Rite here-Rite now                                 JIZZO

Bad ass. The sum total of my cosmic muffin, present day, morning.
Two cups of coffee and a beer shit worthy of Apollo. In Utah. Utah, land
of repressed sexuality and stalactites. Who'd of thunk it? Back on a bus again.
Your humble narrator has changed soapboxes, that is to say, jumped from the
burning embers of the Lusitania to the pristine slopes of a new day and a new band
. It's almost too good to be true. I want to capture this moment. I don't ever want to gig,
that would ruin it. I want to be on this bus, forever driving, drinking endless cans
of Dr. Pepper and Fudgecicles on the half-shell. For a guy like me, this is my version
of heaven. Nirvana. A pig in a poke. Driving, watching the countryside, thinking, not thinking, laughing, BEING.
It's cool not to think about the circumstances of my recent transition. All the drugs
and stupidity. My new friends and the biker road crew beckon. I want to bond, I want
to be their friend. I want to fit in...
"Hey Jizz, we just scored some good crank. Do you want to slam it or snort it?" Hmmm...
that's a tough one. I think I'm gonna have to go with the needle, dude. Call me
old fashioned, but I think speed just tastes better coming out of a syringe.
"Hey Jizz, I was butt-fucking some chick rite where you're sitting and when I pulled my
dick out there was a big ol' Hershey's Kiss on the end. With almonds."
Um... cool. Do what you want, just don't let me find any Almond Rocas under
my seat. Oh, I think it's gonna work out, after I get used to sharing my bunk
with the cast of "America's Most Wanted." I'll figure it out. I'll get more tats. I'll get
my dick pierced, sideways. With a twist. I'll read green eggs and ham in the original German. Whatever it takes.
The mountains of Utah go rolling by, silently. All the guys are asleep
and don't see what I see. Clouds, multi-faceted three-d panorama; Americana. The delicate passage of time.
Whenever I would see a bus go by, while driving in L.A., I'd always feel a twinge
of something, call it jealous rage, that someone ELSE was having a career.
Someone else was fucking and drinking and living the life of Riley while I went home
to my hovel and watched Jerry Springer. It was really bad if I was stuck in traffic
with a bus, and therefore forced to see it inching pass me, minute by minute,
agonizing over it, while they're in there, the band, no doubt rewriting
"Stairway to Heaven", high fiving each other, looking out their little windows
and seeing ME there, hot and bothered, freaked out, my shackles on, bound
and driving on to NO gig, no welcoming committee, no eventual hastily
conceived intercourse squeezed in a bunk or closet, bodies smashed together,
sweet running down our legs, arms and legs intertwined, numbers exchanged,
good-byes prepared in advance. On to the next. And so on. I was on the outside
looking in, now I'm in the proverbial catbirds seat, cooler full of beer, condom
rack full, breath mints ready to go. It's almost a crime to go on, this moment
should last forever, 'cause it's never as good as the FANTASY, you know that,
the women, the song, it can never be as good as RIGHT NOW, this being
the drive to Conn.


8/12

"Burning Bush 50 miles", reads the road sign. Now let's clarify this, please.
Is this just a burnt fucking bush or the REAL Burning Bush? I'm in fucking
Utah right now so chances are it's the genuine article, straight from Mt. Sinai,
we've spared no expense, ladies and gentlemen, see the actual Burning Bush,
it talks, it sings, it delivers thunderous psalms with a Miles Davis-like feel. Only
50 miles. I always dug those carnival like religious events, where lepers are healed
and the blind can see for miles. For ten bucks I could get rid of those pesky boils
on my dick or poison my neighbor's well. Miracles straight from the bleeding heart
of Jesus. Miracles in the convenient pass around pack. Yes, let's go see the
marvelous Burning Bush, let's adore it, let's get our complimentary Arc of the
Covenant-shaped salt and pepper shakers.
"Chevron Rt. 188 food clean restrooms" Clean restrooms. What a treat,
I fucking well hope they're clean if you're advertising them on your billboard.
How about "Shit-stained urinals our specialty", "No toilet paper, centipedes
under the rim, please come in." Shit, they ought to let me design billboards for Chevron.
Under food we'll put "Jerky, Pringles, and other tasteless shit," "Gas station
attendant on crack, will check your oil for a pipeload." Now I WANT to go
there just to see what the fuck. "I would HAVE to go to this place just to see...
the horror... the horror... kind of like reverse psychology.
Clean restrooms indeed... fucking shut up.


8/17

We did the gig at Pine Knob, we were all set to go home, and the fucking bus
breaks down. Closest thing I can think of to approximate this feeling is
temporary impotence. Complete breakdown. Utter helplessness. Having your
bus break down shatters the entire rock and roll myth I've based my life upon.
Here come the Vikings to your town! We rape and pillage, pillage and rape,
then set fire to the city before we leave in a blaze of glory and diesel exhaust.
Having your bus crippled by the side of the road like a wounded elephant fucks
with that vision somewhat. Oh sure, we rape and pillage, that's a given. Can't be
Nordic "Hammer of the Gods" types without the obligatory R&P. But for me, the
head Viking, to be stranded in the customer lounge at the Peterbilt Truck Repair,
Pontiac MI, surrounded by big rig yahoos and posters for snap-on tools, well...
sucks. I'm a Viking, God damnit, you're fucking with my cosmic muffin. Vikings
wouldn't wait around watching Turner and Hooch on the lounge TV, they'd be
next door raping somebody at the engineering plant. I should walk right in, not
be BUZZED in like the regular assholes, and just pick a fucking secretary,
screaming and scratching, into the break room and do her right there on the
table, frothing at the mouth like a madman. Well... that's what I SHOULD be
doing. But let's face it, I'm a pussy when it comes to daytime pro-Viking activity.
They'd probably not take too kindly to someone named Jizm torching their building,
they might even call the local gendarme... I better just stay here in the lizard lounge,
surrounded by Miss August Auto Body Slut Calendar Chick.
The others are sleeping in their bunks still, but I cannot. Without the generator supplying much-needed air conditioning, the bunk is REALLY like a coffin. It's fucking
stifling, clammy and gross, like being inside a tampon tube. Ordinarily I'd just stay
on the bus, circle the wagons, so to speak, but without electricity or AC the bus
is like a useless hulk, no power at all. So I'm a Viking without my Viking ship,
instead of raw meat ripped from the still-living animal I'm nibbling on low cal
snack cakes, no mug of stout ale in a woman's slipper, just de-caf. Not a good
way to end a tour. But on a better note, last night was fun. Who'd of thought I'd
be playing a ten thousand arena again? Certainly not me. Good food, good fun,
a spirit of comradely equal to the three stooges and then my fucking bus breaks
down.
The mechanic is a fan of ours. He's trying to lighten the situation.
"Just be glad you didn't break down in the middle of the desert," he says,

"Then you'd really be fucked." You mean, more fucked than now. A smaller
leap on the meter of more-fuckedness. Johnny comes into the lounge. He,
like me, is an early riser and also feels the awkwardness of being a tattooed,
pierced weirdo in a sea of trucker fucks, ogling and chuckling at our predicament.
Well, fuck all y'all...
The longer I stay here, the weaker I get. Awash in a sea of excuses
and probable maybe fuel pumps or fuel lines or diesel schmeisel shit.
WHO GIVES A FUCK! Mechanics, you are seriously cutting into my
drinking time with your meandering, mumbling and your lug wrenches
jangling. This lounge, these walls are closing in...
I go outside. The bus is still not fixed. This is gay. I walk over to the
engine compartment, thinking maybe my August presence will spur the
men on. My kingdom for a fuel pump, gentlemen. I myself know dick
about this huge evil diesel devil I'm looking at. Let Jizzy help. Here's a
wrench, Jizz, do something. Torque the shit out of something, be useful.
I could sing at it, maybe scare it a little. A little "Over the Edge" might do
the trick. This is a job better left for grease monkeys instead of dope chimps
like me. Maybe I'll just hang out in the back lounge and play with myself in the
dark. Steve's got some jazz tape going, he's into jazz, you see. But to me it's like
I'm in a Peanuts movie, saxophone and Schroder on piano. "Charlie Brown
breaks down in Pontiac, MI and kills himself." "Lucy buns up in the back with
pigpen. Linus watches, dry humping his blanket." "Snoopy's got a hard on,
doing Jim the bus driver," and on and on. Can you tell I am BORED? Do
you sense it in my anecdotal ad nauseam bullshit? I wish I'd have taken that
astral projection in community college, I could be on Mars right now.
Time to go. The bus is not fixed, I'm still in a greasy garage right next to
Bum Fuck, MI, home of bad teeth.