Today I’m 64.

As lame a song as it ever was.

Will you still need me? No. Oldheads doddering into uselessness.

But I’m in my chair, seemingly somnolent, and my supposedly senile mind is still on fire. You just can’t see it. Unless you take care to loook. I am 64 but I’m not interested in being Sir Paul McCartney. You? I’m more like the dirty guy still in the trenches.

The grand farewell is not far away. But it has its attractions.

And then there’s legacy. Just a writer. I’m content with that.

Happy Birthday to me.

The Return of Johnny’s Last Chance Garage

My place is the last stop for gas, parts, food, directions, and other necessities before you plunge into the wilderness of the barrens. Not much doing at the moment. Might as well fire up this rig I’ve cobbled together. You can do almost anything with wire and alligator clips. I’ve got a 13-inch TV (color), a rebuilt IBM Selectric, a modified Commodore 64 with an aftermarket supercharger and algae-based memory, and miscellaneous other machines, all attached to an old satellite dish somebody traded for a set of used tires. The whole thing is powered by a 1953 Hemi donkey engine I also use to power my pneumatic garage tools. I’m connected to everything that’s happening in the world. And thanks to an old transmission tower that used to belong to the Jersey Devil Church of Christ before they disappeared without a trace, I can talk to the world too. I’m thinking of it as the Command Center. So when I have nothing better to do I might as well sound off about anything that occurs to me. If you have nothing better to do, you might as well stop by and see what I’m sounding off about. But that would be up to you.

Victorian Ruin Gardens

There was an era called Victorian. In England. Which is a country your parents may have heard of. Ask them. They had a Queen named Victoria who ruled for 150 years or so. Toward the end, around 1900, things started to fall apart. When ruin became a whole new esthetic. Hence Victorian Ruin Gardens.

So now we are recapitulating Victorian Ruin Gardens in Elsinboro, NJ.

We used to have a gazebo. I’ve been waiting and waiting and waiting for this marvelous moment to occur.

The gazebo is gone.

And the willow is back.

I Win. Now Go Away.

One gets old, one gets to be new. But they’re the same girl, one Italian, one Jewish. All the same same same same.

Important distinctions. The Italian girl is a REAL slut, picking up every john in a Checker cab and taking what she wants. The Jewish girl is a fake slut, dressing up as meat because she can’t quite get there.


Flat-Out Whore. And kill those f’ing cops who are guarding my dressing room.

What we’ve become. Not really fun, is it? Why men are losing sexual interest. Shrieking, ravening, horny females are just meat on the table for the taking. The story of our times.