the road

gonna hit it soon.

off to New Mexico with Ellroy to see my friend's play, "Red Umbrella's."

i'm also gonna try to keep the blog updated with pix 'n such.

hell, it's 2010 -- these things are possible, right?

no flying cars, but i can tell everybody what i'm doing.

isn't that special?

just providing fodder for big brother, i guess.

nevertheless, it'll be fun.

just out there in the desert.

alone.

well, Ellroy -- but he won't annoy me with his undying affection for second rate rock bands.

he'll just poop.

and poop ain't that bad.

so adios, talk soon.

friday on santa monica blvd..

my buddy huff and i went to barney's beanery last night.

we got drunk.

talked to a few girls.

nothing substantial.

few smiled.

mostly shit-faced.

and i pushed past the dandies and artists who really look like artists, and went outside to the smoke deck.

nearly got in a fight with a hipster on the way.

but peace prevailed.

found a half-smoked cigarette.

lit up.

amazing how many industry types were there.

mostly TV-types.

real used car salesmen.

hucksters.

but we came home, crashed. woke up the next afternoon and went for grub.

lighthouse cafe, like the old days.

took ellroy too.

ate.

walked; shirts off getting sun.

came to the pt. fermin lighthouse.

near sunken city.

edge of the cliffs.

and there was a festival.

a christian festival with kids really happy and praising jesus.

wasn't my thing, but who am i to talk shit.

if they're happy.

they're happy.

's what we all want, right?

happy.

'course the females were around.

good god-fearing with broad smiles.

even met one. got her number.

seemed nice.

least she wasn't pitching a tv pilot...

Operation In Their Boots PROMO!

hey check this out. operation in their boots.

pretty damn cool, i must say

why, it sure is late...

real late.

zero dark-thirty.

4am, sun rise.

clem, rooster-type -- crowed like a champ.

ellroy, pooch-type -- growled back.

now it is quiet. little fan oscillating, just humming.

smoke gathers @ the ceiling.

a bank of fog rolls in off the water.

thick fog.

heavy, moist.

and you can hear the tankers offload their goods.

sometimes a big ole container falls.

BOOM!

i can hear that too.

pin it on some longshoreman.

midnight hotbox on the docks.

can't blame 'em -- they work their asses off.

get smooshed;

slashed;

lumbar hurting and it's time to drive a UTR.

but now it is quiet.

reminds me of the road; clammed up and silent.

doing everything you can to keep awake along those long expanses.

asphalt and a yellow line.

especially @ dark -- it can get interesting.

nodding off all by your lonesome.

pull off and walk into the chaparral -- step into the wild.

keep your eyes peeled for diamondbacks and mojave greens

mojave greens are the worst.

crotalus scutulatus

-- born without rattles and warnings.

and the camps which dot these large expanses.

forget the name, but they're all the same. real cheap and nobody bothers you.

-- my kinda place.

gotta find a spot in the back.

spot where me and Ellroy can do our business.

me: write.

ellroy: dig.

in the back, where it's quiet.

btw, found these great pix @ san pedro daily photo.

well, he got skeered

ellroy @ the wiener nationals in huntington beach, ca.

and he got a bit scared.

and well...um...he didn't run.

just lingered in his stall.

i know, sad.

but we'll be back.

training. and more training.

then we'll pull a MacArthur.

buddies joe and andy took pix.

good shit.

pre-game whiff

meet n' greet w/wire-haired doxie

this guy

other pooch was missing an eye. apparently it "exploded," says the owner.

least he was eager

scoping the competition

defeat

he knows...

he'll be back...

and the ride home...no worries

wiener nationals

that's right, "wiener nationals."

as in, dachshunds from across the country gather in huntington beach, ca and hold a race in the back lot (or something like that) of Paw the Coffee Mill -- a breakfast joint.

owners just provide transpo.

doxies provide the brawn,

think ellroy's gonna have blast.

galloping mini-horse, heart THUMP, THUMP, THUMPING away, tongue flailing wildly.

might even win...ya never know

sirloin all around.

Wiener Nationals

pope-mobile

goddamn, we sure are animals.

ever seen the pope-mobile?

geez, this guy can't even walk in the open without somebody wanting to kill him.

these "somebody's" being muslim.

but they're peaceful people.

yes, yes.

very peaceful.

just like us.

click here

ellroy # 4

few days ago @ japs cove, ellroy sloshed through the tide pools. pooch slept real good that night...

occurrence @ dusk

i was going to stop.

this lady -- a young lady. dark jeans and fitted shirt. ponytail.

she was on the corner of 1st St.

a busy street.

cars ZOOMING.

sending up asphalt. tearing up the hill past mestizos -- five to a room.

and then longshoreman -- white houses with white stucco.

tomato plants and pit bulls in the backyard.

"JOEY!"

and

"JOHNNY!"

and

"PAULIE!"

but this girl/lady/mother/daughter was standing on the corner of a busy street with a look of sheer terror.

just standing.

hands and fingers like tentacles -- consuming her face. digging deep into her cheeks.

she was looking across the street. gaze directed towards the laundromat.

or maybe the video store.

at a distance you couldn't tell.

it was dusk. but up close -- as i passed -- you saw her red eyes.

swollen eyes.

distressed.

fear.

fear directed across the street.

it happened fast -- i scanned the area.

fast.

nothing. just life among the peasants as usual.

guy peddling bathtub cheese;

children pushing children in grocery carts;

a deserted gas station;

trash and black, black asphalt and dirty dust.

and this lady.

a young lady.

was standing out their on the corner of 1st.

she was gripped with fear.

but the light turned green.

and i was gonna stop.

but i didn't.

U.S. Marines foil hijacking of ship

U.S. Marines foil hijacking of ship

-- now there's a story to tell the grandkids....

Operation In Their Boots, Premiere!

long days.

nights.

time.

effort.

the premiere of OITB is here.

click for details.

carthaginian peace

it's curious.

muslims across the globe burn bibles, flags, effigies, and all other sort of sacred iconography, but when a hillbilly from the american south proposes to burn a couple quran's -- he chastised by obama and the rest of the country, nay the world.

american troops will die...

violence against christians will increase...

retaliation is likely...

SHIT -- where've you been the last ten years???

here's a fact.

it's ugly.

it's nasiriyah, 2003.

-- i saw, i was there...

it's a bridge in fallujah, 2004.

-- i saw, i was there...

it's new york, 2001.

-- i saw. we were all there...

maybe i'll become a monk

or a priest in a few years.

-- Catholic, of course. such history. interesting history.

after i've given up all hope on this back of mine.

just say "screw it!"

embrace it.

cloister myself up in monastery hidden in the alps.

or maybe Sicily. maybe Sicily has some monasteries.

can monks carry guns?

just a small pocket pistol.

.380 ACP.

or maybe one of those walking sticks with a sword inside it.

that's always an option.

ordination.

simple life, i assume.

pray. eat. tend the sheep or till the soil. pray more.

i think many of those monks have very dark secrets.

very dark things.

there's this documentary about monks -- seen it recently, can't remember the title -- but there's monks up in a secluded place in Europe.

no running water. very little electricity. no jersey shore. no netflix. exfoliation unheard of.

but what's even better -- no one talks.

never.

perhaps the main monk; head honcho of piety can, but all his underlings...they go silent.

-- smiling, grinning, stone-faced.

i could still write.

only plays, though.

and prose.

maybe write something about Henry VIII's six wives.

passion play about Anne Boleyn

now there's some history, ey?

not sure it worked

but i hope it did.

'nother spinal tap.

'nother needle; big bulking needle, in my back.

this time they went low. very low and pulled my drawls down past my knees.

lying there on a gurney, a whole bevy of VA "residents," looking on.

nobody told me i'd be bare ass.

but i was. had to laugh, typical VA.

pants down. here comes the needle.

directed towards tailbone. the "residents," seemed distracted.

this asian, she wanted waffles.

and this indian, he wanted pancakes.

IHOP was the conversation as my heart rate shot up and they figured it was time to up the anesthetic.

apparently they hit scar tissue.

needle got jammed.

catheter wouldn't come out.

wouldn't squirt it's goo into my spinal column.

the college students asked the real doctor for assistance.

-- he was manning the x-ray.

and he came near, told me there'd be a little pressure and literally used all his body weight to jam this thick 'ole needle past my tailbone into the gap between my vertebra.

couldn't help but cringe.

yelp.

you just can't hold that kinda pain in.

least i can't.

nope.

but i didn't cry.

laughed.

don't think i have tears.

laugh.

can't find 'em.

laugh.

and they kept telling me i was doing a "great job."

laugh.

hell they know about doing a "great job?"

laugh.

honest to God, this kinda treatment should be reserved for prisoners.

these punk-ass bloods and crips and la emme.

they're tough, right?

they won't cry.

anyways, after a good twenty-minutes, i'm wheeled out.

numb.

used.

my Dad brought me there.

and then took me back.

two, three days, they say. then we find out if it worked.

sure hope it does.

this is no fun.

it was bound to happen

and it did.

ellroy.

a cigar.

a good cigar.

$10.99 cigar.

celebration of sorts.

a little splurge. and i was planning on puff puff puffing away as i wrote tonight.

but little ole' ellroy somehow managed to chomp the goddamn thing.

my $10.99 arturo fuente grand reserva cigar.

trying to smoke it as we speak.

this mangled piece of tobacco.

terrible.

-- frayed and split and looking like an orangutan's penis.

can barely pull smoke.

matter of fact the goddamn thing is basically a fat stick of incense.

tobaccy incense.

smells good enough, i guess.

pepper;

cedar;

and leather.

yeah...leather.

alas, christoff of yesteryear woulda smacked the shit outa ellroy.

there was that second or two where i contemplated knocking him around,

but i just couldn't.

so damn little. so damn vulnerable. me this big galoot.

i yelled though.

loud and angry and little 'ole ellroy looked up @ me.

kid had no clue.

probably wanted to play fetch with it.

"BAD BOY!," i said.

"BAD BOY!"

grabbed him kinda rough, could tell ellroy knew something wasn't kosher.

the jig was up.

put him in the kennel.

shut the lights.

and now little 'ole ellroy's sitting in the dark,

and my ass is sucking away @ this dominican stoogie.

barely pulling smoke.

looking like one of them exploding cigars meant for castro.

hell, it coulda killed him.

ellroy, that is.

but it's been about an hour.

in the dark.

alone.

and ellroy hasn't said a peep.

checked up on him -- he's curled up.

i looked real hard,

and he averted his eyes.

ashamed maybe?

guilty?

scared?

i dunno.

but it was bound to happen.

and it did.