Monday, October 31, 2011


Life is life. Sometimes you get the good end of the sheep, other times you don't.

I could write a story. I could. I choose not to. There is this story about a can fill in the rest. I am a sheep. I am also a wolf.

I'm an alkie.

And so on.

You think that you have the world by the balls, but it turns out that the World owns you.

I am not bitter. (Well, maybe a little bit.)


But, listen: I did it to myself. Consciously, subconsciously...what is the difference?


I had the World by its "short-hairs." I fell to the wayside.

That is not to say that I cannot come back. I can. I will.'s just kinda disheartening, sometimes.


Oh! Sure! Get yer ass to a meeting! I have been to meetings and, let me tell you, they're always an uplifting occasion. Seriously. They just are. Now, while that would tell a whole hell of a lot of people to "sign on, sign in, let go, let God," I pretty-much refuse. Why? Because I am a stubborn baby. (And that is not the best way to be a 38-year-old man.) It gets old....


Do you know what else gets old? Trying to circumnavigate Addiction. There is absolutely no way around it. It'll getcha every time. You try--sometimes--to be "normal." Then? Then your Addiction rears its ugly motherfucking head. And you acquiesce. You give in. There are people out there who declare, "I am my body. I am my mind. I am my Soul. I give the grace of my Life to God and Jesus Christ!" And? They stop. Their little minds cannot get used to the fact that God (Yaweh) made us as we are. Every person. Every person.


That is why it boggles my mind, sometimes, when people act "out of line."


I am not trying to get a gold star on my forehead, but I will tell you this: With money in my pocket, with a slightly-skewed vision of the world, I was more than happy to give a person on the street a twenty-dollar bill. I had more; he or she had much much much less. Is that egotism? Perhaps. But you know what most of it was? Helping someone in trouble. Case closed. know? Helping someone helps your own Soul. It just does....


And we move on I am not asking for sympathy--I think I burned that to the ground a long long time ago. What I am asking for, though, is tolerance. When in the fuck did the human race lose capacity for tolerance? When? Where? I am faaaaaaar from perfect, but I believe in my gut, in my Soul, that everyone deserves a fair fucking handshake. (Sorry about the cussing--no, I'm not.) I just think that there are Have's and Have-Not's. (And it is getting worse.) Should I belly-ache about this? Oh! Oh, hell, yeah. [Shudder-shake.] Who am I? I just said a lot of stuff about the rich and the poor. Should I not tolerate the Rich? They are human beings, too. So! You caught me--in a hypocritical moment. Good for you!


And the moons shrivel; the Sun doth Shine.


And the leaves from the trees fall all glittery-goldilocks. Loch? No. "Locks." But? There is a monster, yes? Call it the Loch Ness Monster. Do it, if it makes you feel good. Whilst you're feeling good understand that we don't know it all. There absolutely could be a prehistoric organism living in Ness Lake. Absolutely. And who is anyone to "disqualify" a man who says that, on the full moon, he--uh--changes. Why not a werewolf? There is scientific evidence to the pro. So.


It is All Hallow's Eve. Halloween.


This is what I believe: I believe that peeps have their eyes closed. All the time. I believe that there is a--no, many--plane(s) of existence that we (unless we are a medium) are not privy to. I believe in ghosts. I believe in vampires. (But! You have got to take into consideration all the maladies that prey upon human beings. Werewolf might be a dude who is hirstute. A vamp may be a man [or a woman] who is hemophilatic.) You never know.


You never know.


What else do I believe in? Aliens. Why not? Who in their right mind thinks that we are the ONLY? Seriously.


This is all to say that sheep are the best option. All they'll do is "Baaaaaaaaaaaah."


Monday, October 10, 2011


So, I heard this song. I've heard it before. Some the lyrics go like this: If I die young/ lay me down/ at the river/ cover me with roses/ never clearer.

I say this: If I die young, fuck the roses, just hustle me down to the river and dunk my fucking head. That should wake me up.


Have you ever drank/drunk so much water, so fast, that you thought your belly might burst?

Me, either.


Life is good, the house is looking great, my relationship with my girl is going swimmingly, my job is fantastict, I have lost some weight, and the skies are not cloudy all day!

There is also this bridge in Brooklyn....


And so it goes (KV)....


Do you remember that Uncle Remus story about the "tar-baby"?

Me, either


If you bring up the subject of Jesus Christ and the Lord to some people, sometimes, you feel like you have a bulls-eye on your forehead.

Other times? It is as cool as a cucumber.


And so it goes.


Have you ever felt the urge to take a coach's whistle and sneak up behind people on a busy street and shrilllllllllllllllllllll as loud as you could?

Me, too.


I broke my compter chair today. The left arm of it had been loosey-goosey for a while. Today? When I tried to shift my (over)weight?

The thing broke clean off.


And so but we adjust.


Here is a newsflash: Hospitals suck (ass).

In them, you often feel like a prisoner.


End of story.


Back in the '80s and '90s, there was a brand of clothes called, shockingly enough, B.U.M. Athletics. Who would want to wear that?!

Who'd want to be a bum?!


Saturday, September 10, 2011


I remember where I was. Who doesn't? I was reading the numbers of gas meters in Bloomfield, Michigan. It was a meter that was inside, in the basement, and, as I climbed back into the hallway, I remember a young woman walking past me, in her hands a portable radio. "They're attacking us," she chirped. "We're downing all the planes, now."

I looked at her and went on my way.

Later, when I was in my car, the normal morning show was uncharacteristically bleak. We, the United States of Apathy, had been attacked. And, unfortunately, it had been a resounding success. The Twin Towers had fallen and there'd been an attack thwarted that led to a commercial jet-liner nose-diving into a Pennsylvania crop field.

More than 3000 people had been killed.

More than three thousand people. Murdered.

For no reason other than fanaticism.

As time went on--I watched the planes slam into the Towers every chance I got--it became apparent that some Islamic people hated the United States so very much that they would kill themselves to further the Jihad.

(A day after the attacks, a Muslim man in New York was beaten to death for the simple reason that he was a Muslim.)

And so it goes.


We had a cowboy for a President, ten years ago. He had won his post by cheating. He told the American people that if they (fill in the blank) and (fill in the blank) all would be fine; if the people did not (fill in the blank) then the terrorists would win. I am trying my hardest not to belittle the Cowboy, but it is tough.

Ten days after the attacks, the United States of America invaded Iraq, a Middle-Eastern country that was led by a tyrannical despot. It had been ascertained, through intelligence, that he had capabilities for "mass destruction." (These vehicles later became known as WMDs.)

We didn't find any. Whoops.

And so it goes.


Tomorrow, September 11, 2011, is the remembrance of....


There are terror alerts in New York and also Washington, DC. Citizens are told to go about there daily lives, pretend that nothing is amiss. Please let me tell you: Everything is amiss. We, as a nation, are a cunt-hair's width from mass destruction. That is not a wide margin.

Every day, I read a newspaper blurb that reports Thousands die in Iraq: Suicide bomber kills himself and thousands and Peace talks between Israel and Jordan stall and The new bomber: woman. Every time I read those stories, I think to myself, well, why not here? How tough would it be to strap explosives around yourself and go to a mall or a baseball game or a fireworks show and blow your ass up? Simply-said: It'd be simple.


I don't mourn, anymore, for the thousands who were killed. They were innocent. I still believe that. Innocent in a couple of ways (as was I): First, they assumed America was unassailable. Second, they had their heads buried in their asses, oblivious to world news and immanent threats.

We, as a nation, got a rude awakening.


All that said, I want to kill fanatic Muslims. I may chop their heads off and post it on the internet, a la Daniel the Reporter. I would waterboard their asses till they told me some intelligence, bogus or not. I'd shoot 'em in the kneecaps and then the stomach and urinate upon them as they lay writhing to death in their own piss and shit and blood. And I would have a clear conscience.


I was raised to love all people. I have that instilled in me. I also grew up and learned that hate is not always such a bad thing. If my family members had died, I would be even more of a nutcase. And, but, seriously, though? Isn't that the be-all end-all: Love one another. I try. But sometimes it is tough.

*** is the "anniversary." Not a lot has changed. After a brief brief brief period of bi-partisanship, we're back to the same ole Washington. After a brief period of "all for one and one for all", we remain, as a nation, considerably divisive. What'd we learn? Nothing, I reckon.


Except for this: We learned that peeps want us all dead...cuz we're infidels.


To which I say, "Bullshit. I'm not an infidel. Getcho facts straight, motherfuckers."


Tomorrow is 9/11/2011. Ten long incongruous years. Fuck. We're screwed. I want to end this with a simple 5-7-5:

the Towers did fall

much confusion abounded

we learned about Death

Saturday, August 27, 2011


It's football time, again. I had a draft last night with co-workers and, while I may have made a couple of bone-headed picks, I am thinking that my team has a chance to do well this year. A lot of the responsibility rests on the strong shoulders of Adrian Peterson. As his backfield-mate, I selected Matt Forte. I'm a little concerned about M. Martz's pass-happy offense, but I think Forte'll still put up some good numbers. I got the stud receiver L. Fitzgerald out of 'Zona--I just pray that Kolb will know to pass to one of the best catchers in the league. You throw it anywhere near Fitz and he'll snag it. I also got B. Lloyd--he's a question mark. You want a bigger question mark? I drafted Plaxico Burress, fresh outta the clink. I think this: He has something to prove, to both fans and himself. I think he'll turn into Sanchez's number-one option in Jay-Ee-Tee-Ess-land.

But who cares, right? Well, obviously, I, for one, give two shits. I love football, the NFL in particular. I. Can't. Wait.

I picked up the Philadelphia Eagles defense/special teams. First, I think they're gonna terrorize the league. (But maybe I'm buying into the off-seaon hype? Perhaps.) I know this, though: They have DeSean Jackson returning kickoffs and punts--he's always got a chance to break one for a touchdown. So. I'm covered.

I called my team the Galloping Ghosts, an allusion to Red Grange, one of the the best--if not the best--collegiate football players in the history of the game. He was nicknamed the Galloping Ghost. I really don't know that I have ever heard a better sports moniker. Oh, he was a beast. Google him, if you want to. Even a non-sports fan can recognize that the dude was head and shoulders above everyone else. I kinda fricked around with a picture of him: It's in the upper-right corner; I added some color to it. That's my logo. (I'm proud of it.)

Anyway. Bring on the football! I can't wait!

Wednesday, August 17, 2011


This is the picture of a camera carcass. I have given up with this one. It is a Nikon Coolpix s6000 and it is--and pretty much always has been--a piece of shit. The price wouldn't tell a person that. I bought it for about three-and-a-half bills about two years ago, but the results I have had with it render it pretty much the brown organic stuff civilized persons flush down a toilet.

It belongs in the toilet.

I'll keep it in the desk drawer just to remind myself never never to buy a Nikon point-and-shoot ever again. (And, also, maybe I'll be able to export the pictures from its memory card, many of which are from the Kid Rock Concert in Detroit. Another thing the Nikon Corporation took away from me.)

I have a thing about technology: I want it to fucking work. With this particular piece of machinery, I have had nothing but problems. Listen: Three-and-a-half hundred dollars is not a gold mine. I know this. But, damn it, it was hard-earned money, and the least, the absolute least, my purchase could do is give me at least a year (maybe two years) of harmony. The Nikon Coolpix s6000 didn't. Did. Not. In fact, damn-near out of the box, it gave me problems. Our marriage has been oh-so-much-less-than harmonious. Its latest malady is a ubiquitous "lens error" message, a situation in which I press the power button, through the view the picture is nothing but BLUR and then the lens closes its eye, goes to sleep, says fuggit. Um. No. No fuggit. Work.

But it simply refuses and I have had it far longer than the warranty (that I probably never purchased, anyway) and the receipt is long-lost and its idiosyncrasies have forced me to turn my back on Nikon and its products for the length of my God-given life. I spurn Nikon. And that gives me great pleasure.

It'll reside in the computer desk's center drawer, now. Now and forever.

You know the funny thing? The image of the camera in the drawer was taken by my Canon PowerShot SD630, a four-year-old camera, a relic, a camera that spent a year of its life in the side door compartment of my mother's PT Cruiser. It stayed there for damn-near a full year, through 105-degree-greenhouse-summer temperatures and the biting freeze of a Michigan winter. Does it complain? Does it go to sleep on me? Does it give me nothing less than its best effort? No, no and no. It works. End of story.


But, of course, it's not the end. Is it ever really the end, with me? No. I like to type. I like to spew keyboard diarrhea. I'm loopy, that way. Does price matter? I believe in my bones that, most times, yes, you get what you pay for. I spent three bills on the Canon about two years before I lost it and purchased the Nikon. It has been steadfast in its reliability. The Nikon boasted great zooms and stellar HD videos. Tell you what: Take the HD videos and zooooom them up your ass. I'm a Canon-man from now on.

The devil's advocate may whisper: "Hey, man, maybe you got a lemon." And maybe I did. If that is the case, it sucks for the Nikon Corporation, because I am a lost consumer. I think that is just the way it works. People become loyal to products that work for them. The ones that don't? Well, consumers turn the other cheek to them. (And I'm not speaking biblically.)

This is not supposed to be a manifesto, but maybe it turned into a mini-manifesto. In my gut, I don't feel bad that I excoriated the Nikon Corporation. I am angry. I feel that I just gave my money to them and they wiped their collective ass with it.

Shout it loud and proud from the rooftops! Shout it! Nikon sucks! Nikon sucks! Nikon suc--

And Canon should be hereforerafter-known as Old Reliable.

(In my estimation.)

(And I am only one little ole blogger...but, damn! It feels good to write again! [Even if most of it was a vitriolic rant against a highly-successful electronics company.])

(Parenthetically? Good night, godspeed and God bless.)

By the way...I'm thinking about buying a DSLR camera sometime soon. Guess what? It ain't gonna be a Nikon.

Saturday, May 21, 2011



"Slap me."


"Slap me!"



laziness precedes the fade

so-be-it attitudes rear

their Dragon-Heads

throughout life, we all humans realize these emotions:









their fucking Dragon-Heads.

there be many again there before me

who'd lived his life as though he's free

but then in the end, he had realized his gaffe

that all that all Life is is a big ole Laugh


I smoke too much. I have been known to drink too much. I don't eat the most healthful foodstuffs. I possess, however, a great big ole heart. I care. I empathize. I'm no fucking saint, for sure. But I get down-and-outedness. "There but for the grace of God, go I."

Whistle past the graveyard, if'n it pleases ya.


It was windy in the graveyard. Every breath and gust of wind brought the smell of decay.


Decay. Sure, bodies decay. But, too, emotions and relationships decay.


The dreaded red pencil plays a part in a majority of Life. I always wonder--and do believe--that the red pencil comes equipped with an eraser.

Sunday, May 01, 2011


Once upon a time, there was Peace.

There were good times and randily-drunk brews.

There was...Nothing.

The Nothing has returned.

There was a "goodboy" and there was Silence.

The Nothing has returned.

[cue V. Price, cackling]

Have you ever heard the phrase, "Between a rock and a hard place"?

Me either.

I'd like to be a rock, but I am just a frail human man, warts and all.

There *is* no game. Everything is as serious as a heart attack.

I have Faih, but my Faith is splintered.

I love God and I know he loves me...for whatever reason.

[If the sheriff tells you to jump, you jump; he holds the cards.]

Then again, if God looks at me, he'll see my good. Do ya know?

Have you ever heard of the "tortured artist"?


My gun snucked him clearly in his left temple. It--the gun--is a .45, a big gun. He died. His name was James Oliver. The left side of his skull was dented, in a way. Someone else did it to him. I'd not had the power.


Someone had stolen my gun.


My gun? The death weapon? It'd been stolen.


thru feudal fielded flecks we froom.... anger is at no premium; i hate it; it sucks. there is a jank-o-lantern. see it Fire! i rest. thru feudal frocks...we hide.


I asked him straight-out: you take my gun?


"Who died?"

I said, "Jummy? James Oliver? He died."

"Jummy was a piece of shit." Allen stretched out his six-six frame. He lit a Pall Mall. He cleared his throat. He made it known, non-verbally, that he has no idea of Jummy's demise. Al sent mucus flying.

"Al," said I, "I do believe you're full of shit. The party was done. man! Only you knew where my gun was!"

Friday, February 25, 2011


One of the best gifts I have ever received in my life is a mouse pad. Seriously. My sister, Alexis, made it, through some computer program, and it shows Louie and Oliver in cahoots. Every damned picture brings a prick at my eyes. They were partners in crime. And, yes, every time I look at the mouse pad, images of my boy Louie swim to the forefront of my brain.

I know that no one reads this shit anymore, and that is okay. I'm fine with it. Who wants to read about a person riding a bicycle towards a cliff with no brakes? I understand why people don't read this shit anymore. I'm fine with it. So, in that case, I'll just describe what the mouse pad looks like. And...what it means to me.

It is a regular-sized mouse pad. The mouse glides easily over it.

The pictures on it are all pictures I took. Lou might have been the most-photographed dog in the history of Photography. [Oliver lacks.]

In the upper-left corner of the pad, we have an image of a little ferocious beagle, ears akimbo, south-pawing the larger dog. Lou's head is cocked to his right; he's ready to serve up a counter-punch. Ollie looks insane, like he is a killer. Great, but Lou'd have done him in if he felt like it. They were friends. They loved each other.

At the upper-right corner of the pad, there is a black-and-white photo of the dogs, hind to hind, in which I later Photoshopped in some bones. It was supposed to be something like the stand-off at the OK Corral. Lou, the bigger dog, has a smaller bone. Oliver, the beagle, has a larger bone. In the picture, Oliver is looking up at me, through the camera, seemingly saying, "Um, sir? Can we expedite the process, please?" [Oliver would never talk like that.]

Below the first picture, there is one of, simply, Louie and Oliver. Lou is all big-snouted and calm, and Oliver continues to look like a girlie-dog.

Interruption: Doggie-paws across the middle of the pad. One. Two. Three.

The next snapper, reading left to right, is of Oliver lying in the hallway and Lou being right up front, in focus. He looks non-plussed. He looks like he has the burden of carrying the little guy, his friend. In a dog's life...right? He was, to his last days/daze, a soldier.

We draw our attention from the right and focus on the left. Here, at the bottom left of the mouse pad, we can see what Louie could have done. Total and utter subjugation. They're still play-fighting, but Lou makes a point: I will, if I ever have to. His right fore paw is completely obscuring Oliver's eyes. Louie's body is dangerously close to just collapsing upon the beagle, rendering Oliver non-still. Lou loved the little guy, though. That much is obvious. Be he intervening if I were disciplining Ollie or be it if my voice were raised, Lou always--always--looked after his brother. [And me. And his mother. And his sister.]

Next picture: Lou and Ollie, in tandem, walking next to the side of the house. So what, right? Oh, no. This is key. From the moment they met, they were inseparable. One for both and both for one. Their tails are up in tandem and Oliver is daintily placing his right fore paw on terra firma. And Lou is looking at the camera as if to say, "Another, man? C'mon."

Yes, Louie. Another. Because you lived like you burned it at both ends, and I am so fucking glad that I took too many shots of you.

The final picture is just that of a bone. But, by the way the images were constructed, it looks like Lou is right above the bone, like it is his birthright. And? It is.


Friday, January 14, 2011


I am sad. The dictionary that I have....

The love of my life just informed me that, no, the dictionary that I have had since 1992--someone had left it on the desk in a Journalism class--is not half-full, that it does not end on "praline."

"It's under there, babe!" she squealed, pointing at the end table. "See," she said, fluttering pages beneath my nose, "it ends on 'zombie!'"

My apologizes to Daniel Webster. My tangible love for words is restored.

(She also taped it together. I said to use duct tape--it's more utilitarian--but she wanted to use packing tape. We used both!)

--Adam Burrier

Professor Burrier wrote the above. His dictionary he assumed was only half there. You see beacause he only had the half of it. The other half lay under the coffee table (he must've forgotten it was old and tattered) which I grabbed joyfully (I fixed yet another problem) and proceeded to repair with duct and packing tape. Finally, praline and zombie are re-united...and it feels so good.
--Meagan Spurck

By the way, all I can think of now is a--LOL--"pralined zombie." Back together, and it Tastes so Good! Brains, that is! Like ice cream. Pralined Zombie Treats.
--Adam Burrier

Now, I have to rebut with my own wit and impressive wiriting skills. Sometimes, all it takes is a little thing, a twist of words, an experience to bring us together. Call it fate or destiny or pralined zombies...all I know is this, when you find your soul mate, the one whose words collide with your own on deeper levels that you have ever known. You'll know...that pralined zombies are the next best thing to sex.
--Meagan Spurck

I concur. Words and laughter--laughter, especially--can be just as good as sex. What does that say about sex? That it is all-good, all-knowing, but that, sometimes, life experiences (Fate and Destiny) can sometimes mean more. In my case, sex only lasts an hour, an hour-and-a-half, at most. But gut-busting laughter--and the brain-drugs in which it incites..? That lasts Forever. And I feel--know--that I am a lucky man. She is my best friend. (Even though I'll end up eating her pralined brains.)
--Adam Burrier

Sunday, January 09, 2011


Is Love, sweet Love.

You! Yes, you! You are either a good person or a bad person.

Which one are you?

The world has always been Krazee.

But it seems to me that it is gettin' crazier.

Who would shoot to death a nine-year-old girl?

Not me.

No, some dumb-assed freak in the Southwest. Arizona.

Dude walked into some "town meeting" and opened fire. He killed six.

He wounded twenty other world-sharers.

He blasted a nine-year-old girl's face off.


Did he disagree with "Government"?

So what. I disagree all the time. But I have Love in my heart.

Sunday, January 02, 2011


A day late, but the thought is still the same: I hope that 2011 is a great year for you all.