Saturday, December 01, 2007

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Tuesday, November 20, 2007


I find it funny that the car from Pyscho - you know the one Norman dumps in the bog to ditch the girl's body, well that later became the Clever's family car in Leave it to Beaver...kinda sick if you think about it.

Tuesday, November 06, 2007

Empty Batteries

I wish we could all be like Frankenstein’s monster; just have these big fucking bolts in our necks that were attached to our brains or spines or something-so that every time we were pissed or sad or depressed we could attach cables to them and all the negative energy or emotions we didn’t want to feel would have their electrical signals be withdrawn from the brain, and carried out of the body to a empty emotion battery or something.

Tuesday, October 09, 2007

Monday, August 27, 2007

Fond memmories from 'roo

I feel that nothing
Encompasses all that is Bonnaroo like this photo taken of Timbo, who probably has little-to no recollection of it. Mmmm mmm opiates…

Wednesday, August 01, 2007

Observing a 10pm Dog Hill and an epiphany

I sat alone, a spectator to a wide abyss of salvation green grass, plummeting downward into the mist which seeped in surfeits in to the world with the veil of night. Upon a the hill I swam in the nostalgias thoughts which barreled through the gaunt fragments of my mind; lost in the visual poetry which lingered in the twilight. There I bore witness to angelic beams which dove through the night and pierced the evening mist, the stifling double wielded flames of justice plunging into the sifting tides of fog, fallowed by the mechanical roar of a night-owl stompin’ in D. As a looming spectator mentally lost, mentally barricaded if you will, after a endless day of chasing geese I left myself. With my mouth a smokestack of billowing camels; my mind drifted as a specter on high from beyond the desolate scraps left after weeks of binging. I transcended, lost in the sublime dream of reality, and succumbed to persistent delirious epiphanies of what life is. Paying homage the hypnotic tide of lights drifting like clockwork in a sea of nebulous twilight tides I realized the beauty that is this fleeting life about us. Every experience is an experience worthy of having, every moment is the final one of its’ kind, and no matter how much you treasure it friends, you’ll never get it back. Brown Day was a theory built upon the days that matter, and the days you feel most alive. In time I have come to question the significance of every other day, every other passing glimpse, every other unnoticed breath which is a world of splendor onto its self. Then came possibley the most monumental mental debris of all, that every moment, no matter how loathed is an experience and thusly a divine miracle. We only get one shot at life kids, and life shouldn’t be wasted on striding for perfection, or working for the weekend, but simply taking time to look around on occasion and bask in the glory all around us. We’re now headed for the brink to end the first era of our own lives, beyond is the main act… smile daily and reminisce in the splendor that is your life, the miracle of the hum-drum and the brilliance and wonder that is reality. In a sigh of conclusion, please my friends acknowledge life, because I assure you with everything in me, it is all ways acknowledging you. Now stop reading this bull and go live you little shit….

With all the love that has ever been,
-His Holiness the Drewbylama

Friday, July 20, 2007

Dast is big gabidge truck!

They've surrounded us now, but they are gone.......... smelly men everywere!

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

From the Lust of Heat 2

The bastards swimming in the back wouldn't you know... The liquid leather of beer drains like a mucus down the back of my throught. The Gonzo Royal Emporter swims in my veins heavy from an afternoon of deep loathing and sweat chills of random late afternoon inebreations. The sand sticks to me like an evangelical from his pecker, round about the ol' ankles resting up on a mutated palm. The seagulls are screaming and the ocean is pulsing with a rushing breath, and I swayed on the back of the bike tween them sandy sandy legs. But now the hour is late and we discuss the TV land traugh and observe the truths of talk shows. Think about it, some brilliant freak is set behind a counter ready to blast, with non of that que-card shit, puling the pud onto the face of some obscure vulnerable un fucking prepared celebrity. My neck is the very essence of wet nudle. This is a sick state my friends; the paranoa in the air strikes to an intence brilliance drenched in stupidity. The vegging has patheticly comenced and with all the shit in the air there is the hope for leasure....or some bullshit likr that. I hope Iam able to spell because Im blind. I just have sister avt to guid me.... oooooo this is true blue sloth right now. Cheese and all my friends. god it's like talking to an infant with a thom yorke eye. The smile is there but the mood sn't the same. Kinda like wanting to kill it becuse it just rubs you an earily obscene way. Drown it in it's own slimy mucus. Oopoh boy! That stuff slides down the throught like the blackest coffee. I'm fried my frineds an in need to doodle. Farewell from the sloth of sweat and the obscenity of insomnia. To all of you I send my deepest love, and to you angknowledge that the journey is never really done my fxriends. To you I love you all in thet truest from. SO I leave you with only this, my never dying love, which will return. My promise...
But now I doodle,for the love of living....streetlights and seasons bright....

Tuesday, July 17, 2007

From the Lust of Heat

That sucks you can't tab... well the maniquins hae descended upon me as of the current time. They are in the mist of a homiscidal smirk that screams Marsha.

Outside the thwapping rain of insects comes to melike a bitter grimace on new years day. Well i gues we can begin this tale from within the tale. I first located the preciouse Hunter S. Thompson beer, but then I was able to aprehend a few on the beach. Then that rgowjWOghjerophegr90grsn nbegruw90grwn stonedmiop'RGHWnSVnjimp'kSDGdd nI{Q@@Q

I just killed my bro's computer>...

Sunday, July 08, 2007

Suburban Lullaby

A fortnight into November, on a greased skillet left to dry; the glistening obsidian dance floor freshly waxed with twilight flurries stretched its two lanes down either end of the midnight neighborhood, vacant and ridden with nighttime specters. The inhabitance of dreams loomed humid in the mauve wind, and these drifting figments danced heavily on to the breeze as they seeped out of bedroom windows, occasionally kicking-up the debris of withered leaves; a heavy melody of typewriters producing a text of Tolstoy proportions. They fled like antelopes, prancing in violent graceful bounds, maple mammals on a concrete plain under siege, disoriented by panic. Given one’s presence, you would have been distracted from the sight by the melancholy sigh of wind; an exhalation of a fellow made desolate after his love was put to waste, suppressing memories with a surfeit of distilled spirits. The chill which made even the massive skeletal structures of autumn trees chatter there branches, like an elementary juvenile’s teeth after a bitter defeat in a snowball fight.
And in the midst of this sonic-vacancy, significant to those who desired rest, came a distant pitter-patter too quick to be replicated by a four-legged wonderer. An apparition, with strobe-like tendencies, an on-and-off rhythm as he passed under the illumination of streetlights, only to plunge quickly back in to shadow. Upon an ancient Schwinn he glided, with a wake of fallen flora, a sputtering V trailing close behind the back tire. Though only visible for seconds before passing back into the nebulous night, he remained visible by a constant unfiltered addiction, which made him resemble qualities of a particular red-nosed Christmas tale character. A locomotive, he left wisps of contaminated toxic breath, dissipating rapidly by his side.
As I gazed apathetically at him from the headache-gray curb some thirty feet beyond, I became aware of the dangling headphones draped around his tree trunk neck, blasting the poetry of Radiohead. They jovially swung in their makeshift glory, broken and bound carelessly with a series of duct-tape mounds and slipknots. The brilliant handyman of this exceptional repair was unquestionably riding upon the bike; for his jeans seemed to be a concoction of denim and the spare scraps discarded from an elderly man’s dresser. His gaunt Goodwill knit sweater billowed three sizes too large in the brisk wind, and remained mostly trailing like a parachute behind him. And as Nick, my friend’s unkempt face drifted into the illumination of a streetlight, I became ever aware of his nicotine stained “sulfury” whites glistening at me. Observing the corn-like teeth protruding from his gums I gave a drowsy halfway grin in salutation of his approaching presence.
The usual exchange of endearing insults soon followed, with the typical, “Lazy bastard-this,” and the classic “God took a shit and there was you.” This of course was accompanied by the aggressive game of who can simultaneously break the other’s hand while shaking it like it’s engulfed in flames; your typical manly greetings of the casual nature. Releasing the limp pulp that was once our hands, we went about our way. Strolling the pavement, a footloose mosey, we meandered off in to the chasm of night.
Along the thick uninhabited pavement we found sanctuary in presence of the other’s company. The open ear of a confidant used as a landfill for the anxiety of the previous week bore as bone-warming reminder of what good can be found in elementary leisure. And amongst the solitude of the twilight ether, shared only by the blue boob-tube light of fellow insomniacs behind glass, and the blissful air illuminated by the gospel of streetlights dwelling in midnight serenity, we came upon a secular salvation. The fat chewing of days gone bye was romanticized by the divinity of the simple. We basked in the fact that in the night air everything exceeds its own existence. Beneath the sifting blue veil over the starry skies we drifted in to a world of visual poetry, and found awe in the optical lyrics of this suburban lullaby.

Saturday, June 30, 2007

"Dem' few Sprinkles-o-bliss

Living every moment-stifled smiles in a bag. Aching for the time when they’ll take the strain away, those times when the air breathes in, brain billows in bliss of transcending gusts in the time when you realize your alive. Don’t you love when you actually know when your alive?; them few sprinkles on the muffin of life, few in abundance but by far the most splendid little snippets of the entire experience. ‘Dem lovelies that come round once in a beautiful day. Try to live those to the absolute fullest you silly kids. (heart)

Wednesday, May 30, 2007

You need to note

we've been handed a lot of do something new with it.

In the brisk summer night...

When the road falls…What happens next…Do we plummet into shadow…Or hastily fly…There lying in the shadows…is what we could surpass…does it all slip away so easily…under a placid mauve sky with a chalk dot moon…looming in the wisps of bleach stains in the heavens. Ranting to savor the time, upon two wheels we can glide into infamy…greeting the twilight strangers, the jovial tavern folk, and the brawling bastards of Neanderthal discontent. Them rails will break your heart when they hit that turn, and like a rag doll you’ll go where them pillars of wind toss ya’. Weave the glass Pollok pavement and dodge them yellow strobe strips in the empty suburban two-lane. Beckon others to bay at the moon along side the adolescent figments which occupy your aura. Wing into the unknown and when the road falls you slide on home. Leaving nothing more than the ember of a Winchester sitting in it’s sage knowledge of an evening too soon forgotten, docile and isolated in the ether of asphalt under a pearl moon obscured by the nebulous skies.

Sunday, May 27, 2007


Poetry is overated, I ramble- but I do it like fine silk


God let 'em feel Them there
Just let 'em feel Waiting to unravel
Feel Away
There nothing Unraveled
is there?..... Stay thusly
They there, waiting

bridge evaporated-while back
leef me' tel dog (when they don't need me anymore"
but let the unraveled fade
never fall head over heels- for a delusion
after the fray don't dream
don't dream
dreams aren't there
hold yo' up
let me sleep, when they real

ps-fuck elliot

Friday, May 25, 2007

To the Spinning Plate

It is indeed meant for somone unspoken. I had forgotten I had written it, but it is the simple addressing of a current delusion to mend some personal issues. Basicly the simple idea that the individual may stumble accross it and understand it is the sole reason why I put it on there. Thanks for the kind words my friend.

Saturday, May 12, 2007

Quick questions

You ever glance in the mirror and see somone else?
Do you know what's disapointing, when you glance in the mirror and see Ewan McGregor, and then you look back and you see yourself.... that's a real let down.

Sleep well....

Do me a favor, fascinate me. When you have that left over feeling, the parties gone and your sitting in the gnats of drizzle falling from a mauve sky, dragging that smoke on long as you can just to find some use of time. You hear only white noise, and you see only lights. My eyes burn when I shut them, a little hum and crackle of cinder over a dry pupil. There is an echo of thoughts about you in the back of my head, and I fall to the delusion that there is something unspoken. An aerial pass over the crescent of flesh, a warm calm becomes the silence. Frequencies ripple forth, and I’m happy just to be lost in this vision of you. It puts a stop to the bleeding of days gone bye; them long savage brutes which constrict like lead serpents, and it all falls away into the chasm I don’t bother to gaze back upon. An inspiration in the abyss of night you sing to me, hues of morning blue and crisp salvation green. Weightless, soaring in my mind, the dream of you drifts like a sifting veil in an angelic tide of winds. Your heading towards greatness you achieved from that first breath. The shackles of life will breath away, like silk sand in your fingertips. You’ll be soaring on high even when you don’t know it. Even now as you bask in sleep, you haunt my dreams, memories, and revelries. Those wings ascend in the night, and I thank whatever god there is that they are eternally soaring. I’ll drift to sleep time and time again, with the spirit of you there, lying in docile beauty, a looming beacon of grace which lets me know that there is greatness in people; a gorgeous reminder that not all of humanity is barren and retched. With more celestial beauty than the brightest street lamp, I breath this inspiration of you, and smile at the fact that you do not need the same of me. The closest thing I will ever know to heaven, is knowing you.

Saturday, April 28, 2007

Do you know what would be fun....

To watch two guys with these arm wrestle:

Monday, April 16, 2007

Party Games

One of my favorite things to do at a party is smoke a bunch of PCP and start taking people's rectal temperatures without permission.
-George Carlin


In the book Tuesdays with Morrie, Morrie had Lou Gehrig's disease. But what isn't genrally known is that because of a mix-up at the hospital, Lou Gehrig hd Hodkin's disease, Hodkin had Parkinson's disease, and Parkinson had Alzheimer's disease. Unfortunately, Alzheimer couldn't remember whose disease he hade. He thinks it might have been Wally Pip.
-George Carlin

be looking for the new weekly word of wisdom from George Carlin, even though we have two today...

Saturday, March 31, 2007

Part 2:Threshold to a Target

And as you fell to grace, there was an orchestra curling an index inward. The song of stones being cast in the wake, we crossed the empty channel into the fields of haunting defeat. The tarps are gone now, and the green grass stands high over any waters; it cradles us in the stream of asphalt. The crater amplifies your voice in the wedge of light. An aerial I of divine beacons inspiring the optimistic, in the abyss of the flourishing flora, green whiskers kissing the air and stroking the breath frequencies of the living. Nestled through the threshold of the road not taken, lay the security of an unknown realm. We glided over the ground with the howl of milky blue wind, and the opaque nebula over the ever watchful looming lunar man. Glide downstream into the chasm of the twilight, and the illuminating eyes on poles will guide you home. Green leasers in the night, and speculates as to the destination of the unknown youths. Upon bicycle you ascend for the treetops, which leave the ground with you. Into the nebulous heavens of blue, swing with lead breath into the divine light atop the cliffs. Find the final detour which takes you into the unknown; anywhere but home. Open your eyes to the overlooked shadows of the mountains, swim into the existence of the neglected, partake of the antidote to hum-drum existence. The tree tops beckon you to the illumination atop the world.

Part 1:The Scroll

Embryo of man stretches, pushing on the yolk of my eye. She shuts with grace to equalize the internal pressure. Fist to your eye and the world begins to slur. We’re all just swimming in this void of air, and I question my own sanity. Fall through time like the vacuum’s been set to empty, and pull up hard on them horns to take flight- God knows them two rings won’t leave it all behind easily. Swing ‘er up into the brisk, and ask nothing but to hold your breath. The roar of prehistoric beasts groan their titanium howl, and over the metal wall the scrap pasture of perpetual post-apocalyptic meager adventure beckons your trek. Somewhere a ring sounds on a oxidized ladder, and the time slows down under the gapping song of looming lights on high. They philter the air and as you feel the drenched velocity. Look for a slurred mind and a closed right eye and you’ll find me, between heaven and the tempting gates of hell. Between the Brown Day and the mammoth rolling fields of cranes and mechanical colossus, the cyborgisour specters of nightmares to the industrially wary. See me in the slur of life, when worlds collide, and the difference between the existences is indistinguishable. Along the artery of the city, and the mellody of the beast sings with the voices of friends, and in the face of the desolate, there is to only be found bliss. It’s like God jerked the scroll with grace, and we’re lost in the dream of reality. Obscured by the lost elements not sought, only to be stumbled upon by the living.

Part 3: Flying the Blue Wonderland or The Persistence of Dreams

Silhouettes of glorious trees greet us as we pant into the sky. There dwells the inhabitance of serine dreams, and in the street lights gospel they waltz beneath the stars unseen. The sifting sky breaths a sigh, a shudder of perception. The illumination of the pure breeze whisks about your ears and in the darkness of the ally there is a plummet of cement to a secular existence. The song of the dive lingers in the slopes of my ears and we slide into the stars. The sight of Veterans only furthers the persistence of dreams. A lingering giant in the sky is looks upon the droves of allotted plastic slots- some filled, some remain empty. We come upon a Rip Van Winkle valley, a buried court, shrouded in leaves and barbed wire. A yellow star hovers inanimate above the translucent walls of wire. The obsidian wave of earth is slick to the wheels, and sing a pitter patter of extraordinary paste as we sour to the Earth below. And the last of the looming lights show us out, and give us their humble regards. To the ground we sling about into the either about us. We slide down the pavement met by the nocturnal deities of the forests. And in the familiar unseen black, the shadows of trees which bind the existence of light, we make way along the dance floor continuing into the night. The spirit of America flies through the unseen green. We find our way in the night, a bone warming chill, and the song of reality, clouded by the tranquil hue of a surreal existence. We come upon home, in the valley. We are lost in the dreams of life, and we ourselves are obscured by the twilight. Keep living along in the reality, askew, salvation is as obtainable as the air is permeable, and there you can find sanctuary: in the nebulous skies and their breath about us, a blue wonder land, the milky veil sifting over the stars.

Tuesday, March 13, 2007


Anyone like the name? I personaly get a good vibe from it. السلام عليكم my bitches.

Wednesday, February 28, 2007

Don't Glimpse....

I want to slow it all down, breath easy for a while, take in the details and experience it all. I’m a man of the past and I vainly take advantage of the present. An adrenaline upheaval, kick it into gear, and give it all the gas we got. The problem with seizing the day, is that the day is a figment; leaving no impression but a somber memory of the way things once were. I’d like to walk between the raindrops, and admire every awkward stair and glance and fully address the minute aspects of our odd conversations. There isn’t enough time to feel every drop of air in my lungs, nor taste every concoction of air off the variety of pavements. Dissect it, and do all you can to understand and nurture every moment you’re given. If it’s all in the eye of the beholder, we need to let in more light! Push it, taste it, love it, fuck it, but don’t disregard it. We are in a glimpse of unobtainable beauty, a Mellon collie paradise in a half-life; we experience little and neglect the divine, and in the end, sad for loosing track of the time. We’re going to fast and the breaks are all broken, and the wheel’s pinning for some attention. We are at our prime, and it’s not ever going to be obtainable again. I’m gonna just drift for some time, kick it out of hyper-drive, twist on them tunes, and listen to you. I live to fast, so I’m gonna take it slow, breath clean for some time, or at least as much as I can. See between the molecules my friend, it’s amazing how much there is that we don’t experience. If I could I’d show you, but it’s all the more fun when you live it yourself…..Love, drew

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

200 Posts, and One Remembered Writer

So my computer died just before the twentyith so I wasn't able to cellibrate the life and legacy of our Hunter S. Thompson. But this 200th post is in dedication to him, and was ment to be posted on the 3rd anniversary of his death. Hunter, it's sad to know your gone, but we'll always remember you, you crazy mother fucker....

This final shot is a fire lit by his wife on the 20th. Thousands of people lit a fire of some kind at 6pm to remmember Hunter. You can see more images of the many who scent in images of their fire and cellibration at .

Friday, February 16, 2007

Wax on Wacks off

Read the Great Gatsby,

it's like somone stole my brain.

My ass is hot and sweaty....

god damn heaters... just make you hot and cold

fuck shaque!
Say What Drew!, I love that hunk-o-chocolate!

Thursday, February 15, 2007

Note to self

Don't drum so hard.....

Saturday, February 03, 2007

Tuesday, January 30, 2007


An abundant Bible page has stolen my identity you say. THose trecherous swine, I shall let the gates of zu zu bolin devoure their very ear follicles! And a briefcase you say? Only if we get to go out West in a pink convertable with the ol boys and Chompo the monkey-hippo!

Monday, January 15, 2007

Recipe, From Somwhere In TV Land, pt. 3

10% white wine+ 13% French ligure= a whhhhoooollle lotta fun!

FUCK Jared.....fat fuck, more meat is more important than less fat you off diet fuck. The goths at bonnaroo let me know... yeah they turned you in. Sang like shiva damn cannaries! You've let us all down. But not as much as Chompy has.....damn cruisaders. Hmm, Cruisaders, cheerleaders, cheers, norm, dani davito, midget penis, jackass 2, anal seepage, Johnny Depps acting career, made up language, the residents, constantinople, first money trade, Hamilton, Hamilton died in a duel.....GASP! THE GRASSY KNOWEL! It's time to get Leary, I'm too close to the truth, I need to turn out! Like Timmy when he had too much of the chilling

From Somewhere in TV Land pt. 2

There’s something that rekindles the memories of a pyromaniac when he inhales the Lysol which he franticly sprays its scent to overpower the sound of himself vomiting, all done in vein. A harmonica plays in the other room as I tremble trying to figure out where I’m headed. No matter as long as there’s a streetlight there.
What’s captivating about the TV. We find our fix for relief in the ever watchful eye, sending memories of splendid experiences into our minds; experiences we’ve never truly had. But we might as well have, seeing as the Clerks had them for us, or lacquer there of. Gaffigan packs as I stare at my self in the mirror; shifting in and out of my own skin. A jellyfish much be pulsing inside my eyes, obscuring my vision, making the experience even more so. I’m soo tired as I fall back into the recliner. Stavn’ Chain would itch slap me had he known I stole his Count Cholula. Cabbage babies dance in my metaphorical lawn, speaking of which: when in the history of lawns has there ever been any type of lawn other than a front lawn. So why is it so dire for some primal individuals to use both of their tendency brain cells to spit out the useless “front”.
57 is a good number for when your drunk. Applause. It’s going on one as I find that it’s near impossible to blink simultaneously anymore. At least I’m not on a quest to find my pants after having watched a sufficient quantity of porn. I wish I needed reading glasses. I also wonder the reason we find odd advertisements humorous. Could it be that we are in some ways prejudgment of individual add figments? Maybe the rat advertisement guy was mentally handicap, and did think of this revolutionary way to get his name in the source. Who are we to judge such a bohemian maverick who may have issues with the simple strategizing and solving?
My retard of a dog barks as the freezer makes ice. Is that another invention we really need? Everyone always refrigerates their beverages now, do we need ice? For what abrasions to the epidermis? We have those toxic blue slurpy in a Ziplocs for that. And if we don’t have that cause for the series of deaths across the nation amongst three year olds and retarded thirty year olds. Then use cold meet, spam works….. Stravinsky liked to eat baby shit.

Sunday, January 14, 2007

From Somewhere in TV Land pt. 1

The worlds gone black outside. A mauve air brushes its promiscuous fingers of chilled velvet across my window. Inside I dab my brain with a moist glass of wine. It's better to be a wino than a drunk. For a drunk dies, much like my grandfather, in a bed of one's own filth, crying a somber note of utter realization of a wasted life. At lest when your liver gives out from years of absorbing mediocre wine your sure to go out with a slice of dignity. I sit and reflect now. Sanctuary peaks as I recall the day gone past, wasted in a menagerie of Simpsons episodes, and megalomania's that Nick would soon come with our ticket to domination of the human race; an act carried out with burritos and phillies. There's a home made chillum made from a chess pawn sitting in my brief case. The remnants are as one could conclude as miscellaneous in nature, and arouse the up most confusion as to the reason for inclusion in our brief waft of life. I vomited only once; after realizing that white wine mixed with French liquor and gas-station hot coco isn't a good combination. My kitchen sink found that out too. I think I'll smash some Ritalin, put it in a ginseng bottle and prepare it for consumption on a date which is yet to be located, desired, perceived, or needed. But some day it will make for an anecdote to a slow day, and the medicated passenger and I will be headed into an ambush of wounded knee proportions. Our faces will illuminate as if florescent in nature and give off a hue of scarlet which would put the face of a modest young chap who has came early in his ovulating gal' by mistake to shame, (that is on a list of red faces "shitfaces-terrified".) There’s some obscene brutal home video of a couple in a trailer park poking in their meth lab suite of a home. I find out as the plot unfolds that the bitch is dead now. Some autopsy thing on the Home Box Office. We'll see where it goes after I find out why my stomach feels hot.

Tuesday, January 09, 2007

Ralphy-boy expllains Gonzo...

Gonzo makes you feel good. Banzo makes you feel bad. It's Ralph's "simple equation." Not even Hunter knew that...

Let's all give him a big round of applause...

Wednesday, January 03, 2007

Time to go back-

SO I hope eveyone had a decent first day back. We'll permiate the bitterly meager winter months with time. Soon we'll bask in jovial warmth of the soon to come summer, once we haggerdly pass the foul winter.