Ensar Oud ~ Private Blend

Making sense of my newest slip. More of an avalanche really at Ensar Oud. If you haven’t seen this video I recommend watching it. (If you collect smoke and perfume:)) I am a recent victim of his brilliant campaign to sell Bambi testicles, or meat Parfum.

Beginning with the most apprecitive guttural groan. With an all star cast including a buddhist monkette begging for the only bottle in existence of this Private Blend. Never inquiring as buddhist’s will sometimes do into the humanity or treatment of the musk deer. I believe if I do believe in past lives that I was NOT a legend but likely a deer, hiding, not wanting to get my privates snared. But I lost my mind to teacher and he is a fine teacher, suggesting the PRIVATE BLEND was a ride, an atom bomb of animalistic sensuality.

I found instead a blood relative of EO2. With a candy opening that immediately exploded, which was a cool party trick and then became musk with pink pepper corns popping like pop corn. I basically bought the naked emperor’s wardrobe, just a stitch on the hem, 10mil. Hopefully I will find someone more discernible than myself to buy from me. Please.

It wouldn’t have been such a dark day for my learning curve and wallet had the disciples at EO included an LTD sample. Perhaps they don’t see me as part of an elite worthy of sniffing the finest elixirs. They might even suggest that my writing is a blackmail when really my earnest wish is this, that samples might be offered. Or even sizes that each of us might glimpse before jumping. The way Tyson does it. See his sparkling attar. Without any hype. And Tyson could say that no one has made attar like this for centuries. The delivery was a clean sparkling transcendent dream catcher. https://www.etsy.com/shop/TysonLeeMortensen.

Let godhead rain.

I once lived in Santa Monica with a buddhist. He was not content with our cohabitation. He complained to our therapist that I made the floor dirty and he was constantly hunched over following me around the house to clean up after. Marriage was out of the question and he asked me to move. For the interim we still lived together and even entertained other roommates. With his newly acquired monk status we had monk visitors flying in from Tibet. What surprised me most about living with a buddhist was the value placed on money and transitory materials, stuff like like my stuff. I wasn’t prepared for that.


r e v e r s e c o w


x reverse cow

I’ve been trying to scramble my dreams. Leaving on the Hallmark Channel for true crime all night. INVESTIGATION DISCOVERY. I have the end now. That’s all. The calf around my neck in rigor that I brake bones to splinter off. Moaning from a dumpster, I kicked off my crocs to climb in. Vaguely remembering I slammed it to the ground on a third attempt to kill it and then the disposition. I left “it” transmogrified. A tire flattened chicken with splayed feathers. A dreamcatcher. The moo baby barely moving could only suckle and wanted comfort. It didn’t know it was dying. I gave over my breast and neck confounded. What kind of killer am I?

Little Bit of Country Mixology for my Roxy Girls and NOT Name Droppings

I met John Belushi at a private club on Sunset called ON THE ROX. I had been working downstairs as the backstage waitress for the Roxy Theatre. Setting up dressing rooms with whatever a band’s rider/ contract might stipulate. Regularly troughs of beer, water, cases at a time packed in ice.

Whatever was required. Willie De Ville was too dope sick to go on stage at the Whiskey. He was given supplements, not cheerfully, but what was the alternative, really?

My boss, ex Chicago cop, Elmer Valentine had invited me to work upstairs at ON THE ROX.  Christened a “morgue” by Rod Stewart, ON THE ROX only had a membership of 50 individuals at that time. You might see a Rolling Stone or a Beatle or a Laker. Much like an airport the stars used it as a sort of waiting room coming or going some place else. Depending on their work schedules landing for a tour, or a movie, principal photography or post. It was so exclusive it was uninhabited.

For example Jim Harrison one of my favorite writers at the time didn’t live in California but when he rolled into town he would meet with a friend for a drink. Jim and his pal Jack Nicolson might be the only two people in the club for the entire evening. With the variable of Harry Dean Stanton a regular, but Harry even when he was present was perhaps the quietest man I had ever sat with. He wasn’t uninterested in me. He asked  me out on a date, which if I had had any sense I would have gone but I calculated he was too old for me. Anyway what would we talk about?

Harry could sit comfortably for hours without a word. I would play music on the tape deck when I wasn’t staring at the bar. I noticed flecks in some of the bottles floating almost swimming in just the right light, wondering if it was all real and normal. Harry might eventually pick up my nylon string guitar and play. Sometimes I howled along guessing syllables to a heartfelt Mexican cantata. Harry presented me with 2 gifts. A hat and a book. THE TAO OF POOH. 

On the  particular night that I am drawing your attention to, ON THE ROX was actually buzzing.  Insular with “A” listers indulging their desire to be left alone to commune with their own kind. My focus was a little red cocktail recipe book that I had purchased across the street. I had never made a Margarita before. We had triple sec, check, limes, a blender. I had heard peripherally and from Tom Scott specifically sitting at the bar, that John Belushi was in town, doing the movie NEIGHBORS, and wanted to replace him?!  They had been great friends once and now he was devastated that John had not come to him directly but that he had to find out from someone else. And so here he was rehearsing how he would approach John.

John Belushi was a presence although I wasn’t sure exactly when he arrived. He was just  suddenly he was in the house and everywhere at once. He had commandeered the stereo and was blasting FEAR and pogoing in and out of the rich and famous denizens. Perhaps I should have known that this situation would need to be tempered but I didn’t. Lou Adler my boss, a deliberate and calculated thoughtful man spoke to me. His usual reticence addressing me I attributed to his preference for blonds. Although that night I had a half a head of blond hair freshly bleached on the crown ~ the work of the great punk hair-dresser ATILLA. Lou actually spoke to me, and said and this a loose paraphrase, contain him or else. 

I was a bit afraid. Lou almost never spoke to me. I had learned if nothing else besides making drinks at ON THE ROX. That silence was a craft onto itself used by those in the acting profession especially as an implement of control. It wasn’t shyness. Maybe sometimes. And in this case it wasn’t TAO. I had no idea how it would go but I basically physically had to corral John to speak to me concerning his choice of music. He was immediately compliant and a bit stupefied as to what exactly the big deal was? Weren’t we having fun? I know I was. I told him I preferred FEAR to this other crap and I snorted to illustrate that, as I replaced his cassette with KIM CARNES. I knew Lou Adler’s taste and he would choose BETTY DAVIS EYES.

The next time John came to the club he brought Derf Scratch. (Fred backwards.) The bass player for FEAR. We all were immediate chums. There would be road trips with Derf when John was back in Chicago there was never a lull when John was in town. With the club all to ourselves that first night we blew out the speakers with FEAR and smoked blunts and jumped around the empty club ordering Chinese from the private chef.

John noticed my guitar and listened to my story of getting kicked out KOMMUNITY FK for basically having a job and wanting to get paid for a gig. After that when John came to town we would get together and jam. We wrote detailed sappy country songs and sang howling doggrel harmonies. We had this idea of making an album, getting at least a set together, recording. Usually we would go to Derf’s house or to John’s hotel. I was the chauffeur. I had no idea John Belushi dabbled in heroin. I knew he was married and he didn’t hold that against me. I was star struck driving his Mercedes, with the top down, Sunset Blvd, with the music cranked, with John and Derf.  I do like expensive cars. Cars that command respect. But I prefer poor people to commune with but John was an exception. 

We spent hours going over the same song, writing and rewriting. When I got fired from ON THE ROX I was bummed. I didn’t know who I was anymore. The job had become my identity. Derf told John what had happened and stuck John on the phone. I figured he wouldn’t want to be friends anymore. He said you’re so much better than that lame waitressing job. I’ll be in LA in a few weeks. They did you a favor. Fuck them. That was the last time we spoke. My friend was dead within a few weeks and everything seemed really quiet again. 

Healing Network

healing network

On their second play date, OREO a black obese recent rescue trashed the house. Plowed right through the screen door. Making it a flap. Trampled the rugs and wood floors. I had filled up a small pool outside and left the front door open so the dogs wouldn’t stray beyond the chicken wire fence. Meeschoo was so pumped, she ran laps as fast as she could.  

Oreo itched.  I had treated him on the sly less than a month ago on his last play date so I knew it wasn’t fleas but I checked anyway with a comb, fanning his fur back and forth. He would almost buckle itching on one hind leg. Then I noticed that Meeschoo was getting really really itchy and so was I. 

When John was here, he would remind me that dogs itch. It would help me pardon the thought, she’s probably just nervous, and finds some release in the gnawing on herself. It got worse at night, the licking and itching for both of us. I checked us for lesions and scrubbed. Googled pustules. Found no evidence of bed bugs or crop circles. We’ve both been bathed in hydrogen peroxide, tea tree, and aloe vera. The comforter too is boiling in over 100 degree temperatures, on its second cycle. All of the linens and clothes in the closet have been piled up and moved out. The carpet vacuumed with the stand up and hand models. Still our scalps itch. I have a headache. 

Something is wrong with my throat. I called 2 vets and made an appointment for tomorrow. One of the vets had a secretary who stated emphatically they would only treat the dog. I said, I KNOW THAT. She said mites were impossible on Meeschoo with NEXguard chewables. I had gently dug around in Meeschoo’s ear with a q-tip and found nothing mite like. I called Kevin, Oreo’s owner very late, and left a message telling him he might have scabies or mange. When I woke up I remembered, the way an 8 ball answer rises from the murky depths. That I had contracted this “issue” years ago and now with stress it came back, a calling. I have to cancel the vet appointment. Figure out what to tell Kevin.

Beep Beep


This morning I woke the neighbors again. Yesterday too – Meeshoo abandoned me after a lengthy discussion of boundaries, admonitions guidelines. I left the door open and within minutes while doing my fetal meditation, I realized she had gone to the other side, to the forbidden land. I called out in my most piercing guttural plead that no animal would ever respond to. Making sure I was projecting to all of the neighbors to keep FAITH that I would not let Meeshco wander beyond her confines.

This morning I added the chickens, to my alarm, watching in the dark, the Rock & Roll Hall of fame. Bryan Ferry announced Chris Spedding on guitar. It was an involuntary yelp.  I used to listen to his records over and over. This one song. “I’m a a Roadrunner, baby.”
Can someone explain these line ups? Closing the show with Lynard Skinher. What is the draw, straws? Further questions did Harry Stiles really SHTUP Stevie Nicks? Or was this just a trick for the old bags to imagine they might have a chance? What about Radiohead without a head? I had hoped Mark Knopfler might present. I wanted him to sing DOWN TO THE WATERLINE.
When I put Meeschoo out on the lanai she started chewing the deck. Made a hole a mouse could fall through. It didn’t matter that she had five world class bones right there. Or exercise. So I gave her fresh water and piece of wood.
It’s another morning and I already feel self hate.



HATCH-WAXMAN ACT, generics, the opioid crisis and your insurance company pushing their agenda, not healthcare


GENERIC drug laws and insurance companies antagonize the opioid epidemic, while charging you more every month, they are messing with your medication and the ingredients as well. Have you noticed that every time you go to pick up at the pharmacy that prices are higher? There is a conspiracy and collusion among generic drug makers to keep drug prices on the rise. Lawmakers are more focused on Hatch-Waxman as it applies to patent law. 
One Floridian who prefers to remain anonymous tells of being comfortably on the lowest dose of 5mg pain medication for 2 years. He was able to work and exercise and live a healthy productive life. Without his pain medication he could not even sit upright for more than 15 minutes so when he was given an alternate generic that was not equivlent, he found himself in excruciating pain. He blamed his memory that first morning and took a second pill. Discussion with his pharmacist was futile. Pharmacies don’t buy individual drugs from individual manufacturers. They buy in bulk from dealers, middle men, and cheaper inferior drugs and quantity deals are the rule when placing a monthly order. The old generic 5mg was no longer available. ANON was assured all generics are exactly the same anyway. It was his tolerance that was the issue. When he searched the internet to see if this was true he found he was not alone and that his pharmacist was wrong about generics and feeding him hogwash. He wanted to take the smallest amount of medicine possible but was now forced to take the 10mg dose to cover his pain. This presented other unforeseen side effects. When he went looking for a new internist because his doctor had retired, he was rejected based on a new prescription monitoring program in Florida. His prospective general practitioner rejected even doing a routine check-up on him pointing to a Florida website that had graded him based on his prescriptions. That number had spiked the doctors showed him a website that noted what he thought was private information. Called E-FORSCE? He tried explaining that his pain specialist had written the prescriptions for the same medication every month. They had tried to get the more expensive brand name medication, but the problem became not just availability, but his insurance company. Insurance would not pay unless it was a generic and no matter what they would never cover 10mg pills but they would pay for 20mg dosages.



What you need to know about generic drugs that most pharmacists don’t know is that generic drugs are not bio-identical. One major reason is because they are reverse engineered. Pharmaceuticals don’t simply give up their secret patents. In fact when generic companies want to test their products that include different fillers and compounds, they many times have had to sue to get the original. These tests are necessary for equivalency and most importantly blood absorption. The recipe really makes a difference. You need to know this because each time your pharmacist gives you a different generic, you are getting a drug that varies with at least 15 percent of the active ingredient. But because of the other ingredients involved that number goes up to 20 percent if not higher. This is very important for example if you are on seizure medication and it’s working, then suddenly it’s not because your pharmacist gave you a different generic. Or if you take pain medication and suddenly it’s not working. Ask your pharmacist not to change your generic medication if it’s working for you.

little ball

little ball

SNOWBALL is not pleasurable or chummy doing the rounds of neighborhood garbage, eating a chucked avocado. I tried the popping beer trick to tempt her with a proper tin of cat food but she had no interest in doing business. She conceded to eat my food gradually and only when I disappeared. There was a brother and sister looking nothing like Snowball all white with cow patches of black and grey. You would never chose her from the pound. She would be destroyed if they caught her. I dizzied trying to lure her with my lion taming cat teaser toy. Her brethren were soon addicted to good chow and the chase for feathers, a roller coaster of twirling in the garden. So exhausted they would keel over and pant, closer, until they just had to be close and fall on top of me. That person who reproduced the flight of birds and made food you didn’t have to kill. But not SNOWBALL. Her sister with the knob tail died because I taught her to trust people and their cocktails. When the poisoner next door lured her with a sweet mead of antifreeze and a cooing vocal SNOWBALL didn’t respond but her darling sister and brother did. SNOWBALL has coexisted with me for 13 years now and we still don’t touch. I won’t tell you how they found her brother. It’s too grisly _ in the middle of the street where he never went_ running to get away from the pain in his stomach. Flattened he had to be peeled away. It’s why Snowball and I are alive and my mother isn’t. It’s our absolute dedication to being soloists and playing keep away. 

How to clean your room?


Piles on top of piles was mother’s method. On top of her bureau, stacks of magazines and mail and on top of that a styrofoam head with a silver pin to hold the nylon fall. Piles on the floor, piles of folders on the bed. She was a saver, no matter how useless the receipt or notation. Even her bed was too busy to sleep with so much MISC. Without room you couldn’t reside or rest your eye. A blue bedspread, a white set of drawers. Her blue period. Hence confusing when she charged my cleaning efforts. She claimed I made a bigger mess. I was ahead of my time pre-dating the great philosopher Marie Kondo’s method. Taking every single item to the center of the floor and each piece was cleansed and dusted. In return each item was reestablished into a new order. Nothing had a permanent home. With clothes, I experimented, folding length wise, rolls, squared, squashed. Different drawers for different drawers. It wasn’t expedient but sometimes my room was as beautiful as it could be given my constraints. If you’ve witnessed Marie Kondo with her daughter on television, you just know her daughter will go on to accomplish all of her dreams. With the teachings and all that clutter out of the way.