Persevering Through


Relentless Absurdity
 

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RIPOSTE
     
by RIP RENSE

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LET THE FISH-FRY PROCEED

(May 7, 2020)
(copyright 2020 Rip Rense, The Rip Post, all rights reserved.)

             
Let’s see, let’s see. . .
          A million point two total infections in Uncle Sam Land. Seventy-five thousand-plus brand spankin’ new corpses. With those cute rigor mortis grins and blind dry eyeballs. Hospitals little more than clearing houses for the Great Beyond. Or probably not so great. Refrigerator truck doors bursting open from overloading of cold human COVID-cured meat.
          Please rise for our national anathema. . .
          O say can you see by the rot cellulite. . .what so cynically we made. . .while Trump’s teeth were gleaming. . .Whose broad ass and psych scars were so lousy with spite. . .
          Let’s see. . .Yes, now that the Reaper is really reapin’, really groovin’, really “rockin,” as Little President Jared said our “economy” will be doing by July. . .now is the time to reopen everyfuckingthing. Hey, baby, it’s like Bush said after 9/11---“go shopping!” Reopen all those coffee joints, all those small businesses that received zero aid from the so-called federal government because it was all lapped up by the long, lascivious, lupine tongues of the rich, like skimming fat off a stew.
          Yeah! Reopen the beaches, the forests, the mountains, the oceans, the deserts---right away! Amerrygun shitizens must have their playgrounds to shit in, despoil with empty beer cans, Wild Turkey bottles, styrofoam cups, used giant ribbed condoms, discarded thongs, and the glorious patriotic cornucopia of oil-based junk that will eventually make its way into the oceans and everything you eat. Hurry!
          Reopen the restaurants! Set up the chairs and open the booths for the great American hiney to squeeze into so funseekers can say cool and awesome and shovel down more fat, grease, sugar. . .in order to fart out great, glorious clouds of human methane recently proven to be a major contributor to global warming. Yes! What says pro-life more than joyfully expelled gas? Say hallelujah! Fart one for Jesus!
          Reopen! Let your inspiration be the sight of President Adipose touring a “mask-making facility” in Arizona, while, I swear to Vishnu, “Live and Let Die” played in the background. At first I thought it was scintillating irony, then I remembered that Trump lumpenproleteriat played this same song at black masses while anointing their Satan, pre-election. The grimacing bastard must really like the line, “What does it matter to yuh. . .When you gotta job tuh do, you gotta do it well. . .you gotta give the other fella hellllll. . .”
          Go ahead, laugh: I used to actually believe that this country, no matter what monstrous errand boy for the corporatocracy was “elected,” would, in times of extreme crisis, “rally together,” as the Hallmark cardworthy cliché goes. I used to think that the so-called government would at least make the attempt, or give the appearance, of doing its job, in some hulking, half-witted way, to care for a populace in a catastrophe. Then came Katrina, which is a miracle of efficiency compared to COVID-19.  
          Even the words, “care for the populace,” show how deeply stupid, paralyzingly gullible, I was. Yes, it’s the guvment’s job, but since when does this or any guvment do its job? Oh, wait, I guess New Zealand has done rather nobly in our time, containing the virus with testing/tracing/quarantine (not surprising, since it also banned  fiend weaponry after a single mass shooting there----while the Church of the AK-47, the National Rifle Association, the Vatican for sad paranoiac white trash, continues to shill for hollow-points in the heads of kindergarteners and African-Americans out for strolls.) And Taiwan, which is the sweetest, happiest place on earth, has so intelligently handled the virus crisis that the whole deranged world should get down on its bloodied, arthritic knees in admiration and gratitude.
          Instead we have Death Race 2020, hosted by your fave reality TeeVee host, Donald Schlump. Yes, he had the most difficult decision of his life to make, he said, regarding “re-opening the country.” In other words, as usual, it was all about HIM. Everything is about HIM. Everything, even death! Now that’s serious egomania, people. But it was no more difficult a decision for him to make than it is for a Kardashian to decide to look in a mirror. I mean when the choices are, on the one hand, money, and the other hand, the suffering and deaths of losers (his favorite term of condescension), old hippies, elderly deadweight, the sick and weak, the retired (Social Security leeches!), the occasional child. . .hey, what’s to decide? As God said in “The Green Pastures” (I highly recommend), “Let the fish-fry proceed.”
          And so Trump is frying plenty of fish, probably a couple hundred thousand, at least, before this thing is over. If it ever gets over, that is. Everyone is blithely, brattily swaggering around, saying “When there is a vaccine.” When? Who says there is a when?  I read a very credible report by an actual scientist---apologies to President Jared---who said that five or ten years is a reasonable gestation period for a vaccine. If there even is one! Look how long it took to get an effective treatment for AIDS, fer crissakes.
 
At last we come to the saints and angels, I mean doctors and nurses. Yes, the doctors, too---especially Lorna Breen of New York Presbyterian-Allen Hospital, who committed suicide after watching hundreds in her care die in stark terror as their lungs turned to rock.

          But in what Bush used to call the Unitashtase, the land of  “Where the fuck is my beer, bitch?” it’s just an expectation, an infant’s demand for rattle. Where’s my vaccine, goddamn it? I got baseball and football tuh watch! I got women tuh screw! Do I even have to cite the deeply repulsive comments by the Koch money-backed so-called protestors who complained about not being able to get their fucking mani-pedis, and roots colored? Those people should be renditioned to a leper colony off Sri Lanka, dosed with acid, and chained naked to outhouses they are charged to keep clean. That might---might---give them a more charitable, empathetic perspective. But probably not.
          What is more poetic, more lyrical, more dazzlingly All-American perfect than the fact that a Seattle Native American health center asked for some “personal protective equipment,” and instead received. . .body bags? While the goddamned Los Angeles Lakers got $4.6 million in “small business” aid (which it promptly returned, deeply embarrassed), and something called the Fiesta Restaurant Group (which employs 10,000 people) got $189 million, with $365 million of the total $349 billion in aid going to publicly traded companies.
          Oh, and not to forget the $17 billion dollars in “fees”---yes, fees---that banks charged for giving out small business loans under the "Payroll Protection Program." How much more blatant must criminality be before someone calls it criminality? And on and criminal on.
         “There’ll be more death,” proudly announces Chief Executioner Trump to NBC---he who ignored all warnings of the coming pandemic---including those made to him repeatedly in intelligence reports last November---and continued psychotically calling it a “hoax” into March. Yeah, guess all those dead Chinese people were a hoax! Translation: Trumpy is now officially a mass murderer, which maybe gives him half a hard-on with which to defile and abuse his poor airhead golddigger wife. After all, little Donnie can now claim a place with the big boys: Adolf, Pol Pot, Stalin, Idi, his adopted succubus, Kim Jong Un, and the rest. He’s a piker by comparison, of course, but he has proven that he is badass enough to kill, baby, kill. (Prediction: "re-opening" will double deaths and infections by end of June.)
          Of course, this remorseless troglodyte, who looks like a fat toad that just swallowed garden poison, this fatuous oaf with the tanning-bed burn and serial killer signature, this self-adoring slob who makes Madonna seem prim, this fiend with bile in his veins instead of blood. . .is in a dead panic over losing the election to, as he put it, “fuckin’ Joe Biden.” I admit that would indeed be one humiliating prospect, and one that I wish on him with all my being; it’s the silver bullet for this lycanthrope. And to that end comes his latest fascist move---appointing a close friend as Postmaster General. Say goodbye to voting by mail, kiddies!
          At last we come to the saints and angels, I mean doctors and nurses. Yes, the doctors, too---especially Lorna Breen of New York Presbyterian-Allen Hospital, who committed suicide after watching hundreds in her care die in stark terror as their lungs turned to rock. But the nurses---the old nurses who went back to work, knowing it was probable suicide, and the young women who embody the largely deceased human (and, once upon a time, American) ideal of. . .helping someone, well, let me just quote a couple. Here is D'Neill Schmall, who works in NYC. She could barely speak through sobs:
          “I'm tired of calling families and telling them that news.. . .choking, weeping, taking deep breaths I cried the whole way home in the Uber tonight and the driver was like, maa'm are you okay. . .and I don't think people understand how stressful this job is. I wouldn't trade it for anything in the world, but it's so stressful. I wish people could just give us a break. Everyone is trying hard. Everyone is trying hard.”
          Or the unnamed Michigan nurse who so righteously posted this:
          “I would have no problem if you fools worried about your ‘freedom’ all went out and got COVID. If only you could sign a form stating that you revoke your right to have medical treatment based on your cavalier antics and refusal to abide by CDC and medical professionals' advice. If you were the only people who got infected during your escapades to protest tyranny, great. But that's sadly not how this works.”
          When I think of the vermin protestors---make that vermin under the fingernails of vermin---screaming into the faces of nurses going to work that they are “viruses,” I desperately, against my basic instincts, wish that they find themselves gasping for air, petrified, their last thoughts about how vicious and rotten they were. The picture delights me. And when I think of President Crapola actually arguing with a nurse on National Nurse Day when she spoke the plain truth that nurses still cannot get sufficient masks and gloves, well. . .
          Every death, every person crippled for life, every bit of suffering, every bit of damage to physical health, mental health, every dead child, every maimed fitness trainer, every father of three saying goodbye to his family over an iPhone. . .is due to one virus, and one virus alone. And that’s the one in the Whitey House.
           

                                              (printer-friendly version)
 

Longtime Venice High Teacher A.H. "Bud" Rotman Dies
full obituary here

           Riposte Extra!
           L'Kikki pour L'art
      
    The greatest artist you have never heard of.

                                            full story


© 2020 Rip Rense. All rights reserved.

RIPOSTE EXTRA!
WHERE IS THIRD BEATLES REUNION SONG? here

         

Read "Who's a Whore?" a fun little verse for all sellouts to, I mean investors in. . .China!
here

             E-MAIL: 

RIPOSTE column is published when the author is motivated, which has become quite an infrequent occurence in recent years.

We get e-mail! Here's our all-time favorite:

I think if humanity upsets you so much go live in alaska, or somewere
where you don't have to put up with the people who make your life
tolerable to say the least.

Paul Manners


Dear Paul,

I can now add you to that list! FYI: "alaska" is capitalized. "Somewere" is spelled "Somewhere." And you meant "intolerable," not "tolerable."

Rip Rense

THIS CAN'T BE HAPPENING?
 IT IS.

READ DAVE LINDORFF


"There is no more truthful, well-researched, important commentary, even if you don't agree with it."---Rip Rense
 

 


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Once upon a time, in a Los Angeles far far away, there were. . .newspaper wars. There were five---count 'em, five---papers in town, and as many as 12 editions per day for each one. Rob Leicester Wagner, grandson of original Daily News reporter Les Wagner, is the only writer ever to put the history into a book. This was an uncrowded, freeway-less time of paste-pots, cigars, Red Cars, and just a touch of alcohol. Red Ink, White Lies.
ORDER IT HERE

ClownA Verse to You:
Starring Rip Post resident laureates:
 the late great Scott Wannberg, Charles Bogle, Raj Bavnani, even Rense himself.

Enjoy samples below. . .
visit the poetry archive
and don't trip over
 yourselves to pay good money for:


here

Song without music for Jerry Garcia
on the 25th anniversary of his passing
here

VAGINA HOTEL
I walked into the Vagina Hotel
just because of the name
Tell me, I said, why is this hotel named for a vagina
and the proprietress
who claimed to be a poetess
said, why, does that threaten you
No, I said, I've never been threatened by a vagina
but then, I've never met one that could talk, either,
so I can't be sure
Misogynist loser, she said, so I moved on
Feeling hungry, I stopped at Vagina Burger for lunch
Tell me, I said, to the waitress,
Why is this place called Vagina Burger I mean
that's not very picturesque
Oh, she said, are you threatened by the word, vagina?
No, although I admit I find it a rather ugly sounding word
I mean, couldn't they have called it a morning glory or a midnight moon or something
She snorted and walked away, mumbling "asshole"
So I left and went to Starbucks where a woman on a laptop
had a bunch of books next to her called My Vagina, Your Vagina, Our Vagina, The Cat in the Vagina, Of Mice and Vaginas, Huckleberry Vagina, and The Vaginas of Wrath
Oh, and that one by Naomi Wolf called Vagina: a Biography
What are you staring at, snapped the laptop woman
Oh, sorry, I said, I couldn't help but notice your books
Do they threaten you, she said
No, books don't threaten me, I rather like them
Then why are you staring
Oh, well, I've never seen so many books about vaginas, and naturally
it piqued my curiosity
Are you threatened by vaginas, she said
No, I'm threatened by aggression, mostly, at least to some extent
But I do wonder how a vagina could have a biography
Does that threaten you, she said
Well, let me think about that, seeing as this question keeps coming up
Stupidity and arrogance threaten me, and hostile, defensive people threaten me, and guys with lots of neck tattoos of bloody knives and Jesus threaten me, but a biography of a vagina, no
that's too ridiculous to be threatening
Laptop woman's eyes got as big as ignorance and she said
What do you mean, ridiculous!
Oh, well, it's like this: the idea that retreating into a frame of mind where one's sex organ is exalted, where one's very self-worth is focused on one's sex organ, where an obsession with one's sex organ is conflated with philosophy, and in the case of the vagina, is somehow construed as "feminism" and "empowerment," well
this strikes me as asinine and puerile
and a mite indelicate
Laptop woman's eyes got as big as vaginas and she hissed get away from me you fucking pervert or I'll call security
I momentarily wondered what security's phone number might be, and happiness's, goodness's, and joy's
Then I moved on because I felt threatened
---
Charles Bogle

 

Il perche non so
mi chiamano mimi
il perche non so
my name is this
I don’t know why
things pump into
neurons
sensory flesh
groceries into bag
dogs play in yard
bestial shouts from windows
supernova roses expand
petals to Betelgeuse
super apes trail offspring
hungry
no cookie
love pondered
gland obeyed
sun nuclear fire
moon barren
little mites feast
littler mites
amoral
pernicious
chanters hum
terrified pray
wail impotent trill
murders of joy
painter wipes fix
moment gone and beauty
crack and fade
universe and skin
blue eyes and harlequin
il perche non so
---Charles Bogle

Raj Bavnani Reads!
Heard it once? Hear it twice!
Listen to Raj Bavnani's
 end-of-year poem, as read on KPFK-FM.

 

Listen at:
 
http://rense.gsradio.net:8080/rense/special/Raj_Bavnani.mp3
Raj read this epic poem for 2010 Jan. 3 on "The Music Never Stops," with Barry Smolin, on KPFK.
 
slums of gold
the slums of gold
are having open houses for all the affable c.e.o.'s and financial wizards who have taken their bailout money to build shiny brand new executive bathrooms and finance relaxing weekend retreats far from the noise and fear of the street.the slums of gold have king size beds that will make the most tired and achy executive feel so human and tender.
special guarded elevators will take these new stylish tenants to the penthouse,but wait a second, sometimes the penthouse has no roof and the vultures soar overhead awaiting their next happy meal.
the slums of gold find themselves eventually under a fierce rain which washes that fake gold off revealing corroded iron and brokedown wood.
it's a new year
homicide will soon reach its deductible
and its bills will reduce greatly.
the slums of gold are having a block party.
bring all your favorite yes men and women,executives.
bring your bylaws and meeting minutes.
you'll have to budget the air
inhale just so much oxygen.
the banks glow in the dark.
they begin to pull up stakes
and slither across the earth
looking for food.
meanwhile,all humans with no health care whatsoever become kings and queens for one day.
they are asked to pose for high profile pictures.
as soon as you're through coughing up blood could you smile and say cheese.
the c.e.o.s have blood in their underwear.
should they panic?
should they take a happy pill?
all the happy pills forgot their distemper shots.
they are not agreeable this morning.
when you go to open them up to ingest one they bite your fingers.
---Scott Wannberg, 1/24/09

i didn't see all that much but boy do my eyes hurt
in the hallowed building
that forgets where it lives
i saw a way of life
try to shove itself into a tube of toothpaste
the teeth of the world
chatter
when love runs naked
through the battle
that dances up and down
the road out of town.

periodically the reaper fellow
comes through selling subscriptions
but frankly his pitch needs grease
and the navy can't tread the water
you shower in.

i didn't see all that much
honest
but boy do my eyes hurt
every time you ask me to leap off the ledge
i remind you i still haven't earned anything
resembling a wing

tell the rage
to act its age and smile
once every now and then
anything it can throw at me
i've already fielded
in a time
when popcorn fell from the sky
and wounds grew gardens.

going home time
finally slipped through the wire,
treat it gentle,
pass the veneer
ache no more
for at least a minute, anyhow
heard a rumor
we were being pulled back
to a rhythm
that wouldn't break us.

killers will eventually get monuments erected in their honor.
and the pigeons will rejoice
through impending snarling weather
asleep on the side of the road
you will find civilization
rolling dice in pitch black night
one more round for the survivors
wherever they crawled off to

the highway refuses to comp you
pay as you attempt
anything
meteors aim their best profiles
at our hacienda
raise your vulnerable face
to their fire
tell them the story
you never finished
the one about the woodsmoke
the shiny people
and when its time
to wander upstairs
to a room that goes on for hours
place your heart on mine
make some music
they claim vaudeville is coming back
together
we'll bring down
the leaking
roof
---scott
florence,oregon
10/27/09
tom russell
blood and candle smoke

A Verse to You Archive


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"Song without music for Jerry Garcia"
on the 25th anniversary of his passing

by Rip Rense
here

           The great Jerry Lawson dies
          Jerry Lawson, the smooth baritone lead singer and arranger of the fabled a cappella group, The Persuasions, died July 10 at a Phoenix, Arizona hospice following a long illness. He was 75. His wife, Julie Lawson, was at his side.
                                                  (Full obituary here)    

NEW: SATURDEE OPRY LINKS!

Joe         Jack
Opera highlights for novices,
 hosted by Rip Rense

“If you’re gonna get off on somethin’ you don’t need to know nothin’ about it, music is a universal language. If it’s opera in Italian,
 you ain’t supposed to know nothin’ about Italy.
You can just sit there and dig on it.”
---the late, great Dr. John.

 

MIXED FEELINGS ABOUT
THE NEW 'WHITE ALBUM' MIX

 RENSE COMMENTS ON POOR CHOICES, EXPEDIENCE, LACK OF IMAGINATION
 EXCLUSIVE!

 The sequel to "The Death Sisters"

cover by David Allen
read all about it
 

cover by David Allen
Twelve Brilliant New Stories
read all about it
 

the greatest grateful dead album
 the grateful dead never made.


 
PERSUASIONS OF THE DEAD
20 TRACKS. 2 CDs. 12 GUEST ARTISTS.
The Persuasions, Brooklyn-grown street singers who became the most important and powerful a cappella group in American history, interpret the songs of Robert Hunter and Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead. Songs that still are among the most original and engaging in American music.
Sheer poetry, meet sheer melody.


"enchanting!"
---grateful dead lyricist
 robert hunter.

produced by Rip Rense
 mixed by Marc Doten

cover illustration by Luis Genaro Garcia

SPECIAL GUESTS ARTISTS: Country Joe McDonald, Mark Karan (Ratdog), Jackie LaBranch and Gloria Jones (Jerry Garcia Band), Grateful Dead keyboardist Vince Welnick, Dongming Qiao, James King, Alyn Kelley, Eric Thompson, Peter Rowan,  Pete Grant, Mary Schmary.

"Deadheads, take a hit from this double disc dose of the real thing. Persuasions fans, this may be the last time you'll ever hear a Persuasions line-up with original lead, and once-in-a-lifetime talent, Jerry Lawson. . .These tracks are stories that happen to have been set to song, not songs that happen to have a story."
---Jonathan Minkoff, Recorded A Cappella Review Board.

"Album producer Rip Rense calls the marriage of these two acclaimed artists "a surprisingly natural fit." He couldn't be more right. It works because these tracks are more than just covers; they're tributes. Each arrangement is designed to draw something new out of the original. Many of them include actual instruments, such as piano, guitar, and baritone saxophone."
---Nicole Maria Milano, Recorded A Cappella Review Board.

 ZOHO ROOTS
 AND RENSART PRODUCTIONS

LISTEN TO SAMPLES AND ORDER
 

THE PERSUASIONS
LIVE AT McCABE'S GUITAR SHOP!


The Greatest A Cappella Group in American History
in its only LIVE NIGHTCLUB ALBUM.

Everyone knows, or should know, that as great as Persuasions studio albums were, you did not experience The Persuasions unless you saw them live. Rip Rense set about capturing this vocal lightning in a bottle at McCabe’s Guitar Shop in 1999. Yes, it’s just like being there.

NINETEEN SONGS.
70 MINUTES OF MUSIC AND JOY.
5 SONGS NEVER ON A PERSUASIONS ALBUM.

PRODUCED BY RIP RENSE AND MARC DOTEN
FOR RENSART RECORDS.


"The Persuasions have come to save your soul. America is safe again."
---The Bluegrass Special


"Live at McCabe's is a great find, a reminder of this act at its best."---Soultracks.com

"You need to buy this album!"
---
Contemporary A Cappella Society

"We came out smokin'!"
---Jerry Lawson.


 listen to samples
 and order

NOW ON iTunes!

"Their signature album."---Floyd Kucharski.

 

the rip post's exclusive
TRIBUTE TO THE ORIGINAL
L.A. DAILY NEWS!


"the only Democratic newspaper
 west of the Rockies."


INTERVIEWS!
 WITH THE ORIGINAL "NEWSIES!"
RARE PHOTOS!

MEMORIES OF L.A.'S ALL-BUT-FORGOTTEN MOST BELOVED NEWSPAPER.

THE OAKS
A NOVEL
BY RIP RENSE

"Staggeringly well written. . .sweet. . .funny. . .sad. . .elegaic. . .not a thought nor sentence out of place."
---Keith Snider, San Francisco.

review: ''EDGAR SAWTELLE' VS.
 'THE OAKS,'

 by Barbara Weeks here.

review:Susan Christian Goulding's
Daily Breeze column on "The Oaks" here
.


FLASH! MAN CHAINS SELF TO OAK TREE, READS 'THE OAKS' AGAIN AND AGAIN! here


TO ORDER

"I stayed up to finish the last 100 pages.”
---Dave Allen, Thousand Oaks.

""This book deserves to be read by hundreds of thousands of people It is a gem that talks to a diverse group of people: those who grew up in dysfunctional families(!); Southern Californians who will love the suburban anecdotes; teens and everybody who has ever been a teen with all the awkwardness those years impart. It's also quite funny. Readers simultaneously laugh while groaning over these horribly insensitive 'adults' raising Charlie, who is much more adult than they are."
---Susan Christian Goulding,
columnist for the Daily Breeze,
 People Mag. Correspondent.

 REVIEWS, SUMMARY,
 SAMPLE CHAPTER


Rense interviewed about "The Oaks"
in Ventura Star
here.


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The Rip Post motto:
"Persevering Through Relentless Absurdity"

 on tote bags, T-shirts, hats!
Amaze your friends! Frighten your pets!


click the products to visit the OUTPOST
*trademarked term.

RENSE ON THE BEATLES!
exclusive!
JOHN LENNON PLANNED TO REUNITE THE BEATLES

PLUS!
SAY YOU WANT A (new) REVOLUTION?
AND. . .
LENNON'S GREAT LOST SONG


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LESS THAN SATISFYING ENCOUNTERS WITH HUMANITY---ILLUSTRATED.
THE DECLINE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION. . .
Measured by its attitude.



"The greatest book I've ever read---in the bathroom."---Mike Ball, Glendale, CA.

"You have more 'less than satisfying encounters' than any three other people I know.  I've given this some thought and my conclusion is that it is your unhappy fate to be something of a "schmuck magnet." Unpleasant-incompetent-self-aggrandising people enter your close orbit with greater frequency
 than the rest of us."
---Bob Ballenger, Encino, CA.

230 pages of LTSEWH's.
 
WITH ORIGINAL ARTWORK

ORDER HERE
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LINGO CZAR

THE DECLINE OF WESTERN CIVILIZATION---
Measured by its language.


The long-running column (L.A. Times, The Rip Post) is now 210 acid-dripping pages exposing rigidly conformist slang, pin-headed outbursts, 'cool' patois, abominable cliches, infantile drivel, smug rejoinders, mandatory peer-enforced buzzwords and iPhone-speak that Americans are spewing from their 500-word vocabularies as their knuckles hang ever closer to the sidewalk.


ORDER HERE

HERE IT IS: THE MOST IMPORTANT SPEECH MADE BY ANYONE IN THE LAST 60 YEARS. WELL, MAYBE. THE GREAT BILL HICKS.

The Rip Post Interview!
SHIN3

ALL FOR TAIKO, AND TAIKO FOR ALL.
How two educators and a scientist came to
 devote themselves to the drum.

HERE
also. . .

DR. HU!

CHINESE MEDICINE DOC EXTRAORDINAIRE!
HERE


AND. . .
SIMON LENG,
AUTHOR OF "WHILE MY GUITAR GENTLY WEEPS: THE MUSIC OF GEORGE HARRISON"

AND. . .
"Mr. Smolin:
teacher, deejay, recording artist--
on Mata Hari, Daktari, high school students, John Donne, the future of the planet, and his album. . .

HERE

plus: 'Breakfast With The Beatles' host Chris Carter, and more HERE

 

MUSIC BOX
HARU NO UMI
GRACE MOORE: UN BEL DI VEDROMO
GRACE MOORE: MI CHIAMANO MIMI
LAWRENCE TIBBETT: ON THE ROAD TO MANDALAY
CHALIAPIN: DOWN THE PETERSKY
GIULINI CONDUCTS FRANCK


FOR THE ENTIRE MUSIC BOX, CLICK HERE

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THE GREAT MCGONIGLE
W.C. Fields Fan Club
Great Quotes by the Great Man
Juggling Hall of Fame


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JOIN THE SONS OF THE DESERT!
Now Accepting New Members! Click here! Or here!

READ IT! THE GREATEST PORN NOVEL EVER WRITTEN!
 BY THE GREAT WALT VICKERY!


ORDER YOURS HERE!

 

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