Posts Tagged ‘coronavirus’


I had an unsettling experience a few days ago: a friend of mine who lives way down on the southeast side, who’s been getting chemo and radiation for prostate cancer, appears to have the virus. He’s without transport, his truck having thrown its timing chain, so I took him to the testing station which is way out on the northwest side near Oracle and Ina, about 22 or 23 miles one way from his place. He had to lie down in the bed of my pickup on a foam mat for the trip, and once we got to the site it was like a scene from a disaster movie. It’s really odd talking with folks in head-to-toe protective gear where you can only see their eyes through a shield.

I used one of my standard deadpan laugh-lines when one of the moon-suited nurses told me I was a “good man” for helping my sick friend: I said, “Yes, I am.” It didn’t even get a chuckle. I was quite disappointed.

The weird part is that they have this rigid protocol where they want those tested to be inside of their cars. And, yes, they asked me if it was okay if Julio got out of the truck bed and into the cab with me while they administered the test. (Yes, they actually suggested this.) Of course I said “No!” and they eventually relented and did the test away from their prescribed area.

While they did it, it was unnerving to hear Julio scream while they pushed a swab up into his sinus cavities.I looked up at the rearview mirror, saw him writhing, and immediately averted my eyes.

Jesus. I had a couple of stiff drinks once I dropped him off and got home.

At least I’m getting a lot of practicing and writing in. The latest song, finished off last night, being “You’re always right, especially when you’re wrong,” inspired by an ex-GF and an ex-neighbor.

(The ex-GF is dead, sad, but not a surprise — the world’s worst driver — got T-boned while pulling out at a red light in front of an 18-wheeler a few years ago; and the ex-neighbor is still wearing his MAGA hat up in his compound around I-10 and Ruthrauff. Thank god he’s an ex-felon and is prohibited from owning firearms.)


An Open Letter to the president
from Tommy Lee
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dear Fucking Lunatic,
At your recent press conference – more a word salad that had a stroke and fell down stairs, you were CLEARLY so out of your depth you needed scuba gear. Within minutes of going off air your minions were backpedaling faster than Cirque De Soleil acrobats… In India a week ago, i couldn’t get past the bit about your being the most popular visitor in the history of fucking India — a country of a BILLION human souls that’s only 3000 years old, give or take.!!! Trust me – Gandhi pulled CROWDS.. You pulled a cricket stadium and half WALKED out…

Do you know how fucking insane you sound, you off-brand butt plug? That’s like the geopolitical equivalent of “that stripper really likes me” — only 10,000 times crazier and less self aware.

You are fucking exhausting. Every day is a natural experiment in determining how long 300 million people can resist coring out their own assholes with an ice auger. Every time I hear a snippet of your Queens-tinged banshee larynx farts, I want to scream!
We are fucking tired. As bad as we all thought your presidency would be when Putin got you elected, it’s been inestimably worse.

You called a hostile, nuclear-armed head of state “short and fat.” How the fuck does that help?

You accused a woman — a former friend, no less — of showing up at your resort bleeding from the face and begging to get in. You, you, YOU — the guy who looks like a Christmas haggis inexplicably brought to life by Frosty’s magic hat — yes, you of all people said that.

You attempted — with evident fucking glee — to get 24 million people thrown off their health insurance.

You gave billions away to corporations and the already wealthy while simultaneously telling struggling poor people that you were doing exactly the opposite.

You endorsed a pedophile, praised brutal dictators, and defended LITERAL FUCKING NAZIS!

Ninety-nine percent of everything you say is either false, crazy, incoherent, just plain cruel, or a rancid paella of all four.

Oh, by the way, Puerto Rico is still FUBAR. You got yourself and your family billions in tax breaks for Christmas. What do they get? More paper towels?

Enough, enough, enough, enough! For the love of God and all that is holy, good, and pure, would you please, finally and forever, shut your feculent KFC-hole until you have something valuable — or even marginally civil — to say?

You are a fried dick sandwich with a side of schlongs. If chlamydia and gonorrhea had a son, you’d appoint him HHS secretary. You are a disgraceful, pustulant hot stew full of casuistry, godawful ideas, unintelligible non sequiturs, and malignant rage.

You are the perfect circus orangutan diaper from Plato’s World of Forms.

So fuck you Mr. President. And fuck you forever.

Oh, and Pence, you oleaginous house ferret. Fuck you, too. You’ll be as useful as a chocolate teapot against a medical crisis you Bible thumping cock socket.


At the tail end of January and beginning of February, I was sick as hell and somewhat out of it for a full week: sore throat, fatigue, pressure on inner ears, dry cough, and after a few days in hacking up phlegm. But no sniffling, no sneezing. And it took two or three weeks before I began to feel okay. At the time I thought it was just some weird, run-of-the-mill cold virus. Now I’m not so sure. (I stayed away from my friends during this time, but unfortunately I was still going out to buy food.)

A few days ago the GF told me that I told her six or seven weeks ago, when I was sickest, that I had a fever. I don’t remember saying that at all, but she assures me that’s what I told her.

What difference will this make in how I feel? Considerable. I’d previously considered that I might have had the virus, bur rejected the idea because I believed I didn’t have a fever. Now, going down the check list, it’s all “Xs.” Still, there’s no test for antibodies to show who’s been previously infected, so I suspect, but I don’t know.

How does this affect my behavior? Not at all. Because I don’t know. I’m still self-distancing on the rare occasions I go out, (Damn but I miss human touch) I’m washing and disinfecting compulsively, ordering food on line, and spending a couple of hours a day on the phone talking with friends. I urge you to do the same. And this is with the phone and Internet — think about the routine psychological torture inflicted on inmates in solitary in America’s gulags.

At best, the pandemic will subside by late May or early June. Until then, hang on, be responsible, and don’t risk infecting others — if you’re infected, you could, and probably would, kill someone.


The good news is that we’re not out of biz. And if we (See Sharp Press) can survive this, we can survive anything (barely).

We have a couple of really good new books coming up within the next few months (release date depending on the pandemic), Chris Mato Nunpa’s Great Evil, about Christianity the holocaust of Indigenous peoples and the ecosphere, and the Bible; and the conclusion of T.C. Weber’s Sleep State Interrupt anarcho-thriller trilogy, Zero Day Rising.

Beyond that, since I have little else to do in self-quarantine other than tend to my pets/owners — at times an inverted relationship — play music, write music, and work in the garden, I’m pretty safe. According to the CDC, Arizona is one of the states that has widespread community transmission of the coronavirus, so I rarely go out. When I do, I bump doors with my shoulder, and punch screens with a plastic bag between my hand and the screen. I still want my IPA, but hey, I’ll live (or not) if I don’t get it.

As for books and blog posts, Dakota elder Chris Mato Nunpa’s The Great Evil will be out in June; and I’m making huge strides with 24 Reasons to Abandon Christianity — about 30,000 words in at present.

Also, I’m well on my way to recording two music CDs. Between mine, my good bro’s Michael Turner’s, and the ones I wrote with my friends/ex-bandmates Brian Hullfish and Michael Zubay, we have two full CDs+ of original material. We’ll probably use the name Blues Evangelists (spreadin’ the good news of the blues.)

Other than that, I’ll be finishing off the graphic arts work for Al Perry’s new all-instrumental CD., for which Winston Smith did the cover graphic, after a water color by Al. I’m doing everything beyond that, and Al did me the honor of asking me if I’d play second guitar when the CD release finally happens sometime this fall down at Club Congress. Of course I agreed. (Here’s a link to one of Al’s funniest recent tunes, Jukebox Jihad.)

Enough for now. I’ll put up another post within a day or two with a lot of actually useful shit.

It’s going on dawn, and Red is rising. “Red” is the formerly skeletal, now plump, Rhode Island Rhode Red rooster who showed up here last June, and rooted around in my garden for a week or two, until I started feeling sorry for him and started feeding him. The neighbors did, too. He became the neighborhood pet. Dumb as a box of rocks, but still pretty and lively. They’re talking about buying some hens and putting up a hen house in their backyard.

I hope they do it soon.