Archive for February, 2016

New Levels Of Pettiness

February 29th, 2016

The prospective front-runner for the Republican nomination for president will be in Louisville tomorrow afternoon. The Donald. I don’t even want to say his last name. We keep saying his name and somehow more darkness gets released into the world.


I have already challenged the Governor to a cockfight, so I’m no stranger to petty behavior. I got a ticket to tomorrow’s rally. It was free. I have no intention of going.


Turns out I’m not alone in this regard. There’s a Facebook event called Empty The Seats At Tuesday’s ____ Rally. At least 785 people are committed to “going”, or reserving two free tickets and not going. I don’t know what the maximum capacity is at the Kentucky International Civic Center in Louisville. It may be able to hold thousands. But you think you’ve got 785 tickets (some plus two) and it’s empty as hell. I imagine this conversation between the center security and a bunch of Donald supporters who want to get in but can’t.


“I’m sorry, we can’t let you inside without a ticket.”
“b-b-but nobody’s here!”
“Should have pre-ordered, like they did.”
“Like who did?”



FUBAR From Birth

February 28th, 2016

FUBAR = slang acronym for “fucked up beyond all recognition”


Last night I saw a little boy cry in an elevator. Five or six years old, tops. In the underground parking garage at the KFC Yum! Center in Louisville after a WWE live event.


The boy was crying into his father’s leg. The dad explained to us all in the elevator that he parked the car in a rush and forgot exactly what level he parked his car on. “You’re not really scared that I’m not gonna be able to find the truck, are ya?” That’s what he said to his quietly sobbing son, cruelly.


First of all, it’s a parking garage. It’s not the Sears Tower. How many levels can a parking garage have? Four? Five? At first I thought the kid was just tired at the end of a long night.


Mary and I found her car (it was easy what with her not being drunk like that guy in the elevator with the crying kid). We must have spent thirty minutes in the parking garage waiting to get out. You know event parking at arenas and how that goes, right?


On the way out of the garage, who do we see walking around the parking garage but the same drunk dumbass father and his kid. He still hadn’t found the car. That’s not drunkenness. That’s just pure stupidity. And that’s when it hit me. That kid was not crying out of sleepiness. That kid was sad because he’s seen this movie before. “My dad is a drunk moron. This is why mommy has custody of me.”


Talk about FUBAR out of the womb. That kid is half idiot. I didn’t see a mom with them. I wouldn’t even be surprised if that guy was in the wrong parking garage.

Almost Perfect

February 27th, 2016

We almost had a perfect show last night.


We were at Tidball’s, a place we are quite familiar with. Playing songs from our new album. Which is available on Bandcamp for those of you who didn’t show up. I’m too tired to search for the link. It’s nearly five in the morning. I should have that thing bookmarked.


It was almost perfect. Even though Josh was incredibly ill, it was almost perfect. We played nine of the ten songs on our new album. There’s a very good reason why we didn’t play the tenth one and it’s also why it wasn’t a perfect show.


I feel like every time I play at Tidball’s something stupid happens to me. Sometimes my blood sugar crashes. Sometimes my ulcer acts up. While I’m onstage. Always when I’m onstage. Is it preshow anxiety? Is it Tidball’s anxiety? I don’t know but it’s not like this at other places. Sometimes I get hungry and feel like I’m going to faint onstage at Tidball’s.


I got a hunger pain while the others set up, so I went to the back and got a package of peanuts. Had some salted peanuts and a Pepsi in a plastic cup and that was going to get me through the set.


I go onstage, and almost immediately begin to feel something rumbling. Song one of a ten-song set. Goddamn it. It gets worse on track two. By the end of track two, I realize something is about to happen and I walk to the men’s room which was thankfully unoccupied.


It was not a bit. I had to drop anchor in Tidball’s men’s room. It was not my proudest moment. But it had to be done. I am not GG Allin and for this we should be thankful. Although it did cross my mind but only for a second.


It gets worse. So stop reading if you don’t want to hear worse.


While in the bathroom, I felt a overriding shame come over me. I have left my bandmates on the stage and felt like a fool who’s own body wouldn’t cooperate with him. I pushed the bad chi out and hoped for a second that God himself would take me to His kingdom, leaving me dead like Elvis but in a bar bathroom in Bowling Green. Which isn’t really like Elvis at all now that I think about it.


I wanted to stay in there until everyone was gone. Like after last call. My shame. I was alone in the universe. I had to go back out. I wasn’t really done. But I had to be done. So I made a ass-napkin from some paper towels and went back out to sing.

We’ve all been there? Right?


Don’t leave me hanging out here.


I got home and I took the ass-napkin out. It looked like the end of a charcoal pencil. My shame, stuck to a paper towel.


I sat for most of the rest of the show. “Little do these people watching me know that I have a napkin in my ass.” My pit of shame and stupidity. I felt out of sync with the universe. I felt like I was in a different dimension from everybody else while occupying the same space.


Be kind to each other. Because that person you’re dealing with might have an ass-napkin. That girl who told you she was on the rag when you hit on her and tried to take her home? She might actually be on the rag? Or maybe she isn’t and she’s saying that just to shoo you away. But maybe, just maybe, she has an ass-napkin and feels shameful and unsexy.


Life is horrible. Life is everything Werner Herzog says it is.

Diminishing Returns

February 24th, 2016

It’s time.


It’s time for Technology Vs. Horse.


The band is playing a show on Friday, “celebrating” the sixth album we’ve released. The name of the album is Diminishing Returns. I have a lot to say about the album but first a little background.


A few years ago, we put out an album called Sorry That I Knocked You Up. At that time, we were already working on the music for the next album. That was way back in 2013. And then. . . all hell seemed to break loose.


In the span of three years, life got in the way of being a band. Careers, family, the slow crawl into middle age. Everyone in the band is in their 30’s now. I’ll be 38 next month. David will be 40 later this year. The older you get, the harder it is to maintain art activity. You have a lot of weddings and funerals to attend. Which we have. More funerals than we would like to have attended at our age.


We stayed a band, but getting together became much more difficult. We probably played less than a half-dozen shows in 2014-15 total. We were lucky to have practice monthly. We were lucky if all five of us showed up for practice. Life got in the way.


So here we are. Five people approaching middle age trying to maintain the creativity they had in their twenties. Not the quality of the work, but the energy and time put in. Life before and after responsibility are two different things.


We make the music we make for ourselves and those who want to hear something like it. We dabble and experiment and push ourselves. You can definitely here me pushing myself on some of these songs, the amount of straining and screaming I do.


It’s a good album. It’s not the happiest, funniest, jokiest album. But it is pretty good. Some of my most personal lyrics are on this album. “Night On Hobo Blood Mountain” is NOT one of those lyrics.


Some song information now.


“Dark Logics” precedes the release of Sorry That I Knocked You Up. The title is a reference to the David Foster Wallace book Infinite Jest. I didn’t tell the others in TVH but for a moment I wanted to fill the entire album with IJ references.


“A Night On Hobo Blood Mountain” is the other song that references IJ. Specifically, the animal-stalking halfway-house resident character of Randy Lenz. The title has nothing to do with the book or the lyrics. It’s a long, annoying story.


“Player One Has Entered The Game” is extremely strange. The lyrics are from the perspective of a croupier, someone who runs a roulette table.


“Handsome Mike” is from the perspective of a barfly who admires another guy who seems to be a ladies’ man. There’s a twist on the breakdown as the ladies’ man is not what he seems to be. Put another way, we started writing this song before the tsunami of allegations against Bill Cosby. Timely by accident.


There are six other songs on the album and I’ll write about them on the next post because I’ve gone on too long on this post.




Hill Or Bern

February 19th, 2016

Here’s a great thing that election cycles do: they present the voter with two choices and the implication that the fate of the world is at stake. Vote for Candidate A and the world will fall into a pit of corporation-endorsed financial sodomy. Vote for Candidate B, however, and live to see the next three generations of your spawn singing and dancing in the plush green hills like they’re the Von Trapp family.


Your candidate is a living saint on Earth. Your candidate’s opponent is a low-down rat soup-eating prick who will fuck your mother without even spitting on her twat first.


In the battle of Bernie Sanders vs. Hillary Clinton, I remain uncommitted. I may be the last Democrat who hasn’t gone one way or the other. So let’s try to untangle this mess, objectively.


Hillary Clinton takes the shape of whatever container you pour her in.

Bernie Sanders is the guy who goes “I told you so” and that’s great if you’re not trying to be President.

Hillary Clinton has survived multiple political scandals and accusations of flip-flopping on social causes.

Bernie Sanders has not had a political or personal scandal,which scares me because I feel like one is coming. And not just some Gary Hart “Monkey Business” scandal, but a real horrible one that will make you want to take a shower so hot your burn yourself trying to get clean.

Hillary Clinton is not a man, which is fine now.

Bernie Sanders is a man, which means it is possible that he is a member of NAMBLA, the North American Man Boy Love Association.

Hillary Clinton’s fans say it’s her turn now.

Bernie Sanders’s fans will take their ball and go home crying if he doesn’t win.

He who thinks a Clinton/Sanders (or Sanders/Clinton) ticket would be successful in November is the fool trying to placate everyone like a tired parent.

If Sanders wins the nomination, Clinton won’t run as vice president. Who will Bernie pick as a running mate? His pal Mike at the hardware shop? One of his NAMBLA buddies?

If Clinton wins the nomination, my Facebook wall will implode and I’ll need to stay off for at least a year.

Hillary is a jaded player who has learned the art of the politic and used her knowledge well. Like a good race car driver, Hill knows when to lay back and when to surge for the lead.

Bernie uses hindsight to make his points, positioning himself as a truth-seeker in the locker room that is Congress even though he’s been in national politics longer than Hillary.

I will hold my nose when I vote in November but only because my pants will be full of shit. See you at the polls.

I Withdraw The Cockfighting Challenge

February 13th, 2016

It was a rough few days. I was in a fowl mood. Hope for the future seemed dim and poultry. Matt Bevin, the dumbest cluck of all, had his sights set on KyNect, Planned Parenthood, and other things that benefit people. I had become so discouraged I challenged him to a cockfight earlier this week. A futile and pitiful gesture, but I wanted to blister him in print for the ages because I knew he would not decide the fate of his gubernatorial term in a bout of illegal animal fighting before a packed Yum! Center and pay-per-view audience (it’s a long story, folks).


So you can imagine how bad I felt about Bevin signing into law a bill requiring women to meet with their doctor twenty-four hours prior to an abortion. It was the first bill he signed into law as Governor. He was incredibly proud, too.




And you know what happened? The women were not happy with this. No, they were not. No no no no no. And they let him know.

Kentucky women took to Twitter on Friday to call attention to abortion in Kentucky.

The hashtag #AskBevinAboutMyVag was trending on Twitter on Friday afternoon, where women and some men tweeted their thoughts on Republican Gov. Matt Bevin signing into law a bill that requires a woman to meet with her doctor in-person or via video 24 hours prior to an abortion.

And on Thursday, a Senate committee approved requiring doctors to perform an ultrasound and describe the image to women seeking an abortion.



Even your old pal I got into the act. Couldn’t resist.



It was a good moment. #askBevinaboutmyvag became a Twitter trending topic in Louisville. It called attention to Bevin’s carpet-bomb of an administration and also the complicit state legislature (overwhelmingly male) going bi-partisan in the worst way to pass the 24-hour bill in the first place. It was a first class act of mansplaining and it showcased all the participants for their lack of humanity and empathy.


This is a good time for me to cheerfully withdraw my cockfighting challenge to the Governor. Because the Governor has a enemy he will not be able to ignore. Women, and those who love and support women. And his cock is in hot water like never before!


This is not Matt Bevin’s Kentucky. This is Hunter S. Thompson’s Kentucky, the Everly Brothers’ Kentucky, and it damn sure is Ashley Judd and Jennifer Lawrence’s Kentucky. It’s my Kentucky, my sister’s Kentucky and my mother’s Kentucky. But not yours, Bevin. You ratfaced son of ten bastards.  And just like Kentucky’s own Muhammad Ali, we are going to (and I quote) “rumble, young man, rumble.”


Reach for the sky, fuckface.



Fancy Lady Fashion For A B.S. Award Show

February 12th, 2016

Mary is in Los Angeles for the Grammys. I’m sitting at home in my sweatpants scratching my nuts. I would rather be in my position than hers.


Every year when my grandfather was still alive, we’d sit in front of the TV and on Grammy day, he’d flip through the channels and ask me if I wanted to watch the Grammy Awards show and each and every time I would reply “no”. I would have said “fucking hell no” had my grandfather not been anti-swearing.


Once upon a time in my childhood, I would have watched it. But as my music tastes took a different course from what was being honored at those awards, I grew more and more disinterested.


I hate award shows in general. Emmys, Oscars, Tonys, Grammys, MTV Music Video and MTV Movie, all the way down. I am either a premature curmudgeon or I have a good sense of what is healthy for popular culture. I haven’t decided yet.


Now that I’ve made that clear, let’s turn to Young Mary who is attending the Grammys. She is a businesswoman and the Grammys as much as any award show is meant for the business types. So I will be happy for her that she is attending a thing I wouldn’t want to go within a mile of. . . because she wanted to go. And she paid for her ticket. And she bought an outfit to wear. And that is where I come in.


I have not seen her Grammy outfit. She’ll send me some photos of it soon enough but I will not like it because it was not what I suggested. If you’re going to the Grammys as a professional music businesswoman you have to look the part.


Which is why I told her to go purchase her outfit from Fashion Bug. I also told her to accessorize with some earrings from Claire’s in the mall.


What nobody told me was that Fashion Bug closed all its’ stores by the spring of 2013. I would have directed her to the nearest Lane Bryant, but I was told that Lane Bryant specialized in plus-size wear and Mary is. . . I don’t know. I’ve only dealt in the world of plus-sizes. I don’t know what other sizes exist in the world.


I may not know a lot of about fashion or sizes but I did go shopping with my mom in the mid-90s before I turned eighteen and learned to drive. To be fair, my mom did the shopping while I walked around the store and didn’t send pictures of my teenage prick to girls because YOU COULDN’T DO THAT BACK THEN. You kids don’t know how good your life is now. In the 90s, other people but not me we had Gameboy, but they only showed two colors (gray and beige).


I may not know much about fashion or sizes but I did go to TJ Maxx with my mom. So that’s where I told Mary to go. You can get a good outfit at a reasonable price, I guess. Here are some suggestions I made to Mary.


Diane Von Furstenberg

Diane Von Furstenberg

Boom! Put this on! Lady Gaga aint got shit on you, does she? Let’s see how this looks with Mary using the wonders of Photoshop MS Paint.



Championship-level fashion, Young Mary!

I should mention that this is the only photo of Mary I have. She posted it on Twitter in January when she was turning her bathroom into a sweatlodge so she could cure a fever. I’m gonna have it painted onto a cake on her birthday.


This is fun. Let’s try it again.


Dress by Diane Von Furstenberg

Dress by Diane Von Furstenberg


Boo-yah! Strap on some shutter shades and call yourself LMFA2.0

I made her head bigger in this one so you could see just how sick and miserable she really was while sweating out a fever in the bathtub.

Does Claire’s sell shutter shades? They oughta.


Mary, wherever you are right now (L.A., where dreams go to piss themselves), I hope you the enjoy the ceremony (where a bunch of celebrities pat each other on the back while the world destroys itself). I wish I could be there with you (so I could scream at the top of my lungs “THIS IS WRONG. YOU ARE ALL WRONG”) but I’ll be with you in spirit (while I miss the live broadcast to watch Japanese wrestling videos).





I Challenge The Governor To A Cockfight

February 10th, 2016

Dear Governor Matt Bevin,

I have watched with great interest over the first weeks of your term as Governor of our fine state. I voted against you because of many reasons: you siding with Kim Davis over the law, you wanting to dismantle the KyNect system, your attendance at a cockfighting rally.


I have tried to be a gentleman in my opposition to you. I don’t want you to be the Governor but you are. I wish you would lose the terrible courage of your terrible convictions. It’s easy to take away from those who already who have little, especially when you’re doing well for yourself. Some people are born on third base and think they earned a triple. You seem like one of these privileged types and those are the people of good fortune I can’t stand. They usually lack the self-awareness to see they have had more good breaks than an average person and put down others for not working hard enough.


Let me be clear: many of our humble neighbors in Kentucky and throughout the U.S. don’t want a handout. They all had variations on the same dream, that they would work hard and have something to show for it. Unfortunately, many of them don’t have anything to show for their hard work and to add insult, they are made to feel like its their fault somehow. . . by the wealthy elite who control big business and government. The same people who used the law to work things in their favor and simultaneously disenfranchise the general public. You are the Governor, you are the power elite now and you would rather save a few bucks than help your constituents.


This is why I want to challenge you to a cockfight. A chicken fight, as it were.


Keep in mind, I don’t own a fighting chicken, nor do I expect that you would. I don’t have any chickens. But I bet I could find the right people to talk to in acquiring a good fighting chicken and the little blades they wear when they fight. I have never been to a cockfight, either. Because (one) it’s illegal and (two) the cops would not appreciate my answer to why I’d go to a cockfight in the first place. “I’m here for the people watching, Officer.”


I’ve tried various means to subvert your work. I’ve subtweeted you. I’ve tweeted you directly. I’ve also tried to flirt with your Treasurer online to see if I could bring you down from the inside. I’ve e-mailed my local representatives about your ridiculous notions and your in(s)ane excuse for a fiscal budget.


It’s time to take this to an absurd level. I’m challenging you, Gov. Bevin, to a motherfucking cockfight. Because you are a goddamn son of a harlot and I can’t stand the idea of another three years and eleven months minimum with you in charge.


You seem to think big business money would do well for the state instead of using federal government resources, so I say we put this motherfucking chicken fight on at the venue of your choice and charge attendance. I just looked it up: it is not against Kentucky state law to attend a cockfight. We should find out if the Yum! Center is available. Think about it, Gov. 22,000 people packed into the Yum! Center to watch a motherfucking chicken fight. The money we could use that for. Think of the pay-per-view possibilities. Big goddamn business, you fucking idiot asshole.


Here’s my stipulations for the big motherfucking chicken fight.

  1. We each pick a fighting cock as a proxy for the battle.
  2. You make it where you and I don’t get in trouble for this because you’re the fuckin’ asshole Governor who can do dumb shit and get away with it.
  3. If your chicken wins, you can stay in charge and I’ll take it like I’ve been taking the shit my whole life.
  4. BUT if my chicken somehow wins, by the grace of the Good Lord Himself, you resign as the Governor and you fuck off back to New Hampshire.
  5. If none of the above four steps are doable, I’m willing to have a MMA bout to the death with you, Kickboxer 4-style. I actually hope you decide you want this option because cockfighting is gross and stupid.


I know I’m being hypocritical in suggesting a cockfight even though I think it’s gross and stupid but I consider you a gross and stupid man who would enjoy such a thing. In the marketplace of ideas, you are one broke piece of shit peddling austerity like Kentucky is the Greece of the U.S.


I’m fooling myself, aren’t I? I know you won’t accept a fistfight or a cockfight. You won’t even dignify it with a response. Not because of the moral turpitude involved but because doing it would give you a chance to see Kentuckians up close. You’d finally get to see what your constituents feel about you, for good or ill.


Fuck you, fuckstick.


Mike Farmer






You Win, DB.

February 8th, 2016

Daniel Bryan announced his retirement from pro wrestling tonight. I choked up a little bit when he addressed the fans tonight in Seattle. He talked about his late father, his want to raise a family, and his gratitude to the people he’d met in the wacky world of pro wrestling. He talked about the many concussions he had received in sixteen years of wrestling. Within his first five months as a fresh-faced nineteen-year-old rookie, Bryan had received three concussions. Even an NFL veteran would shriek in fear at those numbers.


What’s that line that Courtney Love sang? “I fake it so real I am beyond fake.” The best pro wrestlers are able to do that. It’s a choreographed fight, with a predetermined outcome, winner and loser. But the pain is real. Nerve damage for some, surgically repaired necks for others, concussions, concussions, concussions. Injuries that would put down players in the four major sports for months, even years. The men and women who wrestle earn a fraction of what the big four leagues earn and give much more.


The fantasy dies behind the curtain. Go to a rock concert and you won’t see an after-party filled with strippers, blow and ecstasy. You’ll likely find a group of tired musicians sitting around playing with the remnants of a day-old fruit tray. Pro wrestling is a show, and the gears that work it stay behind the curtain. The machinations of the promoters, and the talent they depend on yet are always in battle with. A level of real competition behind the scenes, not a physical fight but a lot of politicking from all sides. Competition, yet collaboration. They need each other, yet they all want to do better than the next man.


Daniel Bryan is five-foot-eight and 190 pounds. In a business where giants and musclemen are presented as major attraction, Bryan brought a likability matched by his in-ring intensity. Also, he was one of the most technically gifted wrestlers to ever set foot in a ring. What does that mean? It means he faked it so real (and well) that he was beyond fake. You could start and end a match knowing that the whole thing is not a real sport, but he was talented enough to suck you in and compel you to see how it turned out. Suspension of disbelief.


Being shorter and smaller made the WWE not want to utilize Bryan. He lost a championship match in eighteen seconds at Wrestlemania 28. The fans, understanding the scripted nature of wrestling, rebelled against this. They recognized that Bryan was being shunted aside in favor of larger figures and hijacked the company. They rebelled for two years until Bryan won the World title in the main event of Wrestlemania 30. Without the support of the fans, Bryan would have likely been an afterthought post-Mania 28.


His body broke down. His brain had taken too many concussions over sixteen years. He could not get the proper clearing from WWE medical staff. He had taken tests to examine his brain over the years and finally encountered a negative result. It could not be undone but it could be prevented from getting worse. The only answer was to stop wrestling, and embracing the other things that life has to offer. Embrace life, love, family, home, happiness and the future.


He gave his farewell speech, cried and made a few jokes. He shook hands with many fans, then walked up the ramp and back behind the curtain. He won. They did not break him. Life did not break him. The road to Heaven is filled the bodies of bitter, cynical husks of humanity. Broken inside and unable or willing to repair. Here’s a man who faced heartbreak and sorrow. He kept his head up. He kept being positive and did not politic himself into a primo spot. He was a real-life Luke Skywalker. Fear did not lead to anger, anger did not lead to hate, hate did not lead to suffering.


Heroes are hard to find. He escaped. He wins.

A Moneymaking Scheme

February 8th, 2016

I gots a moneymaking scheme. All’s I need is Bill Murray, a symphony orchestra, and the rights to “Chestnut Mare” by the Byrds.

I gots a moneymaking scheme. All’s I need is a pro wrestling trainer, a women’s roller derby team tired of doing roller derby, and someone with a lot of money to put on the shows I promote (all-women’s wrestling league).

I gots a moneymaking scheme. All’s I need is some current events in the news, a comical detail in said current events, and a Twitter following of hundreds of thousands.

I gots a moneymaking scheme. All’s I need is some camera equipment and some locals willing to pretend to be even dumber and more backwoods than they really are. Then I’ll need a Hollywood agent and some plane tickets.

I gots a moneymaking scheme. All’s I need is Bill Murray, a women’s roller derby team, a box of hermit crabs, a Twitter account for the crabs, and some camera equipment. I’ll also need a safehouse to hold the crab-brawls.

I gots a moneymaking scheme. All’s I need is a hologram of George Carlin, the rights to “Chestnut Mare” by the Byrds, and the voice library of Roger Ebert.

I gots a moneymaking scheme. All’s I need is access to teenagers and close proximity to a smoke shop.

I gots a moneymaking scheme. All’s I need is a pro wrestling trainer selling Bill Murray-brand cigarettes to teenagers at the women’s wrestling show/crab-brawl at the abandoned safehouse I’m running the promotion out of. Intermission is my Hollywood agent singing “Chestnut Mare” by the Byrds.

I gots a moneymaking scheme. All’s I need is a bucket, a torch, a live rat, and a multimillionaire who owes money to loan sharks. I’ll also need henchmen.

I gots more ideas then I know what to do with.