Flaked on the Pink Dots, flaked on Orcabeat…but I WILL NOT FLAKE on the Wu-Tang show slated for Jan.2. Know why? That’s on a FRIDAY!!!
Sorry guys. I feel like Pat Boone, but what can I do? Stupid interviews for stupid shit cram up my weekday mornings.
I have to stand FIRMLY on the ball…till it […]

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or as wonder woman says, “great suffering sappho!” (seriously, i’m not even making that up)
the RUMRUNNERS live line up is looking like : Pete Parravano, Dr. Paul Pluto, Ian Gardener and Jason Mayoh with yrs truly on the boards: dual drummers, keyboard guitars, goat heads, mojo blaque
a CD single should be hitting the streets next month as random […]

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Hell hath no fury like a neck beard.

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memories of stoned late night NY system runs- word to the train
out and about drunking last eve, pinball between dark bars and cold winds, spent the last 48 on a new rumrunners cut- droning trash, doing my best Thelonius Monk impression on [piano], Pete playing the drums as if he were beating someone to death, Dr. Paul […]

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I just hope I die in a pair of slippers.

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as a wise man said, “slim doo doo makers stuffed inside pajamas”
the RIVER, drownword trends, MOON- clasped between 2 clasped sets of hands, distended bowels of patrimony in circuitous whorls and spirals in anti-iterations, the usual: a chick with a knife to my neck- sprayed on soft possibilities…
COME, HELL OR HIGH WATER : JANUARY 22 2009
ssy, heavy […]

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They’ve added a second Dunkin’ Donuts to the Back Bay train station. I await a third.

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smoked salami and mozzerella, burnt offerings
more to the point, did a session with PETER PARRAVANO (he gets his name in caps cause his drums are the shit). close to polishing off the last few odds and ends on the album inbetween late night encounters with intolerable tatooed drunks- sorry hon, i don’t give a flying fuck if […]

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Not sure what happened to John Bagley–chunky Celts point guard from circa ‘91–but he always made me smile. Wide.

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Is that even a word?

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Kenmore Square looks safe on a cloudy day. Even statlier.

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Large dogs have large hearts. Lapdogs have diversified portfolios.

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Will Gen-Y own anything? Only if mom and dad leave us property. Whatever, I just need a Mr. Coffee and a package store.

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Who buys those 3-foot Belvedere Vodka bottles? Maybe guys living in pet-averse studios.

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Pursuant to my last post, listen to Marion Brown in the morning whilst sipping your black coffee to put a mossy knoll on your chest.

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