Shattered Wig #28

Shattered Wig #28
Coming In November!

Saturday, January 1, 2011

Conflicting Mayan Prophecies & Start Your New Year With Blaster's "Great Yellow Hairs"

Well, what a year it was indeed. I bought a house at "George Bush Destroyed The World Cut-Rate All Houses Must Go" prices, got married, turned motherfucking FIFTY! (My legs, bring me my legs!), Normal's Bargain Cobbley World got a new landlord (praise him and his new roof and new Red Room and new facade soon to come) and turned 20!, Blaster Al moved back to Texas after a brutal winter of record breaking blizzards and the economy hit what I hope was the bottom of the Catfish Pond, rising, at least for Normal's, gloriously in time for Christmas just as my nails were eaten down to my hairy knuckles. And I finally put out a new Shattered Wig Review after a two year hiatus, my first as a domestic man, shredding papers from the couch as my beloved sipped a martini from the easy chair, watching Mrs. Minerva and eyeing my feverish actions warily. "No honey, I think it's good you have this outlet, no matter how futile and despised it is."

But, what about that Mayan prophecy, that our already tenuous time is about over? That the Cosmic Eggtimer sand is running as thin as my once glorious Glen Burnie 'fro? As it states in the sacred Popol Vuh: "well, it looks like we have run out of tablets and cave walls upon which to paint. Sacrifices just don't provide the rush to our groin like they used to. The skies roar no more, but kind of bleat. We seem to be at about 2012 White Man Time on this calendar, maybe we should just call it quits. After all, by then they will most likely have Mother Gia covered head to corns with Great Marketplaces filled with shoddy clothing that was made by enslaved peoples and will fall apart after three wearings, as opposed to one of our decorative huipil that will last for a dozen harvests. Let's just erase time after that, even though it will wash the Brown and Yellow down the Blackhole along with Whitey. Aaghh, I just had a vision of a woman resembling an Itzam Cab Ain and with the mindset of the young boy who hangs about the ceremonial platform in Tikal trying to lick the severed heads dripping from the tzompantli. She is wearing great spectacles that mask her face like a war eagle and she is laying down great stalks of corn and heralding them as wisdom. Apparently if we don't end the world she will rule "North America" and collapse the sky. Oh, I am in great need of many Balche and I must erase Future Time."

But also in the Popol Vuh there is talk of "The Decade that ends with Saint Roland delivering the Spaniel to the compact Asian car" will herald a new decade of great bounty and world peace. Above is a photo of just that act indeed happening. Perhaps, as it says in this kind of New Agey but fairly level-headed statement - - the Mayan calendar has been misinterpreted by Westerners and it's just the end of a World Cycle, which it really does feel like we're at the end of something. Could we ever turn away from putting all our resources into endless fruitless war, or will we just start cranking out robot soldiers that will save the lives of some of our broke-assed young people that have no other career options, but kill lots of broke-ass people in other countries without the bother of emotions.

The Hell with all this. It is a glorious new year and new decade not yet tainted, though the cabbagey smell of the last one can still be detected, and the Blaster Al mail is rolling in from down South. Austin, to be precise, the oasis of Texas. Here is a new piece by him that he called his recent favorite:

POEM (The Great Yellow Hairs)
The great yellow hairs are not so different from the tiny yellow hairs/
so long as you're sorta slow and mistake the whistle in your elbow/
for one whose budget rent-a-car tumbles down the drain cute as cute can be,/
and all the dopeadicto logs wait for you as my crispy thumb peddles drugs./
No yellow hairs, no whistle from your elbow, these were using drugs long before
you knew it. The trout house madly bangs outside while you get your act together/
finally knowing that anything this "flabby-strong" rates an invite down the street/
to the birthday party where all the children watch you chew all the candles
not knowing you do this at every meal because every meal's a party
and because it is my chalchihuti.

Blaster Al Ackerman (from jmb of 11/24 etc.)

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