Archive for October, 2008

My heart’s the bitter buffalo

Posted in Blog with tags , , , on October 31, 2008 by trevorgregg

Music – Pink Floyd – Fearless

A dangerous week lies before us.  The GOP has their back up against a wall, and a fetid stink of desperation is in the air.  Every hour finds the bastards more frenzied than the last, clawing at their hair and eyes on cable news.  McCain’s scorched-earth campaign tactics have seemingly backfired, with Palin already talking about her bid in 2012 and with Obama openly mocking the once-powerful sycophants at Fox News.

But we are not out of the woods yet.

Backed into a corner as they are, the jackal-fucking psycho-Christian establishment assholes become all the more dangerous.  Expect them to ramp up the usual regimen of voter fraud, intimidation, disenfranchisement and ballot-rigging to reach new levels.  Expect plotting and conspiracy and villainy that would make Stalin blush.

In this day and age, it is not unreasonable to worry about losing this election at gunpoint.

And if we do win, if the combined force of a disgusted populace and a terribly executed campaign actually results in our nation making the right choice for once in its fucking existence, do not expect jubilation and dancing in the streets.

These evil shits will not give up the throne quietly.  Prepare for a decade of bitter and destructive divisiveness, of polarization, of renewed fanaticism and zealotry.  If we win on the fourth, the Republican war of attrition starts on the fifth.

How Obama will weather the storm remains to be seen.  Hopefully he hasn’t underestimated the size and potency of the big bag of shit Bush & Co have left sitting on the floor of the Oval Office.

Five more days.


While we’re on the topic of politics, fuck local elections.  Every supervisor in my district has called me thirty fucking times in the last ten days, and left five thousand fliers in my mailbox, and rung my doorbell way too early.

And I still have no clue who to vote for; they’re all so vile and pathetic and greedy it makes my stomach turn.  San Francisco’s twisted, weird-ass form of semi-democratic feudalism attracts the lowest rank of political shitbird.  It’s grueling to try and pick the lesser of such bottom-rung evils, to try and figure out which petty tyrant I want to rule the little Nob Hill barony I call home.  Fuck’em all.

Also, I’m gonna say it since nobody else will:  Picking between Cindy Sheehan and Nancy Pelosi is like picking between pancreatic cancer and death by firing squad.  I’m gonna write-in a vote for Abraham Lincoln’s disinterred corpse and be done with it.


A couple of days ago I had a party at my house.  It was a “Ted Stevens Found Guilty” party, and nobody showed up but me and a leftover bottle of E&J brandy, but we made the best of it and had a good time anyway.

It was bitter-sweet in a way, watching Ted “A Series of Tubes” Stevens fall from grace.  He was such a freakish little troll of a man, a man so hopelessly disconnected from reality and the modern world that he seemed almost mythical, almost illusory.  They don’t make’em like you any more, Stevens.   You are one unique fucking snowflake and thank god you’ve been deposed.

I won’t say I’ll miss you, but I will look back on your reign of whacky-ass crotchety terror fondly every time I hear some clueless idiot try to explain the internet to some other clueless idiot.

So long, nubcake.


So Brian is getting married shortly, and had his bachelor party.

I was not invited, as I am persona-non-grata in the Brian household.  A couple years ago at Chris’s wedding, half-drunk and asphyxiating in my cheap suit, I convinced Brian’s girlfriend (now fiancee) that the plural of “fish” is “foshe”.  As in “I caught one fish.  I caught many foshe.”  She subsequently called her father, the underpaid civil servant up in Redding who works sixty hours a week to pay for his daughter’s college education, and asked him to verify that this was true.

He told her that it was not, and no doubt put his head in his hands and sighed in disgust.


Regardless, I understandably didn’t make the wedding list.

However, I did get a completely incomprehensible series of messages and voicemails from the folks that did attend, all eager to tell me the story of Paul and the Lactating Stripper.

Those of you who don’t know Paul, a guy almost obscenely good-natured and awkward, can’t full understand the hilarity of this quasi-story.

Paul freezes up like a deer in the headlights within thirty yards of an attractive woman, and a strip club renders him practically catatonic.  He has to get suicidally drunk just to make it in the door.

I can just imagine him stumbling in, drunk as a bastard, hands shaking like Michael J. Fox in an snowstorm.

Peter, the sick fucker, shoves him bodily into the crowd near the stage.  Good friend that he is, he immediately makes Paul a hundred times more uncomfortable by buying him a lapdance from the hottest woman in the place.

Taking Paul to a stripclub is already on par with taking a penniless Haitian refugee to Safeway, in terms of cruelty, and buying him a lapdance crosses the line between Mean and Diabolical.

What are friends for, though, if not finding your weaknesses and tearing you limb from limb with them?

The girl, when she finishes entertaining a frigid, terrified, white-knuckled Paul, leans over and whispers something in Brian’s ear.  He slips her a fifty and she leads wild-eyed, clench-jawed Paul back in to some secret room behind velvet curtains.

This is where things get confusing, where stories diverge.

Paul, whose brittle psyche was shattered irreparably by whatever it was he witnessed in those dark corridors, can recall nothing.  He remembers entering the club, and waking up two days later on his mom’s couch wrapped in a child’s blanket and crying, hysterical.  Nothing in between.

What unholy deeds was poor Paul forced to witness?

I will not relate here the theories and half-memories the others have put forth.  Common decency and several federal statutes prevent me from recounting the scenario I’ve figured out by combining eye-witness testimony, text messages, and credit card bills.

I will say that there was breast milk involved.  And lighter fluid.

And a caged animal.

And probably a torque wrench.

The truth of it may never be fully known, short of deep hypnosis and years of therapy on Paul’s part.

But not knowing allows us to make stuff up, and to swear to its veracity publicly, which is even more fun.

Some things can’t be unseen, Paul.

Good luck in therapy.


I must be getting older, I’m starting to eat my vegetables

Posted in Blog with tags , , , on October 21, 2008 by trevorgregg

Music – Crowded House – Don’t Dream It’s Over

Winter descends on San Francisco with the grace and subtlety of a car accident.  Friday it was 85 degrees and beautiful.  This morning, Tuesday, my room was 48 degrees and I could see my breath as I lay shivering in bed.  I sat wrapped in a sleeping bag and my wool coat and cursed the shitbag flea-bitten pioneers that decided this stupid peninsula was a good place to build a town.  Our predecessors, savage native peoples who killed each other with rocks and who knew as much about agriculture as Jessica Simpson does about string theory, even they knew better than to live here.

Because the weather fucking sucks.

That’s the problem with our vaunted Indian Summer; April, June, July and August blow, then September gets a little warmer, then just when October’s sunshine starts to take hold, when you finally get the courage to leave the house without a parka and longjohns, WHAM, the fucker turns on you like an abused bear in some low-rent circus, mauling you brutally.  Other cities have this tasteful, gradual shift of seasons, with the turning of the leaves and the migrating of birds and all that Hallmark shit.

Not here.  Here winter waits for you like a rapist in a parking garage. It waits patiently until you finally find that pair of flipflops you thought you’d never need again, until you finally decide this isn’t such a terrible place to live after all, then it sneaks up behind you and hits you in the knees with an aluminum bat.  SURPRISE!

And now it’s upon us like locusts on a cornfield and I hate this shit city and my frigid meatlocker of an apartment and everything that walks or talks or breathes with a renewed vigor.


At least the Red Sox lost.


These are troubled times.  Walk the streets and you can see it on the faces of everyone around you, a constant tension. A vertigo.

It’s as if we’re hurtling through the dark towards some invisible precipice.  We have no idea what awaits us, we simply feel the wind on our faces as we fly blindly towards the edge.

The economy is a smoking ruin, and the prospect of handing our besieged nation over to a half-dead warhawk and goddamn Caribou Barbie has everyone near panic.

I don’t care how valiantly John McCain served our fledgling nation during the War Between the States or whatever, he’s old and evil and needs to be put the fuck out to pasture.

Molly stalks our apartment in a state of near frenzy, her work on the hopeless and doomed No on 8 campaign driving her to depression and madness.  All the progressive thinking, rationality, and human fucking decency in the world can’t stand against the combined economic might of the Republican party, the Mormon Church, and Rush Limbaugh.  You can’t fight against the Axis of Ignorance and hope to come out on top; they’re too well-funded, too numerous.  They’re too powerful in today’s Amurrica, and we’ll all pay for it.

My friends call me a pessimist.  They forget where we live.  They forget that our city and its citizenry exist in a little bubble of hope and illusion, completely removed and uncomprehending of the magnitude of the ignorance and fuckery that exists beyond our borders.

Of course Obama will win, they say.  Of course Prop 8 and 4 will fail; they’re so obviously despicable and wrong.


Look east, my friends.  Over those distant hills is a whole endless continent of stupid and fanatical fuckwits, of people who love Jesus and guns and bigotry, who live petty idiot lives filled with hate and fear.  The greedy and opportunistic can run them with ease, steering their idiot course like a fucking sheepdog.  And nipping at their stupid fucking hooves, they’ll lead them straight to the voting booth.

Never underestimate the power of retards and their manipulators.

No, I am no pessimist.  I am a realist.

And the distinction between the two, if there ever was one, no longer exists.

Hearts and thoughts they fade, fade away

Posted in Blog with tags , , on October 15, 2008 by trevorgregg

Music – Olodum – Traduzida

Friday night.

“What do you want?”
“Are you busy?”
“Doing what?”
“… I’m god-bombing Paul.”
“I had a rough day at work and my therapist says I should find a constructive outlet for my frustrations.”
“Nice.” says Peter.  “He’s gonna be fucking pissed.”
“I know.”


The concept of the god-bomb was developed by a couple of us during spring break one year after we spent three days signing up our asshole neighbor Sam for every mailing list, CD and DVD club, and newsletter we could find.

The fucker has stumbled into our living room one Wednesday night high on hashish, puked on Quint’s door, and then peed in our fireplace.  He also used to listen to his shitty, shitty techno music loud at odd hours.

Revenge was more than warranted.  We got on the internet and took direct action.

By the end of April, the bastard was receiving ten to twenty pounds of junkmail a day.  He racked up several hundred dollars in bills for unreturned Columbia CD club packages.  He got everything from Walmart coupons to third-world child sponsorship forms to underground white power bulletins written by toothless rifle-toting hillbillies in West Virginia.  His living room, where the endless flyers and papers lay scattered on every surface, was a complete disaster.  It looked like somebody dynamited a Kinko’s.

After a couple of months of watching Sam clean off his porch with a snowshovel and a rake, we started feeling guilty about the acres of virgin rainforest being sacrificed for our amusement.  Our stooped and bitter mailman Walter, already an unpleasant motherfucker, got a wild, homicidal look in his eyes every time he’d see us on the street.  He’d curse us in some unintelligible Eastern European tongue, waving his yellowed, bony fingers in our faces.  Poor guy looked like a sherpa carrying an entire expedition’s worth of gear on his bent back, praying every moment that his employer would fall off some ice cliff so he could throw down this useless burden he’s been forced to bear.

One day while we sat on our porch watching Sam throw stacks of hardware catalogs and yellow pages and political propaganda into his recycling bin, two aging Jehovah’s witnesses ambled up his walkway and starting hassling him.  Sam, too polite or confused to tell them to fuck off outright, nodded and smiled half-heartedly through thirty minutes of propaganda and Watchtower reading.  Finally the Witnesses left and Sam hollered to us over the fence, “Man those fuckers are even more annoying than the junk mail.”

Our eyes went wide.  “THEY SURE ARE.” I shouted, and we ran inside and got to work.

Three days later, Sam was visited by Mormon missionaries, a Catholic priest, two Spanish-speaking Pentecostal zealots from King City, ANOTHER pair of Jehovah’s Witnesses, and a creepy lady that looked like Julia Roberts if she’d been hit in the face with a shovel and force-fed methamphetamine for a few months who claimed to be a Scientologist.  Sam had entered his name and address on their websites and then invited them all to come to his house to preach to him about their various creeds and beliefs.  Sam had no memory of this, but he chalked that up to his being drunk, high, and stupid for most of his waking hours rather than attributing it (rightly) to us, sitting in our lawn chairs laughing our asses off at his expense.

I had no idea how tenacious the missionaries would be, either.  I figured we’d get one or two days of fun out of it, but no, the jesus freaks exceeded my every expectation.  They called daily. They dropped by once a week for MONTHS.  The Mormons especially would not quit; they would stake out his house and catch him coming home from work every few days.  Sam began leaving his house by the rear window.  He unplugged his phone and put up fake Condemned notices on his door.  He bought a Rottweiller and tied it up out front.  Nothing seemed to help, though.  They showed up without fail.

Last I heard, he was forced to move to Paso Robles and change his name to Juan Carlos Fitzgerald Von Sheffield or some shit.

Thus was the god-bomb created and witnessed, and behold, it was good.

And now I’ve used it on Paul, cruelly and without provocation.  On a Friday, no less.

Lord forgive me.


If you should die before me, ask if you can bring a friend.

Posted in Blog with tags , , , on October 2, 2008 by trevorgregg

Music – Mance Lipscomb – Going Down Slow

Thirty-three days until the election and ours is a nation in chaos.  We watch the news with an unhealthy compulsiveness, listening to the politicians and powerbrokers hiss and bray and lie.  There’s nothing to do but sift through their endless bullshit, trying in vain to find some glinting nugget of truth.  Alas they know as little as the rest of us, and are so desperately scrambling to save their own pathetic asses that they barely have time to go through the motions of governance.  We may as well turn to auguries and astrology for guidance, as they’re stalwart and reliable sources of information compared to the damn Treasury department.

The panic is upon us, and there is fighting in the streets.

Pelosi gave a speech this week designed to calm her flock and, in turn, their constituents, but her terror and paranoia were so poorly veiled that by the end of it, the reps were tearing at their hair and rolling in the aisles like madmen in some Victorian asylum.  She looked like fucking Keith Richards in a four-dollar Halloween wig, and her quavering voice and shifty eyes gave comfort to none.

I came in very late Saturday night to find Molly sitting at the kitchen table poring over a thick voter’s packet that came in the mail.  She’d built up a little fortress of empty coffee cups and pads of legal paper around her, and was wrapped in some freaky purple sarape thing.  All the lights in the house were on.


“We’re beyond all that now, Molly.” I said, pulling up a chair.  “You need to start thinking about serious measures, about fucking stockpiling canned food and ammunition.  Do you own a gun?”

“NO. We can’t be so close to the end. There’s too much at stake.”

“We are.  Believe it.  Our downward momentum is such that no matter who gets elected, we’re fucked. We could invent a time machine and re-elect Abraham Lincoln with Jesus Christ as VP and Princess Diana as Secretary of State and we’d still be fucked.  We have too much inertia to stop the slide now.  It’s pure physics.  The next president is just going to be one more bug on the fucking Great American windshield.”

She sighed and put her head on the table.

I sat a moment and ate some chips, then went in the bathroom and puked up the half case of Bud Light I drank at Claire’s birthday party.

It was one of those nights.


Friday we stayed out late eating Indian food and talking about Academy business.  It feels satisfying to apply myself, to work on something tangible with immediate and apparent results.  The price of it, the financial struggle and the endless phonecalls and shit, I gladly pay.  It’s certainly more rewarding than the hours I spend shepherding retards and explaining the mysteries of technology to the old and mentally infirm.  I am a special ed teacher who gets no summer vacation.

Saturday there was a bateria performance and open roda in rememberance of Mestre Carlos.  He’s been dead two years now, which is strange to say, almost unreal.

The bateria was so incredibly loud, a two hour non-stop thunderclap.  It was deafening even in the hall, and when I stepped into the room with the drummers I could feel my brain start to bleed.  Fifty drummers and a hundred dancers, pounding and twisting away in ecstasy.  It was a powerful sight, so many gathered years later in Carlos’ memory.

And my god, the roar.

More than just hearing it, you could feel every stomp of the dancers in your chest, every beat in your bones.  It awakens a primitive thing inside you, a concussive sound like that.  The primordial subhuman that lurks quietly just beneath the surface knows well the sound of those drums.  He’s gone to war a thousand times to that sound, danced out a thousand prayers for rain or sun or crops or simple release to that beat.  It’s an eerie, rare thing, hard to understand and harder still to describe.

Whatever it is, it was alive and out of the cage in us all on Saturday.  The roda was large and aggressive, the force of the drums having beaten every last drop of fear or exhaustion or self-consciousness out of us all.

I remember trading martelos with a big guy from New York named Macarrão and feeling the blood begin to leak through the bandage on my foot.  I remember not caring or even feeling the pain, drunk as I was on the force of it all.

A fitting tribute to our old Mestre.


Four days later and my ears are still ringing.  My limp is back, but hopefully not for long.

That’s the way it goes.  The passion recedes and you’re left with your wounds and your trifling concerns, your political fixation and your insurance forms and your fucking grocery list.


The bailout hasn’t passed yet, thank fucking christ.

Not out of any altruism or foresight of course.  It’s stalled by the same petty infighting, greed and deceit that got us here, but when it comes to benevolent actions by our government one can’t look a gift horse in the mouth.

It’s going to pass, of course. In some form.  It can’t not pass.  Because not passing the bill would do the unthinkable, which is make the rich sleep in the shit-fouled bed they made.  War, poverty, plagues or riots, almost nothing stands in the way of McCain and Obama taking pot-shots at each other, but the second the Wealthy Elite are threatened, they’re best fucking friends just trying to do what’s right for America.  If there’s anything that Democratic and Republican politicians can agree on, it’s that we Must Protect The Rich.  That photo circulating of Bush and Obama and McCain all standing together, presenting a united front to face the Financial Crisis is like some sick joke, something the terrorists photoshopped together in their caves to give me the Fear.

At last it has come to this.  All pretense of fairness and justice has been abandoned, dumped in the gutter with the used condoms and the dogshit and the non-biodegradable Pete’s Coffee cups.  The powers that be have become so accustomed to our complacency and passivity that they don’t even bother with subterfuge when it comes to fucking the citizenry.  Why wait for cover of darkness when they can screw us in the glaring light of day without consequence?

Why not just come out and say “Hey, our totally fucking stupid economic policy of the last decade has failed as epically and predictably as we hoped.  So, America, please give us a 700 billion dollars so we don’t have to sell our vacation homes or send our kids to public schools where they might be exposed to drugs or minorities.”

We can’t come up with money for math books or veteran’s prozac or state parks, but as soon as these cocksuckers fall into the cesspit of shit and disaster they’ve been digging for the last ten years, we’ve got seven hundred billion dollars to spare?

Fuck off.

That’s seven hundred billion dollars of my money, and I do NOT want it spent on unrecoverable real estate investments just so John Q. Wallstreet won’t have to melt down his platinum hummer to pay off his mistress’s credit card bills.  Go fucking die.  I would honestly rather throw seven hundred billion dollars away than give it to these evil twats.  Just pile it up in a big green mountain and set fire to it while we dance around it, shrieking and rabid and glorying in our wasteful revenge.

But I am one man whose voice counts for nought, so they’ll pass the bailout in some form and fuck us all in the most shameless and disgusting display of corruption in our nation’s history.


Update:  I just read on SFGate that both McCain and Obama approved the latest bailout plan.  One’s evil and one’s spineless. I give up. I’m voting for Nader.

“But Trevor, I don’t know anynthing about the bailout!  They never have articles about it on and I can’t listen to NPR this week because it’s a pledge drive week and I hate that shit.”

Well here I come to bail you out: Important shit about the bailout. Some of these links are even videos for you lazy fucks who don’t read.  I know most people our age don’t know thing one about the crisis because it’s seriously insanely boring, but if you’re gonna get stabbed in the back you might as well know how long the knife is.

Best thing to come out of Ohio since Ocho Cinco:

A whole mess of crap, some of it outdated, all of it good:

Hilarious and depressing.  GYWO owns me:

And this one’s really good and kind of makes me want to die:

I need to stop writing and reading about politics, because now it’s two AM on a Thursday and all I want to do is go burn down a WaMu and take a shit on the Senate floor.

What can I do but drink heavily, vote, and cry myself to sleep watching CSPAN?


At least during the first Great Depression the banking elite had the good taste to commit suicide in droves.  You modern financiers should really learn to respect traditions like that.

If you fuckers had half the grace and tact of your predecessors, the sidewalks of the financial district would look like somebody airdropped a hundred tons of ground beef wrapped in Brooks Brothers suits.

Now I’m gonna go drink some whiskey and eagerly fantasize The Revolution.