By Johnny Transistor on Thu, Sep 10, 2009 4:35 pm
Hey man, I'm puking sick of unoriginal pseudo-musicians who push out popular rhetoric like disbarred lawyers turned politicians on the campaign trail to Hell. So sick in fact that in July I dressed like a life insurance salesman, garbing myself in a fake polyester suit, a pit stained white shirt and shitty tie just so I could get in to hear the monotone variety of 50 speeches at the annual dinner for "State Insurance Agent of the Year". Why I couldn't wait 30 days for the CD to come out isn't beyond me. Have you listened to the radio lately?
A few days ago, I was being driven around LA by the Original Real Estate Agent From Hell, listening to his hyper non-stop caffeinated drivel for 51/2 hours straight. I tried to jump out of his car as he cruised the 405 at 85 mph but he had his doors on safety lock. Besides, he carted a fucken prize fighter on a short leash around with him everywhere. I finally managed to escape his bullshit by biting his goddamned right pinky off and feeding it to Turd, his pit bull. That distraction gave me just enough time to get control of the driver's side central locking system, unlock the doors and bolt before the dog knew what was up. So what we were doing 15 mph, I landed right in front of the Whisky a GoGo and knew Turd didn't have the raisins to follow me to the pavement. The landing felt like Mike Tyson had just kicked the shit out of me. Fuck yeah, but I landed at The Whisky in time for the next show. I was cut to so much rat shit that security pretended I wasn't in front of them as I walked in, the good thing being, my $30 jeans looked like a $500 pair, designed by none other than Ronald the Administrator. After splashing cold water on my face and arms in the can to clean the blood off, I ordered 2 beers, poured them down my throat then sat down as Twenty 7 was finishing their sound check. It must have been my lucky day, free $500 jeans and a front row seat to witness Twenty 7 unleash.
Twenty 7 sound like The Police on steroids. Everything about them is, well, simply better than Sting and the boys. The band is the magic of movement front man bassist/vocalist Okan Sarli, amazing drummer under an afro siege Erez Ginat, guitarist/vocalist Alper Cakir who sheds the light with absolute vocalist Audrey Liana Bemal. Their music is nothing short of phenomenal, powerful enough to accompany their commanding stage presence and tight enough to unleash Hell when they want to. And they do. These guys drive an onslaught of sound that they whip around then snap into the audience only to bring it back for electro-shock therapy before driving it out again, but this time drenching their audience in the intense sound of tsunami intention. Having Twenty 7 play a club is like hiring an artistic tsunami to paint the inside of your house, nothing gets broken but everything inside gets slammed with obedient thunder.
Without a good riff what do you have? The sound of a spider skating down a window. Interesting for a second but as boring as listening to 25 hamburgers sizzling in unison on a greasy spoon's grill. So who can? Okan. Yeah, Okan can and does...........deliver riff after riff. He moves with obscure fluid grace while eloquently beating the living shit out of his bass until powerful riffs fall off his fingers. The pair of them have to be close friends. Erez's heavy mortar back beats clear the way of anyone or anything in their path, his rapid fire finishing the job. When the coast is clear Okan owns the microphone and Audrey the voice of reason. Erez and Okan, well, are just plain relentless as Alper climbs the edge of the wall delivering the lightning the thunder so craves. Twenty 7 is ONE band, 4 artistic musicians who come together to create intensely unique, melodic music with a brain. Original describes the band but doesn't do them justice. How do you describe the hip, riff driven and thundering back beat driven music of 4 uniquely creative individuals? Twenty 7
Johnny Transistor,
September 9, 2009
Copyright 2009 Johnny Transistor All Rights Reserved
By Johnny Transistor on Sat, Aug 15, 2009 9:43 am
1. Think of Preppy as positive thinking gone horribly wrong, thinking positively out of wack with reality, schizophrenic, as in thinking you can change your gender without an operation. There is no way in Hell a female, Preppy or not, can physically turn her clitoris into 12 inches of man throb by thinking she can. She can spend 24/7 in a chair for years, seeing herself pissing like a race horse on fire hydrants on command with feeling all she likes but when the true test of manhood is before her, she is going to miss the urinal and fill up her shoe every time, even if she is the reigning Princess of Preppy. Practice doesn't always make perfect, more is usually less and a picture isn't always worth 1000 words. Sometimes a picture isn't worth a mutter and in a Preppy's case it's worth even less. Preppies can't always get what they want but according to Sir Mick, sometimes they get what they need.
2. Envision a crew of arthritic Preppy lawn bowling champions heading off to Law School for the Fall semester, after spending a grueling summer at the Cape shagging neighborhood pets and keeping detailed journals of the affairs, instead of opening them up like alarm clocks to see what makes them tick. A crew of New England's finest, decked out in deck shoes without socks, plaid shorts and pink polo shirts with pastel colored cashmere v-necks casually draped over their shoulders. A breed unto themselves and one the Great Gatsby himself wouldn't have taken hunting, before seeing Deliverance even on a dare. The men sporting short hair, the women not sporting at all, which curiously enough, helps to maintain strong Preppy blood lines despite their penchant for incest and pet sex. What came first, the chicken or the egg; the Preppy or doggie style? Don't ask me, ask them.
3. Preppies congregate at busy intersections and busier doorways, like a Ben and Jerry's on a hot Saturday afternoon, to make decisions. They take up more space than necessary, hold up traffic, and do so with an apologetic air of indignant indifference. It's as if Andy Warhol tore a page out of The Preppy's Guide to the Galaxy, then read Zen and the Art of Being............Noticed, before setting out to make a name for himself. Being in the way is part of a Preppy's charm, although, I'd prefer to be force fed continuous clips of Jack Nicholson wolfing down pizza than to be within spitting distance of a macho Preppy cupcake crew manhandling ice cream cones. I don't know which would be worse, 30 drops of water a minute, from 30 feet, to the center of my forehead for 24 hours or watching a crew of Preppies trying to keep their dripping Ben and Jerry's in check. It makes me wonder what they really train for.
4. They cruise trendy sidewalks, 4 abreast minimum, talking among themselves, either directly or on cell phones, moving only for other Preppies. They don't give ground to the elderly, the infirm, firemen or seeing eye dogs. Ambulance drivers don't have a prayer and cops get out of their way. They are like a lava flow. Doormen fear them, their own made to stand casually attentive, trying to appear cool in 85 degree weather, while decked out in dark woolen trench coats with matching woolen pants, black army boots, dark military caps and white gloves. Preppy is all about power and control, how to get it and how to keep it. Being, to a Preppy, is a game of chess using human pieces. The key, when meeting this lava flow, is not to flinch, stand your ground and say nothing. The worst thing you can do to a Preppy is look through them as if they don't exist, giving more ground to a speck of fly shit than to their whole fucked up crew. When they are upon you, hip check the biggest fucker into a parked car, without blinking or changing your stride.
5. Preppies are only truly happy if they can give you a rash, particularly one zinc ointment can't put a dent in. Remember this, Preppies will fuck anything with a pulse. For some, however, time of death is the only prerequisite.
6. Asking a Preppy for directions is like asking Wile E. Coyote and expecting anything other than a "you are a stunned shit" look in return. Card carrying Preppies talk only to other card carrying Preppies. They do, however, utter to non-Preppies but only to deliver directives, such as: a) Garcon, another magnum of Cristal 1975. b) Get me the manager. c) Hold the elevator. d) I'll have 3 scoops. You know the flavors I like. e) Get my car. Occasionally, they offer incidental conversation to outcasts if the effort will further their needs. For example, if you have returned from Germany recently, sporting the latest in foot gear and a Preppy covets your style, you'd be seduced with a snake charmer's charm. However, once every drop of moisture had been squeezed from you, a leper would have a better chance of getting spit on than you would. By the way, if by you happened to meet again, both sporting the same German foot gear, expect to be mocked for being unoriginal.
7. Class has about as much to do with being a Preppy as a pitchfork has to do with a dinner table. Honor, loyalty and integrity carry about as much weight for admittance into the cult as a used car salesman's business card. Preppy, like a good race horse, is all about blood lines and breeding, not money. There is no legal tender for admittance into the cult as means has about as much to do with admission as adoption has to do with good breeding. The bottom line is, Bill Gates might get an invitation to speak at The Club but he wouldn't be staying for dinner. Preppies, in generally, are well healed and certainly able to afford class, they just don't know what shop carries it.
8. Preppy is to etiquette and all the good breeding that goes with it, as Red Sox Nation is to baseball and all the good things that go with the game, as sure as Wile E. Coyote is an idiot. And no matter what, baseball, even with its Commission replacing chewing tobacco spit with bubble gum spit, will always have the bleachers as a final destination, where hot dogs washed down with light beer in plastic cups is the fare and goose liver pate what the fans scrape off the soles of their shoes. There is Preppy, then there is Red Sox Nation and for the most part the 2 coexist, at times, seeming joined at the hip. But chewing your cud at the Yacht Club is about as endearing to a Preppy as washing down caviar and crackers with a cheap Dom at Fenway is to a rabid Red Sox fan. Preppies, with their yogurt like culture, sport an uptight air of superiority, condescend whenever, share a lack of taste and give snobs a good name. On the other hand, true grit, heart, spirit and bubble gum spit defines the Red Sox Nation, is what Preppy isn't and will never be. Sox fans are in the game............and Preppies, well, Preppies have season tickets all right, but for business purposes only. Incidentally, Preppies view the game as a necessary inconvenience, like having to wipe their own ass.
9. Preppies maintain a blatant disregard but solid respect for money. They have it, always have, always will and see those who are trying to acquire it as boorishly crass social climbers. A few social climbers may make it to The Yacht Club by invitation for lunch, happy to pick up the tab, thinking they are in like Flynn. But those poor sods are so far out, they don't realize that left disappeared off the radar the day before they were born and are at the table only as a piece on the chess board, not a player. You are either in or out, it is that simple and money has nothing and everything to do with it.
10. Law is their true calling. A Preppy's mantra is "control the law, control destiny", so naturally they are the Law. Yeah, some stray into brain surgery, but only to nurture a perverted family gene. If perchance, you happen to stumble upon the inside of a Preppy's home, invited or otherwise, and there are no manual clocks, alarm or otherwise.........run. The house should sound like a well oiled time bomb when you walk or climb in. So, if you are a B&E Artist hell bent on liberating a judge's home of family heirlooms, the same judge that sent you up for boosting cars, and it's 2 AM, but there are no chimes or cuckoos to tell you so, you've over stayed your welcome. Someone in the home has a penchant for taking things apart and not putting them back together. A special someone who started taking travel clocks apart, as a child. The easiest clock to get their hands on. A special someone, who beyond a shadow of a doubt is male and who worked his way up the food chain, finally graduating to pets once the Grandfather Clock was in shambles and watches were long gone. Once onto pets, the train wreck is well underway. He uses the same screw driver set he used on clocks, to take cats and small dogs apart. He tinkers and fiddles, using gasoline fumes to render the small creatures unconscious as he tries everything from simple frontal lobotomies to brain transplants. Like all of his clock experiments, no pet survives. They are left looking like hunting accidents gone bad, where the weapon of choice was a 12 gauge pump action and rage was involved. Usually by the time the kid with the demented gene makes it this far, it is time for Brain Surgery College and he doesn't have time take it any further, illegally. Or does he? His bags are packed, he leaves at 8 AM. He is right behind you and has time for: one more for the road.
He smells like gasoline and is dying to try out his going away gift, his grandfather's scalpel set.
Johnny Transistor,
August 15, 2009
By Johnny Transistor on Fri, Jul 10, 2009 10:14 am
The other day I was watching the ultimate in reality television, "The Adventures of Michael Jackson". The episode which showed two of L.A.'s finest carting prescription drugs in pink plastic garbage bags from Jackson's rented mansion. The "rented mansion" bit adding credibility to his rumored financial woes. The pink plastic garbage bags, something I'd never seen before, and the officers carrying them garnering all of the attention, as the rest of the investigative force marched past like loot laden mountain mules, ghosts to the rolling cameras. All adding to the suspense and mystery of Michael Jackson the enigma and making "Thriller" simply a prelude to what is to come. The cops using pink to shift our focus, how cute.
In a follow up episode, investigators reported finding a healthy variety of drugs in that haul, including 10 Narcotics in 30 Ben and Jerry's Flavors. This testament to "variety being the spice of life" served up as fuel, only to disparage the man. But hey man, what can I say, the guy liked variety and probably figured if he didn't take the same drug 2 days in a row, he would avoid the inconvenience of addiction. Besides, if he was ever busted for possession of narcotics, that would be his defense. It wasn't me your honor, it was the one eyed man last seen fleeing the scene in an ice cream truck. The Jackson saga continued making the OJ car chase look as boring as it was.........as entertaining as watching flies circle a naked light bulb. The very idea of televising that event an absurdity, lending credence to the notion that Michael Jackson was a true genius. At least it seems to be so, when Michael is stacked next to OJ, a drink no one admits to having for breakfast anymore. Next episode..............The Handlers.
They weren't kidding either, the next episode was called "The Handlers". I thought prize fighters, like Mike Tyson, were the only guys who got to have handlers. Guys who had been punched in the head once too often and needed help with decisions. But if you ask me, all handlers do is hang around bullshitting the boss, making him feel important enough to justify their insatiable appetites for the good life he provides. You know, the good life: 24k gold teeth, the sophistication of a pinky ring on every finger, and a Bentley with a Sub Zero in the back stocked with Crystal. That episode got more boring as time ticked on, my watch becoming more of a fascination, as ex-handler after ex-handler vouched for Michael. Their speak being that of entitlement............... "If Paul McCartney and Mick Jagger were Knights, then the very least God could do is make him a Saint". As I nodded off, in and out of never land, I caught a glimpse of Michael's gopher, Miko Brando the nervous wreck. I suspected if there was anyone in Hollywood, who could get whatever your little old heart desired, it was this guy. He struck me as being able to procure any medicinal condiment that is in production, pharmaceutical grade blow, a variety of high quality tars and resins, smack and everything from Hawaiian bud to Thai stick, leaving rock and X in the gutter where they belong, acid being another story.
So as I lay there, oblivious to the sounds Larry King was making, it dawned on me that Neverland was once known as Neverland Ranch. I assumed the Ranch part of its name taken from its female counterpart, Reno's Mustang Ranch and not the presumed Sycamore Valley Ranch, Michael being so clever and all. His handlers appearing to be dumber than stone for not having moved the whole Neverland horror show off-shore to Thailand for tax purposes, set up as an all boys orphanage with an abundance of certified pinky pecker. The Church already had the model, all these idiots needed to do was copy it. But it's never easy to be involved when lawyers are involved. Apparently however, it makes life easier if you have a monkey on your back to keep the lawyer company. In this case let me ask you, what came first, the chicken or the egg? The lawyer. All the doctor did was try to make life bearable for a sensitive person after the lawyer jumped on his back, a move incited by revolting behavior. Behavior kindled by, according to my source, a very abusive parent. Michael's closest confidant, Bubbles, will tell you that it is Joe who should be hunted, the doctor being incidental and the lawyer instrumental. As the main question on everyone's mind rang like a fog horn in my head: "Will people flock to Neverland like they did the Church, once the cat leapt out of that proverbial bag?"
Mouths on faces once connected to a brain of sorts and more comfortable in front of a live TV feed than a mirror, which was a shame, showed solidarity on "The Apocalyptic Episode", by blithering sublime statements about Jackson's gifts to mankind, gifts ranging from Art to Zen. As I watched with more and more abandon, I wondered if "The 1910 Fruit Gum Company" would be able to hold down the fort, getting us through the difficult transition period, until a replacement for Michael Jackson could be found. I was concerned that we each might die, searching for his replacement to the sound of "Indian Giver" pulsating in our head, still unsure where, or if at all, Elvis and Hendrix fit in, or worse yet, if they ever existed. I know Johnny Cash existed because I saw him perform once but I don't know who replaced him. Maybe Kid Rock.
Johnny Transistor,
July 8, 2009
Copyright 2009 Johnny Transistor All Rights Reserved
By Johnny Transistor on Wed, Jul 1, 2009 9:21 am
LAGUNA SUMMER
1/2 - 1 ounce of New Amsterdam No. 485 gin, no substitutions
12 ounces of ice cold Heineken, mild substitutions permitted
juice of 1/8 of a fresh lime, more or less, discard the rind
Splash 1/2 to 1 ounce of No. 485 gin into a clear hi-ball glass, then gently introduce it to 12 ounces of ice cold Heineken brew, mild substitutions permitted. Squeeze in the juice of 1/8 of a lime, more or less. Discard the rind. Next, savor its very essence. Finally taste, then drink. You will find that it beats the hell out of smelling a wine cork at Denny's, under the watchful eye of an ex-cabbie in a rented tux, and the scrutiny he conveys as you handle and taste his first pour. The wine he so shrewdly chose, the first sip quickly shrink wrapping the inside of your mouth, leaving you with a permanently puckered look on your face. LAGUNA SUMMER sounds pretty damn good compared to that, and it is. But it tastes even better. It tastes like freedom. Remember.............when you didn't give a flying fuck about anything. It has that whole California beach scene, surf vibe thing going for it, while at the same time fitting in nicely at black tie events, gallery openings and pool parties thrown by the elegantly hip. LAGUNA SUMMER is as smooth as silk and as simple as life itself. Life can be complicated or it can be simply sophisticated. You choose.
Johnny Transistor,
July 1, 2009
Copyright 2009 Johnny Transistor All Rights Reserved
By Johnny Transistor on Tue, Jun 30, 2009 11:28 am
Summer is supposed to hang out in the still of shadowless heat, a still as calm as the still of bloodless hung meat. Meat hung to cure, having the sun devour its rotting stench in one bite, the hungry bastard that it is, before engines seize, dropping NYC dead in the stench sweating tracks of its own sight. The NYC coroner having to give his cause of death statement to a freaked press via cell phone, from a speeding car on his way outta town, driving stop-only for gas, a piss, a Coke and Doritos to Manhattan Beach. As those left standing sweat tomorrows sweat with every step. That stinking hot. I mean so fucking hot that rats die, trapped in molten asphalt while crossing the streets at night. But what do I get? This............
I was walking through the Village the other day in the pissing rain, without an umbrella. For one thing, I don't like umbrella's and for another, getting wet usually doesn't bother me. I was expecting summer to come knocking any time soon. Bringing with it its power, the still of the hunted down and the heat that comes with it. Summer still.......that shot in the head at close range, then hoisted to a desert cactus to hang the dead man, summer still. The sheriff and his deputy too dry to spit before reloading and heading out to hunt the fucker's partner, their dust being the only words said on behalf the deceased. That still. With that kind of power too............. justice, which tells all in the territory they are safe while at the same time describing in rotting detail what becomes of rapists and child killers. That is the kind of summer I have been expecting, a summer equal in brutality to the harshest winter in (75 year) recent memory but more relentless. I mean one long hot summer night summer. Has Al Gore been bullshitting us? Planting fear in the hearts of every sucker from here to Environmental Hell and back just so he can hop scotch around the world in a private jet to deliver his plagiarized global warming treatise to an over paying audience in awe of his self proclaimed grandeur. His wife Tipper flying on ahead in her own private jet, just to make sure that their $25,000 a night hotel suite has matching his and her towels in each of its 7 bathrooms and each kitchen is stocked with only the finest cuts of aged NYC beef. Probably, because so far this summer is making a mockery of winter. But nothing sells like bullshit, especially when fear is involved, which should make insurance Al's next big crusade once his environmental bender has run its course. Unless of course, he decides to call himself Noah and starts selling time shares on the Arc he has his designers working on, its raining that much. He and Tipper should get at least another 10 years of good flying time out of that one before it falls apart like South Florida's condo market and they have to move. They can retire to California and their French vineyards, to pass off the fermented run off from raisins, water and yeast as Merlot from France's Bordeaux region to the tune of wine greats singing psalms, praising the pair's vintages and genius. Collectively deciding,they so overcome with awe, there being no words to describe the most sacred wine's unique bouquet. When all along any kid could tell them that there is only one word which could adequately describe what the wine scribes were smelling and that one word is bullshit. And right under their whiney noses to boot. Therefore, officially making this summer's song "Bullshit Makes the Grass Grow Green" by The Ex Tipper.
Johnny Transistor,
June 27,2009
Copyright 2009 Johnny Transistor All Rights Reserved
By Johnny Transistor on Wed, Jun 24, 2009 9:32 am
Ex-Life with a Voyeur
If your psychiatrist is your best friend, you are fucked. If your psychiatrist is your only friend, then you are totally fucked. Sure, it's great lying on the Doc's $25,000 Siberian elephant leather couch recounting your hole in the head life, starting with that train wreck of a childhood of yours and culminating with today's water cooler event, which ended when the last of your marbles finally fell out of your skull and onto the floor. Something your co-workers had anxiously anticipated, having had a pool on the exact date of your implosion, it being that obvious. But no one guessed it would be today.......... the day you closed your bank account and turned in the keys to your empty apartment, then headed to work on foot with the last of your belongings in a grocery bag and your life savings in a change purse. Your co-workers ignorant of the expense and the lengths to which you had crawled to actually lie on a garage sale Ikea leather couch. Having to sell everything........ your car, your furnishings and 97% of your cloths just to feel an empty ounce of acceptance. Not forgetting that your life savings included the rare stamp, coin and butterfly collections your grandfather left you. All of it, just so you could feel that someone at least, cared about you, if only for an hour a week. Christ, a hooker would have been cheaper and a lot more therapeutic. Some co-workers.They wanted to tell you about the couch yet couldn't, the pool's predicted time outcome, but mainly the vulgar water cooler banter and violent texting it generated, being just too plain attractive for the pseudo-intellectual in each of them to resist, the weak bastards that they are.
So now, there you are.......after the episode, after work and rushing, lying in the stench of your own melted life listening to the Doc, who now goes by his trademarked celebrity Dr. Ask Me, say that you are out. And your 259 previous sessions? Well sir, they have accumulated absolutely no points with him, adding up to Absolute Zero no matter how much money you have fed his meter. He concluding with "No tickie...No laundry", which you understand to be an unintentional metaphor, seeing now he is simply too stupid for an intelligent quip, appropriate or not. Besides he hates Asians. Christ, Vegas would have at the very least comped you a broad and a room full of booze to put her in, after a run like you'd just had pal. And yah, yah, yah........the recorded sessions are your life, belonging to Dr. Ask Me and always have. But who gives a fuck, because in that unfolding instant of sudden realization you understood.....that makes it your ex-life. Sure, with the help of a scribe he has churned your sessions into a book and is taking your ex-life to the top of the New York Best Seller List, marked #1 with a bullet. Copyright 2009 Dr. Ask Me. All Rights Reserved. Which leaves you thinking, so fucken what he can have it, as your back bleeds lead for the bastard.
You feel release not panic as you lie there, the couch having lost its allure, smelling exactly like sweating fear cured leather blended with the hint of an occasional female and a dab of day old pizza sauce. Wondering if he was treating some poor ex-Siberian detainee and fucking her on the side or whether he was just plane Jane fucking her, thinking, fuck the treatment this is all she is worth anyway, as he gives her one more for the team and sends her packing with 3 pieces of unwanted cold pizza lounging in the oily cardboard box it was delivered in.That, and seconds before the receptionist was booking your hour with some clipper, even before the Doc closed his office door behind you. Your time going to a guy with another run of the mill hard luck story but with a bank account Tuning out the unusually talkative Doc's endless drivel, you realize for the first time that you, yes you, were merely his interactive television to play with. A television he could control with a premeditated movement or cough directed at your subconscious or if the Doc was feeling exceptionally energetic and charitable, with a question. Seeing that he is nothing short of a voyeur who gets his jollies by listening to a patient's poor excuse for a life or hearing about the sexual escapades of the bold, as he imagines himself a viral participant on the receiving end. As you lie there, surrounded by a room clinging to the stench of stale fear, you feel your own life for the very first time and leave as if on cue. Ask Me too lazy to notice as he focused on the sound of his own voice practicing his spiel for your slot's replacement. The same spiel you heard the first time you hit the couch and now again, as you leave, but this time hearing it as his graduation gift to you.
Johnny Transistor,
June 21, 2009
Copyright 2009 Johnny Transistor All Rights Reserved
By Johnny Transistor on Wed, Jun 17, 2009 9:57 am
without friends and a decent social network
we'd be less than fire hydrants
scattered by road sides waiting for dogs.............
to keep us up on the latest
like postmen are supposed to do now.
the better we'd treat 'em
the more they'd hang out
just fucking the dog in the sun with their friends.
ya see
even a dog attracts people.
and a postman?
well, he doesn't even ring once
instead, haphazardly delivering his mark......... bills, junk mail
and the occasional dead guy's collection agency debt threats
it not mattering who gets whose mail.
he carries pepper spray in praise of dogs
as he beats his busy 9 to 5
monday through friday path through your hedge
rushing to deliver the same neighborly message
to ever one of your neighbors.
people in cars
who don't even know your name
but know your dog's instead.
Johnny Transistor
June 16, 2009
Copyright 2009 Johnny Transistor All Rights Reserved
By Johnny Transistor on Fri, Jun 12, 2009 8:31 pm
Prudential Center Farmer's Marke presents ADRENALIN TRAFFIC.Adrenalin Traffic performs the beautiful Prudential Center Farmer's Market. The event takes place in Boston's elegant Prudential Center gardens, where the countryside and the city mingle amid handcrafted chocolate, breads, cheeses, herbs and produce. date: Thursday June 25, 2009 time: 11:30 am - 6 pm place: 800 Boylston Street, Boston, MA. ADRENALIN TRAFFIC: www.myspace.com/adrenalintraffic Copyright 2009 Johnny Transistor All Rights Reserved
By Johnny Transistor on Tue, Jun 9, 2009 9:39 am
:
DR. KOOP says..............play ball
Why is panic in our city, running through the streets? It is fear, contagious, like fire melting summer heat. With a death toll mounting, and panic ripping the sky, ripping open an exit wound for souls to ride their final ride............Because some Palm Beach cat got clipped by a kid riding a lawn mower. That's why.
Hey man, lets play ball. Finding a mangled cat, clipped while high on cat nip in the outfield, by some high on weed college kid riding a lawn mower isn't like digging for buried treasure behind The Breakers and coming up with the skeletal remains of 12 dozen model Palm Beach citizens, missing for over 60 years, now is it. Anywhere else it'd be road kill, plain and simple. But here in Palm Beach, the land of the blue blood, its blood in the streets. What lucky cop gets to investigate this one?
Yeah, you heard me right. A Palm Beach Detective found the mangled remains of a cat and named it Stray for reference purposes. It got out that someone in Palm Beach may be torturing cats for pleasure. This led to the fear that, this just might be the work of a serial cat killer, who might, just might progress to people. As it turns out, few serial killers start at the bottom and work their way up the food chain. As well, it was uncovered that Dr. Koop, former U.S. Surgeon General, with his mum by his side performed experimental operations on alley cats. Yes, he did practice surgery on cats before progressing to humans, which points out to me that there is a thin line, a very thin line between serial killers and surgeons. At which point I say........
Dr. Koop a collector of strays? I'm glad he stuck to alley cats for his trial and error procedures, having Mama Koop tag along as a watchful eye. Using stray cats as medical guinea pigs is certainly better than using the indigent as cold marble decorations. Cats can help with a budding surgeon's dexterity. Why? Because cats are obviously smaller than humans and tougher to work on. Besides, if a human stray wakes up on the marble prematurely, a simple sip of Jack can relieve any anxiety the experiment might be feeling. Without any fuss. A cat, on the other hand, waking up before its time can be a rough experience for anyone in the general vicinity. Yes, dexterity certainly is important to a surgeon. And what is a premed student to do if his or her experiment turns into a stiff? It is easy to dump a cat, getting the press to blame the horror on a demented serial cat killer. But dumping a human mistake is really tough, unless you already work in the OR. If your father owns a game fishing business or a gator farm that works too. But I digress. What I would be more concerned about is the cat that stays missing. With tough economic times upon us and Madoff still being tallied, even the tony must tighten a belt once in awhile. So the next time you find yourself at the table of a Palm Beach upscale, about to chow down on Tangerian dwarf white tail desert fawn, think twice before washing it down with that carbonated Ripple served from a faded label Dom magnum. Especially, if your host's new house boy Richter seems a little distant, mentally off like tainted meat. Dr. Koop may not be telling us the whole story
Copyright 2009 Johnny Transistor All Rights Reserved
By Johnny Transistor on Wed, Jun 3, 2009 9:51 am
ZIPPO LUCKY
Zippo Lucky lives in, in between and on the other side of, "where the fuck am I?". He's the closest thing I've ever seen, that comes remotely close, to a guy walking on water, the real stuff, not the stiff week old Burbank studio Jello crap. The crap that's passed off as water and is used in diluted, mirthless movies. For some reason, he wails on about half a pack of Luckies while out there, surfing. I've never asked why he does, smoke while surfing , but suspect it has something to do with the Apocalypse Now neurosis, surf crazed intensity thing, he keeps in his back pocket. That, "Surf the mortar pounded beach right now or fuck you, pick up a gun and fight!", mentality. What the hell's the difference between the two? Why your Honor sir, the difference is, one was sport for the VC and the other, well, the other was sport for the LTC, of course. He wasn't in the Nam but his father was, which probably explains everything to do with the Zippo, helping keep his powder dry. I know Lucky rode massive winter swells when he was a kid, while his old man pounded off rounds with his M-16, at god knows what. Lucky hasn't told me.
After a few hours of riding with Zippo, then being chauffeured into the pavement once to often, by the blind fury Kamikaze ocean, hell bent on suicide, the ocean got to keep pieces of my board. It wanted it, so got it, willing to give up more to get it than I was to keep it. The same being said for the retarded, iron jawed pit bull under the pier, who took a kid's tennis ball. But I didn't care, it can keep its snapped prize like the dumb dog can keep its mangled, useless as tits on a bull, souvenir. Some things aren't worth dying for. Like parking spots, for instance.
I waded to the beach, sat in the sun and watched Zippo tear wave after wave through the pilings, with the concentration of a cigarette at a bonfire. Weaving in and out with a virtuoso's grace, a violinist capable of picking intricately complex pieces to delicate shreds, with the deliberate ferocity of a rabid wolf, ripping through a rack of lamb on the hoof. Wave after wave, until still consumed the ocean he had conquered and twilight dropped to its surface, sanding it smooth as glass, not ripe for skating or anything else for that matter, other than admiring, giving the 3 of us time to regroup and make ready for tomorrow.
Johnny Transistor
June 3, 2009
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