Friday, September 30, 2005

Karaoke Heartbreak

We were all in the process of thoroughly enjoying our evening down at the local karaoke bar when suddenly a desperate man burst through the front door.

"I can't live without her!"
He bellowed.

"Join the club!"
We hollered back and offered him a beer. He produced a handgun the size of howitzer and rammed it to his temple. "I'm not fuckin' around here you tone-deaf booze hounds--I truly can't live without her."

Well the 'tone-deaf' bit kind of hurt our feelings... rather pissed us off in fact. Some of us happen to have quite lovely singing voices. (Myself included and very much so.) But how are you supposed to threaten a suicidal man?

All eyes turned expectantly to me; I guess 'cause I'm the resident squinty-eyed gunslinger.
"Me?" I whispered. "What the hell do you expect me to do? Shoot him before he can shoot himself?!" They all made the 'lower-lip-out-face with shrug' and then pretended they had to answer their cell phones. I cursed them under my breath and turned to face the desperate man.

"Howdy friend." I said with a smile and a welcoming wave. "I'm Latigo Flint and this is the local karaoke bar. Everyone here is everyone else's occasional drinking buddy. We sing the words that appear on that screen. Some of us, chiefly me, have quite lovely singing voices. That man over there gives us beer when we ask for it. This is a good place you have come to. Now, how can we be of assistance?"

He stared up at me, his eyes vacant and dull. The gun barrel stayed at his temple as if glued. He gestured to the karaoke installation with a sideways nod.
"You're gonna cue up every Van Morrison song in the playlist. I'm gonna sing along to all of them without stopping while you all listen. Then I'm going to blow my head off. I don't really care what you do after that."

I stared back at the guy for a long time, then slowly turned to face the other patrons. "Hey 'yall... you know, I think this fella has come up with best way to deal with heartbreak I've ever heard. If you want him talked out of it, one of you had better try. Frankly, I'm thinking about joining him."


The stranger and I had gone through eighteen Van Morrison songs and something like a hundred Coors Long Necks when Hungry for Your Love came up. I should have known that song would wreck us. Hell, it staggers people with intact hearts. The stranger became so distraught that he completely forgot he had a gun and started trying to beat himself to death with the fuzzy end of the microphone. I shrieked my anguish to a water-stained ceiling and ran out of the bar into traffic.

We both survived. And apparently set a world record for the longest shared-microphone duet... This is actually a rather embarrassing record to have set, seeing as we're both male, and relatively straight.

It's enough to make a guy feel like karaokeing a bunch of Van Morrison songs and offing himself. But then he'd be right back where he started, wouldn't he?

I think this is a mean world. Sure, it's funny also. But under that it's mean, always mean.

Wednesday, September 28, 2005

Fire Season

And so tonight Los Angeles burns.

Okay, the hills do anyway. Fiiiine, not all of them. Some of them though. Well, a few at any rate. Aw, what do you know, do you live here? Ah-ha, you don't do you?! I'm going back to my initial statement then.

And so tonight Los Angeles burns. You know, this seems like a good time to revisit something I once said. I'll be perfectly frank... I don't remember yesterday, much less March, but apparently I wrote the following. I hope you enjoy it. And please Los Angeles, let's stay safe out there.

From the archives: 3/30/05


Fire Season

Latigo Flint knows what must inevitably follow a near record breaking rainy season in Southern California--a near record breaking wildfire season in Southern California! And this has reminded Latigo Flint of another excellent way to be a hero: Saving Helena Bonham Carter from a wildfire is another excellent way to be a hero.

First, Helena Bonham Carter will need to be alone in a home in the hills that's surrounded by plenty of dry brush. Next a raging wildfire needs to sweep down the narrow canyon. You have to be passing by at the time and your keen, intelligent eyes must detect a car parked in such a way that it's likely to be the only vehicle at the residence.

At this point you should mutter, "Hmm, I'd better go investigate." softly to yourself.

Move swiftly to the house, keeping a wary eye on the approaching flames. Once inside you need to notice that something heavy has fallen on Helena Bonham Carter, pinning her and preventing escape. If this is not the case, and you discover she's completely mobile and is at that very moment heading calmly out the door, you must accept that you are no longer a hero. Offer to help carry her suitcase. (It is not appropriate to ask for an autograph at this time, remember, a raging wildfire is on its way.)

IMPORTANT: You are NOT allowed to topple something heavy onto Helena Bonham Carter in order to continue with a rescue. This makes you a psychopath, not a hero.

If your original suspicions are correct and Helena Bonham Carter is indeed pinned under something heavy, you must stride rapidly to it and heave it off her. Next, heroically sweep Helena Bonham Carter into your arms and run from the house, shielding her pale face from the scorching heat. (Don't worry she doesn't weigh much. If you're a scrawny weakling and are having difficulty running with Helena Bonham Carter in your arms, remember, the heroic scrawny weakling's best friend is the trusty piggyback - but don't ever call it a piggyback in the context of heroic rescues, call it the Fireman's Carry.)

It is a bonus if at this point Helena Bonham Carter's vehicle is completely engulfed in flames--or the fire is so near that your heroic snap decision is that it's too risky to try for it. Carry Helena Bonham Carter down the long, tree-lined driveway to safety. Hopefully a burning branch will fall on your exposed shoulder, searing it rather badly and making you a Wounded Hero, which is very high level of heroism. In fact, it's second only to Dead Hero.

Always appear modest and humble while accepting heartfelt thanks from Tim Burton and the entire Hollywood community. But be sure to turn down all grateful offers of small roles in major motion pictures. Hollywood hates outsiders, even heroic outsiders who just saved Helena Bonham Carter from a wildfire. These are nothing more than insincere, spur-of-the-moment, patronizing, publicity stunts, and by the time the movie actually starts shooting, you would be universally loathed by cast and crew.

(And for christsake, don't touch Helena Bonham Carter in any inappropriate places as you carry her down the driveway. That would irrevocably tarnish your hero-ness.)

Tuesday, September 27, 2005

Grizzly Reason

A furious grizzly bear cannot be reasoned with. Latigo Flint is one of the few who knows this firsthand--for not only have I faced a furious grizzly bear, rare enough in its own right, but I did in fact try to reason with it.

"Look here bear," I said, "I can see you're very upset about something."

The furious grizzly bear promptly tried to eat my face off. It gave no indication it even heard. Well, I did not allow the bear to eat my face off. I performed a nimble evasive maneuver instead. It was a successful nimble evasive maneuver because it resulted in me not having my face eaten off.

I scolded the furious grizzly bear. "Dern it bear," said I. "For the first time in your life, you've met someone willing to help you discover the root of your rage and what's your initial reaction? You try to eat his face off. Can you not see how self-destructive that is?"

The grizzly bear thought about this for a moment, then tried to gut me with a brace of seven-inch claws--so I double-fisted shotguns and blew its eyes away. The recoil shattered both my wrists.

The bear howled in agony and started running around in stumbling circles. I sat on a log, stared dejectedly at my ruined wrists and tried to figure out how in the hell I was going to masturbate for the next 6 to 8 weeks.

It's safe to say both the bear and I had had better days.


Important Note: This post is closed to comments that contain masturbation technique advice for the crippled. I mean please, do you really think I need any help coming up with fantastic and innovative ways to masturbate?! Trust me, I got it covered.

Here's what I'd love... I'd really love to know what your name would be if you were a Unicorn.

I'll tell you mine: Spacklerump the Glorious. That's what my Unicorn name would be.

Good night,


Monday, September 26, 2005

The Feral Children

The city's plan was to clear out a wooded canyon in the hills north of Los Angeles and build a housing complex there. A number of crude wooden structures already stood in the canyon, nestled haphazardly amongst the scrub oak and chaparral. Everyone assumed the rickety shacks were the clubhouses of suburban neighborhood children. They thought wrong; suburban neighborhood children don't build clubhouses anymore--suburban neighborhood children don't even leave their houses to play these days.

No, those were actually dwellings. Something of a town if you will--constructed and inhabited by many dozens of feral children. Abandoned misbehavers and runaway orphans mostly.

When the city surveyor walked up into the canyon, the feral children killed him with cinderblocks and ate him.

This did not go over very well at all. People freak out a bit over abandoned children. There tends to be a lot of finger pointing and lawsuits. A small party of civic leaders, concerned citizens and local media stormed up the canyon to rescue the children. They were promptly pelted to death with cinderblocks and eaten.

This was turning into a real black eye for the community. A town hall meeting was called, presided over by the mayor, the police chief and the school superintendent. The three of them told the assembled crowd to go up in the canyon and rescue the feral children. The assembled crowd told them where to stick that idea, and then the crowd unanimously voted that the mayor, the police chief and the school superintendent should go up in the canyon and rescue the feral children.

The mayor, the chief and the super didn't like the sound of that plan at all. They said they'd love to except they just remembered they had important business they had to attend to. The crowd called them sissies to which the mayor responded: "Fine, then replace us... who wants to be mayor, police chief and school superintendent?"

Several dimwitted local business owners enthusiastically raised their hands but retracted them moments later when they realized their very first duty would be to go up into the wooded canyon to rescue the feral children, whereupon they'd very likely be killed with cinderblocks and eaten.

It was ultimately decided that the housing complex should be built somewhere else and everyone would just try to forget about the whole thing. No one was especially happy with the decision, but everyone kept their dissent to themselves. Cowards talk loud until they're on the front line.

Several months later, pets started disappearing from backyards. The townspeople lowered guilty eyes and tried not to mention it.

Sunday, September 25, 2005


Dying is not for everyone. Latigo Flint can tell you that right now. Alcoholics should definitely steer clear of dying--there isn't a drink to be had anywhere when you're dead. It's downright intolerable. You see humorous graffiti handwritten across the pastel-mustard sky that says stuff like: "Who do I have to kill to get a drink around here?!" and then "Ha ha ha." and whatnot. Latigo Flint knows all this to be true because Latigo Flint died last Thursday.

I have no goddamn clue where the hell I was. I'm very sorry to all the various religions; I won't be able to help you out with any redemptive information. I do know this though; from what I could tell, none of you have it right so far. I've never seen or read any description that even remotely resembles the place I went. In fact, while I'm certainly no world-linguist, I've a sneaking suspicion there aren't even words in modern language to effectively describe it.

I'll give it a try but I really don't think it's going to translate very well. Here goes nothing: When you die you land in a rowboat that's surrounded by crinkly, then you do pogo stick bouncy in the rowboat for a while and millions of flying trout made of television static are kind of there but also not really, and sounds attack each other but playfully I think.

I'm sorry, that's the best I can do. I'd try it in Spanish but I really don't think it would help. Like I said, I seriously doubt modern language can describe it. However, while modern language fails miserably in describing what is there, it has no problem describing what isn't. Chiefly, booze! If you're the sort who really enjoys booze, I highly recommend not dying.

So I came back. I said to myself, "This is crazy, there's not a drop of beer to be had. I don't like it here. I'm not staying." Fortunately my body was still in the culvert where I left it. It smelled a little ripe but it was nothing a few beers and a shower couldn't fix.

Wednesday, September 21, 2005

Lavender Angels

Today Latigo Flint attacked his favorite pair of socks with a hunting knife. Latigo Flint's feet were in them at the time. Latigo Flint doesn't even know why he did it. Oh wait, yes he does. A pretty girl was watching and he wanted her to think he was complicated and mysterious. But unfortunately girls, shallow things that they are, don't seem to find anything complicated and mysterious whatsoever about self-inflicted foot mutilation--not in a good way at any rate.

I shudder and lurch in the presence of the Starbucks barista. My adoration for her is tilted and abstract. The sketches of my love look like they were finger-painted by sneezing hobos.

It turns out that if you shriek long enough on a crowded street corner, you'll start to find things to really shriek at--demonic weasels in the clouds, four foot spiders humping hydrants and whatnot. Once you can see them, well, that's when you get to kill them with scream arrows. And my friends, you don't know what accomplishment is until you've killed a demonic weasel with a scream arrow. They whimper and explode. Seismic splatters verify triumph and then topless angels applaud. They're light purple all over--the applauding angels are. (That's lavender I suppose.) And topless did I mention?!

It's enough to make you touch yourself in public.

But it's not enough to make a Starbucks barista fall in love with you. Starbucks baristas have dated crazy men before. They know better than to now.

Tuesday, September 20, 2005

The Evasive Arts

Natches Murphy, the infamous Fresno outlaw and pistoleer, never intended to invent the greatest pursuit evasion maneuver since the fake detour sign, it just sort of happened that way.

When the hounds and the posse are at our heels, you and I know to enter a waterway and travel up or downstream for a clever distance before exiting on the far bank. It's as instinctive as the ragged breaths that tear our lungs. But like every innovation on the timeline of human advancement, someone had to do it first. And in the case of the go-up-or-down-a-ways-before-exiting-the-stream trick, that someone happened to be Natches Murphy, the infamous Fresno outlaw and pistoleer.

Natches Murphy was a bad man, of this there is no doubt. He'd done plenty of things that probably deserved a hanging. But as it were on that fateful day, his crime was nothing more than an ill-timed glance in the direction of a white girl just as a gust of wind happened to elevate her petticoats.

In those days some towns didn't much cotton to half-breeds staring at the bare legs of white girls. And other towns could be downright hostile about it. And a few towns had it on the books right alongside rape, child murder and mass cow poisoning. Unfortunately for Natches, he happened to be in the third kind.

Natches watched with some concern as furious storms of deeply offended citizenry burst from wooden doors and coagulated before him in the street. He cleared his throat and addressed the seething mob.
"Señors, I can see you are angry." A hundred clicking hammers verified this observation. Natches extended his hands, palms out, and tilted his face in a mercy request. "Señors, do not kill me--it was the devil what seized my eyes and ran them up that white girl's thigh--not me Señors, not I."

Natches sighed as they opened fire. "And so now I run."

Natches Murphy owned a spectacular horse, an outlaw's horse. It was fast as a prairie twister, mean as cancer. That horse spent so many years fleeing stuff at a dead gallop that it had practically forgotten how to walk or trot. Natches sure needed him now--the whole countryside turned out for the chase. Posses pursued Natches in unrelenting waves. Days passed.

When streams appeared in his path, Natches urged his horse across them. Straight shot, grab a few sips of water as you cross, keep running once you reach the other side. That's how it had always been done. The task of the fleeing party is to flee, and you flee by running--everybody knew that. Natches was halfway across yet another stream when his horse lurched and fell. The old boy had run itself to death--it was all it knew how to do--it surely died ecstatic.

The stream was shallow but swift. It snatched Natches and swept him away. He managed to straggle ashore an hour later, but on the same side of the riverbank. He sat down and waited to be captured. He'd had about an hour lead--he'd spent an hour tumbling and bumping down that wretched stream, making absolutely zero forward progress, and now here he was on the same side, exhausted and without steed. His doom was certainly only moments away.

Natches Murphy sat undisturbed on that riverbank for hours. The posse charged across the river and straight into a desert, where every last man perished. 'Round about sundown, Natches began to put it all together. He started to realize he might have just made a significant scientific breakthrough. He used a pointy stick, scribbling crude diagrams and mathematical computations in the river sand to confirm it. Natches tilted his head back and laughed his incredulous rapture into a darkening sky. Then he stood and walked away. The evasive arts had just been born. Pursuit would never be the same.

(Can't get enough of Natches Murphy? Can't say as I blame you, he's quite an hombre. Hey, you'd probably really enjoy hearing about the time Natches Murphy tried to surrender in the middle of a daring getaway because a butterfly landed on the brim of his hat and he didn't want it to get hurt... well, as luck would have it, that true story can be found right here.)

Sunday, September 18, 2005

The Myth of Staircases

Latigo Flint once wrote a novel titled The Myth of Staircases. It was very well received. It won a number of highly prestigious literary awards. Latigo Flint was invited to a great many New York dinner parties.

Of course the book had absolutely nothing to with staircases. Or myths for that matter. In fact, other than the cover and the title page, the word "staircase" didn't even appear. The word "myth" did show up once in chapter 24, but oddly enough as a typo of the word "moth".

It was a wonderful time for me. Many brilliant, young urban women were eager to sleep with me. They insisted on talking the entire time, but mostly about my book and how great they thought it was. And that actually happens to be more than tolerable.

I was the life of a hundred parlors, fell in love twice a day and literally bathed in cognac.

The Myth of Staircases is about two middle-aged brothers named Edgar and Dallas Naverson, and their chance encounter in a Denny's restaurant outside of Bakersfield, California. It's the first time they've seen each other in over twenty-five years. Edgar has spent the last two decades as a professional rodeo clown, recently retired. Dallas is a reformed pedophile.

Two thirds of the book is the brothers' real-time dialogue. The rest is flashback, narrated in the first person by their deceased childhood pet--a purebred Samoyed named Bentley Dog.

Rumor has it, the review of The Myth of Staircases by esteemed NY Times book critic, Michiko Kakutani, was rejected a total of eight times because she kept on slipping in the phrase "infuckingcredibility awesome!"

I was a darling. I had it all--for about a week or two. Then a twitchful unease crept over me and it began to show. I knew I needed a follow-up but had no idea what to do. I spent months working on a remake of Watership Down, setting it in the Amazon and replacing the rabbits with a plucky band of tarantulas. And that was going all right for a while until I turned it into a reader-participatory literary opera. (It seemed like a good idea at the time... then the peyote ran out.)

I began punching people in the face before they could speak to me. You can't ask how the next book is coming along if your mouth is broken.

Then one lonely December I shoved all my mental chips to the center of the table, locked myself in a motel room, and wrote When Brothers Happen to Meet. Which actually wasn't about brothers or chance encounters at all, but rather staircases, and the myths that surround them.

The story itself was two pages long. I padded out the subsequent five hundred pages by repeatedly smushing my face into the keyboard. The publisher accepted it. (They kind of had to--they'd already shelled out a significant advance, which I spent on booze, peyote and an adolescent tiger shark named Fesbach that I kept in a bathtub.) But they didn't publish it. All the senior editors met in the conference room late one Friday afternoon, smoked the entire manuscript, page by page and threw darts at my dust jacket portrait.

So now I'm an outsider again, and that's okay because being an outsider is dangerous and sexy. Is it preferable to being a literary darling? I don't know. Probably. It sure is tough to put a price on being dangerous and sexy.

Friday, September 16, 2005

Burying The Sunshine

I put The Sunshine down, she was too weak to stand.

Aii-no!!! Did you have to?

I did Wife, I did. It was cruel to have waited this long.


A script titled Burying The Sunshine is currently circulating through this tinsel town, and it's generating a deafening buzz.


It will destroy Reyna when she learns.

Yes Wife, I think you are right. Where is Reyna by the way?

There she goes, probably to the back field to play.

Mierda! That is where The Sunshine's body lies, bloated and rank and attracting flies. Reyna!!! Come to the house a moment, I need to talk to you. Reyna, can you hear me? No Reyna, don't go in the field!!!


Burying The Sunshine is the powerful and heartbreaking story of Reyna Quiñconez Octavio, the only daughter of a Chilean bean farmer. It tells of her savage quest to avenge the murder of her pet llama, The Sunshine.

Reyna's long and bloody trail takes her from high in the Andes to the slums of Santiago, where she soon discovers she must earn pesos horizontally if she is to avoid starvation. Within two years, Reyna Quiñconez Octavio has become a well-respected contract killer. (El Pequeño Asesino -- The Little Assassin.) She is twelve years old. By fourteen, she's the acting deputy overseeing a joint human slave trading operation for several local cartels. By fifteen, she's killing visiting diplomats just to win bar bets.

When new evidence opens an old wound, Reyna must return to her home village to face the last man she ever thought she'd have to kill... her father.

A bidding war has already begun for the script, and no one's even read it yet. They're calling it an Oscar Mine--The next foreign breakthrough hit. South America's Crouching Tiger, the Chilean Whale Rider.

A whole lot of people are going to be mighty grumpy if they ever find out the writer is actually my relatively trusty sidekick, Kid Relish. And that he isn't even remotely Chilean. And that he conducted all his "script research" in less than twenty minutes using the internet search engine, Altavista. (I know, right? Not even Google!)

Kid assures me no one will ever find out. "Come on Latty," he sneered. "The suits don't even watch 'em before they release 'em... not if they're subtitled. And do you really think the orgasming reviewers are going to double check with the Chilean Film Commission before writing their breathless reviews?"

Kid Relish flashed me his winning grin. "No one ever thinks to authenticate foreign films, Latty, because they can't fathom that anyone would ever want to counterfeit one. But no one's ever seen a devil cheeky as me."

Unless it's found to be the fraud it is, be sure to look for Burying The Sunshine (Enterrar La Sol) coming soon to critics choice lists and broke-down art houses everywhere.

Thursday, September 15, 2005

Bleeding Alone in Sporadic Spurts

The problem with bleeding alone is that no one's there to see how sexy you look. Crouching in the half light, squinty-eyed and snarling as a burgundy slick pools about your feet is all well and awesome and tough, but ultimately means very little if you're the only witness.

But the problem with leaning in the entrance to your cute co-worker's cubicle every time you get a paper cut is that you quickly run out of reasons for being there.

"I saw the beast that bit me, it was twenty-pound and watermarked. I enacted vengeance swift and shredded it needlessly." This works once, provided your co-worker is fairly sharp, and doesn't already hate you. (Oh yeah, and isn't on the phone when you say it.) But it gets old real quick, and by about the third time, her nervous laughter thinly disguises annoyance and revulsion.

Latigo Flint once said the following to a female co-worker: "Chest-to-chest is passionate but our hearts are on different sides. Let me press upon your back and our ventricles will align."

(Latigo Flint doesn't work there anymore.)

Squinty-Eyed Gunslinger was the best job ever. No one can argue against this. No one even tries. Winter cabins, whiskey and dance hall saloons. You called the whole west your home and could sometimes shoot your boss.

I have no head for business, I lack its acumen. Dollars seem so pointless, until I'm eating Kraft again. I'm uneasy all the time now. Yes, it's partly due the fact I'm not allowed to gut-shoot impolite people. But it's more than that I think. I look around today and see late Rome. It's opulent, lazy and indignant. A constant glorification of all the wrong travails. Almost as many litigators as engineers.

I blame yogurt... for no particular reason other than it sure feels good to pick something and snarl at it with everything I've got. Things were awesome in the time of the cowboy, and you never saw them eating yogurt now did you?!

This is not a rail against science or technology, only yogurt. Cowboys were men (and women) of science, mostly biological. And they certainly embraced technology. (Until it replaced them, of course. Forget about that for now though--it's not relevant.) They never trusted yogurt; that's what is relevant, and I've just decided we shouldn't either.

Yogurt--is it Really Worth it?

(I'm Latigo Flint and I approve this message.)

Tuesday, September 13, 2005

Contemplative Evenings

Latigo Flint likes a pipe in the evening. A mellow Cavendish Blend contemplatively smoked on the veranda of a tiny studio apartment. Apple tobacco and solitude in the California dusk. I pretend the freeway sounds are buffalo and the palm trees, prairie pine.

I puff and dream and imagine I'm a thinker. History's gunslingers, famous and obscure, are mentally inventoried. 'Yep, I'm faster than him. And him. And him. Ha, he'd never ever brush hammer. Much faster than him, her and him.' (And on and on.)

Two certainties emerge: Goddamn I'm fast on the draw--and bitter, bitter this wasted, useless talent. It is with dread-shuffling lament that I contemplate my 150-years-late birth. Sometimes I accidentally snap the pipe stem between twitching, twisting fingers. Fortunately I have a spare. I bowl-to-bowl transfer whatever remains and whisper an apology toward Virginia.

What happens next is entirely dependent on the shuffle feature of my thousand-disc CD changer. If an Enya song plays, chances are I'm settling back in my chair. You tend not to move when you find yourself soothed. I'm not ashamed to admit Enya soothes me. I'm Latigo Flint goddamn it. If you laugh in my face I get to pistol whip you... and that's always pretty fun. If you laugh from afar I won't even hear.

If a song with a harmonica and a sad fiddle starts to play, I'll probably scream and double over, raked through my center by the razor claws of savage nostalgia.

A Tom Waits tune and I'll go inside and build wicker sculptures 'till dawn. (Hey, it fits--I don't even know why... and you should see my collection.)

If it's a song by outlaw country outsider, Steve Earle, I'm probably going downtown to pick a fight with a bouncer just so I can shoot him in the face.

It is a strange trail I've picked to stride. Fate and pride conspired to collide. That the soundtrack of my life includes more than one Billy Joel song only makes it stranger.

I'm not entirely certain we're allowed to describe our own lives as strange and expect to taken very seriously. You're too close to your own life. Not enough perspective. Way too much bias. But I just did--and damnit, I'm not retracting it!

And I think recognizing and acknowledging the thin ice of credibility upon which I writhe has to make me some sort of god... or sexy and awesome at the very least.

(You ever forget how to end something? That's why I like stories about hydrophobia so much. Slobber, die, the end. It's elegant, straightforward, complete. Rabies as literary perfection... Fred Gipson knew it.)

Monday, September 12, 2005

A Sincere Apology

Latigo Flint would like to take this opportunity to offer a sincere apology on behalf of himself and his relatively trusty sidekick, Kid Relish, to the approximately 2.2 million Southland residents who found themselves without power this afternoon. We hear the lights are back on for most of you. We're glad. We hope the rest come back up real soon.

We appreciate the noble gesture by the two utility guys, Rocco and Bobby, who tried to cover for us by reporting worker error during installation of a transmission system. You fellas are princes in our book, but roll off the grenade please; Kid Relish and I are cut from Squinty-Eyed Gunslinger leather, and part of that means owning up to your mistakes.

See, here's what happened--for over six years now, The Kid and I have been operating a California condor recovery program in Kid Relish's grandmother's basement. We started in 1998 with one breeding pair, Pretty Molly and Captain Chortlebeak, and now we're up to... well, actually it's still just them--neighborhood cats keep sneaking in and eating the chicks. But that's beside the point. What happened today was we were taking Pretty Molly and Captain Chortlebeak on their daily walk and Kid suggested we go a different way this time. Unfortunately, this new route took us right past one of the major power receiving stations in the San Fernando Valley.

An ice cream vendor happened to be stopped directly across the street from the nondescript brown building with "DWP" above the door. I had Kid Relish hold both leashes while I purchased four frozen juice bars. (Strawberry for The Kid, lime for me and pineapple/coconut for Pretty Molly and Captain Chortlebeak.)

I was double-counting my change because the vendor giggled when he handed it to me, when suddenly I heard Kid Relish yell in alarm. I whirled to see Pretty Molly and Captain Chortlebeak making a desperate sprint for the fenced-in area behind the power station, dragging The Kid behind them.

"Señor, your condors," the ice cream vendor smiled sadly. "They seem to be escaping."

"Hang on Kid!!!" I hollered as he bounced over the curb and up the sidewalk. I glared at the ice cream vendor. "A little sensitivity please Amigo. Those are two of the poor little tykes from the children's burn ward. Um, The Kid and I volunteer there. Those children are very brave and have been though so much--I think they've earned the right not to be insulted by ice cream vendors."

It's against my nature to lie, but owning an endangered California condor happens to be punishable by death in this state. (Former Governor Gray Davis snuck that one on the books in 2001 during his re-election campaign and used it to have his opponent, Bill Simon, executed.)

The ice cream vendor nodded solemnly then pointed. "Señor, your burn victim children," he stifled a laugh with a cough. "They seem to be flying away now."

Sure enough, the pair had Kid Relish six feet off the ground and were straining with heavy flaps to gain the summit of the power station's double-high security fence. Kid was trying to plead them down with urgent reminders of pineapple/coconut frozen juice bars but they didn't seem to hear, they were overcome by some sort of primal urge.

"Oh god Kid, hang on!!! Here I come." I sprinted toward them but had only crossed half the distance when Captain and Molly redoubled their flaps and tugged Kid face-first into the razor wire at the top. He screamed and released the leashes. Relieved of their burden, Pretty Molly and Captain Chortlebeak were free to proceed, smack into the lethal coils of an unshielded transformer.

It roasted them instantly. I dropped to my knees in the center of the street, my soul screaming the words my throat could only manage to whisper: "God no!!! Pretty Molly!!! Captain Chortlebeak!!!"
From his razor wire tangle at the top of the fence, Kid Relish began shrieking his anguish across a metal, gravel yard. Then the loadbreak switches blew and the explosion blasted him forty feet into a hedge.

Anyway, chain reaction from there. I reckon I don't need to detail it; you all have a basic understanding of power grids, right?

So again, I'm very sorry about that greater Los Angeles. Kid, I'm sorry I stopped for frozen juice bars, but you should have tried harder dern it. Pretty Molly and Captain Chortlebeak... I'll carry this wound for all time. I pray there's a condor heaven. I hope the cliffs run forever there, rugged and tall beneath a clear blue sky.

Sunday, September 11, 2005

Salsa Bars and Unholy Wraiths

The other day Latigo Flint was waiting for his to-go order at a local chain restaurant when the microphone at the food pick-up counter clicked on by itself. The open channel hummed for a moment and then a shrill voice blared from the speakers.
"The ghost, the ghost, the deadly wraith, it's in the room with you."

This came as quite a shock to the patrons. Over the years we've become accustomed to hearing basically: 'Number 54, your order's ready, number 54.' and variants of, from restaurant speaker systems. This statement was obviously something entirely different, and involuntary shivers twitched through many a shoulder.

The voice continued. "It plans doom upon your children and a pox on girlfriends fair." Which was bad, of course, and the frightened glances people gave each other reflected this. Most of us would probably prefer that disembodied voices had something a bit cheerier to say.

The voice howled twice to silence the panicky murmur. "Defeating it, difficult--but defeat it you must; or it will rip your loved ones apart and make you watch." The voice cleared its invisible throat. "The wraith is next to the salsa bar!!!"

That, I didn't expect. A hundred homicidal faces slowly turned to me. I gulped, set the salsa ladle down and raised a wary index finger. "Okay now... that's just silly. You all know how silly that is, right?"

No, they didn't seem to. They slowly advanced.

"Hey!" I started randomly pointing at people, figuring odds were I'd hit a sensible one eventually. "Look now, I'm just waitin' for my food. Another day, another burrito combo meal. Just like you all, huh?"

The speakers hissed and wailed. "Believe his lies at your peril!!! At. Your. Peril!!!"

I glared at the microphone. "Why you unholy wretch! If anyone's the liar, it's you!!!"

A middle-aged woman in capri pants shoved her way to the front of the mob and threw up her hands. "Thank goodness" I thought, "a sensible ally".

"People!" The woman hollered. "It's clear something is happening here we don't entirely understand. But we sure don't want our children torn apart in front of us, so I vote we throw metal napkin dispensers at this guy next to the salsa bar until we're pretty sure he's dead!"

Oh goddamn it.

I tried to scramble for cover behind the salsa bar but was cut down by a barrage of metal napkin dispensers. They stopped beating me when they were pretty sure I was dead; overturned the salsa bar on my face for good measure and went back to waiting for their food orders. The phantom voice didn't return and that was proof enough for everyone to convince themselves they'd done the right thing.

I lay half-conscious on the checkered linoleum floor, blowing tiny bubbles in a pool of blood and salsa. My order number was called, and when it went unclaimed, someone picked it up and threw it at me.

Listen, they need to do one of those Unsolved Mystery shows about that goddamn voice. What the hell was it? Did it have it in for me personally or was I simply wrong place / wrong time... namely next to the salsa bar? They also need to send a friggin' convoy of hearses to Burbank 'cause when I can walk again I'm going to kill every single bastard who hit me with a napkin dispenser.

Oh wait, savage irony; I can't do that--that'll prove the wretched voice right.


The only silver lining is that I now have a small amount of salsa pumping through my veins and this makes me even sexier than I was before, if that's even possible.

I stood up around about 9pm, a dangerous glint in wild eyes. I wiped the cilantro from my hat brim and settled it low on a smeared brow. Blood and salsa ran in rivulets down my bare chest, and believe you me, every female employee working the evening shift licked her lips and touched her hair.

Friday, September 09, 2005

It's Good to Have a Plan

Hey, Latigo Flint does have a plan you know. He does. Some people think Latigo Flint doesn't have any plan at all. Some people think Latigo Flint is lost and drifting like a poodle in a blizzard. Well that's inaccurate. Those people are wrong. Latigo Flint is much more like a Montana cow pony in a blizzard than a poodle. Yeah it's tough to see in a blizzard, even for a cow pony; it forgets its name and icicles dangle from its mane--but lost, never! Montana cow ponies always know where the ranch is, and they shove their way toward it with unwavering gumption.

Sure, sometimes a big, scraggly tree will fall across the cow pony's path and it's so damn cold that the cow pony doesn't notice the pain at first and ends up impaling itself on the pointy branches. And then hawks eat the pony's eyeballs come first thaw. But that's pretty rare, and whatever this is a metaphor for probably won't befall Latigo Flint.

What was I saying? Oh yes, the plan! The plan (and it's a good one!) is to watch Young Guns, Silverado and The Good, The Bad and The Ugly--all in a row... and try to drink myself to death before the third credit scroll.

No, wait... that was last night's plan.


Let me start over please.

The plan (and it's a good one) is to watch The Quick and the Dead, Open Range and Unforgiven--all in a row... and try to drink myself to death before the third credit scroll.

Oh goddamn it... that was Monday's plan come to think of it.

Son of a--

Okay. Fine. New friggin' plan. The plan (and it's an awesome one!!!) is to watch Labyrinth, three times in a row, and masturbate a total of twelve times, six to Jennifer Connelly and six to David Bowie, before the third credit scroll.

Wait... that's an embarrassing plan.

Ah, hell with it, I'll do it anyway. After all, I reckon that's what a Montana cow pony would do.

Wednesday, September 07, 2005

One Shadow Darker

In beast country, one shadow darker is cause for alarm--many shadows moving, terror.

In beast country, "heroic" and "wise" are mutually exclusive.

In beast country, family is no blessing--their screams alter your sprint in a way stranger's do not.

In beast country, altering your sprint tends to have personally horrific results.

In beast country, a man learns his worth... and it is frequently measured in kilo-calories.

Beast country is where legends are made of men. (The self-defecation and snotty-tears are typically omitted.)

You will know a man who has trekked through beast country by his haunted eyes and also by what could only be described as a 'vacant twitchfulness'. Whatever you do, don't serve him yogurt, especially the fruit-paste-on-the-bottom kind.

Not kidding around here, put the fuckin' yogurt away!

Damnit Sarah, the man has trekked through beast country. He's seen horrors you can't possibly imagine. Why would you add enzyme to injury and serve him yogurt?

Okay, if you stir that yogurt in front of him, he's going to fatally rip your face off. (He knows how--he's been in beast country, remember?)

Action Point Summary for Beast Country:
1) It's bad.
2) Most people get eaten there.
3) Don't put yogurt in front of the few that return.

I'd tell you more about beast country but I actually think it's sexier if I lapse into abrupt silence and twitch vacantly for a while now.

(In beast country, one shadow darker is cause for alarm--many shadows moving, terror.)

((That was a parenthetical just then; a mumbled reiteration. It's more or less the same as an abrupt silence. It's certainly just as sexy, if not more.

Reap it you laughing, ghostly dancers!

Okay, twitching vacantly now.))

Tuesday, September 06, 2005

Kick Toward Thorns

I am Latigo Flint by all that's holy, the quickest quickdraw the world has ever seen! That road cone is not. Not even remotely.

By the waxed handlebar of Earp, I'm going to fill you so full of lead road cone... why you wretched orange... Ooh I'm gonna...

(Go about your internet business friend and reader, this ain't your fight, it's between me and that wretched road cone. He challenged me to a gunfight, which naturally I declined because I'm a human man and he's a road cone and it would be beneath me, very much so, to gunfight him. Then as I strode past, he had the temerity to lean over and bonk me on my ankle.)

Okay, you just made the worst mistake you'll never make again road cone! Bonk my ankle will you?! Well, see how you like this! And that! And devastating punch, followed by another. And multiple stomps. What's that? Don't throw you under a truck?! Too fucking late I'd say?! Rubbery snout shoved into mailbox slot--jump kick, jump kick, jump kick... and... SPIN KICK!!!. Yeah, not supposed to bend that way, are you?

Ho-hum. Devastating you couldn't be simpler road cone. Rather regret bonking my ankle, now don't you?

Eye gouge. Elbow drop. Exploratory crowbar. Hammer-toss spin, release against brick. Kick for height. Kick for distance. Kick toward thorns. Hey road cone, I bet Ms. Fire Hydrant would like a headbutt contest--I think you can take her. What's that? You say she's a cast metal alloy and you're just industrial rubber? Oh, don't be a sissy, remember, you've got the element of surprise.

Headbutt contest--urinate on the victor. (Don't worry, she likes it.) Sharp corner dumpster smashes. Roundhouses and Zippo flame. Random bludgeonry.

Brutal shaking whist I catch my breath. Scissor leg lock and pointy stick assault. Uppercut, uppercut, uppercut... with a pipe wrench. And, grand finale: Sprinting picket fence smackles, motorized winch test and a shotgun blast!

Don't worry road cone, I'll probably stop scraping you back and forth across asphalt by nightfall... in mid-October!!!

(I am Latigo Flint by all that's holy. I am Latigo Flint. I am Latigo Flint. I am Latigo Flint. Booze is my exploratory crowbar. But goddamn if I didn't kill the hell out of that road cone.)

Monday, September 05, 2005

Raoul Clementine Higuera

One suburban spring not long ago, a probationary bag-boy named Raoul Clementine Higuera fell in love with the assistant manager. Her name was Julie Strider. She had dark hair, blue eyes and could chat with anyone. Raoul liked to imagine her writing his eulogy in sixty years or so.
"It is very little that I need from Julie." He would tell himself as he bagged the groceries. "Just three things really: A first kiss, a eulogy and whatever comes between."

Raoul loved her; it was a basic fact, accepted without consideration. When a customer says "Paper" you put the groceries into a paper bag, "Plastic" into plastic, and Raoul loves Julie. But his love was foolish--Assistant Managers don't love probationary bag-boys back; not if they want to make General Manager. And Julie Strider wanted to make General Manager; she wanted it very much.


Raoul Clementine Higuera turned twenty that spring. It was also the year he graduated high school, receiving the diploma no one thought him capable of. He'd inched along with nonchalant determination, oblivious to the well-intentioned advice that always seemed to include the acronym: GED. And though his tassel may have been the only one to scrape a five o'clock shadow, he had every bit the right to nail it proudly to a wall.

Raoul wasn't supposed to approach the microphone that day in the school auditorium but he did anyway.
"Good afternoon." He pleasantly wished a thousand smirking eyes. "Better late than never I think." He glanced up and through the ceiling. "Más vale tarde que nunca." He repeated in case his grandmother happened to be listening. "I thank you for your congratulations." (Raoul tended to give people the benefit of the doubt.) "I am proud. I must go to the supermarket now. I earn money there and I love a woman who works there. Today is a good day for me, I hope it is for you. Good-Bye."

A sharp popping sound came from the speakers as Raoul walked off stage, the result of the Assistant Principal's urgent whisper to the audio technician to "pull the goddamn plug!" But the audio tech had some trouble figuring out which plug it was, and Raoul didn't talk that long.

(Twenty minutes later, the valedictorian would silently deliver her opening remarks to a giggling crowd as the tech frantically tried to remember where to reinsert the lead.)


Over the next few months, Raoul's skill as a grocery bagger became common knowledge--and his amorous sorrow, legendary. Customers who weren't even in his line would turn to their checker.
"That bag-boy over there," They'd say. "The tall, swarthy one with blazing hands that always seem to group colds with colds and nary a chip bag smushed..." (Pointed look at whichever bagger happened to be working the end of their conveyer.) "...What lament could possibly cause such astounding pain?"

"Oh, you mean Clementine?"
The checker would glance at Raoul. "Poor fool is in love with the Assistant Manager."
The customers would sigh knowingly and swipe their ATM cards.


In most grocery stores you'll find the unofficial position of Checker/Bagger. It is usually held by either those that management doubts will make good checkers but have bagged for so long they deserve an occasional chance, or former checkers who erred once too often. Checker/Baggers are frequently cruel and desperate people, especially to Baggers. Their other responsibility is to operate the I.D. badge machine. It was a particularly nasty Checker/Bagger who upon learning Raoul's middle name was Clementine, permanently attached it to his chest. But the joke was on that Checker/Bagger, for there happens to be something incredibly appealing, even if only subconsciously, about an attractive Latin man named Clementine, and Raoul was no worse, and probably much better off for the switch.


In great numbers, customers began choosing the register line featuring Raoul at its end. An ever-fracturing heart had not prevented him from becoming a truly magnificent grocery bagger--probably the best the world has ever seen. The secret to Raoul's skill was simple: He imagined every item had been purchased by his love, Julie Strider. Naturally she would want all the cleaning products in one bag--it made them simpler to put away at home. Smush even one of Julie's chips? Never! That would make her a little bit sad tomorrow.

Autumn suddenly appeared (as it likes to do) and Raoul began attending classes at the local university when not scheduled at the market. Of course he wasn't enrolled--that costs quite a bit more than a bag-boy makes. But he did attend. The great myth is that it costs many thousands of dollars to get a good college education. It does not; that simply isn't true. It only costs many thousands of dollars to prove you've received it.

Raoul had hoped to find a class that specifically taught people how to get Assistant Managers to fall in love with them, but apparently universities feature no such class. Throughout his long life, Raoul would often reflect with a rueful smile, on his naivety those early tweed days.

Raoul's last day at the supermarket was a Wednesday in mid-December. His eyes flicked open in the pre-dawn gloom, a full hour and a half before his alarm clock was set to ring. He'd been having a vivid dream about a weeping owl. Raoul had never put much stock or study into dream interpretation, but even a skeptic knows there's something significant, and probably quite ominous about a weeping owl dream.

His unease grew throughout the morning and by the time the bus dropped him off, he had prepared himself for the worst: A pink slip in his staff-room locker. An 'Under New Management' banner above the automatic door. Just a crater where the supermarket used to be.

But Raoul hadn't set the dread-scale high enough and his first glimpse of the sparkling band on Julie's finger nearly killed him.

Raoul had known she was seeing someone. Hell, the entire store knew. Every day at five to five a burly young man would roar up in his detailed black truck, slot it lengthwise across two handicapped spots and torture the parking lot with loud, Pearl Jam derivative. The sonic injustice would continue for however long it took Julie to clock out, hang her company vest and happily stride to the passenger door.

It hadn't concerned Raoul Clementine Higuera. Girls date boys and the reverse; it's what happens. The glory of a first kiss through to a eulogy isn't dependent on the girl having never dated an asshole. But this sudden escalation to marriage commitment... well, this Raoul found himself wholly unprepared for.

He removed his apron and draped it across the gumball machine. Then he walked back through the automatic doors and didn't stop until he hit the interstate. The young man known to thousands of grocery shoppers as Clementine, the greatest, saddest bag-boy in the world, was never seen in that town again.

The End

Sunday, September 04, 2005

Field Dressing

Howdy friend. This is Latigo Flint speaking to you from the past. Latigo Flint is not at his keyboard right now--Latigo Flint took the long weekend off to trek alone through beast country. Trekking alone through beast country is very, very sexy.

A special computer program or script or code or some such, will now randomly select a story from the archives for you to read if you feel like reading something right now. I hope it picks a good one.

From the archives - 2/02/2005


Field Dressing

Latigo Flint has long held the theory that an exceptionally good way to impress people, and especially girls, would be to self-cauterize a wound in front of them.

Yesterday Latigo Flint finally got his chance to test the theory when he cut his index finger on the cracked edge of a Burger King food tray.

"Apparently I have received a flesh wound!" (It was necessary to command everyone's attention and shouting that seemed to do the trick.) "It is imperative that this cracked food tray be removed from circulation." The Burger King staff shot uneasy looks at each other but none made a move to collect it.
"Please good staff. Why, a child could injure his or herself on its wickedly jagged prominence." I gazed dramatically around the room. "A child who would not be as capable of dealing with it as I."

With one hand I expertly snapped open and lit my Zippo lighter, then carefully inserted my house key into the center of the extravagant flame. A teenage couple was giving me a very strange look. I nodded at the guy and winked platonically at his date.
"Not to worry kids," I said, inspecting the key that was now starting to glow slightly. "We call this a field dressing. No big thing. I do it all the time." I took a bite of my burger and chewed nonchalantly. I squinted slightly at the ceiling for effect, then raised the glowing key and placed it to the cut.

I came to in a hospital bed. They say when I screamed, the mouthful of burger lodged in my windpipe, choking me. The paramedic report claims I staggered around the room grunting--one hand at my throat and thrusting the index finger of the other into people's soft drinks. Apparently I then made a stumbling charge in the direction of the ice dispenser, slipped on a tray that was lying in the isle and smashed chin-first into a table.

But Latigo Flint doesn't believe those jealous bastards for one second. Likely the self-cauterization went off without a hitch and after every female in the place crowded admiringly around me, I was badly beaten by a furious mob of boyfriends and husbands.

Friday, September 02, 2005

The Journal of the Nameless Cowpuncher

I have posted few things to this weblog of which I am truly proud. The following happens to be one of them. It contains all I adore, and I can smell every word if you know what I mean. The bummer is that it isn't mine--it was writ some many years ago by a nameless cowpuncher.

Happy Labor Weekend America. Peace and hope to the New Orleans. Um, to the rest of 'yall in the world... erm... don't hate us 'cause we're awesome. (And stuff.)

From the archives: April 4, 2005

The Journal of the Nameless Cowpuncher

Latigo Flint found the Journal of the Nameless Cowpuncher to be extremely moving. The journal is currently on display in Los Angeles at a very prestigious history museum. The museum recently lent the journal to Latigo Flint. This was quite an honor; museums are typically rather asshole-ish when it comes to letting people borrow their stuff.

Since the museum probably won't ever let you borrow it, I'll tell you the last ten entries so you know how it ends:

July 17, 1874
It was dang hot today. I don't much like punchin' cows. That sway-backed steer keeps trying to bite me. I think I'm gonna shoot him when Boss ain't lookin'.

July 18, 1874
Even hotter today. Cookie's stew gave me the wind something fierce. Too hot to bother shooting the sway-backed steer who keeps trying to bite me. Accidentally dropped my favorite neckerchief into a ravine.

July 19, 1874
Day dreamt about Sarah today. Was lost in pleasant recollection of the way she brushes her gingham bonnet from her pretty face, her laughing eyes, sweet smile... Then that sway-backed steer tried to bite me and I couldn't get her image back. One of the Allen twins hit the other one over the head with Cookie's bone rasp.

July 20, 1874
Boss got sunstroke today and went plumb out of his mind. He said he could hear the cows whispering of escape. Boss sat in a barrel of water and said we weren't moving one more inch until someone counted all the cows. I drew the short straw. That sway-backed steer follered me around all day long trying to bite me.

July 21, 1874
Today we had to shoot three hundred and forty seven of our cows. I must have accidentally counted some of the cows twice 'cause this morning Boss ran out of his tent waving the inventory above his head, ranting and raving about "infiltrators". I tried to persuade Boss that the sway-backed steer was one of 'em, but Boss ran his nose across the steer's back and said it didn't smell like an infiltrator.

July 22, 1874
It rained a little today and we were all mighty glad. Out here on these plains anything that settles the dust, even if only for a spell, is proof of the Lord's mercy. For some reason Cookie looked awful guilty as he ladled the stew into our bowls this evening. I actually don't want to know.

July 23, 1874
All morning long we had no idea where Boss was. One of the Allen twins finally found him 'round about lunch time. Seems Boss had come upon a large prairie dog colony about three miles west of camp, and spent most of the night and all morning bringing 'em cactus berries. I'm startin' to suspect there's something very wrong with Boss.

July 24, 1874
Seven mean looking range wolves jumped that sway-backed steer in a narrow gully this afternoon. I was the only one around and was fixin' to back quietly away and let 'em finish him off like I'd always wished upon him, 'cept for some reason I couldn't. Even though that sway-backed steer is always trying to bite me, I've come to kinda like the old boy. The last wolf did nick me on the shin while I was reloading, but it's little more than a scratch. As thanks for saving his life, that sway-backed steer tried to bite me.

July 25, 1874
There's something powerful wrong with my leg where that wolf scratched me yesterday. The fever's coming up on me too.

August 1 or maybe 2, 1874
Pretty and kind as she is, Sarah's gonna have no trouble finding another man who wants to marry her. This makes me mighty happy and mighty sad at the exact same time. I wonder if

And that's how it ended. Latigo Flint wonders if the museum curator noticed the three or four smudgedy tear stains at the bottom of the last page when he returned the journal. If she did, she was kind enough not to mention it.

Thursday, September 01, 2005

An Ode to Beer

I shudder to think
that the next can I drink
has a chance of being my last.

It's not death I fear
but the absence of beer
and an eternity soberly passed.

The reformed do decry
life is richer when dry
and meaning is found in time.

How can that be I do wonder
as icebox I plunder
and stagger to cut up a lime.

This sorrow so steady
was forgotten already
the second my gut tasted brew.

All my cares they did vanish
to the morrow they're banished
and that's something TV just can't do.


Like a badger in gravel
this keg does unravel
All of my worldly woe.

It says 'yah' gloomy grump
here's a mug filled with sump'
that's sure to be fine don't you know.


beer is so nifty
uh, I think it's spiffy
I'd choose it over a million in bills.

Did I fully relate
how much I think beer's great
My soul wants to die when it spills

Shit that was a Heineken ad
now I feel so sad
for being a dirty plagiarist.

Well I'll fix that in short order
let me crack open a porter
was I sad? Ah, it's nothing I trust.

In summation I'll say
Wait, what? No I'm saying stuff here
Beer has velvety wings like a Smurf

Can is silver and lickable
Sliver had a Baldwin in it
What... shut up I'm writing a poem.

No I don't remember which Baldwin
I think it was Günter
Colorado has a mountain or two!!!!!!!!!

So in summation I'll say
carpet is beige
Cell phones smash when you smash them.

So in conclusion I'll say
Windows Updates now available
Click here to download updates

not in desk lamp we'll say
we don't know why desk lamp isn't in
round table knights scored with ladies

tropics and Spain
yay Spanish Main
Clipper ships. Old ironsides. Civil War gold. Civil War Gold would be a good name for a beer. I'd drink a beer if it was named sivel war goldddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddddd

I'll step twelve if I must
build a circle of trust
and pretend life is better when dry.

But if my sponsor is wise
he'll keep both his eyes
on my nose veins to see if I've lied.