Random Tom Waits Lyric Generator
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Friday, August 14, 2015
Humpster Dumpster
Humpster Dumpster sat on a wall,
Humptster Dumpster had a great fall,
All Stephanie’s besties,
And all Stephanie’s friends,
Agreed that Humpster Dumpster’s ginormous douchelips should be smacked with a rusty kaiser blade by Anthony Michael Hall.
If My Psyche Were to Direct a Music Video
It might look like GoGo Yubari by way of Taylor Swift by way of Betty Boop by way of Darksockian horse cosplay by way of hallucinogenic bullet train vending machine sashimi ecto-plasmonic vomitorious technospew.
Or, as Toshiro Mifune might say before committing ritual seppuku at the shame brought upon his once proud culture, ‘Sake it off’…
Monday, December 30, 2013The Dead Zone
So what to do when Hollywood Bieberbag meatwads and Monica Models float by on the Sunset Blvd. pools of our imagination?
Kick a puppy in the nads, I says.
Another year has passed for your humble narrator in the City of Angels. Another year away from New York.
Some projects happen. Other’s don’t.
The sun will rise. The sun will set. Lou Gorman will have lunch.
It’s that creepy quiet time in Los Angeles between Christmas and New Years. The weather is the same. The churning 20-somethings with a web series and a dream are the same.
But everything gets more quiet.
Turned down.
The desperation and flop sweat of a city built on selling fraudulent dreams and overpriced yoga mats dims.
Just for a moment.
Before Ryan Seacrest and a lot of noise and then the whole churn and burn begins again.
Perhaps Nathanael West said it best in his 1939 classic novella of Hollywood angst, The Day of the Locust:
Their boredom becomes more and more terrible. They realize that they’ve been tricked and burn with resentment. Every day of their lives they read the newspapers and went to the movies. Both fed them on lynchings, murder, sex crimes, explosions, wrecks, love nests, fires, miracles, revolutions, war. This daily diet made sophisticates of them. The sun is a joke. Oranges can’t titillate their jaded palates. Nothing can ever be violent enough to make taut their slack minds and bodies. They have been cheated and betrayed. They have slaved and saved for nothing.
But hey, it beats living in snow country I says. I paid my dues.
Oranges.
Monday, September 24, 2012Mexican Mini Me Approves of the HCwDB of the Week
Two times.
Thursday, July 28, 2011Where Llamas Go to Die
I remember it well.
I was gun running with a band of militants in Bolivia doing covert ops for the Friends of Zapata. Brothers too hirsute to even bother scratching.
Men who could quote Trotsky in Gaelic, and spit lemongrass at a nearby sloth with the accuracy of an indigenous harpooneer.
We made the trade by the abandoned French colonist plantation where Old Petey LeTourre still lived and knitted mittens.
Lots of scotch passed through those lips to wash the tears and ravages of Sister Maggie’s betrayal.
Old Mother Hubbard never told no tales like this one, I tell you.
Ancient cars rumbled on the dirt roads like dusty coughs from the belly of an architect.
But I closed my eyes. The echo of her screams like dying quails in the sunset lake hunts of her youth.
And stupid hair on a douchebag in a club, with so much hipster irony I could take a musket and sell it for coin just to hop that bus back to Albuquerque.
Back to Albuquerque. Where Sons of the Revolution sputter like impotent field mice in the hazy woodlands of her mind.
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