Archive for November, 2011

Patrice O’Neal RIP

November 30th, 2011

Yesterday, Patrice O’Neal passed away from complications from a stroke. He was a few weeks shy of his 42nd birthday. He was a comedian, and more than a comedian. I am really down right now because of this.


Patrice O’Neal had a stroke on October 19th and died on November 29th. There was a month-plus where that poor man was in physical limbo. I wouldn’t want to be in that state for five minutes, let alone forty days or so.


The whole thing has hung me up since the news of his stroke came out. Besides being very funny, Patrice had the ability to make you want to be where he was. I never met him and wish I had. A few years ago, I had the opportunity to see either him or another comedian in Nashville. I made the mistake of seeing the other comedian. Not that the other guy was bad, he was great. But Patrice is gone and this guy is still here. This is the worst tribute ever I’m writing.


Here’s what weird and embarrassing on my part. I wanted to be more like Patrice O’Neal and I’m only nine years younger than him. I didn’t want to be him like I was a kid and I wanted to be Ace Frehley. I just wanted to have that give-a-fuck-less kind of feeling. I feel like I’ve subconciously patterned myself after him over the last few years.


Now, I’m gonna post some links. Some of these are standup. Some of these are from his many radio appearances. Some of these are from his own brief call-in show, The Black Phillip Show.







Black Friday, Or Work Sucks When It’s Busy

November 24th, 2011

Black Friday starts a bit early every year. Often it starts about 8pm on Thanksgiving night. The crush of consumers in their cars for Wal-Mart, Target, Best Buy, etc. And a lot of people don’t like it. Here’s what I say to that: tough titties.


Black Friday. You know what that means? It’s not “black” as in “dark”, it means “in the black” which is to make a profit. And if a store can’t turn a profit on that day, then something’s wrong. A lot of companies need a good Black Friday because the rest of the year might be hit or miss. You don’t like it? Don’t fucking go.  I don’t. But then again I’m a broke ass and I buy cheap gifts for people. Mom’s getting a candle again this year. Granny’s gonna be lucky if I hug her this Christmas. That’s how it goes with me.


Some of you hate Black Friday because you work retail. Am I supposed to feel bad for you when you bitch about your job? In this economy? Am I supposed to be sympathetic because you’re not in a union or get to share in the profits when the company does good? So what, work somewhere else if it pays the same.


I have a friend who worked in retail for 14 years and he tweeted about how much he hated Black Friday. Why would you stay in retail that long if you hated this shit? Oh, but you only hated the most busy day of the year for sales. You hate being really busy. I get it. But that’s what happens when you work. Some days are slammed, other days you can barely keep your eyes up. And people don’t enjoy it either way. You hate the company being open on the day it will have it’s most business so they can bring in revenue and not lay off the staff, i.e. you, motherfucker.


The only thing I don’t like about Black Friday is when people get out of control and violent. That’s a rare thing. Like when the doors open and the crowd stampedes in. I keep waiting for a new Age of Perspective where if we see an old lady being trampled, we take a second out of looking for the new 4G phones to help her up and see if she’s okay. Likewise, I hope for an Age of Perspective when if a college football program has a child molester for a coach, they don’t sweep it under the carpet and proclaim “omerta” in favor of the status quo.


But that has nothing to do with Black Friday, which is our greatest contribution to the American economy. Us as normal people, everyday tax payers. This is our time to shine and get out there and keep gas in the engine. This is our Running of The Bulls and we shine like the sun. We never disappoint. And we don’t shop local because Mom and Pop’s don’t have the electronics we want.


Shopping local is a nice sentiment but there’s only so much you can get from there. If you want high-tech stuff, are you gonna go to Shecky’s Pawn and Gold? I might, but I’m a degenerate and I don’t have any taxable income. My aunt will get a gold watch, or she’ll think it is gold provided she doesn’t try to shine it with a rag.

Yoga Is As Yoga Does

November 22nd, 2011


Elvis Presley was a dumb cracker, wasn’t he? When presented with the song “Yoga Is As Yoga Does”, he didn’t karate chop his producers and management like he probably should have.


I post this video because I did my first yoga session this past Monday. Would you believe me if I told you it didn’t go great?


To be fair, even at the peak of my physical health, I would still not be able to do some of the things that were done at the session. I couldn’t even touch my toes in high school, what makes you think I could now? That is not the point.


At least no one was pointing and laughing at me. They were all focused on their own thing. Before the work out, I saw a middle-aged lady doing that upside-down pushup thing I’ve seen women do in porn. Only there was no dick below her. I imagined her to be a spinster with a vast array of suction-cup dildos.


I don’t think about sex every six seconds. I just think about it for great lengths of time and that’s why that averages out.

The Biggest Scumbag Yet

November 15th, 2011

Right now, the Big Scumbag is former Penn State defensive coordinator Jerry Sandusky, charged with up to forty counts of child sex abuse on eight victims since 1996. Sandusky formed a charity for troubled children, The Second Mile. It is alleged he met his victims through this charity and used his influence and friendship with Penn State (ex) head coach Joe Paterno.


Surrounding Sandusky are a phalanx of subsidiary Scumbags. None of them are as horrific in their actions as the Big’un, but each is responsible for enabling criminal activity. The latest in this chain of assholes is his lawyer, who appeared on NBC last night to speak to Bob Costas.


Critical praise is going to Costas, but in all fairness an interview like this should be the proverbial walk in the park. What did Costas and NBC have to lose by alienating a potential sex offender and his lawyer? It’s not like their influence extends beyond a segment of Pennsyvania. If only the press could find their huevos when it came time to interview politicians or candidates to be politicians. Oh, they’re all in bed together.


I’m getting distracted. One of the things I clearly remember Sandusky’s lawyer saying to Costas is that, although he didn’t know how many would eventually do so, some of the eight alleged victims would recant the story. This would eventually prove Sandusky innocent, as far as that goes.


Sadly, you can imagine at least a few victims recanting on the witness stand. This is a high-profile news story. National news, where it will remain for some time. This involves a public university, its’ high-profile football program, and as much as fifteen years of child abuse that could have been prevented. A tale of the status quo reigning over the need for justice for too long.


Imagine being a witness in the Sandusky trial, as a victim. Imagine sitting on the stand as you have to recall the disgusting details of what happened to you, in front of the Big Scumbag who did it, and a jury and judge, and a full galley, and the Big Scumbag’s asshole lawyers who will challenge everything you said. Everything you tried to forget, he will tell you that you are lying and it didn’t happen. Worse, you will wish he was right. You wish it hadn’t happened. And that’s a hard thing to deal with.


Can you imagine the courage it would take to face the person who violated you? Molested and raped you?  Could you sit in that chair and own that moment and own what happened to you, feeling like everyone in the world is staring at you, staring through you?


When you think about it like that, you can see a sex abuse victim recanting? Who wants to go through that? I certainly couldn’t. Wouldn’t it be easier to go “hey, it didn’t happen” and then slide into obscurity and hide from the harsh glare of everything?


There’s a tough road ahead for anyone who chooses to testify against Sandusky. Right now, there are eight. Hopefully, they can make it through. They share a common bond, not one they chose. Even if a few of them fall out and recant, hopefully there will still be somebody willing to nail the bastard to the wall. It would take a lot of courage that most of us don’t have.

Stay Awake As Long As You Can

November 14th, 2011

The other day I realized what my routine has become. I used to go to bed at a reasonable hour, and I would often not be able to fall asleep until all the thoughts in my head stopped racing. Only after the train of thought slowed down could I finally grab some zzzzs.


Nowadays, I spend all this time awake late at night. Sometimes I don’t get to bed until 6am. I realize now that I just stay up until I’m too exhausted to think. Mental illness. That’s what I think it is. Or side effects. Whatevs, as the kids say.



After tonight, I’ll let this go.

November 10th, 2011

For this moment, I’m going to stew in the juices of bitterness and angst. This is not a love story.


To set the story, I had two passes to the Pixies. I had asked this girl over a month prior if she wanted to go. And she replied FUCK YEAH! because why wouldn’t she? A pass to the Pixies and all she has to do is get there. I was so confident for about three weeks that this was a DATE.


I was going to show both sides of the story, her texts and mine. But I think my texts tell the story well enough. If I posted her texts it would be almost funny but that’s not what I’m going for.




Can you get off next Wed for Pixies?


Forget it then.


Did you ask off?


When do you think you’ll find out? No offense but I have an extra ticket and I’d like to use it.




Did you get your schedule?


OK. Let me know when you find out. It’ll work out.




Hey, hey. Did you find out anything about Wednesday night?




Let me know. I hope you can. I never asked anyone else.


I didn’t know if you wanted to go separate or not.


9pm Louisville, 8pm (your time)


I’d be cool with meeting you in (your town) but I’d hate to drive us to Louisville. I hit a deer last week.


WEDNESDAY (show time):


(15 minutes before doors open) Are you on your way?


Really? You couldn’t call it in.



Goin’ Stag

November 10th, 2011

You’re alone. Again. You’re going stag everywhere you go. Get used to it. Things happen. It doesn’t mean you’re a loser. It might feel like you can’t win. Ever. But that doesn’t make you a loser.


A real loser would not go at all because they didn’t have a date. Which is a stupid reason to not do something. Unless you’re going to a wedding. Try not to go to weddings stag. Unless one of your relatives is getting married. Then family obligations trump personal feelings of loser-ness.


Things fall apart. Things fail to come together. That’s the way of the world. Live, love, smile. Enjoy the freedom that comes with traveling alone. This isn’t a Sadie Hawkins dance. This is life. It’ll be fine. Try not to be disappointed.

Moth Tits

November 7th, 2011

Two Fridays ago I went to Louisville to see Mike Doughty in concert. I have not seen him in about three years, since we did a gig together at ’08 Lebowski Fest. He seems to think I’m alright, and gave me two passes to the show. Nice, right?


Doughty and his three-piece backing band played a great show. Afterwards, my date and I went to Nachbar for some post-show merriment. I saw a girl there that I also saw at the Doughty show. I recognized her from her shirt, a black baby-tee with “THE MOTH” in block white letters. So I went up to say hello. “Were you at the Doughty show earlier tonight?”


She barely glanced at me like it would lower her stock to respond to me, but she managed a tough “yeah, sure”. I tried to say “me, too” but after that I let it drop. She was looking away. Like she was trying to ignore a crying child in a hospital waiting room, or I was the live, physical embodiment of Goatse.


Moth Tits really upset me. She didn’t have to swoon but I would have appreciated something a little less awkward. I couldn’t even make small talk with her. What a drag. Yeah, I called her Moth Tits. Those baby-tees should be called B-cup tees because I usually never see anyone with a large set wearing them. Also, it sounds mean.


I will close this post with a video of a NYC band called Moon Hooch. They were Doughty’s opening act and they were great. An instrumental trio with drumkit, sax and contrabassoon. Fantastic. Check them out if you get a chance.


Things Fail To Come Together

November 2nd, 2011

I don’t believe in people anymore.


they look at me all puzzled when I need their help

I always need help

I am not a standalone fruit

I am like the unmajestic blueberry

People let me down over and over again.


One day my death certificate will read “Cause: Frustration; Secondary Cause: Loneliness”


Who wants to be self-sufficient? Not me.

I kill myself every day to live.

It’s not recommended. It’s just there.

Truth is not beauty, otherwise a dead raccoon on the side of the road with its’ rotted guts hanging out would be beautiful. Likewise it would be beautiful for me to jerk off over said raccoon. If that were to be true.


In order for things to fall apart, things will have to come together first. Maybe that’s my album title, should I ever get it released. The Roots had Things Fall Apart. I can have Things Fail To Come Together. Makes sense.


There won’t be a Ky Prophet album in 2011. Maybe not on 2012. Are you surprised? Don’t be. Music is not a one-man operation. Shouldn’t be, anyway. If you try to do it all yourself, you will likely fail. For every Stevie Wonder or Todd Rundgren there are ten million assholes with a lot of computer gear who can’t write songs or sing or play worth a damn. I am the opposite. I can do the important bit which is write and sing songs. I need someone who understands. I need someone who wants to help.


Discover parallels between searching for musical collaborator and life partner. TVH doesn’t count. It’s a democracy. In a five-piece band, you really get about one-fifth of your input in on any given song. That’s not enough for me.