Anchor ads are not supported on this page.

4S Ranch Allied Gardens Alpine Baja Balboa Park Bankers Hill Barrio Logan Bay Ho Bay Park Black Mountain Ranch Blossom Valley Bonita Bonsall Borrego Springs Boulevard Campo Cardiff-by-the-Sea Carlsbad Carmel Mountain Carmel Valley Chollas View Chula Vista City College City Heights Clairemont College Area Coronado CSU San Marcos Cuyamaca College Del Cerro Del Mar Descanso Downtown San Diego Eastlake East Village El Cajon Emerald Hills Encanto Encinitas Escondido Fallbrook Fletcher Hills Golden Hill Grant Hill Grantville Grossmont College Guatay Harbor Island Hillcrest Imperial Beach Imperial Valley Jacumba Jamacha-Lomita Jamul Julian Kearny Mesa Kensington La Jolla Lakeside La Mesa Lemon Grove Leucadia Liberty Station Lincoln Acres Lincoln Park Linda Vista Little Italy Logan Heights Mesa College Midway District MiraCosta College Miramar Miramar College Mira Mesa Mission Beach Mission Hills Mission Valley Mountain View Mount Hope Mount Laguna National City Nestor Normal Heights North Park Oak Park Ocean Beach Oceanside Old Town Otay Mesa Pacific Beach Pala Palomar College Palomar Mountain Paradise Hills Pauma Valley Pine Valley Point Loma Point Loma Nazarene Potrero Poway Rainbow Ramona Rancho Bernardo Rancho Penasquitos Rancho San Diego Rancho Santa Fe Rolando San Carlos San Marcos San Onofre Santa Ysabel Santee San Ysidro Scripps Ranch SDSU Serra Mesa Shelltown Shelter Island Sherman Heights Skyline Solana Beach Sorrento Valley Southcrest South Park Southwestern College Spring Valley Stockton Talmadge Temecula Tierrasanta Tijuana UCSD University City University Heights USD Valencia Park Valley Center Vista Warner Springs

"Hey, dog, you gotta move, homey. You're scratchin' yer head like you got lice or scabies or somethin'."

A few more revolutions of this ball of rock and all of us happy water molecule coincidences can introduce ethanol molecules into our organisms and party like it's 1999, or if you prefer, boogey oogey oogey 'til we just cain't boogie no mo'. I will be cowering indoors.

That New Year's Eve falls this year on a Sunday night, the Friday-night factor should be more pronounced than usual, charged with more than just a three-day weekend factor but in a particularly apocalyptic, biblical atmosphere, not only overseas but also, say, on the #2 bus.

A friend of mine, a local celebrity of sorts, Buddy Pastel, Jr., a drummer and son of an even more famous cult figure of a drummer, whose real name is Owen, is a kind of barometer of the Apocalypse, commenting here and there, "It's a sign," meaning a sign of the end. When Arnold became governor and I asked Buddy if it was a sign, he only said, "Please." It was so obvious. But I think he would agree with me that what passes for socially acceptable behavior in public is indeed a true sign that we are approaching those passages in Revelation where we find "the great harlot," and "the Word of God" is "clothed in a robe dipped in blood" and we "behold a white horse."

A young man recently, while riding the #2, leaned forward in his seat and spoke to me, "Hey, dog," was his salutation. "You gotta move, homey. You're scratchin' yer head like you got lice or scabies or somethin'. I don't want 'em on me."

Plenty of seats were available, and he had sat down well after I had been seated. "My name isn't dog," I told him. "Or homey."

Sponsored
Sponsored

"Well what is it?"

I told him, and his response was to ask if I were going to relocate my head parasites.

I did not inform him it was some sort of dermatitis, not because it was gross but because it was far from being gross enough. "Actually, it's a festering syphilitic lesion. I don't think it's contagious unless you yourself have an open wound and I get some blood or pus on ya."

"That's sick, John."

"Thank you."

"Jeez, what is it again?"

I told him. "All right," he said and sat back smiling into his T-shirt that read: "Fuck milk Got pot?"

I rode the rest of the way down 30th Street reading Jurgen, by James Branch Cabell. It was considered "offensive, lewd, lascivious, and indecent" when it first appeared a little less than 100 years ago, but I scanned pages in vain for evidence as to why. I wondered if it too, in its time, had been considered a sign of the Apocalypse.

On page 133 of the Dover edition, I did find the word "naked," but the surrounding prose was so colorfully inscrutable, it might have been written by the fasting mystic author of Revelation:

"Now the hooded man and the two naked girls performed their share in the ceremonial, which part it is not essential to record.

"'None the less,' Jurgen said: 'O cord that binds the circling of stars! O cup which holds all time, all colour and all thought! O soul of space!...'"

A few lines down I found what might have been a sign of an apocalypse: "Therefore by every plant which scatters its seed and by the moist warm garden which receives and nourishes it, by the comminglement of bloodshed with pleasure, by the joy that mimics anguish with sighs and shudderings, and by the contentment which mimics death -- by all these do we invoke thee...."

I got off the #2 at University and thought about a cigarette. It was and is everywhere. Clearly Satanic. I don't need a building to fall on my head, nor do I need to read on to find out Cabell is not talking about Satan at all. We're just doomed. Period.

I am writing this sometime before the ball drops at Times Square (where, I'm thinking, it would be a good place to revel with naked abandon until the end. No, no, cowering is the best bet). Say at the corner of Eighth and 42nd, that northeast corner where -- there used to be anyway -- just down the subway station stairs, a malevolent looking animatronic gypsy told (maybe still tells?) fortunes for a quarter behind a glass and wooden case. I once saw a deranged homeless man talking to God through the gypsy, who would answer him cryptically, saying things like, "This too shall pass," and "All in good time." It was an early sign, about 1972.

I haven't seen Buddy for a few months now. He lives in an old tuna cannery off Midway Drive somewhere and builds insanely beautiful guitars he never seems to want to sell. He lives alone and quietly collects evidence of conspiracy in the JFK assassination and signs of the Apocalypse. The last I heard of him, he was composing a manifesto for the New Libertarian, little more than a diatribe, I'm told, against obscenity in popular music and tips on low-tech, urban farming, all to be tapped out in Morse code during a drum solo in Caravan during performances of Jose Sinatra and the Troy Dante Inferno, his long-time musical aggregation.

I should try to reach him or possibly other members of the band, but certainly any one of them would take evidence of my survival recently as a sign of, you know.

Here's something you might be interested in.
Submit a free classified
or view all
Previous article

Centennial Salute to San Diego’s Military, East Village Block Party, Birding Basics Class

Events March 29-March 30, 2024

A few more revolutions of this ball of rock and all of us happy water molecule coincidences can introduce ethanol molecules into our organisms and party like it's 1999, or if you prefer, boogey oogey oogey 'til we just cain't boogie no mo'. I will be cowering indoors.

That New Year's Eve falls this year on a Sunday night, the Friday-night factor should be more pronounced than usual, charged with more than just a three-day weekend factor but in a particularly apocalyptic, biblical atmosphere, not only overseas but also, say, on the #2 bus.

A friend of mine, a local celebrity of sorts, Buddy Pastel, Jr., a drummer and son of an even more famous cult figure of a drummer, whose real name is Owen, is a kind of barometer of the Apocalypse, commenting here and there, "It's a sign," meaning a sign of the end. When Arnold became governor and I asked Buddy if it was a sign, he only said, "Please." It was so obvious. But I think he would agree with me that what passes for socially acceptable behavior in public is indeed a true sign that we are approaching those passages in Revelation where we find "the great harlot," and "the Word of God" is "clothed in a robe dipped in blood" and we "behold a white horse."

A young man recently, while riding the #2, leaned forward in his seat and spoke to me, "Hey, dog," was his salutation. "You gotta move, homey. You're scratchin' yer head like you got lice or scabies or somethin'. I don't want 'em on me."

Plenty of seats were available, and he had sat down well after I had been seated. "My name isn't dog," I told him. "Or homey."

Sponsored
Sponsored

"Well what is it?"

I told him, and his response was to ask if I were going to relocate my head parasites.

I did not inform him it was some sort of dermatitis, not because it was gross but because it was far from being gross enough. "Actually, it's a festering syphilitic lesion. I don't think it's contagious unless you yourself have an open wound and I get some blood or pus on ya."

"That's sick, John."

"Thank you."

"Jeez, what is it again?"

I told him. "All right," he said and sat back smiling into his T-shirt that read: "Fuck milk Got pot?"

I rode the rest of the way down 30th Street reading Jurgen, by James Branch Cabell. It was considered "offensive, lewd, lascivious, and indecent" when it first appeared a little less than 100 years ago, but I scanned pages in vain for evidence as to why. I wondered if it too, in its time, had been considered a sign of the Apocalypse.

On page 133 of the Dover edition, I did find the word "naked," but the surrounding prose was so colorfully inscrutable, it might have been written by the fasting mystic author of Revelation:

"Now the hooded man and the two naked girls performed their share in the ceremonial, which part it is not essential to record.

"'None the less,' Jurgen said: 'O cord that binds the circling of stars! O cup which holds all time, all colour and all thought! O soul of space!...'"

A few lines down I found what might have been a sign of an apocalypse: "Therefore by every plant which scatters its seed and by the moist warm garden which receives and nourishes it, by the comminglement of bloodshed with pleasure, by the joy that mimics anguish with sighs and shudderings, and by the contentment which mimics death -- by all these do we invoke thee...."

I got off the #2 at University and thought about a cigarette. It was and is everywhere. Clearly Satanic. I don't need a building to fall on my head, nor do I need to read on to find out Cabell is not talking about Satan at all. We're just doomed. Period.

I am writing this sometime before the ball drops at Times Square (where, I'm thinking, it would be a good place to revel with naked abandon until the end. No, no, cowering is the best bet). Say at the corner of Eighth and 42nd, that northeast corner where -- there used to be anyway -- just down the subway station stairs, a malevolent looking animatronic gypsy told (maybe still tells?) fortunes for a quarter behind a glass and wooden case. I once saw a deranged homeless man talking to God through the gypsy, who would answer him cryptically, saying things like, "This too shall pass," and "All in good time." It was an early sign, about 1972.

I haven't seen Buddy for a few months now. He lives in an old tuna cannery off Midway Drive somewhere and builds insanely beautiful guitars he never seems to want to sell. He lives alone and quietly collects evidence of conspiracy in the JFK assassination and signs of the Apocalypse. The last I heard of him, he was composing a manifesto for the New Libertarian, little more than a diatribe, I'm told, against obscenity in popular music and tips on low-tech, urban farming, all to be tapped out in Morse code during a drum solo in Caravan during performances of Jose Sinatra and the Troy Dante Inferno, his long-time musical aggregation.

I should try to reach him or possibly other members of the band, but certainly any one of them would take evidence of my survival recently as a sign of, you know.

Comments
Sponsored
Here's something you might be interested in.
Submit a free classified
or view all
Previous article

San Diego Reader 2024 Music & Arts Issue

Favorite fakers: Baby Bushka, Fleetwood Max, Electric Waste Band, Oceans, Geezer – plus upcoming tribute schedule
Next Article

OSHA rules wall falls our fault

Who, U.S.?
Comments
Ask a Hipster — Advice you didn't know you needed Big Screen — Movie commentary Blurt — Music's inside track Booze News — San Diego spirits Classical Music — Immortal beauty Classifieds — Free and easy Cover Stories — Front-page features Drinks All Around — Bartenders' drink recipes Excerpts — Literary and spiritual excerpts Feast! — Food & drink reviews Feature Stories — Local news & stories Fishing Report — What’s getting hooked from ship and shore From the Archives — Spotlight on the past Golden Dreams — Talk of the town The Gonzo Report — Making the musical scene, or at least reporting from it Letters — Our inbox Movies@Home — Local movie buffs share favorites Movie Reviews — Our critics' picks and pans Musician Interviews — Up close with local artists Neighborhood News from Stringers — Hyperlocal news News Ticker — News & politics Obermeyer — San Diego politics illustrated Outdoors — Weekly changes in flora and fauna Overheard in San Diego — Eavesdropping illustrated Poetry — The old and the new Reader Travel — Travel section built by travelers Reading — The hunt for intellectuals Roam-O-Rama — SoCal's best hiking/biking trails San Diego Beer — Inside San Diego suds SD on the QT — Almost factual news Sheep and Goats — Places of worship Special Issues — The best of Street Style — San Diego streets have style Surf Diego — Real stories from those braving the waves Theater — On stage in San Diego this week Tin Fork — Silver spoon alternative Under the Radar — Matt Potter's undercover work Unforgettable — Long-ago San Diego Unreal Estate — San Diego's priciest pads Your Week — Daily event picks
4S Ranch Allied Gardens Alpine Baja Balboa Park Bankers Hill Barrio Logan Bay Ho Bay Park Black Mountain Ranch Blossom Valley Bonita Bonsall Borrego Springs Boulevard Campo Cardiff-by-the-Sea Carlsbad Carmel Mountain Carmel Valley Chollas View Chula Vista City College City Heights Clairemont College Area Coronado CSU San Marcos Cuyamaca College Del Cerro Del Mar Descanso Downtown San Diego Eastlake East Village El Cajon Emerald Hills Encanto Encinitas Escondido Fallbrook Fletcher Hills Golden Hill Grant Hill Grantville Grossmont College Guatay Harbor Island Hillcrest Imperial Beach Imperial Valley Jacumba Jamacha-Lomita Jamul Julian Kearny Mesa Kensington La Jolla Lakeside La Mesa Lemon Grove Leucadia Liberty Station Lincoln Acres Lincoln Park Linda Vista Little Italy Logan Heights Mesa College Midway District MiraCosta College Miramar Miramar College Mira Mesa Mission Beach Mission Hills Mission Valley Mountain View Mount Hope Mount Laguna National City Nestor Normal Heights North Park Oak Park Ocean Beach Oceanside Old Town Otay Mesa Pacific Beach Pala Palomar College Palomar Mountain Paradise Hills Pauma Valley Pine Valley Point Loma Point Loma Nazarene Potrero Poway Rainbow Ramona Rancho Bernardo Rancho Penasquitos Rancho San Diego Rancho Santa Fe Rolando San Carlos San Marcos San Onofre Santa Ysabel Santee San Ysidro Scripps Ranch SDSU Serra Mesa Shelltown Shelter Island Sherman Heights Skyline Solana Beach Sorrento Valley Southcrest South Park Southwestern College Spring Valley Stockton Talmadge Temecula Tierrasanta Tijuana UCSD University City University Heights USD Valencia Park Valley Center Vista Warner Springs
Close

Anchor ads are not supported on this page.