluid and comforting. His songs  felt worn but not worn out. Worn like an old preacher's bible or perfect pair of denim jeans.  Beholding the original front man of Boise's psychedelic underground play his guitar as a relaxed elder statesman is a gift and a testimonial to gratitude.  Watching the caustic gunslinger coax his instrument into direction is more of a conversation than it is an argument now, its genuine nature palpable and open to interpretation.  I didn't stay for much of the 'headlining' act. The contrary and dissonant beginnings of Michael Scheidt's set compared to Netson were perhaps a bit too distant. I enjoy Scheidt's work, but paired with the preamble, the recital came off as a bit contrived. Obviously that's an opinion best left off the menu because this author is necessarily biased. Watching the Yob front man undertake Netson's display of craft was that of understanding and great respect. Witness...
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some poetry

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the shadow of  a  large airplane cast upon  low green hills gave me pause today. none of us were asked if we wanted to be born.  ODE TO ANNOYANCE the exsanguinated child maybe surprised  by the last dulcet note  of Mary's little lamb apparent  peace by the delightful silence then interrupted  by the blade's clamor as it strikes the floor no longer white  as  snow                                                                                                                                       -  Barton Loyd Kline
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