john trubee

In 1973, while attending Lawrenceville School, John Trubee joined Jim Nevius' Gloop Nox & The Stik People. The band existed only for a couple of years. Early 2011, John Trubee and Jim Nevius decided to reform the band to record the songs that they had written all those years ago. The recordings got released as Gloop Nox & The Stik People : Continuing Where The Beatles Left Off..." in 2015.

July 2013, John Trubee & The Ugly Janitors Of America played a rare live show at the Red Devil Lounge in SF, CA, USA.
The invitations said:
"We play a rare, live show at Red Devil Lounge, SF, CA July 27th, 2013! My nifty guitar tunes plus some exquisite covers you forgot you even knew: WHO ARE THE BRAIN POLICE, CISSY STRUT, WHITE ROOM & More!
It'd be a tragedy if you somehow missed the fantastic vibrations we with which we will saturate the air molecules perceived as amazing music to your ears!"
The band consisted of John Trubee-electric guitar * Mike Dingle-vox, percussion, Go-Go Boy * Mike McKevitt-electic bass * Andy Henning-drums * Michael Osborn-drums

* * * * * received june 2002: * * * * * "Groovy Album Titles - Free To Any Bands That Want 'em!" Copyright © 2001 John Trubee Hitler Had An Orgasm Romantic Mood Music For Rutting Warthogs Your Head On A Stick Feces Carnival Continuing Where The Beatles Left Off My Bitch Is A Whore Satan Is My Master Orgasms For Money Money Orgasms For Infantile Pigs Pornography For The Youngsters I'll Downsize Yuh, Buster! Permanent Siege Mentality Blowtorch To The Mediocrities Triumph Of The Damned Candyass Pop Crap For The Now Generation Lying Ho Stole Mah Moolah Chlamydia For Lydia Syph For Tiff Anal Warts For Annabel Schwartz Monkey At The Control Panel Horoscopes & Horror Hopes Dreams Of A Pulsating Larvae In The Space/Time Continuum Mucus Tendrils In The Limelight Massacre At Pebble Beach Orgy Of The Bovine Mannequins Teen Sexuality Revisited Heather Was Naked Bitches Buy Lawn Chairs On Sale Honey, I Shat On The Kids Infants In Business Suits Dead Monkeys For World Peace Music For Swingers To Screw By Smell My Burning Flesh
	John Trubee in Santa Barbara - 1986

	John Trubee - "Drive" - 1988
Hardcore Whiskey For The Youngsters I Don't Want To Entertain You; I Want To Kill You! Kiss My Ass, You Bitches! J.J. Walker's Incredible Ejaculation Frenzy Will You Be My Naked Sex Slave? Being Nice Allows Jackals To Devour You Submit To Rules Of Social Civility So Vampires Can Suck Your Blood Let's Talk About Our Feelings, Wring Our Hands, Emote, & Other Great Time Wasters Carnal Frolic In The Summertime Imagine Your Enemies Lying On Mortuary Slabs Dr. Laura Castrated Me! Utterly Fascinating TV Sports For The Feebleminded Bloody Charnel Houses For The Yuppie Swine Tender Emotions For Vacuous Mongoloid Parasites Eura Bitch, Bay-Buh! Eviscerating Ally McBeal For Fun & Profit The Weaklings Outnumber Us Mediocrity Is Its Own Reward Repulsive Wine Snobs Puking In Each Other's Hair The Profound Utterances Of Professional Football Players Guide Us How To Best Live Our Lives Living Among The Normals Is Like Suffocating Beneath A Stampede Of Shitting Mongoloid Infants Mewling Cyclops Baby Locked Away In An Institution Greetings From The Bottom Of The Human Socioeconomic Dungheap! Of Human Stupidity Peace And Prosperity Produce Portly Pigs (to be continued when time & imagination permit)

* * * * *
received june 2002:
* * * * *
    THIS IS DAMN SPAM. YOU KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH IT IF YOU DON'T WANT IT.

    Otherwise, in case you are interested...

    Please feel free to forward to all, post on newgroups, spread, infect, infest, stir up, annoy, promulgate, spam, replicate, reproduce, breed, copy, print, broadcast, xerox, publish, duplicate, pass out, shill, pester, sell, market, cram, mimeograph with purple ink & otherwise promiscuously fling out to help in my quest for utter global domination throughout the entire universe forever.
--FRANCIS E. DEC

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

   ORPHAN OUTSIDE THE BANQUET CDRS

   A new release of CDRs are NOW, FINALLY available for the discriminating listener. These AMAZING recordings are unavailable via retail outlets because distributors and retailers are too stupid and ignorant to recognize sublime beauty when it bites them on their asses.

   BLIND MAN'S PENIS, PRANK PHONE CALLS, & INCREDIBLY BEAUTIFUL MUSIC
   John Trubee & The Ugly Janitors of America

Self-descriptive title including BLIND MAN'S PENIS, which is out of print & unavailable everywhere except here. Also includes the original 1987 Ugly Janitors of America recording of WHEN MY SHIP ROLLS IN, weirdo prank calls going back to 1973 (!) including ZSA ZSA GABOR EARWIG, NAZI ARMY MEN, ELECTRIC BEMIS, DRUG HOTLINE IN TRENTON NJ 1980 and many more. Also includes great remixed outtakes from the WORLD OF LYING PIGS album sessions and bizarre electronic works.

   SONG DEMO FOR A HELEN KELLER WORLD
   John Trubee & The Ugly Janitors of America

    This collection of beautifully sarcastic songs was featured in Larry Wessel's critically acclaimed video documentary of the same name. Recorded at North Hollywood's Clear Lake Audio over New Year's 1999, this CDR features LITTLE BOY MELVIN RIDES AGAIN, THE RAIN KEEPS FALLING, TAKE A SHIT ON ME, TWILIGHT SONG, & more. These songs have never been performed live anywhere. This world is not worthy of them.

This wonderful assortment of songs was recorded in one day on March 12th, 2000 in the San Fernando Valley--notorious for its flourishing adult entertainment industry. We briefly rehearsed each tune, then recorded it. They have not been performed or recorded since. They are too rare and beautiful for this corrupt world. Titles include BEAUTIFUL NAKED LADY, SPANISH CALIFORNIA, HAG MARCELLA, THE WORLD'S ON FIRE, and more. Nude women, cocks, pussies, pulsating orgasms, tits, asses, DPs, orgies, & blow jobs surrounded us as we recorded this.

OBSCURE GOLD FROM THE INVISIBLE NIGGER
John Trubee & The Ugly Janitors of America

A really weird album with an insane phoned-in bizarre rant from crazy person Delmar Conley plus great tunes such as DILDO FACTORY, THEY CALL ME MISTER UGLY, electronic space music THE SOUND OF GOD SMILING, a live cover of Curtis Mayfield's MINSTREL & QUEEN, SHOP TIL YOU SHIT, and more.

The title says it all. The best calls dating from the 1970's to the 1990s--surreal blatherings elicit stunned & angry reactions from normal people who don't appreciate an insane person assaulting their deluded sense of reality.

Jennie was a bitch supervisor who fired Trubee's ass due to her congenital lack of humor. We dedicate this fine prank call album to her pissy whorishness. Groovy titles include NUDE MODELING, SQUEEGIE BLISTEX, DEMON FROM HELL 1 & 2, THE PLEXIGLASS WE DID TOGETHER, I'LL VOMIT ONYA, GREEK CULTURE, PRIVATE CLUB FOR SEXUALLY OPEN-MINDED PEOPLE, and many more.
The liner notes feature a provocative essay about the prank call ethos by Trubee.

Torturing bland normals in the San Fernando Valley, Hollywood, and beyond shortly after the exciting Los Angeles riots of 1992. Brutal humor helps to heal the brokenhearted. Can't we all just get along?

SPACE & TIME WORLD ENTERPRISES
John Trubee--President
PO Box 4921
Santa Rosa, CA 95402 USA

"UGLY JANITORS OF AMERICA FOREVER!"

    "Fuck the past!
     Fuck tradition!
     Fuck ancestor worship!
     The past must be discarded
     when it tortures the present
     and cripples the future."

                 --John Trubee

    At 3:43 a.m. I awoke from a nightmare in which I was furtively attempting to hide the body of someone a friend and I murdered.
    Then I took a shit from all those prunes I ate last night (they lyingly call them 'dried plums' nowadays--changing the name of something does not alter its essential 'itness'. Example: health used to be a perfectly suitable word-- now deviously supplanted by that New Age faggot contrivance 'wellness'. Who are these liars, these word murderers, and what are their motives?)
    Then I wrote this, my newest antipoem, my latest contribution to our civilization's understanding of diseased mental states...
     I gladly acknowledge its extravagance & ridiculousness and melodramatic, invented, playful self-loathing surrounding a quark of truth.

                THE DEVIL'S HATE POEM
                Copyright c 2002 John Trubee


                 In the midst of the night I awake
                 Quietly mouthing "I hate you
                 O how I hate you"
                 To those who deceived me
                 Shunted me aside
                 Fired me
                 Cast me asunder
                 Cast me under

                 To the smiley-faced normals of polite society
                 There needs to exist
                 An equal and opposite ballast
                 To counterbalance
                 Their hypocritical, sunshiney world.

                  I am that ballast
                  The dark man
                  The ugly one
                  He who must be punished for no reason
                  Except to expiate the sins of the hypocrites.
                  I am that proverbial fall guy,
                  The forgotten man,
                  Creep, asshole, and worse...

                  My father habitually screamed at me
                  And sent me away from the family dinner table
                  For no reason other than his rages.
                  I'm not complaining,
                  Merely explaining
                  Why I chose the devil as my defense attorney.

                  The devil is my symbol--
                  Not the devil of sorrow and distress,
                  But the devil as the image of the solitary individual
                  Persecuted by unjust authority;
                  Dr. Richard Kimble and Charlie Manson and
                  Satan and Jesus are brothers.

                  Light requires shadow
                  Day needs night
                  Happiness depends on sorrow
                  Wealth is bound to poverty
                  The wholeness of the universe
                  Requires the metaphysical linkage between polar opposites--
                  Look at Goya's paintings:
                  His chiaroscuro informs how shadow defines light
                  And vice versa.

                  This is a cliche and you know it.

                  You persecuted me
                  For no reason
                  Now I indict you and your world
                  I hate you
                 O how I hate you

                 BWAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

"Politics: a ceaseless tug of war between two teams who, despite the surface veneer of their ideological differences, are composed of identical mobs of pompous brats.
I soon lose interest in observing the tiresome antics of these diseased personalities whose foolishness flourished before I was born and will continue unabated after I die."

I hope you can open this. This film, to be aired on PBS in February, contains the hoary BMP story. Jamie came up here and filmed for it--and even flew to Nashville to 'ambush' Ramsey Kearney, the country music geezer who sang it. I'll remind yuh when it get closer to airing...
--John Trubee

>>> If you, John Trubee, forever reigning king and virtual inventor of the "Alt Song Poem" genre, were not interviewed for this documentary (see below), there is no justice in the world. As they say in the computer industry: "Bow before me, for I am root!" Incriminating evidence attached.
Keep shredding!
-- Doc
********************************

********************************
(JT and disciples, L.A. Surrealist Alliance archives, circa 1985, Lhasa Club)

OFF THE CHARTS: THE SONG-POEM STORY, will air nationally on the new PBS series
INDEPENDENT LENS on February 11th (2003) at 10PM.

Day of the Locust meets American Idol in Jamie Meltzer's debut film, OFF THE CHARTS: THE SONG POEM STORY, a fascinating, at times unsettling, documentary that exposes the strange underworld of the song-poem industry. In this
little known subculture, "ordinary people" respond to come-on ads on the back pages of magazines ("Send in Your Lyrics and Make $50,000 in royalties!"), mailing in their heartfelt but often bizarre poems to "music industry" companies that, for a fee, turn those poems into real recordings.
Through interviews with several song-poem writers, the jaded producers and musicians who set their words to music, and a few of the growing number of zealous song-poem connoisseurs, OFF THE CHARTS explores a truly unique, never-before-seen slice of Gothic Americana.

"Someone observing a tradition for the sake of tradition
   is not unlike a 30 year old clinging onto a teddy bear
   for a feeling of comfort and security.

   Fuck tradition.
   Fuck convention.
   Fuck social propriety.
   Fuck the rules
   and those who torture you with them."

                  --John Trubee

James Coburn died yesterday.

He got more money and pussy
than you or I ever got.

     Now maybe some of that money and pussy
     will trickle down
                              .
                              .
                              .
                              .
                              .
                              .
                              .
     to us impoverished, unfortunate beggars.

Let's celebrate!

OFF THE CHARTS: THE SONG-POEM STORY by San Francisco filmmaker Jamie Meltzer
will premiere february 11, 2003, in san francisco

Jamie Meltzer's debut film, OFF THE CHARTS: THE SONG POEM STORY is a fascinating, at times unsettling, documentary that exposes the strange underworld of the song-poem industry. In this little known subculture, "ordinary people" respond to come-on ads on the back pages of magazines ("Send in Your Lyrics and Make $50,000 in royalties!"),
> mailing in their heartfelt but often bizarre poems to "music industry" companies that, for a fee, turn those poems into real recordings.
Through interviews with several song-poem writers, the jaded producers and musicians who set their words to music, and a few of the growing number of zealous song-poem connoisseurs, OFF THE CHARTS explores a truly unique, never-before-seen slice of Gothic Americana. OFF THE CHARTS will air nationally on PBS on February 11 (check local listings.)

Like a warped fun-house mirror, the song-poem industry has run parallel to the mainstream music business for close to a century; it's estimated that over 200,000 song-poems have been recorded since 1900. The genre's durability can be traced to three of our deepest American desires - to be in show business, to get rich quick, and to share and express our deepest feelings. We meet several of the "songwriters" - from an elderly woman to a young African-American man to a small-town Iowan with big-time dreams - each of whom has been in the "business" for awhile, churning out odd compositions that cover the waterfront of American obsessions, from Jesus to genitalia, from politics to Elvis. We also meet the producers (often known as song-sharks) who hold out the tantalizing promise of fame to their eager customers, and the has-been musicians who sit in studios, day after day and year after year, interpreting some of the weirdest lyrics ever written. Through fellow musicians and his son, Ellery Eskelin, one of the most eloquent fans of song-poem records, we learn about the life and tragic death of the man aficionados consider the greatest song-poem interpreter of all time, Rodney Keith Eskelin. Using a variety of stage names, this would-be classical composer brought an eerie beauty to many of the song-poems he recorded before ending his career and life by jumping onto a Hollywood freeway.

As filmmaker Meltzer says, "The beauty of Song-Poems is that they are a result of the intersection, or collision, of ordinary people's expressions and the desires of musicians/businesses to make a quick buck, making the music as fast as they can, usually in one take. When those two forces combine, they create strangely compelling songs that are unlike anything you've ever heard." Shocking, funny, and heart-wrenching all at once, OFF THE CHARTS is a fascinating look at one of the strangest subcultures in our American landscape.

Stevie Wonder's penis is erect because he's blind. This ludicrous line was invented out of sheer boredom and homicidal frustration as I labored as a cashier in a convenience store in Princeton, New Jersey, in 1975. I'd scribble some poems and weird phrases on a legal pad to vent my seething anguish. Writing on the job was a kind of self-invented therapy to prevent the onset of mental illness due to occupational stress and severe teenage alienation.
In late spring of 1976, I bought one of those horrible sleazy tabloids you find in supermarkets by the check-out stand. I had to keep up on my UFO sightings and mass hatchet murders.

In the back pages of the Midnight Globe (not the National Enquirer, as erroneously reported elsewhere -- was it Time?), I scanned the geeky little ads and saw: "Cowrite on a 50-50 basis, earn $20,000 royalties, send your song poems to ..." some outfit in Nashville, Tennessee. I thought to myself: wouldn't it be fun to send these people the most ridiculous, stupid, vile, obscene, retarded Iyrics to see their response?

In five minutes of stream of consciousness (or unconsciousness), I hammered out the following:

I got high last night on LSD
My mind was beautiful, and I was free
Warts loved my nipples because they are pink
Vomit on me, baby
Yeah Yeah Yeah.

Stevie Wonder's penis is erect because he's blind
It's erect because he's blind, it's erect because he's blind
Stevie Wonder's penis is erect because he's blind
It's erect because he is blind

Let's make love under the stars and watch for UFOs
And if little baby Martians come out of the UFOs
You can fuck them
Yeah Yeah Yeah.

The zebra spilled its plastinia on bemis
And the gelatin fingers oozed electric marbles
Ramona's titties died in hell
And the Nazis want to kill everyone.

I wanted to get an emotional letter from the jerks in Nashville. I wanted them to tell me I was crazy. I wanted them to curse me out in writing so I could show all my friends.

We have just received your lyrics and think they are very worthy of being recorded with the full Nashville Sound Production. ... I am enclosing a contract of acceptance. Please sign and return along with $79.95 to cover the cost for each song to be completed ...

They wanted my money. If I sent them the money, they would send me a tape and a record of my lyrics set to music. Although $79.95 was a lot to a minimum wage teenager, I signed the "contract of acceptance" and returned it with a check. Several weeks later I received a 7-inch, 45 RPM record that had a label and grooves only on one side.
Typed on the white label was "Peace & Love" (John Trubee-Will Gentry). I immediately rushed upstairs and put this little gem on the turntable for a listen. Over the lamest, most minimal country track was some country hack singing the lyrics I wrote. I was stunned.

They did change one line, though -- they excised all mention of Stevie Wonder and had the singer croon repeatedly "A blind man" instead.

Also enclosed with the disc (actually an acetate) was a photograph of Ramsey Kearney, the guy who sang the damned thing. Wearing a butterfly-print polyester shirt, Ramsey looked like the perfect man to sing these demented lyrics.

Several weeks later, Nashville sent a teeny 3-inch reel tape of the song in extreme stereo -- one channel had only the prerecorded rhythm track while the other channel featured Ramsey singing those idiot lyrics with a little slap-back echo thrown in.

For years I had recorded hours of tapes of my teenage band, prank phone calls, studio demo tapes, synthesizer blurbles, and various recordings of an unusual nature. I wanted all this hard work to be heard, and I loved distributing my tapes simply to annoy people and sometimes even to enlighten or entertain them. I am a music fanatic, a recording fanatic, and I needed to get this material out. It was my response to a world that seems always to have told me that I am small and worthless. Putting out music for the hell of it was my way of giving the finger to a universe indifferent to my existence.

In December 1982, I received a call at work from Ron Stringer, guitarist for the Fibonaccis, an L.A. art band. Earlier that year at a gig at Al's Bar, I had given him a John Trubee sampler cassette, which contained my Nashville prank song, "Peace & Love." Ron evidently played the tape for record producer Craig Leon, who was helping the Fibonaccis release their song "Tumors" on vinyl. Craig liked "Peace & Love" so much that he wanted to release it as a 45.

Craig managed to have the record pressed by Enigma, a new indie label based in a warehouse in Torrance, CA. I got 50 free promo copies of the record. We didn't discuss any specific deal. Any sort of greed, bitchery, money hassles, or small-minded haggling might have discouraged Enigma from marketing my record. I felt that they were doing me a favor by bothering to press it and give me some free copies. In retrospect, this attitude was one of profound naivete borne of youthful inexperience.

When I drove to Torrance one night after work to pick up the 50 copies of my beautiful record, some guy from Greenworld (Enigma's distribution company) approached me and, referring to the 250 copies they had pressed, said, "We already invested $20 in this record, and we don't want to have anything more to do with it."

The records were in plain white sleeves and had blank white labels. For $16 I had four rubber stamps made at a stationery store so I could stamp each record with the pertinent information. I also bought several hundred plastic record sleeves from a local Licorice Pizza and designed and photocopied my own little cover to insert along with the record.

With my original 50 copies, I did a promotional mailing to Dr. Demento and various radio stations, not expecting any response whatsoever.

I sent a copy to Los Angeles TV vampiress Elvira aka Cassandra Peterson who at the time hosted a show at progressive radio station KROQ-FM in Pasadena. She sent a postcard explaining that she'd attempt to play the record on her show, but she wasn't sure she would be able to due to the offensive lyric content. I shrugged it off, put her postcard in my files, and forgot about it.

That Sunday, Zoogz Rift, in whose band I played bass, called and told me to quickly turn on KROQ. I did so and was astounded to hear them play my wicked little ditty. The enlightened and godlike DJs at KROQ thereafter regularly played it and it spread across the country to innumerable college stations.

Enigma re-pressed the record, adding it to their catalogue and christening it with the new moniker "A Blind Man's Penis," even designing a groovy little label for it. Matt Groening (in his incarnation as a music critic years before he created 'The Simpsons') devoted his entire Sound Mix column in the Reader, a weekly Los Angeles tabloid, to the convoluted story of how 'Blind Man's Penis' came into existence. Matt's article was brought to the UK by music journalist Barney Hoskyns who arranged to have it reprinted in NME, further spreading the infamy of my serendipitous teenage prank.

I'm currently working on my second Enigma LP with my band, the Ugly Janitors of America. You, too, Mister Composer/Musician, can put out records if you bother to go to the trouble of sending obscene lyrics and suicide notes through the U.S. Postal Service as I did. The obsolete and idiotic machinery of the music industry requires the irreverent pranks of ugly outsiders if it is to survive its keening descent into hermetically-sealed grayness, smug mediocrity, and tortured self-destruction by endlessly redigesting its own putrid bodily wastes.

john trubee shares the following:

Hey You Kids -- Feel free to use these album titles when your groovy band releases its groovy music!

Hippies Shooting Up Heroin

Bloody Rampage Of The Rogue Policemen

Bloody Execution Of The Rogue Policemen

Obese, Infantile Yuppies Pushing Themselves

In Front Of You To The Head Of The Line

Little Miss Vomithead

Naked Barbie's Carnal Frolic

Murderers Run Free Forever

> And here's the quote for the day:
"Be grateful for the small things because one day you'll be left with nothing at all."
--John Trubee

John Trubee with mom at cousin's wedding - Yosemite, California - 1981

----- Original Message -----
From: "John V Trubee" <crawlingwageslave@juno.com>
Sent: Friday, March 28, 2003
Subject: What Proper Socialization Has Taught Us

   "You should always allow fear to circumscribe
   the parameters of your life and you always ought
   to heed public opinion and the approval of others---
   for everyone else is always right and you are always
   shit wrong."

    (Excerpted from 'Diary of A Craven Weakling')

    "All the tyrants of the world
     Always kill us every day
     We gotta rise on up
     And blast them down
     And feed their bloody corpses
     To our starving dogs."

      chorus from 'Take A Shit On Me'
      Copyright c 1999 John Trubee

      I wrote this song specifically for events such as those which have transpired today.

    "Is the individual forever to be crushed
     beneath the wheels of commerce?"
                                  --John Trubee

     (reflecting on the current legal action against
      Unocal Corporation for its collusion with the
      junta in Myanmar which raped, killed, and
      tortured people)


    "Every word is a lie." --John Trubee

     (reflecting on the idea espoused by philosophers
      that words and language parses out our
      experience of reality into discrete bits so that we
      are unable to perceive the universe as one whole
      thing as does a god or a newborn infant.)


John Trubee
PO Box 4921
Santa Rosa Ca 95402 USA
"A junkyard dog staked to a short chain
  chasing himself in tight circles of sorrow and madness."

John Trubee said:
“Old pal Bob Dubrow is interviewing me for LA-based SCRAM Magazine. He's feeding me the questions in chunks. You may not be interested in all this crap so please forgive the intrusion.
Forgive the rambling. Forgive the profanity. Or maybe not. Maybe you like those things..."

Trubee: His name was MIKE Trainor. And what about him? He was a fucked up little shitwad, that's what.
I was the camp bugler--I blew reveille at dawn and taps at twilight and meal calls throughout the day. I wasn't a really great horn player but I was all they had. I had taken trumpet lessons in school at my mother's insistence.
Mike Trainor one day was visiting the camp--he wasn't a regular camper at the time although he had been in earlier years. He showed up off of the Greyhound bus onto which his stepdad had shoved him just to be rid of him--at least for a while. Trainor stole the bugle I was using to sound calls (the bugle was camp property) and he pissed all over it--in it and on it. I had done nothing to goad him into this--this was a clever little stunt he dreamed up himself. I remember taking the
bugle down to the lake and swimming with it for a long time, repeatedly rinsing it with soap and flushing it with water--and it still stank of piss!
Evidently the powerful nitrogen compounds, ammonia, and uric acid in Trainor's piss had permanently bonded with the bugle's tarnished brass oxide, rendering it a new, hybrid musical instrument redolent of the potent urine stink of little brat Mikey.
Trainor was shortly thereafter put on an outbound Greyhound bus by head counselor Jim Duggan to ensure no more wanton damage to camp property by Little Asshole Mikey.

Q: When you say "Stay the fuck away unless you can be civil & decent," isn't that just another way of saying "I don't want you around unless you can accept me as a human being worthy of respect?" This is what I mean by acceptance. You know, John, you talk a very hard game in this interview and in your poems and song lyrics but I know you to be a gentle and giving person. How do you reconcile that person with the angry posturing persona you present to the world in your art?

Trubee: There are 6 billion human beings on earth. We all have different temperaments and proclivities. We are all 6 billion unique individuals, different as snowflakes. We like to say of human beings that we are social creatures and require social interaction to be fully integrated, healthy, and human---but not all of us need the same QUANTITY of human interaction. I prefer as little human interaction as possible, as the tenor of my life experiences informs me that other human beings in general cause me greater sorrow and distress than happiness.
My greatest joy in life is creating music for which I need absolute solitude. I cannot dream or reflect or think for my projects with another person around distracting my thoughts. There's not a lot of people with whom I enjoy hanging out and the ones that I do hang with on occasion must be brilliant or talented or insightful or be an alienated freak.
For instance, not too long ago I spent a day in San Francisco hanging out in succession with 3 friends---Dennis Kitsz, an amazing composer & renaissance man; Brently Pusser, a longtime musician friend from Texas; and Kaos Kitty aka Kaosmik McKitty, an extraordinary performance artist and singer with a brilliant sense of humor and an astounding intelligence.
I also enjoy hanging out with Carl Franzoni and Catherine Huberty-- both of whom are talented poets and artists and photographers.
I also chat regularly by phone with Zoogz Rift who verbally gores me and mocks virtually everything I say and I brutalize back at him-- yet we are still great friends.
I'm choosy about people with whom I hang out. They must be amazing.

The above sounds brutally snobbish and elitist and aristocratic-- so be it. I am a rarified aristocrat of my own world. I have learned to be discriminating and selective. It's my coping mechanism.
He who is rejected learns to reject--and to discriminate.

That part of me which is warm and vulnerable I'd like to kill. It works against me when I'm negotiating for things I want-- especially with women. My heart is a happy dog which escapes his kennel at inopportune moments. My brain, the brutal Nazi, then goes to reign him in and stuff him back into his kennel where his drooling love can't thwart my need for toughness and clear thinking.
By then it's too late and the woman gives me the "let's just be friends" cliched bullshit routine and then goes on to fuck the heartless shitheels and moronic mediocrities of the earth.
This is why the world is full of shitheels and mediocrities.

Q: What were you reading during those early-mid teen years? And who were your guitar heroes and why?

Huxley's 'Doors of Perception' and 'Brave New World', 'The Book' by Alan Watts, 'Listen, Little Man!' by Wilhelm Reich (a heartfelt tirade against the unnecessary cruelties of the world), '1984' by George Orwell, and other groovy subversive stuff.
I have no guitar heroes now. Heroes are for kids. We ought to emulate those qualities we most admire rather than vicariously admiring them in others. We all ought to live heroically every single day. Kids need to admire heroes because they require external models upon which to model their future behavior.
The term 'hero' in conjunction with a guy who plays guitar amazingly well is a misnomer. A hero risks himself for the welfare of others or to accomplish some formidable task. He shows courage by overcoming a potent fear of something dangerous. We all have fears; the hero overcomes his fears to accomplish something difficult and dangerous which often benefits others.
A great guitar player overcomes stage fright, maybe, and works his ass off to play ethereally---but this is not heroism in the true sense of the word.

Nonetheless, since you asked, I GREATLY ENJOY the guitar emissions of Eric Clapton from his Cream/Blind Faith/Derek & The Dominos glory days. When he became a junkie it sucked all the fire out of his playing. His guitar playing ever since his heroin rehab 3 decades ago is that of a tired and jaded and spoiled rock star. Sorry, Eric.

I love Hendrix's playing. Too bad he choked on his vomit. Drug abuse does that sometimes. I visited his grave in Renton, Washington like a ghoulish groupie.

Zappa, of course. I love his guitar playing and his prolific and amazingly varied musical output. For that I'll forgive his idiotic foray into politics (leave politics to the assholes who thrive on it), that he was an insufferable control freak, and that he occasionally said stupid things such as stating his belief that smoking has no connection to cancer.

Steve Vai, too, is an amazing guitarist. I met him a few times. The Ugly Janitors of America played on the same bill as his band at a Hollywood club eons ago.

Q: What was the genesis of the wild cartoon drawings you were doing at the time? Man, that stuff was just hilarious and shocking, in much the same way your prank phone calls were at the time. What was it that spurred you on to draw in this way and pick up the phone to "express yourself" to strangers on the other end?

I remember drawing pictures of 19th century sailing vessels when I was 7, 8, 9. I don't know what fascinated me about them. Maybe something romantic--that they represented a voyage and as a kid I was on the cusp of a great voyage--the journey of life.
Perhaps I started drawing the idiotic cartoon characters saying and doing idiotic things to be offensive and stupid to those around me.
I hated the adult world--their obsession with money and possessions, their grave lack of humor, their need to stifle any spark of life and spontaneity in their children, their incessant joylessness and Nazification of all life's grand purposes into some sort of control game in which we must always submit to others, heed the rules, keep up appearances, worry about what the asshole neighbors think, and become the soulless drones, the pod people, of 'Invasion of the Body Snatchers'.
The adult world was forever commanding me to sit down and shuttup.
It said I had no value except as a passive pawn in their scheme of things. I absolutely hated all their bullshit.

If this was what "society" was all about, I wanted no part of it. I felt a great chasm, a huge disparity between the values foisted upon me by my elders and what I felt was really vital and important in life. I needed to spew out my rage and disgust with their world and how I perceived it. People traditionally ignore and disparage children---yet children have thoughts and feelings which need to heard. There was a vast gulf between what I was told by my elders and how I experienced the world.

My obnoxious drawings were the only safe way I could say 'fuck you' to the world of mediocre normalcy and not get killed or locked in an institution. If I lacked creative outlets I would have killed somebody a long time ago.

The prank calls grew out of my fascination with tape recorders in the early 70's. I was getting interested in music and recording--- trying to discover how music was assembled, how things got recorded. I experimented recording my band "Gloop Nox & The Stik People'---sometimes micing amps, sometimes direct lining them, getting all sorts of awful noises from impedance mismatches, using crappy, cheap mixers from Radio Shack---4 pots and 4 inputs and 2 outs and nothing else! I obsessed about someday getting into a real recording studio. I still, to this day, have regular night dreams about recording my music and making records--I can't get it out of my system. They have supplanted what few yearning sex dreams I occasionally have. The dream women always leave me waking with a sense of sad longing. Now I long to get this music out of me or else I'll die.

Before I started recording my teen band I'd tape prank calls and send the cassette to you---then you and your brother John and the dipshit Axelrod brothers would erase over the cassette, record your own prank calls, then send 'em back to me. We lost hours of great early prank calls this way---but I have a number of the cassettes still in my archives--dating back to 1972! 31 fucking years! Jesus!
I recorded the prank calls out of a fascination with tape recorders and from the impish impulses typical of adolescent boys being awash in their first huge waves of testosterone. I wanted to start shit, I wanted to topple the established order, I was a moneyless slave in my Father's house crushed by rules and authoritarian imperatives.
I wanted to pull it all crashing down--not unlike a young ape chafing to subvert and attack and destroy the alpha male of his ape clan.
I discovered I could prank call a stranger, fuck around with him, record the whole madness for future amusement, to distribute by making and disseminating copies (essentially publishing), and this was as exciting and liberating to me as it would be for an inmate on death row to discover a secret escape tunnel from his cell the evening before his execution.
What prank calls taught me is that the rules are not ironclad--they only have the power over you that YOU ALLOW the assholes with their rules to have over you. Reality is malleable. Human interaction is subject to some of MY RULES and MY precepts for interaction-- that I could be the instigator, the creator of reality in the minds of others, that human social interaction is a game into which I could inject some of my play and madness and rage rather always being a passive slave at the mercy of THE RULES of others.
That I was able to record my prank calls and not be caught and suffer horrible shit consequences and die in Hell forever as implied by my elders let me start not allowing myself to not be so intimidated by them, as they were obviously full of shit.

At this stage of our email interview John decided he wanted to get the thing over with quickly
(I wanna get stuff completed, vociferously obtain goals, and get on to other groovy stuff in life pleading for my attention--John Trubee)
...and then suggested 10 questions of his own that I should ask him about his life now and his present-day opinion on world events.
I reminded him that the original idea behind this feature was to explore the life of Trubee the adolescent misfit. His response:

JOHN: Rules, rules, rules. Do you want to hear about an unexeptional childhood decades ago I can barely remember or do you want a fascinating and provocative read to present to SCRAM's readers?

BOB: I always thought you were radically unusual back then, which in my mind is something exceptional (So what?--It never helped me get laid--JT). I lived for those stuffed packages you'd regularly send me full of your cartoons and prank call cassettes and crap you'd pick off the street...although I could've done without the dried used condoms (THAT I PICKED UP OFF THE STREET!--JT) included in there. What's so fascinating and provocative about how you are living now compared to 30 years ago? I know you are freer, thanks to being long removed from the authoritarian thumb of your family situation. But I know you've been living in an extremely cramped hovel for many years,
(I'm so very sorry that the real estate prices costs in Sonoma County are obscene; median house prices here are $445k--and when I am ever able to buy a house it must be on my own single income and without family help. ON PRINCIPLE I cannot allow myself to be like one of the myriad weaklings who surround me who cravenly depend on other people for the necessities of life. I MUST NEVER BE WEAK IN A WORLD WHICH FOREVER SEEKS TO KILL ME.--John Trubee)
working shit jobs,
(I greatly apologize that they didn't hire me for that CEO position at Enron and all those other spiffy, plush jobs people traditionally glom onto through padding their resumes and kissing the asses of influential friends of their parents and their college buddies in high places.
I deeply apologize for not being a liar.
I deeply apologize for not being a parasitic asskisser.
I deeply apologize for blasting bloodily naked and alone
through this world to carve out a modest piece for myself.
Please forgive me, Bob.--JT)
and barely scraping up enough money to be able to get into a studio to create the music that's so important to you.

(I apologize that the record labels refuse to sodomize me in exchange for recording budgets. I'm sorry I am too strong and proud to ever beg anyone for anything.--JT)

BOB: Let's be a little conservative and say you have about 30 more years left to live, close to the same amount of time it's been since teenagedom. What will have to happen for you to be able to look back and say the life you lived was indeed exceptional?

JOHN: I don't look back; I don't bask, I don't gloat, I don't feel smug, I don't give a damn about things I've done in the past other than trying to garner royalties and license fees from my past works to help fund future projects. Please download my music and prank call albums at Emusic.com, dear readers!
Look at my past life and gloat in print over it? I'd sooner take a shit in public! So I'll gloat anyway:

I am very happy, though, I did get record contracts after lusting after them for years. Getting that deal for my first album was more significent than losing my virginity--and I thought about it more and worked harder on getting that record contract than I ever did to get laid.
EVERYONE EVENTUALLY gets laid but nobody ever made an album as obnoxious and fucked up as 'The Communists Are Coming To Kill Us!'
Not even idiot Kim Fowley has ever made such a fucked-up record!

I'm glad I put out my music my way without ever compromising with music biz cretins. I never had a manager or mentor or money people to whom I was answerable--so I never had to answer to anyone else's shit. To me that is success.

I am beholden to no one in onerous deals either in business or in my personal life. No one blackmails me, no one is clever enough to lure me into a shitty situation, and I am too aware and too Spartan and too ferocious in my temperament to be lured by the the empty toys and lucre and manipulative cutie pies who commonly con lesser men.

If you gave me a choice between a life devoid of music and a life devoid of sex I'd happily give up sex.
Music is the greatest high; women often disappoint me.

My dealings with women leave me so profoundly sad sometimes-- other times in grotesque internal agony when my emotions become unfortunately engaged to she whose indifference renders her unworthy of my meaningless suffering.

If you contrast all the shit and timewaste you crawl through to get laid (MAYBE, JUST MAYBE, IF SHE HAPPENS TO BE IN THE MOOD)---with the pure joy of making music on whatever level, without having to suffer the caprices of another human being to create the music---there is no comparison.

I'm trying to ween myself off of newspapers. I have required a daily print fix for years--even now when much of what I read concerns petty partisan political bickering, fanatics in the Middle East killing each other since I was a kid, polls exposing the depressing ignorance and stupidity of the American public, celebrity gossip detailing which famous mediocrity is comingling their genitals with another like mediocrity, meaningless data on where the market went today, pro athletes mouthing barely articulate inanities about how their stupid team is gonna do this season, and orgasmic reviews about new movies that make me cringe with disgust whenever I ever weaken enough to see one.

I often walk out of movies or shut off my VCR when I feel the movie is wasting time out of my life. I have big problems going into a video store to rent a video because I don't see the movies as something desirable. I see MOST movies as LIABILITIES. I look at all the videos on the shelves and think to myself "What here is worth wasting 2 hours out of my life for?" I hang onto to my 2 hours of life rather than the meaningless lifetime squandering on vapid "entertainment".

It's as if we are a culture of stunted babies needing to be entertained---pathetic, obese, retarded infants drooling before flashing screens of images which mean nothing. This is not how life ought to be lived. The timewaste of entertainment watching steals from us great potentialities we ought to develop within ourselves.

In a related vein I once told my niece Jillian that smart people read books and dumb people watch TV. My brother and his wife thereafter noticed that Jillian was constantly reading and eschewed TV watching. When they asked her why she said "Because of what Uncle Johnny said." Thank God I don't have children--I'm certain they'd be scarier than I am.

I must ALSO filter out the meaningless diversions normal guys crave--card games, socializing, TV, fixing the car, hanging out, movies, sports bullshit, family life, women--to have time to do the music projects which fascinate the hell out of me.

If I fuck around on guitar for an afternoon on my day off and FINALLY get a few melodic fragments and some rough harmonizations for a viable song that SOMEDAY MIGHT be recorded--then this is the price I'm glad to pay for that which I love.

This is why we pay songwriters, kids, and why the RIAA is going after those who do illegal Internet music downloads: because songwriters sacrifice TIME out of their lives in speculative, sacrificial days devoid of the comforts of normal life and pussy to create organized sounds which you might someday pay to hear if they can ever afford to get their works properly recorded and published. If they're lucky. Maybe.

If someone gets enjoyment out of the the music--damn right the songwriter wants to get paid for it! We gotta eat and pay rent, too, damnit!

Ok--here's a rough work in progress based on a dream I dreamt last year:

       In The Dreamscapes of My Slumber
       Copyright c 2003 John Trubee

       I be lost from this world
       You cannot torture me now
       I've descended into the realm of science fiction dreams

       Of incandescent skycraft swooshing overhead
       Over impoverished refugees frighteneded on the boats
       Escaping on the waters
       Escaping on the waters

        I have dreamt of teeny dancing creatures
        In tiny plastic bottles
        Shrieking for their freedom
        To a world that doesn't hear
        To a world that never hears

        I have dreamt of luscious naked women
        At country club orgies
        Who evaded me forever
        The most repulsive man
        In the entire universe

        And I have dreamt of cripples
        Severely wounded, crippled, retarded
        Only parts of human being propped up in wheelchairs
        Scarcely sustained in dark wards of hidden hospitals
        In the dreamscapes of my sleep...

The UGLY JANITORS OF AMERICA will play live at Kimo's, 1351 Polk at Pine in San Francisco, CA, on Friday evening, June 4th, 2004 at 10:00 PM (the first set). Cover charge? Don't know--bring money $$$.

The UGLY JANITORS OF AMERICA is John Trubee's band, the purpose of which is to perform and record his original compositions. Founded in 1983 in North Hollywood, CA to flesh out the contractual obligations Mr. Trubee entered into with Enigma Records, the band still roars along, cranking out groovy sounds for the now generation. Never dependent upon managers, lawyers, music biz shysters, and control freak money people, THE UGLY JANITORS OF AMERICA have made a number of their cosmically beautiful recordings available for Internet download at Emusic.com. Also available at that site are those idiotic and obnoxious prank call recordings by John Trubee.

I cannot see or recognize that oft-cited grand hallucination
known as "society". I only perceive and interrelate with
individual human beings.

When I see a human being unhappy because he or she
feels compelled to conform to the conventions of "society"
I tell him or her "Make yourself happy first. Why ought you
torture yourself over the implied rules of an imaginary entity?"

What kind of world would we live in if it was filled with unhappy
human beings? Probably the kind of world in which we
currently reside.

I prefer to live in a world of happy individuals. I first start by
making myself happy; then, if I see someone making himself
miserable over the conventions of "society" I attempt to make
him or her aware that they are torturing themselves over a
collective hallucination.

If "society" does exist and if its welfare is so important to us,
and if "society" is composed of individual human beings, then
wouldn't the happiness of those individual human beings lead to
and ensure a happy "society"?

Also--why do so many people value the welfare of the grand,
collective hallucination "society" over the happiness of specific,
individual human beings with whom they daily interrelate?

PRESS RELEASE - november 2004

John Trubee, leader of the rock band THE UGLY JANITORS OF AMERICA, will give a live musical performance with longtime UGLY JANITOR OF AMERICA vocalist Mark Langton, as well as give an antipoetry rant and proffer bizarre philosophical musings at MR. T's in Highland Park, California on Saturday evening, December 4th, 2004. Mr. Trubee will also relate the amazingly weird story of how he landed his first record contract with Enigma Records for his LP 'The Communists Are Coming To Kill Us!"

The performance is sponsored in conjunction with the recent publication of 'Lost In The Grooves' by Kim Cooper and... published by...in which the story of 'The Communists Are Coming To Kill Us!' is featured, and is the live LA event in a series of international celebrations for 'Lost in the Grooves'.

Other performers at Mr. T's are the Fleagles (writer Edwin Letcher's band, playing songs by the Wylde Mammoths, about whom he wrote), the Supreme Dicks (written about in LITG), writer Brooke Alberts w/ Dave Soyars (playing songs by her essay subjects Mr Fox and Roy Harper) and writer Jackson Del Rey (aka Phil Drucker, ex-Savage Republic, doing a tribute to Monitor, who a different writer covered for the book).

In addition to this performance, John Trubee is currently producing a recording project entitled 'SORROW' with his band, and he produced and promoted the world premiere of his opera 'HAWAIIAN TAN RATFACE' in San Francisco earlier this year.

Mr. Trubee is featured in the recent independent film documentary 'Off The Charts: The Song Poem Story' about the murky song shark industry which was nationally broadcast last year on PBS and shown in film festivals in the United States and abroad. Mr. Trubee is also featured in the film 'Jandek On Corwood' which is currently playing the film festival circuit
here and overseas. Both films have been commercially released on DVD.

      Lost In The Grooves publication event
      Saturday evening, December 4th, 2004
      Mr. T's, 5621 1/2 Figueroa, Highland Park, CA, usa
      (near 57th Ave., park in the rear)

UGLY JANITORS OF AMERICA musicians Art Jarvinen and MB Gordy play tonight in Pasadena if you have the time or interest:

Come enjoy some nouveau-retro surf music at the closing party of TEN! featuring new works by ten cool artists.

January 2, 2005
5:00 pm to 7:00 pm
The Armory Center for the Arts
145 N. Raymond in Old Pasadena
Newtown (626) 398-9278
The Armory (626) 792-5101

"Overconfidence and unreflective optimism are borne of inexperience, incuriosity, and a dearth of knowledge. Beware of the strutting men of action."

"I'd rather speak my mind than win the popularity contest. That popular people are popular implies that they think of nothing provocative to express or that they, like craven weakling ninnies, muffle it in deference to favorable public opinion."

"It is preferable to have nothing to lose. It encourages you to do colorful and outrageous and provocative things. This is preferable to existing merely as a bland, conformist, mediocre normal terrified of the opinions of others."

"We are essentially naked against eternity, and time eventually blows us and everything we own to the winds not unlike a passing, indifferent foot crushing an ant colony. Our tortured and incessant clawing after money is laughably meaningless in the face of eternity."

"The reward for working hard and playing by the rules: they give you permission to exist for another day so that they can continue to steal more time from your life."

"Nobody likes whiners and complainers; thus I have taught myself to automatically parrot 'Great! Great! That's great!' in insincere social blandishments in order to avoid being murdered before my time."

"The difference between normal people and me is I possess the ability to remove my blinders to face grim, despairing reality with utter joy and unperturbed confidence. Normal people kill themselves when circumstances and new information force them to countenance reality devoid of socially-induced delusions."

I've noticed that many mornings I awaken angry. Not a full-throttle rage nor a specific upset; rather, the nebulous snit of a resting body that wishes to remain resting, a body that realizes it's tromping a treadmill of meaningless activity just for the money.
If you pause to consider that so much of our waking life is monopolized by JUST GETTING MONEY to support our existence, while so many of our wants and needs and goals and dreams are interminably postponed for this endless circle of meaningless activity just to get the money, just to live another day, just to trudge through the meaningless circle yet again innumerable times--if you dwelled upon it too much it'd drive you mad! Our invaluable lifetimes are forever squandered in empty cycles of absurdity.

Get the money to eat to live another day to get the money to eat to live another day to get the money to eat to live another day to...

In the realm of dreams the body/mind continuum considers what it needs and wants; the alarm clock informs us only of what we HAVE to do. It resists, the body resents the clock and the imperative of external expectations, the body dances this eternal circle as if in a zombie's dream.

You mean the endless hours we waste doing things we find meaningless is worth it all for those green pieces of paper? Only because other zombified, conformist idiots around us say so?

You mean the eternal cycle that finally ends in death has meaning because you put a few numbers in your bank account for a little while? You mean that makes it all worthwhile? That makes your life meaningful?

My loyalty to employers that dumped me with no notice was well-placed because, hey, I got a few bucks out of it so it was all worth my time, thought, energy, and effort?
Cleaning the toilets at Roscoe Hardware was great for me because I got $9 an hour (MONEY IS ALL THAT MATTERS!) and I exemplified the work ethic as Readers Digest says I ought to to be a good citizen? Collective, social imperatives and values trump individual, subjective ones? I'm so glad that cleaning Roscoe's toilets is so much higher than my music.
Glenn laid me off the day before Thanksgiving, 1991 with no warning. But by God, I made $9 an hour! What a good boy was I! MONEY IS ALL THAT MATTERS! This made it all so wonderful and meaningful. I had multiple orgasms whenever I saw my paycheck on Friday!

I am not indicting the need to make money in order to live in physical bodies. I am pointing out the meaninglessness of the activities we perform for fickle, indifferent employers for green pieces of paper that ultimately, in the grand scheme of things, all blow away in the wind.

It's utterly pathetic meaninglessness. Some people look to God for meaning. I don't. I look to beauty and art and music for meaningful aesthetic experiences.

My point is this: is this ALL that life is all about?
Is this pathetic trudgery for money the joyless end-all and be-all of everything in life?

I humbly submit that you have not thought this all through yet. I HAVE chewed on this shit for YEARS.

I get really happy when writing and playing my music. My bank statements look like meaningless shit next to it.

Money is merely the means, not an end.
Those to whom it is an end have empty souls.
Look at Kenny Boy Lay and Andrew Fastow and all those other Enron assholes.
Look at Healthsouth & Tyco & WorldCom and Arthur Anderson.

What a buck of fucking creeps.
Their God was money.
THEY are examples of that to which we all ought to aspire?

Money is merely a tool for storing value to do certain things. Woe be to the myriad desiccated souls whose orgasm and obsession is money. Pathetic jerks.

"Money is freedom--but the activities we do to get money are slavery. The most joyous and worthwhile things I accomplish in my life are motivated by love, not money. If you have to be paid to engage in an activity to which you would not otherwise devote your time, then that right there indicates its dysfunctional, questionable, corrupt quality."

"Winning artificially contrived games (such as at gambling casinos and in professional sports) is how the winners, who produce nothing of measurable, empirical value, gain false self-esteem and likewise fool others of their worth."

"When you have lost your credibility you must produce something of tangible, empirical value rather than lies--empty words—to regain your value to others in the eyes of the world. This is an extraordinarily difficult task when no one no longer believes you."

HELIOTROPIC MICE
Copyright c 2005 John Trubee

I dreamt of heliotropic mice
Aching for the sun,
Of a tabloid story of a beautiful blonde
German lesbian actress seducing 2 other actresses,
Of a guy in my band playing harmonica with his vagina (?)

I dreamt of dark mystery hills at night
Sparkling with myriad lights
Of luxury homes redolent with the implied promise
Of sex & booze,
I dreamt of misty morning Santa Barbara shores
Devoid of people,
Stunning locales where I strode, the sole inhabitant,
Brilliant lonesome summer meadows
The antithesis of the fulsome shitholes of humanity,
Dream places only my mind manufactures
When this world I actually inhabit
Is not good enough for me.

March 25th, 2005
I invented this antipoem in my head yesterday while
riding my bicycle to work. I copied it down on a piece
of scrap paper when I go to work before I forgot it.
Here it is for your amusement:

UGLY, CHILDISH ANTIPOEM # 69
Copyright c 2005 John Trubee

As a hairless African mole rat
Your internal organs pulsate in metallic shades
Of pink and gray
Through your paper-thin translucent skin.

You eat your own excrement
You devour your children
You violently copulate with female mole rats
Til they hemorrhage to death from their sex organs.

This is how all you politicians appear to me.
Go to hell!

"Watching TV is not unlike sitting in the presence of a psychotic clown who constantly flings excrement into your face."

Trubee says:
I recently read THE SMARTEST GUYS IN THE ROOM and saw the documentary film based on the book about the Enron debacle. Here's my thoughts on it, if you give a crap. --JT

The Enron meltdown resulted in part from the tacit complicity of the Wall Street bankers who were only too eager to lend more $$$ to an illusory cash cow. Merrill Lynch even assisted Enron hide assets to boost Enron's balance sheet to boost its stock price to qualify for even more and bigger bank loans. Chase, JP Morgan, Deutsche Bank and their analysts and Enron's lawyers and Arthur Anderson and Enron's board of directors all danced the dance and deceived themselves and others because their cash flow from the house of cards was too sexy and corrupting.

When Enron's house of cards collapsed all parties involved pointed their fingers at the all others. No one would accept any responsibility. An enormous moral vacuum was one catalyst for the meltdown. These guys swaggered like such bigshots but they were only foolish, empty suits with nothing in their cores.

If you read about how Enron's trader's gamed the California energy market while gleefully gloating about how much money they were making while causing Californians to sweat out summer heat with no A/C and get stuck in elevators it'll make steam whistle out of your ears.

It would be comforting if this were an isolated case but recent corporate scandals involving WorldCom, Tyco, Adelphia, Healthsouth, and even the monkeyshines involving the establishment of SEC Richard Grasso's golden parachute while the little people get wiped out or reamed implores for some collective introspection. The perp walks of these scoundrels will be for naught if preventative mechanisms and checks and balances are not erected to discourage if not prevent such massively destructive skullduggery.

It's as if CERTAIN SEGMENTS of capitalism have become bulls in a china shop. The china shop owner can't just sit there and do nothing. He calls animal control.

It's as though since the death of Communism capitalism has gone mad with outrageously destructive excesses. A countervailing, opposing force will eventually arise to address the misery that an impure, crony capitalism generates. I hate cliches, but for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction.

When I draw my horrendous, ugly old man drawings with sardonic slogans, write my obnoxious antipoetry, or write my songs I am not attempting to win a popularity contest or entertain or amuse anyone else. I am entertaining myself and manifesting a testosterone-driven aggression.

I do not want to entertain people.
I want to blow their minds; barring that, I wanna make them vomit.

It is regrettable, this loss of civility in modern life.
We ought to be more tender towards each other and watch out for each other. There is way too much unnecessary pain and suffering and sadness in the world.

That being said, it is preferable, even therapeutic, to express latent hostility with written words in a pseudo-creative mode rather than endanger oneself and others in road rage incidents, postal rampages, high school massacres, inexplicable child killings, and other such atrocities in the daily headlines which assault our sensibilities.

My latent aggressive tendencies, if not sublimated through sporadic and questionable creative output, would, in other people, manifest themselves as part religious mania and part psychotic aggression. I imagine a maniacal vagrant caterwauling and careening down a busy crowded street, randomly throttling people down to the cement and bashing their heads on the ground while shrieking something such as the following:

Stop copulating with total idiots!
It only encourages them!
Save your sex for me!

Stop blabbering on that stupid cell phone!
Especially while driving! You're a menace!

(to be continued when I can think of other reprehensible human behaviors that enrage me)

"People who are unable to control themselves often,
to overcompensate for this character defect, seek to
control others through an unseemly mania with rules
and by irrational bullying. Always call them on their
bullshit and immediately fling them off of your back."
--John Trubee

A TRIP TO THE ART MUSEUM
Copyright c 2005 John Trubee

A while back I visited the San Francisco Museum Of Modern Art with a friend to check out some art.
I remember seeing an elongated painting by Edward Ruscha, about 1 1/2 feet high by 10 feet long. It simply depicted a dark horizon behind which glowed an apparent dawn. The work was entitled 'America's Future' and its title was stenciled directly into the lower central part of the painting.

Many of Ruscha's works incorporate text directly onto the artwork; many of his paintings are solely comprised of a word or words painted onto a flat surface.

I was intrigued by the work. My favorite times of day are the dawn and the dusk because they look eerie and strange and beautiful. They almost let us observe time itself move as the sun traverses the horizon. The image of the artwork and its title remained in my mind for weeks afterward as I contemplated it.

I then realized that the painting could just as surely be a depiction of twilight as it could be of a dawn, and the connection to which part of the day it depicted in relation to its title further revealed its significance.

In this country we like to appear optimistic, we nurture the notion that better days populate our future, we maintain some archaic 19th century notion of "progress" taking us up on higher to better things. To live without this quaint hope, however delusional, would make life unbearable to most people. Politicians like to say "America's best days are ahead of us". To publicly declaim otherwise would be career death for a politician. We like to call ourselves a nation of optimists.

This mindset is probably why I automatically assumed Ruscha's glowing horizon depicted the dawn.

But what if the painting 'America's Future' depicts the final glowing of a glorious day descending into a darkness reigned over by hideous demons? What if all the best years of this country are behind us as we degenerate into evening shadows of corruption, decadence, hypocrisy, loss of treasure and wealth, loss of vaunted myths with no new ones to supercede them, loss of youth, loss of spirit, loss of will, loss of hope, loss of life?

In light of the recent contentious national election, the controversy over the bloody debacle in Iraq, the numerous publicized corporate scandals mocking the virtues of capitalism and the work ethic as taught to us by our elders and right-thinking people everywhere; in light of the of the sorry absence of civility and intelligence in public debate; in light of the humongous national debt and obscene trade deficit and grotesquely widening gulf between the haves and the have-nots; in light of public education's failure to graduate crops of thoughtful citizens capable of making intelligent contributions to their culture and world and civic life; in light of the commodification of everything into a business transaction in which we are merely passive, sheeplike consumers of what we've been told and sold and nothing more—and its resultant effect visually evident in the obesity epidemic; in light of the depressing lack of sense of humor and the worship of rules which everyone so desperately lusts to cram down everybody else's throat; in light of sex as once something joyful and desirable now transmogrified into something that Michael Jackson does to little boys--or is a threat to the workplace and consequently YOUR JOB and livelihood--or which will kill us with an incurable contagion--or is the source of Dr. Laura's shrill, odious dictates; in light of the mindless worship of celebrities and the constant need for insipid diversions and entertainments while profound issues continually elude serious and intelligent public discussion; in light of the politicized fearmongering of the Homeland Security apparatus condescending to us as if we are all weak and helpless infants vulnerable to dark forces and submissive to the will of an inept and mendacious government; in light of the universal vulgarity and stupidity and lack of civility enveloping us everywhere in daily life...

--I could safely state that Ruscha's painting 'America's Future' could just as clearly be depicting its twilight as well as its dawn. I have not decided for myself and I am still contemplating it and it's doubtful I'll ever arrive at a definitive answer. My lifetime and perceptions are necessarily stunted and limited in observing the lifeline and overarching history of the republic.

This is why I love art. The artist creates an object, an image, a song, a work, a collection of words strung together in a poem or a novel and posits it before the world. What we get out of it is a reflection of what we bring into it. The idiosyncratic matrix of our experiences and memories and temperament and world view color what meaning or significance we discover in an art object.
Its significance results from how our minds perceive the art object in the dynamic interplay between our minds and the image-form so deftly spun into existence by the artist.

I remember my mother once took me on a trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York when I was a child. She realized my interest in art even then.

I do not know Ruscha's intent nor do I care. I saw a beautiful work in a museum and its meaning for me resulted from viewing it through the prism of my experiences and perceptions. It set me to thinking about things I would not have otherwise considered.

I have recently been distressed by various newspaper reports unfairly maligning the entire breed of pit bull dogs. Whatever unfortunate events that are alleged to have occurred regarding incidents with this noble canine breed have been greatly exaggerated if not entirely fabricated.

As a lover of humanity and warm defender of our canine friends, I have evolved a new program to promote greater understanding between the canine and human species.

It has come to my attention that Sonoma County Animal Control authorities have quarantined 10 pit bulls rescued from meth labs run by several motorcycle gangs in Northern California and that these dogs were trained to act as guard dogs by their owners.
Although highly aggressive and territorial in nature, the dogs, I have been repeatedly assured by their former owners (now in county jail on various narcotics and assault-related charges) are "as sweet as little children and good-natured pets that love kids".

To help reverse the unfair maligning of the noble pit bull breed, I have arranged to have these pit bulls visit several area day care centers to be petted and fed by the little toddlers. The little
toddlers will feed raw ground beef with their hands directly to the pit bulls in order to foster care, trust, and understanding between dog and human. The little toddlers will then be instructed on how to bathe and dry and pamper the pit bulls--we will have several wash tubs and drying stations set up for such a purpose---to teach the toddlers how similar their animal friends are to us humans. The little toddlers will then dry and brush down the pit bulls to further the bonding and healing process.

As a lover of humanity and warm defender of our canine friends, I have evolved a new program to promote greater understanding between the canine and human species.

"Those who rely overmuch on the opinions of others to circumscribe their behavior lack an interior, integrated moral compass to inform their decisions."

--John Trubee

"It is essential to not allow yourself to be dominated by those whose hierarchy of values is contrary to or alien to your own--otherwise you'll discover that you've allowed a great deal of your life time and energy to be wasted for nothing."

"Nature does not give a damn about your fear of death, your hypocritical squeamishness regarding sex, and your stupidly contrived morality."

It's impossible to think during the noise
of the day.

I dream surreal dreams and think of these things
in the quiet moments in the darkness before
my alarm clock buzzes.

I only regret I don't possess even more time
to escape from the noise and distractions of the days
to reside by rich pools of reflection.

They Behave As Proud And Arrogant Children
Copyright c 2005 John Trubee

They behave as proud and arrogant children
All relations: shoutfests of competition
nourished on upbringings
of TV football and videogames

Devoid of integrity
all systems fail:
Black unfortunates drown
while Ivy League cronies
fuss over dinner reservations.

Kansan peasants protect their children
from science

The sentimental deification of golfers
posited as some supreme value to emulate

All is money and buying,
scheming and getting
All is position and territory
and image and reputation
based on nothing
of value or meaning.

They behave as proud and arrogant children:
All is a battle to prove a misplaced sense of manhood
(while men themselves are despised)
All circumstances a battle to trounce
the eternal other
They establish paradigms of black and white
which require no reflection
of which they are incapable

Vince Lombardi's aphorism replaces thinking

Battles lacking any overarching goal
or reason or meaning
Battles for the sake of battle
Inherent belligerence contrives rationalizations
for itself

Devoid of integrity all systems fail
Devoid of integrity all systems fail
Devoid of integrity all systems fail

They behave as proud and arrogant children.

-- John Trubee

SHOW BIZ
Copyright c 2005 John Trubee

Insular mediocrities handing each other awards

Mariah Carey struts with yet another award from
some ceremony or another (they don't matter)
Invented by the inner circle of friends and bed partners
for their inner circle of friends and bed partners

What does it have to do with us?
Why ought I invest the invaluable time
of my life to observe this excrement?

I rag on the asshole celebrities only because
I continue to be dismayed by the great number
of otherwise intelligent people
revering these boring pigs.

Photogenic vacuities with nothing of value to express
mass mailing press releases relating with whom
they commingle their genitals today--
this is supposed to interest and excite us?

Rolling Stone reprints press releases
of uninteresting, aspiring idols who communicate
nothing new or of value
Rolling Stone used to be hip
but so long ago no one remembers.

Mickey Rourke only marginally entertains me
due to his plastic surgery disasters
and his extreme promiscuity
(what magic words con these women I want to know;
I have no such luck)

Of what value is this to me?
So I can spew a new crap rant/antipoem to my friends.

Otherwise intelligent people worship contrived idols
because religion is dead
but the innate need of humans to worship thrives,
hence the genital antics of Julia Roberts enthrall millions
and this otherwise boring nonentity
enjoys a lucrative career
supplanting deceased God.

Please DO something fascinating with your brief time
on this earth
Stop passively observing trivialities
Life is too great for that
Smash your TV
and let the cast of 'Friends' writhe in Hell for eternity.

You do not possess the keys to ecstasy;
Heaven resides within my head.
You strut in sexual glory yet offer me nothing;
Why ought I to dog after you?

I choose to bicycle in freedom
To traipse misty morning shores
devoid of idiot people
To ride in leaf-dappled sunlight
on paths not taken
To huff uphill to watch the sun fall down
To sing insane songs and hum humanistic hymns
no one will ever hear

I conquered worlds beyond imagining
Made myriad strangers guffaw
Sojourned across a continent into the sun
Vomited mad antipoetry on uncomprehending ninnies
Tussled with and victoried over recalcitrant jerks

Yet still to the shopping pygmies
I remain an invisible unknown
Of no import or concern
Only worthy of pushing out of the way
To the next exciting department store sales bargain

Where you derived the notion
That your caprice of withheld ecstasies
will submit me to heel
I do not know--
But it is false.

"Those who use money as the ultimate evaluating mechanism
for everything in life lack the capacity to invent their own values
and to perceive anything other than money as a value. By default
they adopt the common, vulgar value system of everyone else,
wealthy and impoverished, who lusts after money. This is the default
mechanism of those who lack imagination; of those who
thoughtlessly ape all the other idiots surrounding them.
Devoid of reflection, devoid of imagination, the overarching default
value for common, mediocre vulgarians always is MONEY.

Donald Trump and those in his rarified, upper-crust class are
indistinguishable from lowlife drug dealer punk ganstas
down at the ghetto pool hall when the central, underlying
motive of most of their behaviors is analyzed:
GETTING MONEY.

Both rich and poor who esteem money above all else are boring,
stunted vulgarians unworthy of serious consideration."

You Stole My Smile
Copyright c 2006 John Trubee

You stole my smile
You lifted my laugh
My glad child vanished
superceded by a surly adult
who argues politics instead of
playing music

Those decades of stupid work
Years of tedium
Meager dollars flowing through my time
eroded the ore of my laughter
depositing the scourge of a dead river
of a phlegmatic, diminished old fuck
forever searching
for his lost laughter

Yes, I willingly imprison myself
into eternal tediums
and empty, repetitive movements
only for the money
which vanquish my fight
and steal my laughter.

-- John Trubee

"People who stupidly esteem money above all else mistake lubrication for essence."

--John Trubee

"All the self-important hustler-bustlers of the world, continually whirls of anxious activity, produce so little of lasting note, value, worth, and meaning despite all their tedious, frenzied vanities."

"Oftentimes those who take inordinate pride of ownership in their cars do so because they lack any innate skills, talents, unique abilities, or ideas with which they can express their nonexistent individuality."

"In the course of socialization, adapting to others and imperatives in your environment, and becoming an obedient working member of society simply to earn your stupid little paycheck, you blind yourself to and obstruct yourself from myriad amazing potentialities in yourself and multitudes of incredible possibilities in the world and in time and space.
In the pursuit of a mere, regular paycheck and self-inflicted, agonizingly crippling 'social adjustment' you alienate yourself from your better selves and infinite beauty."

"I hope your favorite professional sports team continually loses.
You need to be punished for supporting such a stupid activity."

"Oftentimes people are exceedingly possessive and territorial regarding their money because they lack any higher values to defend."

Notice how I qualified my quote with "Oftentimes".
I wasn't being an absolutist about my assertion.

There are other values in the world aside from money--health, love, art, freedom, free time, natural beauty in the world around us, etc.

I LOVE to attack the MONEY GOD because it is TABOO to openly question and criticize it in our shallow, consumerist society.

Look at all the money we make. It sustains us to keep living so we can continue this empty cycle of stunted work to keep making the money to buy the food to get the energy to go to work to get the money to buy the food to have the energy to go to work to get the money....
Don't you see the absurdity of this situation and how it devalues our lives? Don't you see how we must invent values in our lives to compensate for the awful waste in our lives whoring after money?

When I worked at Hansel Ford I used to go out at break and watch glorious sunsets in the western sky while harried car buyers were negotiating points on their car loans. How pitiful to ALWAYS be focusing on these pitiful green pieces of paper that pass through our lives like lukewarm diarrhea rather than all the cool and beautiful things in the world surrounding us. I pitied the car buyers anxious about their car loans while I enjoyed glorious sunsets which are always FREE.

Have you ever stepped on an ant colony and seen all the hard work of the myriad ants crushed in an instant?---or watched it be blown away in stormy weather despite all the efforts of the ants to pile up those grains of dirt? That ant colony represents all your money and possessions blowing away in the winds of time. All our life efforts to pile up that green paper is for naught because it all blows away in time and what we do to get that paper renders the great potential of our lives meaningless by always dragging it down into absurd activities for temporary green paper.
You need to go watch 'The Treasure of Sierra Madre Again'.

When you are an old geezer hooked up to tubes in a hospice and you review the scenes of you life, will you have an erection over having balanced your check book or the how large the numbers were in it?

Or will you remember all the FUN you had? If one is constantly whoring after and worrying about money, that isn't a very meaningful or enjoyable life. I see much in the thoughtless attitudes of people all around me that is stunted, pathetic, regressive, and meaningless.

It's enough that I trade 8 hours a day for money. In my free time I don't wants to obsess about it and I concentrate on the better things in life.

We reside in a culture of pitiful, mentally-stunted consumer philistines.
Their placing money ALWAYS as the highest value in lieu of anything else is grotesque and vomitous. Their lives are hideously empty.
They are to be pitied and avoided.

Aside from money, what do you value? What IS IT THAT YOU DO POSIT AS YOUR HIGHEST VALUE, ANYWAY? I get the idea that you, like most money-obsessed people, DON'T REALLY KNOW AND HAVE NEVER BOTHERED TO THINK ABOUT IT.

"Much of consumer culture involves moving junk from one place to another and interacting with it.
The more time you waste interacting with junk, the less you actually accomplish of any value in life;
accordingly, your life becomes less valuable."

Pompous, pretentious assertions for you to rip to atoms and fling back, negated and robbed of life...

"Damnedable" is not a word in my Webster's Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary, but I so love its configuration and meaning that I insist on using it here, nonetheless.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

Wickedness is always easier than virtue;
for it takes the short cut to everything.
~ Samuel Johnson

But wickedness often ends up in jail; with a slit throat in a ditch; itching a bad drug habit or dead of it; traumatized by self-ruined marriages due to cheap affairs; as a horrific auto wreck on the highway with beer bottles on the floorboards; on the lam in percolating paranoia; with a knife in the gut from a coke deal gone sour; or strung upside down on piano wire, battered and dead like Mussolini and his mistress...

Johnson neglects to mention the high price of wicked shortcuts. Johnson didn't mention the benefits of delayed gratification with which we were brainwashed as children, even when, as I have discovered, sometimes those supposed benefits are illusory; mere control mechanisms of the overlords.

Every situation must be analyzed. Consequences of choices must be considered. Responsibility must always reside with he who chooses.

There is a grand lack of reflection and thoughtfulness in the world today. The increased speed of the flow of information has degenerated the quality and quantity of thought and reflection devoted to the choices we make, and it has degenerated the tenor of public discourse.
The increased speed and volume flow of information steals the time from our lives that is required to process it--time which would better be devoted to thought and reflection. That's why so many shitty choices are made. Their consequences are evident for all to see everywhere.

Technological innovation often degrades, rather than enhances, our lives. Unintended consequences appear after it's too late.

I often ask myself of every choice: it this good for me? will this increase my happiness? will this improve the quality of my life? will it give me what I want? have I seriously considered what I want and why I want it?

There is an admitted lack of altruism here. Happiness cannot be induced into the world until the first person is responsible for his own happiness. Happiness then flows outward into the world. Altruism derived from social coercion repeatedly crashes as catastrophic, horrific, misbegotten utopias from hell.

Too often we assume that something is to be done by thoughtlessly imitating others and slavishly adopting the valuations of others, that damnedable mob; that because THE OTHERS do something, it is sufficient justification for us to make a similar action or choice.

There exist too many shitty decisions with no thought or reflection behind them.

I propose escaping from the ever-frenetic flow of useless information. I propose grabbing back the time of one's life to think and reflect; also, to laugh and play as children.

$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$$

John Trubee
PO Box 4921
Santa Rosa, CA 95402 USA
"A junkyard dog staked to a short chain chasing himself in tight circles of sorrow and madness"

I remember when I was a kid having teachers who spent most of their time scolding us--especially when the scolding was unwarranted and obnoxiously overbearing.

I remember 2 bitches in particular--Mrs. Jones, my 4th grade teacher at Johnson Park School, and my 5th grade teacher Miss Mathers at John Witherspoon School in Princeton, New Jersey. They'd stand at the head of the class throughout the school year hectoring us and telling us what little brats we were. A couple of girls might be whispering at the back of the classroom, Miss Mathers would see them, and in turn spend the next half hour hectoring the shit out of the whole
classroom.

One time our gym teacher, Mr. Plummer, had to receive medical attention and take some time off work for a back problem. Asshole Millie Mathers told us that it was our fault, that we were so demanding and ungrateful that we broke Mr. Plummer's back.

As kids we had to just sit there and listen to this shit, uncomprehending and innocent of what she was bitching about. As a child I remember being regularly hectored by adults. It felt like I was repeatedly mauled by tigers and was powerless to stop it.

Many people who become teachers have no business having children under their charge. This tenor of adults, in the public school classrooms and elsewhere, hectoring and screaming at and scolding children, led me to loathe the adult world and vow to never become one if them, not unlike the alienated protagonist of Gunther Grass' 'The Tin Drum'.

The echoes of hectoring scolds still fill my ears today, and I still perceive human relations as struggles for dominance and control, typified by how most adults badger children. My solution to this tiresome, exhausting, timewasting, obstructionist, enervating dominance by other people is to stay the hell away from
them as much as possible.

I thought that as time progressed--as people became more intelligent and experienced and enlightened and tolerant--that the obnoxious, scolding bitches would be weeded out and eliminated from humanity as their overt assholism is recognized, exposed, and expunged from the human dungheap. I have sadly discovered
that this is not the case. People do not become more intelligent over time. People are idiots.

Which brings me to Dr. Laura. Those tiresome, hectoring bitches still thrive today because so many people just LOVE to bully others with their damnedable rules. To them, Dr. Laura is their patron saint. I love it when stupid people, mostly women, unfortunately, call up Dr. Laura proudly stating "I am my kid's mom", explain their family problem or situation, then have Dr. Laura rip them a new asshole on air on the radio, telling them how greedy, selfish, evil, or stupid they are for not submitting to her dictates and ethics. If someone stupidly wanders into the tiger cage, then they rightfully deserve to be mauled by the tiger.

I enjoy listening to Dr. Laura with the same delighted sense of relief as one who has been repeatedly mauled by tigers delights in using a stick to taunt the tiger locked behind bars. Dr. Laura is on the radio, I hear her voice as vibrations from the cones of my stereo loudspeakers moving as the result of distant radio waves. The bitch can't hurt me, she can't dominate me, she can't control my life, her blathering rules are just so many impotent and noxious gaseous emissions.

Now do you understand why we must escape to sunny, summer countryside hilltops and let the hectoring rulemongers shit on their stupid adult victims in the torture chambers down below?

John Trubee
PO Box 4921
Santa Rosa, CA 95402 USA
"A junkyard dog staked to a short chain
chasing himself in tight circles of sorrow and madness"

Resent Money
Copyright c 2006 John Trubee

I resent money
as a slave resents his master.

It eternally perplexes me
why so many
love their masters.

Broken slaves.

Babies cryin', babies dyin'
They toss children into fires in Darfur
while you eat breakfast

Scientists weekly discover a new planet
In some far distant solar system
And smash their heads into their desks
Attempting to discover 90 percent
Of the invisible dark matter comprising the universe

Cynical machinations of diplomats
Kill untold numbers
(God said to Cain "The voice of you brother's blood
is crying to me from the ground.")
There's no time, money, or global will to effectively try
the Khmer Rouge
Who exterminated 1.7 million of their countrymen
But there's always time, money, and will
To build another goddamned Disneyland

Injustices rampage
Atrocities abound
Scientific miracles daily unfold
Like the petals of a rose

The clouds in the sky
are the breath that you breathe
The waters you drink and void
are the great rivers of the world

You emerge from the earth
a small piece of the earth
of the earth
the earth
animated earth
Strutting about
Proclaiming "I am a very important man!"
Dominating other tiny pieces of the animated earth
Habitually making them miserable as is your miserable habit

"You work to make everybody love you.
I work to make everyone choke on their own vomit."

PLEDGE OF ALLEGIANCE
INSPIRED BY THE SPIRIT OF DICK CHENEY

I pledge allegiance
To the flag
Of the liars and hypocrites
Of America
And to the MONEY
For which they lie, cheat, murder, steal, grovel, pimp, and whore,
Damn nation
Swimming in shit
With unwarranted surveillance, infantile entertainment,
Christian Nazis cramming rules down our throats,
Family values, torture chambers,
Stupidity, and injustice
For all
Forevermore.

          I regularly read the obituaries to remind myself
          That I won't be here forever
          That whatever I must do
           I must accomplish NOW
          To not waste my time
          To structure the brief time of my life

          According to the obits, no one who dies
          Ever shits on others
          Ever commits crimes
          Ever does anything wrong:
          They are all perfect angels

          However, life experience informs me
          That human beings habitually torture and kill each other
          Dominate each other
          Ceaselessly torment each other

          Yet we're asked to ignore the shitty behavior
          Of these rats 'n' brats
          Simply because they died

John Trubee
PO Box 4921
Santa Rosa CA 95402 USA
"A junkyard dog staked to a short chain
chasing himself in tight circles of sorrow and madness."

               2 days before elections yesterday on the radio
               Senator Frist stated that if Democrats win
               Families with incomes of $62,000
                    will see their taxes raised.

               I am a workingman
               I have struggled all my life.
               Interminable tracts of anguished poverty
                  and soul-blasting unemployment
               Have permanently altered my brain chemistry
                  into attitudes of rage against the masters

               Taxes are withheld from my paycheck
                I only count the money I have on Friday
                Only the rich worry about taxes.

                I deeply resent Senator Frist
                Attempting to manipulate my vote
                By punching my fear button
                Appeals to greed
                An overweening concern with pennies
                All that is small and puny within me

I already voted weeks ago by absentee ballot
Against everyone and everything Senator Frist favors

                I flung my completed ballot into the nearest mailbox
                Within minutes of receiving it
                In black rage against those I hate

                In all my life struggles nobody listened
                Nobody heard my cries or witnessed my travails
                Caprices of business and the interests of the wealthy
                 Arrayed against me

                Politicians and businessmen suck for power
                Vicious pimps
                Not a statesman, philosopher, sage,
                Or noble man among them

                Let the rich and powerful fall
                Let them gnash their teeth and grieve in impotent rage
                For the loss of their high stations and gold

                Now those truly deserving of such suffering
                Are crying
                For once.

    The puny require
    Pomp & monuments
    To escape the dread
    Of their smallness

        More than once
         I have awoken from a nightmare
         In which I am privy to a murder
         I witnessed
         I know where the body's buried
         I wander dreamland spooked and paranoid
         Certain I will be tried and punished
         An accessory to murder.
         Collective guilt envelopes us all
            and troubles my sleep

         The meaning of the Genesis story
          of Cain killing Abel
          is not indictment for an actual murder
          but the sense that as human beings
          as hyper-aware animals
          with the ability to empathize with other human beings
          we are each and collectively responsible
          for all other human beings on earth.

          When my philosophy teacher in prep school
           said that Sartre said
           we are all responsible for each other
           I thought it was a stretch

           But now I believe otherwise
           My marrow informs me so
           It is intuitive, not intellectual
           My troubled sleep tells me so

           When we invaded Iraq
           I thought it'd be cool to smack down Sadam
           I hate dictators

           But I soon hated the war
           We were misled
           We are absolutely responsible for allowing ourselves
                 to be misled

We war because we are depraved and we love blood
but we will not admit it to ourselves

           The blood of dead Iraqi children covers my hands
           Covers your hands
           Covers everybody's hands
            We wallow in bloodbaths
            Even while we shop and socialize and squander our days
            in vain trivialities.

           We are all murderers
           My marrow informs me so
           It is intuitive, not intellectual
           My troubled sleep tells me so

Life is terribly short
We're all gonna die soon
When women betray me, disrespect me
When others abuse me
When my father lies to me
I don't bother to fight or argue with them
I stop talking to them
And refuse to acknowledge them
So they cannot squander
Any more of my short time on earth.

          Many people suffer and die
          Because of the stupidity
          Of others.

           Obese, infantile babyheads
           Shop
           Buy
           Eat
           Blabber
           Passively watch stupid entertainments
           Transforming everything they touch
           Into crap.

             I used to tie myself into agonized knots over girls
             Who, in long retrospect,
             Appear as repulsive retards
             For how they disdained me
             Instead choosing inert mediocrities to fuck.

             Pam smoked herself to death
             Lung cancer metastasized into brain cancer
             Every time I'd see her
             Years before cancer
             She'd be smoking and gabbing away in some Valley bar.
             She and hubby moved to wildflower Lompoc to escape
             The brutish cops and toxic air of LA.

              I cherish the beautiful young
              Although too often they mindlessly gab like Pam
              Unaware that as you live
              You observe pieces of your life
              Vanish over the horizon
              Dumped off the edge of the world.

HellPope Huey
    If you were arrested tomorrow,
    how much justice could you afford?

    The funny thing about all these Utopian systems of government is that they're always promising to make man free --
    but first they try to make him run like an eight-day clock.
    They ask the individual to become a slave in order to establish freedom for mankind.
     It's rum logic.
        ~ Henry Miller

"There comes a time when silence is betrayal."
--Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

"Technology is a cocked gun aimed backwards at its smugly ignorant, clownish bearers."
--John Trubee

"Love is a word universally misused to conceal less than noble motivations."
--John Trubee

A bunch of ex-employees from my old job were spamming e-mails back and forth among us to organize coffee klatches and such. They titled the e-mails "AHS Victims". I really dislike the word "victims", especially if I was supposed to be included in that group.

It motivated me to compose the rant below. I really like it. It spewed my guts. So now I feel compelled to foist it on you for fun.

Words, even single words, are essential to how we
conceptualize the world and ourselves. Words possess
incredible power for both positive and negative thought.

Mindful of this, I modestly propose we henceforth refer
to ourselves as AHS SURVIVORS or AHS VICTORS.
We possessed the chutzpah and fortitude to persevere
even while those pathetic corporate vampires began
to cannibalize our company/workplace/jobs to amass
the material to sew golden parachutes for themselves
at our expense.

Who is stronger? Those who daily slug it out in the lowly
workaday trenches bearing the eternal struggles and humiliations
characteristic of working men and women---or the candyass,
spoiled weakling corporate putzes bailing out with their golden
parachutes and hefty commissions for selling off the company,
who'd collapse like rare, precious flowers if they were
ever required to spend a single day humbly trudging in our shoes?

No, we are SURVIVORS or VICTORS or UNDEFEATED or
whatever powerful, plural noun you can think of to express
our MOXIE in the face of STUPID CORPORATE DOWNSIZING
ADVERSITY.

We are strong. They are weak.
We go on. They cashed out like spoiled prostitutes.

Please O Please excise that pathetic, unfortunate word "victim".
When used with those of us who worked at AHS it makes
me feel like I'm a missing child whose picture is on a carton of milk
and that I must scour the dairy case at Safeway to go find myself.

"Victim" is a really awful word to use to conceptualize oneself.
It's even filthier than words I sometimes find scrawled
on restroom walls. Ugh!

It's the world's work to beat us down, to make us think
little of ourselves, to con us into self-abnegating ourselves
into obscure hovels far from the light, to humble us,
to make us feel small and weak and powerless and invisible
and submissive and worthless.

We ought never to cooperate with the world in this sordid
campaign. We ought to ever ferociously rage back with all
the vitriol, fury, and courage we can possibly muster.

On Saturday, February 2, Esotouric, the eclectic collective whose offbeat bus tours expose LA's secret history, presents a special edition of "Where the Action Was" with guest stars Carl "King of the Freaks" Franzoni, and John "King of the Prank Callers" Trubee. The four-hour tour, co-hosted by pop critics Kim Cooper and Gene Sculatti, explores the musical history of Hollywood and the Sunset Strip through visits to celebrated nightclubs, recording studios, record label offices and other places of subcultural importance, and includes avant garde gelato from Scoops. On the bus Carl Franzoni will share personal tales of how his troupe danced across the US with the Byrds on their first tour and later with Frank Zappa & the Mothers of Invention, and answer your questions on the weird and wonderful world of freaky 1960s Los Angeles, and John Trubee will share hilarious tales from his time as an Enigma Records artist and Dr. Demento Show favorite for his single "Blind Man's Penis."

"The imaginary mental construct 'society' is like a pond: it requires a continual infusion of oxygen (change) to prevent a pathological amount of scum from accumulating at the top."

I heard on the news this morning that various folks are requesting the Arabs produce more oil to bring its price down. The Arabs, as usual, are not cooperating.

This makes us powerless. Did you enjoy being powerless? I don't. I hate it. I hate it more than anything else in the world.

Another, better way to bring down the price of oil is to stop using it, to have effect over the demand side since we appear powerless about controlling the supply side.

To be unable or unwilling to control one's appetite for something is a form of infantilism. It renders one weak and powerless. To gain back one's power and become strong again, one must control one's appetite, become a disciplined ascetic, and renounce mindless, infantile consumerism.

One must defer gratification to obtain longterm goals. This is the definition of maturity.

To gain back power, to become strong again, to tell the Arabs to go stick it, it is best to behave as a discliplined ascetic rather than a caterwauling, powerless infant dependent upon oil.

To walk away from those to whom you formerly surrendered your power is to become strong again.

The world constantly promotes to us endless crap advertising and damnfool celebrities, politicians, and corporations boring us to death, declaiming how wonderful they are.

when i was a kid ordered all of your tapes and books and everything else in the catalog. your world become an obsession for me and then everyone I knew. Unfortunately, people borrowed, stole, I lost, etc. all of your stuff. Have your put any of it on CD- especially the spoken word tapes? And have you ever scanned the books and put them up online? I used one of your drawings for a flyer for my old bands show. It was the 'I LOVE SNOT' one. we plastered it all over NYC and Hoboken NJ. Gave you credit- of course. I sold an old Roland drum machine that would now be worth tons of cash in order to get up the money to order all your merch back in the day. THE LAST DWARF DROPS HIS PANTS- we could never figure out what that sound was on the tape loop that sounds like a retarded guy choking. I took you screaming the line from 'WOrking Class Hero' and made it into a tape loop for one of my own 'electronic' (derivative) compostions. i even went out and bought an Echoplex -wish I still had it. Anyway, it's nice to be able to let you know what an influence you had on my psyche in my formative years. I'm still DAZED AND AMAZED

3. FEAR of the unknown; IGNORANCE, terrifies weak people to cling to ancient ways

4. The inability for or AVERSION TO THINKING causes average, mediocre people to retreat to modes of behavior for which thinking is unnecessary.

Hence, tradition: a crutch for the fearful, weak, and unimaginative " --John Trubee

"In a world in which people are increasingly willfully ignorant and obtuse, deliberately obstreperous, consciously averse to reason, and unable or unwilling to listen--the only methods to change their behavior are to interfere with and obstruct their means of making money, or to inflict so much pain upon them that they must cease all normal activities to immediately address the source of pain.

Cite a few of the values/beliefs (religion aside) that characterize our cult/social system that equal for idiocy/inanity the characteristics of the Jonestown crowd.

Oh, things like mindless, infantile consumerism--buying crap for the sake of buying crap. Because everyone else does. Because people on TV tell us to. Consumerism has been excoriated for decades--yet the masses still live for it. Why?

Too many people wasting too much of their lives watching inane TV crap and obsessing over celebrities, vicariously living through the celebrities cool things they ought to live firsthand or at least attempt with their own lives. A huge waste of time, actually pathological and detrimental to the value of life.

The tedious, soul-killing, and wasteful activities people do to earn money, spending too much of their lives in meaninglessness chasing of green paper that somehow justifies their existence while many of their more real, human, organic, immediate needs go unmet.

In certain aboriginal cultures, members spend approximately 23 hours a week food gathering. We waste 40+ doing this--and yet we STILL never seem to have enough. The balance of their time is spent with family and friends. So they don't own microwave ovens, DVD players, plasma TV screens, and hair blowers. Whose lives are richer and more meaningful, more fulfilling?

One aboriginal culture does not have separate words for "work" and "play". They have one word to denote life activities they engage in to survive and be happy. They cannot dread "work" and all its negative connotations because such a word for them does not exist. Likewise "play" is not something saved for the weekends and treated as a worthless frivolity simply because it doesn't make money. Life activities are life activities, values in themselves, period.

Are they healthier without that perplexing dichotomy between work & play that we endure in this culture? I dunno. You tell me. I think about this stuff all the time, but it's still impossible for me to conceive the world viewed through the minds and eyes of these aborigines. It fascinates and mystifies me.

Can you imagine the difference of consciousness and attitude of those whose language, hence concepts & worldview, differ radically from our own? We mustn't always assume that everything we do is wonderful and the "right" way to live. There are infinite modes of living and doing things.

We Americans love to indulge in boastful pride because we are the wealthiest and militarily the strongest nation on earth. Of course that's wonderful, assuming that wealth and military power are the highest values to emulate.

What about the realm of thought and ideas? Philosophy? Great poetry? Great art? Older cultures possess stores of knowledge, wisdom, and cultural artifacts it will take Americans ages to approximate. Some societies possess longer, much richer religious traditions. Why is wealth rated higher than religious heritage? Merely conceit, caprice, tradition--in other words, no good reason. Someone contrived this and everyone else followed.

We always look wonderful when we use our own yardstick to measure ourselves. How would we appear using someone elses yardstick (value system) to measure ourselves?

The values we often follow are contrived and not absolute. This implies everything is free game. We can bloodlessly wrest power from "the authorities" by simply altering values and perceptions. Words and ideas terrify the status quo. Therefore words and ideas must be our playthings and our weapons of survival.

Many of our values are arbitrary, accidental, contrived. We adopt them merely to get along with others in our environment. Adaptation to environment is essential to life. Life is the highest value. Many values in our environment are capricious and absurd. We often mindlessly adopt them to adapt to our social environment, to get along with others--and for no other reason. If adaption serves life, it is a value.

But I have discovered that it is possible to be alienated from aspects of ones environment, yet still thrive. Therefore social/cultural adaptation is not an absolute value. Social adaptation is only a value to the extent that it enhances and benefits life.

An example--football, a great American pastime. Is there some absolute value in the game and watching it? Myriads of people find meaning in it. I find it utterly boring, worthless, a terrible waste of time. Football watching is a social norm here. I reject it, yet I am happy and fulfilled without it. Thankfully I am able to reject certain popular values without dying, being hurt, being destroyed, or having something terrible happen to me.

Implication: what other meaningless social values can I safely reject without being annihilated?

How many other normative social values are utter wastes of time and possible detriments to the value of my life?

Celebrating holidays? Owning a car? Owning a cellphone? Socializing on the weekends because everyone else does? Watching TV shows?

I have rejected all these values, yet I have not died, I have not been harmed, and am actually fairly happy, in fact.

What is the meaning, value, and purpose of a society with so many values that can be safely discarded? Is such a society itself lacking in meaning?

What is the value of a plethora of choices---if so many, even most of the choices, are meaningless, empty, worthless, or bad?

It implies I can invent my own values, my own life, my own world--and thrive and be happy!

Yet peer pressure dictates otherwise. Does that mean I must also toss peer pressure overboard? It appears so. I already accomplished that decades ago.

Whichever values I choose, I choose regardless of how out of step I am with others.

I am not talking here of ethical values--refraining from lying, cheating, stealing, killing. I'm talking about things which occupy the lives of many of my fellow citizens which I find a total waste. My values likewise are a total waste to them, in many cases.

I try to inculcate in myself an awareness of the ranking of these values so I make the best possible choices among them, regardless of peer pressure, to live the best life possible.

John Trubee
PO Box 4921
Santa Rosa, CA 95402 USA
"The rocks crumble/Unto dust they die/Once hard/Stuff of mountains/Now soft powder among the sands/Who dares crush a rock/Oh rock/No rock/Reduced to the winds/Scatter your parts/You are not one but many/To those you shall succumb" --Jandek

According to bassist Ivan Bodley who was there, comedienne Margaret Cho flashed the cover of my first record album 'The Communists Are Coming To Kill Us!' to the audience at the Kennedy Center during a George Carlin Tribute taped for PBS TV while presenting a bunch of items found in Carlin's storage locker after this death. Whether or not this is true and whether or not this segment is saved from the editing room floor is anybody's guess.

Below is the PBS broadcast date & time (CHECK LOCAL LISTINGS) for this historic event.

While I snort my obnoxious self-promotional spew, you can rent 2 DVDs from Netflix featuring yours truly: 'Jandek on Corwood' and 'Off The Charts: The Song Poem Story'.

You watch enough crap on TV. Why not watch something astounding and groovy for a change?

The Eleventh Annual Kennedy Center Mark Twain Prize will air on PBS stations nationwide on Wednesday, February 4, at 9pm ET.

Taped at The John F. Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts on November 10, the 90-minute special features tributes and comic testimonials from a star-studded cast including Richard Belzer, Lewis Black, Margaret Cho, Ben E. King, Denis Leary, Bill Maher, Joan Rivers, Garry Shandling, Jon Stewart, and Lily Tomlin.

George Carlin combined a once-in-a-lifetime voice, a face that could do anything, and be anyone, an understanding of language that William Safire (or William Shakespeare) would have tipped their hats to and-oh yeah-he was fearlessly funny. Before George passed away, he learned he was receiving the Twain and was genuinely pleased about it.

Carlin was a Grammy-winning American stand-up comedian, actor, and author, whose career has spanned more than fifty years. Carlin released twenty-two solo albums and three New York Times best-selling books, which have sold over two million copies. The five-time Emmy nominated actor starred in an unprecedented fourteen HBO Specials and appeared in a wide variety of television and movie roles. He was the first-ever host of Saturday Night Live, and has appeared on The Tonight Show over 130 times.

Polarization Thanks To Denial
Copyright 2009 John Trubee

Day denies night
Success ignores failure
Optimism disdains realism
The triumphant blithe to tragedy
Happiness insensate to loss,
pain,
grief,
sorrow--
til all so polarized
the world explodes.

Denial, willful ignorance,
fear of the 50% dark side of life
Inform the overconfident
Who run things.

Let’s hang them
although it’s too late to remedy
the infernal chaos their dumb overconfidence
engendered.

I'm a bit too late with this message, but the link is still valid, so check it out:

"Hey, just wanted to give you all a little update on Magic Bus Movie night this Thursday.

I will be curating "Off the Charts" the song poem story.
The opening is a short 25 min film "Dancing outlaw".
If you haven't seen or heard of these movies they are great and must be seen on the big screen, more info and trailers on my blog:

Producer Henry S. Rosenthal will be introducing the film and John Trubee who wrote the song "Blind Man's Penis" will be in attendance and said "I'll bring some cool shit to sell" so I'll be the first in line for that.
We will also have free pizza during intermission courtesy of (Escape from NY). Thanks Tim!

Two buck beers, pizza and a movie, how's that for recession special?
And hey, sorry for the e-mail. It's more of a what, when and where note for ya... and cause I want you to come out for a movie, eat pizza and have beer with us!

When some of the excrement
Sticks to the wall
The monkey’s handlers
Award them a peanut.

One inherited $23,000 in 1960 dollars
from a wealthy, deceased aunt
($23,000 in 1960 dollars adjusted for inflation
is worth $159,055.59 today)
with which he bought a house

They incessantly babble about the virtue
of the work ethic,
about how that is the cause of wealth.

The work ethic is a bludgeon
wielded by those whose wealth
derives from sources other than work
to dominate their children,
workers,
and those who don’t know any better.

They decline to copulate with me
They refuse to pay me enough to live decently
That’s OK.
I’m well acclimated to
Invisibility
Padding through the world
on silent moccasins.

After you are dead
After I am dead
After they are dead
After everyone we know is dead

John Trubee
PO Box 4921
Santa Rosa, CA 95402 USA
"One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star."
--Friedrich Nietzsche

OK, tell me how & where I am wrong about this...

Stealing The Play
Copyright 2009 John Trubee

Imagine a schoolyard, the one in which we used to play as children--and in which we still ought to play as adults if we choose to live life completely.

Imagine a clot of the worst of our schoolmates approaching us to ask us to refrain from playing, and to instead sit in the bleachers and watch them play.

Imagine this arrogance trumped by the further arrogance of them next demanding pay from us for the honor of watching them play—play as we used to play, until we stupidly complied in handing our play over to these bratty thugs.

Imagine us growing fat and listless as we cease engaging in play, fun, and adventures, instead choosing to become pale, inert, listless spectators of life, observing our bratty inferiors monopolize all the fun, joy, sex, play, and excitement which we used to possess as our birthright as children of the earth.

Imagine us insanely revering the brats who stole our play, wasting vast portions our time, energy, and money focusing on their lives instead of our own.

Imagine us bonding with strangers by mutually discussing the activities of the bratty thieves of our play instead of our own activities and accomplishments which admittedly are few because we have pissed away too much of our time and energy focusing on the thieves of our play and because we sat passive and listless, merely spectating as the bratty thugs lived the best aspects of our lives for us.

This is my perspective on the entertainment industry and our relationship to it.

The capital of the wealthy would not grow without the labor of the workers at their companies and the folks who consume the goods and services produced by the companies. If you impoverish the workers with low wages, no one will buy the goods and services that the companies owned by the wealthy produce, and all will suffer. It is a three legged stool--owners/Capitalists, workers, and consumers. Favoring one group over the others is like making a stool with one leg way longer than the others---it will not stand. Hence the near economic disaster last year.

As a worker I place great value on the time and energy in my life and what I produce with it--especially in my creative areas. Grand accumulations of money just are not very interesting to me, nor are those who amass it. Hungering over money is extremely common, thus it vulgarizes us all.

What we do after we get enough money to live decently is what makes people really interesting--or very boring. Do they buy toys, or help others, or produce art?

This is much more insightful and meaningful than the tiresome and vulgar accumulation of wealth.

The conflation of capital with virtue and integrity is a mythological construct which needs to be prodded, poked, and questioned.

Capital accrues in all sorts of ways that often have nothing to do with virtue, integrity, intelligence, and hard work.

Anything Is Possible
Copyright 2010 John Trubee

Anything is possible.
The potentialities infinite.
This richness of experience,
of the world
terrifies people.

So they build walls,
Patrol borders,
Choke themselves on ideology, dogma, religion
March single file
Wait in lines
Observe tradition
Heed convention
Ape their peers
Dominate, control, enforce, bully.

Why should my life be circumscribed
my strivings thwarted
my goals short-circuited
because of the fears nurtured by other people?

John Trubee
PO Box 4921
Santa Rosa, CA 95402 USA

Thank you universe:
I have escaped your hate-filled offices,
Your grim, gray, dusty, industrial midnight warehouses,
Your tedious, dead-end, standing on my feet forever
retail store purgatories.

To Sacramento
To San Francisco
To Bodega Bay
To Napa
To Sonoma
To wineries
To crab feeds
To aerospace, Asian art, military, railroad,
and modern art museums
To General Vallejo's house
To symphonies
To plays
To concerts by Johnny Mathis, Andy Williams, B.B. King

Sometimes I drive tourists and wine festival revelers
Around Angel Island in San Francisco Bay.

1	john trubee and the ugly janitors of america: the communists are coming to kill us ! (1984, lp, usa, enigma records e 1042)
2	john trubee & the ugly janitors of america: naked teenage girls in outer space (1985, lp, usa, restless records 72042 1)
3	john trubee and the ugly janitors of america: beyond eternity / lavender flesh (1986, lp, usa, cordelia records ericat 020)
4	john trubee and the ugly janitors of america: strange hippie sex carnival (1989, lp, ger, musical tragedies records mt 083)
	john trubee & the ugly janitors of america: a blind man's penis (1992, 7", ger, musical tragedies records mt 168)
	john trubee & the ugly janitors of america: obscure gold from the invisible nigger (1993, k7, usa, private release)
5	john trubee & the ugly janitors of america: world of lying pigs (5) (1994, cd, ger, musical tragedies records mt 138)
	john trubee & the ugly janitors of america: blind man's penis, prank phone calls, & incredibly beautiful music (1999, cdr, usa, private release)
	john trubee and the ugly janitors of america: the rain keeps falling // frank zappa: letter from jeepers (1999, 7", ger, musical tragedies)
	zoogz rift: born in the wrong universe (32) (2001, cd, usa, sci) - feat.arthur barrow, danny mathys & john trubee; incl.'stinkfoot' (frank zappa)
	john trubee & the ugly janitors of america: song demo for a helen keller world (2002, cdr, usa, private release)
	john trubee & the ugly janitors of america: porno valley song demo (2002, cdr, usa, private release)
	john trubee: greatest prank calls of all time (2002, cdr, usa, private release)
	john trubee: jennie's polyps: groovy prank phone calls (2002, cdr, usa, private release)
	john trubee: prank calls to idiots -- volume 6 (2002, cdr, usa, private release)
	kaosmik kitty: kitty o'nine tales... or the nine lives of kaosmikitty - volume 1 (2004, cdr, usa, private release) = kaosmikitty interviewed by john trubee
	kaosmik kitty: kitty o'nine tales... or the nine lives of kaosmikitty - volume 2 (2004, cdr, usa, private release) = kaosmikitty interviewed by john trubee, cover-picture by carl franzoni
	john trubee: spanish sunset (2012, download, usa, --)
	john trubee and the ugly janitors of america: deserts of utah (2014, download, --, bandcamp)
	john trubee and the ugly janitors of america: nude woman exdocrius (2015, lp, usa, trubee records 6900837) - feat. laurie amat
	john trubee and the ugly janitors of america: a blind man's penis and other smash hits (2015, lp, usa, trubee records 6900838) - feat. kurt mcgettrick, laurie amat
	gloop nox & the stik people: continuing where the beatles left off... (2015, lp, usa, trubee records 7300222) = jim nevius / john trubee
	john trubee and the ugly janitors of america: my hope is a broken dog fading beneath the evening tide (2018, cd, uk, cordelia records cd086) - feat. kurt mcgettrick, laurie amat