Smears in Their Eyes

Here's the false author, the singer they called Jesus, with his band in one of his glamourous videos. See how cool he looks? See how everyone loves him? And now here's the real author of those songs smoking a cigarette in a soup line. If he can afford to smoke, why is he in a soup line? Maybe he doesn't deserve to be a musician. Now on our split screen you can see the innocent fans of this band enjoying a concert. That's them on the left, dancing and celebrating. That's their favourite band on the right. And this is a gathering of the same music fans on the day they learned that their band was a fraud. That's them on the left, weeping and gnashing their teeth. And that's the true author of the music on the right. He doesn't look the slightest bit concerned about it.
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To Hell with Appearances

I wonder what kind of eternal punishments are waiting for the ones who oppose me in this righteous struggle. I laugh when people say they don't fear Hell because they don't believe in it. Yeah, I tried that. Didn't work. Here's what I think. I think that if we had no control over our birth, we have no control over our death. And we should keep an open mind about the possibility of divine justice because without it there would probably be no justice at all and that would make life unliveable. So the world partied with my music behind my back. Did the girls like it? Was that one of my songs blaring out of the car stereo as they drove past me hurling insults? Are you going to include that scene in the movie starring some asshole I hate? I guess now that they're finished thanking someone else for my work, the business wants them to rub my nose in it. Let's all do what the business says, no matter how wrong it is. Did everyone like seeing my blogs on TV? Well, why don't you let the rich pricks who cashed them in starve me to death on the streets now that you're all finished thanking them. I'm sure God will forgive you. It's not hard to resist the temptation of a woman when you know what she looks like on the inside. This is the ugliness she will take with her to eternity, the inner ugliness that can't be hidden by makeup and filtered lenses. No one will want to touch her in the afterlife. On the contrary, they will flee from her as though she were some semi-crustacean with scales and tentacles and eyeballs mounted on sticks. But the inner beauty of women in this bullshit world will sustain them in angelic glory through eternity. And the spirit world is such that virgins stay virgins no matter how often they sleep with a man. This is what you're throwing away by trusting the industry.
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In Fraud They Trust

There he is all by himself. Let's do something nice for him. Hey, do you want to come with us to see the music label's new band? No, because they're probably lying posers who can't even write their own songs. Well! If you're going to insult us for trusting the music label, you deserve to be alone! You need to cheer up. You should watch more television comedies. Television is full of creeps who steal from the internet. Oh yeah? And what does that make us for liking them? Someone should throw you in jail for saying that! Someone already threw them in jail because I'm right. Oh, you're right, are you? I hate people who are right! First you insult our heroes by living and writing all their material, then you make fools out of us by selfishly trying to use your work for your own profit. No wonder no one wants to party with you! Go back to the homeless shelter, loser!
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Poor Bastard

He's everybody's hero because they won't give him his money, which lets everybody feel better off. He gets to live his whole life without women, without friends, without money so that when he dies they can make a movie out of his suffering and spoiled, comfortable strangers can thrill themselves by pretending they're him as they watch it. He's the only one who has nothing to lose by sharing his true feelings about the evil, corrupt broadcasting system that took his words and put them in the mouths of liars for profit. People love to read his blogs, but they don't want to pay him for his trouble until the broken machine that plundered his work and almost killed him to cover its trail somehow turns around and starts supporting him. And if you want to see a boring documentary, follow him up and down the street as his unjust poverty confines him to a five-block area with a library on one end and a homeless shelter on the other. He's still alive and he still wishes he wasn't. He's Poor Bastard. Wait for stupid, selfish jerks to bring it to you on television after he erases this entry.
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Ask the Chairman

Sir, you have been accused of making false accusations. What have you to say for yourself? The person who accused me is a sodomite, a gomorrahn, and possibly a communist. You were asked to cease and desist from making those statements. Oh well. Too late now. Why do you support an unpopular regime in San Bernardo? Is it because of their rubber reserves, which you need for one of your products? Sometimes other countries need a corporation to explain democracy to them. Your predecessor was a compulsive liar. Are you a liar? No, I think of myself as more of a bullshitter. And should the public be alarmed by rumours of a Satanic ritual at a company picnic nine months ago? They're utter nonsense. We counted the virgins before we left and checked them all off on the way back. None were missing. If you visit them in the maternity ward, they'll tell you nothing happened.
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On the Scene

Today we're on the scene to investigate the alleged mass slaying of migrant workers by a plastic fruit corporation. After following a muddy trail of countless footprints to get here, I don't see any sign of wrongdoing. All I see is this empty cornfield, a pile of spent cartridges, and this innocent looking hill of topsoil. We checked the surrounding abandoned homes for witnesses and found no one who could substantiate the allegation, which may have been fabricated by a group of artists with a known dislike of fake fruit. Apparently it makes a poor still life subject. Well, that's their problem. Nothing at all to look at here. This is the kind of place where you can let your dog out for a run if he's been cooped up in the car too long. Hi, Lucky! What have you got in your mouth? A femur? The sheep around here must have enormous thighs.
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Geez!

Does anyone want to trade a blog for some food? I guess they just take them if they like them. Then they'll let my relatives complain to me about how I'm not responsible enough or I wouldn't need money. Everyone's on their side until my blogs are worthless. Great. How much did they get per sketch? A thousand? What's a thousand times a thousand?
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The Cutting Room

Tonight on the Cutting Room... What have you got so far? We thought we'd lead with Minimum Wage Falls Behind Welfare about the single mother who quit her job to collect a bigger cheque from welfare. Yes, change it to Welfare Cuts Protect Jobs and interview her employer but leave her out of it. What else? A crowd of environmental protesters was fired upon by helicopters with plastic machine gun rounds. A mob of trouble makers was dispersed by authorities for causing a road hazard. Next. A major corporation is in trouble with the law. Never mind that. Get that guy we saw in the street with the plastic bag full of salt and pepper pouches. I bet he steals them from McDonald's and trades them to other restaurants for free coffees.
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Inside Scoop: Morning Edition

There was a plane crash in the Himalaya mountains this morning. Our correspondent in Nepal is with me by satellite to give us more. What does it look like over there? Well, you can see behind me the Himalayan mountain range. You can see that it is very jagged and rocky and could pose a hazard to pilots. Is that smoke up there from burning fuel? No, that's a cloud. And that black spot is a cave. We already checked. But it is likely that the plane came into contact with these mountains at high altitude, and you can see how their peaks are snow capped. So do you think there may be survivors? We don't know yet. There's always hope. Maybe the snow cushioned the impact of the collision and kept the jet fuel from exploding. Maybe the plane is gone or maybe it's just helpless, with its nose stuck in a glacier, its passengers and crew desperately holding out for rescue.
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The Hacker

And there you have it. I've made your site the home page for over fifty million family computers. Beautiful. Over fifty million people will have to wait an extra ten seconds for your page to load in the browser before they can go to the page they want. And the pop-up ad? It will seize control of the computer and force the user to complete a survey. Well, you've certainly earned your money on this job. How much do I owe you? The amount has already been transferred from your payroll.
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Sketched in Stone

In these caves are some of the earliest known works of art. These splendid scenes were rendered onto cold stone walls with spit and berry juice and signed with a hand print. Artists of this time had to live up to tribal expectations. Once an artist exposed his talent, perhaps by inadvertently making a hand puppet out of animal skins, he was usually brought out on a hunting trip and called upon to hypnotize a wild beast. If he failed, he might not survive to paint his mural. Look closely here. Do you see the human legs sticking out of the sabre-toothed tiger's mouth? Chances are that this composition was completed by an artist's successor.
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Freak of the Week

Good evening and welcome to Freak of the Week. We have a very special freak for you tonight. He's bright. He's talented. But he has a severe mental disability: he doesn't watch our show. We couldn't risk having him on the set but we have his picture here. Does everybody see that? And ladies, let's get the discussion started. So what do you think of this guy? Do you think he's talented? I think he's an idiot savant like the rain man, except he writes music instead of counting tooth picks. And how do you think he spends the time that normal decent people devote to this program? Up to no good? He's got a whole hour to play with there. It's a little suspicious. In his songs and scripts he says that he reads, but I don't know. I think someone should shoot him with a tranquilizer gun when he's sleeping. Then they can put him on a stretcher and ship him to an institution. I think he'd look good in the zoo. We could let him keep his guitar and charge for admission. What do you think? I think if he doesn't watch the show I should lift up my top. Woo-hoo! Zoom in on these beauties!
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Reckless Walking

I think I should be excused if I ever said the wrong thing here. I'm alone. I may be surrounded by hostile strangers. They try to steer me off course in my guesswork. It could lead to the occasional slip. I can only go by the evidence of my own eyes and ears. I'm doing the best I can. I don't set out to hurt others, I hope to please them. If an author's claim to his work hurts others, it's not the author's fault. From my point of view this has all been a horrible accident. But by writing my own work, I keep my vehicle well inside the yellow line. Those who took my work were the ones piled into the convertible driving all over the road and launching their empty beer bottles into the windshields of transport trucks. There may be others who hurt people who were hurting me. They make that decision on their own. Don't confuse me with them. I let God punish the wicked. And even if I wanted to hurt, how much harm could I cause? 'Oh yeah? Well you can subtract one listener from your audience of millions! Take that!' And when people get hurt it kills the party. How can I celebrate on a pile of casualties? When do works of music and comedy end up causing hurt? When bad people get their hands on them. They intercepted your love for my life and for my talent. Now the time has come to pay for it and they don't want to pay. They mustn't think your love was worth it. They want me to pay for their crime, but I didn't trick anyone by posting my own life in my own words. And I already paid for their crime with six years of poverty and horror. All I want is for everyone to believe me when I say that I write my own words from my own life. If others are punished for disputing this claim, it's their fault. Sometimes we need to lock people up for public safety. Such a measure is intended to minimize hurt, not to cause it. God will straighten this all out for me in the end. That's good enough for me.
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Unsung Praise

A musician doesn't need to be funny. Music can express a wider range of feelings than comedy sketches. I'm usually not laughing as I post a humorous thought. Chances are that it came out of a dark experience, which leaves me feeling neutral. I wouldn't expect my blog to help my music, but apparently it hurt my music. My music's become a struggle. There are all these other lives mixed up in it now, some of them from my comedy. They impose their interests on me. They throw my world into chaos. They waste my time. I guess that's why they're supposed to pay you a lot of money when they broadcast your work. You need more money to cope with a harder life. Without money, maybe the pressure would build up so much that you'd start having suicidal thoughts. Most musicians don't have to spend all their time on Blogger to prove that they're not incarcerated. They're lucky. They get to do their music. They only let me write songs in my head. Anywhere beyond that costs me. It'll profit someone else, mind you, but it'll cost me. My songs will be seized. I figure that this must be the law because it happens in front of everyone's eyes. Yes, I know the poor are despised. And they read me the corporate newspaper article about reduced health benefits for the poor and now the welfare office is almost as feared as prison, and how much money did my music and writing earn? And why are others allowed to stuff their pockets full of money from my work and leave me with nothing but horror stories in the news about the punishment of the poor? It's a shame when an artist has to do so much backbreaking labour by himself and sacrifice so many years of his life and wind up like this. You put it all out there for the world and you're stabbed in the heart. And then you can't do anything but bleed. So that's all you do. You just bleed and bleed and bleed. Maybe along the way you coin another punchline or two for the comedy pirates. Which of my songs can I keep? Which ones can I booby-trap with explosives to discourage tampering? Was it unsafe for me to post my music and writing? How is that my fault? I bet if I had money I could think about something else. And I could sit in my studio and record new ideas as they came to me. Instead I'm shooting for a sleeping room. I hope they allow occasional singing. I don't let the old songs get me down. I have new and better ones in my head. They keep me going - as long as I keep them in my head. If I share them they might be used against me. Maybe it's for the best that I am left unpaid at this time. I can always listen to them in my head when I draw. Unless I draw cartoons. Maybe I should only listen to them in my head when I finger paint the air. Performing? I only wanted to do that in 2009 and 2010 when everyone thought I just got out of jail. Yeah, they let those guys play in public and post videos after they get out. But it's a good thing I didn't go through with that last show. That was in late August 2012 when everyone thought I wrote my songs but copied the TV. I didn't know it at the time. I just noticed the cold reception. I'll probably end up on a stage with my songs again. It's natural for me to want to sing them. It doesn't cost that much to perform. I'm sure it's within my price range. In the meantime I can get caught up with my writing. Maybe I can overtake my first blog so it won't hold back my music.
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What Do You Think?

I'm going to tell you some more of what the TV and radio doesn't tell you, not just because I'm the only one who does, as you will tell by my misery, but because it will help me to deflect further attacks on my image. I may be coming across to you these days as kind of a sulky, unpleasant person. Are you informed of what happened to me? Do you think it is natural for an artist who produces lighthearted works of music and comedy to be depressed? Maybe someone's making me depressed. You get depressed when you hear about bands and tv shows getting rich from you while you linger in poverty and absorb insults from strangers. You get depressed when you have a song in your heart and it isn't safe to sing it. But if you want to know how much fun it can be to be a musician, ask those bands. They didn't look depressed on the stage performing my music. They didn't have to wait for a crowded bus to get them around. You'd think that if they could get all that happiness for playing my music, I could get something better than a bunk in a homeless shelter for living and writing and sharing it. You'd have to ask the networks about my comedy's earnings. Who's in charge of the money? Maybe they're making me depressed. I don't want to be here complaining every waking moment for the rest of my life. I'm not having fun. I'm not going to parties. I'm not shooting productions. I'm just here with the memory of a friend's face frozen in death to pass the time because I can't jump into a car with my cute fans the way that band did. What image would have haunted them otherwise? An empty tube of Pringles? As if I didn't suffer enough before I started sharing music on the internet. These pricks would make anyone depressed. That's some way to treat a musician, rubbing his nose in his music like that. What did I do? It's one thing to get depressed when you did something wrong, but it's far worse to have to get depressed when someone else wronged you; far, far worse. At least you can accept your punishment if you know you had it coming but I can't accept all the harm that's been done to me. There's no excuse for it. I was attacked. It was unprovoked. They helped the attackers. And now I'm supposed to put on a happy face while they pretend it never happened? Whose side do you think the lawyers are on? Who pays them billions of dollars every year? Who needs justice when you've got money? Isn't it depressing? I don't blame you for my condition, I blame them. They spin the story against me. I alone have to unwind it if simply want to survive. You trusted me when I first came online and they wanted your trust. If you liked that music, I see you as fellow victims. We could be friends but they're always driving a wedge between us. I'd rather be practicing my music to give you a faithful hearing of it, but what's the point if they've turned you against me? Isn't it depressing? Instead of setting me up to be the one who spoils my laughs by showing you their inspiration, why didn't those creeps just keep their hands off of my work? Oh, are these dialogues from a sad life? Is that why they needed to bullshit everyone with them when my back was turned? Do you need them to protect you from the truth? Look what happens to them when they're caught. The poor innocent bastard has to suffer so everyone can go on watching and trusting the fucking television. Must be nice to turn it on and escape my world like that. I don't have that privilege. I just get to stay here and stay depressed.
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Take My Life Please

My life is so miserable now that I wish I would have been executed on false charges. Leaving me alive and alone at this time is pure sadism. They gave my songs to a band of roadies. They gave my blogs to late night television and Sunday night cartoons. They let posers malign me so everyone could hate me while my work was broadcasted. How am I supposed to move forward? Am I supposed to have hope? Am I not allowed to see my own work which was cashed in behind my back by greedy broadcasting networks and music labels? But it was already used as evidence to send a band to prison! How can I rest as long as this powerful evidence is in the hands of corporations? I'd rather be recording my new song this morning. What choice do I have? Thanks to greedy, fearful corporations and their desperate need to keep up a false appearance of decency, I have to match the output of a whole news network every day to combat their huge, coordinated smear campaign. If one of their stars said something against me, it doesn't matter if he's wrong, it only matters how it looks. They want you to trust them as they tell your children about the good guys and the bad guys. I don't care about what's left of my image, I just want to die. I can't take this anymore. I wrote songs people like and they blocked me from singing them. I wrote laughs and I was almost thrown in jail for them. Can I have peace now? No, I have to defend myself. Why? My reputation is unjustly put on trial every second month. I'm not here to live it up on Blogger, I'm stuck here. The only way out for me is death. Don't think of my suicide as a failure. I've been falsely accused and subjected to extreme punishments when all I did was create music and share my own life in my own words. A world that unjustly punishes an innocent artist is a loser world, and anyone who rejects a loser world is a winner. I bet if enough people simply ended their lives as I intend to, the business would have to clean up its act. It can't rule over a population of corpses. No more lying and cheating and stealing. No more committing crimes in public and using the propaganda machine to get away with it. We've all got to die one day. I can't wait. I have nothing on my conscience. Scientists aren't doing me any favours by lengthening the human lifespan. Mom, I'm sorry I didn't go to see you in the hospital. I know that you feel better about me when I keep my distance from you. I didn't turn out like all your other children. It might be because I haven't been watching enough television. Maybe we can meet in the next world. I don't think anything good can happen in this world. And it's all right, I know you trust my siblings more than you trust me. They know how to get a job and fit in. I'm not allowed to get a job. When I get a job everyone says I sold out. I go broke as an artist, but I'm called a sellout when I try to work a shift or two on a forklift for milk money. Mom, I wish you would have taken that birth control pill. And Dad, it's too bad you had to go overseas and fight a bloody war against Nazis if people were just going to turn around and call your son Hitler because some TV stars couldn't write their own comedy scripts. Let me tell you about the most important day of your life. It isn't the day you were on TV. It isn't the day someone you know got signed to a major label. It is the day you die. When this day comes you want to face eternity with confidence. You want to know that you lived your life here without causing others harm. If you're an artist, you want to know that you created all your own work and that you did it from a fine motive. If you're a business person, you want to know that you didn't cheat anyone. It seems that the business wants to punish me for caring about my soul. I don't know how those honest sounding bands made it in the past, but as long as they leave me like this, I don't look forward to the next big thing. Do you still trust them? By driving me to suicide, do they have your best interests at heart? Wouldn't it profit their interests in protecting their family friendly image more than your interests in having my new songs and my new laughs from the only person who knows how to create them? Here I am all poised and ready to build and improve on past works and they're more interested in salvaging their precious reputation than in helping me to deliver these new works to you, the consumer. In a couple of short years I produced all that work over which my life on Earth now hangs in the balance. I could produce twice that much in half the time if they would only help me create my work as much as they helped others plunder it. If you like my work, it's you they betray. The way things are going I'll be taking all my future work to my grave because it's the only place left for me to go. What image should I try to project as I lie on a bunk in a homeless shelter with no money and fantasize about killing myself? Am I on track with the whiskers or should we call in the makeup artist? What's the appropriate image for an artist on the brink of death? I'm sure I have it wrong. I may have covered all this in a dismissed past entry. I'm trapped in a grim cycle: I start out unpopular, then I'm popular, then the TV and radio are popular, then I'm unpopular again. This gives way to a sub-cycle: I reject the business and I'm not cool, I reject the business and I'm cool, the business rejects the business and they're cool, I reject the business and I'm not cool again. The only way out of this the last time was to erase everything and forget I ever wrote it. Too bad I couldn't erase myself.
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Tune Out/Drop In/Hold On

With thousands of paid writers and with millions posting work on the internet, how did so many end up relying on one? Why is it more impressive for someone else to have one of my works when I created all of them? Why would a singer look more talented than I am if he doesn't draw or write and if he's only using one of my songs? Why would a comedian appear greater than I am if he doesn't sing? It seems that being on TV - for any reason at all - bestows a false aura of splendour. Viewers are hypnotized by the illusion so that they will automatically accept the information they receive while they are in their relaxed, happy state. Did a musician try to get more music fans by being funny? Must be true if that's what the TV says. We turn on the TV to tell us who committed a crime. What happens when the TV commits a crime? Is it let off the hook so people can keep trusting it for all their other information? I guess I'm the only one who worries about it. You can't expect anyone else in the world to care about you when they can't relate to your suffering because they didn't share your experience. Where am I going to find a support group of artists who've been as severely ripped off as I was? Who else on the planet has a beef as big as mine with TV? I get to cry and complain about it to dispassionate strangers every day for the rest of my life. I was singled out when my work was taken. My life alone was destroyed by this crime. So no one else needs to feel troubled by it, they can just laugh about it. Someone said the business needed to steal everything I ever did because it came from someone who utterly rejects them which made it cool. But the only way they wanted to sell it to you was by passing it off as a lie. Now they know it's my work and they leave me here to write blogs after they had everyone thinking of imposters as rebels. And how much did they take? Can I have a look at that work I shared? Why not? I want to see if I'm wasting my time recording this new song. I want to skip ahead of the tortures I already wrote about, the ones I'm left to suffer over and over and over by a business that thinks I don't deserve money because I have talent, a business that made people think I was a criminal while it made stars out of criminals with my work, a business that everyone still blindly trusts more than they trust me. Corporations spend billions of dollars on image and reputation. Why do they need to do that? Wouldn't it be more cost efficient to simply behave in a morally responsible fashion? If they make a mistake, isn't it cheaper to correct than it is to cover up? Think of all the profits I could have earned by now with their support. They'd rather spend money on lawyers and PR. It's bad business all the way around. They want me to suffer a bad reputation when I'm in the right instead of supporting my work which they've already cashed in. It's wrong and unprofitable. Did I ask for all this attention? Others post songs and blogs and no one notices them. What makes me stand out? I haven't been actively pursuing friends and supporters. I erased my posts from '06 and '07 believing no one was viewing them. I posted work expecting it to be lost in a vast ocean of data and it returned through the radio and TV. No one consulted me. Now I better stay online from dawn to dusk if I want to defend my reputation. Forget about music. I have to keep going until I write something new so I can have it for myself - at least for five minutes. Sure wish I could jump into my car with my fans. I have to walk. Does everyone know I'm homeless again? Great. And this business which opposed me from the beginning, which singled me out, which profited from me and left me destitute, and which won't admit any wrongdoing sets fashion trends. This business dictates pop culture. I'm an artist, but they're the authority on beauty. Good luck with that. I know why you don't get too excited around me right now: I'm not on TV. I can see how you'd accept a rebel like me once you saw me in a music video on a commercial network. I wish I couldn't because I'm not on TV and I'd rather not be ashamed of it. Why do I feel shame? Because they paid someone to go on TV in my place. How selfish of me. And because everyone was brainwashed to hate me with my own songs and stories. That must be why I wrote them. Do people need a 'rebel'? Is rebellion all they trust? Or do they need to see someone getting punished by a brutal system so they can feel more secure in their jobs? Maybe a little of both. I just wanted to play and sing my songs. I don't have to do old ones. I can always write new songs. And I hope that I can add enough text to my posts in the coming weeks to open a new chapter in my life. It should be easy with that huge gap to fill left by the corporate media's so-called coverage of my affairs. Let me guess: they told you a star was arrested but they didn't say why. Of course. They don't want you to know too much when it happened on their network. And why the discussion over 'civilizing' me? I thought you wanted me to be a wild man.
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Royally Viewed

Has anyone considered that I don't deserve to look like 'I didn't make it'? They put my songs on the radio without me. Now I look like the guy that was on the radio except I didn't make it. Is that fair? I have nothing in common with the creep. Being a star on the radio is not my main goal in life. I wouldn't feel comfortable with my songs mixed in with songs I dislike. On the other hand, being on the radio would pay royalties, as long as they spelled my name right on the cheques. I haven't been paid for my songs. And the decision to put my songs on the radio was made by outsiders acting in their own interests without informing me. I had nothing to do with it. I don't write songs so I can be a star, I write them from an impulse. It's my nature to create. I don't chase stardom, I just make music. I never get paid for it so I'm not in it for the money. I don't need the radio to like my recordings if I like my recordings because I'm satisfied with my accomplishment. It lets me feel successful even though I'm not on MTV with my guitar. I imagine that most artists are like me. But the ones who took my songs weren't artists. I don't care how glorious they looked to you, to me they were losers. After the radio and TV made everyone think they were better than I am, glory is out of the question for me. Right now I'm shooting for acceptance. What have I done to earn this royal treatment? I'm a musician. Why do they want to make me look bad? Shouldn't they be helping me? If they like my music, why do they make my life hard? I could be working on a recording right now. It costs money to be a musician. I could write more songs if I had more money. I could put on a better show with more money. It's hard to keep up a decent appearance with no money. They paid this band, they won't pay me. Am I supposed to be a loser because they liked my songs? Is it my fault for erasing them and forgetting them? Look what happens when I know them. They were honoured and paid for pretending they wrote them. I wrote them and it is practically held against me. I am sometimes pitied: 'You poor thing! You wrote those songs! Do you need to collect disability? We understand.' All that work and it's supposed to be my fault that I wasn't paid. I don't fit the image of my music well enough. I don't pay close enough attention to the TV and radio. I'm too old. I'm too religious. I didn't fill out the form. I have the wrong attitude. And as I linger in poverty they can say I'm a bum. And eventually people will start inventing their own reasons for why I wasn't paid, all of which let the culprits off the hook at my expense. No cars and girls for me yet. I'm hanging in there. Any women out there up for a game of chess? I'm a wild man. If you think that band got into trouble in that limousine, you should have seen what I did with my bicycle. I waited until it got dark and then I rode over a patch of wet cement leaving no impression from my tire tracks. Don't ask me why. I'm a rebel. I just lost control. And they know what would happen if they put me in a chauffeur driven car: I would cheerfully read my novel. They're afraid that such an occurrence would alter the universe and they want to keep things as they are. I say: it's my limo and I'll read if I want to; read Fergus Hume to a woman or two. The Medieval church is said to have used stained glass windows to hypnotize the peasants. We are dumbstruck by glowing lights. We trust them. Information is passed to modern consumers through the photons of television. The folks at home are in a relaxed, agreeable condition when they receive it. But the light of truth shines from within the mind. Have you ever tried to sleep with the image of a powerful light shining in your mind? It doesn't help if you close your eyes. The only escape from it is to stare into a flashlight beam.
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Inside Scoop

I'm here with the popular singer Stash Cash. And Stash, I love that new ballad you have out. It's so gentle and moving. Is it about your feelings for your girlfriend? No, it's about my feelings for my bank account.
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