Thursday, June 30, 2005

It's okay, I'm okay

Sparkling, spinning and staring like a fool, wristwatch beeping and collar of my new shirt tight and itchy. Then I’m falling and falling and, fuck, so this is what it feels like to die. Hurtling past a mountain, a lake and a sky with birds in it, the kind of birds in chalk figure drawings, childlike, sticklike. I see his face, the old man, my old man, and he’s shaking his head and saying something under his breath that I can only take to be a lecture, maybe, Joseph, there’s nothing worse in this world than a waste of talent. But I’m not sure because a dog barks and snarls, but happily, and I reach out a hand that isn’t there. And he sniffs it and turns over, rolls over, speaks, gives me paw. I feel light and drifting now, not dropping, not so far away. Sadness grips and my forehead is wet. Cold and wet. The new shirt has turned to char and dust stuffs up my nose. Not again, not another bad morning. It’s the only thing I can relate to, a dreaded hangover. But a vision, another image floats in my vantage, short and small and sweet smelling. Bespectacled, it’s a woman with a profile of purest citrus and she touches my cheek. It’s light, the touch, only jewels and shiny things hang from her neck and obscure my line of sight. Her angelic visage slowly morphing, shifting, face now something else. Something still beautiful but featureless. Only air and scent, and a smile may be growing on my face. But she laughs and says it’s okay, Joseph. It’s okay. And I sink deeper, deeper still. Hurting now, I can’t get back the smile. It’s gone, but there is something spongy beneath me and I feel it bounce and give and I’m on my way back up. But the giggling and snickering laugh is now a rubbing, chafing wooden scrape. It’s definitely karma. It’s payback. I was dishonest one too many… but the green smells of southern sunshine and grass and poison ivy and crickets, they return strong and strong I am. Flexing and pulsing and trying to regain facial contortion. If there was only a face. This is a tease, a sadistic tease. I’m scaling, and grappling something rotten, like an old piece of fruit, sugary and nasty and my hands find no purchase but I reach and reach and flail. Now it’s giving and I’m falling again. Damn it, this is maddening, and I know it’s my time. I hear the crying, the whimpering. It’s soft at first. Maybe it’s coming from around the corner in the kitchen, behind the slow buzz of the old refrigerator. And I’m drunk and ashamed. This is why. This is the answer. She really still hurts, just like me. It’s hurting us both, but I can’t gain ground and I can’t really do what I’m supposed to do. I know I can’t do it, yet I swing my fists. I can’t feel this darkness with her voice reverberating through nothing, through a window in my head. Just a lonely wail of sorrow. Nothing ever plays out other than death and regret. Here it goes, my body is now completely airborne and black. The suffocating emptiness curling around until heat controls. Controlling fire, controlling snorts, primal and unforgiving. What is the void saying? Is it love? Is it lost? Is it long? It’s something like that. It’s something that I spin over, tumbling blind, my ears twitching or my sweaty head shaking. Nothing more, just a pit, just a pit, a deep pit. Only money and a nice piece of equipment, digital, sleek and yelling at me with liquid display. I fall, and the bottom is nearing. It hits, shattering me, but I’m okay. I can stand. I stare into the void above, and the void below reverses itself so that I’m not sure which way I’m looking. But the cry is still there, a yawning, slow cry, and I feel raindrops. But they aren’t raindrops, of course. They are tears. They are tears. They are tears. I turn around in them, again and again. I know I can’t stop them, but I can let them fall on me before the end, and that, I know, is surely on its way. It’s only power over me lets me drink. So I cry, too. And I cry, too, and I smile.

Wednesday, June 29, 2005

Third Eye Innocent and Open Wide

Prompted by my teammate, Satisfied75, I'm dipping into a repressed memory to offer the following story about a weird night we had a few years ago. The details are fuzzy in places, but essentially the following excerpt is a paraphrased transcript of my mind on that fateful day:

We're simply humming up Western Avenue and I'm trying not to think about how bad I have to take a shit. Satisfied75 looks over at me from the sidecar and gives me an air-gun salute. We are tripping our balls off.

Managing not to crash into a Korean barbeque joint, I renegotiate my ’68 Triumph back onto the street and rev the throttle hard. Let's see if we can get this son of a bitch in the air, I'm thinking. At this speed on a warm Hollywood night, it actually feels like we are flying, and I'm looking good in my sleeveless jerkin. Hell, maybe we'll also get new tattoos tonight.

As we get up into the hills, the roads are darker, narrower and more ominous. Shadows bare large teeth and I'm totally wigging out. After lighting up a couple cigs, I pull over and hand one to Satisfied75, who just tilts his head back and stares at the moon for a minute with glazed eyes. I scamper under the cover of a gabled roof to do my business, but have to cut it short as an old man comes running out the front door with a shotgun, repeatedly asking, "Do you have no honor, sir? Do you have no honor" So this situation is kind of a bummer.

We peel the fuck out of there and continue to our destination, a little old house once owned by Anton Szandor LaVey. It’s a creepy looking house, with snake statues in the lawn, but the economy line of modern cars surrounding it give it a touch of normalcy.

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I park the bike and look at Satisfied75, who can only muster the following eight words, “Dood, this is going to change our lives.” I find that my thoughts are echoing through my head in a British accent. “Fuckin, ‘ell,” I say.

The guy who answers the door is a tall, long-haired Japanese with a lot of piercings and a sickle in his hand. Nice fucking scythe, I’m thinking. He escorts us into the party proper and our faces are aglow in the blood covered foyer. Several men and women are pacing gingerly about the room holding scarlet soaked towels to their foreheads. There is a dentist chair in the center of the room and an acrimonious smell in the air.

So my buddy, Chud, from sewing class, the host of this soiree, comes weaving through the filth-ridden crowd with a smile the size of Texas. He slaps himself across the face three times, jovial and brimming with excitement. I ask him if I can get a drink. What a freakshow. “I didn’t know you were from England, Marty,” Chud offers. ‘Brighton,” I say and make my way in the direction of his outstretched finger, running my hand through the sweet new nylon wig I just purchased. Satisfied75 starts dancing, sliding really, on the red, soupy tile floor.

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I whip up two stiff ones and hand one to my boy, relaxing in the trancing light before letting out a sickened laugh. The room stops its mechanical gyrations and looks at me, people, walls and furniture. “What the fauk are you wankers doin ‘ere?” I’m clearly shouting, spilling whiskey, slobbering and shaking. Only Satisfied75 continues to dance, unconcerned. I head to the john to finish off my well-deserved expunging ritual.

When I come out, four men in clown paint are performing ring-around-the-rosie steps until one of them is pushed out of the circle. He sits in the dentist chair and grins, his eyes are completely black. I am scared of this man, who is built like a pitbull with a green-stained wife-beater. He bellows.

Chud saunters up to him and begins to apply some network of manacles and straps, then he glances at a pocket sized booklet and diagrams some stick figures on the dude’s Cro Magnon skull. Chud looks at me and says, “You’re next bra.”

The Japanese guy with the sickle does a cartwheel and lands on his face, barely avoiding a facial run-in with the razor sharp point which instead nicks his ear lobe and contributes more living stew to the putrid linoleum. Oblivious to his injury, he manages to reach out and touch some buttons on the stereo and a twisted carnival score blares forth from unseen, in-walled speakers. I notice with some surprise that people are bowing deeply and pissing on the floor, and one guy begins to juggle fire with uncanny dexterity. This is a new level of consciousness, surely. Did I just see Satisfied75 swallow an entire torch? Fuck.

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The festivus continues as Chud wipes gristle from his chin and produces a leather pouch with ungodly blue blades protruding from the ends. He pulls out a ruthless scalpel and carves a fresh V in his subject’s jutting forehead. The blood drips, drips, drips crimson tinctures onto Pit Bull’s lips, and he obliges it greedily with a yawn, a lapping motion and then a howl. Chud elbows him swiftly in the temple and the man ceases his bloodlust.

Satisfied75 is now shadowboxing a fat women, who cackles and then executes a roundhouse that lands her ungainly ass on a large cactus. Agonized, she runs out of the room, falls once, then crawls to a door, descending into darkness and shame. Satisfied75 makes us two more drinks and says, “DOOD!”

Up next is the power drill, and Chud gives it a test whirl amidst a crowd of lobotomized mimes. Chants of “the THIRD EYE” are thrown out liberally, and it’s at this moment that I decide to shotgun a Tecate, like we used to do back at the King’s Head when times were simpler. I offer one to my experimental comrade, and he blurts, “Yar,” crushing the can on his forehead after a record breaking pull.

Now Chud goes to work with meticulous precision and focus, drilling a ceremonious hole in this warped guinea pig’s mind. Blood sprays our faces and gear, as the roar of an auger wails its grinding joy. There is a clear energy explosion in the room, and two people pass out in pools of their elation-induced vomit. I give Satisfied75 a high five and we both pump fists like little leaguers. This is some shit, I think, and I watch with sociopathic distance as the patient coughs up allegiant thanks and praise. A flap of skin hangs lazily on his brow, and a clean-cut, fancy dress type walks up and offers a direct blessing on this unspeakable flesh button.

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Finished and sated, Chud stitches up the wound, applying alcohol and ink, then cauterizes the man’s head with a makeshift, bitesized branding iron. The sizzle and smell of cooking skin unleashes a new wave of spiritual exuberance, and two prancing douche rockets with fresh holes in their heads begin to grapple, in joy or jealousy I cannot tell. One goes through the front window with a clatter, and the other one follows him out with a dive and a death knell.

Chud says, “Hey buddy, I know you’re not getting cold feet on me.” Chud has no wound on his bald head. No tats, no piercings either. He looks at me with an inviting sigh, and Satisfied75 goes into a deep Dark Side of the Moon lunatic laugh. It echoes from the vaulted ceilings and the room swirls. I stutter, then force out, “LMAO.” A couple of giant people, both over seven feet tall, cease making out in the corner and walk in my direction. They stop, kiss again, swallow a hand full of pills and then put their ape-ish hands on my shoulders. The female of the two, bearded and cute, grunts. Satisfied75 smiles and looks at his hand, searching for something that plainly isn’t there. Chud’s quiet. All’s quiet. I’m being led to the dentist chair. It’s my turn, after all.

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The New Hotness — Real-Life Zombies

I'm a big fan of gore. I like bloody, speculative horror stories, depicting vicious decapitations and unthinkably inhumane situations, particularly in which people are forced to do some crazy shit to avoid being eaten, eviscerated, impaled, disemboweled, shredded and generally butchered. Hence I really like the Living Dead series, Re-Animator, Hellraiser, anything by David Cronenberg, Dario Argento or Lucio Fulci, and other exploitive horror films.

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On the heels of seeing Land of the Dead (Romero's latest extravagance) the other day, I was doing some research (READ: interweb surfing) into whether or not an actual human resurrection could ever be a realistic, or even contemplated, scenario. I was invariably led to the Safar Center for Resuscitation Research, which is not surprisingly and probably not coincidently located in Romero's beloved Pittsburgh.

Check it out
HERE. I'm particularly fond of the following line from the organization's mission statement:
To understand the mechanisms of cell death after catastrophic insults such as traumatic brain injury, cardiac arrest or severe hemorrhage, with a particular focus on how cerebral neurons die...and...To design and evaluate new mechanism-directed therapies for the above insults, including studies in experimental laboratory, clinical, and field settings.

Then, just a day later, I was literally astonished when a friend of mine (the Biscuit) forwarded me this curious STORY. Umm, okay, cool. I'm down with that. But wait a minute, what in the motherfucking name of John Carpenter is going on here? We are now capable of bringing dead animals back to life?

A million questions are, even now, flooding my head. Do they eat brains? Can they be destroyed with a bullet to the head? Are they slow moving? Did the scientists name one "Bub?" I am dazzled and excited, frustrated and fascinated? I am so scared that I currently have to shit my pants.

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Through further research, I also discovered that the United States has a federal department dedicated to research, prevention and combat of vampires and zombies. There was once a vaccination for vamps. This is not a fucking joke, people! Learn as much as you can and prepare yourself. This unnatural pandemic is on its way in. Thankfully, help is available for some of you greenpeas:
The Zombie Survival Guide.

Go with Zod.

Monday, June 27, 2005

This and that, and a crazy motherfucker

Well, my boy wasn't able to quite finish the task. Charged with the assignment of consuming 26 patties and 26 slices of cheese from In N Out burger, he came up a little short. But not from lack of trying. Just look at the poor fucker all excited and getting ready to break the record. I'm still proud of you, Youngling #2.

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Btw, the staff at the restaurant deserves a lot of credit for helping out. The dude on the right, Givani, was really pulling for Scrubby Nub and would make a fine Wizard. In any case, I won't say too much more about it. You can read in depth about this guy's aspirations to rise up the ranks of the world's best competitive eaters by checking out the Evolving Revolution.

Speaking of, I also highly recommend that you peruse the International Federation of Competitive Eating. The No. 2 ranked player in the world is a 105-pound chick. What the fuck is that all about?

I'd like to make one comment about life. It's really hard sometimes. Your ol pal Marty has had a case of the blues lately due to a combination of gambling problems, trouble with the government, overexposure, overindulgence, a shortage of compatible shield maidens, loss of creative drive, impotence, self doubt, failure to hit 40% on my three point attempts, lack of drinking money, a bum job, a bum ankle, a bum living in my house, and some, you know, uhh, family trouble. So if anyone out there knows any Class 1 Happiness Spells, feel free to cast them for Marty. I promise thee, the generosity will be reciprocated in kind.

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Props to Koushun Takami, Stephen Levitt, Dennis Hopper, George A. Romero, Kenny G, and Barnich. Also apologies to David Byrne. Somebody get me out of this Diet Soda K-HOLE! Fuck off everybody.


Sunday, June 26, 2005

I hate people when they're not polite

Staggering, drooling, dripping, face melting. Finished the cab. Finished the job. Finished just about nothing. Saw the hole in my jacket, felt the hole and put my finger through it. Tasted the ash, the dry throated affirmation. Pull over here. Walked in and gave up. Rejected. Not another negative answer. No more dates. No more asking these beautiful somethings out for a "drink" and no more of these actresses and this visitor thing, too many visitors. Please not another group of visitors. And realizing what I am, no more of that. There is no more recognition. There is no need. There is only the karaoke bar and the residual feelings, the memory that won't last much longer. The monkey escaped the cage again. The lights, crowd, egos and coolness. And yes, the Talking Heads. And my rendition thereof. Eccentric standing swim pose. Leg kick. Making it happen. Acting the oddling fool. I am tired. I am flesh puppet.

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Saturday, June 25, 2005

In the name of all that's holy

So I was confirmed catholic and I used to believe in god. That and some other things and then I heard about science and the theory of evolution and dinosaurs and double helixes and LaMarkian discoveries and Gallileo and space and time and Hawking and then Orson Welles and Annaud's Quest for Fire and I played Revenge of Grog on Comodore 64 while reading B.C. comics and taking geology with Ms. Stamper and Adam Borenstein and a bunch of other geeks and also dissecting frogs and then holy shit, I realized that I was a fucking weirdo, particularly playing Zork and eating fruit rollups and being friendly with the dog, but, damn, there were some things going on out there beyond the "religious" chick who used to scold me for skipping CCD and smoking ciggies and I think it was at that time that I started doubting God. Well, I shouldn't have capitalized god. But in any case, I knew when my big brother would take us to McDonalds instead of church that it wasn't for me, the Vatican and all the verses and gospels and holy apostolic angels and saints and then I when I thought that things couldn'tget more confusing I went to the local drive-in theatre and I saw an opus, a cinematic revelation that enhanced my spiritually perturbed little boy's head and shit, do you know what I saw? A gateway, a new beginning, a really fresh way to understand that there is no understanding and, by damn, I was with you all the way. I was no poisonous snake. I was no great criminal mind. I was no parishioner. I was only Martin. Just another guy who heard only one voice, one voice that spoke in a way that made my whole being crumble to threads and shards of person. I heard him tell me to kneel. Kneel before him. I did it. I knelt. I saw him. He is what we all live for. He is meaning. He is the general. He is ZOD.

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Friday, June 24, 2005

Rant Alert

I think all you mothersuckers should check this shit out. It's funny and pointed at the same time.

There's No Crying in Baseball

I don't think the world is going to hell in a handbasket just yet, but I do believe the future will be owned by kids who grew up in the ghetto.

Also, Milla Jovovich is so fucking hot.

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Alright, thanks bre.

Thursday, June 23, 2005

Life’s realities exposed, no more mystery necessary

Grooving through green grass over hills and feeling blades brush through my toes, and rolling with grace and laughing all the way to the trough before treading back up again, I realized that the fun will never last. But the adventure moves ever on. The seafarer without a country, the death without a culprit, the class without a teacher.

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Love is something I was never taught because I had to teach it to myself. And my achievement has been less than admirable. Holding instincts in high esteem, worrying about being the best host and my physical appearance, I often missed the lesson. After all, under the enchantments of prettiness, it’s easy to be caught by the entrapments of pettiness. People will take what they can and put their personal and financial agendas first, but the cleansing powers of “sunlight” reveal to us what’s important eventually. My own guilt awaits the powers that impugn with cringing speculation.

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Like a lost loved one frowning her reaction to my selfish glare and my comments of confusion and how I have to figure things out, realization wasn’t a surprise but, rather, an inoculation of what hurts most — the truth. Shaking, facial ticks, tears and warm, salty breath. A ten-second countdown to emotive take-off. Guitar solo thrashing then departure from care and concern. It’s easier to build a wall and ignore what you are sad about than it is to confront head on the perpetrating agent, hefting spiritual and emotional weight at the unseen. Meeting loss with indifference, my conniving reflection. Assured of loneliness.

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Capitulation and creation catch up with many of us, and they linger in a house somewhere, with a yard and a puppy, down the street from a park and smelling on Sundays of grill smoke in June and chimney smoke in December, socializing and convincing those who witness them. Closing my eyes again, I can see them coming soon, or maybe later, or maybe I can just remember them from my own ordeal and past, before and after being awarded the gifted curse (or cursed gift) of living. But from where, there is no key.

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Yet frigid, your steely grip and clenched bones reddening, you see it all come down in a haze of nuclear debris and blotted sky. Then there’s me…with my vision constantly obscured by the spree of unattained freedom, whether it actually exists or not. We share these traits and we wallow in the shames and fears that our goals are left untethered but still untouched, while there must be a way to push off the shield, absorb the pain and punishment, reach the next level through self-illuminating trial. The answer is amorphous. Our vanity will decide for us.

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Wrapped in cemetery blues, frazzled by grief and creativity-loss, we trudge through what remains of our fractured ideals, missing nothing more than dream and color. Spinning, top-like and naïve, but only in deliberation, for by this time we cannot afford to be anything but skeptical, cynical, realistic, doubting, mourning and dying inside. The natural evolution of humans, even those with powerful energies, spanning geographic climes and long years of mental endurance, is that of a bell curve.

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Oranges and pales, slipping from the darkness of darker black and red and reddish. The iron drops, the skin droops, the tales lengthen, while the creation of tales steadies to a slow trickling trickle. Then we see it coming, we feel it approach like wind. I can smell it sometimes even now, already cresting the hormonal hyperactivity of youth, looking behind the drifting wake of my years and the horizon before me, smiling, too, another in a line of uncertain encounters, life and unpredictability. Fate is what we make it, or it isn’t. That’s just the point and we take the cue from nature and our own feelings and interrelationships with each other, the wisdom of seeing and acting and always hoping to spite inevitability, hoping to hold someone warm throughout, keeping the faith that leniency and love and safety await. Until only tears remain and longing and nothing.

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Wednesday, June 22, 2005

The finest piece of unabashed gore you haven't seen

For the love of Zod, has anyone seen this fucking movie?

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I, as a matter of magical fortune, have.

When I was merely an innocent youngling, my older brothers, a ragtag triumvirate of sadistic, morally-lax barbarians, would frequently rent films of the basest ilk. My parents (yes, Marty had parents) were often not around, and that's when these creepy role models of mine would force me and my other siblings to watch such gruesome entertainment. When I say they forced us, I mean that they would literally hold us in place on the couch during onscreen absurdities involving anything from heads being split in half to slow-motion tracheotomies and close-up facial gunshot wounds. Bear in mind that the most ferocious, gory scenes were always rewound a minimum of five times.

No, I am not going to belt into some sociological sermon about how violence on TV fucks with children's minds, or how Martin McFriend's own decadent tendencies are the result of a twisted, Clockwork Orange-style upbringing. After all, I see absolutely nothing wrong with having a passionate love and respect for scenes of visceral disfigurement and grim, demonic imagery. But what I will say is that these guys, my older brothers, are really fucking deranged. When the scenes became graphically depraved and overtly despicable, they would belly laugh. If you cried or tried to shut your eyes, you got laughed at for that, too, possibly even beat up. That leaves an indelible mark on a kid.

But seriously, go out and rent The Return of the Alien's Deadly Spawn, a 1983 classic with several alternate titles. This movie is abject hilarity and bloody, captivating evil all rolled into one. I feel it resembles what Little Shop of Horrors would have been like had David Cronenburg directed it.

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In any case, if you don't have the stomach for this treat, then you should probably read the review by clicking HERE. On the real, this movie is pretty damn good for a cheap horror exploitation vehicle. It ranks right up there with other classics that I was forced to watch as a 10-year-old, such as Rawhead Rex and Lifeforce. More on those in later entries. And may my older brothers be ashamed of well as proud.

Btw, I wish Richard Dreyfus or Daniel Stern narrated my thoughts.

Still King in Ethiopia

Please enjoy this if you haven't already seen this, which you probably have, and if you have, you are a real loser if you don't think it's a good story, and please, chalk one up for the Lions.

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Ethiopian girl reportedly guarded by lions

The Associated Press
Updated: 6:25 p.m. ET June 21, 2005

ADDIS ABABA, Ethiopia - A 12-year-old girl who was abducted and beaten by men trying to force her into a marriage was found being guarded by three lions who apparently had chased off her captors, a policeman said Tuesday.

The girl, missing for a week, had been taken by seven men who wanted to force her to marry one of them, said Sgt. Wondimu Wedajo, speaking by telephone from the provincial capital of Bita Genet, about 350 miles southwest of Addis Ababa.

She was beaten repeatedly before she was found June 9 by police and relatives on the outskirts of Bita Genet, Wondimu said. She had been guarded by the lions for about half a day, he said.

“They stood guard until we found her and then they just left her like a gift and went back into the forest,” Wondimu said.

“If the lions had not come to her rescue, then it could have been much worse. Often these young girls are raped and severely beaten to force them to accept the marriage,” he said.

'Some kind of miracle'
Tilahun Kassa, a local government official who corroborated Wondimu’s version of the events, said one of the men had wanted to marry the girl against her wishes.

“Everyone thinks this is some kind of miracle, because normally the lions would attack people,” Wondimu said.

Stuart Williams, a wildlife expert with the rural development ministry, said the girl may have survived because she was crying from the trauma of her attack.

“A young girl whimpering could be mistaken for the mewing sound from a lion cub, which in turn could explain why they didn’t eat her,” Williams said.

Ethiopia’s lions, famous for their large black manes, are the country’s national symbol and adorn statues and the local currency. Despite a recent crackdown, hunters kill the animals for their skins, which can fetch $1,000. Williams estimates that only 1,000 Ethiopian lions remain in the wild.

The girl, the youngest of four siblings, was “shocked and terrified” after her abduction and had to be treated for the cuts from her beatings, Wondimu said.

He said police had caught four of the abductors and three were still at large.

Kidnapping young girls has long been part of the marriage custom in Ethiopia. The United Nations estimates that more than 70 percent of marriages in Ethiopia are by abduction, practiced in rural areas where most of the country’s 71 million people live.

Read that last paragraph again. How defunct is that country? Let's blow it up.

Tuesday, June 21, 2005

Contributing to the delinquency of a bad artist

I have a new report from my celebrity correspondent, Youngling #1, on a little development from last night. It seems he had another run-in with an auspicious celebrity. Here's his report:


I had a meeting with a girl from my acting class last night so I traveled up Mulholland to her house, which was an enormous place for an aspiring actress to live. I had a feeling this chick was loaded, but this was a big fucking estate. So inside, we sat down and talked for a little while, but I couldn't keep my eyes off the familiar face in a picture on the wall. So I started fishing about who her roommates were and what they did. The familiar one, I learned with no surprise, was named Ashlee. A few more questions and my suspicions were affirmed. Minutes later, Ashlee Simpson appeared at the door and had a seat with us, proceeding to talk about rolling and other drug encounters. She asserted her desire for booze, so we took a trip to Ralph's where I was nominated to buy, since no one else was yet 21. She handed me a crisp hundred dollar bill, and I took the liberty of buying some groceries of my own. I needed some wheat bread, after all. The whole business was pretty awkward, what with me jerking off to a picture of her sister the night before. But I thought it kind of funny when Ashlee purchased an US Weekly with Nick and Jessica's cheating scandal on the cover. I had a few drinks but called it an early night. Still I think this isn't my last run in with her. I'm working on getting her over to the Deuce for dance party. Later,

C Murda

Not bad son. You are on the cusp of shedding your Youngling title. Keep up the good work and let me know if you need some roofies for next time.

Btw, anyone reading this might want to visit here. For the record, your ol pal Marty doesn't know a whole lot about this whole celebrity business, so please let me know if this type of content is unacceptable for an illusionist to deal in.


PS - This is how we do it at the Deuce.
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Newsflash: Religious people are really insane

This story about a real-life crucifixion is just fucking AWESOME.

Also, what is THIS all about? Sometimes I think the modern art world is a total farce...just like me.

And one last thing, I am going "Project Mayhem" on the local office of the Internal Revenue Service after this dipshit audited me.

Monday, June 20, 2005


One of the nice things about living in Southern California is the close proximity to some magnificently diseased places. The two most obvious are Las Vegas — an excellent place for illusions and one that Mr. McFriend here has set fires in — and Baja, Mexico — a haven for hustlers, handshake drugs and whores, among other things. Although those things stand alone in their awesomeness, the place also has a physical beauty, and by damn if a portion of the McFriend family didn't take a trip down there this weekend to encounter this Latino pulchritude.

Though your ol pal's business is by no means lucrative at this juncture, I was able to secure us a place with the following view to serve as our base of operations:
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Upon arrival, a five-minute piss was in order, and then the tequila began to flow like wine. After a short cab ride, five McFriends found themselves here and the madness was put in motion. I'd like to offer a warm thank you to the tattooed freak in the crow's nest who made direct eye contact for much of the afternoon with a lonely wizard that you all know, all the while showing her chest and bending over to touch her ankles at the thumbs up sign that I got so used to giving.

Mariachis on the beach and children smoking Cuban cigars came and went. Food was mostly neglected in favor of beer, and the family became drunk in the heat of the Mexican sun. Later, we wandered the alleys and backstreets of Rosarito, buying trinkets and mota, getting lost in the swirl of colors on the pregnant wanderers and peasants selling chiclets. The Pooch, in particular, was in grand form, and his penchant for making up Spanish words and phrases was an inane mixture of bad TV lines and Taco Bell menu items. But this kid knows how to party.
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A plan for the evening was set in order, and we lounged on the balcony of our hotel room, taking turns walking through a gringo wedding reception, where the single women in attendance took offense to my requests that they make out with me on the altar. It became increasingly obvious that I was not going to get laid on this trip for free.

A lobster spread in Puerto Nuevo assuaged the longing in my loins, and the kindly waiter was impressed after dinner when I complimented him so: "Eres un hombre guapo senor, pero no soy un maricon!" We stopped at a farmacia, and after asking for ritalin, soma, cocaine, ecstacy, LSD, steroids and a host of other good drugs, we were roundly rebuffed and asked to leave. It was time to fiesta, so we got dressed up and ready for the evening.
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Back at the nightclub in Rosarito, things got mostly out of control. I called a Dutch girl Euro trash, but told her she was hot. The Pooch scored a date with a surfer chick from Anaheim. Sasefina made friends with a group of warped scientists, one of whom performed a decent backspin. Anhski put on a Mexican wrestler mask and got her groove on in a circle of admiring freaks. After a few rusty illusions and several more rejections, we decided for a change of scenery, and thankfully, the Bada Bing accepted us with open arms.

The strip club reeked of crime and collusion, and we were quite clearly the marks. Hustled intensely for lap dances and "sexo," we started to worry when a fat waiter charged us $25 American for two tequila shots. Though that was unacceptable, we decided that $5,000 pesos could help our cause. I have not the heart to tell you what happened after that, but it involved dinero, cowboy hats, screaming, scratching, pyrotechnics, hombre arana ("Spider Man"), a knife fight, blood, and a "friends and family" discount. Our final cab ride of the night, with Frankie from Jalisco, resulted in a Spanglish shouting match and two drunk Americans shortchaning this unscrupulous fuck.

At our sprawling hotel complex around dawn, Pooch and I maintained an incorrigible appetite for trouble and local "talent." After a long and laugh-filled urinating session off a 50-foot bluff overlooking the dark Pacific, we sought assistance from the night staff, two veritable mutants, one with a roving eye and the other, a bionic arm. No shit. The conversation is blurry in my memory, but I remember several phone calls, a Mexican operator's voice, insults in both Spanish and English and the following two lines: "No offense, senor, but what kind of self-respecting hotel clerk doesn't know how to get escorts?" and "Perdon amigo, but I have more pesos than I know what to do with."
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The following day was lost in a lot more cerveza, a pirate ship, "Guantanamera" and a long, slow journey across the border, where 8-year-old jugglers made off like bandits with small bills.

I will return, to be sure, but certainly not before a few days in the tank to clear my head. After waking at 4 am last night to shit liquid jalapeno for 45 minutes, I understand the reality of Montezuma and his vendetta against the Caucasian people. It is no picnic, definitely no siesta.

Shakes y que tenga la buen noche.

This one goes out to Carlos, who helped me meet my late-night quotas with his "muy lento" speech and tricked out Fiero. I also want to give a shout to my brother Jay-boy, who is convinced that I am an alcoholic, but maybe starting to agree that I am still functional. Actually, I doubt that.

Saturday, June 18, 2005

We are the dreamers of the dream

Let us travel into a new realm of music and wizardry. As an illusionist, I have taken a solumn vow not to use my powers to manipulate others for personal gain or malicious intent. BUT I do occasionally make beautiful fantasies come true. And in fact, the fun hogs decided that we had something to prove to the cosmos. We could start a band. Goddamn it. We knew we could do it. In a rare case of candid appeasement, your ol pal Marty made us feel like we rocked. These were the results.


Rhythm Guitar
Youngling #1
Bio: Vanderbilt reject. Sought sanitarium in Los Angeles by the grace of CCA. Found himself clean, sober and driving us around a lot, in between jam sessions. Idolizes brit rock freaks. DJs like a mad fucking demon. Hides his inner discontent in the factions of women who have jumbled their speech in conversation with him. Is still a virgin.
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Lead Guitar
Bio: Got really flipped out on too much acid in the late 90s. Listened to a lot of southern folk, fugazi, snuff rock and paint rock. Lost his mind for the second time after the IRS collected on his every earthly possession, shot his dog, cooked him, ate him and became friends with the best barbeque cook in Arkansas. This brought confidence and he honed his craft rocking out at Mouses and Doobies on Crenshaw playa. Brought the house down at the annual rock performance for Torrance children with autism. Found some weed in his pocket, never looked back.
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Bio: Lost his feet in a horrible combine accident while working with his grandfather, a renowned professor and farmer in Kansas, and turned things around by signing up for an experimental procedure inspired after a Ray Bradbury short story. Went for the Guiness record for longest moustache but gave up after being diagnosed with ESS — enlarged scrotum syndrome. Mashes on the percussion.
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Bio: After multiple unsuccessful attempts as a show diver, Pooch went on a three-year run in which he robbed seven Circle Ks and had sex with over 432 women, most of them legitimate. After such an experience, he switch hit for a few years and started speaking with a New York accent, despite the fact that he was born in Cincinnati. He took up birdwatching and modeled his skill after the blue jay's one-of-a-kind signature. Raises cain.
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Bio: Failed at the academy of illusion after being the victim of pranks perpetrated by the Depeche Mode crowd. After being labeled as a closet Scientologist, she quit the Merchant Navy and directed amateur porn for four years in New Jersey. Found a calling when she bumped her head on the toilet seat and thought of time travel. Lacking engineering skill, she learned to strum and wrote a song that purportedly caused a pulmonary embolism in her boyfriend at the time, a renowned genius piccholo player and car salesmen. Discovered Blur and started popping pills. Is an over-achiever.
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Lead Vocals/Harmonica
Bio: Got straight As throughout high school and college. Received painful beatings that left scars from numerous run-ins with neighborhood ruffians. Went to church daily, prayed and loved Alabama and Dolly Parton. Was launched off Paris Island bodily by an enraged, homosexual drill instructor. Found solace in his love for aquatic mammals, moved near the ocean and almost died in a plane crash. Met a minion Galactus, the devourer of worlds, and saw through the kaliedoscope that was humanity. Blew an ounce of ketamine in 24 hours, had his stomach pumped, donned a mask and started singing like a fiend.
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Check us out. Our album "LSHISMP" drops Tuesday.

Friday, June 17, 2005

Change of Pace

Okay, so, this friend of mine (a seductive, alluring blonde) forwarded me the following story today. She said I inspired her to write it. Said I was just like the kid in the story. What do you think?

A kid ran away from home because his parents mistreated him daily. Everyone called him a freak. His pimples covered new ground in unsightliness; his withdrawal from normal" kids, subatomic fission. He was bad at sports, a slow speaker and shy, courteous but clumsy and often sitting by himself in the grass. Fresh spring grass if possible. Sunlight was the kid's companion.

The funny thing was that the kid knew something that no one else knew. He saw people through dim vision, corrupting the integrity of light in everything. The corrugated shadows in people formed sprightly, laughing ghosts, floating in different directions by the moods of their mornings. He grew to understand that these ethereal formations were reflections of character, and reflections of what human beings had in places that no one talks about, thinks about, writes about, and only rarely dreams about.

But he could read them. He could read people. He saw spirits unleashed, and harbingers of bad times. When his father would go out with his "buddies" the light was a malicious red and full of energy. Dangerous energy that sent the kid sprawling for an isolated darkness, where no silhouetted apparitions could haunt him.

Despite smiles from his mother, he saw an orange incandescence, pulsating with fury, ravenous with warning. She would shout and his eyes were pained. The kid closed his eyes during confrontations, which were frequent, but not because he was scared (though he was). Rather, the kid was hurting inside. A desperate aching, a desperate inner hurt. Wailing tear-stains on his inside, atrophied innocence. The physical beatings were savage.

Yet, the kid saw goodness too. Fairies and angels, pristine in their brightness, kindly, fluid. They giggled and chortled, and the kid would laugh along, losing time in solitude, rolling in the grassy shade. He knew not why.

But the bad times never ceased, and the good times conspired to elude him. So he ran away from home with nothing but a jar. An empty jar and a change of clothes. He wasn't sure where he was going, he had no vessel to get him there. He only had his lone talent, and his bitter sadness. The young boy was alone.

He was alone, but he had something beautiful, a gift that only a tortured soul would have, he saw what truly was. It's amazing how much it can hurt when everyone and everything you know and love isn't what you think or expect them to be.

He walked through the flower-covered fields searching for something pure. He picked up the blossoming lilacs and tried to make himself feel complete again. Anything tangent, that needs food or water or love. He came upon a creek, where moss grew and stones eroded. He knew that something magical was happening. At that moment, he saw her.

He was mesmerized. How could anything be so perfect and be so real at the same time? The light around her was blinding, almost so much that you couldn't see, but yet you still had to look. She was certainly aesthetically pleasing, but it was more than that. For the first time in so long he felt safe. She smiled at him and asked him to come lay with her. The kid followed. She cradled him in her arms and held him because she knew that was what he needed. He fell asleep.

In the morning he awoke to the slow, meticulous sound of the creek making its lazy course. He looked for his friend, seeing nothing but the sky. The kid began walking again, not really knowing what had happened. As he walked, his legs grew tired, and just as he stopped to rest, a hawk swooped down and tore a gash into his neck. The kid did not worry or cry. And as crows circled and devoured his flesh, he did not shudder. In fact, he didn't make a sound.

He died that night on his long walk back to nothing or no one. But when the boy was found, there was a smile on his face. The smile was not one of contempt or complacency, but of happiness.
Lying next to his mangled body was the jar. The jar was closed, but it glowed and everyone who saw it wanted to open it. Eventually someone did and what ensued was incredible. It was the purest form of perfection that one could ever know. And at that moment, the gathering that had found this young boy felt happiness. Not because he had died a horrible death, but because he had experienced what they could only see, or read about, talk about and sometimes dream about.
— The LDL

Personally, I think that my powers preclude this type of event. But I appreciate the sentiments. May you have pleasant dreams tonight.

MM's haiku splendor

this is your ol pal
martin mcfriend on the brink
dyin’s no livin’

whatever you do
don’t fall asleep on this night
the creep is watching

betwixt the nightmares
when ghouls return from the grave
who will save your skin?

to be sure, children
like sheep to the slaughterhouse
they will come to feed

and you won’t like it
when blood becomes your slumber
and evil your dream

the stylish clothing
and magazine subscriptions
won’t save you at all

your education
and classical upbringing
whet large appetites

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for the terror lurks
in the addiction you built
in stark faithlessness

shirk material
give pennies to the street bums
cure you not, it will

yet hope finds purchase
in this twisted wreck of death
as one force protects

only say the word
he will visit through the rift
your only champion

you know this sailor
through naked sea his ship rocked
carrying him home

in glory and love
prodigal return come nigh
hark, martin mcfriend

if you don’t party
then i’ll let you come and watch
that’s freaky marty

Thursday, June 16, 2005

The need for regret and repentance

It has come to my attention that my past few posts have been permeated with lude references to unabashed hedonism, drug use, violence, sexual barbarism and other forms of low-rent smut. I would just like to apologize for this. I think your ol pal Marty is just tempted by the moral void that is the world wide interweb.

So in the spirit of contrition, I would like any readers out there to forgive me and celebrate with me the wholesomeness of this grand world by watching an uncensored trailer of George A. Romero's "Land of the Dead," a gruesome zombie opus that completes this brilliant series of despicably gory celluloid classics. I hope that one of these scenes makes you vomit with joy. Thanks and please run your mouse over the symbol \m/

And one more thing.

This guy is a pure genius, an honest, hard-working servant of the lord. And a man who clearly "gets it." Offer him your patronage and visit his site:


After all, even ol Marty gets lonely so it's easy to empathize.

PS- Who wants to fucking party tonight??? Freaks are the shit!

Wednesday, June 15, 2005

Marty does craigslist the right way

I was laying back in the extended rear of my barnhouse, when I decided I would take a night off the tranquilizers for a change. Tonight, I thought, I’m going to help someone in need. So I called an old friend of mine from the Miguel “Lige” Rodriguez School of Illusion and Puppetry. We hadn’t spoken in quite a while. Here is a brief summary of the dialogue:

Butch: Hello?

Martin: Speak to Butch?

Butch: Butch speaking.

Martin: Butch, this is Martin. How’s it goin pal?

Butch: Marty, hey buddy, how’s business?

Martin: It comes and goes. Look, I called you because I wanted to ask you if there was anything I could do for you.

Butch: That’s so thoughtful. As a matter of fact, do you have any good ideas for how a lonely, Level 2 Battle Mage can get laid in this town?

Martin: Why sure I do. I am a Class 4 Illusionist.

Butch: Holla atcha Butch, Marty.

Martin: Have you heard of

Butch: Why sure, but I’ve never used it.

Martin: There are many people out there looking for someone like you Butch. You still a good looking fella?

Butch: Why sure, I’ve never looked better.

Martin: Okay, give me your e-mail address. I’ll cook something up for you. A personal ad in the sex with no strings attached column. It will do wonders for you.

Butch: Marty, I owe you for this one

Martin: Take care, ol Butch.

Butch: Shakes.

So I went to work and put together the following listing for him:

Let's get fucking insane!

You wanna party with a real man? Let's get a mound of coke and go nuts. I do flips and juggle shit with blindfolds on. Afraid of being electrocuted? I'm not. I'm addicted to chloroform but get more compliments on my drinking. If you are a fucking freak and you have a couple hot friends, here's a proposal. We'll get a hotel on the Sunset Strip, a large suite, and I'll hire some entertainment. Evil clowns, two ninjas and a mule. Not one as well hung as me, but a good looking mule. After the fiireworks, we'll get into some crazy copulation. Upside down dicksucking gymnastics is what I prefer. Good hard fucking, too. Toys, tools and tits. Let's get in a morally depraved sexual K-hole! You won't regret it. Send pictures. I have more. I have a whole bunch of shit. I love LA.

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A couple days later, I got a call from Butch. Here is how the conversation went:

Butch: Marty?

Martin: Yeah, this ol Butch?

Butch: Marty, I love the personal but there is a little bit of a problem. That picture is not of me. That is clearly you Martin. And besides, I live in Atlanta. What's going on here?

Martin: Aww, hell, Butch. I offer you help and then you have the gall to question the way in which I provide it? Is nothing good enough for you Butch? It was just like this back in magician training—

Butch: I'm sorry Marty, I just thought maybe you could do one for an ol pal in Atlanta.

Martin: Okay, Butch, I'll try one last time. This one should work for you.

This is how the second posting turned out:

Looking for Morphing Maiden
with Orb of Ragul Za to christen
my fiery hot scepter

Man, I'm lookin for some bitches, dog. Hit me up if you wanna fuck with this shit, yo. I got the juice and shit. We can party, get naked, get whatever. You know how we do. Holla at me if you want some love. It aint no thang and shit. Bring it, hoes, we be fuckin if you wanna get wit me. All I do is swing dick to these bitches. Damn dog. let's party and shit. Holla.

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He called me back a few days later. Here is the exchange:

Butch: Marty, oh Marty man. This is incredible.

Martin: What happened man?

Butch: I have met so many women. I never knew Atlanta had so many swingers. Thanks so much buddy.

Martin: Don't ever say your ol pal Martin McFriend didn't offer a helping hand. Shakes.

This post is dedicated to my ol boy Suave because all he does is swing dick to these bitches.

I'm friendly, but this is ludicrous

How can they get away with this? Something needs to be done to stop this.


Zod help these poor souls.

The Ashtray Says: I got my eat on

I walked into the concert venue and ordered a beer. A Bud Light. After I drank it in two swallows, I ordered another. I looked at my watch. Plenty of time, I thought, this is gonna be alright. Sasefina, Kades, Stizamp and Satisfied75 told me they would meet me later. Just a little time I had to kill, that's all.

So I went and killed some time. Treading through the liquid arena of sweatshirts and exclusive denim, I found myself back at the concession stand. If this show was going to rock, then damn it, I was going to rock with it. I double fisted myself and made my way to a seat. A sold out show never stopped me before from sitting in range of something that might be interesting.

The couple next to me were fat people. Nothing wrong with that, but it was the most distinguishing factor they had going. That and the fact that they were smoking a joint. It smelled rank and I considered finding another seat that wasn't mine. Then the band busted out a song that was semi-introspective. So I turned to the portly guy and told him I would trade him a beer for a few hits from his little splizz.

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To my surprise he handed me the joint, stood up and left, bringing his heifer with him. (By the way, I love you guys whoever the fuck you are.) I started hitting it, hotboxing it really, and found myself completely lost in the supermarket. The fruits infiltrating my vision were ripe and colorful, and all I could hear in my head was Dexy's Midnight Runner. As Wilco wailed away into the Hollywood night, I started seeing another side of things, and my hunger was born.

The hospitality room furnished meatballs and cheese, but they seemed like a stopgap to the desire deep in my loins, manifesting at the sight of these thrift store debutantes. I looked at 20-year-old jeans and wanted to surf through the space time continuum picking my teeth with the wiry flesh and bones of an exhibitionist whose taste in hipster gear diminished my own hidden lust for off-kilter surprise outfits.

Then I looked to my right. My fucking holy soul, this chick had an Air t-shirt on, and it was scrumptious looking. I wiped drool from my chin and listened as the beat rolled into something of a circus rock anthem, bleating like a drum circle hippie twisting an acclaimed noodle dance that no Native American could hope to emulate.

I slapped myself as hard as possible, considering the circumstances, and went for a walk around the open-aired venue, smelling nothing but the sweet fume of folkster, licking my lips to contain the ravenous yearning from my lower regions. Hearing a new song, both on stage and through the din of my imaginary mind-concert, I found another open seat. These people were not fat, nor were they smoking weed. But by god, were their shirts bought on Melrose? I would wager heavily on it. And once again, I was a Pavlovian dog.

I pulled the crusty remains of a roach from my new zip-up pullover with vintage fabric strands. I lit it and inhaled, tasting my own empty breath and weed. Because that taste angered me, I made a quick decision. I would have a bite to eat, and quench this stupid deficiency before it became entirely too dangerous.

Making a quick check for security guards, I pounced, dingo-like and starving. The first thing my teeth met was the jugular vein of a pretty little blue-clad girl. Her skin was salty and full of must, but fulfilling in a live show sort of way. I pulled out the better part of the young nymph's neck with my incisors, seeing the arterial spray sully my newly purchased get-up. Her boyfriend seemed envious and unhappy, so I took a full chunk out of his flailing fist, and boy did I enjoy chewing on his tender finger flesh. He tried, gingerly, to poke my eyes, but I caught the side of his cheek with an uprising chomp and swallowed the pitiful remains of his larynx. He dropped in a heap of style next to his half digested lifemate.

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By this point, a full 50 square feet of the Greek theatre was shellshocked and dispersing, but as fortune would have it, Jeff Tweedy broke into a psychotic rock interlude of "War on War" and people seemed to forget the carnage that was my satisfied nourishment. I spit out the stale remains of a triple-pierced ear and ran, as fast as my long intoxicated legs could carry me, humming Echo and the Bunnymen as I fled.

I found myself back in front of the hospitality area and promptly struck up a conversation with Jason Bateman. He thought it such a kick that I was covered in blood. Secretly, I wished I could eat him, too, but I knew that I had to work tomorrow and there was only so much I could get away with on a Tuesday. So I settled for a piece of Brie and a Dos Equis, smiling provocatively at a young girl who was a busty version of Helena Bonham Carter.

Needless to say, I was left helpless and alone, dripping gore and picking human debris from the gap between my 23rd and 24th molars. My human jukebox started up again, this time synchronizing Wilco's encore with the Rapture's House of Jealous Lovers, and I was reminded of the lonely sorcerer that I have become. I took a nap on a bench, was woken by Sasefina and made my way home to a warm, welcoming computer. This is where I stand.

Thankfully, my eye infection isn't contagious. Otherwise, the poor souls at the thrift store would be in grave danger.

By the way, a quick shout out to the IRS. Without you, I wouldn't have this glut for human meat and sinew...which tastes great with diet Pepsi, salted squash and New Order on the iPod. Bedtime for bonzo.


Monday, June 13, 2005

A Trip Into the Nether Regions: An Origin of Martin McFriend

Some time ago, when I was still new to the sprawl of Los Angeles, I made a stunning discovery that is partially responsible for my metamorphosis from a straight-laced white kid out of the Georgian peidmont to the subhuman creature you now know as Martin McFriend. Until that point, I had never been to the Hollywood Hills and it was only through Bob Seger and late-night television that my perspective had any realistic design.

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At the time, I was under the ludicrous impression that the Sky Bar was a cool place to hang out, and like a bovine lummox, I spent an evening on the patio, carrousing with other glamorous idiots. If I had it to do over again, knowing what I know now, I have no idea whether I would still have left my Koreatown apartment that night, but essentially, this is what happened:

I was invited to an afterparty in "the hills," and accepted with gracious drunken joy. It would be my first of many ensuing sojourns into that detestable world, but never would any top this one. In a Victorian manor of a house, I wandered the spiraling corridors aimlessly, peeking into rooms and spilling vodka where I tread. The place was dark, and so expansive that the masquerade in the main hall could scarcely be heard in many rooms. Then I came to a dim room with a low buzz behind the door.

Entering with virginal caution, I came face-to-face with a voluptuous gothic beauty, standing formidable and alone before me. I excused myself awkwardly, fearing I had interrupted something. After finding my way back to the balcony, I was stunned by the speechlessness of the gathering. No one said a word, choosing to mingle in silence, glowing faces trancelike in the sodium backlight from a row of neon bulbs.

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I made another drink and moved into the fresh air, feeling the sting of voyeur eyes on my back. I knew before turning that it was her, and as I tried to speak, I found my voice trumped by a rising wind from below the mezzanine. She said hello and moved close enough that I could smell her breath. Taking my glass, she drank greedily, dropping it to the floor when finished. I was spellbound.

She grabbed my hand and led me back into the labyrinth of stucco and brick, taking us down two levels and finding a plush bedroom with an another eerie organ hum to it. We sat, and she looked at me for awhile. After several minutes of this madness, ones in which I had trouble keeping my eyes from this freakish, sexual specimen, she said she wanted to share something with me. I nodded my assent, the first coherent communication I had managed in what seemed like hours.

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She pulled one of
these from a handbag and my soul was stretched thin in two tokes time. Then she began to whisper and weave tales of intrigue and death. Her words unglued my thoughts, and I found myself hypnotized by the speech.

One story of note involved an insidious plot to kill a man who had overstepped his marital bounds. It would be a quick, bloody stabbing and departure operation, an idea she got from Roman Polanski, who she claimed to telepathically commune with on occasion. Before long, I was woozy and she held my swimming head hard against her bosom, assuring me that protection was available from the coming swarm.

The intercourse came like a dream, of the psychedelic variety, and all I will ever remember about it was the horrible, unceasing drone of machinery and laser fire. When I regained consciousness, I lay alone in my own bed on a beautiful, smogless SoCal morning. I felt certain that I was still at the house in the hills when I last knew reality, but my acquaintance could not have been responsible for getting me home. I decided to forget about the whole thing, instead choosing to be proud to have fornicated with such a beautiful siren.

Two days later, while straightening up my room, I came across a frayed sheet of parchment. The handwriting was beautiful, and the words seemed to glide. This is what it said:

Scion of time, you must heed this warning. In the dark reaches of the mind, everyone possesses a subtle curiosity about mutilation, torture and death as a means of control. Most turn a blind eye, or subdue it with solid resolve and faith in their nameless gods. But it is within these buried thoughts of debauchery that people can find a gateway to alternative release. Regarded as witchcraft in some sects, or insanity on educated earth, a disassociation with worldliness carries with it arcane meanings. Behind smiles and handshakes exists a spirituality based on a greater respect for the ambrosia that is life, though it is attained only from destruction of the visceral.

The archons that control us line up in numerous factions. The sociopolitical earthlings who hold elected office represent only the crust of this manipulative hierarchy. True authorities wait much higher, and their agendas are more sinister. Consider the world of dreams, hallucinations, déjà vu, drug trips, near-death experiences and religious awakenings. These are the paper-thin planes through which this surreptitious yet stately lynch mob can be glimpsed, tinkering with humanity’s machinery. In waking life, the clues to its presence are glimpsed only with extreme delicacy.

Knowing this, I have uncovered a mass marketing campaign forged by these powers, and it has scared me to my bitter soul. Their efforts, which are kept at bay only by a distraction more powerful than their own society (I will later elaborate), aim to rule us for their own insidious needs. I can only say that we are being harvested to become soldiers for a cataclysmic battle, and our own social entropy is predominantly their device by which they both train and recruit the wickedest, most blood-savvy warriors. It has, to the best of my estimates, been going on since the earliest days of mankind.

So I tell you this with grave concern. You are in danger. My only gift is to give you a venerable contact, someone who can help you see the truth. Call her at WITHHELD. Her name is WITHHELD. God speed to you Joseph.


Not long after, I made the phone call. I touched base with the emmissary. I became part of the guild. After three years of cloistered study, I emerged safe and 'protected' as something new. Something more powerful in spirit, and ever-thirsting for more dark knowledge. I am now prepared for the impending war. I am ready to face stark pandemonium. I am Martin McFriend.

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"There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy." — Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 5

This is very important

A friend of mine, henceforth known as Youngling #1 (he can be seen in a major motion picture rapidly descending on a theatre near you...more on that later), sent me the following communique today. I felt obliged to include it on this posting. It goes like this here:


   Here are the pics with Tony Cox.  Feel free to
include them in your blog, thus immortalizing me in
cyberspace. If you write up a little piece for the
pics you should keep in mind the following details:
1. The encounter occured at the 7-11 by CCA
[editor's note: CCA is a wretched hive of scum and villainy
that can be explored by clicking here]
2. Some random woman in a car next to me offered up
her camera
3. I had to help my new dwarf friend reach his drinks

   And, for the record, he was cool as shit.  A
really friendly vertically challenged african american
dwarf.  I feel that must be noted.
                                  Take it sleazy,
                                    C Murda

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Good reporting Youngling #1. Martin is expecting great things from you.

Sunday, June 12, 2005

The Sabbath, a time to give thanks

I'm thankful for the simple pleasures in life. Take shamanism, for example. If I hadn't been able to cast good fortune spells, I cannot imagine what my weeks would be like. And for that matter, if it wasn't for llama wool, my cloaks would not be so comfy. In Utopia, it is said, men and women were happy by only fulfilling the most basic of needs, separated from the troubling interferences of capitalistic endeavor and coveting the neighbor's wife. One of the simple, yet infinitely pleasurable gems of Utopian life, Thomas Moore imagined, was, of course, relieving an excess. I'm thankful for that, too.

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I'm also very thankful for low-hanging fruit, such as the luminescent genius of Tommy Burger. Who is this fucking guy and how could he have conceived of something so magical? As a distinguished illusionist, I am nothing short of astonished that this is available with chili cheese fries and a big gulp for somewhere in the neighborhood of $7.50. Though times are tough with those fucking Coldplay clowns selling out so many venues, I consider it money well spent.

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After another long weekend of run of the mill depravity, it's nice to look back on the things that give life flavor. In the last 72 hours, there was both bad and good. Good: doing a show-stopping karaoke version of Only the Good Die Young. Bad: being stonewalled singing Been Caught Stealing. Good: Raucous sex with divorcees. Bad: losing $50 in pool to a retirement aged Chinese lady (and $10 to a guy on mushrooms.) Good: finding a cigarette under the couch in the morning. Bad: forgetting to eat for two days and coughing blood. Good: performing an impromptu puppet show on Lincoln Blvd. Bad: being arrested for it. I appreciate all of these mundane treasures with equal passion.

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I'm not entirely sure why, but I am also quite thankful for this guy. Just knowing that he is out there makes me not ever want a girlfriend again. In fact, I'm close to confident that he has been hand fed grapes by at least two of my ex-girlfriends.

Well, let it be known that I am no ingrate. For these things and more, I am thankful.



Oh yeah, and a special shout out to the LDL. Good times were channeled.

Saturday, June 11, 2005

I am the ancient mariner and not in Xanadu

Kings fall, water evaporates, people do things that were always expected. Especially when they're day drunk. But sometimes, yes, sometimes you find that little bit of pure energy, that untamed, unchecked and undeveloped power pulsating in someone or something and you only want to harvest it and develop it, and then, damn, you have a project.

Well, I found that project. She was so cute in an Indie rocker sort of way. Hmm, let's recite, Parliament Lights? Check. Lives in Silverlake? Check. She has bangs? Check. She has an Apple computer (so do I but that is irrelevant) and wears Brooklyn sweatshirts. She says she's an artist, (she's got everything she needs, she don't look back?) and quite honestly, I've never seen her work. Her musical tastes are so hipster, and by god, I'm sure she doesn't like the way the Administration operates. Oh yeah, and she loves Stephen Malkmus. What could Martin McFriend possibly offer to this chick? And can I get her to acknowledge and expose the hotness she could become?

Well, let's just say that when I asked her out, she was skeptical, but maybe it was that carnival charm to which she capitulated. Well, I was a little worried. You know, just nervous and thinking that maybe I couldn't impress her. I needed help. I needed to call a friend. Someone with the heavy artillery. My illusions only go so far. Doing five 20-inch rails in succesion doesn't impress everyone, after all. But, well, this is how it went down.

Dinner, uhh, well, fuck it, let's get to the drinking. My buddy came by ten minutes after I picked up this cute, thin little t-shirt wearing chestnut. I figured he would help take the edge off like Orko did for the Masters of the Universe. Things were going swimmingly. I mean, she passed the Trivial Pursuit challenge with flying colors and, man, did I cherish those lips of hers. (By the way, how the frack did she answer that question about Spirew Agnew?) I found myself flat out, yep, smitten. Maybe I had been overtaken by this obscure beauty, this aspiring songwriter who seemingly didn't understand that there is a world in between LA and NYC. And hell, maybe there wasn't that night. I sure as hell didn't give a...

But then something happened on the way to that astral plane of romance, and it wasn't us running out of weed. My friend, who I had invited in the hopes that he could help:

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Well, I'm not clear whether or not he was on my side in this skirmish of sexual agendas. Suddenly I noticed her taking quite an interest in the fruity bastard. Would I have been concerned about that before this picture was taken? I don't know. And fuck, who took this picture and why? My god, it was crumbling. My statements were humbly ignored. The rasberry salad I had worked so hard on was nothing but a clown's prop. Things were really spiraling downward when she told him he was so fit and his hands were soft. What? Did I hear that right?

Okay, so the development of her potential didn't look like it was going so well when he gave her a ride home. Okay, I cleaned up the house by myself. Okay, I owned Q-Movies that night. But damn, aren't there any surprises? Couldn't it have been better for Martin? Don't I have the illusions that these ladies love? How bout some help hipster chicks? If you have a stone that needs to be cut, I guarantee it will be so. Just hit me up at Marty. Who knows, maybe it could be our night? Or your night. Or mine.


Friday, June 10, 2005

Feelin' Groovy

Martin McFriend doesn't show his real face very often, but I just couldn't resist on this one. For the record, this is me...



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"Way to go Paula!"

Because of the sensitive nature of this story and its potential effects on the reputations of people who consider themselves legitimate, functioning members of upper social strata, I will omit all names. As for me, I’m Martin McFriend. You know how I roll.

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One of my brothers is getting married in August. We’ve been talking a lot about the plans for this Vegas wedding extravaganza (which will be his second), but I can’t keep my mind from slipping back to the last time the poor fucker got hitched. It was July of 2002. And we threw one hell of a bachelor party. A legend in its own right.

The night started off with the normal bachelor party fare – booze, strippers, fat Columbian guys and ex-baseball playing pimps. (By the way, has there ever been a stripper pimp who wasn’t some sort of ex-athlete? I swear I’ve never met one.) From there things got downright nasty. To start off the festivities, one man took a header on the balcony of the grand class suite at Hotel Bel Age in West Hollywood. From 10 floors up, the puking became forceful, and innocent passersby on the Sunset strip could not have been happy to discover this fact. The funny thing is that the incident escalated to involve beer bottles, urination and other debris expunged from the unruly hotel room.

When the rest of us decided to hit the bars, we split into several groups. My group, which included the man of honor, got into a vicious fistfight with a rowdy Persian sect in the street in front of the Saddle Ranch. Though it was bloody and I lost a shirt in the battle, by night’s end, the situation was more or less forgotten.

Another group, composed of at least some other combination of knockdown drunks, fell in with some Russian ladies, who kept the party going with incessant drug trips to the bathroom. After numerous bars, shots and unspeakable drug use, we returned to the hotel for a little late-night CCA-style partying. It wasn’t long before I looked around the room to see four men left standing, including me. It was late, and we are drunk people, so it was with joint surprise that we heard a knock on the door. Answering it, we watched, spellbound, as a young woman entered and asked if we wouldn’t mind sharing a drink with her. Umm, okay, come on in, we said, and handed her a beer.

It was with utter consternation and awe that we realized our unexpected guest was none other than Debra Winger, and that signified the start of a true Instant Classic. Now, I’m pretty uninhibited, but I do have a shred or two of class and wouldn't want to provide all the details. So instead I’ll just say that “BUKKAKE!” became a common chant that night, and after we pulled down the shades to block out the rising sun, Debra’s nude figure continued to dance on, and in fact, is still dancing in my head today. The four of us had separated into two groping, licking factions when the debauchery began, but we will forever stand together in the beauty of that perversion. May my big brother be married many, many more times. Here Here.

This story is dedicated to the Sheriff, a true prince among men, and a formidable party gag of a friend. May Zod bless you and keep you.

Thursday, June 09, 2005

Hey dude, wanna hang out sometime?

If so, then hit me up. Maybe we can become friends. I need more friends. Hey, who doesn't?



Family Circus, yes?

When my youngest sister was born, the ninth and final child in the family, my father was flat busted. I didn't learn until later what happened to my First Communion money. Nor did I know at that age he had to borrow $100 from my grandma to keep us from starving, literally. The man had nine whacked out children living under one silly roof.

The truth behind your ol pal Marty's family is best put in perspective by a list of facts.

  • 14: range in years between oldest and youngest child
  • 8: number of home addresses we had between 1982 and 1993 (in 5 states)
  • 10: number of family dogs in 10 year stretch
  • 6'4": average height of the seven males, including my pops
  • 215: average weight of the same group
  • 2: number of certified psychotics among the progeny
  • 38: number of cumulatiive nights spent in jail (close as I can figure)
  • 11: number of college degrees in the family

    Even Martin McFriend is a fucking elitist. Suck on that NYERD!

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