Monthly Archives: March 2025

March 14, 2025

Herr Direktor wants one of the projects I’m working on to go in a more “splatterpunk” direction.  Until maybe two weeks ago, I had no idea what that actually meant, but I thought it sounded pretty cool, so I just went along with it.   Since then, I’ve been on a strict diet of splatterpunk movies and books.  Turns out I knew what it was, I just didn’t know what it was called.  For those dear readers who may have been as in the dark as I was about this subgenre, if you’re a Tarantino fan, in Kill Bill Pt1, when Beatrix goes to Japan and Samurai-sword-fights 99 Kato-masked Yakuza guys, and the entire interior of the massive club they’re in is literally drenched and dripping with blood from the firehose-like arterial spray from the myriad dismemberments occurring during the fight, and the entire floor is covered with bodies and limbs…that is what I’m talking about.

So the movies from the last week:
Tokyo Gore Police
Ichi the Killer
Battle Royale
The Machine Girl
Audition
Meatball Machine
Meatball Machine Kodoku

Up next will be:
Zombie Ass: Toilet of the Dead
Lone Wolf and Cub: Baby Cart to Hades
Tetsuo: The Iron Man

As may be obvious from this list, I’m leaning into the Japanese take on SP because I think that approach will work better for this project.  The Japanese style is so wildly over the top as to be cartoonish, thus, absurd and thus, funny.  American splatterpunk movies would likely be things like The Terrifier movies Damien Leone or the Human Centipede sequence from Tom Six.  While I am a huge fan of Art the Clown, the SP aesthetic of the Terrifier movies is almost completely different than the Japanese version: there’s nothing funny about it.  I mean, I get it…the joke is an the absurdity of the lengths Art goes to inflict pain on his victims (e.g., leaving the room of a vicious multi-limb mutilation to retrieve a massive sack of salt from the other room so that he can shove it into wounds by the fistful…I admit I actually chuckled at that when I first watched it.  But that humor is waaaaaaay darker.  Put it this way: your 10-year-old kid walks into Kill Bill Pt I, they will likely laugh and be untraumatized because it is so obviously not real.  That same 10-y.o. walks into Terrifier 2, and you’ll probably be shelling out a bunch of cash for therapy after a bunch of dark behavioral reports from school.

Anyway, this new approach has breathed new energy into this project, and I’m pretty excited about it.

[Tangentially related note: it occurs to me that I haven’t done a proper movie review here for a bit.  For no valid reason whatsoever, I’m suddenly thinking about doing a marathon triple review of The Human Centipede (First Sequence), The Human Centipede 2 (Full Sequence), and The Human Centipede (Final Sequence).  Just get hammered drunk and sit through all three of those horrendous creations taking breaks only to pee or get a refill.  Just a thought for now, but if that changes, you’ll be the first to know.]

N.P.: “Man of Constant Sorrow” – Jonathan Young

March 13, 2025

It’s March 13, and the Beats keep on beating.  Yesterday we delved into the mind of Jack Kerouac…today we focus on one Allen Ginsberg.  On this day in 1970, Beat poet Allen Ginsberg arrested by Miami cops for “obscenity” during a reading.  (I tried a couple times to get arrested for obscenity during a couple of readings…didn’t work.)  Ginsberg – shaggy, bearded, and unapologetic – was reciting his raw, boundary-smashing poetry, like Howl or something equally unfiltered.  He’d put a weed up the establishment’s ass since the ’50s, and this arrest was just another badge of honor.  As I mentioned yesterday, The Beats didn’t just write – they lived their defiance, and Ginsberg’s willingness to face cuffs for his words was perfectly typical.  He beat the charge later, natch, proving the pen’s might over the paddy wagon.

Born June 3, 1926, in Newark, New Jersey, Ginsberg became the Beat Generation’s howling prophet, a poet who ignited a cultural shift.  His work, especially Howl and Other Poems (1956) – smashed through mid-century America’s buttoned-up norms, blending jazz rhythms, spiritual hunger, and a middle finger to conformity.

Ginsberg’s masterpiece, Howl, dropped like a bomb in 1955 when he first read it at San Francisco’s Six Gallery.  “I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked” – that opening line hit like a freight train, a wail for the misfits, junkies, and dreamers chewed up by post-war America.  It’s a three-part epic: Part 1 mourns the lost, Part II curses the industrial “Moloch” devouring souls, and Part III chants solidarity with Carl Solomon, a friend from the psychiatric ward.

The poem’s free-verse sprawl – long, breathless lines echoing Walt Whitman and jazz improv – broke every rule of tidy, academic poetry of the time.  It was visceral, sexual, and loud, landing publisher Lawrence Ferlinghetti in an obscenity trial in 1957 (he won, cementing its legend).  Howl truly roared, giving voice to a generation that felt suffocated.

Of course, Ginsberg wasn’t a lone wolf – he was the glue of the Beats.  He met Jack Kerouac and William S. Burroughs at Columbia University in the ’40s, and their friendship fueled a literary uprising.  Kerouac’s road rambles inspired Howl’s energy; Burrough’s dark surrealism pushed its edges.  Ginsberg turned their shared ethos – spontaneity, authenticity, rebellion – into some pretty electric verse.  He also mentored younger Beats like Gregory Corse and amplified their work, hosting readings that turned poetry into a communal act.  That arrest in 1970 – just one of many run-ins – showed he was a threat to the status quo.

Ginsberg didn’t stop with Howl.  Kaddish (1961), a gut-wrenching elegy for his mother Naomi, who battled mental illness, digs into personal grief in a uniquely deep way.  Lines like “Dreams! adorations! Illuminations! religions! the whole boatload of sensitive bullshit!” mix reverence and irreverence, hallmark of Ginsberg’s style.

Ginsberg’s biggest flex was making poetry dangerous again.  Before him, the 1950s poetry scene was getting a bit stiff (think T.S. Eliot’s cerebral puzzles or Robert Frost’s rather pastoral polish.  Bob Dylan cited Howl as a spark; the hippies really dug his bearded guru vibe.  His readings, often with music or chants, turned poetry into performance art.

Ginsberg co-founded the Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics at Naropa University in 1974, mentoring poets will Anne Waldman.  Punk icons like Patti Smith and The Clash’s Joe Strummer drank from his well…his rhythm and defiance echo in their work.  Critics bitched, as they do: he was too crude, too loud.  But that was the point.  He died in 1997, but his chants still haunt open mics.

Pour some out for Uncle Allen…for keeping it real.

N.P.: “Werewolves of London” – Cat Mantra

March 12, 2025

Happy Hump Day, dear reader.  Today is a rather significant day on the Dead Poets Society calendar, so let’s get to it.  Today is Jack Kerouac Day!

Ever heard of Jack Kerouac and/or the Beat Generation?  How about On the Road?  Ever get shit-housed on a bottle of cheap Port and try to write a book by the time that rotten sun comes up?  I certainly have.  But you’re a No?  Well, shit.  I guess I’m no longer surprised by such things, but I shall include you in my nightly prayers nonetheless.

On March 12, 1922, Jack Kerouac burst onto the scene in Lowell, Massachusetts.  The Beat Generation’s wild child, he wrote On the Road in a three-week amphetamine-fueled spree, hammering it out on a single scroll of paper.  [I’ve recently wondered about how Kerouac would have viewed the endless digital paper now available to all writers.  My guess is he’d be thrilled.]  It’s a raw, kinetic hymn to freedom – hitchhiking, jazz, and living fast – capturing the restless spirit of post-war America.  Kerouac was not another mincing desk-bound scribe; he lived the chaos he wrote, drinking hard and rambling with icons like Neal Cassady.  His spontaneous prose kicked the door down for a new kind of literature, making him a rebel king whose influence still roars.  He turned the road into a revolution.

Kerouac’s influence on the Beat Generation was seismic – he was its pulse, its voice, its restless soul.  He crystallized a post-war counterculture that rejected the tidy, consumerist 1950s American Dream for something rawer, freer, and messier.  The Beats were poets, writers, and wanderers (Allen Ginsburg, William S. Burroughs, Neal Cassady – who craved authenticity over suburbia, and Kerouac was their reluctant poster boy.

The Beat Generation – coined from “beaten down” or “beatific,” depending on who you ask – was about shaking of the shackles of convention.  Kerouac gave it legs with On the Road (1957), a semi-autobiographical novel tracking his cross-country treks with Cassady (recase as the wild Dean Moriarty).  It’s less a story, more a vibe: jazz riffs, cheap diners, and the open highway as a middle finger to the 9-5 grind.  He tapped into a post-WWII restlessness – vets, dreamers, and misfits who felt the world was too big to stay put.  His mantra of “spontaneous prose” – writing without revision, like a jazz-solo – became the Beat calling card, urging writers to let it rip, unfiltered.

Kerouac’s style was his rebellion.  He hated the polished, academic prose of the time, so he wrote how he talked – fast, loose, and alive.   As mentioned supra, he famously banged out On the Road on a 120-foot scroll of taped-together paper, single-spaced, over three Benzedrine-fueled weeks in 1951 (though he’d been sketching it for years).  Lines like “The only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved” hit like a drumbeat – urgent, unapologetic.  He pulled from jazz giants like Charlie Parker, aiming for that same improvisational flow.  On the Road was a manifesto for living without a net.  His other works – like The Dharma Bums (1958), with its Zen-tinged mountain rambles, or Big Sur (1962), a darker dive into his unraveling – kept the Beat fire burning.  They showed the flip side: the spiritual hunger, the burnout, the cost of freedom.  Ginsberg called him the “King of the Beats,” and you see it in how his voice bled into Howl (1956) or Burroughs cut-up chaos in Naked Lunch (1959).

Kerouac’s influence wasn’t just on the page – it was how he lived  He hitchhiked with Cassady, crashed in San Francisco’s North Beach, and drank with poets in Greenwich Village.  His French-Canadian roots and Catholic guilt gave his work a haunted depth, but he chased the now – booze, Buddhism, and all-night rants.  Cassady was his muse, their letters and road trips were Beat gospel.  Kerouac’s refusal to settle down – until fame and alcohol wore him out – mirrored the characters he wrote, making him a walking symbol of the movement’s highs and lows.

The Beats didn’t stay small.  Kerouac’s work lit a fuse for the 1960s counterculture – hippies, Dylan’s lyrics, even Hunter S. Thompson’s gonzo style.  On the Road sold millions, turning gas stations into pilgrimage stops for kids craving escape.  Critics sneered, as they do – Truman Capote thought it was “typing, not writing” – but I think he missed the point: Kerouac made literature feel dangerous again.  He influenced everyone from Tom Waits to Patti Smith, who called him a “wilderness saint.”

Kerouac didn’t wear the crown easily.  By the late ’50s, he was a reluctant celebrity, hounded by fans and mocked by squares.  He drank harder, retreated to Lowell, and died at 47 in 1969 from a liver wrecked by years of excess.  The Beat flame he lit burned him out – but it never dimmed his mark.

Happy birthday, Uncle Jack!

N.P.: “October in the Railroad Earth (with Steve Allen) – Jack Kerouac

March 11, 2025

After many years, apparently Morpheus has decided to end his absence from my life.  I’ve recently started dreaming again and I don’t care for it.  In fact, I find it rather annoying.  I guess I should consider myself lucky: Uncle Morphy has never plagued me with nightmares, night terrors, or the hellish-sounding sleep paralysis. But a good panic-inducing nightmare might actually be refreshing at this point.  My dreams, dear reader, have become extraordinarily mundane.  Typical, even. Take last night, for example. I dreamt that I was back in community college as a student, showing up after a long absence only to find it was final exam day, and I was woefully unprepared. Sound familiar? That’s what I mean…who hasn’t had the same or similar dreams hundreds of times in their lives? Back in my adolescent years, this terror-inducing trope was at least somewhat applicable to my waking world. But now it has grown positively boring. I keep dreaming about common interactions that apparently my subconscious thinks are relevant, but I can assure you they are not. But while I’m in the dream, I’m having to deal with someone’s whining, or some issue someone has with me, and trying to resolve the issue, which stresses me out and causes disruption in my sleep. Then I wake up, immediately realize the problem and people (typically) don’t even exist, and the entire dream was just a lame fuck-around. What once would have brought on cold sweats and heart palpitations now barely warrant a yawn as I open my eyes at dawn. Maybe Morpheus is just messing with me. But I refuse to relinquish my hard-won peace of mind to the whims of a capricious dream-weaver. I can only surmise that Morpheus is attempting to lull me back into a state of complacency before unleashing his more twisted creations upon me. But I don’t know…nobody’s talking.

And so much for all that.  We have a bit of DPS business to attend to today.  Because on this day in 1544, Italian poet Torquato Tasso was born in Sorrento, near Naples.  I’m sure you’ve never heard of him, literate reader, but you can trust me on this one: dude was a literary firebrand – his epic Jerusalem Delivered (1581) is a blood-and-guts tale of the First Crusade, packed with heroic knights, clashing swords, and a defiant spirit.  Tasso’s life was as wild as his work: he battle mental illness, got locked up in a madhouse by the Duke of Ferrara for seven years, and still managed to crank out verse that’s revered still.  He was set to be crowned “King of Poets” by the Pope in 1595, but he died just days before the ceremony – talk about a tragic, badass exit.  His mix of brilliance and chaos make him a legend.  Happy Birthday, Uncle Torq!

N.P.: “Hot Stuff” – Voxxx

Word of the Day: parvenu

Parvenu (n): A person who’s clawed their way up from humble beginnings to wealth or status, often with all the subtlety of a bullhorn in a library. Think nouveau riche with a side of try-hard—someone who’s got the cash but not the class, and everyone fucking knows it.
Straight from the French, parvenu comes from the verb parvenir, meaning “to arrive” or “to succeed,” rooted in Latin pervenire (“to come through”). It’s been strutting around English since the early 19th century, sneering at old money while flashing its gaudy new watch. The vibe? Freshly minted swagger with a whiff of desperation.
So, picture this: Jimmy “Two-Toes” Malone—yeah, he lost the other eight in a lawnmower incident he doesn’t talk about—hits the Powerball for $87 million and goes full parvenu overnight. We’re talking a guy who used to shotgun Busch Light in a trailer park, now strutting into a Michelin-starred joint in a leopard-print tuxedo, reeking of Axe body spray and entitlement. He’s got a date—some chick named Tiffani with an “i” who’s already mentally spending his winnings on a yacht called Titz McGee—and he’s barking at the waiter, “Bring me the fuckin’ caviar, none of that cheap shit!” The waiter, a wiry dude named Claude who’s seen it all, just smirks and drops a $400 spoonful of fish eggs in front of him. Jimmy shovels it in, gags like he’s choking on a golf ball, and yells, “Tastes like salty asshole!”—loud enough the whole place goes silent. Tiffani’s mortified, Claude’s plotting revenge, and Jimmy, oblivious, slaps a wad of hundreds on the table, hollering, “Keep the change, peasant!” as he stumbles out, leaving a trail of spilled champagne and shattered dignity. Moral? Money buys a lot, but it don’t buy you a goddamn clue.
N.P.: “Helter P.T.2 – Apoptygma Berzerk Remix” – kinGeorg

March 9, 2025

Today, dear reader, we pour some out for the legendary Charles Bukowski.
Charles Bukowski—born Heinrich Karl Bukowski on August 16, 1920, in Andernach, Germany, and dying on March 9, 1994, in San Pedro, California—is a literary figure who embodies the gritty, unpolished spirit of the American underclass. He’s the kind of writer you either love or hate, no in-between, because he doesn’t just write—he bleeds onto the page with a mix of cynicism, humor, and brutal honesty.

Early Life: A Rough Start
Bukowski’s childhood was a mess. His family moved to Los Angeles when he was two, escaping post-WWI Germany. His father was a domineering, abusive figure—think beatings with a razor strop—and his mother was passive, leaving young Bukowski to fend for himself emotionally. Add severe acne that left him scarred and ostracized, and you’ve got the recipe for an outsider from the jump. He started drinking young, a habit that became his lifelong companion and muse. By his teens, he was already scribbling stories, but it wasn’t until later that he’d hit his stride.

The Hustle: Writing and Survival
Bukowski didn’t glide into literary fame—he clawed his way there. After dropping out of college, he bounced around doing odd jobs: dishwasher, truck driver, mail carrier. The U.S. Post Office gig—over a decade of soul-crushing monotony—became the backbone of his first novel, Post Office (1971). Before that, he was a drifter, living in flophouses, getting arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct, and writing whenever he wasn’t blackout drunk or broke. In the 1940s, he started publishing short stories in small magazines, but a near-fatal ulcer from booze in 1955 forced a reset. He came back swinging, focusing on poetry—raw, free-verse stuff that read like a barstool confession.

The Breakthrough: Dirty Realism
The 1960s were his turning point. He hooked up with the underground press— mimeographed zines and counterculture rags like Open City—and started churning out poems and columns. His big break came when John Martin of Black Sparrow Press saw his potential and offered him $100 a month to quit the post office and write full-time. Bukowski took the leap at 49, and the result was a flood of work: Post Office, Factotum (1975), Women (1978), and hundreds of poems collected in books like Love is a Dog from Hell (1977). His style—labeled “dirty realism”—was all about the unglamorous: skid row, sex, gambling, and the grind of working-class life. No flowery metaphors, just gut punches.

The Man: Flawed and Fearless
Bukowski wasn’t a saint. He was a womanizer, a brawler, and a self-proclaimed “dirty old man” by the time he hit his 50s. His live readings were legendary—half poetry, half stand-up, often sloshed on whiskey, heckling the crowd right back. He’d piss people off, charm them, or both. His alter ego, Henry “Hank” Chinaski, starred in his semi-autobiographical novels, letting Bukowski air his demons without apology. Critics called him crude or misogynistic; fans called him a truth-teller. Either way, he didn’t care—he wrote what he lived.

Later Years and Legacy
By the 1980s, Bukowski was a cult hero. His novel Ham on Rye (1982) dug into his brutal youth, while Hollywood (1989) skewered the film industry after his screenplay for Barfly (1987) got him some mainstream cred (Mickey Rourke played Chinaski—perfect casting). He kept writing until leukemia took him in ’94, leaving behind over 60 books. Posthumously, his work’s been adapted into films, studied in universities, and quoted by everyone from punks to poets.

Why He’s a Badass
Bukowski’s badassery isn’t capes and heroics—it’s survival. He turned a life of rejection, poverty, and addiction into art that spits in the face of pretense. He didn’t write to impress; he wrote to breathe. Lines like “Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead” (Barfly) capture his ethos: embrace the mess or miss the point. He’s the patron saint of misfits, proving you don’t need polish to leave a mark—just guts.

To Uncle Chuck!

N.P.: “All That Medicine” – Tax The Heat

March 8, 2025

Well, hell, dear reader.  I can’t believe it’s already time to talk about the sheer, unadulterated lunacy of Daylight Saving Time (DST). This biannual ritual of clock-twisting isn’t just a minor annoyance; it’s a relic of idiocy that kills, maims, and maddens us, all while clinging to justifications so outdated they belong in a museum next to Edison’s first light bulb.  I’m here, once again, to rip this farce apart. Spoiler alert: the only sane fix is locking the clocks on Standard Time—permanently—and telling DST to take a long walk off a short pier.

The Body Count of Clock-Changing
Let’s start with the grim stats, because we might as well face the ugly truth head-on. Every spring, when we “spring forward” and lose an hour of sleep (i.e. tonight), the world doesn’t just groan—it bleeds. Studies—like a 2014 Michigan hospital analysis—show heart attacks spike 24% the Monday after the switch. Strokes? Up 8% in Finland, per a 2016 study. Traffic accidents? A 2020 University of Colorado-Boulder report pegs a 6% jump in fatal crashes, adding about 30 extra deaths a year. Why? Our circadian rhythms get sucker-punched. We’re groggy, irritable, and stumbling into the day like drunks after last call. Sleep deprivation isn’t a quirky plot twist—it’s a killer, and DST is the trigger.
Then there’s the “fall back” in November. You’d think gaining an hour would be a reprieve, but nope—it’s just a different flavor of chaos. Darkness creeps in earlier, and suddenly deer collisions and pedestrian pile-ups spike as drivers fumble through the gloom. Workplace injuries climb too, because tired hands and dim light don’t mix. This is a public health crisis dressed up as tradition. We’re not saving daylight—we’re sacrificing lives.

The Dumbass Origins of DST
So why the hell did we start this madness? Rewind to World War I, when Germany flipped the clocks in 1916 to stretch daylight and save coal. The U.S. jumped on the bandwagon in 1918, sold on the idea that more evening light would cut energy costs and boost wartime efficiency. Farmers, they said, would love it (spoiler: they universally hated it—cows don’t read clocks). Then, in World War II, it came back as a patriotic duty. Fine, you say—war’s desperate times called for desperate measures. But here’s the deal: those reasons don’t hold water in 2025.
Coal? We’ve got electricity humming through every socket—our society’s been electrified since Truman was in diapers. Energy savings? A 2008 Department of Energy study found DST shaves a measly 0.03% off electricity use—peanuts in a world of LED bulbs and 24/7 grids. Farming? Modern agribusiness runs on tractors and tech, not sunrise prayers. The original pitch—conserve fuel, align daylight with work—was flimsy even then, and now it’s laughable and embarrassing. We’re not rationing for the Kaiser anymore; we’re just screwing ourselves for no reason.

Standard Time: The Only Sane Rebellion
Here’s the truth: locking the clocks on Standard Time is the only fix that doesn’t make us look like fools. Why? It’s the closest thing to “real” time—aligned with the sun’s arc, not some arbitrary shift. The American Academy of Sleep Medicine backs this hard, saying permanent Standard Time syncs with our body’s natural clock, cutting the health risks of DST’s jolts. No more heart attacks from sleep loss, no more kids dodging cars in pre-dawn dark because sunrise is at 9 a.m. under permanent DST. It’s simple, it’s logical, and it’s got science in its corner.
Permanent DST?  Don’t even start.  That’s just DST’s smug cousin, pretending to be progress.  Sure, you get later sunsets – great for barbecues – but winter mornings turn into a gothic nightmare.  Sunrise at 8:45 a.m.?  Kids trudging to school in pitch black?  That’s not efficient; that’s dystopian.  We tried it in 1974 – Nixon’s energy crisis stunt – and people revolted after a few months of predawn misery.  Standard Time isn’t sexy, but it’s steady.  It’s the temporal equivalent of a no-nonsense narrator – reliable, grounded, and done with bullshit.

Musk, Trump, and the Poll That Missed the Plot
Enter Elon Musk and the Republican Party, riding in like modern-day Don Quixotes tilting at DST’s windmill. Trump’s been barking about it on Truth Social since December 2024: “Daylight Saving Time is inconvenient, and very costly to our Nation.” Musk, co-leading Trump’s Department of Government Efficiency), has been hyping it too. On March 5, 2025, he dropped an X poll: “If daylight savings time change is canceled, do you prefer an hour earlier or an hour later?” Over 1.2 million voted, with 58% picking “an hour later.” Cue the applause from the uninformed.
Here’s the rub: that question’s a literary trainwreck. “An hour later” means permanent DST—shifting clocks forward year-round—which is exactly what no serious person should want. It’s not ending DST; it’s enshrining it, trading one stupidity for another. “An hour earlier” at least gets us to Standard Time, but Musk’s framing muddies the waters like a bad metaphor. The real choice isn’t “more or less”; it’s Standard vs. DST, and Standard wins every time if you’ve got a pulse and a brain. Musk’s poll isn’t a solution—it’s a distraction.

The Final Word
Daylight Saving Time is a farce—a killer cloaked in nostalgia, propped up by reasons that crumbled decades ago. It’s not efficient to cling to it; it’s lazy. Permanent Standard Time isn’t just the smart play—it’s the only play. Let’s lock the clocks, ditch the chaos, and tell the ghosts of 1918 to shove it. Musk and the GOP might fumble the execution, but if they actually kill DST, I’ll raise a glass—provided they don’t botch it with some half-assed “hour more” nonsense. Time’s too precious for this crap. Let’s live like we mean it.

N.P.: “All Shook Up” – Ry Cooder

March 3, 2025

Here we go again, dear reader—California’s lawmakers have plunged headfirst into yet another abyss of absurdity, dragging the rest of us along for the ride. Assembly Bill 133, the so-called “Duty to Retreat” bill, is the latest steaming pile of horseshit to emerge from Sacramento’s ivory tower, and it’s a slap in the face to every law-abiding citizen who dares to believe they have the right to protect themselves. This isn’t just moronic policy—it’s a betrayal of common sense, a coward’s charter dressed up as compassion, and it’s going to get people killed.

Let’s break this down for anyone who hasn’t yet had their morning coffee ruined by the details. AB 133, spearheaded by Assemblymember Rick Chavez Zbur (because of course it’s a Democrat from Los Angeles), wants to obliterate California’s “no duty to retreat” stance. Instead of standing your ground when some shitbag threatens your life, this bill demands you turn tail and run—assuming, of course, you can magically teleport out of harm’s way. If you’re outside your home and some asshole comes at you with a knife, a gun, or even their fists, AB 133 says your first legal obligation is to flee. Forget defending yourself, forget protecting your family—your job is to scamper off like a scared rabbit, hoping the bad guy doesn’t catch you. And if you don’t? Well, good luck explaining that to a prosecutor who’d rather see you in cuffs than the criminal in a cell.

Are you kidding me? This is the kind of lunacy that only makes sense if you’ve spent your entire life in a cushy office, sipping lattes and pontificating about “de-escalation” while the rest of us live in the real world. Newsflash, Sacramento: as I would have thought you would have learned by now, violent criminals don’t send RSVP invitations to their attacks. They don’t give you a heads-up so you can plot your escape route. When danger strikes, it’s sudden, it’s chaotic, and for most people,  it’s terrifying. Expecting someone to calmly assess whether they can “retreat with complete safety” in the heat of the moment is so detached from reality it’s almost laughable—if it weren’t so infuriatingly dangerous.

And it gets worse. This bill doesn’t just stop at forcing you to run—it strips away your right to defend your property or stop a felony in progress. Imagine some lowlife breaking into your car, stealing your livelihood, or worse, assaulting someone you love. Under current law, you can intervene. Under AB 133? Nope. You’re supposed to stand there, twiddling your thumbs, while the criminal waltzes off with your stuff—or your life. The bill even muddies the waters inside your own home, tightening the screws on how you can respond to threats. This isn’t just a “duty to retreat”—it’s a duty to surrender.

Who does this protect? Certainly not the victims. Riverside County Sheriff Chad Bianco nailed it when he said this is yet another move by Sacramento Democrats to “coddle criminals” while tying the hands of law-abiding residents. Assemblyman David Tangipa put it even more bluntly: “Where do you retreat if you can’t defend yourself in your own home?” These aren’t fringe voices—they’re the voices of reason screaming into a void of progressive delusion. Meanwhile, the gun-control cheerleaders at Moms Demand Action and Everytown for Gun Safety are clapping like trained seals, claiming this will “reduce violence.” Reduce violence? Tell that to the single mom who can’t outrun a stalker, or the elderly shopkeeper who can’t dodge a robber’s bullet.

The supporters of AB 133 cloak their argument in sanctimonious drivel about preventing “escalation” and curbing “unwarranted violence.” Oh, please. Spare me the crocodile tears. Criminals don’t care about your bleeding-heart legislation—they’re not sitting around debating the finer points of self-defense law. They’re preying on the vulnerable, and this bill just handed them a free pass. By disarming victims—legally and morally—California is rolling out the red carpet for every thug, thief, and psychopath who knows you’re now a sitting duck.

And let’s not ignore the chilling effect this will have on anyone brave enough to fight back. Under AB 133, if you dare to stand your ground, you’re not just risking your life—you’re risking a courtroom nightmare. Prosecutors will have a field day second-guessing your every move: “Why didn’t you run faster? Why didn’t you hide? Why didn’t you let the guy stab you and hope for the best?” It’s a legal trap designed to punish the innocent and embolden the guilty. Self-defense isn’t a privilege—it’s a fundamental human right, and California’s lawmakers are stomping it into the dirt.

This bill isn’t about safety; it’s about control. It’s about a state government so obsessed with its utopian fantasies that it’s willing to sacrifice real people on the altar of ideology. AB 133 doesn’t make California safer—it makes it a playground for predators and a prison for the rest of us. If this passes, mark my words: the blood of every victim who couldn’t retreat fast enough will be on the hands of every legislator who voted for it.

Wake up, California. Fight back. This isn’t just a bad law—it’s a declaration of war on your right to survive. Call your representatives, flood their inboxes, and make it clear: We won’t retreat, and we won’t surrender. AB 133 must die on the vine, or we’ll all pay the price.

N.P.: “Ring of Fire” – Frayle

March 2, 2025

Happy Sunday, dear reader.  Have you made it to church?  I have not.  It’s been quite some time, actually.  I’ve been thinking about going back lately, but I’ve had some policy issues with the Holy Catholic and Apostolic for a few decades now.  They’ve become spineless and toothless, and thus, pointless.  I’ve attempted to contact the nearest archbishop for a meeting concerning the Catholic Church sacking up and becoming relevant again, but no invitation has been extended.

But I digress.

Work on both books continues apace, whilst, of course, attempting to juggle a couple dozen other adult responsibilities and a chainsaw.  One of the books is becoming increasingly fun to work on, and the other, less so.  But work continues on both.

In badass literary history, on March 2, 1904, Theodor Seuss Geisel, better known as Dr. Seuss, entered the world in Springfield, Massachusetts.  Needless to say, The Doctor was a total game-changer—his wild imagination and playful rhymes in books like The Cat in the Hat and Green Eggs and Ham revolutionized children’s literature. He took a sledgehammer to the dull, moralistic tales of the time, injecting absurdity and anarchic fun. With over 600 million copies sold, his work’s got a rebellious streak that still inspires readers to think outside the box.

On March 2, 1930, D.H. Lawrence kicked the bucket in Vence, France. Another literary renegade—his works like Lady Chatterley’s Lover and Sons and Lovers torched the boundaries.  Facing censorship and outrage for his raw take on sex, class, and human desire, Lawrence kept writing what he damn well pleased. His ashes later traveled to Taos, New Mexico, a fittingly wild resting place for a man who lived and wrote with unapologetic grit.

N.P.: “Fade Away” – Lemmo

March 1, 2025

Listen up, dear readers, patriots, and anyone who’s ever cracked the spine on a book worth a damn: as of yesterday, English is finally the official language of the United States. Cue the fireworks, crack a beer, pour the whiskey, and let’s raise a middle finger to the woke vultures who’ve been pecking at the neglected carcass of our beloved language for too long. This isn’t just a win—it’s a goddamn triumph. One Language, One Flag, One Nation. And now, it’s time to protect this victory with something big, something bold: a Department of English Grammar and Usage. And, as you may have guessed, I’m the guy to run it.

For decades, English has been under siege. The DEI cult and their word-twisting acolytes have tried to warp it into a limp, apologetic shadow of itself—stripping away precision, clarity, and balls in favor of their anti-American fever dreams. They’ve turned pronouns into weapons, grammar into a suggestion, and meaning into mush. Enough. English isn’t just a language; it’s the backbone of this nation’s soul—Shakespeare’s fire, Twain’s grit, Hemingway’s steel. It’s time to stop the bleeding and start swinging back.

Enter the Department of English Grammar and Usage. Picture it: a federal fortress of syntax and style, tasked with setting ironclad norms for how we speak, write, and think. No more “they” for singulars unless it’s earned. No more “latinx” abominations. Just pure, unadulterated English—rules that stick, enforced by people who know the difference between a comma splice and a knockout punch. This isn’t about snobbery; it’s about unity. One tongue to bind us, from sea to shining sea.

So why me? Let’s cut the crap and lay out the receipts. I’ve got a Master’s Degree in English—earned, not handed out like participation trophies. Thirty-plus years tutoring every level from snot-nosed 2nd graders to PhD candidates, beating the rules of the language into their skulls until they could write a sentence that didn’t suck. Years teaching at the collegiate level, where I turned classrooms into battlegrounds for ideas, not safe spaces for whining. I’m an internationally published author—words of mine have crossed oceans, not just keyboards. And for the last two decades, I’ve been a pitbull for this language, snarling at every woke attempt to dilute it, every DEI edict to deform it. I’ve got the scars, the ink, and the fire to prove it.

To President Trump: You’ve made America great again—now let’s make its language unbreakable. To Elon Musk: You’re a man of vision—back this and watch it soar. To Speaker Johnson and the rest of the suits in DC: Get this on the floor and make it law. I’m ready to lead this charge, to build a department that’s half library, half war room—a beacon for every American who still believes words matter.

The woke crowd will scream. Let ‘em. They’ve had their turn, and they blew it—turning English into a punching bag for their identity obsession. Now it’s our move. We’re not just reclaiming a language; we’re reclaiming a culture. #OneLanguage,OneFlag,OneNation.

N.P.: “Body Burn” – Cubanate