the theme song was yakety yak:

take out the papers and the trash 

or you don't get no spendin' cash 

if you don't scrub that kitchen floor
you ain't gonna rock and roll no more
yakety yak (don't talk back)

just finish cleanin' up your room
let's see that dust fly with that broom
get all that garbage out of sight
or you don't go out Friday night
yakety yak (don't talk back)

you just put on your coat and hat
and walk yourself to the laundromat
and when you finish doin' that
bring in the dog and put out the cat
yakety yak (don't talk back)

don't you give me no dirty looks
your father's hip; he knows what cooks
just tell your hoodlum friend outside
you ain't got time to take a ride
yakety yak (don't talk back)

yakety yak, yakety yak
yakety yak, yakety yak
yakety yak, yakety yak

idle know why. 

this the 8th month of cold. people wandering around in cold dazes. days of daze. i mean, it's perfect, for the moribund chaos of the stunned sunless ship of state that is power-dazed and futiley senseless america. so fucking grim.

sorry kids, i know it's my bad mea culpa, at least in this blog, i made it after all. i could make it good, but kids i cant hep it i dont feel so good. 

i guess i was thinking or not thinking, my brain was doing it in the dark, i saw that insipid couple with the black dogs his and hers, nitwits, who accosted us on the island long ago, we say nothing now, but they unnerve me still, with their clenched expressions and their dogs pulled inches away, not even looking at us so flagrantly and outrageously free, and i too pretend they don't exist, so pointedly, studiously study the trees. but i got plenty of freedom attend, as my dog is good, doing his thing, so i can watch them surreptitiously as they pass hugging the far edge of path, pulling their dogs to their flanks, whispering it's ok, it's ok, he's a bad hombre, treats, treats. yakety yak. 

it's all in my head, init, the weather, the grave depression, the sunken atmosphere, the grim empire, the lost paradise.