Archive for the ‘Ken On Ken’ Category

By Roads

March 16, 2013

hooksett new hampshire field

Came out of the brush somewhere on Route 103 East, couple miles from where it hooks up to 89. Sun about 5 degrees up from straight dawn, chilly as shit. Wearing nothing but some generic hunter green work overalls, sturdy enough but the name tag torn off and the legs all ripped to hell like I’d been wrestling a particularly vengeful badger. Maybe a fisher cat, I don’t really know. Things are hazy. I know there’s a night at a remote fishing lodge in the mix, little old thing, rustic, one story, up on pylons near the local pond. Bare bones, just for the hardcore angler/naturist type. I know there’s a heavily tattooed Inuit guy named “Crystal” involved, a duffel bag full of truly low grade homegrown, a couple machetes and a box of M-80’s that just kept singing out my name all night long.

I know the cabin’s a smoldering ruin right now and the smart folks have decided to scatter but that’s really about it.

Goddamnit but my ribs are sore and these fucking workboots are a size too small.

Check my pockets. About a dollar and 39 cents. Card from a real estate agent in Wyoming. A comb. Small canvas sack full of nickels. Half a pepperoni sandwich that’s not all bad considering the number of pine needles stuck in the bread. Breast pocket has a hand written note. “Come you bounty hunter. Come you county killer”. Big, crazy letters. Not my handwriting, I don’t think.

I whip the nickels at a passing Saab with two snowboards attached to the roof, shatter the passenger side rear window with a sound like spider monkeys being tortured with a cattle prod. Couple young, well dressed “winter sport enthusiasts” hop out to give me the eye but think better of it when I show them my teeth. Fuck you, roll on. These are my god-cursed woods.

Flag down a passing school bus (apparently it’s Tuesday, who knew?) and luckily the driver is a girl who enjoys a whiff of danger in her life and we spend a a quality quarter of an hour teaching the kids a particularly vulgar sea shanty. Got a good melody and after the driver passes me the flask she’s got hidden in the dash I start feeling weepy. Pop the doors and ditch out near Hopkinton, tuck and roll into the long grass. Some old snow breaks most of the fall but I’m not sure I’ll ever throw a frisbee again with quite the same accuracy as I used to.

Which is sure as shit a good reason to spend 90 minutes by the side of a New Hampshire dirt road screaming incoherently up at the drab morning sky. Voice all raspy and hoarse by the time I get to the barking part of the performance and now I’m just tired. Nap a bit beside and old rock wall where some kid threw a skateboard with three wheels and a torn up dog collar. I hug the thing while I sleep. Gives me a measure of comfort which you wouldn’t expect but that’s me, I guess.

By the time sun sets I’m home. A well meaning member of the local constabulary has brought me here. Whole ride in silence but with the haunted feeling we’d done it before only I have no idea of his name. Seems like a nice kid and so I just keep my mouth shut. Grateful he never mentions the smell. Drives off without a word never thinking to see if I have a key to the place. Which I don’t.

No matter. The wood shed is unlocked and there’s a bottle or two squirreled in the eaves. Short while I’ve got a proper back woods bonfire roaring. Sparks rise up to the neverending stretch of stars and dark, slowly turning above me. Vast. Uncaring. Without judgement or expectation.

A man with a bottle. Rocking and swaying.

Staring into the fire.


Six Degrees of Separation

February 11, 2012

Here’s to you.

All six of you.

Ken Quotes

September 5, 2011

Sometimes, out of boredom or vanity, of even purely by accident, I revisit some of my earlier writings. I often think the same thought whilst perusing.

“I can’t believe I wrote this shit.”

The marriage was consummated in an aggressively confrontational manner over a period of several days in Hildy’s cabin. During the night she would ride Ken like a mechanichal bull while, during daytime hours, his head was chained to a wood stove with a bicycle lock while she left on training exercises. She proclaimed her undying devotion to him in an elaborate ventriliquist’s performance after which she enacted a bizarre menage-a-trois involving herself, Ken and the dummy, heedless of her husband’s incessant weeping. This was more than enough to break the spirit an already weakened man and Ken found himself slipping into a profound dementia, drooling and constantly mumbling that he’d “gone to Fantasy Island…” and he wasn’t coming back. For a time he would only answer to the name Vee-Garr and would eat nothing but oyster crackers. To Hildy, it was the honeymoon she had always imagined and she spent her days in a state of unbalanced bliss.

I still sometimes accidentally sign a check “Vee-Garr” once in a while.

Host Ned Beatty wonders why the fairer sex would even want to be involved in a game the sole point of which is to inflict mind numbing agony to an individual’s scrotal sack and it’s precious contents. “Do they have any idea what being in the game entails? The price that is paid? Do they want to walk around all day with swollen, throbbing testicles? Listen, I’m sure childbirth is an uncomfortable, even unpleasant sensation. Whatever. Trust me, though, it’s the minor leagues compared to the feeling of the white hot supernova exploding from your crotch to your brain when one of these animals lands a shot on your boys.”

Ned Beatty. Always an enthusiastic quote.

The mourning has begun here at the Ken Socrates World News Organization as we remember seventeen fallen comrades who lost their lives when the school bus transporting them to the annual Socrates Booze ‘n’ Badminton Bonanza veered off the highway and flipped down an embankment in Limerick, Maine. Investigators on the scene report that speed was most definately a factor in the crash and that, although seventeen fatalities were reported, one individual was assuredly dead hours before the incident, most likely due to alcohol poisoning. The vehicle’s driver, one Bill “Leadfoot” Castillo, 84, possessed a spotless driving record, although many would point to the fact that this was because he was never actually allowed a valid driver’s license due to various mental, visual and auditory impairments. To us, however, he was a man who surmounted massive disabilities to become a valuable member of our team and remained so right up to his final, screamingly horrific moments on earth.

R.I.P. forever, Bill, you crazy old fucker.

Winds of Change

May 23, 2011

A few minor changes have occurred here in the world of Ken Socrates and the Multi-Media Behemoth that is the Ken Socrates World News Organization and I feel like it’s only fair to let you, my small yet obsessively devoted audience, in on some of the details. I won’t bore you completely with all the legal wranglings behind all this, as certain court orders prohibit me saying too much, but suffice to say that in future conversations about Gorman Moloko, current Managing Editor of the KSWNO, I will be referring to him solely as either a) a salty feminine hygeine product or b) the malodorous result of a woman not using said product.

In any case, you may want to adjust your bookmarks as follows.

My little personal site here has now become I feel like this works better as those few of you interested in the more personal ramblings and disjointed opinions I might have can more easily seek me out here without all the restrictive editorial filterings of a power hungry control freak manboy (whosoever that might be).

Meanwhile, the former has become the, home site and archive for the Ken Socrates World News Organization. I’m told by Gorman that the site will be run in a more magazine style format and exist as a well organized repository for the writings of myself and the dynamic pantheon of talent who have contributed mightily to the organization’s success over the years.


    Horatio Von Darkfaulker

    Stamford Buckforth Pimplton III

    Joe Hawaii & Gaylord “Ra” Fondue

    Chippy McGuiness

    Dwight Cooter

    Willie T. Sherman

    Ozzy McGurt, of course, maintains his own site over at

So, yeah, adjust those bookmarks accordingly and if you need to reach me, my new public corporate e-mail is Feel free to shoot me a note if there’s any confusion or you want the real dirt about this whole thing. Gorman may have the edge on me in terms of a crisper memory and certain photo evidence but I know a few secrets myself. Grown men who play with action figures are not without skeletons in their own closets, trust me.

Personally, I think he’s just pissed that it was me who got invited to This Whovian Life and not him.

How do you like me now, fucker?

Barking Down From The Wrong Tree

September 24, 2010

Back in print. Nicely done trade paperback release from Hurdy Gurdy Publications.

ken socrates bark from the wrong tree

Collection featuring some of the better efforts from my early days in journalism, late seventies through the founding of the KSWNO in 1983. This version includes the recently discovered novella After Hours at the Abattoir.

Im Haus

November 15, 2009

I’ve returned to the Bunker.

By that, my miniscule, psychotically devoted audience, I mean my Northeast Compound in Hooksett, New Hampshire. After 117 days living a Life on the Run, I have finally returned to the place I hold dearest. It is here that I will now speak to you from, likely forevermore, until the end of days.

Which might not be that far off, folks. Who knows?

Regardless, I come now here before you my single-digitally defined comrades, to speak to you in truth, of truth.

You know I love you all. But these are dark days. ‘Nuff said.

So a note or two about where I’ve been since I departed the Compound back in early June. You all recall I was under a bit of stress at times. And at other times. Maybe all the time.

So I needed to cut loose and get out of this fucking country just one last time before coming back here to stay. I ransacked my Compound, threw a few bits of clothing in a bag, grabbed some handy cash and hit the road. First stop, of course, Amsterdam.

Three days in various seedy bars drinking with cyber-neural surgeon (guys who can hardwire micro-data technology right into your cerebral cortex) and former black market arms dealer Pepe “Nightmare Fuck” Livingstone. We hit all the local dives hard, banged up on sour Russian vodka and cannabis by the mega-bud. His girlfriend, Louisa Blowthong, a left-leaning guerrila ninja ass-kicker from Paraguay, was along for the ride, making both of us look good. Picture a nubile, golden-brown Olympic Champion body and genuinely terrifying arsenal or prime ordinance and you’ve got Louie. She was wasting her time with Pepe and we all knew it but it didn’t stop us from having a great time. The night she threw down with hose Yakuza bozos in Chiba’s, you’d swear she was the Black-Racer himself. She turned those fuckers off like they were retractable pens. Click.

That’s the thing about having a great time like that. You don’t sweat the little bullshit that can drag you down in life. The worrying little bullshit. You know what I mean. You just roll with it all and have fun.

I scooted out of the Netherlands in late June, though, as much fun as it had been. Next stop, Prague where I followed any number of false leads in an attempt to track down Kevin Shields for an interview and more of his bullshit about an MBV reunion. Of course it never happend but I did manage to fall briefly in love with a political science major from Plzen. We both sobered up somewhere around the July 4th holiday when, I do believe, she got sick as fuck of my American-ness. Whatever. Not like I was going to propose.

July was a hot month, man. Especially on the French Riviera. There’s only on way to cool off, as far as I’m concerned, folks. Shed some clothing and let it all air out. I think I spent at least three weeks straight on one nude beach or another, soaking in the sun and the skin. There lyeth heaven, mes amis. Paradise.

Even further I wandered, beyond even those blissful heights of bodily ecstacy and relaxation. Good times, bad times, times that distort your soul. Strange times. Much of August was spent in spiritual pursuits that I won’t go into here in any detail. Such personal experiences are often left just as that, personal. If I ever deicde to speak of such things, well, you’ll know that dire times have finally come upon us all.

Anyway, now I’m back up here in beautiful NH in the fall. It’s nice but there’s a cold snap to the air and you can smell winter waiting around the corner somewhere. This Sunday features the fist N’oreaster of the season. Time to bunker down once again.

So, yeah. I’m here.

Won’t you join me?