Mostly I am on my other blog lately, http://theelvesattic.blogspot.com and my site where I am pounding out my late3st book, http://wakingupjesus.blogspot.com
KILL THE IMPERIALIST GODS....OR JUST ANNOY THEM SOME
The rich prop up their lifestyle
on piles of bodies.
They are too far removed from the slaughter house
to smell the blood;
mistake their ignorance for innocence.
One day their childrens children
will see what they have done,
when the skies are all brown
and the birds have sang their last song...
they will stand up on their cancerous legs
& pull their potraits down from the mantels
& burn their memories into black dust
& curse them for trading the green earth
and the blue sky
for an suv and a swimming pool
------------------------------------------------all work here is the sole property of John Scott Ridgway, Chicago Illinois, host of the elves attic reading, every Friday night at the Big Star Cafe.
Monday, January 31, 2005
Thursday, January 27, 2005
TUESDAY NIGHT IN TOLEDO
The irony is that going into THE FUCKING READING TONIGHT, I was afraid that my poem was too obvious, when in reality the language of my microcosm seemed to be entirely unknown to the audience. One table of black on black hipsters displayed utterly blank expressions, which I believe is the sophisticated equivalent to a slack-jawed air of 'HUH?' Afterwards, confirmation of their confusion came in the spontaneous comments, as one person after another wasted words by offering me meaningless ‘LIKES’ without ‘WHYS?’
Shattered Presence still makes sense only to me. A reasoned, scientific response to New Age be-witchery and all other non-explanations built on wishful thinking, made no sense to them. A poem that says a TV show titled Touched By An Angel should just be called ‘Touched’ was taken for more pointless, whining. They took me for another depressive rant on a world seen through the glass darkly.
I DO NOT write professorial puzzles or nifty pictures to be taken in whatever way the receiver’s past tells them to---my goal is to create convictions; make this fucking world offer more shade to babies and lovers; convince that the meaninglessness is malleable; to do so, my texts have to be clearly understood. Tonight, my seed dies ignoble, encrusted on paper rendered garbage by its presence.
Part of the problem could have been the poet who read before me, Gorgeous Surely (sic). Our local performance artist was dressed up as an S & M nymphet, wearing a skintight, black leather mini skirt, dark brown nylons, hot pink garters, and a black leather vest worn sans shirt. She breathes poetry through pouted lips painted glossy red, takes the most innocent words and turns them into whore heat with husky, ‘fuck me more tones.’ The actual words she uses are more a comment on how they sound side by side than anything else. The subject was sex---surprise, surprise.
Her performance, like her chapbook, Let Me Suck It, is a puddle of images designed to create strong reactions in apes – make their crotches tingle and juice. Surely Shirley is a stripper on the wrong stage.The One called The Nervous/Touchy Woman hosted. She has stubby fingers that tremble slightly from some psychotropic or another (she wrote a poem titled the name of the drug . . . I, of course, of course, half listened as I doodled away my boredom, and now the name escapes me). She was wearing yellow lipstick, had heavy black lines of black mascara around her eyes, a black skirt and a white T-shirt that was tight enough to contour no less than four bulbous tiers of fat. Her hair was spiky orange with a half-inch or so of black roots, and there are too many tattoos and nose/lip/ear/whatever rings to count without obviously staring.I’ve heard enough of her ‘making sense of my journey’ poems to know more about her than anyone needs to --- including that she’s been in and out of therapy all her life and hates the idea of a poet like herself (but not herself, the poem that I am referring to had to point out) soiling her artistic soul doing a job exactly like hers, data entry. She also gets drunk on cheap red wine and calls up psychics to talk about angels.
The Upshot of her poetry is always, ‘everything works out like it should, and there are angels everywhere, and she’s just fine, thank you, pretending that she lives in the best of all possible worlds.’Milton Eugene Peters read next. I've never written him. He signs his work ‘The Scoffer,’ though I’ve never seen him scoff at anything. Indeed, he always comes off drunk and defeated.
The first thing he did on-stage was hold up a cheap looking chapbook to make sure everyone knew they could be bought. A slim volume with colored paper for a cover, something he put together on an ambitious afternoon at Kinko’s. I’ve looked at it before. The intro says that they’re written in a ‘Whitmanesque style, celebrating the wonder of Toledo, Ohio and the surrounding mental vicinity’ (this oddly askew vision of Toledo most likely originated when Valium was ‘non-addictive’ and then just carried right on through the Prozac revolution). Milt read a first person narrative about a mailman who overcomes rain, sleet and snow, only to be mauled by an ennui monster.
The poem is in the early morning, with the narrator sitting in a postal truck sipping whiskey to stem off a hangover that’s been trying to settle in for years. The mourning cords of a broken heart country song remind him of his ex wife, which then brings to mind getting his divorce papers delivered at the YMCA. The bad news was handed to him in a dingy lobby of a Y.M.C.A. by a wrinkly faced, toothless, old queen who reeked of lilac perfume, BO and Vic’s Vapor rub. After the memory, he either goes to sleep and dreams, or has a vision (the reader can choose either, depending on their level of sanity). A truck rocking wind blows though an open window and a cloud of envelopes fly up into the air around him. Some stop in front of his eyes and he can read who wrote them, where they’re addressed. It’s all the evil mail that he’s delivered over the years: a shut off notice that he delivered to a young couple with babies a few days before their lights went out, a scam that he took to an old Italian woman who lost forty grand, the mocking deluge of get well cards that he delivered to the dying (he actually only wrote ‘cloud of evil mail’. To quote the poem: “I was too despondent to drop off missives of misery.� This line is evidence of why I have to make some of this up - otherwise,Dear Future Selves, as you read over this, you will curse me for writing down such boring shit).Milt drives back to his house, grabs a cane pole and a .45, tells himself that he’s going out on his boat to do some fishing, and then shut himself down once and for all. He goes to a Turkey lake, which his poem purports to have ‘water as clear as a tear,’ gets in a rowboat, paddles out to the middle and starts to prepare a line to cast. He spikes the hook into a worm and yellow gunk comes out. He wonders how his head will look after he fires the gun into his temple? If his gray, crinkled brains will show? He wants to get rid of, quote, ‘a bag of psychic thorns,’ so he’s brought a gray, lumpy mailbag with him. He drops it over the side of the bow and watches the words 'U.S. Mail,' sink into the murky water.
Then his poem veered out of control and crashed. I don’t know where the remaining words came from, but they were not generated by the preceding text. Well, whatever their source, the tacked on lines describe how Milt suddenly realized that ‘frogs find reason enough to live in the crunch of a fly,’ and is magically transformed into a, quote (for god’s sake) 'paradigm of peace.’I wish to hell that I could make peace with the universe in two lines. I think my differences run much too deep. Did he attend that workshop on writing ‘life-affirming’ endings? He could be trying to reinvent himself as happy?A happy man in a sad world--is there anything as repugnant?
I should write down that Milt really is a divorced, depressed, half-drunken postal employee who indeed still lives at the Y.M.C.A. After reading, he propped three copies of his book up in front of the podium for people to, quote, “ . . . peruse and purchase during the break� (didn’t happen), then gave the stage back to the nervous women.
She stepped in front of the Mic, reintroduced herself, and then extravagantly proclaimed that the next reader would be The Big Fish, saying how she read all his books and took his classes, knew him as a beautiful Father, Teacher, Brother. I mean, she blew him up and down that little stag horn of his. Had him strutting up to the stage ready to rut.He of grammatical greatness still hasn't lost the weight that he gained while writing ‘Ambrosia,’ his book of passionate love poems to his favorite gourmet meals (complete with pictures, recipes and center-piece ideas). A loose narrative runs through the Ambrosia text, describing a monastic initiate learning ritual eating habits. The Big Fish based the regime on what he learned from the last survivors of an obscure religious sect . . . Ugh, it’s sad, but I’ve forgotten their name. He met them while he was on an academic sabbatical in some country, or another. The introduction says, quote: ‘I am in the unfortunate position of having to single handedly preserve a culture,’ then goes on to ‘implore' readers to ‘use the rituals as a dinner party theme.’I once asked him about the metaphorical underpinnings? He spewed out something about how ‘Zen moments contain their own truth.’ I’m not sure if that was a blow-off, or an answer? I hope it was the latter, but . . .
Okay, back to the actual events that took place at The Tuesday Night Toledo Poetry Slam. . .
The Big Fish plays the crowd, walks across the bar touching people’s shoulders, looks down at them and smiles. He knows everyone, of course, because in the cultural Anti-Mecca of Toledo, Ohio, the dozen of so people who show up at readings are poets and their lovers. On stage he adjusts the Mic down below his chin and asks the bartender to aim the spotlight so it’s shining directly on his face. He wears an over-sized, beige Peruvian sweater with a blue llama that seems to be kneeling on his protruding gut, and starts out by saying that he has a signed copy of Milt’s book at home and recommends the volume as ‘a record of how Toledo is viewed by today’s working class’. Of course, he then brings up his own book, which he strangely enough says can be purchased at a lot of bookstores (I happen to know that at least in Toledo, only the university sells them).When the political preliminaries are finally finished, his face goes pointedly blank and he silently gazes out over our heads, takes a drag off a cigarette and exhales into the circular beam of the spotlight.
Thick tendrils of white smoke swirl around him. He silently smokes until the silence itself is the first stanza of the poem-– if indeed, not it’s entirety. The audience is unsettled by the lack of words. I personally grow almost terrified at the thought of spending the next five minutes attempting to follow the vague mental direction of smoke swirling around a bulge of fat. One minute 39 seconds into said silence, a couple people in the back of the room begin whispering. The Big Fish's face takes on a stern, knowing expression as he switches from Beat Poet to Worldly Professorial Mode, leans into the microphone and says, “Some people are here to experience the arts - please, give them a chance.�
Then his face goes blank again and he returns to his silent smoking. It goes on and on . . . On and on. . . On . . . On. . .
I feel like I’ll be noticed if I get up and leave. I try not to look at my watch but there is no way in hell that I can stop myself. The second bout of silence clocks in at two minutes, forty-three seconds, point . . . suddenly the Big fish throws his arms up into the air and yells loud as hell in a Martin Luther King cadence, “I have been to vulva! I have disappeared into heavily verbiaged pussy! Fuchsia! I say, Fuchsia!“
Beer is spilt, a couple people yell out . . . everyone is startled as planned, including your normally unflappable narrator, who dropped a pen that rolled away into the netherworlds of the dim bar lights.He falls silent for another 37.9 seconds, then launches into a whispery jazz riff using alternative words for a vagina as notes. I get out my pad and another pen to write down any new nicknames that he’s discovered for my favorite place in the known universe; sit with my pen hovering over the page for the rest of the poem. When he’s done, there is hooting and hollering a-plenty. I write a note to myself - -‘ everyone seems to 'get' a poem about fucking.’
I used my years of Lit-Crit to look under his prose for the secret language of the literati, the gems supposedly passed from writer to reader, jot down, ‘The 'message' is the same old, same old; gray little nothings; infant lies sponged from movies and ad's and idle conversations; images that scream about how cars crash, little kids cry, people fall in love. I confirm my criticism later, during the smoky, slurred chitchat phase. I use the student voice, display the demeanor of a novice impressed by the teacher’s insight and wanting more, “What is it that people should take home with them from your poem. You know, the revelation?�
“The revelation?� He acts like I need to be clearer if I expect him to bless me with an answer.
“The point, what it means?�
“Fucking is fun.�
“That, I never would have known.�
“What do you mean by that?�
“As a Baptist, I was raised to think as little as possible about sex - and then only bad thoughts. But if you say that fucking is fun, then I damn well might give it a try.“
He half-laughs.
I hope to convince people that over-dramatic times deserve over-dramatic responses, to take their ethical circles and expand them, to see themselves as part of the generations yet to come; to destroy the delusions of religion, ego, politics . . . It’s not like I’m praying to the sky. Empirical data shows my talent could nuance consciousness, actually shape minds more in tune with the world around us, rather than the word-worlds that we’ve made up for all those reasons that have nothing to do with the search for truth. I mean, my god, writing a poem that says fucking is fun? Money? Praise? I might as well write a poem about how windows open.
don't steal my shit.... no use what-so-ever of this material is lawful, unless you have my permission.... don't make me come smack the shit out of you.
Shattered Presence still makes sense only to me. A reasoned, scientific response to New Age be-witchery and all other non-explanations built on wishful thinking, made no sense to them. A poem that says a TV show titled Touched By An Angel should just be called ‘Touched’ was taken for more pointless, whining. They took me for another depressive rant on a world seen through the glass darkly.
I DO NOT write professorial puzzles or nifty pictures to be taken in whatever way the receiver’s past tells them to---my goal is to create convictions; make this fucking world offer more shade to babies and lovers; convince that the meaninglessness is malleable; to do so, my texts have to be clearly understood. Tonight, my seed dies ignoble, encrusted on paper rendered garbage by its presence.
Part of the problem could have been the poet who read before me, Gorgeous Surely (sic). Our local performance artist was dressed up as an S & M nymphet, wearing a skintight, black leather mini skirt, dark brown nylons, hot pink garters, and a black leather vest worn sans shirt. She breathes poetry through pouted lips painted glossy red, takes the most innocent words and turns them into whore heat with husky, ‘fuck me more tones.’ The actual words she uses are more a comment on how they sound side by side than anything else. The subject was sex---surprise, surprise.
Her performance, like her chapbook, Let Me Suck It, is a puddle of images designed to create strong reactions in apes – make their crotches tingle and juice. Surely Shirley is a stripper on the wrong stage.The One called The Nervous/Touchy Woman hosted. She has stubby fingers that tremble slightly from some psychotropic or another (she wrote a poem titled the name of the drug . . . I, of course, of course, half listened as I doodled away my boredom, and now the name escapes me). She was wearing yellow lipstick, had heavy black lines of black mascara around her eyes, a black skirt and a white T-shirt that was tight enough to contour no less than four bulbous tiers of fat. Her hair was spiky orange with a half-inch or so of black roots, and there are too many tattoos and nose/lip/ear/whatever rings to count without obviously staring.I’ve heard enough of her ‘making sense of my journey’ poems to know more about her than anyone needs to --- including that she’s been in and out of therapy all her life and hates the idea of a poet like herself (but not herself, the poem that I am referring to had to point out) soiling her artistic soul doing a job exactly like hers, data entry. She also gets drunk on cheap red wine and calls up psychics to talk about angels.
The Upshot of her poetry is always, ‘everything works out like it should, and there are angels everywhere, and she’s just fine, thank you, pretending that she lives in the best of all possible worlds.’Milton Eugene Peters read next. I've never written him. He signs his work ‘The Scoffer,’ though I’ve never seen him scoff at anything. Indeed, he always comes off drunk and defeated.
The first thing he did on-stage was hold up a cheap looking chapbook to make sure everyone knew they could be bought. A slim volume with colored paper for a cover, something he put together on an ambitious afternoon at Kinko’s. I’ve looked at it before. The intro says that they’re written in a ‘Whitmanesque style, celebrating the wonder of Toledo, Ohio and the surrounding mental vicinity’ (this oddly askew vision of Toledo most likely originated when Valium was ‘non-addictive’ and then just carried right on through the Prozac revolution). Milt read a first person narrative about a mailman who overcomes rain, sleet and snow, only to be mauled by an ennui monster.
The poem is in the early morning, with the narrator sitting in a postal truck sipping whiskey to stem off a hangover that’s been trying to settle in for years. The mourning cords of a broken heart country song remind him of his ex wife, which then brings to mind getting his divorce papers delivered at the YMCA. The bad news was handed to him in a dingy lobby of a Y.M.C.A. by a wrinkly faced, toothless, old queen who reeked of lilac perfume, BO and Vic’s Vapor rub. After the memory, he either goes to sleep and dreams, or has a vision (the reader can choose either, depending on their level of sanity). A truck rocking wind blows though an open window and a cloud of envelopes fly up into the air around him. Some stop in front of his eyes and he can read who wrote them, where they’re addressed. It’s all the evil mail that he’s delivered over the years: a shut off notice that he delivered to a young couple with babies a few days before their lights went out, a scam that he took to an old Italian woman who lost forty grand, the mocking deluge of get well cards that he delivered to the dying (he actually only wrote ‘cloud of evil mail’. To quote the poem: “I was too despondent to drop off missives of misery.� This line is evidence of why I have to make some of this up - otherwise,Dear Future Selves, as you read over this, you will curse me for writing down such boring shit).Milt drives back to his house, grabs a cane pole and a .45, tells himself that he’s going out on his boat to do some fishing, and then shut himself down once and for all. He goes to a Turkey lake, which his poem purports to have ‘water as clear as a tear,’ gets in a rowboat, paddles out to the middle and starts to prepare a line to cast. He spikes the hook into a worm and yellow gunk comes out. He wonders how his head will look after he fires the gun into his temple? If his gray, crinkled brains will show? He wants to get rid of, quote, ‘a bag of psychic thorns,’ so he’s brought a gray, lumpy mailbag with him. He drops it over the side of the bow and watches the words 'U.S. Mail,' sink into the murky water.
Then his poem veered out of control and crashed. I don’t know where the remaining words came from, but they were not generated by the preceding text. Well, whatever their source, the tacked on lines describe how Milt suddenly realized that ‘frogs find reason enough to live in the crunch of a fly,’ and is magically transformed into a, quote (for god’s sake) 'paradigm of peace.’I wish to hell that I could make peace with the universe in two lines. I think my differences run much too deep. Did he attend that workshop on writing ‘life-affirming’ endings? He could be trying to reinvent himself as happy?A happy man in a sad world--is there anything as repugnant?
I should write down that Milt really is a divorced, depressed, half-drunken postal employee who indeed still lives at the Y.M.C.A. After reading, he propped three copies of his book up in front of the podium for people to, quote, “ . . . peruse and purchase during the break� (didn’t happen), then gave the stage back to the nervous women.
She stepped in front of the Mic, reintroduced herself, and then extravagantly proclaimed that the next reader would be The Big Fish, saying how she read all his books and took his classes, knew him as a beautiful Father, Teacher, Brother. I mean, she blew him up and down that little stag horn of his. Had him strutting up to the stage ready to rut.He of grammatical greatness still hasn't lost the weight that he gained while writing ‘Ambrosia,’ his book of passionate love poems to his favorite gourmet meals (complete with pictures, recipes and center-piece ideas). A loose narrative runs through the Ambrosia text, describing a monastic initiate learning ritual eating habits. The Big Fish based the regime on what he learned from the last survivors of an obscure religious sect . . . Ugh, it’s sad, but I’ve forgotten their name. He met them while he was on an academic sabbatical in some country, or another. The introduction says, quote: ‘I am in the unfortunate position of having to single handedly preserve a culture,’ then goes on to ‘implore' readers to ‘use the rituals as a dinner party theme.’I once asked him about the metaphorical underpinnings? He spewed out something about how ‘Zen moments contain their own truth.’ I’m not sure if that was a blow-off, or an answer? I hope it was the latter, but . . .
Okay, back to the actual events that took place at The Tuesday Night Toledo Poetry Slam. . .
The Big Fish plays the crowd, walks across the bar touching people’s shoulders, looks down at them and smiles. He knows everyone, of course, because in the cultural Anti-Mecca of Toledo, Ohio, the dozen of so people who show up at readings are poets and their lovers. On stage he adjusts the Mic down below his chin and asks the bartender to aim the spotlight so it’s shining directly on his face. He wears an over-sized, beige Peruvian sweater with a blue llama that seems to be kneeling on his protruding gut, and starts out by saying that he has a signed copy of Milt’s book at home and recommends the volume as ‘a record of how Toledo is viewed by today’s working class’. Of course, he then brings up his own book, which he strangely enough says can be purchased at a lot of bookstores (I happen to know that at least in Toledo, only the university sells them).When the political preliminaries are finally finished, his face goes pointedly blank and he silently gazes out over our heads, takes a drag off a cigarette and exhales into the circular beam of the spotlight.
Thick tendrils of white smoke swirl around him. He silently smokes until the silence itself is the first stanza of the poem-– if indeed, not it’s entirety. The audience is unsettled by the lack of words. I personally grow almost terrified at the thought of spending the next five minutes attempting to follow the vague mental direction of smoke swirling around a bulge of fat. One minute 39 seconds into said silence, a couple people in the back of the room begin whispering. The Big Fish's face takes on a stern, knowing expression as he switches from Beat Poet to Worldly Professorial Mode, leans into the microphone and says, “Some people are here to experience the arts - please, give them a chance.�
Then his face goes blank again and he returns to his silent smoking. It goes on and on . . . On and on. . . On . . . On. . .
I feel like I’ll be noticed if I get up and leave. I try not to look at my watch but there is no way in hell that I can stop myself. The second bout of silence clocks in at two minutes, forty-three seconds, point . . . suddenly the Big fish throws his arms up into the air and yells loud as hell in a Martin Luther King cadence, “I have been to vulva! I have disappeared into heavily verbiaged pussy! Fuchsia! I say, Fuchsia!“
Beer is spilt, a couple people yell out . . . everyone is startled as planned, including your normally unflappable narrator, who dropped a pen that rolled away into the netherworlds of the dim bar lights.He falls silent for another 37.9 seconds, then launches into a whispery jazz riff using alternative words for a vagina as notes. I get out my pad and another pen to write down any new nicknames that he’s discovered for my favorite place in the known universe; sit with my pen hovering over the page for the rest of the poem. When he’s done, there is hooting and hollering a-plenty. I write a note to myself - -‘ everyone seems to 'get' a poem about fucking.’
I used my years of Lit-Crit to look under his prose for the secret language of the literati, the gems supposedly passed from writer to reader, jot down, ‘The 'message' is the same old, same old; gray little nothings; infant lies sponged from movies and ad's and idle conversations; images that scream about how cars crash, little kids cry, people fall in love. I confirm my criticism later, during the smoky, slurred chitchat phase. I use the student voice, display the demeanor of a novice impressed by the teacher’s insight and wanting more, “What is it that people should take home with them from your poem. You know, the revelation?�
“The revelation?� He acts like I need to be clearer if I expect him to bless me with an answer.
“The point, what it means?�
“Fucking is fun.�
“That, I never would have known.�
“What do you mean by that?�
“As a Baptist, I was raised to think as little as possible about sex - and then only bad thoughts. But if you say that fucking is fun, then I damn well might give it a try.“
He half-laughs.
I hope to convince people that over-dramatic times deserve over-dramatic responses, to take their ethical circles and expand them, to see themselves as part of the generations yet to come; to destroy the delusions of religion, ego, politics . . . It’s not like I’m praying to the sky. Empirical data shows my talent could nuance consciousness, actually shape minds more in tune with the world around us, rather than the word-worlds that we’ve made up for all those reasons that have nothing to do with the search for truth. I mean, my god, writing a poem that says fucking is fun? Money? Praise? I might as well write a poem about how windows open.
don't steal my shit.... no use what-so-ever of this material is lawful, unless you have my permission.... don't make me come smack the shit out of you.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
I am back from my mental sabbitical. My wanderings in the desert are over again for a bit. My beard is dusty, hair long and disheveled, teeth a bit more smoked yellow. Other than a few slow healing wounds in my ego, I am basically back from, out of, and crawling away from.
Lucky for me, I had a few people around to keep me from tumbling down into a serious abyss... having an artistic temperament -- in my case, one of a rather morose, pensive nature puncuated by bursts of myth motored mania, is part of why no one should ever want to be an artist. There is a curse that comes with this magic power. A darkside unseen.... anyways, what can one say about getting really depressed? Everyone goes through this to some degree. I seldom read of artists who don't suffer from some sort of meloncholia, as well as certain illusions of granduer (however small). The pain I read of in their biographies is somehow noble and earned in the myth of them that comes down in the texts and the tales. I am sure they didn't enjoy that particular aspect of their life any more than I enjoy them in mine.
So, if I have been remiss . . . sorry. I am just this week starting to feel like I will keep going on in the world. Suicidal ideations are so banal. I always think people who kill themselves are a waste; like they went with one small view of the world and let it kill them. They define themselves as a job they lose, or a woman they have . . . I do this too.
I think the honest way to see any life is to look at not just the person, but the influences that have given rise to the person, and those which are presently creating the person's persona; no one is alive for simply the moment it takes for them to offend me, no matter how much my hot head seems to think this is so on some days. Not even me. I had high expectations for myself that I have failed to meet. Now, I am unsure if the bigger curse was not having the expectations in the first place, rather than their not coming true.
I am what I am and it isn't perfect, though it is by no means without a worth that most people perceive if they know me at all. I am not great at anything I suppose. I write well, at times, but I am not a conventional success at anything at all. I seldom send anything off to be published. Even my most strong bits of prose are basically unpublished. The blog hardly counts.
Or if the blog does count, then I am unsure of how it fits in.
What have I been doing for this last month? The only good I have done is reading. Mostly, I just kind of stared off feeling rather lost, like I had been cut off from the jokester I had been writing from since July. The reading was mostly Tolkein; I read from the hobbit to the return of the king, some if Silmarillion. The myths there somehow comforted me. Mostly they helped me to forget who I was and what has been happening to me.
Forgetting is a shitty way to get rid of a problem, of course, because they only respond to confrontation. I forget this when I am weak, and start to feel like I can do nothing to stop the assaults of anxiety and depression. A sickly child grows up into a pain bag and wants to kill himself before his time. How boring.
I used to love to read stories about people like me, which is my favorite irony about being a tortured artist. Once these stories gave me a way of looking at myself and my life from a very different set of standards than one might expect from a white boy from a small town in the middle of a nowhere. Now? They seem as whiny and small minded as I feel like I am.
So, we'll see what happens from here on out.
Lucky for me, I had a few people around to keep me from tumbling down into a serious abyss... having an artistic temperament -- in my case, one of a rather morose, pensive nature puncuated by bursts of myth motored mania, is part of why no one should ever want to be an artist. There is a curse that comes with this magic power. A darkside unseen.... anyways, what can one say about getting really depressed? Everyone goes through this to some degree. I seldom read of artists who don't suffer from some sort of meloncholia, as well as certain illusions of granduer (however small). The pain I read of in their biographies is somehow noble and earned in the myth of them that comes down in the texts and the tales. I am sure they didn't enjoy that particular aspect of their life any more than I enjoy them in mine.
So, if I have been remiss . . . sorry. I am just this week starting to feel like I will keep going on in the world. Suicidal ideations are so banal. I always think people who kill themselves are a waste; like they went with one small view of the world and let it kill them. They define themselves as a job they lose, or a woman they have . . . I do this too.
I think the honest way to see any life is to look at not just the person, but the influences that have given rise to the person, and those which are presently creating the person's persona; no one is alive for simply the moment it takes for them to offend me, no matter how much my hot head seems to think this is so on some days. Not even me. I had high expectations for myself that I have failed to meet. Now, I am unsure if the bigger curse was not having the expectations in the first place, rather than their not coming true.
I am what I am and it isn't perfect, though it is by no means without a worth that most people perceive if they know me at all. I am not great at anything I suppose. I write well, at times, but I am not a conventional success at anything at all. I seldom send anything off to be published. Even my most strong bits of prose are basically unpublished. The blog hardly counts.
Or if the blog does count, then I am unsure of how it fits in.
What have I been doing for this last month? The only good I have done is reading. Mostly, I just kind of stared off feeling rather lost, like I had been cut off from the jokester I had been writing from since July. The reading was mostly Tolkein; I read from the hobbit to the return of the king, some if Silmarillion. The myths there somehow comforted me. Mostly they helped me to forget who I was and what has been happening to me.
Forgetting is a shitty way to get rid of a problem, of course, because they only respond to confrontation. I forget this when I am weak, and start to feel like I can do nothing to stop the assaults of anxiety and depression. A sickly child grows up into a pain bag and wants to kill himself before his time. How boring.
I used to love to read stories about people like me, which is my favorite irony about being a tortured artist. Once these stories gave me a way of looking at myself and my life from a very different set of standards than one might expect from a white boy from a small town in the middle of a nowhere. Now? They seem as whiny and small minded as I feel like I am.
So, we'll see what happens from here on out.
Tuesday, January 25, 2005
Dusting Myself Off And Crawling On...
I am just now stepping out of a dark room;
a room filled with the paraphenilia of self torture,
a room I fall into by accident,
through trap doors that are hidden all over the world and beyond,
a room somewhere behind my blue eyes.
In a less dramatic vein, this could mean a lot of things. As usual, I am reluctant, in my heart of hearts, to declare any one answer correct.
1) I am going through a seasonal depression?
2) I went off a serotonin uptake drug and the delicate balance of chemicals in my gray matter went hay-wire
3) I am not one of those people who has a thick skin at all and indeed think such a skin would destroy what I think of as a poetic sesibility... and I flipped out when my beloved Mr Yeats, the tiger kitty, died in my arms.
4) I overtaxed my pleasure centers with valium and just had little juice left when I came back.... especially since I am so sick of taking valium that I am just going to take more pain, rather than go through the bullshit that happens to me whenever I start taking those pills... I consider myself someone who knows how to use drugs, but more importantly, I am someone who stays away from really destructive drugs. Like herion or acid or speed or coke. I was a kid once, but other than that, my attitude toward drugs has had to as cautious as my attitude toward drink. I had to give up drinking. I am just not as amoral as the drunken me, and his behavior embarrasses and complicates the lives of the rest of us up here in this head.
When this person in my head is confident, I am one person. When he is stricken and abhorred, another. Or so I experience myself. Generally. Occasionally something comes along that genuinely puzzles me about myself.
Suicidal ideations are one of them. I do not wish to die, really. I don't fear death, for whatever reason, but I do not wish it on myself. Mostly because of how other people would be effected by such a death, but of course also because my little fire behind the eyes would be snuffed out and I don't believe there is anything more than that.
I remember myself once telling an atheist, when I was not, that I did not know how he could keep living in this life if he believed there was nothing afterwards? I was going through a strong bout of using religion to get my life together and provide some reason for crawling on.
.
don't steal my shit.... no use what-so-ever of this material is lawful, unless you have my permission.... don't make me come smack the shit out of you.
a room filled with the paraphenilia of self torture,
a room I fall into by accident,
through trap doors that are hidden all over the world and beyond,
a room somewhere behind my blue eyes.
In a less dramatic vein, this could mean a lot of things. As usual, I am reluctant, in my heart of hearts, to declare any one answer correct.
1) I am going through a seasonal depression?
2) I went off a serotonin uptake drug and the delicate balance of chemicals in my gray matter went hay-wire
3) I am not one of those people who has a thick skin at all and indeed think such a skin would destroy what I think of as a poetic sesibility... and I flipped out when my beloved Mr Yeats, the tiger kitty, died in my arms.
4) I overtaxed my pleasure centers with valium and just had little juice left when I came back.... especially since I am so sick of taking valium that I am just going to take more pain, rather than go through the bullshit that happens to me whenever I start taking those pills... I consider myself someone who knows how to use drugs, but more importantly, I am someone who stays away from really destructive drugs. Like herion or acid or speed or coke. I was a kid once, but other than that, my attitude toward drugs has had to as cautious as my attitude toward drink. I had to give up drinking. I am just not as amoral as the drunken me, and his behavior embarrasses and complicates the lives of the rest of us up here in this head.
When this person in my head is confident, I am one person. When he is stricken and abhorred, another. Or so I experience myself. Generally. Occasionally something comes along that genuinely puzzles me about myself.
Suicidal ideations are one of them. I do not wish to die, really. I don't fear death, for whatever reason, but I do not wish it on myself. Mostly because of how other people would be effected by such a death, but of course also because my little fire behind the eyes would be snuffed out and I don't believe there is anything more than that.
I remember myself once telling an atheist, when I was not, that I did not know how he could keep living in this life if he believed there was nothing afterwards? I was going through a strong bout of using religion to get my life together and provide some reason for crawling on.
.
don't steal my shit.... no use what-so-ever of this material is lawful, unless you have my permission.... don't make me come smack the shit out of you.
Friday, January 21, 2005
FUCKING IRONY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
We trudge on because the only alternative is crawling and our knees are already torn and bloody.
Ugh…I’ve been out wandering in the wild for weeks, pursing all those heavily pondered questions: life, death and the shebanging betwixt? Every time I think I have an answer, I learn that I am wrong. Started with Jesus worship, went on to literary and artistic figure worship, Buddhist worship, woman worship and lots of various etcetera’s. . .
Irony? The answers you want the most will never come. You can pretend they have been answered, but that is hardly answering them.
Another irony? I tell myself that I live in the absence of the sacred, yet I still take any old chaotically shaped tree limb and just automatically start carving crosses. Self-help books used to get me, before I realized that humans who say they have answers for the great mysteries are liars.
Sad Ass Fact: Every time I think I know who I am, I act like someone else.
Once I knew I was a worshipper in some jolly fable of eternal life and all that wino mumblings jazz; bowed on my knees and raised my hands to the skies and cried out, I did… euphemistically, I mean, because I was always slightly embarrassed about the whole god thing; I communicated with it silently, pathetically, supersticiously, muttering fine words of praise that somehow always ensconced a query for the big guy about giving me something for free. I even prayed for shit like winning the lottery. Oh, sure…
I was like some street corner crazy screaming curses at mental phantoms.
In the absence of a delightful tale of deities dancing, I bid you a day where Siberian huskies are swimming in every snow drift….
~ THIS TEMPLATE INCLUDES COMMENTS ~
5/10
Ugh…I’ve been out wandering in the wild for weeks, pursing all those heavily pondered questions: life, death and the shebanging betwixt? Every time I think I have an answer, I learn that I am wrong. Started with Jesus worship, went on to literary and artistic figure worship, Buddhist worship, woman worship and lots of various etcetera’s. . .
Irony? The answers you want the most will never come. You can pretend they have been answered, but that is hardly answering them.
Another irony? I tell myself that I live in the absence of the sacred, yet I still take any old chaotically shaped tree limb and just automatically start carving crosses. Self-help books used to get me, before I realized that humans who say they have answers for the great mysteries are liars.
Sad Ass Fact: Every time I think I know who I am, I act like someone else.
Once I knew I was a worshipper in some jolly fable of eternal life and all that wino mumblings jazz; bowed on my knees and raised my hands to the skies and cried out, I did… euphemistically, I mean, because I was always slightly embarrassed about the whole god thing; I communicated with it silently, pathetically, supersticiously, muttering fine words of praise that somehow always ensconced a query for the big guy about giving me something for free. I even prayed for shit like winning the lottery. Oh, sure…
I was like some street corner crazy screaming curses at mental phantoms.
In the absence of a delightful tale of deities dancing, I bid you a day where Siberian huskies are swimming in every snow drift….
~ THIS TEMPLATE INCLUDES COMMENTS ~
5/10
excerpt from my manuscript, One War...
transcript of a radio interview with a cia agent and the ghost writer of a book about iran contra.
(duh,yes... this is fiction).
AFFADAV6/10/20CO9/ ECO/F BTWO AMWTTU98.4 FMAudience Estimated: 250
CHRISTOPHER J. BAHNSEN/314-76-8936: Hello again. This is Chris B’s voice coming out of your dashboard, earphones, stereo, metal plates in your heads and any other devices suitable for receiving radio waves. We’re back with our first guests, two local men who have written a book that claims one of them smuggled cocaine into Texas while working for the CIA. You’ve all heard of the Cocaine, CIA connection? Is this history, or bunk? Where do you weigh in, my loyal, Two Am listeners? Let me know. Set your speed-dial on 862-8595 and start hitting flash and redial. If you’ve been good, the karma will be with you and you’ll get to ask our guests-or myself-for an opinion on your own pet conspiracy theory. I like that – pet conspiracy theories, it could be something like pet rocks, but this box would just be empty. Ha, that at least got my producer laughing.
GILBERT: We aren’t conspiracy theorists. Bill doesn’t know anything about UFO’s, the gnomes of Munich, or how many people fired into Kennedy’s head. He has a story, about Iran-Contra, which is true. I’m the other guest, the ghostwriter. Dave Gilbert.
BAHNSEN: This press release, in my hand, says that the CIA released the crack plague on the black community in Los Angeles. Now, if the government dealing drugs to the brother’s isn’t a conspiracy theory, then I’m going to need a new definition for the term.
GILBERT: The agent, she is trying to sell the book and she has her way of doing things, okay? She takes the most vivid parts and plays them up, like anyone trying to sell something to an idiotic market. As far as the coke and blacks, we speculate briefly for a few paragraphs on that matter, and then move straight back to our, ‘Joe Friday, Just the facts, Ma’am,’ attitude.
BAHNSEN: So, now you’re saying the CIA didn’t give the blacks crack cocaine, which is the exact opposite of your press release?
GILBERT: We say that the CIA did end up having a small part in unleashing crack, regardless of their intentions. Our Book is the facts, you know? People in the CIA protested the cocaine, too, from the very start. But, they still let the cartels smuggle in god knows how much coke?
BAHNSEN: Well, it still sounds like a conspiracy theory to me. In fact, if my grandpa were here he might say, you have a pig in your lap and you’re telling me it’s a chicken. But whatever you are, let’s move beyond the labels, if possible, and get to the facts of the story – or at least, your spin on the facts.
GILBERT: When I was writing short stories, no one thought I was unbalanced. In fact, people kind of assumed that I knew what I was talking about. Now, it’s like I’m carrying around signs saying, ‘The world ended last Tuesday.’ Hey, we just wrote a book about a military operation, okay? A history book, of sorts.
BAHNSEN: Hey, Bill, how did you get a gig like working for the CIA? Did you answer an ad asking for a spook, or what?
PERRY: I was going to try to tell my story from the beginning to end, in sequence, like Dave and me planned.
GILBERT: Answer him Bill.
PERRY: A guy came up to me in a bar in Korea and said that he’d heard I was one of the best low-to-the-ground pilots in the Army. I was better than the guys who I went through basics with, on account of I started crop dusting way back when I was a eleven, or twelve. I explained to him about the crop dusting.
BAHNSEN: In the press release, you say that you can’t talk about your other missions - what’s up with that?
PERRY: A lot of what I know is covered by my Loyalty Oath.
GILBERT: That translates to mean that it would be illegal for Bill to talk about covert activity.
BILL: Yea, but this is different. This book, now, it goes and describes missions that have already been exposed, written about and such. The other missions are still classified. Nobody but them and me knows about em’, and it would probably wind my ass up in jail, at least, if I told the press everything I know. I won’t. I am still loyal to my country and proud of what I did.
BAHNSEN: Wait a minute, then why are you writing about cocaine?
PERRY: I wouldn’t be talking about the cocaine if all this hadn’t already come out in other books. I just figured, if it’s all out there any ways, why shouldn’t a soldier who was there make a little something off it, you know? Plus, and Dave pointed this out to me, all the books were pretty one sided. None of them had anything good to say about what we did, and there was at least some good to it, even if it were only our intentions, you know? Though I gotta say, Dave would only write the book if he had his say, too, and he’s a mushy hearted liberal. What do you expect from a poet?
GILBERT: Bill, you were going to describe the flight into El Salvador?
PERRY: Yeah. Well, when they called me up, all they said was that a battalion of soldiers were trapped in enemy territory and needed guns and supplies.BAHNSEN: You left home not knowing which war you were going into?
GILBERT: At any one time on this planet, America is fighting, or backing someone’s fight, just about everywhere, you know? They called Bill up to make this flight after Congress cut off the money for the Contra’s because of their nun-killing death squads. That’s the army that the operative was talking about when he called Bill, the Contra’s. The CIA had put this army of Contra’s together, and all of a sudden Congress wanted us to leave them at the mercy of the enemy? Reagan decided to just take the war covert, throw out the press and hide the whole thing behind a flood of disinformation and outright lies. Plausible denial was coined about then. Go on with the story, Bill.
PERRY: They told me that I would be flying out of Texas. I took my twin engine duster down, landed at this strip that was all out by itself in the dessert. They had planes already loaded and ready to go, six cargoes, beat up looking things covered in mud. We flew out in formation, following a Colombian pilot down. He had a guy from MI on his plane with him. The strip . . .
GILBERT: MI is Military Intelligence.
PERRY: Yea, that’s right. The runway was in a jungle, a strip cut into the trees. When we first got there, we had to circle until they removed this green camouflage netting. You couldn’t see the landing strip until they took that shit off. As they peeled it back, a thin line of brown mud appeared, and that’s where we put them down. There were soldiers all over, South Americans, and most of them started unloading the planes. I guess they were Contras. It ain’t the kind of situation where you can ask questions, you know? It only took em’ about twenty minutes to unload us. When we were empty, I thought we were ready to fly back, but this spook, or at least I think he was CIA, told me to wait. He got me a beer out of a cooler he had in his humvee. Nice guy. Maybe twenty minutes later, this transport truck pulls up all filled with burlap bags, and the soldiers start putting the bags in the planes. I wouldn’t have known what was in them, more than likely, if a soldier hadn’t dropped one off the truck. The bag broke open, split right in the middle all the way around and a white cloud shot up just covering this guy from head to toe. The others started laughing, then the guy who was all covered in white started acting like he was snorting the stuff off himself - though he wasn’t really. I was laughing, too, even though I couldn’t follow what they were saying. They cleaned up that shit. . . Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to say that ‘s’ word. Any way, they cleaned up that coke carefully, too, with a dust vac. When they were done loading the planes, we flew back to the same strip in Texas. I picked up my plane there and came home. When all this was happening, I didn’t know much about the Contra’s were, or whether the coke had been confiscated, or what. It was only years later, after people started writing about John Kerry’s senate investigations into this, that I understood what I had been a part of. For instance, I found out why the CIA called me in -- they were trying to cover, temporarily, for the loss of the Army pilots, which they eventually did, by replacing them with the coke cartel’s pilots. They were already using the Cartels planes and jungle airports, so it was a logical step.
GILBERT: Basically, the CIA made a deal with the Cartels to use their secret airline to fly guns into South America. In exchange, the Company let the cartel fill up the return flights with coke and land at their ranch in Texas, where they didn’t have to bother with little matters like customs, or the DEA.
BAHSEN: Your press release says that better than a dozen pilots were, and I quote, ‘murdered into silence.’ If you’re story is true, then why won’t the CIA come after you?GILBERT: There’s the proof that you seem to need to know that we aren’t a couple of nuts, okay? We don’t think that the CIA is out to get us, all right?
Don't steal my shit.... no use what-so-ever of this material is lawful, unless you have my permission.... don't make me come smack the shit out of you.
(duh,yes... this is fiction).
AFFADAV6/10/20CO9/ ECO/F BTWO AMWTTU98.4 FMAudience Estimated: 250
CHRISTOPHER J. BAHNSEN/314-76-8936: Hello again. This is Chris B’s voice coming out of your dashboard, earphones, stereo, metal plates in your heads and any other devices suitable for receiving radio waves. We’re back with our first guests, two local men who have written a book that claims one of them smuggled cocaine into Texas while working for the CIA. You’ve all heard of the Cocaine, CIA connection? Is this history, or bunk? Where do you weigh in, my loyal, Two Am listeners? Let me know. Set your speed-dial on 862-8595 and start hitting flash and redial. If you’ve been good, the karma will be with you and you’ll get to ask our guests-or myself-for an opinion on your own pet conspiracy theory. I like that – pet conspiracy theories, it could be something like pet rocks, but this box would just be empty. Ha, that at least got my producer laughing.
GILBERT: We aren’t conspiracy theorists. Bill doesn’t know anything about UFO’s, the gnomes of Munich, or how many people fired into Kennedy’s head. He has a story, about Iran-Contra, which is true. I’m the other guest, the ghostwriter. Dave Gilbert.
BAHNSEN: This press release, in my hand, says that the CIA released the crack plague on the black community in Los Angeles. Now, if the government dealing drugs to the brother’s isn’t a conspiracy theory, then I’m going to need a new definition for the term.
GILBERT: The agent, she is trying to sell the book and she has her way of doing things, okay? She takes the most vivid parts and plays them up, like anyone trying to sell something to an idiotic market. As far as the coke and blacks, we speculate briefly for a few paragraphs on that matter, and then move straight back to our, ‘Joe Friday, Just the facts, Ma’am,’ attitude.
BAHNSEN: So, now you’re saying the CIA didn’t give the blacks crack cocaine, which is the exact opposite of your press release?
GILBERT: We say that the CIA did end up having a small part in unleashing crack, regardless of their intentions. Our Book is the facts, you know? People in the CIA protested the cocaine, too, from the very start. But, they still let the cartels smuggle in god knows how much coke?
BAHNSEN: Well, it still sounds like a conspiracy theory to me. In fact, if my grandpa were here he might say, you have a pig in your lap and you’re telling me it’s a chicken. But whatever you are, let’s move beyond the labels, if possible, and get to the facts of the story – or at least, your spin on the facts.
GILBERT: When I was writing short stories, no one thought I was unbalanced. In fact, people kind of assumed that I knew what I was talking about. Now, it’s like I’m carrying around signs saying, ‘The world ended last Tuesday.’ Hey, we just wrote a book about a military operation, okay? A history book, of sorts.
BAHNSEN: Hey, Bill, how did you get a gig like working for the CIA? Did you answer an ad asking for a spook, or what?
PERRY: I was going to try to tell my story from the beginning to end, in sequence, like Dave and me planned.
GILBERT: Answer him Bill.
PERRY: A guy came up to me in a bar in Korea and said that he’d heard I was one of the best low-to-the-ground pilots in the Army. I was better than the guys who I went through basics with, on account of I started crop dusting way back when I was a eleven, or twelve. I explained to him about the crop dusting.
BAHNSEN: In the press release, you say that you can’t talk about your other missions - what’s up with that?
PERRY: A lot of what I know is covered by my Loyalty Oath.
GILBERT: That translates to mean that it would be illegal for Bill to talk about covert activity.
BILL: Yea, but this is different. This book, now, it goes and describes missions that have already been exposed, written about and such. The other missions are still classified. Nobody but them and me knows about em’, and it would probably wind my ass up in jail, at least, if I told the press everything I know. I won’t. I am still loyal to my country and proud of what I did.
BAHNSEN: Wait a minute, then why are you writing about cocaine?
PERRY: I wouldn’t be talking about the cocaine if all this hadn’t already come out in other books. I just figured, if it’s all out there any ways, why shouldn’t a soldier who was there make a little something off it, you know? Plus, and Dave pointed this out to me, all the books were pretty one sided. None of them had anything good to say about what we did, and there was at least some good to it, even if it were only our intentions, you know? Though I gotta say, Dave would only write the book if he had his say, too, and he’s a mushy hearted liberal. What do you expect from a poet?
GILBERT: Bill, you were going to describe the flight into El Salvador?
PERRY: Yeah. Well, when they called me up, all they said was that a battalion of soldiers were trapped in enemy territory and needed guns and supplies.BAHNSEN: You left home not knowing which war you were going into?
GILBERT: At any one time on this planet, America is fighting, or backing someone’s fight, just about everywhere, you know? They called Bill up to make this flight after Congress cut off the money for the Contra’s because of their nun-killing death squads. That’s the army that the operative was talking about when he called Bill, the Contra’s. The CIA had put this army of Contra’s together, and all of a sudden Congress wanted us to leave them at the mercy of the enemy? Reagan decided to just take the war covert, throw out the press and hide the whole thing behind a flood of disinformation and outright lies. Plausible denial was coined about then. Go on with the story, Bill.
PERRY: They told me that I would be flying out of Texas. I took my twin engine duster down, landed at this strip that was all out by itself in the dessert. They had planes already loaded and ready to go, six cargoes, beat up looking things covered in mud. We flew out in formation, following a Colombian pilot down. He had a guy from MI on his plane with him. The strip . . .
GILBERT: MI is Military Intelligence.
PERRY: Yea, that’s right. The runway was in a jungle, a strip cut into the trees. When we first got there, we had to circle until they removed this green camouflage netting. You couldn’t see the landing strip until they took that shit off. As they peeled it back, a thin line of brown mud appeared, and that’s where we put them down. There were soldiers all over, South Americans, and most of them started unloading the planes. I guess they were Contras. It ain’t the kind of situation where you can ask questions, you know? It only took em’ about twenty minutes to unload us. When we were empty, I thought we were ready to fly back, but this spook, or at least I think he was CIA, told me to wait. He got me a beer out of a cooler he had in his humvee. Nice guy. Maybe twenty minutes later, this transport truck pulls up all filled with burlap bags, and the soldiers start putting the bags in the planes. I wouldn’t have known what was in them, more than likely, if a soldier hadn’t dropped one off the truck. The bag broke open, split right in the middle all the way around and a white cloud shot up just covering this guy from head to toe. The others started laughing, then the guy who was all covered in white started acting like he was snorting the stuff off himself - though he wasn’t really. I was laughing, too, even though I couldn’t follow what they were saying. They cleaned up that shit. . . Oh, sorry. I didn’t mean to say that ‘s’ word. Any way, they cleaned up that coke carefully, too, with a dust vac. When they were done loading the planes, we flew back to the same strip in Texas. I picked up my plane there and came home. When all this was happening, I didn’t know much about the Contra’s were, or whether the coke had been confiscated, or what. It was only years later, after people started writing about John Kerry’s senate investigations into this, that I understood what I had been a part of. For instance, I found out why the CIA called me in -- they were trying to cover, temporarily, for the loss of the Army pilots, which they eventually did, by replacing them with the coke cartel’s pilots. They were already using the Cartels planes and jungle airports, so it was a logical step.
GILBERT: Basically, the CIA made a deal with the Cartels to use their secret airline to fly guns into South America. In exchange, the Company let the cartel fill up the return flights with coke and land at their ranch in Texas, where they didn’t have to bother with little matters like customs, or the DEA.
BAHSEN: Your press release says that better than a dozen pilots were, and I quote, ‘murdered into silence.’ If you’re story is true, then why won’t the CIA come after you?GILBERT: There’s the proof that you seem to need to know that we aren’t a couple of nuts, okay? We don’t think that the CIA is out to get us, all right?
Don't steal my shit.... no use what-so-ever of this material is lawful, unless you have my permission.... don't make me come smack the shit out of you.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
