Yeah I liked that movie too in Adjunct to 8/9/2013 flash friday; a trinity of flashs

June of 1989 I left the urban homestead project home (underwritten by HUD, administered by the PDC – Portland Development Commission) where I was raising my two young children with the worst lesbian in the entire PDX area, and spent ten days in Los Angeles crying into my Negra Modelo. Upon my return I tossed a few belongings into carboard boxes and my clothing into black hefty bags and moved into a one bedroom apartment so far into SE Portland it was almost Gresham. There are a lot of places on this earth that are almost Gresham. When those places overflow with self pity and loathing, they should reflect, for a moment, on how blessed they are to not actually be Gresham. Of course from a global view, several of the places that are almost Gresham are much worse than Gresham. No matter how hard Gresham tries to be fucked up it cannot overcome the grandeur surrounding it. This entry has nothing to do with the relative merits or lack thereof of Gresham Oregon.

I bought three items the first day I moved into that place; a mattress, an Easy Chair and a boom box that played CD’s. The next day I bought a box spring and Hollywood frame, a Wok and three cd’s; They Eat Their Own (self titled), Thin White Rope Sack full of Silver and Pink Floyds Dark Side of the moon. In the context of my marriage buying a cd player was seditious, buying cd’s downright treason. Over the course of the next few years I was a compulsive collector of cd’s.

That one bedroom apartment never did much more furniture, I think I bought an end table and a cheap patio chaise lounge for the small deck. I lived there for a year before buying my shack in Clackamas where I lived through June of 2012. At some point I stopped buying cd’s as I became compulsive about Napster or whatever came before or after napster. I could google that to a wiki link that would give me the dry history of napster but I don’t wanna. This entry is not about napster.

August-ish of 2012 I left my second house in the hands of who was to be my second future ex wife. She was a better lesbian but she didn’t work very hard at it. Hell, you, dear reader, are a better lesbian than my first ex wife. Somewhere between Junes in the early y2k’s, I had a conversation with my ex sister-in-laws girlfriend about my first ex wife. We were both a little tipsy, there was at least 300 ml of a fifth of patron left. I explained in simple and objective terms what made my ex such a bad lesbian. The ex sister in laws girlfriend, an elderly woman with owlish glasses built like a manikin for munchkins and a voice that anyone would type cast for piglet in a Winnie the pooh radio play (that’s meant as a compliment, I liked lou) went into a bit of a drunken rant though keeping it personal (e.g. using the word I instead of we) it went something like “I really like sex, messy, sweaty, juicy sex. I really like pussy, but if I liked dick I’d want messy sweaty juicy cock sex, what the hell is the point of being gay and a prude? What’s the point of being human except having something to do in between fucking?” That’s a different story and this entry isn’t about that, but I liked her reasoning, or, rather, I agreed with her reasoning, even more so when that lonely 300ml of patron joined it’s compatriots in my bloodstream.

So, sometime after napster and before tequila and exSIL manifesto’s, I turned my compulsion for flat metal discs from CD’s to DVD’s. A few days before leaving my shack in the hands of a better lesbian than my first wife but a wife my morally bankrupt than Bernie Maddoff (is that the right name? The guy who sold junk bonds to pensioners) and more morally ambiguous than Idi Amin (that’s gotta be the right guy, president ofr life, serial killer in dress greens) (oh, and I have no opinion or inside knowledge about how good or bad maddoff or Amin were at lesbianism), shit, I lost myself in the construction of that sentence, a sentence that could be said is almost Gresham. A few days before leaving I bought several DVD albums, you know, like photo albums, each page holding four dvds per side. I filled them up with a bazillion dvd’s, the top bazillion, I left another two bazillion in the void in the hands of the void, but a void who was an adequate lesbian, not that that has anything to do with anything or even nothing to do with nothing or anything to do with nothing or nothing to do with anything. See? Just because one sentence is built on sand doesn’t mean it’s exclusive. Hell, I know how to fuck up whole paragraphs. And shit.

Over the last few years I occasionally stumble across one of those albums. I did that yesterday and found War Inc in one. Actually it just said War and I thought I was going to watch that Jason Statham and Jet Li movie. But no, it was War inc with both Cuzaks. And Shit. Dick Cheney was actually in office when that movie was made. It’s a movie about privatizing war. Ok, it’s also a romantic comedy, but a romantic comedy about privatizing war. No romantic nudity, but no punches pulled about privatizing war. It’s actually a little surprising that movie made it to the theatres and that the cuzaks weren’t in a “car accident” riddled with bullets and stab wounds.

That’s what this entry is about. Huh. I could have done that in less words probably, something like; Privatising war is bad. Let me see if I can find a song from They Eat Their own and Thin White Rope.