Archive for November, 2014

Things To Be Thankful For (2014)

November 27th, 2014

Today’s Thanksgiving. Let’s go over the list.


  • I’m thankful 2014 is almost over.
  • I’m thankful that I have a great family.
  • I’m thankful for all my good friends.
  • I’m thankful I was there for my grandpa.
  • I’m thankful I didn’t watch any college football this year.
  • I’m thankful I didn’t play fantasy football.
  • I’m thankful for all the pussy I got this year.
  • I’m thankful for sarcasm.
  • I’m thankful for all the good music.
  • I’m thankful for all the bad music.
  • I’m thankful for Technology Vs. Horse.
  • I’m thankful that I finally put the Dolphin album out.
  • I’m thankful that I’m winning in my death pool.
  • I’m really thankful that 2014 is almost over.

Lessons On Life From My Uncles

November 26th, 2014

The holidays are always good for checking in with those relatives you don’t see all the time. I have so many uncles I can’t count them all (four).
My uncle Jeff was telling me a little bit about life a few years ago. What he said was:

“You’re born, then you get older, then you die, then your soul goes to Heaven or Hell after the War on Earth like it’s foretold in Revelations.”

Uncle Jeff was pretty heavy into his Bible. He’d been in and out of jail a few times until he sobered up for good and found Jesus. Now everybody has to hear the Gospel at social functions. Uncle Ron is a lot more fun to be around. He drinks more and prays less. One night after he gave his daughter away in marriage he came up to me half in the bag and told me something I’ll never forget.


Uncle Ron told me: “First you get born. Then they put you in school. Then you they give you a gun and tell you to go kill a bunch of Viet Cong and you go kill them Viet Congs. Then you come home and you stop killing Viet Congs but you keep smoking heroin. Then you sober up about twenty years later and somehow you got a wife and kids and a job driving trucks. Then you die.” Then he gave me a hug and went into the bushes to piss. Ronnie could be a sentimental, oversharing drunk but he was more fun than Uncle Jeff every time.


Uncle Zisek took me to a Kentucky game when I was fourteen. After the game, he stopped in a liquor store and got a 40 ouncer of Falls City for the ride home. He had me take a few pulls off of it and while we were riding along he said this to me: “Boy, there’s a few things you gotta know about life. First you die. Then you are reborn. Then you come out of your mother’s womb. Then you spend your life in eternal torment because you’ve been kicked out your mother’s womb which is the most serene feeling in the world. Then you die by your own hand.” The family doesn’t talk to Uncle Zisek anymore since he ended up on house arrest for possession of. . . you know what let’s talk about Uncle Harry.


Uncle Harry. What a life he led. Every time we saw him he had some new crazy story. One Christmas he pulled me aside, lit up a smoke and told me a story. “Kid, I want you to remember this. One day you’re born. The next, you’re selling $8,000 worth of bootleg Aerosmith shirts in the parking lot of their tour opener in Pensacola. The next day, you wake up to find the money’s gone, along with your girlfriend’s car and all of her belongings. Before you know it, the mob is breaking your fingers. Within a few years, you end up on the cover of a Cannibal Corpse album. That’s life and there aint a fucking thing you can do about it. Now let’s go eat some eat some cranberry!” I liked Uncle Harry but he passed away. Officially. Every December we get a Christmas card from “Hrothgar Von Whatley”, which is the most obvious made-up name of all time but I’m not saying anything.

“Dolphin”: Clearing Out The Cache

November 25th, 2014


Dolphin is the name of the new Kentucky Prophet album.


This is the link where you can get it.

There are ten tracks. Each of the ten tracks have that cute dolphin picture at the top. All of the tracks can be streamed. Some of them can be downloaded. Since we live in a digital era, you can conjure up your own track order.


These songs were recorded in 2012 or thereabouts and were recorded by Russell Brooks, who also played on all the tracks. Sometimes he played guitar or bass or made a beat in MIDI. Sometimes he did other stuff. He recruited Nick Clark to play drums on some of the tracks and Shelby Smith to play guitar on a few numbers.


Keeping in mind the spirit of this holiday season, I am thankful to Russell, Nick and Shelby for their considerable help. I am also thankful to you for your listening and patronage. I hope you enjoy Dolphin.


UPDATE: The Dolphin update was just retweeted by Cage The Elephant. @CageTheElephant on Twitter. Over 1 million followers. Not exactly lightweights.

End Of Year Superlatives

November 20th, 2014

Celebrity Who Hated The Fappening The Most

3rd place: Aubrey Plaza. As if her nude videos and pictures leaking weren’t bad enough, she starred in a Lifetime TV movie with Grumpy Cat.

2nd place: Jennifer Lawrence. The obvious favorite for this award, J-Law doesn’t win only because she dated the Coldplay singer for a time.

1st place: Kate Upton. Not only was it her boyfriend Justin Verlander’s pictures that were hacked, the pictures reveal some other girl with Verlander’s cum on her back. Not to mention women people are critiquing her body for being boxy-looking. No one’s saying anything bad about J-Law’s body, are they?

(Honorable mention: Justin Verlander. Whether true or not, people think he’s cheating/cheated on Kate Upton. Stupid, stupid, stupid.)

Best Blue Oyster Cult Song Title

3rd place: “Shooting Shark”

2nd place: “Cities On Flame With Rock And Roll”

1st place: “The Siege and Investiture of Baron von Frankenstein’s Castle at Weisseria” I should tell you that I have never listened to this song and I never will because there’s no way the song will live up to the title.

(Honorable mention: “She’s As Beautiful As A Foot”)

Worst Month Of 2014, Personally

2nd. October

1st. September. We’ve been through this in previous posts. Let’s move on.

What The Fuck Happened to WWE in 2014?

4th place: CM Punk quits.

3rd place: Daniel Bryan gets injured, has neck and Tommy John surgery

2nd place: More shitty writing. I’m not asking for anything complicated. It’s okay to adhere to basic storytelling elements.

1st place: More goddamn Triple H and Stephanie. Fourteen years of these cunts queefing up my TV screen.

1st place (tie): They had goddamn Grumpy Cat as a special guest. Yeah, Grumpy fucking Cat. At least it didn’t wrestle.

(Honorable mention: They also had that closet case from Chrisley Knows Best, Larry The Cable Guy, Kathie Lee and Hoda from NBC’s Today and Jerry Springer. It’s like they were trying to make me stop watching their show. They succeeded.)

Four people who were too young to die who died in 2014:

Dave Brockie

Jan Hooks

Philip Seymour Hoffman

Tony Gwynn


Mega-babe Singer Chick Of 2014:

Nominee: Lady Gaga. Playing herself out.

Nominee: Miley Cyrus. Turning herself out.

Nominee: Katy Perry. Cleavage H.O.F.’er, but otherwise demure. Probably has fat pepperoni nipples (fingers crossed).

Nominee: St. Vincent. I’ve included her for the sake of the hairy-pussy/armpit crowd. You’re welcome.

Nominee: Taylor Swift. Some people think her new album is pop instead of country. I can’t tell the difference.

Nominee: Avril Lavigne. A darkhorse candidate. Made a racist ching-chong music video and was in the Fappening.

Winner: Rihanna. She spends more time on Instagram than in the studio, for which we should be all thankful.

Here’s Hoping They Get Hit By A Train in 2015:

3rd place: Russell Brand. Parklife.

2nd place: Nancy Grace. Self-explanatory.

1st place: Roger Goodell. The NFL Commissioner and overall stuffed-shirt toady.



November 18th, 2014


Listen to this song. This song was released over forty years ago but it is relevant.


“Next” is a translation of a Jacquel Brel song titled “Au Suivant”. Scott Walker did an English translation in the mid-60s but this 1973 rendition really makes it for me as the definitive take.


Alex Harvey sings of the soul’s torment. A teenage soldier losing his virginity in a mobile military-sponsored brothel.


Naked as sin, a Army towel covering my belly

Some us of weep, some of us howl, knees turned to jelly


I was just a child, a hundred like me.

I followed a naked body, a naked body followed me.


I was just a child when my innocence was lost

In a mobile Army whorehouse, a gift of the Army, free of cost



Can you imagine the bureaucratic shitshow that would make that kind of decision?


I still recall the brothel trucks, the flying flags

The queer lieutenant slapped our asses, thinking we were fags


The military-industrial complex thinks it has done its’ soldiers a real solid, getting them laid and what not. There is a lot to be said about the enslaved prostitution of the World War era. Joy divisions and comfort women. I don’t know if anyone has recorded a song from that perspective. But this is the first one I’ve ever heard from the perspective of a soldier (or ex-soldier) who looks back in regret.

Since then each woman I have taken into bed

They seem to lie in my arms and they whisper in my head


Oh the naked and the dead could hold each other hands as they watch me scream at night in a dream that nobody understands.


A war-scarred mind. To go back and do it all over again. To lose one’s virginity in a setting of actual tenderness, in an intimate setting. Not surrounded by the rest of the brigade. To not smell the sex of a hundred nervous soldiers before you. To never have to go and kill another man for your country in the first place.


One day I’ll cut my legs off, I’ll burn myself alive

I’ll do anything to get out of line to survive, not ever to be NEXT


It’s too late. The post-war shell shock has dominated our narrator’s mind. Sexual neurosis and performance anxiety amplified by the terror of bloodshed. The things we would do to avoid a replay. All the wars we had and yet we never learn from any of them. The soldiers that live through battle have thoughts they wouldn’t wish on any other person, friend or foe.


I’ve been obsessed with this song for weeks and I’m only now beginning to understand what this song is about.


This Is About Kim Kardashian, So Read It

November 15th, 2014

Hey, did you see that Paper magazine with Kim Kardashian on the cover. Did you see that big butt of hers? Go ahead, I’ll wait.



Did you know that since 2008 (the first full year of full-blown Kardashian fame), both the price of gas per gallon and the unemployment rate have declined in the United States? Look it up, I’ll wait again.


It’s true. So, what do those facts have to do with Kim Kardashian? NOTHING! Nothing at all.


What I am trying to tell you is that in spite of all the Chicken Little thinkpieces that have dissected and examined this truly irrelevant (but shapely) pop culture phenomenon and all the hand-wringing about people being “famous for being famous” things are not as bad as they seem. Some people get fifteen minutes of fame. Others get unlimited minutes. The public controls it and yet no one controls it.



I have seen some incredulous pieces about Kim K, especially since this little magazine cover came out. I have seen multiple articles connecting the dots between the Paper shoot and the tragic story of Sarah Baartman, known to the world as “Hottentot Venus”. Please do a search for “Kim Kardashian Hottentot Venus” and then attempt to figure out what the fuck they are talking about. I’ll try to sum this up: Sarah Baartman was an African slave who was taken to Europe and exhibited to large crowds who were surprised by her large buttocks. For an extra sum, attendees were allowed to poke and prod Baartman, sometimes with their canes. Baartman died in poverty in her mid-20s, and portions of her remains were kept on display for over a century after her death.


Kim Kardashian also has a large backside. That is exploitation.


It is my opinion that Kim Kardashian has as much to do with a dead Khoi woman from two centuries as she does with the price of gas per gallon or the unemployment rate, which is fuck-all. Well, the price of gas never had sex with Ray J with its’ bra, but you get the point.

Veterans’ Day

November 11th, 2014

(I would rather scoop out my eyes with a melonballer than attempt a follow up to the blog I posted previous to this one. )


My grandfather Alva Farmer Jr. was an Army veteran serving during the Korean Conflict. At his funeral, seven military men presented our family with an American flag and performed a 21-gun salute. I still have one of the empty discharges from the funeral. My grandfather was given the ultimate respect in death and for that I am thankful for the solemn duty that our military perform, active and retired. They take the funeral procession seriously. I felt an immense sense of pride as I sat there in front of my grandfather’s final resting place.


That was six weeks ago.


I have not been back to the gravesite since that day. I have struggled with my emotions a lot since then. I will go Tuesday to see his resting place. There will be some grass over the plot, hopefully. It has been a rainy fall. My grandfather died on a beautiful warm September day. It wasn’t fair to look at him and see him in his final days and then look out the window of his hospital room and see how beautiful and sunny the world looked. He turned himself away from the window.


It’s a selfish thought but I keep having it: I need him to be here more than he needs to be gone. Which is wrong, 100 percent. Everybody has their time and Alva Farmer Jr’s time was September 27th or 28th, on or around midnight. He had been in the hospital for thirty-six straight days, battling a variety of ailments. He went in for a successful operation, was released after a week only to return that same night never to leave again. In that time, he battled intestinal infection, a failing liver and kidneys.


One thing I learned was that when I first went to see him in the hospital, I would sort-of peek into the other rooms as I walked to his room. Then I would see him in his condition and I never did that again. The gravity of the situation was so much that I smartened up. Even though the doors were wide open, looking felt intrusive.


How many times I had to put on scrubs and gloves before entering his room. How many times I had to fight to not visibly bawl in front of him. How many times I expected to get “the call”. How easy it was to take “the call” when I got it. Mom called me in the middle of the night, waking me out of a good sleep. My mom and aunt kept a bedside vigil for the last few weeks. My grandfather’s two daughters. No sons. I am the oldest male Farmer. I am thirty-six.


I have to talk about the last days. But I also have to talk about as many days as I can before that I remember. He got my car ready for California in 2001 by having the catalytic converters taken out, which meant they would not pass an California emissions test. (this is where the smiley face emoticon goes). He took me and my cousin George four-wheeling so many times when we were little kids. George liked muddin’, me not so much. We would have to check ourselves for turkey lice, chiggers and ticks. I had a few, George always had more.


2013 Fordsville Days. We watched the country band play on the bandstand across the field from our house. In the past we hated that bandstand, but it was nice this time. It reminded me of old times, when he would take me to Rosine when he wanted to watch bluegrass bands. He had his oxygen tank. There’s still a warning sticker on the front door warning “NO SMOKING, OXYGEN!” but all the oxygen equipment is gone. His bed and comfy chair have been moved out. My house is emptier.



I find it easy to cry these days. My grandfather rarely did. One time was when my mom got married in May. That was a special occasion, naturally. Everybody cried except me. I thought they cried because they were happy, and sure they were. But I’ve been to a wedding since then and now realize tears come for a lot of reasons. Here is my grandfather the day of my mom’s wedding. I have better pictures of him but I’ll be damned if I’m sharing them with you. He wasn’t expecting the camera when this picture was taken. Looking back, that day might have been his last good day on Earth. From then on, he fought the good fight and scraped every bit of happiness out of life he could but the fight took a lot out of him.


I truly believe he never wasted a day of his life.

Why Do I Have To Deal With This?

November 10th, 2014

I am going to play ombudsman for writer/blogger Lindy West in her article “Comedy doesn’t belong to the assholes anymore” as published on the website DailyDot.


The article concerns the comedy of one Artie Lange, in the wake of his sexual, violent, slavery-themed Twitter rant about ESPN anchor/host Cari Champion. To that point, a picture of Lange is prominently displayed with his giving the finger blurred out. Also the word “assholes” is spelled “a**holes”.


West’s opinion of Lange’s rant:

It was typical male entitlement—“hello, sex-thing, let me tell you about my boner”—and also typical of Lange’s comedic persona: Artie drinks too much, Artie eats too much, Artie reveals too much, Artie feels too much, Artie is too much. Artie is monetized disaster, self-loathing personified—and this cycle of being disgusting and then feeling disgusted, perpetual self-reflection without self-reform, has kept him on the radio and touring comedy clubs for nearly 30 years. What Artie said to Cari Champion was not far from the norm for him, and for decades the response he’s gotten has been: “Oh, Artie, you’re so bad.” “Oh, Artie, you’re outrageous.” Artie’s edgy; Artie calls it like he sees it; it’s OK for Artie to be weirded out by gay people and black people because he hates himself even more.


There is an element of truth here in Lange’s public persona and self-image. The oversharer who hates himself. His first book, Too Fat To Fish, is a great example of both elements, where he discusses among other things in sad detail the way he lost his virginity, his heroin addiction and his gambling failures. And West is right that Lange has “monetized” this “disaster”, as his book became a best seller and inspired a follow-up.


There is one inaccuracy. Lange began doing standup in 1992. That would make it twenty-two years, which is not nearly thirty. Twenty-eight is nearly thirty. Twenty-two is over twenty years. It’s the math and semantics mark in me that must split these hairs.  It also can’t be said that Lange hasn’t attempted to reform, with multiple attempts at rehab since 1995. It also must be said that Lange has shared a lot in his life, including his multiple attempts to end his own.


West talks about the post-rant fallout for Lange:

This time, Artie lost a job. This time, Artie felt some consequences. This time, Artie heard from the people he hurt.


What she is referring to is ESPN banning Lange for life, and Comedy Central disinviting him from that night’s taping of @midnight (not that you would know, because she didn’t mention it). You would think that Lange is finally getting his  professional comeuppance after 22-round-up-to-30 years of phobic rhetoric posing as comedy. Which would be true if he hadn’t been fired from MAD-TV before its’ third season in 1997, going to jail and court-ordered rehab shortly before that, being banned from HBO after an appearance on Joe Buck’s short-lived talk show in 2009, and spending eight months in a psychiatric ward in 2010 which caused him to part ways with The Howard Stern Show (a show the strident feminist West loves, ironically).


In addition to those events, imagine how drug abuse affects the addict and the people closest to them. In Lange’s example, you can read his two books (I have not read his followup, Crash And Burn). If Lindy West thinks that Artie Lange has never felt consequences for his own actions in the past, what could do so now?


I have already spent nearly 600 words on a fraction of the article. I’m going to cut this short because I write these things for my own pleasure and not for money. At various points, West touches on GamerGate, Howard Stern, Ricky Gervais, and the exploitation of social injustices for profit (which West accuses Lange and other comedians of doing).


You know what? There’s going to be a part two? She deserves it. We had to get the Artie stuff out of the way because Lindy West’s article isn’t about Artie Lange. It’s about Lindy West, freedom fighter.


Tears Come So Easy

November 10th, 2014

I cry a lot easier than I used to.


I’d rather not. I’d do anything to not cry so easy now. Who am I kidding? It’s been about six weeks. How is anything going to be normal that quickly?


I tried to sing last night. No one around. Just myself. And I started crying. Water came leaking out of my eyes and I tasted something that felt like pool water. Dammit.


If I sing, I’m letting a piece of my soul out. I’m giving something now. I can feel it when I sing and I haven’t sung very much in the last year, let alone the last six weeks. My soul is trying to heal. I should sing for someone. I’d hate to sing for an empty room. Dammit.


This has been the worst year of my life. I don’t know when it will end. I know December 31st isn’t far away but I don’t think my bad year will end that soon.

Restaurant Review: Novo Dolce

November 6th, 2014

TL;DR: If you enjoy eating at places where you stick golf tees into triangular blocks of wood, skip Novo Dolce.



I went to Novo Dolce in Bowling Green this past Wednesday, which some of you may recall as November 5th. Others may know that day as Guy Fawkes’ Day. And yet quite a few of us recall it being the day after Election Day. Anyway, we went to Novo Dolce in honor of my friend Mary’s birthday, for it was on this day that she failed to blow up British Parliament.
It was a rainy night in Bowling Green, and while Eddie Rabbitt might have sang about loving a rainy night he would not have loved this particular night. It was cold November rain, the kind Axl Rose sang about. Eddie Rabbitt hates cold November rain, both the song and the weather event and he’s right on both counts.


Our party of eight sat in and took in the decor, which given the gloomy circumstances of a future with Mitch McConnell as Senate Majority Leader, began to resemble a German Expressionist play. All black with the occasional flat-screen in limbo showing an Washington Wizards game. The owners may have intended for an understated design without the overdone kitsch of most Bowling Green restaurants, but on this night felt like an oppressive hell, especially when “I Can’t Tell You Why” by the Eagles came on the loudspeaker. I will say it again, people:  YOU CANNOT GO TO A WHITE MAN’S RESTAURANT IN BOWLING GREEN WITHOUT HEARING THE EAGLES.



Our server was polite, but was red-faced as if he had been crying most of the day. I knew the look because I had been crying as well. So had most of our dinner party. The server listed the specials and brought us some appetizers (pimento cheese and proscuitto). At some point, he cracked and let it slip out, “You know, there are people who think Kentucky wouldn’t even have a gastropub.” We nodded at him in agreement. “It’s almost as if they think all the liberals are in Louisville and everybody else is three-teeth inbred.” He then apologized to Nutsy, the three-toothed inbred in our dinner party.


I spoke up. “I know. We are hated right now by the rest of the country. Like we inflicted Mitch McConnell on them. Can I order the beer braised ribs with mashed potatoes and a slice of chocolate cake for dessert?”

The server took my order and as he walked away spat out, “We might as well be Florida right now.” Mary, the birthday girl, burst into panicked tears and cried aloud “I DON’T WANT TO BE FLORIDA! IT’S MY BIRTHDAY! PLEASE DON’T LET US BE FLORIDA!” At which point she was comforted by her boyfriend Jon who said angrily, “I won’t let it happen. I won’t let anyone call Kentucky the next Florida. We’re nowhere near that bad. We’re not even Pennsylvania-level yet. If anybody calls our state the next Florida, so help me I WILL CUT OFF THEIR BEARD AND MAKE THEM EAT THE DAMN THING!!” He slammed his fists on the table, excused himself to go outside, smoke a cigarette and fight the tears like a man does sometimes


In the kitchen, I heard a clashing of silverware and someone yelling “WHAT DO YOU MEAN ONLY TWELVE PERCENT OF VOTERS UNDER THIRTY VOTED? WHAT DO YOU FUCKING MEAN?” Then the dishwasher walked out in a huff through the front door never to be seen again. The hostess came over, makeup running and apologized. We didn’t know why. Maybe she was trying to cope with the situation. She told us that three staff members had quit Novo Dolce the previous night without notice to begin hoarding gasoline in the event prices go up again. Apparently they got the idea from an episode of It’s Always Sunny In Philadelphia, so maybe they weren’t the brightest to begin with.


My beer-braised ribs were very good. I would say the portions were smallish but it’s nitpicky to say that. Mashed potatoes were fine. Chocolate cake was very good. Mary could not judge her own food because it all began to taste like her tears at one point. Jon had a salmon dinner and tried to be thankful he didn’t live in Nashville. I heard no complaints about the food or service from our party. Even Nutsy had an alright time.


That night I went home and started drinking booze. I’m not a drinker but I figure now is as good a time as any to start. Upon my first drink, I toasted our President. He isn’t perfect, but he’s done the best he could under the circumstances. If only his name was something like Barry Jackson, how much of this could we have avoided?