quote of the month

One of the conclusions that I try to coax, lead, and/or nudge people towards is acceptance of the fact that the economy can't be fixed.

chris martenson

a couple years back when everything really started going to shit and the red and blue teams and their respective cheerleaders were casting hysterical blame back and forth at one another whilst simultaneously assuring us, the scared sheep, they they and they alone knew how to fix it, i looked around for a few voices of reason who could tell me what was really happening.

while i found several--peter schiff and gerald celente among them--chris martenson turned out to be the guy i was looking for.  he's not an ideologue; rather, he's a scientist, and taking his "crash course" was not only among the most productive and eye-opening afternoons i've ever spent, it's also one of the reasons i drink [try it--it's free, it's broken down into easy, doable doses, and i promise once you're done, you won't ever look at the world the same way again].

since then, i've come to depend on his analysis--he strips away all the bullshit like no one else.  a case in point would be the recent post from which the above quote was taken.  read it here--it won't take long, and in a few paragraphs, and after looking at a couple simple charts, you'll understand for yourself what the paul krugmans of the world simply refuse to see, let alone acknowledge.

it really just comes down to math, folks--it's that simple.  the world as we know it is about to change forever, and the sooner you accept that fact, the more time you'll have to prepare for what's coming.

cheerfully submitted,

mkf

guttermorality blogpost #592, in which mkf poses a question

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may i first just say, god save us all from outcast high-school dweebs who obtain power later in life.

everybody knows at least one of these monsters--the fat bitch at work who makes her underlings' lives miserable, or the officious prick on the condo board who writes you a ticket if he catches you with your dog off the leash or your garage door up for more than five minutes, for instance.

and god knows you can't turn on the radio these days without running into pathetic, pencil-dicked overcompensators like rush limbaugh, howard stern or michael savage (who was at least smart enough to change his name from weiner, anyway).

but the really ambitious former dweeb-outcasts?  they're the ones who find their true calling in the arena of politics.

congress is replete with these guys, on both sides of the aisle, but there comes to mind no more sterling example of the breed than that flaming, throbbing asshole, anthony weiner.

here you have a guy who finally, after a lifetime of having sand kicked in his face by the jocks while the pretty girls laughed, had his shot at the brass ring of power.

did it go to his head?  all i had to do was watch a clip like this (and god knows that's only one of many) to have my answer to that question long ago.  all this shit that's come out lately?  merely confirmation of what i already knew.

but to the rest of you for whom this past week's developments were a revelation--and whether he resigns or not [and i fully expect him to brazen it out, because democrats caught in shit like this usually do]--i pose the following question:

in this, the darkest hour our country has ever faced, do we really want or need small men of the caliber of anthony weiner scolding us, wagging their fingers in our faces and making the laws the rest of us have to live by?

really?

postcards from the edge (part 2)

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the 382 miles between los angeles and san francisco can be driven any number of ways, but what it basically boils down to is either getting there quick, or taking the scenic route.

that latter road less traveled by--the narrow, meandering pacific coast highway--is the one i've wanted to take for 20 years, and since i finally had the chance, i decided to go for it.

the plan, such as it was

       mkf doesn't really plan things, as will soon become clear

was to take the 5 up, spend a few days partying, reminiscing and sightseeing, and then make my leisurely way home down the coast, stopping at notable points along the way.

the trip up was a breeze--i waited until saturday so as to avoid the holiday herd and averaged eighty-five the whole way, with hardly a trooper in sight [thanks, california budget crisis].

trip home goes different--i get off to a late start, cross the san rafael bridge from the east bay into marin, and then south across the golden gate into the city [two bridges, eleven dollars in tolls--thanks again, california budget crisis], fuck around there a little too long, and then finally head south.

in a way, it works out--by the time i stop somewhere south of santa cruz for my first photo op of the day [all of these photos embiggen gorgeously, btw], the light is perfect:

water looks so inviting, doesn't it?  shame it's, like, 50 degrees

as i travel further south, the hills begin to rise

hell, even the slums are picturesque

oh, and in case your overloaded senses need a visual break from the ridiculously-beautiful coastline?  no problem--big sur's right across the street:

it's at some point south of monterey--as the afternoon is waning and about the time i stopped and took the following picture--that something i had only been peripherally aware of for the last hour or so crystallizes in my mind; namely, that for some reason i've got the whole pacific coast highway pretty much to myself.

the fact of this makes me uneasy in a way i can't put my finger on.  maybe i shoulda paid more attention to all those road signs back there indicating some sort of closure up ahead.  but what the hell--there's always a detour, right?

whatever--i'd figure it out later. meantime, there's insanely magnificent shit like this to stop and gawk at [and if you're still wondering which pic you should click on, this would be it]:

as the afternoon fades to twilight and the fog rolls in, the setting sun casts a maxfield parrish glow across the landscape

and i come across my final warning:  this really harsh road sign informing me and all the other clueless idiots like me who ignored all the prior warnings that, thanks to some buzzkill mudslide last year, there's only 22 more miles of PCH before the party ends, and i'd better quickly get ready to make other arrangements--no mention of a detour anywhere.

fuck--no wonder there's nobody else on the road.  my heart sinks at the thought of having to turn around and drive my dumb ass all the way back to fuckin' monterey.

to my relief, i see immediately beyond the above harsh road sign another sign informing me of the town of lucia up ahead--first town i'd come across in many miles.  surely someone there could point me to a detour, right?

the town of lucia turns out to be a combination restaurant/general store on the side of the road whose employees have seen more than their share of people like me.  i walk in the door and before i can even get the words out, the girl behind the counter rolls her eyes, whips out a xerox'd map and a highlighter and says, "look--you can either do it the easy way and turn around and go back the way you came; or if you're brave, you can drive four miles south and take the nacimiento over the mountains to the 101."

"the nacimiento" of which she speaks turns out, i'd find out later, to be the nacimiento-fergusson road, a legendarily steep, narrow, twisting, one-lane mountain pass featuring numerous treacherous hairpin switchbacks and noted not only for its sheer drop-offs at every turn but also its complete absence of guardrails of any kind. 

here's a picture i found of the nacimiento on a good day:

"and should you survive the nacimiento," she continues, "it dumps you into this army base you have to cross to get to the 101, and those bastards'll ticket you if they catch you doing 26 in a 25--and since it's federal, you'll pay $100 for every mile over the speed limit.  whole thing'll take you at least two hours if you're lucky.  you game?"

here's the nacimiento on a bad day:

 

as i turn off the PCH in the gathering gloom with the fog rolling in, i pause before beginning my climb to snap this final picture, and reflect on the fact that if i go over the edge up there somewhere, there's no cell phone coverage in this mountain wilderness, and nobody to even know to look for me there.  would i make it?  should i turn back?

i'll spare you the suspense--bitch back in hooterville didn't realize she was throwing down the gauntlet to the greatest risk-taking scofflaw of all time.  federal, my ass--i was over that motherfucker, through the army base and cruising down the 101 in less than an hour.

problem was, by the time the whole thing was over, it had been a long day and i was exhausted.  fuck san simeon and all the rest of that scenic shit i had planned for the next day--i needed a drink.

so i got myself an in-n-out burger and went home.

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a word about the transportation:

it wasn't a car i was buying, it was a soulless, economical appliance--that's what i, the car guy, told myself a year ago.

that was before i knew this "appliance" could (a) smoothly fly me up the interstate in great comfort at autobahn speeds with power to spare, (b) transport four full-size men and their gear all over san francisco with plenty of elbow room and nobody bitching; (c) stick like glue at insane speeds not only down lombard street and through the serpentine curves of the pacific coast highway but up the nacimiento-fergusson road as well; and (d) do it all averaging 43 mpg.

i feel fairly safe in saying there is no other car in the world that could make all those claims.  it took me a year, but i'm finally happy to say

i love you, baby.

postcards from the edge (part 1)

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three things of which i was reminded over the course of this past weekend's reunion of old friends:

(1) if you haul ass down lombard street fast-and-screechy enough, you earn a round of applause from the inevitable herd of camera-clicking japanese tourists at the bottom;

(2) whether from up close, far away or glimpsed unexpectedly over the rooftops, that goddam bridge is still among the most visually thrilling structures on earth;

(3) when compared to the true champions of the sport, my lame incipient ass is, for better or worse, still merely skittering along the bunny slopes of alcoholism.

i wish i could elaborate on that last point, but unfortunately i've managed to fall into that ego trap where all anonymous confessional bloggers end up sooner or later: my old friends are now my readers.

i'll try to make the trip home more interesting.

ok, there was that one dance track

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even i had to admit the nubby orange case was cool--and probably the only reason i allowed him to seduce me into listening to anything by the pet shop boys, much less their dance music.

but noblesavage turned out to be right on that long-ago night in 1993:  their version of go west was--and still is--really great.





[for those who don't understand the context of this post: it's because you're not reading the comments of previous posts.

for those who don't understand why the communist armies of the world are prancing about with gay abandon to the pet shop boys in the above video:  eat me--it was the best copy i could find. ]

guttermorality blogpost #588, in which mkf tries to redeem himself for guttermorality blogpost #587

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[i.e., another blast from the past that's been on high rotation lately]

so the other night eric clapton's cocaine comes up on shuffle as it does from time to time, and at some point after i settle in to enjoy its well-worn but eternally-cool groove--but before i allow its seductive strains to completely lull me back to its place and time--i suddenly remember it's really not eric clapton's cocaine at all.

it's actually j.j. cale's cocaine [just like it was j.j. cale's after midnight, but who's counting--right, eric?].

which got me thinking about j.j. cale, and about that day back in 1971 when my young, impressionable 14-year-old ass first heard the song which is the subject of this post and thus became aware of the existence of this guy who made music that was utterly unlike anything else on the radio at that time.

like pretty much everything else he's written, crazy mama has been covered by pretty much everybody under the sun--but unlike all the others, it's his own version of this one that's stood the test of time.

seriously, if you know a cooler song than this, please lemme know.

guttermorality blogpost #587, in which mkf reconnects with his inner teenybopper

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it's no deep, dark secret to regular readers of this blog that i compose my deepest, darkest posts to (a) liberal amounts of vodka, and (b) more often than not, a single bouncy pop song from my misspent youth upon which i fixate and set to "repeat" when it comes up on shuffle at the optimal moment in that particular night's alcoholic cycle.


and while the booze is integral to the creative process, the song selection is probably equally if not more so.  because to me, these songs aren't just songs, they're little aural drug pushes that last precisely as long as the music does--i.e., little two-and-a-half minute endorphin-loaded packages of happiness that, in combination with the booze, hold off the darkness long enough for me to actually write something.


songs such as the one that's the subject of this post, for instance.

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yeah, she's from way back in the day and her flippy hairdo was tragically wrong for her face, but lesley gore was the britney spears of her day--and even though her signature song never did much for me, this all-but-forgotten follow-up ranks, imho, among the best pop records ever made.

she was all of 18, her voice was sublime, her song selection shrewd, and the impeccable, multi-layered production was, believe it or not, quincy jones at his early best.  and if all that's not enough, it turns out that despite all her protestations of boy trouble to the contrary, she was One Of Our People all along--who the fuck knew?

and, half a century later, maybe when lady gaga manages to come up with something even half as hooky as maybe i know, then maybe i'll start to pay attention to her scrawny, desperately-theatrical ass.

unless and until that happens, i'll stay down here in the dinosaur pit, pour myself another one and keep lil' lesley on repeat, thank you very much.