Several years ago, as the Iraq War began to really go south, I saw a metaphor. I did not conceive a metaphor. I actually saw one, in 3D, floating through the sky. My band, the Flat Possum Boys, had played at a hot air balloon festival in Glenmoore, PA. Glenmoore is beautiful, rolling hills and…
This is only slightly edited, and honestly I’m not even sure if I should re-post this. Please be forewarned there are n-bombs.
I worked four pizza jobs over the course of my career, all of which have funny stories attached to them. However it’s my second pizza job story that takes the cake (pie?).
In the early 1990s, I worked at a dingy place called Pizza Pal Plus in the Westville neighborhood of New Haven, across the avenue from Edgewood Park where Fitch Street heads to Southern Connecticut State University and the housing projects. It was the kind of neighborhood where, when my friends Alan and Mark were robbed of their mountain-bikes at gun point, the police actually collaborated in the theft with the pawn shop that was fencing them.
Pizza Pal Plus did a lot of business in those projects, which were situated out by West Rock Ridge state park. West Rock was a beautiful park, which stretched miles out of the city into the surrounding towns and countryside, linking Sleeping Giant and East Rock. All three parks were part of the same geologic formation. Then, as now, New Haven was in dire financial straits, and had to choose which of the their parks to maintain: West Rock lost out. As a result, twenty minutes up the paved drive, the ridge returned to a real semblance of wildness. The tarmac was overgrown in places with grass and saplings, just past some ancient graffiti which read “The women’s movement is a bowel movement” and “Frak Zappa”, which sent my friend Dennis and I into shroom-driven paroxysms of laughter as the trees melted. Camping was illegal in the park, but ten minutes in, you saw cairns pointing to choice spots and beautiful overlooks. It was my understanding -could be wrong!- that years ago, someone had the idea that poor people were isolated in ugly urban ghettoes within New Haven’s limits and so housing had been placed out by the state park, where they could commune with nature and somehow that would fix the problems. Instead, the poor people were just as isolated if not more so, and a number of the trees around the entrance to the park were pocked with bullets.
New Haven is in a geologically rich area: the Quinnipiac river empties into Long Island Sound, the surrounding countryside is nearby and beautiful, and the three ridges give ample space for wilderness recreation. Every summer, there’s a free jazz festival on the Green for three weekends every summer. The pizza is the BEST PIZZA INHE USA. I am NOT kidding about this: once you’ve had a pie at Sally’s, Pepe’s, or (my favorite) Modern, you will never go back. Oh, and they all spell it “apizza” and prounounce it “ah-beets”.
And yet it has always had more than its share of troubles. I don’t live there now, but when I did, for everything it had going for it, New Haven was little more than Yale and a slum, a dying city wracked by unemployment, drugs, and gang violence. A tough jawn, as we’d say here in Philly.
To get back to my story, Pizza Pal Plus was owned by a guy named Bill and his wife, whose name I can’t remember: I’ll call her Carmella for the rest of this piece. I can’t remember their last name either, but it doesn’t matter: they were two of the most awful people I have ever met in my entire life.
Bill sported a large and well-cultivated beer belly, which stuck out from under his tee shirt. His hair was red and so was his splotchy skin. His receding hairline was always soaked in sweat, which dripped from his ruddy nose and onto his thick rubbery lips. Bill’s clothes were always dirty, caked with filthy grey remnants of flour and dough. He had short eyelashes, giving his face a distinctly bovine appearance, which matched up well with the moo that was his voice. Expand the rear of your tongue so it almost blocks the back of your mouth, and try to talk: a sound like Tennessee Tuxedo’s pal Chumley the Walrus’s voice comes out.
On my first day of work, Bill was running down the ingredients on the various pizzas and grinders we sold (they call ’em grinders in most of New England: hoagie is the preferred word here in the mid-Atlantic). “Now when you make a grinder, ALWAYS put oil on it.” He drew out the word “oil.” “And when you make a pizza, put oooooil on the sauce, and a little more oooooil on the cheese.” He was the kind of person who referred to hamburger as “grounded beef”. [Although I’d like to go on about how disgusting the food at Pizza Pal was, it was actually entirely unmemorable. The only thing that stands out is that the crust was made in a big machine.]
Carmella stood about 5’4″, and was as tall as she was wide. Her head was covered with wiry black hair that looked like steel wool, and she was prone to terrifying fits of rage. Everything would be going along quietly, and than all of a sudden this shriek would come echoing through the kitchen.
Carmella’s eyes were deep brown, set closely in the middle of her face, making her look as piggish as Bill looked bovine. She kept the radio tuned to the top 40 station, and whenever Paula Abdul’s hit “Straight Up” came on, she would sing along loudly and tunelessly, absentmindedly lifting her shirt. Her bloated purply gut would hang out and she would pick dirt out of her bellybutton, “Straight up now tell me is it going to be me and you fah-evah, oh-oh-oh…” She preferred white tee-shirts with yellow stains under the armpits, which emphasized her sloppy brown nipples, and black leggings stretched tight across the pudding she called her thighs. They were two horrible people.
Bill and Carmella had a baby named Little Bill who was about 9 months old. Carmella would sing the baby to sleep every night with Brahm’s Lullaby. “See, the baby gets used to melody, and it’s like a Pavlov reaction. I learned that in college,” she told me. Sometimes she would sing it in las, and other times would sing a song about the boy. It was the only gentle side I saw in either of my employers. “La la la, little Bill, Mommy loves little Billy, little Billy, lalalala…”
As we worked late into the night, Big Bill’s mother, who was in her late 60s and looked like she was in her 80s, would watch Little Bill in the back of the restaurant. She was as skinny and dried out as a piece of beef jerky, and she dyed her hair the same color. The old yenta would try to start arguments with anyone about anything. “Whaddya mean you don’t like Dunkin’ Donuts coffee?” Her voice was like a big glass of sand. “Everybody likes Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, egghead.” Did she call me an egghead? She smoked Kool 100 lights, and her nails and fingers were stained a dull yellow. “EVERYONE LIKE DUNKIN’ DONUTS COFFEE.”
Bill and Carmella weren’t just awful because they were physically repellent: they were also raving bigots who, for all the business they did with the projects, hated their black clientele more than just about anything else in the whole wide world. And they weren’t too fond of Latinos, Asians, or anyone else for that matter. One of our drivers was a Latino guy named Victor. He did most of the day deliveries. Every time he’d dash into the kitchen to pick up another order, Carmella would beam at him and crow, “They call him Vic! They call him Vic cuz he’s quick!” As he pulled away with his next order she’d watch the car disappear around the bend and look at me with a funny half grin and mutter, “They call him Vic, cus he’s a fucking SPIC.”
But it was the blacks, the niggers, that Carmella and Bill hated worst. “You don’t know,” they would tell me, their faces knotted in scowls. “You’re still too young to know how those fucking niggers take advantage. Goddamn fucking niggers. By the time you move from this city, you’ll hate ’em as much as we do.”
“I don’t have a problem with the blacks,” Carmella once told me. “When they’re humble and well-behaved, like Sally, they’re not bad.” Sally was one of our drivers.
Work at Pizza Pal Plus was long and grinding. I would show up at 4:00 PM and work until 2:30 or 3:00 in the morning. We stayed open until the last order came in, and only Bill and Carmella could make that call. “Our best night is the Fourth of July,” Bill said.
“We work all night,” Carmella added. “It’s really busy, so we’re gonna need you to come in early, probably around noon.”
As summer wore on, the nights got longer, and promised to get longer still. June began to draw to a close, and we had our busiest night yet. Carmella was on the phone taking orders every two minutes, and the far side of the board was stacked three slips deep. The pies and grinders were coming in faster than our drivers could get them out, and the customers were calling and complaining.
“You wanna know when you’re gonna get your pie?” Carmella hollered into the phone. “WEll lemme tellya: I DON’T FUCKING KNOW! But you know what I DO know? EVERY FUCKING TIME YOU FUCKING CALL THIS FUCKING PLACE IT’S GONNA ADD ANOTHER TEN MINUTES ONTO WHEN I SEND YOUR FUCKING PIE OUT! Do you understand me? DON’T FUCKING YELL AT ME, YOU FUCKING NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER!” She began slamming the phone on the counter over and over again, her fat cheeks and flappy stomach joggling with boiling rage. “NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER NIGGER FUCKING NIGGER!”
“WAAAAAAHHHHHHH! WAAAH WAAAAAH WAAAAAAAAAAH!”
“OHH FUCKING FUCK THE GODDAMN FUCKING BABY WOKE UP” Carmella screamed. “BILL, THE FUCKING BABY’S FUCKING AWAKE” and she stomped over to the back of the kitchen with thunderclouds in her wake, as Bill hollered back “I’M KNEE DEEP IN FUCKING DUPES WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU FUCKING WANT ME TO DO” and the mother-in-law yelled “SHUT UP THE BOTH OF OF YOU!”
Carmella picked up Little Bill, and despite her fury began to rock him gently, while singing the familiar lullaby quietly to put him back to sleep. “Nigger nigger, nigger nigger, little Bill hates them niggers, fucking niggers stupid niggers, and your Mommy hates them too…”
I’ll tell you, that incident put me in shock for the rest of the week: I could barely look either of these rancid people. I started painting houses during the day, working Pizza Pal Plus at night. July 4th was on the way, and every night I came into work, I was reminded to be there early and to prep up for the coming juggernaut.
What could I do? I hated the place. I hated the people. I hated the hours and the food sucked. So I waited until the morning of July 4th, called in and quit, and spent the weekend in Rhode Island with my girlfriend.
This piece is more than a decade old, quite personal, and more than a little troubling. It can be found at my oldest blog, and frankly I wouldn’t be re-posting it but for an message I got from a complete stranger, a nephew of the friend I wrote about. He was impressed with the piece…
Originally published November 2, 2009, except for the Arlo Guthrie video which I added tonight because the song fits and his version is better than John Denver’s and besides I wanted to give you an ear worm.
Please Get A Soil Lead Reading First
I guess we can make this contrarian Saturday. One thing I really don’t understand – help me! – is the regular stream of people promoting urban agriculture. I don’t understand the point. I’ve got nothing against community gardens and the like, I understand that even urban hellhole residents might want to play in the soil a bit, but I really don’t get what the point of promoting urban agriculture more widely is.
Well, there are a number of reasons, both direct and indirect.
Gardening helps remediate and clean up all that lead in the soil, which by the way is plentiful in your standard country-agriculture too, thanks to decades of lead-based pesticide use. As the linked article makes clear however, remediating soil with lime or compost can raise the pH of your growing medium, and make lead less of a problem. One of my friends, who works at one of Philadelphia’s urban farms, tells me that if you remediate your soil with compost ever year for three years or so, any lead is thoroughly dissipated. So that’s one reason: cleaning up and improving soil.
Another reason pertains to the whole “think globally, act locally” philosophy. Even though Philadelphia fits the description of a sustainable city due to our direct economic link to the farms of Lancaster county and beyond, it still costs money in terms of gasoline and road wear to truck meat and produce into the city. These costs are part of the price you pay at local farmers markets. Example: earlier this week, I paid $3.00 for a bag of baby greens and $2.50 for a head of red leaf lettuce. That same $5.50 pays for at least 2 packets of seeds which will grow ten times as many greens. In fact, the only reason I bought the baby greens this weekend was because mine aren’t fully grown and ready to eat. Urban farms encourage the local economy, and make our city more sustainable.
Planting crops like dill, cilantro, basil, and other herbs that bear very small flowers helps support our honeybee and beneficial insect population, all of which are under enormous pressures from chemical pesticides and pollution. Out in California, there’s worry that colony collapse disorder will literally destroy the bee-dependent almond industry: as we all should know by now, honeybee-based pollination is responsible for about two-thirds of all the food we eat, including beef (alfalfa is prime cattle feed, and wholly dependent on bees). Honeybees aren’t native to the US, and anything we can do to help them thrive and survive is a good thing. As it happens, there’s a hive somewhere on my block, and my cilantro and basil helps keep them alive, while playing a small role in ensuring biodiversity.
This brings us to the economics. A few years ago my buddy Larry let his daughters buy some baby chicks to keep as pets. Larry’s good with his hands and built a coop for the birds in the back yard. After about a year, the fluffy yellow birds had grown into full-size chickens, which lay eggs that Larry eats for breakfast. I don’t know the last time he had to buy a dozen eggs at the store. That’s a savings right there. Furthermore, the birds are pretty much self-perpetuating: chickens will eat just about anything, and don’t require a ton of care. It’s not like you pay out the nose for feed.
I’ll continue with the economics: it’s November and we just tore down our tomato plants yesterday. Even then, there was some discussion as to whether we could wring a few more fruits out of the vines. While it’s difficult to quantify exactly how many pounds of tomatoes we grew, I can tell you this much: our cabinets are stocked with quarts of tomatoes [my ex] canned herself. Last year, we didn’t buy a single can of whole peeled tomatoes ($1.79-$2.50 apiece, trucked in from someplace else, canned in a factory the doubtless generates runoff and other pollution) all winter. All of our turnip greens are canned. So are the green beans. I don’t think we ran out until March and by that time, spring was upon us and it was almost time to start the cycle over. Currently, I’m growing broccolli and cauliflower in the backyard, two crops I eat a lot of. Thanks to my urban garden, I don’t have to buy them at the store, where the price will include a markup that covers all the trucking costs and provides for the grocery’s profit margin.
Did you know most grocery store garlic comes from China? Again, there are ramifications for global warming (all that fuel spent in shipping the stuff), as well as worries about what chemicals the Chinese are using to grow the crop. Garlic is incredibly easy to grow: plant cloves each October, harvest whole bulbs by July.
Urban agriculture also adds greenery to neighborhoods that might otherwise be blighted with vacant lots, which in Philadelphia is another word for “impromptu landfill”. Community gardens help create a sense of ownership and neighborhood cohesion among the residents. For example, my neighbors have taken over the lot next to their house, setting up about 10 raised beds as well as a work space. Earlier this month, they got their hands on a cider press, and were going through crate after crate of apples. All the little kids on the block were looking through the fence and asking to help. What better way to teach kids about the value of nature and respect for their world than through hands-on activities that end with something yummy?
Finally, there’s the whole notion of learning a skill. It wasn’t too long ago that everyone had some level of gardening and farming skills (as well as sewing and clothing repair, brewing, basic carpentry…). These days we’re almost entirely dependent on others to provide the necessities of life. If the apocalypse hit tomorrow, [my ex] and I would be set for a few weeks at least, and if we were able to avoid the rampaging mobs of zombies and flaming hailstone dropping from the sky, we’d have more crops going as soon as possible.
So: urban gardening helps individual households cut their dependence on corporate food and all the negative consequences that go along with that; helps build the local economy by encouraging small business and nurturing entrepreneurship; helps sustain populations of beneficial insects and encourages biodiversity; teaches adults and kids a meaningful skill; promotes responsibility and independence; and helps build community. Those are just some of the reasons for promoting urban agriculture widely.
Originally posted April 7, 2009. Some links may be expired.
“Hello, Speaker’s office,” said the young man who picked up the phone.
“Hi, this is Brendan Skwire,” i said cheerfully. I always like to start out with a smile. “I’m hoping that you or someone in the Speaker’s office can answer a question.
“I just got a copy of the leaked Red Cross report about the treatment of 14 detainees, and I have to tell you, it’s pretty upsetting. My stomach is still queasy from the descriptions of the waterboarding, and suspending people from hooks, and forcing them to stand in their own filth. And this report reminded me of an article I read in the Washington Post back in 2007, which described a visit Ms. Pelosi made to Guantanamo back in 2002. I think she was accompanied by, oh who was it, Jane Harman, Porter Goss, Senator Rockefeller.
“And what’s troubling,” I continued, maintaining a pleasant and cheery tone of voice, “is that the Post article made clear that on this visit everyone, except for maybe one lone hold out, not only approved of what was going on, but actually told the CIA to ‘do it harder.’
“So what I’d like to know is, was Nancy Pelosi that lone hold out, or did she tell the CIA to do it harder?”
“Sir! Sir! Sirsirsir SIR!” the guy began shouting. “I assure you Nancy Pelosi does not support torture.”
“OK, but that doesn’t answer my question,” I responded calmly. It’s best to remain calm when people get agitated, and this guy sounded like he’d mainlined a pitcher of coffee. “What i want to know is if, when Ms. Pelosi visited Guantanamo in 2002, she told the CIA to “do it harder” or if she object–”
“SIR STOP SHOUTING AT ME!!” the guy shouted.
“I’m not shouting,” I said, calm and cheerful as could be. “If anyone’s shouting, it’s y–”
“SPEAKER PELOSI DOESN’T SUPPORT TORTURE!!!” he continued to yell.
“All I’m asking about is—”
I didn’t even get a chance to finish my sentence, because what erupted from the other end of the phone was a sputtering gurgle, the kind of sound a person makes when he’s been called out and has no adequate response. The next sound I heard was the receiver slamming down, followed by a recording of Nancy Pelosi’s voice telling me how much she looked forward to “hearing” my concerns.
Think about that: I called up, spoke politely, calmly, respectfully, and cheerfully, and the moment I asked about torture and whether the Speaker approved it, the reaction from the Speaker’s office was agitation, shouting, outraged non-denial denials, and accusations that I was the one making a stink. That my friends, is called “projection” and “distraction” and “denial”.
“We look forward to hearing your concerns”. Not “listening to”, hearing. And from the response of at least one staff member, they’re not really interested in that either.
Update: I got an email wondering if the young guy answering the phone knew of Pelosi’s involvement, or if he was blissfully ignorant. Page 2 of the Washington Post article should answer THAT question:
Pelosi declined to comment directly on her reaction to the classified briefings. But a congressional source familiar with Pelosi’s position on the matter said the California lawmaker did recall discussions about enhanced interrogation. The source said Pelosi recalls that techniques described by the CIA were still in the planning stage — they had been designed and cleared with agency lawyers but not yet put in practice — and acknowledged that Pelosi did not raise objections at the time.
Harman, who replaced Pelosi as the committee’s top Democrat in January 2003, disclosed Friday that she filed a classified letter to the CIA in February of that year as an official protest about the interrogation program. Harman said she had been prevented from publicly discussing the letter or the CIA’s program because of strict rules of secrecy.
A brief primer for those of you who never got the chance to read my old blog. I was, at the time, notorious for my phone calls, especially to politicians behaving badly. I never recorded these but the conversations I had are some of my finest accomplishments ever as a blogger. This one is one…
Originally published 8/11/06, some names redacted for privacy. I was sitting outside at a table at the Dahlak on Sunday with my friend Rich and this punk rock girl I had never met before. She had short blonde hair, and wore thick streaks of pink eyeshadow, almost a Blondie meets Benatar kind of look. She…
Originally posted April 29, 2009. Edited for typos.
Cross posted at daily Kos
Philadelphia’s chapter of Drinking Liberally meets every Tuesday at the Triumph Brewery [ed, 2/23/15: now 2nd Story Brewing], which is where I was last night enjoying a beer when a fellow drinking liberal ran up the stairs. “I think Pat Toomey’s downstairs!” he exclaimed.
You may know that name: Pat Toomey’s the Club for Growth winger who’s scared Arlen Specter out of the GOP. So as a very liberal democrat with an equal loathing for Arlen, I knew I had to meet this guy.
Turns out Pat and I had a bit in common. For starters, we’d both gone to Philadelphia’s Tea Parties, although I’m fairly sure Pat didn’t recognize me since my sign hid half my face.
As it happens, I have a few friends who are extremely conservative, and I enjoy concern trolling them even in casual conversation. So the first thing I said to Pat was “You and I probably don’t agree on… well, much of anything. But there’s one thing we probably share: Arlen Specter sucks! And actually, it’s more than that,” I went on. “I firmly believe that a politician has a responsibility to reflect the views of the party base.” [Concern troll hat by this time firmly in place] “I have a lot of conservative and Republican friends, and good lord, I would be embarrassed by someone like Specter! And think of what a Democrat like me has to put up with: now I have Casey, who holds your views on abortion, wiretapping, and stem-cell research, AND Specter representing me? Ugh… ”
“Well, Specter’s an opportunist,” Toomey began, “And he certainly doesn’t reflect the views of Pennsylvania Republicans. With me, what you see is what you get. My views and policies are what they are, and I make no apology for them. And we’re gonna win in 2010!”
“See, that’s what I like about you, even if we’re looking at things from polar opposites” I said. “I think Republicans and Democrats should be clearly distinguished from each other, and that you should be proud of your values, even if others disagree. Take a stand, you know?”
Toomey nodded. “That’s what we’re trying to do here,” he said. “And we’re gonna win,” he repeated. He took a sip of his wine, which I thought was an odd drink for a Republican to choose. After all, it’s liberals like me who are supposed to choose the elitist foods: yet here was one of the most right-wing fellows I have ever met, sipping wine and nibbling calamari, while upstairs liberals were chomping on burgers and guzzling beer (although my burger had swiss cheese, so that may neutralize the manly power of ground beef). Who’s effete now? I wanted to ask… ah, but I digress.
“So where are you from again?” I asked.
“Allentown,” Toomey responded.
“Oh, no way!” I said. “So I have a question for you: how has land value taxation worked out there?”
He seemed a bit surprised. “Land.. what do you know about land value tax?” he asked.
“Not much,” I admitted. “I belong to a progressive community blog here called Young Philly Politics, and this guy Josh Vincent thinks it would be a more equitable structure than what we have in Philly.” [For those of you who aren’t familiar with LVT, it’s considered by supporters to be a very progressive tax that would lower the tax burden for residents while generating increased revenue. It’s met significant resistance in Philly, although support is building.]
“Oh yes, I know Josh very well!” sad Toomey, smiling broadly. “In fact, I supported land value tax in Allentown, and when it’s implemented properly, it’s very effective.” For the first time in our conversation, he seemed comfortable, and got out of his seat. For the next five or ten minutes, we discussed the inefficiencies and just plain fucked-uppedness of Philadelphia’s tax structure, which really does discourage sane development. I can’t believe this, I kept thinking, I’m having a rational and productive discussion of taxes with Pat-fucking-Toomey and we’re agreeing.
As if reading my mind, Toomey clapped me on the back and remarked, “See? There ARE things we agree on!”
I thanked the man for his time, wished him good luck, shook hands, and went back to join my fellow drinking liberals.
“Did you drive him away?” “What did you say to him?” “Was he scary and crazy?” So many questions!
Whether Pat realized he was shaking hands with the “Down with sodomy/up with teabagging” guy is a topic I’ll entertain later.
Originally posted May 5, 2013
This past Thursday night, I had houseguests who I stayed up late with (3:45 am) and got up early with (8:00 am). In between, the flu I had been nursing woke me up at 5:30 am, and between the sick and lack of sleep, I spent the day in bed. No, I am not an alcoholic. Stop looking at me that way.
After dropping my buddies at the train (hence the early wake-up call), I slithered back under the sheets. I lay there for hours half conscious, falling into that twilight where your exhausted body shuts down, but you don’t quite make that crucial somersault into REM, dream sleep. In a way, it was worse than death, because sleep -real, refreshing, “Off-to-the-Land-of-Nod” sleep- simply would not come.
And then, perhaps around 3:00 in the afternoon, I drifted off.
The scene is a party at the Bush Family compound, where I’m kind of buzzed and in need of a lift home: former President George W. Bush volunteers.
So off we go in his car (which, if my memory serves, was some gigantic maroon 1970s sedan with more than a little rust on the sides), when he suddenly takes an unexpected detour.
“Where are we going?” I ask him. “This isn’t the way to my house.” The former President gives me that infamous smirk and laughs his little heh heh heh. Then, he reaches out and pinches my cheek. “Don’t you worry about nothin’,” he mutters. “Heh heh heh.”
I glance at his face, and he’s got this creepy look in his eye. At this point I realize we’re driving up a really steep mountain, through the bizarre remains of some of-of-business amusement park. The President slides his hand across the seat and tries to rub my thigh.
“OH NO!” I yell, jerking away. “Oh NO, motherfucker, we are NOT playing THAT game!” I push open the car door and jump out. He grinds to a halt and comes out after me. I realize I’m in trouble –the 43rd President of the US is trying to rape me– and I go into fight or flight mode. I’m searching around frantically for a rock or a stick, but there’s nothing in sight: it’s going to be hand to hand, and that motherfucker is a LOT bigger than me.
Bush is advancing, smirking and heh-heh-hehing, and I raise my fists to fight, when suddenly!!
Barbara Bush steps out of the shadows, and yells “George! Just what do you think you’re doing?”
He whirls around, stunned; then, casting head down, he mumbles, “Nothing, ma.”
This is when I stumble over a brick. I grab it and shake it at the President and yell “Man, come over here now and I’ll fucking brain you, motherfucker!”
But as I yell the words, I know it’s all fake, just bravado and bluster. I was saved by Bush’s mom.
And that’s when I woke up. True story.
I have no idea how many people from back in the goodle days -folks like Noz, Duncan, Mithras, etc- are reading my recent renewed forays into stuff and nonsense, but one of the most frequent things any of these folks tell me is that they really miss the Brendan Calling archives.
I think I’ve mentioned this before, but as I was picking up the pieces of my life back in 2012-2013, I forgot to pay my annual fee with godaddy for my domain, and it was quickly bought up by a total fucking asshole marketing shithead who probably blows goats when he’s not busy allegedly driving around kindergartens in a windowless van with a sign saying “Free Candy” who refused to respond to repeated attempts to buy it back. But that’s not important. What’s important is I have the database that houses the archives. And so, on a semi-regular basis, I am going to re-publish some of my favorites. I can’t promise that I’m migrating it all over here: in fact, I promise just the opposite. I was a much angrier person then, and quite frankly, I’m glad you can’t find the entire collection of my work, because some of it is downright repellent.
I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to organize it chronologically, but these legacy posts will all be under the category “Legacy Posts”. It’s a majestic sounding word, and if you don’t agree you can go do unspeakable things to yourself (the younger, angrier me would tell you to go fuck yourself in the dick with a pickle fork but I’m not like that anymore).
PS: I will happily take requests.