“Sad Funky Funeral Train From America.”

 

In the end, they didn’t know what to do with the body really. Display it? Let the people see the altered face of the legend one last time? And if so: where? At the ranch? In a hall? On a train rolling through the countryside in this gelatinous heat, stopping in hamlets and one-horse towns; a train rolling in/a train rolling out: the music always there playing in the background. The unstoppable beats. The unkillable voice. That final tour.

They still can’t decide. So his body lies there undanceable. Maybe he is in his old bedroom in some overdone four poster Victorian with an oversized Mickey Mouse leaning over his waxy slight fingers, keeping lookout. He won’t wake up though. Way too tired. No nap could of stopped the bullets.

The people who loved him make more sense to me than many other people. They loved someone magic. Not talented. Magic. Talent is everywhere these days. Cruise back any deep suburban cul-de-sac on a midnight ride and there’s Talent staring at you from his parent’s driveway, his eyes like a buck deer. An acoustic guitar in his creamy little fist. Flip-flops.

Keep driving, for Christ’s sake.

The one they loved, the one all the millions loved so much, was one of the real ones. Snapped with the belt of his father til he threw up in his mouth. Thrust out in the footlights when he shoulda been hiding dirty magazines under a rock by a creek in some woodlot. Singing to a world who sang along to every word when he shoulda been falling in love with some chick for real, instead of having to pretend about it. Dancing with zombies when it finally became apparent that only the dead could ever appreciate who he was and where he was heading. Crucified by the ones who made him.

Hey, we got bored. You got lazy.

It would have been cool, the train thing. A steam locomotive knifing through the United States Summertime, when death seems so impossible yet still very very likely. People would show up. In droves. In zippered jackets and sequined gloves they would sweat their raceless colorless sexless salty sweat down off the tips of their natural noses/nose jobs onto the sizzling concrete of some Iowa rail station platform and no matter who showed up to doubt any of it with jaded hipster eyes, they would be denied, because death was involved and bodies in coffins will never ever allow the living to pull that shit on them.

The train would pull in, the fancy casket would roll into town for a few hours, maybe the whole day. People would line up and cry, but in happy ways. Happy they lived when someone like him lived. That he danced right through some of the same moments that they danced through.

New York, LA, come see your man.

Miami, Seattle, come see your man.

Philadelphia, Detroit, come see your man.

Chicago, Boston, come see your man.

Tulsa, New Haven, come see your man.

Gettysburg, Trout Run, come see your man.

Conshohocken, Bridgeport, come see your man.

Appalachia, Gold Mine Town, Whorehouse, McDonald’s, Alley on Broadway, Roller Rink, Discoteque, Dairy Queen, Sam Goody, Chick-Fil-A, Plymouth Meeting Mall, Mormon Temple, Jewish Synagogue, Moonies, Atheists, Piercing Pagoda, North Falls North Dakota, Brooklyn, King of Prussia, BigFoot Country, Rattlesnake Country, Mule Skinners, Jail Birds, American Originals, Sweet Tea Drinkers, Klansmen, Priests, Cops, Robbers, Queers, Trannys, Newly Baptized Babies, Stoners, Dopers, SpeedFreaks, Winos, Break Dancers, Pop Lockers, Moon Walkers, Justin Timberlake, Ice Road Truckers, Horny MILFs, Soda Sticky Rug Rats, Webster, The Lost Boys, Liz, Liza, Jesus on the Cross in Gary, Indiana, America…..

…..come see your man.

by Serge

True Believers,

The Captain was going to write an awesome editorial peice on the passing of Micheal Jackson. Then he read this post and figured why reinvent the wheel when this guy had already built an airplane.  The above is written by Serge, a man much like the Captain struggling to be a great father and a tolerable husband while leaving old habits, haunts, and lives behind. Check him out on Thunder Pie.

West End is Now Short Pump: Same Shit – Same Pile

I imagine other localities other than RVA have ongoing classist jibber jabber between varying neighborhoods or sections of Suburbia as to which is superior. It tends to follow the rule that the more homogeneous and boring an area is the more vehemently the lemmings that live there strive to label themselves and identify with that area. I understand that your vanilla, mediocre, and bland lives and neighborhoods leave you grasping for an identity to boost your self-esteem and perceived social standing within you peer group. For many years the influx of white-collar “carpetbaggers” tried to convince the populous that the West-End” was the best-end, and many a Cavalier, Hookie, or Spider fell in line with the ongoing propaganda and took root. But as you know when to many sheepeople follow the exclusivity is lost and soon this “followers” were claiming the “Near West end”, “The West end”, “ The Far west end”, of the “ Far Far west end”. Soon anyone west of Ellwood, North of the river, and South of Amelia were claiming the west end. So the self proclaimed “West-end” elite are doing what comes naturally to them, re-branding”. Now they no longer live in the west end, but the live in Short Pump. They tout their close proximity to all things franchised and superficial., and as always with the class-tards they operate on a modus aprendi of exclusion, being that they define themselves by who they can exclude from their area and revel in their caste system as if their good- fortune was bestowed on them by virtue of divine selection, and not by privileged opportunism. I am sure that there is a percentage that achieved their station in life via hard work and sacrifice, but I am even more sure that many of the ”Shorties” have never put in an honest days hard labor. There is a much larger percentage of the population that gets up everyday to go and grinds out every little necessity for their family, and these are the people that can be proud of what they have made out of there life. So when hard times hit and your trust funds collapse, or Mommy and Daddy can’t send the checks and they forclose on your overpriced particle board Mc Mansion and repo your luxury car, we keep on grinding. We have always paid our way and lived below our means because we don’t have somebody waiting to pick us up, wipe our tears away, kiss our boo-boos, and solve our problems. Toughen up cream-puffs because life is knocking and sooner or later you are going to have to answer for yourselves.

Baseball is Done.

Frequently Richmond, VA is accused of living in the past, unable to throw of the constraints of its past and move forward. We neglect the future and hold our dear city back, all the while more “progressive” cities move forward and thrive. This has been highlighted again and again throughout this bullshit baseball fiasco. The Pro-ball side has played both sides of the fence saying Richmond has had a team for so many years that we need another, but then they say that minor league baseball is the economic future of Downtown. They have adopted which ever stance suits the immediate debate, and it is here that the Captain calls “BULLSHIT”! If they want or need a stadium so bad, lets really push the envelope. Baseball is a sport that has passed its heyday. Baseball no longer captures the interest or disposable income as it did decades ago. Lets build something a little more unique and not just “carbon copy” what other cities are doing. So for your contemplation and entertainment the Captain present “Two Better Ideas for Sports in RVA”

Minor league Football = Obviously a no-brainer. Football is KING in the USA. An outdoor minor league team in Richmond would draw more fans than baseball. I have no “facts” to back it up, but it is true. If you want us (RVA citizens) to look to the future and gamble on a minor league team quit offering us the same old tired ass game.

Build a professional short track and bring the car races downtown. Richmond loves car racing, and RIR is a major economic driver. Something like this would have probably got us the NASCAR hall of fame.

If we are really talking just straight “local” interest and trying to pull as many people downtown as possible, why are we only talking about baseball? If I had to guess it is because Baseball stereotypically would pull the “desired” demographic, i.e. middle –upper class white spectators. If that is what you want just say so. If you really want to pull in the most people and sustain attendance, then Baseball is dead in the water. Honestly if you WASPs want your baseball stadium then pay for it yourselves and have your little party, but if you want everyone to help… then give “the people” a sport we want to watch and a team to get behind.

Back from a Bender

Welcome back True Believers. The Captain has recently returned to moderate sobriety after an extended bender that tested the very limits of inebriation and surely laid waste to various vital organs.  Sacrifices have to be made in order to maintain some level of sanity and unfortunately my liver must endure the brunt of the abuse. However, any self-proclaimed genius will surely agree that the occasional bender is integral to the creative process as it breaks you out of the 9 to 5  routine and expands your life experiences. You will meet people who live life on the outskirts of normalcy and see things you couldn’t have fathomed, and  each time you gain a little bit more understanding of the human condition and the world outside your social box. Unfortunately a bender can only last but so long and one day you regain consciousness and its over; the urge to continue is gone and normalcy and responsibilities rear their ugly heads and your social shackles are back, if they ever even really left.

The Captain Presents: Real Men of Genius

 

The Captain Presents: Real Men of Genius

(Real men of Genius)

Today we salute you. Mr. Downtown-Baseball-Stadium-Guy

(Mr. Downtown-Baseball-Stadium-Guy)

No team, public support, or social life; yet you persevere

Wasting taxpayer time and money?  No problem

(Wasting the money)

Sure baseball sucks to watch and is a waste of money.

(It’s an absurd waste of money)

Your keen economic dumbassery and sense of entitlement spurs you on as you strive to improve your own quality of life. If it doesn’t work, who cares? You are still living the dream in the 804.

(Fanguy is a douche bag)

So crack open an ice cold Bud light, you selfish whore. ‘Cause we all know that when the going gets tough, the tough fucking cry on their blog.

 

 

 

 

Drunk Driving

Sunday Brunch is a slippery slope that ultimately leaves you half-in-the-bag early in the afternoon. It usually starts with a “socially acceptable” morning libation such as the classic Bloody or Mimosa, and then before you know it you are knocking back beers and all productive aspirations for the day dissolve into a rambling bunch of drunks looking for somewhere to keep the party going. This past Sunday found the Captain on such a quest as plans of yard work and spring cleaning were doused with afternoon beers and a impromptu excursion to the Driving range to whack a bucket and consume more beer.

 

The appeal of drunk driving quickly wore off and off we stumbled to the go-carts for some more drunk driving. There is defiantly something about a nice beer buzz early in the afternoon that transforms the mild mannered Captain into a well seasoned NASCAR champion. With the liquid courage coursing through my veins I laughed manically with each cart I passed and ruthlessly put at least two teenybopper Hannah Montana types into the wall. I asked for no quarter and gave no quarter as I callously waved off repeated warnings from the pimply faced attendants. They repeatedly yelled and frantically gestured to the “Absolutely NO Bumping” signs. What a bunch of pussies! I wasn’t bumping, I was racing and if those punk ass Chester kids can’t hang then they must eat the wall, I don’t care whose birthday party it is,   cause If you ain’t first, you’re last. That’s just how the Captain rolls, as hard as a diamond in an ice storm.

 

Does that blow your mind? That just happened! Shake and Bake Bitches:

 

As always yours, washed in the blood of the lamb and baptized in dirty water,

 

The Capt.

Behold the First 3 Signs of the Apocalypse!

1.

Karate Kid” remake starring:

Jackie Chan … as … Mr. Miyagi

Jaden Smith (Will Smith’s son) … as … Daniel LaRusso

Produced by Will Smith AKA The Fresh Prince

Re-titled, “Kung Fu Kid”


2.

“The Three Stooges” comes back to the big screen starring:

Jim Carrey … as … Curly

Benicio Del Toro … as … Moe

Sean Penn … as … Larry


3.

3-D Sidewalk Chalk

3-D Sidewalk Chalk causes acid and shroom sales to skyrocket!!

Hippies, the world over, twirl and twirl for JOY!!

True Believers, the end times maybe at hand!!…….     The Capt.