Deadhouse Seven

This was down along the tracks next to an old slaughterhouse on the outskirts of some forsaken town, possibly Petaluma on a good day. I can’t remember if it really was Petaluma, or just some other bad town where people fool themselves into believing they are more important to the cosmos than termite endosymbionts or stable flies. I do remember there was a deputy who stopped and warned me off the property a little while before I snapped this shot with my Instamatic. His car was bronze and white like Sacramento County Sheriff’s cars used to be, back in the sixties. If anyone knows where this place is, let me know, because I would like to put the memory in its proper context. Maybe Petaluma doesn't actually deserve the blame this time.

© Pseudocognitive

The ultimate fate of Charlie Sheen

I don’t give a damn about Charlie Sheen. For all I care, he can drop in on Chuck Manson at Corcoran and commiserate about the effects of lost influence—Manson will ratchet his glinting shrike’s eye over Sheen’s adam’s apple and wish for a pair of pinking shears. Charlie Sheen can  stare at timorous apprentice chefs through night vision goggles as they prepare organic thimerosal-free potato pancakes for Jenny McCarthy. Jenny ought to be locked up in a deep cover North Korean maggot-gruel joint, not some soft Martha Stewart resort like the one Gibbs calls “Camp Cupcake.” Charlie can paddle a dinghy out past the 200 mile limit and cast his powder keg mindscape along the herring gull’s path and peer intently at the anemic krill below. He can enter a convenience store with a note and leave on a stretcher after an elderly woman decides she’s had enough self-infatuated putty-minded tough-guy-with-the-ladies stupidity for one day. Those purses are loaded with Eisenhower dollars.


Charlie can enhance his home rehab with sandpaper self-abuse, he can form a Dixie Mafia wannabe club with Gibson and Busey, he might kidnap mini schnauzers and lose money on the Cowboys-Vikings game and maybe go up against George Kennedy and stick his head up after getting fooled by a bad turkey imitation. Or he can have Don Meredith smear peanut butter on his license and eat it. I don’t care what the hell he does, as long as I don’t have to see his smarmy ass (or face) on a news update in the middle of a TV show I'm enjoying. Fade away, Charlie. Become as insensate as you are insensitive to the rights of others. Either that, or grow a pair and demonstrate a conscience. Eleven Mary Six, call the station.
  
                                    

© Pseudocognitive