Here Comes the Slapback

Or, so fucking sick of being sick.



You Already Know How I Feel About This

Holiday Cocktail

There is a particular feeling--or "buzz" in the parlance of the kids--one gets when you mix the following ingredients:
7-hours of professional-level driving
Needless to say, I was totally "on" at the urgent care center* up here. I now understand how our country's greatest comedians lived so fast but so short. You bust a funny, you move on, you crack a wise, you spin. Float like a butterfly you know the rest, bees.

Also I realize how refreshing it is to be in a place where everyone speaks understandable English and are nice (treating patients as customers). Crackers, coffee (oh and add caffeine to that list above), water, and juice were offered.

You think you sleep well after turkey and glass of red wine?  I laugh at you.  I laugh to your face, suckah!  I slept like a cat in the sun at 2:00 in the afternoon in May when everyone else is at work or school. Best was my dear colleague, a recovered substance abuser, calling me The Amateur and Rookie all night. That is funny shit.

Oh, and sorry, Cadets, before you get all typey with hysteria, please note the following:
"The HIPAA Privacy Rule provides federal protections for personal health information held by covered entities and gives patients an array of rights with respect to that information."
Like birth-divorce Steve Nash, the rapey Ben Roethlisberger, the batshit nutty Jackson Family, and the entire Baldwin/Sheen clan, I ask that you to kindly respect my privacy.

But since I am not going to tell you all "what happened?" you can write the story yourselves based on the information provided.

Thanx, have a great summer, it was rad having you in math class, you're a cutie, see you next year!

-The Julius
What did you do today?



Flashbacks to music school days.

Why We Live Anyway/We Have Some Art

It's killing me.

I am totally consumed by wanting to make something right now. Itchy like having bedbugs with scabies. But I don't have the time or space to start a big thing. Not right now. Not today. Maybe I can start something interesting next week. But I still need to make something today. Unfortunately all the creative thoughts are colliding around in my skull like something Brownian. I've surrounded myself with myself. But I haven't surrendered myself to myself.

I have some ideas but nothing to hang a hat on or make a buck with as one-hour project. And, at the very same time ("simultaneously" as the smart kids say), the proverbial bar has risen and high inspirational sources have all but plateaued.

In the end and with time run dry, I have made nothing. The only person with a right to have any sort of disappointment is me.

Wouldn't it be rad to be invisible, but with a spotlight focused upon you at all times, casting a shadow? You'd basically be all shadow all the time.


I Can See Middlespaces From My House

Pop quiz, Cadets.  Look for Santa's Little Helper:

And, no, there wasn't a story where a damn cat helped Santa do anything that I know of.  Look carefully then find it here [clicky].

Don't lie to me because I can tell.  If you saw it, welcome to middlespace 2.0.  If you didn't keep trying to impress me with your witty banter and artsy projects. Let me know....hit me up with some tr00fz.

I am the Leisure Daddy riding around on a winking reindeer in this new fairytale.


"I am the least talented person I know. Why would I spend ANY time with someone less talented? That would be a tremendous waste of my time."

Gutter Slut

Saturday Convo with Today's Kids (APS'10)



'34 Packard

GUEST POST: Movember Presents - "fifties Jazz, black dude thing"

The notorious professor says, "Here is my current mustache progress. Note the beret....I am using this picture for a journal article. Getting paid to be a kook is the best."

Update on "Moustache for Science"

Because I give a rip about stuff (no matter what you might believe) and because I love a bit more than I love oxygen (which you all believe), I am actually participating in a thing. This thing is the 2010 Moustache for Science. I can and will pull this off.

Unfortunately this thing has a terrible, no good, horrible name: Movember. What?! Who picked that that name? Anyway, I am doing a thing that might somehow help someone someday.  Sue me but I know people who have had cancer and I know people who have cancer right now.  But enough of my personal context, I don't feel like opening myself up right now. I'm a vault, don, and I can grow a mean moustache.

Anyway, since you've asked for a "Movember" Moustache for Science update, I am providing. Please note, lady friends, one cannot simply make a moustchae magically appear on one's upper lip (we don't live in Harry Potter's childhood literature world). One has to beard-it-up for a while.  But once we get to nature's ripeness, we can and will harvest. Think on that....

Today's Moustache for Science update [11.19.10 in the year of our Unicorn]:

And here's a visual approximation of where I still have to get by month's end (we hired a talented, handsome, young male model from the Handsome Boy Modeling School for the gig):



In the last couple of weeks two good friends have lost their fathers to the finality of death. One dad died at around 90 years of age after a series of health concerns. Easy for those around to accept, but, perhaps, difficult for the dad dying. The other died very suddenly at 67, just last night. Easy for the dad who died, but, perhaps, quite difficult for those around to accept. This why I am typing words here today.

In the last year, around five friends of mine have lost their fathers to the ravages of death. And while I do not have a current relationship with my own father, I will always have a soft spot for that old sonofabitch.  After all, he is my only father. He taught me how to drive and he also taught me lots of other things not to do. He taught me stuff I don't need to discuss here or otherwise. But I am a good student, so I'll be just fine.

I am a father myself. A veteran father--a father who trains other fathers how to father. I am a father with ways and opinions. A lot of my friends are fathers too. Most of my father-friends happen to pretty damn great fathers with ways and opinions. And a lot of my friend's fathers are now dead as well. I've known some of my father-friends' fathers. "Real men" with egos and notions.  Men who are ferociously protective of their offspring. Men who knew things. Men not afraid to spot correct a child or someone who has offended a child. Men with context and perspective. Dudes with scars.
Dads dying faster
Leaving us as the new dads
New dudes and old heads
I am pretty sad that my friends' fathers have died. It tears little holes in my dad-heart. I will be sad when my father dies. I will be sad when my friend-fathers die. My child will be sad when I die. We are our fathers' sons. We father the fatherless. But until I die, you want to know what I will nurture, defend, protect, and admire until I breathe my very last breath? Here:

Just as we have immense love for our mothers, we have a slightly different love for our fathers. Just as intense but just a little different. Something to do with vice grips and left tackles; something about learning how to fuck up and still hold your head up high. Something quirkier. Pour one out for all my dad homies.

* All images previously posted.
(emotions not emoticons) 

Also see:
Fortunate Son, or, "An Open Letter To My Late Father, On His Birthday"
Western Pacific Railroad

Expired Registration Sticker

Story Time


Ask Ty...November 15 [Blogging]

It must be Tuesday Monday, Middlespace Cadets, because I'm answering your questions
Q: Dear Ty,

Your blog called and said that it feels ignored. You haven't been posting many photos lately. And it's been so long since you've posted any writing on it. It's beginning to think that you're blogging somewhere else. What's up with that?


Ty: Good question and an even better observation, Sam. I just called my blog into an emergency meeting and asked it to explain itself. My blog says that it feels as if it is performing its job as well as it should.  In fact, my blog feels as if it's doing an excellent job at, you know, "blogging." My blog says that some people complain that it is too productive and too competitive sometimes; that people cannot keep up. My blog says that it's not trying to be like the other blogs and post mopey anecdotes of mundane existences. My blog insists that it has a plan and a formula and a method. But because you asked Ask Ty..., I pushed back fairly hard on my blog, but my blog is sensitive so I always have to be careful.

My blog says that it's only taken a single day off in ages. My blog says it has been churning output since 2002 and has posted over 6,100 times. My blog insists it has been a team player, a change agent, and champion for thought and insight. I could only look downward at my blog over my reading glasses and ask, "really?"

My blog says that it'll give you something to cry about.

Then my blog got all super defensive and started pointing to other people's blogs and art and pointing out that its productivity is far and away superior in terms of quantity and quality. My blog was all, "That's bullshit, man! The fuck you think I do, type about cab rides and breakfast foods? Nobody's shitty blog can hold a candle to me." It got pretty ugly and I had to do all I could to cool my blog out some. So, Sam, I told my blog that we'd continue this conversation some other time hoping that clearer heads would, you know, prevail.

Then a little while later when I was back at my desk eating the usual turkey sandwich for lunch my assistant, Corey, handed me this note:
What the hell do you want or expect from a goddamn Web log? Do I not provide for you each and every moment of my life? What on earth could you even expect from me at this point? Do you not think I'm trying to wreck this shit each and every day?
Seriously? You should feel fortunate to even be associated with this level of output. If it doesn't make sense to you, that's too fucking bad. I haven't been doing this for you anyhow. If it does resonate with you, just enjoy it and maybe comment sometime. But quit crying about shit.
Be warned, I'm going to do what I want to do, say what I want to say, and blog wherever I want to blog. I'm going to pursue what moves me. I'm going to lock my door and do what I do. And if you call me into another bullshit meeting I'm punching you in your mouth, OK?
-Your damn blog
Whoa, I told you my blog was sensitive. Now I did it. How dare I question my blog? I know hardly anyone is "blogging" anymore but my blog's been quite reliable and true, historically. Oof! I'll have to see if we can work this out and move forward happily, safely, and intelligently. I mean, my blog is really my only vehicle to express what's moving across my desk, Sam.

I know Corey and my blog talk so now I'm walking on eggshells around here. Thanks alot, Sam. Now I have to douse this fire. What a mess!

Just a guess,



I Believe People Know Me Pretty Well Now (from the doorstep)

Camo Snuggie™
Dry Balls (tee-hee)
Hanukkah bag

100% win!  Thank you very much!

Feeding The Brain (from the doorstep)

Lookie what showed up via UPS today (which I, as you, called "ups" as a kid); at mine very own doorstep too! I thought it was Beasley's new fifth volume of "Diary of a Wimpy Kid" but no, that was delayed for some damn reason even though I ordered it in early September. But imagine my surprise that it was for me.

Thank you, dear friend, I know who you are and I'll get right to them once I finish my Keith Richards encyclopedic autobiography.

Blizzards of omens.

[Starship Trooper by Yes, a long time favorite]


The Instruments of Empire

get the headphones, tKoL just dropped a treat, clicky it:

the kingdom of leisure is always ty and rich.

The Dominant Suburban Paradigm


The Universe Answers

A call for omens and the universe answers
With shouts and whispers obviously subtle
Broken shovels all insider-referenced
Illnesses contracted few and far between
Unusual ailments usually reserved for elderly

Today a father turns seventy
And is wished well from afar
Empires crumble into the dust of dominoes falling
Amid vantages from precipices of vulnerability
Because everything must die at last

Otterfarm remix

Radio In The Shower Haiku

Radio lyric
"Holding my hand" sounds just like
A "hole in my head"


Funny Things

There's an email in my inbox
That I've been saving
It's from my daughter and it goes
The subject line is "FUNNY THINGS"
I know what these things mean
And why they're funny


I Was Going To Post Opinions Today

I was going to post opinions here today
But I opted to not do just that
Instead I loitered in crowded lonely rooms
Subjected to doctors co-pays tests
The fragile elderly and those less fortunate

Clinging to precipices of vulnerability
Marrying reality with perception
Thinking of all the hilarious things
With regard to liberals and conservatives
And their very special relationships with
Modern political pendulums du jour

The brain the body and the day
Wasted with time misappropriated
Exhausted with thought and destination
Wishing and waiting again and again
For the omens to guide

God's Art School