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
He sweeps his hand across the sky and buildings fall, crashing down into rising clouds, flecked with fire illuming bits of chairs and walls and people...
He wishes there had been some way to save all the innocent pets, but clearing the way for a forest required eradicating the humans, and those were his orders. They could have learned a lot from their tree living bretherens land usage, but no... they got their head all filled with big words that made lying seem like the truth to all involved.
They revolted him no less than the other infestations on his route. On the next planet, it might be a form of bumble bee? There would be plenty left in the intergalactic zoos, where they could evolve a bit more and maybe one day be safe enough to re-enter a planetary wide society. He doubted it, but what the fuck did he know?? He was just a goddamned exterminater.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
Tuesday, May 31, 2005
true story
The old gray masochist steals our stuff to support his drug habit. We run him down and beat him with sticks until he is bloody and broken. God, how that man loves his life. He really knows how to make lemonade, I tell ya.
THE PAIN KILLER.... some thought he was the second coming...at first...not after awhile though.
He walked into the world with the lining of his overcoat filled with pocket after thin pocket of filled syringes. Most held herion and coke, eight balls. His job, as he saw it, was to liberate the masses from their terrible, hum drum lives. He was out there day after day, running down joggers and injecting them, forcing them to really, really listen to lou reed's herion and other cooler than ever high songs...
Of course his tactic worked, and soon most of the town was sick of washing toilets and making idle chit chat and watching the sunset and shit... in fact, the whole urban landscape was soon over run with addicts who not long before had been just pretty much like the rest of us. The addicts he created were always following him around asking for more herion and what not.
He tried to explain to them that what once got them high, now would cost them a couple hundred bucks. Well, as you can imagine, after once having merely gave this gent ten dollars for a buzz that first came free, and now having to start lives of crime to support their habits... well, the people were not happy. They took this guy, and they tied his arms to a chevy blazer, and his feet to a tree. When they pulled him apart, his guts went shooting up into the tree and his entrails hang there to this day... no shit.
Ah, but who am I to judge.... JOHNNY FUCKING PAIN, THAT'S WHO!!!!Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
Of course his tactic worked, and soon most of the town was sick of washing toilets and making idle chit chat and watching the sunset and shit... in fact, the whole urban landscape was soon over run with addicts who not long before had been just pretty much like the rest of us. The addicts he created were always following him around asking for more herion and what not.
He tried to explain to them that what once got them high, now would cost them a couple hundred bucks. Well, as you can imagine, after once having merely gave this gent ten dollars for a buzz that first came free, and now having to start lives of crime to support their habits... well, the people were not happy. They took this guy, and they tied his arms to a chevy blazer, and his feet to a tree. When they pulled him apart, his guts went shooting up into the tree and his entrails hang there to this day... no shit.
Ah, but who am I to judge.... JOHNNY FUCKING PAIN, THAT'S WHO!!!!Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
I think someone needs to make some bucks off this blog fad...me, particularly.
. . . by declaring themselves a talk show worthy proponent. I of course, with my rugged good looks and winning stage persona, could hardly be less better suited... even if M. is sure that I would make an ass of myself and aleinate most everyone she holds dear.
In hopes of stealing all of your clever ideas, I am opening a question on the ebloggy forum. I don't know if any of you ever go there? I have popped in occasionally, but never kept up with whatever thread I started, or responded to people who responded to me, or any of the other stuff I will be from know on. If the forum proves interesting enough, and a book deal does rise up out of my ass, you would find me the most democratic man in the world when it comes to making sure everyone is dealt with fairly. With the millions of people just beginning to discover this quite interesting phenomena.... people as their own entertainment... getting to sneak into people's houses and read their diary's... and finding out who, interestingly enough, feels the need to lie in their diary (fiction writers, we call ourselves when no one is around to rebute or throw rocks).
I am including in here the first line from the forum. A teaser if you will. Please respond on the forum, though, and make my goddamn day, alright? It's not like any of you deadbeats are sending me money or.... hamsters (which some say is a code word for marijuana, but I don't know nothing about that officer).
Okay, the forum requires a subject line.... these are the new thesis statements. I would have made it longer, but I was restricted.
WANT TO KNOW WHAT THESE BLOGS ARE?
HERE'S YOUR WORDS.
ADD SOME.
The subject promises that Blogs that will be defined in this thread. Sorry to yank your chain, scooby dim. Anyone who says they can explain blogs has not read enough blogs to realize that they fit into so many different categories that it will takes books to describe them, as well as years to study what kind of social and cultural changes are let loose. Only a journalist would be so foolish and bold as to attempt such devilry.
If you are just starting to blog, you are more than likely just starting to read them yourself... whatever you're acquaintance with this phenomena, then when you read through most blogs you will find a few genres. People do diary's, political diatribes, christian malarky, and give homework assignments and way too much else to list....
The fancy blogs that you read about in newseek and times (they're the same to me too, david byrne) are the exceptions. This translates to mean that most blogs are only interesting to the people who physically know the person who is writing them, or people who take a general kind of sociologically curious view of life and just like to see how other people think about ordinary things. Blogs give you the ability to have answered that most serious of question we ask, the one that tries to make us not alone in our head -- the question that bridges microcosms into macrocosm, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING??
This is an intentional non-answer of sort, because you need to invent your own blog, using whatever influences you want to try on, like fashion, that you can wear until you decide to try something else. My blog has been a real convulated trail leading me here and there, going from fiction to confessional to comedic absurdity to paintings to pictures of my dog... without the censorship of opinion involved in the process of getting literature or writing 'ready for the market' and then out there, anything is possible in a blog -- the limits, to cite the cliche, are only in your imagination (and hopefully good taste, but it's your decison.)
SAY SOMETHING BEFORE YOU ARE DEAD AND NO ONE EVER KNEW THERE WAS EVEN A THOUGHT IN THAT CORPSES HEAD ONCE...
0000000000000000000
well, for what it is worth.... this ant has left a scent trail leading back to a few digestible words.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
In hopes of stealing all of your clever ideas, I am opening a question on the ebloggy forum. I don't know if any of you ever go there? I have popped in occasionally, but never kept up with whatever thread I started, or responded to people who responded to me, or any of the other stuff I will be from know on. If the forum proves interesting enough, and a book deal does rise up out of my ass, you would find me the most democratic man in the world when it comes to making sure everyone is dealt with fairly. With the millions of people just beginning to discover this quite interesting phenomena.... people as their own entertainment... getting to sneak into people's houses and read their diary's... and finding out who, interestingly enough, feels the need to lie in their diary (fiction writers, we call ourselves when no one is around to rebute or throw rocks).
I am including in here the first line from the forum. A teaser if you will. Please respond on the forum, though, and make my goddamn day, alright? It's not like any of you deadbeats are sending me money or.... hamsters (which some say is a code word for marijuana, but I don't know nothing about that officer).
Okay, the forum requires a subject line.... these are the new thesis statements. I would have made it longer, but I was restricted.
WANT TO KNOW WHAT THESE BLOGS ARE?
HERE'S YOUR WORDS.
ADD SOME.
The subject promises that Blogs that will be defined in this thread. Sorry to yank your chain, scooby dim. Anyone who says they can explain blogs has not read enough blogs to realize that they fit into so many different categories that it will takes books to describe them, as well as years to study what kind of social and cultural changes are let loose. Only a journalist would be so foolish and bold as to attempt such devilry.
If you are just starting to blog, you are more than likely just starting to read them yourself... whatever you're acquaintance with this phenomena, then when you read through most blogs you will find a few genres. People do diary's, political diatribes, christian malarky, and give homework assignments and way too much else to list....
The fancy blogs that you read about in newseek and times (they're the same to me too, david byrne) are the exceptions. This translates to mean that most blogs are only interesting to the people who physically know the person who is writing them, or people who take a general kind of sociologically curious view of life and just like to see how other people think about ordinary things. Blogs give you the ability to have answered that most serious of question we ask, the one that tries to make us not alone in our head -- the question that bridges microcosms into macrocosm, WHAT ARE YOU THINKING??
This is an intentional non-answer of sort, because you need to invent your own blog, using whatever influences you want to try on, like fashion, that you can wear until you decide to try something else. My blog has been a real convulated trail leading me here and there, going from fiction to confessional to comedic absurdity to paintings to pictures of my dog... without the censorship of opinion involved in the process of getting literature or writing 'ready for the market' and then out there, anything is possible in a blog -- the limits, to cite the cliche, are only in your imagination (and hopefully good taste, but it's your decison.)
SAY SOMETHING BEFORE YOU ARE DEAD AND NO ONE EVER KNEW THERE WAS EVEN A THOUGHT IN THAT CORPSES HEAD ONCE...
0000000000000000000
well, for what it is worth.... this ant has left a scent trail leading back to a few digestible words.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
BURN YOUR BIBLE DAY SOMEHOW WENT AWRY...
Well, I put out a sign down by the beach for burn your bible day. The crowd who showed up was mostly middle eastern. I guess some of them might have even been terrorists, but on National Burn Your Bible Day, all non-christian are brothers. I didn't really dare bring up burning a koran, though, because Al Jazeera was covering the event and they were carrying guns (one of them may have warned me against burning a Koran and since he had that sword at my throat, I figure it meant so much to him that what the hell... why spoil his buzz).
I am sorry about the america's response, but I am glad to say that in Iran, my new hoiliday has already been declared, by the mullahs, to be a national holiday,.
By the way, BAD MONKEY, where is that footage of a bible burning? Don't tease me like this. It was my birthday and I was telling everyone about the gift you were going to give me of footage of a burning bible... but no. All I can say is, BAD MONKEY!! BAD MONKEY!! AND STOP TOUCHING YOURSELF THERE!!! GO ON, STOP THAT.... OH..... i MEANT BEFORE YOU DID THAT....
I am sorry about the america's response, but I am glad to say that in Iran, my new hoiliday has already been declared, by the mullahs, to be a national holiday,.
By the way, BAD MONKEY, where is that footage of a bible burning? Don't tease me like this. It was my birthday and I was telling everyone about the gift you were going to give me of footage of a burning bible... but no. All I can say is, BAD MONKEY!! BAD MONKEY!! AND STOP TOUCHING YOURSELF THERE!!! GO ON, STOP THAT.... OH..... i MEANT BEFORE YOU DID THAT....
there are words below these here paintings.
sorry to put this pile of paintings in here.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.
Monday, May 30, 2005
review of the play, THE KENTUCKY CIRCLE
My Birthday weekend was made very special by M.'s good planning and time management skills. We went to a play, seven hours of drama... one could see it all in one day, or split it up, as we did, going both saturday and sunday and seeing two, three hour halves. The play won a pulitzer. The theater was small and the front row was within feet of the actors. I love that feeling. The story itself is from 92, and it shows. There was the deconstruction of the settler myths -- indian raping killers, the land grabbing after the civil war and by the mining companies, then the rise and fall into disrepair of the unions. The play spanned generations, and was supposed to be, according to one positive review, "attempting to do nothing less than tell the story of america." One could argue that the playwrite's vision was just a tad myopic for such granduer... were one a boof like me.There was, silly as it sounds coming from me, no love. Usually there is way too much love in drama for me -- the strictures of genre almost require a love interest, no matter how pasted into the picture it looks, and this particular subplot is usually the least interesting to me (at least since my adolescent horned-toadedness passed). No worries about too much mush in this Kentucky of the mind, though. Rapes of indians and slaves and kids impregnating whoever grows up closest, yes -- obligatory kisses? No. But there were good impulses admidst the craziness, and without them... history is incomplete.This kind of 'taking back that revisionist history' has already been taken back too many times for me to care too much. For me... of course, most of you boofs don't know half of what I do, and some of you are even too young to be expected to, so... ???The first half dealt with this take over by the whites of the america's, and then the wars fought to identify what laws we were going to live by, and on into the battles of the unions with the industrialists in the thirties and 1970's. The events were played out on the stage of a front porch of a ramshackle house on a kentucky mountain. The actor's were all actorly and playing for a stage -- all sweeping gestures and what would be seen in a movie as serious over acting... In fact, if I had to say there was something I would change about this thing, and of course, I do... which is my way of offering criticism that is not meant to imply that I know better, just think and feel differently --okay????I would have the actors do a lot more subtle acting. The small gestues that are the stuff of realism. Instead, this production was acted with the enthusiasm of a comedic musical. I believe director's are at the root of this kind of fake enthusiam for each and every word. Maybe I long to see realism where it isn't meant to be? I am a boof, and the dude who wrote the play knows a hell of a lot more about drama than me...M. and I both loved the show, though. I particularly liked all the gunshots. The guns were all those flintlocks like you saw on Danial Boone (who was a man, a big man, and in his early days he shot the porno's to prove it; i guess mike jackoffyourson owns the rights and only allows his very his closest inner circle of monekys to view them). BANG!!!A sign on the door going into the theater warned LIVE GUNSHOTS!!! I read those lovely words and was pretty damned happy I'm always armed and just wasted enough to use a gun. Of course, wet blanket M. did get kind of pissed when I pulled the smoking .38... when that first indian shot off an earsplintering blank. How was I to know, for sure, that those were blanks? I'm fucking glad M. grabbed my shooting arm or I would have had another manslaughter to buy off. Anyways, they still let us stay for the show, after our buddy who was in the show, Arch the Actor, vouched for us and promised to make sure I paid to get the hole in the stage fixed. Then they wanted me to check the gun... as you can imagine, that held up the production for a few minutes... finally they let me keep the .38 as long as the bullets were emptied out (you think I told him about my extra shells in my socks?).Anyways, to make a long story short... I loved the play, everyone should see it..
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
how i responded to a blog asking the burning question: How Do You Get To Heaven?
I haven't baited any Christians in a long time, since they stopped coming to my sight all together or were converted to my sane, humanistic manner of thinking (praise Satan!!).
Today, I wandered over to write something in a forum I started, a theme or something, in the help forum, about what a blog is... I want to write more about this, maybe even give some talks, or even write a grant proposal to grab a few bucks for my efforts here (my friend Jason Pettus was awarded the first Chicago area grant for blogging, opening the way for the rest of us unknown wordsmiths to get a little weed money or hamsters or munchies or whatever the hell.
After writing my bit about blogs in the forum, which I hope will generate some discussion from all the excellent writers who are always clogging up the steps to this Elves Attic and taking a wordy piss on my site (I reluctantly admit that, like my Husky, I love a good whiff--so much can be learned...).
When I told M that I was going to leave an entry on a blog that asked the question:
HOW DO YOU GET TO HEAVEN?
She groaningly muttered from behind her book, ?Ohhh, Scott, you are just like Satan... I'm sure that you are writing something evil."
"Well, yea... I was kind to them, though. I didn't bring up the whole thing I want to do with the coliseums and the lions. I am telling you, in the weeks after I take power, I will throw celebrations where the people can actually see Christians thrown to the lions. This way, they will love me no matter how brutal I have to be while consolidating my power. I don't expect there to be a wombat alive when this is over, though the zoos will be less for it. This worked for the Roman Tyrants, and by god that is good enough for me."
"The Romans killed wombats?"
"Who wouldn't?"
"The Romans were not in Australia. You didn't write any of that?"
"No,no... I told you, my new strategy is to trick Christians into thinking I am tolerant, to get them to let their guards down, and then I am going to slowly deprogram them, by showing bits and bigger bits of the truths of the world. I know they can't handle much at a time without being scared off, so..."
"Okay, okay.... it's been a long weekend. I need a nap."
"Wait, I have to tell you the best part. I then went on to read the comments from other people, and they were all like, 'Oh, come on, get over this god infestation! Think, man, think!!' Reading one after another of these good minds telling the christo's to stop acting like asses, basically reminding them that they have been looking silly for hundreds of years and do more so every damn day, with each and every step we take closer to the truths of the universe...."
"Yes?"
"Well, it made me damn proud to be an American." For some reason, as I teared up and felt at one with all my non god fearing bro's and sis's, she just laughed and laughed....
ENOUGH REALITY BLOGGING:
here is how I responded to question of how I was going to attain an infinite life of luxury by following a bunch of silly rules?
Oh, come on, there isn't any heaven. Next thing you'll be saying the kids get streets of gold if they go off and die in combat with the Muslims.... no, wait, you fools already do say that.
I think your belief in god is a mask for your hatred of life, and your own impulses toward mammalian behavior, but what do I know... science is all, and you christo's are trying to throw that out too. What an exciting time to get brain washed for bush.... and I don't mean like adolescent boys get, either....
Have a wonderful day, really.... nothing personal. I am usually kind to those infected with mental viruses like this. Really.
The founder of Burn Your Bible Day, May 29th, John Pain
DISCLAIMER FROM THE SMALL PART OF MY MIND CLINGING TO CRUMBS OF SANITY AND DECORUM:
Hey, duder's, if religion is the only opiate you can afford or handle (snicker, snicker), than who am I to judge? Really. I have nothing against people who have contracted the religious virus due to an infected childhood domicile.
Like the t shirt's I will soon be making read:
HEY, I DON'T HATE PEOPLE WHO ARE INFLICTED WITH THE DISEASE OF RELIGION. I'M NOT A MONSTER...AT LEAST NOT THAT KIND. NO, I MERELY HATE THE DISEASE!!!
Today, I wandered over to write something in a forum I started, a theme or something, in the help forum, about what a blog is... I want to write more about this, maybe even give some talks, or even write a grant proposal to grab a few bucks for my efforts here (my friend Jason Pettus was awarded the first Chicago area grant for blogging, opening the way for the rest of us unknown wordsmiths to get a little weed money or hamsters or munchies or whatever the hell.
After writing my bit about blogs in the forum, which I hope will generate some discussion from all the excellent writers who are always clogging up the steps to this Elves Attic and taking a wordy piss on my site (I reluctantly admit that, like my Husky, I love a good whiff--so much can be learned...).
When I told M that I was going to leave an entry on a blog that asked the question:
HOW DO YOU GET TO HEAVEN?
She groaningly muttered from behind her book, ?Ohhh, Scott, you are just like Satan... I'm sure that you are writing something evil."
"Well, yea... I was kind to them, though. I didn't bring up the whole thing I want to do with the coliseums and the lions. I am telling you, in the weeks after I take power, I will throw celebrations where the people can actually see Christians thrown to the lions. This way, they will love me no matter how brutal I have to be while consolidating my power. I don't expect there to be a wombat alive when this is over, though the zoos will be less for it. This worked for the Roman Tyrants, and by god that is good enough for me."
"The Romans killed wombats?"
"Who wouldn't?"
"The Romans were not in Australia. You didn't write any of that?"
"No,no... I told you, my new strategy is to trick Christians into thinking I am tolerant, to get them to let their guards down, and then I am going to slowly deprogram them, by showing bits and bigger bits of the truths of the world. I know they can't handle much at a time without being scared off, so..."
"Okay, okay.... it's been a long weekend. I need a nap."
"Wait, I have to tell you the best part. I then went on to read the comments from other people, and they were all like, 'Oh, come on, get over this god infestation! Think, man, think!!' Reading one after another of these good minds telling the christo's to stop acting like asses, basically reminding them that they have been looking silly for hundreds of years and do more so every damn day, with each and every step we take closer to the truths of the universe...."
"Yes?"
"Well, it made me damn proud to be an American." For some reason, as I teared up and felt at one with all my non god fearing bro's and sis's, she just laughed and laughed....
ENOUGH REALITY BLOGGING:
here is how I responded to question of how I was going to attain an infinite life of luxury by following a bunch of silly rules?
Oh, come on, there isn't any heaven. Next thing you'll be saying the kids get streets of gold if they go off and die in combat with the Muslims.... no, wait, you fools already do say that.
I think your belief in god is a mask for your hatred of life, and your own impulses toward mammalian behavior, but what do I know... science is all, and you christo's are trying to throw that out too. What an exciting time to get brain washed for bush.... and I don't mean like adolescent boys get, either....
Have a wonderful day, really.... nothing personal. I am usually kind to those infected with mental viruses like this. Really.
The founder of Burn Your Bible Day, May 29th, John Pain
DISCLAIMER FROM THE SMALL PART OF MY MIND CLINGING TO CRUMBS OF SANITY AND DECORUM:
Hey, duder's, if religion is the only opiate you can afford or handle (snicker, snicker), than who am I to judge? Really. I have nothing against people who have contracted the religious virus due to an infected childhood domicile.
Like the t shirt's I will soon be making read:
HEY, I DON'T HATE PEOPLE WHO ARE INFLICTED WITH THE DISEASE OF RELIGION. I'M NOT A MONSTER...AT LEAST NOT THAT KIND. NO, I MERELY HATE THE DISEASE!!!
Saturday, May 28, 2005
On My Other Blog... an advertisement is at the top, sometimes, that you psychos should find very interesting...
A crime scene clean up service. They will get the bloody brains off the ceiling, the splattered tits out of the fan, and whatever else kind of hijinks you crazy kids are into these days.
TRAGIC SOLUTIONS AD FROM MY BLOG http://theelvesattic@ebloggy.com
(thank you ebloggy for knowing that psycho killers need this advertisement).
ACTUAL AD:
We at Tragic Solutions are specialists in the field of Emergency Cleanup, Biohazard Cleaning, Accident Cleanup or Crime Scene Cleanup. Whether your home or business has been the scene of a burglary and you have fingerprint powder that needs to be removed or a more tragic scene such as suicide, homicide (murder), a natural or unattended death or even a decomposing body, we are trained to handle any situation. We clean, disinfect and sanitize the affected areas, remove and dispose of any items that cannot be salvaged. Whether floors need to be replaced or walls need to be painted?.Tragic Solutions is up to the task.
So, next time you are visiting relatives and do a thrill kill in the guest bedroom, you know, eviscerate a prostitute, or whatever gets you through the night, please try to be polite enough this time to clean up afterwards and call these valued sponsors of our esteemed sight, ebloggy. Not to mention, they obliterate all evidence!!!!
Truly, this firm is the psycho killers best freind.Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
TRAGIC SOLUTIONS AD FROM MY BLOG http://theelvesattic@ebloggy.com
(thank you ebloggy for knowing that psycho killers need this advertisement).
ACTUAL AD:
We at Tragic Solutions are specialists in the field of Emergency Cleanup, Biohazard Cleaning, Accident Cleanup or Crime Scene Cleanup. Whether your home or business has been the scene of a burglary and you have fingerprint powder that needs to be removed or a more tragic scene such as suicide, homicide (murder), a natural or unattended death or even a decomposing body, we are trained to handle any situation. We clean, disinfect and sanitize the affected areas, remove and dispose of any items that cannot be salvaged. Whether floors need to be replaced or walls need to be painted?.Tragic Solutions is up to the task.
So, next time you are visiting relatives and do a thrill kill in the guest bedroom, you know, eviscerate a prostitute, or whatever gets you through the night, please try to be polite enough this time to clean up afterwards and call these valued sponsors of our esteemed sight, ebloggy. Not to mention, they obliterate all evidence!!!!
Truly, this firm is the psycho killers best freind.Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Friday, May 27, 2005
WHERE CAN I GET SOFTWARE TO INVENT MY OWN GOD??
Someone needs to invent software, which is easy enough for the dull and dimly lit to understand, that those who insist on being deluded can use, by answering just a few simple questions, to have a religion created specifically for them.
They can have a gay apreciating god, or a fire and brimstone behemoth, depending on how scarred the insides of their heads are. And anything else you can think of. They would all have in common the code Do As You Will And Harm None. Maybe a bit of the golden rule?
Regardless of such minutia as the actual beliefs, the rituals will be all cooled and tailored to provoke maximum devotion in the particular flesh puppet who creates their own strings to their own all time favorite puppeteer. To bad there is that Cure's song called Your Own Personal Jesus, because that would be the perfect title for this.
Each household could have it's own deity (or more), and perhaps even a coat of arms to put on their sheilds, or use in dungeons and dragons, or whatever.
So, the next L. Ron Hubbard clone to get rich off of people's innate curiosity about the universe, will probably be some bitter 35 year old programmer with a coke habit and a secret fondness for glory holes.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
They can have a gay apreciating god, or a fire and brimstone behemoth, depending on how scarred the insides of their heads are. And anything else you can think of. They would all have in common the code Do As You Will And Harm None. Maybe a bit of the golden rule?
Regardless of such minutia as the actual beliefs, the rituals will be all cooled and tailored to provoke maximum devotion in the particular flesh puppet who creates their own strings to their own all time favorite puppeteer. To bad there is that Cure's song called Your Own Personal Jesus, because that would be the perfect title for this.
Each household could have it's own deity (or more), and perhaps even a coat of arms to put on their sheilds, or use in dungeons and dragons, or whatever.
So, the next L. Ron Hubbard clone to get rich off of people's innate curiosity about the universe, will probably be some bitter 35 year old programmer with a coke habit and a secret fondness for glory holes.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
WHAT IS THE WORST SIGHT IN THE WORLD, I AM SURE YOU OFTEN WONDER?
Well, Wondering about what IS THE WORST sight to peirce ones eyes has always been something of a hobby of mine. I would call myself an advanced amatuer int he disciple that is wondering what the worst sight in the world could be. Expert student college taught me to be, -- though little else, I fear sometimes late into the night-- I did the usual research, interviewed experts and corresponded ceaselessly to academics with theories from presentable to cuckoo, cuckoo. I really wanted to know what the worst sight in the world is in a very bad way; others seek the heights of Everest, the sublime transcendence of poetry, the rush of the stage, the flagrant juice swap of love lapping and variations of the stimulation of banal glands, and a plethora of putrid variations on the tentative themes of the normal/average...
Me, I had to see what the darkest face of the enemy was...Perhaps I was really thinking that to know its face was to be able to defeat the dark? More than likely I had too much time on my hands and plenty of fine green weed bubbling in my red plastic Headway 'tobbacco tasting device' formerly known as the rock star, 'Bong.' Yes, I knew this was dangerous to my psych, and maybe even physical health. But, like Alexander the Great without the butt hole surfing, I just had to know if I could conquer this battle... and bring peace to the realm of my mind... or something else that sounds clearly like it comes from an outdated self help book.
I would have started with those faces of death videos, but they are just too fucking gross for me to look at. All I would see is a pathetic sight anyways, not the worst...
I am, for the first time, allowing all three or four of my reading public in on my obsession because I have finally figured out what the worst sight in the world is...
Yes, my quest unexpectedly ended this afternoon when I accidently happed upon my Holy Grail...
The worst sight in the world is looking down into a bong and seeing a seed explode just as you pull in a big old harsh hit.
I write this not to lead you to your own abysses edge, but as a warning not to go where I have gone... may the fates spare you the horror, the horror that confronted me when I saw this, the true heart of darkness... Believe me, you never want to see a seed exploding the last crumbs of your bud down onto the dog fur dusted floor... The Jamaican's call the burning seeds, Diablo Eyes -- which translates to those without weed dreams to mean SATAN'S OWN EYES.
FEAR THEM, OH YOUNG PUFFERS.... YES, INDEED... sooner or later, you will have to face the Diablo Eyes, and I can only hope your mind and body and whatever spirit you think you have is ready as all hell.
Me, I had to see what the darkest face of the enemy was...Perhaps I was really thinking that to know its face was to be able to defeat the dark? More than likely I had too much time on my hands and plenty of fine green weed bubbling in my red plastic Headway 'tobbacco tasting device' formerly known as the rock star, 'Bong.' Yes, I knew this was dangerous to my psych, and maybe even physical health. But, like Alexander the Great without the butt hole surfing, I just had to know if I could conquer this battle... and bring peace to the realm of my mind... or something else that sounds clearly like it comes from an outdated self help book.
I would have started with those faces of death videos, but they are just too fucking gross for me to look at. All I would see is a pathetic sight anyways, not the worst...
I am, for the first time, allowing all three or four of my reading public in on my obsession because I have finally figured out what the worst sight in the world is...
Yes, my quest unexpectedly ended this afternoon when I accidently happed upon my Holy Grail...
The worst sight in the world is looking down into a bong and seeing a seed explode just as you pull in a big old harsh hit.
I write this not to lead you to your own abysses edge, but as a warning not to go where I have gone... may the fates spare you the horror, the horror that confronted me when I saw this, the true heart of darkness... Believe me, you never want to see a seed exploding the last crumbs of your bud down onto the dog fur dusted floor... The Jamaican's call the burning seeds, Diablo Eyes -- which translates to those without weed dreams to mean SATAN'S OWN EYES.
FEAR THEM, OH YOUNG PUFFERS.... YES, INDEED... sooner or later, you will have to face the Diablo Eyes, and I can only hope your mind and body and whatever spirit you think you have is ready as all hell.
the book
I am having a hard time sleeping;' just lay in bed running all these different possible plots through my head. the book I am now designing is chock full of subplots and little mysteries and such. I know how it starts, and how it endes, and some of what happens in the middle.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
a powerful right winger admits fucking mules
And he calls this NORMAL? Makes you wonder about the company these weirdos keep, eh?
I read this in the village voice today... I think it is implied that he had sex with various types of animals, though one would be enough to get his balls chopped off in my realm.
BORROWED FROM THE VILLAGE VOICE
WASHINGTON, D.C.?Alan Colmes, on his Fox radio talk show last week, asked anti-abortion extremist Neal Horsley if he was kidding when Horsley once claimed to have had sex with animals as a boy growing up in Georgia. Horsley is best known for his "Nuremberg Files," which, according to Planned Parenthood, lists abortion doctors "marked for death." Here was the exchange between Colmes and Horsley:
Horsley: Hey, Alan, if you want to accuse me of having sex when I was a fool, I did everything that crossed my mind that looked like I . . .
Colmes: You had sex with animals?
Horsley: Absolutely. I was a fool. When you grow up on a farm in Georgia, your first girlfriend is a mule.
Colmes: I'm not so sure that that is so.
Horsley: You didn't grow up on a farm in Georgia, did you?
Colmes: Are you suggesting that everybody who grows up on a farm in Georgia has a mule as a girlfriend?
Horsley: It has historically been the case. You people are so far removed from the reality. . . . Welcome to domestic life on the farm. You experiment with anything that moves when you are growing up sexually. You're naive. You know better than that. . . . If it's warm and it's damp and it vibrates, you might in fact have sex with it.
Not knowing whether or not to believe this, we called Horsley and read him the quotes. "That's correct," he said. Then we looked at his website. Here's what it says: "Now when homosexuals, or adulterers, or fornicators, or pedophiles, or beast fornicators and beast suckers, or any sexual outlaws, parade themselves around as if they could be followers of Jesus Christ, they demonstrate a lie and blasphemy and abomination."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I have been surfing through a lot of cult sites lately as I build a fictional one for my new book. The preponderance of sexual abuse among all forms of the clergy is not an anomaly, I think, but more the direct result of assuming that one is 'special' in the eyes of god, and thus anything you do is up for instant forgiveness. Yuck... This god of theirs is way more forgiving than any sane person would be.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
I read this in the village voice today... I think it is implied that he had sex with various types of animals, though one would be enough to get his balls chopped off in my realm.
BORROWED FROM THE VILLAGE VOICE
WASHINGTON, D.C.?Alan Colmes, on his Fox radio talk show last week, asked anti-abortion extremist Neal Horsley if he was kidding when Horsley once claimed to have had sex with animals as a boy growing up in Georgia. Horsley is best known for his "Nuremberg Files," which, according to Planned Parenthood, lists abortion doctors "marked for death." Here was the exchange between Colmes and Horsley:
Horsley: Hey, Alan, if you want to accuse me of having sex when I was a fool, I did everything that crossed my mind that looked like I . . .
Colmes: You had sex with animals?
Horsley: Absolutely. I was a fool. When you grow up on a farm in Georgia, your first girlfriend is a mule.
Colmes: I'm not so sure that that is so.
Horsley: You didn't grow up on a farm in Georgia, did you?
Colmes: Are you suggesting that everybody who grows up on a farm in Georgia has a mule as a girlfriend?
Horsley: It has historically been the case. You people are so far removed from the reality. . . . Welcome to domestic life on the farm. You experiment with anything that moves when you are growing up sexually. You're naive. You know better than that. . . . If it's warm and it's damp and it vibrates, you might in fact have sex with it.
Not knowing whether or not to believe this, we called Horsley and read him the quotes. "That's correct," he said. Then we looked at his website. Here's what it says: "Now when homosexuals, or adulterers, or fornicators, or pedophiles, or beast fornicators and beast suckers, or any sexual outlaws, parade themselves around as if they could be followers of Jesus Christ, they demonstrate a lie and blasphemy and abomination."
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I have been surfing through a lot of cult sites lately as I build a fictional one for my new book. The preponderance of sexual abuse among all forms of the clergy is not an anomaly, I think, but more the direct result of assuming that one is 'special' in the eyes of god, and thus anything you do is up for instant forgiveness. Yuck... This god of theirs is way more forgiving than any sane person would be.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
THIS FUCKING LIFE...43....and counting...
Oh, what excitement... this weekend I have my birthday, marking me two decades and three years amongst the living. I am certainly in my middle age, that period when I can look back and say, I will live about as many more years as I have so far... and marvel at how fast those years ran away.
We are celebrating by going to this monstrously long play -- six hours in total. I love the idea... a pulitzer prize winning script and great reviews for the present caste and direction bode well for the either seven hour marathon of drama on Saturday, or splitting the shows in two, and going both Saturday and Sunday. Presently, we plan on going home between shows. Staying out for seven hours watching a play would be almost too much for me to handle. But, who knows? I seldom want a play to end, after all. Unlike movies, which usually I am ready to leave about 15 minutes before the oh so fucking predictable hero winning and living.
The Kentucky Circle. I will most certainly be writing about it over the weekend. Anyone seen this play, or read it? Yea, right... like the kind of misanthropes that come into my writing read much more than prescription labels and hightimes (and I know you're not reading that damn article in that porno magazine, so it does not count as actual reading).
I am listening to music on the computer as I type on the computer and record a movie and a song and .... Jimminy. I have lept into the Matrix (I am trying to make it through all three movies this week, the last one for the first time, and have stalled on like the ten thousandth enemy attack being fought off. They really, really seem to be shooting the same scene over and over with slight changes. I think those brothers who made these fillms should do fewer shrooms and just leave the coke and h. alone). I really have to hand it to my buddy Jerry, this computer and software have really kept me busy this last week or so. I am playing godzillion games, all of sega and genisis, doom, quake, halo... I have been beavis and buthead, a high tech warrior, a dolphin, a car... what marvelous wonders there are out there now.
I never would have thought that toys would advance so far in my lifetime. Science, maybe... but toys? Who'd of thunk it. And I guess the games are adding to complex thinking skills and such... preparing folk for the armed forces, drug dealing, nation building, out running the cops, and various other skills which will be needed by certain segments of the gaming populace.
My next step is going to be into animation. I have always wanted someone to do comics for me, but I always have to do my own... I had an animator breifly working at the assinine tv show I produced and wrote many years back. I really have the bug after watching Family Guy dvd's tonight. That show kicks ass. OF course, watching stewie, I feel a little uneasy about making all my statements about world conquest. I am talking about the same thing as a diapper shitting psycho... great.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
We are celebrating by going to this monstrously long play -- six hours in total. I love the idea... a pulitzer prize winning script and great reviews for the present caste and direction bode well for the either seven hour marathon of drama on Saturday, or splitting the shows in two, and going both Saturday and Sunday. Presently, we plan on going home between shows. Staying out for seven hours watching a play would be almost too much for me to handle. But, who knows? I seldom want a play to end, after all. Unlike movies, which usually I am ready to leave about 15 minutes before the oh so fucking predictable hero winning and living.
The Kentucky Circle. I will most certainly be writing about it over the weekend. Anyone seen this play, or read it? Yea, right... like the kind of misanthropes that come into my writing read much more than prescription labels and hightimes (and I know you're not reading that damn article in that porno magazine, so it does not count as actual reading).
I am listening to music on the computer as I type on the computer and record a movie and a song and .... Jimminy. I have lept into the Matrix (I am trying to make it through all three movies this week, the last one for the first time, and have stalled on like the ten thousandth enemy attack being fought off. They really, really seem to be shooting the same scene over and over with slight changes. I think those brothers who made these fillms should do fewer shrooms and just leave the coke and h. alone). I really have to hand it to my buddy Jerry, this computer and software have really kept me busy this last week or so. I am playing godzillion games, all of sega and genisis, doom, quake, halo... I have been beavis and buthead, a high tech warrior, a dolphin, a car... what marvelous wonders there are out there now.
I never would have thought that toys would advance so far in my lifetime. Science, maybe... but toys? Who'd of thunk it. And I guess the games are adding to complex thinking skills and such... preparing folk for the armed forces, drug dealing, nation building, out running the cops, and various other skills which will be needed by certain segments of the gaming populace.
My next step is going to be into animation. I have always wanted someone to do comics for me, but I always have to do my own... I had an animator breifly working at the assinine tv show I produced and wrote many years back. I really have the bug after watching Family Guy dvd's tonight. That show kicks ass. OF course, watching stewie, I feel a little uneasy about making all my statements about world conquest. I am talking about the same thing as a diapper shitting psycho... great.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
CRUCIFIED::::: ONE ATHEIST... FOR YOUR SINS... HERE, TODAY, NOW...
In other news, a lad in chicago who is a known atheist, was denied a job that he had already essential gotten on the merits of his education, because he is a known atheist...
Yes, the school would not hire a science teacher solely because he is an atheist. He is well known around here because his father often filed suits alleging that religion and state were not being seperated. This man defended the principles that keep us all from having to bow to some false idol or another. Whatever his belief, which was/is atheism, he did good things. He made a bit of a baffoon of himself in some peoples eyes, by suing the boy scouts over prayer, which is throwing the baby out with the bathwater... but, that was the teacher's father who filed the lawsuits. The teacher himself was just out of school and had gone all the way through the interview process, when suddenly, a few days before he was to start, he was called and told that he had 'philosophical differences' with the staff there.
I really want people like that teaching my children... should I ever snatch one to experiment on (I want to bf skinner them into world dictators or about anything else that would make them a viable option for mooching off).
THANKS TO ERIC ZORN OF THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE for writing about this story. May he follow up until the noose's fall on the right necks... so to speak. He is on the web and derserving of a read.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Yes, the school would not hire a science teacher solely because he is an atheist. He is well known around here because his father often filed suits alleging that religion and state were not being seperated. This man defended the principles that keep us all from having to bow to some false idol or another. Whatever his belief, which was/is atheism, he did good things. He made a bit of a baffoon of himself in some peoples eyes, by suing the boy scouts over prayer, which is throwing the baby out with the bathwater... but, that was the teacher's father who filed the lawsuits. The teacher himself was just out of school and had gone all the way through the interview process, when suddenly, a few days before he was to start, he was called and told that he had 'philosophical differences' with the staff there.
I really want people like that teaching my children... should I ever snatch one to experiment on (I want to bf skinner them into world dictators or about anything else that would make them a viable option for mooching off).
THANKS TO ERIC ZORN OF THE CHICAGO TRIBUNE for writing about this story. May he follow up until the noose's fall on the right necks... so to speak. He is on the web and derserving of a read.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Monday, May 23, 2005
CHARACTER OUTLINES, NEW DIRECTION FOR BOOK.
CAUTION: possible side effects of reading this blog include being bored to death, head ache, constipate, and killing yourself and others.
I have been laying awake a lot lately. I lay there for hours unable to sleep. If I take the pills from the doc that are supposed to make me sleep and they don't work, I am too groggy to be much interested in doing anything more than just laying in bed. I get up through out the night, come into the living room and pet the dog and cat for awhile, have a lonely smoke in the dark. To feel like I am doing something with such time more than sitting around nodding like a heroin babe, I have a rich fantasy life. Not sexual. I have certain stories that I have been playing through my mind for years... Of late, I have been working on an idea that is taking on a life of its own. I feel like a real idiot having worked on the other book on and off for a year, and now finding that I think I may have to let it go.
What happened is, when I started thinking of subplots for the last book, I found that the characters who came to mind, duh, were ones I had already done some writing about. So, I decided to play with the idea of putting them all into an apartment building, kind of a surreal place where there is an alien, but otherwise somewhat realistic. A blend of over the top, cartoony humor and semi-serious philosophy and ancient wisdoms new and old. I will keep the same title, which is the title of this blog, because the narrator hasn't changed. The voice I have been developing is Johnny Pain.
The characters and their sub plots are as follows:
Frank, Joan, Stella, and Beatrice: four people in their sixties, who are living a kind of bi sexual utopian philosophy that they once thought would become a movement, but in light of the rise of Christian rightist morals, they feel like they have lost some war. Frank is the most gay of the men, and he is straying from their arrangement for the first time ever. He has fallen in love with a young poet who lives in the building... The poet is basically straight, but he lets frank suck his dick. When Franks' infidelity is discovered, their entire belief system comes into question... Then breaks into pieces which appear differently to each of them. Joan becomes suicidal. Stella starts to feel like she can finally voice her grievances. Frank is the one who will not accept the change.
MIKE MASTERS: an alien who is a bit of light, who can meld into sperm cells and live as a human over and over. He is a spy for an interplanetary conference that is considering exterminating humans because of their wanton destruction of the life generating qualities of earth that make for a diversity of evolving species. They feel like humans are killing off these beings in the barest infancy of their evolution. He drinks heavily and chain smokes, going from Marlboro to joints, one after the other all day. Only the poet, who is the main protagonist of the story, knows his true nature, and he has a hard time believing him until the climax of the novel, when the alien intercedes in a shoot out with a gang that has taken three dogs from the back yard of the building to use as practice for their vicious pit bull fighters. He has seen earths fate, and is mourning the humans he has come to love. The drinking and the pot smoking is his way to forget that he is basically walking among corpses.
THE CRYSTALS
In the basement, three apartments and a storage room have been renovated, and rented to a budding religion. Basically, a half=mad charismatic has convinced a bunch of England originated kids that they should devote their lives to making his easier, by selling crystals door to door, and giving huge, free, nightly examples of their techniques. They do elaborate breathing exercise, which quite naturally calm the body, but they believe that their crystals are doing all the work. They will be constantly popping up around the apartment, trying to get neighbors to come to dinners and such. One of them, Candy, is sent out to 'flirt for god' with the poet, Jonathan, a black leather and jeans long haired poet with an absurd streak. The poet knows she is just trying to seduce him to make him like her, that she believes it is god's will. She even offers to have sex with him if he will come to the meetings. When she does this, he explodes and tells her that no honest man would ever ask a woman to do such a thing. The poet then reads up on depressor and goes after her, takes her to a hotel, and slowly brings her back to reality. When she is back, she hates him, considers him the one who ended her joyous feeling of being connected to the universe. "You've poisoned me on the only place that ever made me feel like I don't have to kill myself." The poet takes her back to her parents, and has to mourn her love... And even the person the cult made her into, because in some ways he liked her better, though he realizes that urge to control her is wrong, and has to be put aside if he is ever going to truly love.,
THE POET/Johnny pain/
I always write about Jonathan, a humble funny guy, big pot smoker, who also paints and does ceramics, makes lamps... When all else fails, which is normally, he drives a taxi. He is the owner of a dog that gets snatched in the end, and leads the assault on the gang bangers. He tortures one of them to find out the location, then kills two others to get their weapons. Frank, the old man who is in love with him, goes along on the mission to free their dogs.
THE OWNER OF THE BUILDING AND HIS ROOMMATES
Matt, Jimmy, and Paul. These are all the characters who made up WHILE st book... Basically, the change in them is that they now are all stoner gamers taking notes for the original idea. They run a game shop and sell weed. Paul is still the one who inherited the building they live in. Matt is young, like fifteen, and was semi abandoned by his junkie mother and started crashing in the back of the game store.
Their plots pretty much range around Jonathan trying to stop people from buying his paintings in the gallery they, as painters (which is how they met the poet), put in the building when Paul inherited the place, which has two store fronts and a bar on the street level, and is located a Milwaukee and Damen and North in chi town.
THE plot
Still pretty thin at this moment, meaning I can't actually put together the needed outlines to begin writing until this is done. A lot of people stop at this stage. I usually start by writing and see what happens and then keep what I like and expand. This leads to a lot of wasted writing, and I am trying to alter my approach. If the last book, my first, did anything, it taught me how to write a book at least.
I see this book kind of like Kafka waking up one morning to find himself a cockroach (why don't they ever say this is about being a Jew, rather than some big existential explanation? Because academics must publish or perish. Fools.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
I have been laying awake a lot lately. I lay there for hours unable to sleep. If I take the pills from the doc that are supposed to make me sleep and they don't work, I am too groggy to be much interested in doing anything more than just laying in bed. I get up through out the night, come into the living room and pet the dog and cat for awhile, have a lonely smoke in the dark. To feel like I am doing something with such time more than sitting around nodding like a heroin babe, I have a rich fantasy life. Not sexual. I have certain stories that I have been playing through my mind for years... Of late, I have been working on an idea that is taking on a life of its own. I feel like a real idiot having worked on the other book on and off for a year, and now finding that I think I may have to let it go.
What happened is, when I started thinking of subplots for the last book, I found that the characters who came to mind, duh, were ones I had already done some writing about. So, I decided to play with the idea of putting them all into an apartment building, kind of a surreal place where there is an alien, but otherwise somewhat realistic. A blend of over the top, cartoony humor and semi-serious philosophy and ancient wisdoms new and old. I will keep the same title, which is the title of this blog, because the narrator hasn't changed. The voice I have been developing is Johnny Pain.
The characters and their sub plots are as follows:
Frank, Joan, Stella, and Beatrice: four people in their sixties, who are living a kind of bi sexual utopian philosophy that they once thought would become a movement, but in light of the rise of Christian rightist morals, they feel like they have lost some war. Frank is the most gay of the men, and he is straying from their arrangement for the first time ever. He has fallen in love with a young poet who lives in the building... The poet is basically straight, but he lets frank suck his dick. When Franks' infidelity is discovered, their entire belief system comes into question... Then breaks into pieces which appear differently to each of them. Joan becomes suicidal. Stella starts to feel like she can finally voice her grievances. Frank is the one who will not accept the change.
MIKE MASTERS: an alien who is a bit of light, who can meld into sperm cells and live as a human over and over. He is a spy for an interplanetary conference that is considering exterminating humans because of their wanton destruction of the life generating qualities of earth that make for a diversity of evolving species. They feel like humans are killing off these beings in the barest infancy of their evolution. He drinks heavily and chain smokes, going from Marlboro to joints, one after the other all day. Only the poet, who is the main protagonist of the story, knows his true nature, and he has a hard time believing him until the climax of the novel, when the alien intercedes in a shoot out with a gang that has taken three dogs from the back yard of the building to use as practice for their vicious pit bull fighters. He has seen earths fate, and is mourning the humans he has come to love. The drinking and the pot smoking is his way to forget that he is basically walking among corpses.
THE CRYSTALS
In the basement, three apartments and a storage room have been renovated, and rented to a budding religion. Basically, a half=mad charismatic has convinced a bunch of England originated kids that they should devote their lives to making his easier, by selling crystals door to door, and giving huge, free, nightly examples of their techniques. They do elaborate breathing exercise, which quite naturally calm the body, but they believe that their crystals are doing all the work. They will be constantly popping up around the apartment, trying to get neighbors to come to dinners and such. One of them, Candy, is sent out to 'flirt for god' with the poet, Jonathan, a black leather and jeans long haired poet with an absurd streak. The poet knows she is just trying to seduce him to make him like her, that she believes it is god's will. She even offers to have sex with him if he will come to the meetings. When she does this, he explodes and tells her that no honest man would ever ask a woman to do such a thing. The poet then reads up on depressor and goes after her, takes her to a hotel, and slowly brings her back to reality. When she is back, she hates him, considers him the one who ended her joyous feeling of being connected to the universe. "You've poisoned me on the only place that ever made me feel like I don't have to kill myself." The poet takes her back to her parents, and has to mourn her love... And even the person the cult made her into, because in some ways he liked her better, though he realizes that urge to control her is wrong, and has to be put aside if he is ever going to truly love.,
THE POET/Johnny pain/
I always write about Jonathan, a humble funny guy, big pot smoker, who also paints and does ceramics, makes lamps... When all else fails, which is normally, he drives a taxi. He is the owner of a dog that gets snatched in the end, and leads the assault on the gang bangers. He tortures one of them to find out the location, then kills two others to get their weapons. Frank, the old man who is in love with him, goes along on the mission to free their dogs.
THE OWNER OF THE BUILDING AND HIS ROOMMATES
Matt, Jimmy, and Paul. These are all the characters who made up WHILE st book... Basically, the change in them is that they now are all stoner gamers taking notes for the original idea. They run a game shop and sell weed. Paul is still the one who inherited the building they live in. Matt is young, like fifteen, and was semi abandoned by his junkie mother and started crashing in the back of the game store.
Their plots pretty much range around Jonathan trying to stop people from buying his paintings in the gallery they, as painters (which is how they met the poet), put in the building when Paul inherited the place, which has two store fronts and a bar on the street level, and is located a Milwaukee and Damen and North in chi town.
THE plot
Still pretty thin at this moment, meaning I can't actually put together the needed outlines to begin writing until this is done. A lot of people stop at this stage. I usually start by writing and see what happens and then keep what I like and expand. This leads to a lot of wasted writing, and I am trying to alter my approach. If the last book, my first, did anything, it taught me how to write a book at least.
I see this book kind of like Kafka waking up one morning to find himself a cockroach (why don't they ever say this is about being a Jew, rather than some big existential explanation? Because academics must publish or perish. Fools.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
KILL AND KILL AND KILL AND FINALLY GET TO BILL!!!!
I woke up around 2 pm. I am so used to seeing the dawn rise lately that I have had to stop saying I have insomnia and just fucking accept that I am nocturnal. My first moments of waking are always achingly repetitve: I stagger out into the living room blindly looking around for my glasses and my slippers, all the while holding my thin robe closed like the dog and the cat give a damn about seeing my dick. Once the glasses are on, I roll myself a cigarette, or find a long butt... once this smoke has entered my lungs and spread the upper effect through me brain, I take the few steps into the bathroom, grab the small brown teddy bear that hangs from the string that turns the light on, give the old boy a jerk and blink a bit against the onslaught of bright, white light. My hand appears in the mirror above the sink as I reach up and slide open the cabinet to reveal my stock of pills. First two from this bottle, one from that bottle and that bottle and that bottle, another two from this one... etc.
Then comes the coffee... and then, should the green gods be smiling at that moment on my domicile, I put a little bud into the bong and hear the merry bubbling of a soon to be crackling buzz. The dog is usually pawing at me by this time, begging me to take her outside to releive herself by coming up and asking me to shake. Her last owners taught her this.
After a walk along the lake front beach or a few blocks to the store, I sit down at the computer... today, I pulled up Kill Bill volumes 1 and 2. I had wanted to see these films at the theater, and am now glad I saved my money. They are kind of a waste of time, unless you like to watch karate fighting minus kill shots. He does this over and over... until it just seems stupid. Tarantino may not be over-rated, we'll see... I hate to say anything bad about someone whose films have been pretty fascinating to me in the past. I mean, I would have only good things to say about him if I knew him, instead of just being some boof in chicago who can just say whatever the hell he wants in his blog, because no one takes him seriously.
And that my friends, is how the life of the artist usually goes.... well, the marginalized, not so great artist at least. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Then comes the coffee... and then, should the green gods be smiling at that moment on my domicile, I put a little bud into the bong and hear the merry bubbling of a soon to be crackling buzz. The dog is usually pawing at me by this time, begging me to take her outside to releive herself by coming up and asking me to shake. Her last owners taught her this.
After a walk along the lake front beach or a few blocks to the store, I sit down at the computer... today, I pulled up Kill Bill volumes 1 and 2. I had wanted to see these films at the theater, and am now glad I saved my money. They are kind of a waste of time, unless you like to watch karate fighting minus kill shots. He does this over and over... until it just seems stupid. Tarantino may not be over-rated, we'll see... I hate to say anything bad about someone whose films have been pretty fascinating to me in the past. I mean, I would have only good things to say about him if I knew him, instead of just being some boof in chicago who can just say whatever the hell he wants in his blog, because no one takes him seriously.
And that my friends, is how the life of the artist usually goes.... well, the marginalized, not so great artist at least. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Friday, May 20, 2005
THE STORY OF A. CRAYON... EXTENDED DIRECTORS CUT.
THIS NARRATIVE SEEMS TO BE DEVELOPING INTO A NEW BOOK.. I HAVE LAIN AWAKE THE LAST FEW NIGHTS WITH THESE CHARACTERS RUNNING AROUND IN MY HEAD HAVING CRISES AND ADVENTURES AND DISCOVERING, AGAIN AND AGAIN, THAT THEY HAVE CHOICES TO MAKE THAT ARE NOT EASILY ANSWERED BY RELIGIOUS DOGMA.
The Story of A. Crayon.
My neighbors are a strange lot. Across the hall are two couples in their seventies, who have had some kind of open group marriage? there is a lot to it, of course; they put together a book once explaining all the human geography they felt they were mapping out, like explorers they felt they were, discovering new and wonderful ways to be a human. They self published thousands and thousands of the book and ended up losing the one woman?s family fortune. They still have boxes of the soft brown leather bound books. The red leather text has faded over the years into a bland beige. Despite their inability to get people to buy their book, let alone take on their lifestyle, they claim to have found the perfect existence for man in a socialist world ? which, they admit, probably would have already swept the world were it ever going to happen. Bush depresses the hell out of them.
Down another flight of stars and there is a heroin addict and her fourteen year old kid, a video game wizard who hangs out as much as possible in our studio. Another denizen of 1436 Jarvis is a man in his early thirties who claims to be an alien. He was convinced by his present religion that he is one of the ?thirty six? of the chosen ones (36 being actually a floating number, based on how many people are keeping up with Sunday school in his sect; we could have been chosen, too, and become, in our mind and theirs, Godly, but I put down my foot on this one. I mean, I look a good religious conversion as much as the next boof, but if everyone is chosen than no one is chosen, you know? The cult lives next door in a basement apartment filled with four teered bunk beds and a small chapel. I am the building manager, a job that supports me while I indulge my habit of painting rather rough, often poorly executed and conceived oil paintings that please me regardless. I am doing my best to stand apart from all the different views of reality that fill the apartment building and our block, as well as our enemies. I am immune to the madnesses of the cult and the socialists and the alein... as they are immune to my madnesses.
When our neighborhodd culters' asked me, "Johny, are you ready to believe that you are god??" I responded by quoting Yeats as I scooted out his door, ? The best lack all convictions, and the worst are filled with passionate intensity.?
My name is Crayon. An artist to some? The people who buy my paintings, a slacker to some ? The parents of the women who I date, a waste to some ?
All the people who mistake my silence and lack of interest as dullardly, and also an object of lust and pity and anger and laughter and all kinds of other shit every damn day of my life?.. I am as puzzled as anyone else as to what I am?
To myself I am a boof, a fool. It took many of years of college to reach such a level of foolishness. This story is an overly wordy, whiny postulation of my life. . .
The others here are more earthy than I am. They smell the turpentine in the air, notice when I leave the toilet seat down, and can always rinse out their coffee mugs. I am always somewhere else, no matter where I am. I am no longer an existentialist. I stand amid white flakes falling from a hot, July sky and yell at everyone around me to shut up and listen for the sound of snow hitting the ground. They shake their heads like I am nuts. At first I believed them.
This is a story that will seem fantastic because it of course is fantastic. As fantastic as a dandelion's seeds whisping white on a breeze. I wish I could provide more of a passage into this dream, one filled with the realism that easily let's you step into a realm devoid of the commuters around you on the train and the low hum of a television in the distant, barking dogs, screaming sirens, crying babes and all the other myriads of distractions that make the mind disconnect from the page....
The easiest, shortest way to explain the events is to say, 'Things just got weird." The long version is required here, to flesh out this book and give me all the space I need to explain why and how and what caused our neighborhood to explode into a bloody civil war.
I'll start back when me and my roomates Paul and Matt took over the building. Matt's uncle Roy had owned the place, and lacking heirs and given Matt's love of the game store and the beat up bar and pot=--which uncle Roy smoked and sold. Before this stroke of good fortune, we were living in a ramshackle apartment, nine months behind on our electricity, which was on only because the landlords vicious dog wouldn't let the ConEd electrician into the basement to shut it off.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
The Story of A. Crayon.
My neighbors are a strange lot. Across the hall are two couples in their seventies, who have had some kind of open group marriage? there is a lot to it, of course; they put together a book once explaining all the human geography they felt they were mapping out, like explorers they felt they were, discovering new and wonderful ways to be a human. They self published thousands and thousands of the book and ended up losing the one woman?s family fortune. They still have boxes of the soft brown leather bound books. The red leather text has faded over the years into a bland beige. Despite their inability to get people to buy their book, let alone take on their lifestyle, they claim to have found the perfect existence for man in a socialist world ? which, they admit, probably would have already swept the world were it ever going to happen. Bush depresses the hell out of them.
Down another flight of stars and there is a heroin addict and her fourteen year old kid, a video game wizard who hangs out as much as possible in our studio. Another denizen of 1436 Jarvis is a man in his early thirties who claims to be an alien. He was convinced by his present religion that he is one of the ?thirty six? of the chosen ones (36 being actually a floating number, based on how many people are keeping up with Sunday school in his sect; we could have been chosen, too, and become, in our mind and theirs, Godly, but I put down my foot on this one. I mean, I look a good religious conversion as much as the next boof, but if everyone is chosen than no one is chosen, you know? The cult lives next door in a basement apartment filled with four teered bunk beds and a small chapel. I am the building manager, a job that supports me while I indulge my habit of painting rather rough, often poorly executed and conceived oil paintings that please me regardless. I am doing my best to stand apart from all the different views of reality that fill the apartment building and our block, as well as our enemies. I am immune to the madnesses of the cult and the socialists and the alein... as they are immune to my madnesses.
When our neighborhodd culters' asked me, "Johny, are you ready to believe that you are god??" I responded by quoting Yeats as I scooted out his door, ? The best lack all convictions, and the worst are filled with passionate intensity.?
My name is Crayon. An artist to some? The people who buy my paintings, a slacker to some ? The parents of the women who I date, a waste to some ?
All the people who mistake my silence and lack of interest as dullardly, and also an object of lust and pity and anger and laughter and all kinds of other shit every damn day of my life?.. I am as puzzled as anyone else as to what I am?
To myself I am a boof, a fool. It took many of years of college to reach such a level of foolishness. This story is an overly wordy, whiny postulation of my life. . .
The others here are more earthy than I am. They smell the turpentine in the air, notice when I leave the toilet seat down, and can always rinse out their coffee mugs. I am always somewhere else, no matter where I am. I am no longer an existentialist. I stand amid white flakes falling from a hot, July sky and yell at everyone around me to shut up and listen for the sound of snow hitting the ground. They shake their heads like I am nuts. At first I believed them.
This is a story that will seem fantastic because it of course is fantastic. As fantastic as a dandelion's seeds whisping white on a breeze. I wish I could provide more of a passage into this dream, one filled with the realism that easily let's you step into a realm devoid of the commuters around you on the train and the low hum of a television in the distant, barking dogs, screaming sirens, crying babes and all the other myriads of distractions that make the mind disconnect from the page....
The easiest, shortest way to explain the events is to say, 'Things just got weird." The long version is required here, to flesh out this book and give me all the space I need to explain why and how and what caused our neighborhood to explode into a bloody civil war.
I'll start back when me and my roomates Paul and Matt took over the building. Matt's uncle Roy had owned the place, and lacking heirs and given Matt's love of the game store and the beat up bar and pot=--which uncle Roy smoked and sold. Before this stroke of good fortune, we were living in a ramshackle apartment, nine months behind on our electricity, which was on only because the landlords vicious dog wouldn't let the ConEd electrician into the basement to shut it off.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
The Story of A. Crayon... BEGINNING OF A NOVEL, ADDED TO...
My neighbors are a strange lot. Across the hall are two couples in their seventies, who have had some kind of open group marriage? there is a lot to it, of course; they put together a book once explaining all the human geography they felt they were mapping out, like explorers they felt they were, discovering new and wonderful ways to be a human. They self published thousands and thousands of the book and ended up losing the one woman?s family fortune. They still have boxes of the soft brown leather bound books. The red leather text has faded over the years into a bland beige. Despite their inability to get people to buy their book, let alone take on their lifestyle, they claim to have found the perfect existence for man in a socialist world ? which, they admit, probably would have already swept the world were it ever going to happen. Bush depresses the hell out of them.
Down another flight of stars and there is a heroin addict and her fourteen year old kid, a video game wizard who hangs out as much as possible in our studio. Another denizen of 1436 Jarvis is a man in his early thirties who claims to be an alien. He was convinced by his present religion that he is one of the ?thirty six? of the chosen ones (36 being actually a floating number, based on how many people are keeping up with Sunday school in his sect; we could have been chosen, too, and become, in our mind and theirs, Godly, but I put down my foot on this one. I mean, I look a good religious conversion as much as the next boof, but if everyone is chosen than no one is chosen, you know? The cult lives next door in a basement apartment filled with four teered bunk beds and a small chapel. I am the building manager, a job that supports me while I indulge my habit of painting rather rough, often poorly executed and conceived oil paintings that please me regardless. I am doing my best to stand apart from all the different views of reality that fill the apartment building and our block, as well as our enemies. I am immune to the madnesses of the cult and the socialists and the alein... as they are immune to my madnesses.
When our neighborhodd culters' asked me, "Johny, are you ready to believe that you are god??" I responded by quoting Yeats as I scooted out his door, ? The best lack all convictions, and the worst are filled with passionate intensity.?
My name is Crayon. An artist to some? The people who buy my paintings, a slacker to some ? The parents of the women who I date, a waste to some ?
All the people who mistake my silence and lack of interest as dullardly, and also an object of lust and pity and anger and laughter and all kinds of other shit every damn day of my life?.. I am as puzzled as anyone else as to what I am?
To myself I am a boof, a fool. It took many of years of college to reach such a level of foolishness. This story is an overly wordy, whiny postulation of my life. . .
The others here are more earthy than I am. They smell the turpentine in the air, notice when I leave the toilet seat down, and can always rinse out their coffee mugs. I am always somewhere else, no matter where I am. I am no longer an existentialist. I stand amid white flakes falling from a hot, July sky and yell at everyone around me to shut up and listen for the sound of snow hitting the ground. They shake their heads like I am nuts. At first I believed them.
This is a story that will seem fantastic because it of course is fantastic. As fantastic as a dandelion's seeds whisping white on a breeze. I wish I could provide more of a passage into this dream, one filled with the realism that easily let's you step into a realm devoid of the commuters around you on the train and the low hum of a television in the distant, barking dogs, screaming sirens, crying babes and all the other myriads of distractions that make the mind disconnect from the page....
The easiest, shortest way to explain the events is to say, 'Things just got weird." The long version is required here, to flesh out this book and give me all the space I need to explain why and how and what caused our neighborhood to explode into a bloody civil war.
I'll start back when me and my roomates Paul and Matt took over the building. Matt's uncle Roy had owned the place, and lacking heirs and given Matt's love of the game store and the beat up bar and pot=--which uncle Roy smoked and sold. Before this stroke of good fortune, we were living in a ramshackle apartment, nine months behind on our electricity, which was on only because the landlords vicious dog wouldn't let the ConEd electrician into the basement to shut it off.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Down another flight of stars and there is a heroin addict and her fourteen year old kid, a video game wizard who hangs out as much as possible in our studio. Another denizen of 1436 Jarvis is a man in his early thirties who claims to be an alien. He was convinced by his present religion that he is one of the ?thirty six? of the chosen ones (36 being actually a floating number, based on how many people are keeping up with Sunday school in his sect; we could have been chosen, too, and become, in our mind and theirs, Godly, but I put down my foot on this one. I mean, I look a good religious conversion as much as the next boof, but if everyone is chosen than no one is chosen, you know? The cult lives next door in a basement apartment filled with four teered bunk beds and a small chapel. I am the building manager, a job that supports me while I indulge my habit of painting rather rough, often poorly executed and conceived oil paintings that please me regardless. I am doing my best to stand apart from all the different views of reality that fill the apartment building and our block, as well as our enemies. I am immune to the madnesses of the cult and the socialists and the alein... as they are immune to my madnesses.
When our neighborhodd culters' asked me, "Johny, are you ready to believe that you are god??" I responded by quoting Yeats as I scooted out his door, ? The best lack all convictions, and the worst are filled with passionate intensity.?
My name is Crayon. An artist to some? The people who buy my paintings, a slacker to some ? The parents of the women who I date, a waste to some ?
All the people who mistake my silence and lack of interest as dullardly, and also an object of lust and pity and anger and laughter and all kinds of other shit every damn day of my life?.. I am as puzzled as anyone else as to what I am?
To myself I am a boof, a fool. It took many of years of college to reach such a level of foolishness. This story is an overly wordy, whiny postulation of my life. . .
The others here are more earthy than I am. They smell the turpentine in the air, notice when I leave the toilet seat down, and can always rinse out their coffee mugs. I am always somewhere else, no matter where I am. I am no longer an existentialist. I stand amid white flakes falling from a hot, July sky and yell at everyone around me to shut up and listen for the sound of snow hitting the ground. They shake their heads like I am nuts. At first I believed them.
This is a story that will seem fantastic because it of course is fantastic. As fantastic as a dandelion's seeds whisping white on a breeze. I wish I could provide more of a passage into this dream, one filled with the realism that easily let's you step into a realm devoid of the commuters around you on the train and the low hum of a television in the distant, barking dogs, screaming sirens, crying babes and all the other myriads of distractions that make the mind disconnect from the page....
The easiest, shortest way to explain the events is to say, 'Things just got weird." The long version is required here, to flesh out this book and give me all the space I need to explain why and how and what caused our neighborhood to explode into a bloody civil war.
I'll start back when me and my roomates Paul and Matt took over the building. Matt's uncle Roy had owned the place, and lacking heirs and given Matt's love of the game store and the beat up bar and pot=--which uncle Roy smoked and sold. Before this stroke of good fortune, we were living in a ramshackle apartment, nine months behind on our electricity, which was on only because the landlords vicious dog wouldn't let the ConEd electrician into the basement to shut it off.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
CULTURAL CURRENTS RUN DARK AND DEEP
Puppet masters on the ends of so many strings that we lose count long before the memories of our childhoods kick in. We become this and that during certain years. A beaten dog bites because it has teeth and powerful jaws driven by survival dictated imperatives. Humans act in much this same way. We have templates, and our enviornment chooses which one will 'shape our content,' (to use a blog oriented metaphor).
If you are a regular reader, this is probably going to be one of those 'recap' and 'continue formulating ideas for a final draft' kind of entry; you can indulge me for a few, okay???? I'm not writing this shit because I think you are smart enough to put some of this to use (I'm not that astute, personally... but who knows? Maybe you don't suck as bad as me?), I am writing this stuff merely to prolong my buzz. ... and maybe illume some patch of the infernal, eternal, infinite darkness.
Mostly, I want to explore where the line is between the individual and their culture; look at the misty electric pulses that make up the person we experience as our 'self;' to find pathways through the godless skies to a peace of mind resting on science, not myths and booferies and bad cultural habits. This is simply a matter of reducing the arguement down to the lowest possible deconstruction, which is two little ego infested boys yelling at each other, "MY GOD CAN BEAT UP YOUR GOD!!" One's god is money, the other a mysoginist, theocratic nightmare. I don't want either to rule.
I want you me and our best interests to rule. Capatalism is not about this equalization of interests; no, it is about a slim ass few holding onto their wealth, to the detriment of most of the planet. They are the modern slave owners, and we slaves are all a just fighting over who has the best massah. You know it's true. It scares ya, too, huh??? If it doesn't, you better learn to feel again.
Take away religion and you lose the divisiveness that makes gangs fight and schools teams have deadly rivalries and the basic 'competition' that is built into our society. This idea of all of us 'competing' is sickening. I have never liked competing with other people in sports and what not. I liked hitting the tennis ball back and forth without keeping score, because this was more 'mellow and friendly.' Maybe I am a wuss, but I saw what sports does to some and I am glad I was too sick to play. Fuck you if you are the exception and taking acception, because I am talking about the rule.
What the hell does this have to do with the individual? Well, if you join a team and are one person when you go in, and another when you come out, isn't that ever so slightly cause for alarm? I mean, I always say, don't take leaps of faith. And deciding that sports is the best way to orient your life is a huge leap of faith (which is tragic in its implication on high school and college wanna be pro's, as we all know all too too damn sad and well).
I am probably wrong about this, as I am about so much, but there might be a grain here and there that is worth pecking.
Stay tuned for a post modern path to pseudo nirvana and all your wildest dreams coming true...
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
If you are a regular reader, this is probably going to be one of those 'recap' and 'continue formulating ideas for a final draft' kind of entry; you can indulge me for a few, okay???? I'm not writing this shit because I think you are smart enough to put some of this to use (I'm not that astute, personally... but who knows? Maybe you don't suck as bad as me?), I am writing this stuff merely to prolong my buzz. ... and maybe illume some patch of the infernal, eternal, infinite darkness.
Mostly, I want to explore where the line is between the individual and their culture; look at the misty electric pulses that make up the person we experience as our 'self;' to find pathways through the godless skies to a peace of mind resting on science, not myths and booferies and bad cultural habits. This is simply a matter of reducing the arguement down to the lowest possible deconstruction, which is two little ego infested boys yelling at each other, "MY GOD CAN BEAT UP YOUR GOD!!" One's god is money, the other a mysoginist, theocratic nightmare. I don't want either to rule.
I want you me and our best interests to rule. Capatalism is not about this equalization of interests; no, it is about a slim ass few holding onto their wealth, to the detriment of most of the planet. They are the modern slave owners, and we slaves are all a just fighting over who has the best massah. You know it's true. It scares ya, too, huh??? If it doesn't, you better learn to feel again.
Take away religion and you lose the divisiveness that makes gangs fight and schools teams have deadly rivalries and the basic 'competition' that is built into our society. This idea of all of us 'competing' is sickening. I have never liked competing with other people in sports and what not. I liked hitting the tennis ball back and forth without keeping score, because this was more 'mellow and friendly.' Maybe I am a wuss, but I saw what sports does to some and I am glad I was too sick to play. Fuck you if you are the exception and taking acception, because I am talking about the rule.
What the hell does this have to do with the individual? Well, if you join a team and are one person when you go in, and another when you come out, isn't that ever so slightly cause for alarm? I mean, I always say, don't take leaps of faith. And deciding that sports is the best way to orient your life is a huge leap of faith (which is tragic in its implication on high school and college wanna be pro's, as we all know all too too damn sad and well).
I am probably wrong about this, as I am about so much, but there might be a grain here and there that is worth pecking.
Stay tuned for a post modern path to pseudo nirvana and all your wildest dreams coming true...
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Thursday, May 19, 2005
BURN YOUR BIBLE DAY MAY 29TH!!
NATIONAL BURN YOUR BIBLE DAY. (edit - delete)
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-05-20
1:56 AM
I am going to start a national holiday, BURN YOUR BIBLE DAY, which will take place on my birthday, May 29th. Everyone who was raised tethered to christo tales has some residual infections. Some of these, like a moral imperative to live in a worthwhile, helpful manner, are exactly why something needs to replace religion before it is thrown out all together (history says that peoples stripped of their cultures can revert back to a brutal, bloody primitivism). There is the ying and the yang. We are only concerned with the evil, mind warping ying (or yang, depending on which one works here).
The supersticious nature which all but the most advance look at the bible can be further shed by burning bibles. Seeing what was once a sacred text to you burn into cinders can be very liberating.
This holiday will go through a name change eventually, like so many before (armistice day??? I am glad they changed this one), and become BURN day. This will happen because so many people will be burning pseudo-sacred books from their religion... I picture Korans burning all across the middle east one day, when the muslim cultures finally get educated enough to come into the 21 st century.
I will put any pictures you send of your burning bible into a file where all can look the stark experience. THe more who do this, the more impact it will have. Consider the digital photos your missionary work, and my birthday present, okay?
I will be selling t-shirts soon, and one will be INTERNATIONAL BURN YOUR BIBLE DAY, May 29th.
Free Your Mind Up, dawg ...
WATCH FOR AN ENTIRE LINE OF JOHNNY PAIN shit... I am going to make them all black, saying shit that over the years I have wanted to say. Like,
KILL YOURSELF AND OTHERS.
BIND TORTURE AND KILL ALL WOMBATS
I WOULD LOVE TO FEEL YOUR FINGER UP MY ASS
(this one is for fancy occasions like weddings or important meetings at work... picture yourself walking into your work place styling in this one -- bet you become the ceo!!!).
FIST FUCKING IS COOL.
MASSAH JACKOFFYOURSON MUST DIE!!!
HEY, PREISTS', QUIT FUCKING LITTLE KIDS!!!
so, once I have the price on the bulk shirts, I will have them available for cheap. I am going to sign them all in permanent acrylic paint. If you have any slogans you would like to see me illustrate (yes there will be drawings of people dying for the first one, a wombat being tortured, a finger and fist up an ass, etc...)
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
home
by Scott Ridgway
2005-05-20
1:56 AM
I am going to start a national holiday, BURN YOUR BIBLE DAY, which will take place on my birthday, May 29th. Everyone who was raised tethered to christo tales has some residual infections. Some of these, like a moral imperative to live in a worthwhile, helpful manner, are exactly why something needs to replace religion before it is thrown out all together (history says that peoples stripped of their cultures can revert back to a brutal, bloody primitivism). There is the ying and the yang. We are only concerned with the evil, mind warping ying (or yang, depending on which one works here).
The supersticious nature which all but the most advance look at the bible can be further shed by burning bibles. Seeing what was once a sacred text to you burn into cinders can be very liberating.
This holiday will go through a name change eventually, like so many before (armistice day??? I am glad they changed this one), and become BURN day. This will happen because so many people will be burning pseudo-sacred books from their religion... I picture Korans burning all across the middle east one day, when the muslim cultures finally get educated enough to come into the 21 st century.
I will put any pictures you send of your burning bible into a file where all can look the stark experience. THe more who do this, the more impact it will have. Consider the digital photos your missionary work, and my birthday present, okay?
I will be selling t-shirts soon, and one will be INTERNATIONAL BURN YOUR BIBLE DAY, May 29th.
Free Your Mind Up, dawg ...
WATCH FOR AN ENTIRE LINE OF JOHNNY PAIN shit... I am going to make them all black, saying shit that over the years I have wanted to say. Like,
KILL YOURSELF AND OTHERS.
BIND TORTURE AND KILL ALL WOMBATS
I WOULD LOVE TO FEEL YOUR FINGER UP MY ASS
(this one is for fancy occasions like weddings or important meetings at work... picture yourself walking into your work place styling in this one -- bet you become the ceo!!!).
FIST FUCKING IS COOL.
MASSAH JACKOFFYOURSON MUST DIE!!!
HEY, PREISTS', QUIT FUCKING LITTLE KIDS!!!
so, once I have the price on the bulk shirts, I will have them available for cheap. I am going to sign them all in permanent acrylic paint. If you have any slogans you would like to see me illustrate (yes there will be drawings of people dying for the first one, a wombat being tortured, a finger and fist up an ass, etc...)
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
lost in cyber space
Wow... I am an idiot. This I learn way too often. I suck so bad.... This week, I am learning just how ignorant I have been of what this computer could do for me. Everyone told me about downloading movies and music, but until this weekend, this whole dimension of cyber space was something that I figured was for professional hackers' who spent every second of thier pasty little lives on line. THen out of the blue, an old friend who I have occasionally had the pleasure to run into over the years, who we'll call J. Red (at least until I forget this name and stonishly make uyp a new one), brought me a computer over the weekend. He made a 250 mile drive to do this, and spent a good twenty hours of his precious life putting software in and tweaking the dvd/cd burner and all sorts of other goodies... laws were broken big time. There is nothing like a good pseudo criminal when you need one.
Now I am gathering all these movies and tv shows that I never would have seen, watching them and burning them to dvd's. Half the fun is telling my buddies what I have and hearing them ask me if I can make them copies. You know, the power gets me off and all. I make them wait, squirm for those movies... wait, no I don't, that was just some porn I saw once. By the way, isn't it hilarious when Homer mistakes his past for things that happened on tv? This idea is fertile, by the way.. should any of you writers out there need some little game to get the juices flowing one day...
So, back to the thesis statement, which is, MY NEW COMPUTER has put me about ten years further into the new technologies available than I was just one sad, gray week before. I was like a christian who has never seen a word path out of that mind swamp.
This has become obsessive. Well, to hear M. tell it. She walked into the computer room last night with a spatula, threatening to peel me off the keyboards... I ignored her, best I could, since I was way too far into the animated Clone Wars, making my way through both seasons and episodes 21 through 25. A few minutes later she appeared in the door way with her red riding crop. I don't like extreme pain or have a freaky desire to be spanked or anything -- she uses that damn crop to get me to do shit. So she smacked me in the ear. As hard as she can, and it hurt (by the way, she will deny this if you ask, just like she does her Bin Lad connections).
I stayed off the computer that time until she had gone to bed. I have been staying up all night and then sleeping during the day, because the screen looks better at night, without all that fucking sun reflecting through the windows. I guess the dishes are starting to pile up around me. I would probably have a jar full of piss testifying to my inablity to even leave the computer for a piss of seconds, but I don't do that anymore since M. toldme she would dump any such piss jars on my hjead. I would probably have gained weight if I could reach the refrigerator from my desk. As it is, I am losing again.
Not that I can't just leave this thing... I would right now, if I wanted to. Really. Oh, by the way, I am trying to get ahold of the directors' cut of blade runner, but don't tell the feds....
DISCLAIMER: I would not now or ever do anything criminal like download music. I am a work droid who has sympathy for rich rockstars who need a ninety seventh car to feel whole. I am not a socialist who believes that the proliferaioin of all art forms caused by the net makes for great audiences... not to mention the freedom of expressing oneself without having all the censors (both of taste and genre pigeon holing and all the other little ways the print publishing world practically dictates that people only get the worst, most pandering books possible.. a lot of the time, at least). Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Now I am gathering all these movies and tv shows that I never would have seen, watching them and burning them to dvd's. Half the fun is telling my buddies what I have and hearing them ask me if I can make them copies. You know, the power gets me off and all. I make them wait, squirm for those movies... wait, no I don't, that was just some porn I saw once. By the way, isn't it hilarious when Homer mistakes his past for things that happened on tv? This idea is fertile, by the way.. should any of you writers out there need some little game to get the juices flowing one day...
So, back to the thesis statement, which is, MY NEW COMPUTER has put me about ten years further into the new technologies available than I was just one sad, gray week before. I was like a christian who has never seen a word path out of that mind swamp.
This has become obsessive. Well, to hear M. tell it. She walked into the computer room last night with a spatula, threatening to peel me off the keyboards... I ignored her, best I could, since I was way too far into the animated Clone Wars, making my way through both seasons and episodes 21 through 25. A few minutes later she appeared in the door way with her red riding crop. I don't like extreme pain or have a freaky desire to be spanked or anything -- she uses that damn crop to get me to do shit. So she smacked me in the ear. As hard as she can, and it hurt (by the way, she will deny this if you ask, just like she does her Bin Lad connections).
I stayed off the computer that time until she had gone to bed. I have been staying up all night and then sleeping during the day, because the screen looks better at night, without all that fucking sun reflecting through the windows. I guess the dishes are starting to pile up around me. I would probably have a jar full of piss testifying to my inablity to even leave the computer for a piss of seconds, but I don't do that anymore since M. toldme she would dump any such piss jars on my hjead. I would probably have gained weight if I could reach the refrigerator from my desk. As it is, I am losing again.
Not that I can't just leave this thing... I would right now, if I wanted to. Really. Oh, by the way, I am trying to get ahold of the directors' cut of blade runner, but don't tell the feds....
DISCLAIMER: I would not now or ever do anything criminal like download music. I am a work droid who has sympathy for rich rockstars who need a ninety seventh car to feel whole. I am not a socialist who believes that the proliferaioin of all art forms caused by the net makes for great audiences... not to mention the freedom of expressing oneself without having all the censors (both of taste and genre pigeon holing and all the other little ways the print publishing world practically dictates that people only get the worst, most pandering books possible.. a lot of the time, at least). Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Wednesday, May 18, 2005
LOOK AT ME? A bio. Update
Weird how I decide to write about his and that for this blog here. I sometimes jot down a few ideas in my drawing pad, and occasionally the whole story just comes out on the subway or something. I always carry a pad and pencils. Like I tell people, they are my form of knitting; my mom knits, and I am sure we are doing the same thing somehow. I pull out my pad during long conversations, music show? on the train I am either engrossed in a a drawing or reading.
So, I have been watching a lot of movies, read a number of books, went to the doctors and hospitals and pharmacies too many times for me to keep track of. Right now, I am a couple weeks away from meeting with a surgeon who will do my surgery. She is a young possibly Indian woman; oh so attractive; I like the idea of being operated on by a really hot woman; going under on the gas is fun, too?. Waking up after a major back pain brings one into a body screaming with pain, though? enough pain to make the memory of the gas a dream of a way to escape his damaged flesh. Muscles have been sliced through. Nerves severed. How utterly boring even this event in my life seems. I hope the surgery takes away some of the pain. I would love it it was enough for te
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
So, I have been watching a lot of movies, read a number of books, went to the doctors and hospitals and pharmacies too many times for me to keep track of. Right now, I am a couple weeks away from meeting with a surgeon who will do my surgery. She is a young possibly Indian woman; oh so attractive; I like the idea of being operated on by a really hot woman; going under on the gas is fun, too?. Waking up after a major back pain brings one into a body screaming with pain, though? enough pain to make the memory of the gas a dream of a way to escape his damaged flesh. Muscles have been sliced through. Nerves severed. How utterly boring even this event in my life seems. I hope the surgery takes away some of the pain. I would love it it was enough for te
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
CHASING THE NEIGHBORS WITH CHAIN SAWS
CH
?.
State Prison let him out after 18 months?
Sent a wolf out amongst the sheep
He?s 38 and stabbed his daughter and her best friend to death.
A potato knife he says one of the third graders pulled on him
The cops think this is a lie.
Just an wily convict trying to say he killed the little girls
in some preposterous/ludicrous state of defense?
The prosecutor says the con is lying
to save his ass from frying
father was a month out of prison
for trying to kill his neighbors
with a chain saw,
They had to beat him down with a shovel to stop his madness
Psychopaths
out there
With hearts that don?t quicken
As they eviscerate a corpse that they?re fucking
Eyes turned inward
Staring into their porno/revenge/sensual realms
He sees? only a weaker con in the jail house
One he can take down and fuck
Kill and get away with it.
He doesn?t mind killing
He kinda liked taking revenge in prison
Felt like superman
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
?.
State Prison let him out after 18 months?
Sent a wolf out amongst the sheep
He?s 38 and stabbed his daughter and her best friend to death.
A potato knife he says one of the third graders pulled on him
The cops think this is a lie.
Just an wily convict trying to say he killed the little girls
in some preposterous/ludicrous state of defense?
The prosecutor says the con is lying
to save his ass from frying
father was a month out of prison
for trying to kill his neighbors
with a chain saw,
They had to beat him down with a shovel to stop his madness
Psychopaths
out there
With hearts that don?t quicken
As they eviscerate a corpse that they?re fucking
Eyes turned inward
Staring into their porno/revenge/sensual realms
He sees? only a weaker con in the jail house
One he can take down and fuck
Kill and get away with it.
He doesn?t mind killing
He kinda liked taking revenge in prison
Felt like superman
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
MASSAH JACK OFF YOURSON
A freak in LA goes on trial for violating little boys
Hoping to do an O.J.
Right now there is a few weeks away from the verdict
I am trying to find a place to put this information
into a mental context
Where it won?t cut and bruise me
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Hoping to do an O.J.
Right now there is a few weeks away from the verdict
I am trying to find a place to put this information
into a mental context
Where it won?t cut and bruise me
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
revenge of the sith geeks
REVENGE OF THE GEEKS? WAIT, NO ? SITHS?
Star Wars? REVENGE OF THE SITHS?.
I know a lot of geeks. Had roommates and now friends who spend three to twenty hours a day? PLAYING Poker and snipers and world wars, Risk? AND THEIR OLD FAVORITE -- Dungeons and Dragons, which by strength of their ten plus years playing together, was their highest obsession? They play together only once a week, and what with all the other hours to fill in between, they all spend countless minutes playing the games by themselves ? Grand Prix Auto to Doom?.
One if them, Paul, got off going downtown a few days before the premiere of star wars; he had sword fights met other people who could talk intelligently about the Millennium. My ex roommate actually filled a wall with Star War?s figures? a sculpture and toy maker, he has various different ways of approaching the Lucas Universe. One as a craftsman, another the other as a child who just wants surprises and fun and to be ?blown away, and the collector who wants to make beauty for beauties sake. This guy, J.J., is attempting to avoid all references to star wars this month. He warns people at the door as they come in, ?Don?t tell me anything about Star Wars.? He wants the film to come to him as unexpected as possible? wants the plot, as much as is possible in this situation, to be a grand surprise for himself when he see?s this probably last installment. If a commercial comes on for SW he shreaks like a dying shrew, holds his hands over his ears and runs out of the room, yelling with his already normally too loud voice elevated by three levels, saying, ?Tell me when this is over.?
We were roommates when the last one came out, and hearing him screech like this every time a character from star wars
Came on the tube was annoying. You see the commercials everywhere, posters, etc? he doesn?t want any of it to enter his mind. I was so glad when the movie finally came out?. I think he got the dvd on the black market a week or so later, from a friend who traveled to Some half lawless country all the time to buy and import native crafts, like elaborate chess sets carved by hand
I like the commercials, myself? they tease me, just like they are supposed to?
ACTUALLY, I WANT TO SEE REVENGE OF THE SITHS so much that I have felt like I was going to pee for the last few weeks and it is getting worse every day?.
I was slow to warm to the last star wars film; ended up thinking they should have used the cut scenes that showed the princess and Anakin falling in love; ? The first time I saw SW2 , I was disappointed in Anakyn, as I had been in the last one, when that smarmy child played the potential jedi. The second Time I saw the film, I liked it more, because I was expecting next to nothing from the experience. Since then, I received the dvd for Christmas and have had occasion to watch it many times ?. Or at least a few scenes that I really like; battles and chases?. Battle and chases? what A BOY I AM?
Fox has been showing the older star wars for the last few weeks. I am presently sitting here, waiting for M. to get back from her mother?s day trip, watching ewoks?. I would still like to shove dynamite up all their fussy little teddy bear asses and see them explode and fly up into the air like rockets and splatter on the trees? Now thAT WOULd make me laugh.
Even they are forgiven my anger as I wait for the new film to come out? Oh, I?m fucking lying? I hate those damn wookies? and I hate that one of the evil tribes comes off as Japanese, the dum tribe of ugly, computer generated equatic animals as blacks.
Merely having a couple black guys on the team would have said more to little black kids in the theater. They did get better about this? Maybe I am being petulant here, kind of jelous and snooty? I love George Lucas. Why Not? He says he is going to go off now and do Art Films? Says he has been saving his money, and has like ten movies lined up. What a gas it will be if he makes these blow em away popular films; perhaps that would be the talent which finally wakes up his critics and tells them to just watch the story on the big, big screen and trust that this 14 hour film will make you feel alright. Alright?
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Star Wars? REVENGE OF THE SITHS?.
I know a lot of geeks. Had roommates and now friends who spend three to twenty hours a day? PLAYING Poker and snipers and world wars, Risk? AND THEIR OLD FAVORITE -- Dungeons and Dragons, which by strength of their ten plus years playing together, was their highest obsession? They play together only once a week, and what with all the other hours to fill in between, they all spend countless minutes playing the games by themselves ? Grand Prix Auto to Doom?.
One if them, Paul, got off going downtown a few days before the premiere of star wars; he had sword fights met other people who could talk intelligently about the Millennium. My ex roommate actually filled a wall with Star War?s figures? a sculpture and toy maker, he has various different ways of approaching the Lucas Universe. One as a craftsman, another the other as a child who just wants surprises and fun and to be ?blown away, and the collector who wants to make beauty for beauties sake. This guy, J.J., is attempting to avoid all references to star wars this month. He warns people at the door as they come in, ?Don?t tell me anything about Star Wars.? He wants the film to come to him as unexpected as possible? wants the plot, as much as is possible in this situation, to be a grand surprise for himself when he see?s this probably last installment. If a commercial comes on for SW he shreaks like a dying shrew, holds his hands over his ears and runs out of the room, yelling with his already normally too loud voice elevated by three levels, saying, ?Tell me when this is over.?
We were roommates when the last one came out, and hearing him screech like this every time a character from star wars
Came on the tube was annoying. You see the commercials everywhere, posters, etc? he doesn?t want any of it to enter his mind. I was so glad when the movie finally came out?. I think he got the dvd on the black market a week or so later, from a friend who traveled to Some half lawless country all the time to buy and import native crafts, like elaborate chess sets carved by hand
I like the commercials, myself? they tease me, just like they are supposed to?
ACTUALLY, I WANT TO SEE REVENGE OF THE SITHS so much that I have felt like I was going to pee for the last few weeks and it is getting worse every day?.
I was slow to warm to the last star wars film; ended up thinking they should have used the cut scenes that showed the princess and Anakin falling in love; ? The first time I saw SW2 , I was disappointed in Anakyn, as I had been in the last one, when that smarmy child played the potential jedi. The second Time I saw the film, I liked it more, because I was expecting next to nothing from the experience. Since then, I received the dvd for Christmas and have had occasion to watch it many times ?. Or at least a few scenes that I really like; battles and chases?. Battle and chases? what A BOY I AM?
Fox has been showing the older star wars for the last few weeks. I am presently sitting here, waiting for M. to get back from her mother?s day trip, watching ewoks?. I would still like to shove dynamite up all their fussy little teddy bear asses and see them explode and fly up into the air like rockets and splatter on the trees? Now thAT WOULd make me laugh.
Even they are forgiven my anger as I wait for the new film to come out? Oh, I?m fucking lying? I hate those damn wookies? and I hate that one of the evil tribes comes off as Japanese, the dum tribe of ugly, computer generated equatic animals as blacks.
Merely having a couple black guys on the team would have said more to little black kids in the theater. They did get better about this? Maybe I am being petulant here, kind of jelous and snooty? I love George Lucas. Why Not? He says he is going to go off now and do Art Films? Says he has been saving his money, and has like ten movies lined up. What a gas it will be if he makes these blow em away popular films; perhaps that would be the talent which finally wakes up his critics and tells them to just watch the story on the big, big screen and trust that this 14 hour film will make you feel alright. Alright?
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
1)
?I ain?t no fortunate one.?
John Fogarty
Existentialism Boofishly Explained Away
My first brush with existing in the moment came when I had a psychologist, back over twenty years ago, who proclaimed that he was an existentialist. I read a few books about the movement ,which pretty much confirmed answered an unspoken question that I had about whether this dude?s red eyes were caused by weed, or what? A young man in his twenties, with eyes that were as red as his hair. He was trying to live in the moment, for sensations and feelings, thrills and pills and chills. . . Can you see how this could lead to problems with a savings account? This is how a crack addict or a baby looks at the world? and it is the way everyone of us looks at the world to certain degrees. Who doesn?t want to feel good? Even people who like pain do so because it feels good, oddly enough?
T his philosophy of living in the moment sounds like it makes sense under a godless sky, where the old ideas of tying morality to religion ? and thus the empowerment of the current power structure that it is propping up ? are being not only questioned, but for all intents and purposes rebutted. . Taking whatever life has to offer with gusto like this is of course a lot easier if you are a rich rock star, rather than a crippled, sleeping in the streets, bum.
But, without a god to lick our wounds, what are we to do on this planet, spend our lives slowly bleeding to death from the thousands of tiny cuts that accumulate with the passing years? First a dead santa, then a dead cat, a dead sibling, dead grandparents, dead parents, dead? and no heaven waiting for them. I am forever surprised that more peoples minds don?t just break down and disentigrate into microcosmic countries reigned by the madness. I personally was so over whelmed by seventeen, when the essential question was being asked of me ? how will you proceed in life (though I had no real sense of this at the time), that I felt like I was going crazy. Feeling like you are going crazy is only almost as bad as actually going crazy? I think, but what the fuck do I know?
2)
The Story of A. Crayon.
My neighbors are a strange lot. Across the hall are two couples in their seventies, who have had some kind of open group marriage? there is a lot to it, of course; they put together a book once, that didn?t sell much. They claim to have found the perfect existence for man in a socialist world that they thought was going to sweep the world long before now? I don?t know. Down another flight of stars and there is a heroin addict and her fourteen year old kid, who hangs out as much as possible in our studio? Another of the denizens of 1436 Jarvis is a man in his early thirties who claims to be an alien. He was convinced by his present religion that he is one of the ?thirty six? chosen ones (36 being actually a floating number, based on how many people are keeping up with Sunday school in his sect ? we could have been chosen, too, and become, in our mind and theirs, Godly, but I put down my foot on this one. I mean, if everyone is chosen than no one is chosen, you know?
I go by crayon, an artist to some, a slacker to some, a waste to some, an object of lust and pity and anger and laughter. To myself I am a boof, a fool. It took many of years of college to reach such a level of foolishness. This story is an overly wordy, whiny postulation of my life. . .
The others here are more earthy than I am. They smell the turpentine in the air, notice when I leave the toilet seat down, and can always rinse out their coffee mugs. I am always somewhere else, no matter where I am. I am no longer an existentialist. I stand amid white flakes falling from a hot, July sky and yell at everyone around me to shut up and listen for the sound of snow hitting the ground. They shake their heads like I am nuts. At first I believe them.
What happened was . . .
and then we . . .
In the end, I think everyone learned a thing or two, though at the moment I can?t think of any.
3)
LOOK AT ME? A bio. Update
Weird how I decide to write about his and that for this blog here. I sometimes jot down a few ideas in my drawing pad, and occasionally the whole story just comes out on the subway or something. I always carry a pad and pencils. Like I tell people, they are my form of knitting; my mom knits, and I am sure we are doing the same thing somehow. I pull out my pad during long conversations, music show? on the train I am either engrossed in a a drawing or reading.
So, I have been watching a lot of movies, read a number of books, went to the doctors and hospitals and pharmacies too many times for me to keep track of. Right now, I am a couple weeks away from meeting with a surgeon who will do my surgery. She is a young possibly Indian woman; oh so attractive; I like the idea of being operated on by a really hot woman; going under on the gas is fun, too?. Waking up after a major back pain brings one into a body screaming with pain, though? enough pain to make the memory of the gas a dream of a way to escape his damaged flesh. Muscles have been sliced through. Nerves severed. How utterly boring even this event in my life seems. I hope the surgery takes away some of the pain. I would love it it was enough for te
4)
CHASING THE NEIGHBORS WITH CHAIN SAWS
?.
State Prison let him out after 18 months?
Sent a wolf out amongst the sheep
He?s 38 and stabbed his daughter and her best friend to death.
A potato knife he says one of the third graders pulled on him
The cops think this is a lie.
Just an wily convict trying to say he killed the little girls
in some preposterous/ludicrous state of defense?
The prosecutor says the con is lying
to save his ass from frying
father was a month out of prison
for trying to kill his neighbors
with a chain saw,
They had to beat him down with a shovel to stop his madness
Psychopaths
out there
With hearts that don?t quicken
As they eviscerate a corpse that they?re fucking
Eyes turned inward
Staring into their porno/revenge/sensual realms
He sees? only a weaker con in the jail house
One he can take down and fuck
Kill and get away with it.
He doesn?t mind killing
He kinda liked taking revenge in prison
Felt like superman
Entry Six/Not in Blog
A freak in LA goes on trial for violating little boys
Hoping to do an O.J.
Right now there is a few weeks away from the verdict
I am trying to find a place to put this information
into a mental context
Where it won?t cut and bruise me
.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
?I ain?t no fortunate one.?
John Fogarty
Existentialism Boofishly Explained Away
My first brush with existing in the moment came when I had a psychologist, back over twenty years ago, who proclaimed that he was an existentialist. I read a few books about the movement ,which pretty much confirmed answered an unspoken question that I had about whether this dude?s red eyes were caused by weed, or what? A young man in his twenties, with eyes that were as red as his hair. He was trying to live in the moment, for sensations and feelings, thrills and pills and chills. . . Can you see how this could lead to problems with a savings account? This is how a crack addict or a baby looks at the world? and it is the way everyone of us looks at the world to certain degrees. Who doesn?t want to feel good? Even people who like pain do so because it feels good, oddly enough?
T his philosophy of living in the moment sounds like it makes sense under a godless sky, where the old ideas of tying morality to religion ? and thus the empowerment of the current power structure that it is propping up ? are being not only questioned, but for all intents and purposes rebutted. . Taking whatever life has to offer with gusto like this is of course a lot easier if you are a rich rock star, rather than a crippled, sleeping in the streets, bum.
But, without a god to lick our wounds, what are we to do on this planet, spend our lives slowly bleeding to death from the thousands of tiny cuts that accumulate with the passing years? First a dead santa, then a dead cat, a dead sibling, dead grandparents, dead parents, dead? and no heaven waiting for them. I am forever surprised that more peoples minds don?t just break down and disentigrate into microcosmic countries reigned by the madness. I personally was so over whelmed by seventeen, when the essential question was being asked of me ? how will you proceed in life (though I had no real sense of this at the time), that I felt like I was going crazy. Feeling like you are going crazy is only almost as bad as actually going crazy? I think, but what the fuck do I know?
2)
The Story of A. Crayon.
My neighbors are a strange lot. Across the hall are two couples in their seventies, who have had some kind of open group marriage? there is a lot to it, of course; they put together a book once, that didn?t sell much. They claim to have found the perfect existence for man in a socialist world that they thought was going to sweep the world long before now? I don?t know. Down another flight of stars and there is a heroin addict and her fourteen year old kid, who hangs out as much as possible in our studio? Another of the denizens of 1436 Jarvis is a man in his early thirties who claims to be an alien. He was convinced by his present religion that he is one of the ?thirty six? chosen ones (36 being actually a floating number, based on how many people are keeping up with Sunday school in his sect ? we could have been chosen, too, and become, in our mind and theirs, Godly, but I put down my foot on this one. I mean, if everyone is chosen than no one is chosen, you know?
I go by crayon, an artist to some, a slacker to some, a waste to some, an object of lust and pity and anger and laughter. To myself I am a boof, a fool. It took many of years of college to reach such a level of foolishness. This story is an overly wordy, whiny postulation of my life. . .
The others here are more earthy than I am. They smell the turpentine in the air, notice when I leave the toilet seat down, and can always rinse out their coffee mugs. I am always somewhere else, no matter where I am. I am no longer an existentialist. I stand amid white flakes falling from a hot, July sky and yell at everyone around me to shut up and listen for the sound of snow hitting the ground. They shake their heads like I am nuts. At first I believe them.
What happened was . . .
and then we . . .
In the end, I think everyone learned a thing or two, though at the moment I can?t think of any.
3)
LOOK AT ME? A bio. Update
Weird how I decide to write about his and that for this blog here. I sometimes jot down a few ideas in my drawing pad, and occasionally the whole story just comes out on the subway or something. I always carry a pad and pencils. Like I tell people, they are my form of knitting; my mom knits, and I am sure we are doing the same thing somehow. I pull out my pad during long conversations, music show? on the train I am either engrossed in a a drawing or reading.
So, I have been watching a lot of movies, read a number of books, went to the doctors and hospitals and pharmacies too many times for me to keep track of. Right now, I am a couple weeks away from meeting with a surgeon who will do my surgery. She is a young possibly Indian woman; oh so attractive; I like the idea of being operated on by a really hot woman; going under on the gas is fun, too?. Waking up after a major back pain brings one into a body screaming with pain, though? enough pain to make the memory of the gas a dream of a way to escape his damaged flesh. Muscles have been sliced through. Nerves severed. How utterly boring even this event in my life seems. I hope the surgery takes away some of the pain. I would love it it was enough for te
4)
CHASING THE NEIGHBORS WITH CHAIN SAWS
?.
State Prison let him out after 18 months?
Sent a wolf out amongst the sheep
He?s 38 and stabbed his daughter and her best friend to death.
A potato knife he says one of the third graders pulled on him
The cops think this is a lie.
Just an wily convict trying to say he killed the little girls
in some preposterous/ludicrous state of defense?
The prosecutor says the con is lying
to save his ass from frying
father was a month out of prison
for trying to kill his neighbors
with a chain saw,
They had to beat him down with a shovel to stop his madness
Psychopaths
out there
With hearts that don?t quicken
As they eviscerate a corpse that they?re fucking
Eyes turned inward
Staring into their porno/revenge/sensual realms
He sees? only a weaker con in the jail house
One he can take down and fuck
Kill and get away with it.
He doesn?t mind killing
He kinda liked taking revenge in prison
Felt like superman
Entry Six/Not in Blog
A freak in LA goes on trial for violating little boys
Hoping to do an O.J.
Right now there is a few weeks away from the verdict
I am trying to find a place to put this information
into a mental context
Where it won?t cut and bruise me
.
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Saturday, May 07, 2005
thank ya QUEST COMPUTERS,
7301 NORTH SHERIDEN, FOR LETTING ME STINK UP THE PLACE THIS AFTERNOON....
and bring you this fine, rambshackle entertainment...
and bring you this fine, rambshackle entertainment...
yes, i know what you are thinking.
Why doesn't he write more about the Ramones?? I get so many emails on this, and while I wrote them, spell checked em, and sent them off to myself, they are still quite impressive in their number.
Okay, You Know My Position On Chronic Assholism ? shoot those pushy, snooty little poofs. Fire for their heads!!! I say!!!! And Joey Ramone is, by his own reckoning, a mean asshole.
No, not really?. I write shit like this sometimes and then think of Matthew Hale, him being a real honest to dog, full of shit from head to foot, racist, and realize that if you are NOT laughing as you read this kill kill crap that I am writing, and are, indeed, just nodding along and thinking ?Yes, yes? they do deserve to die,? please forgive?. but, much as they deserve to die, that doesn?t mean that I am promoting violence; no, no?. it?s true? I am just trying to make myself laugh despite the decay (blame this long, long sentence on an early obsession with Henry James). I can wait for the fruition of the The Mighty Beat Them To Twitches and Moans Hamster Army.
Oh, yea, the Ramones?. They were assholes and weird, weird people? who inspired a lot of cool acts. I wish I had seen them play sometimes now, but they?re almost all dead at this point. I never hear them, and I don?t buy music, really?.. the dvd?s cluttering this place are of course the pack rat M?s, even though all are of course at the mercy of my destructive nature and stoned stupidity? so she doesn?t much approve of my using them anymore
Okay, I hope that cleared up the Ramones question that has been giving you all those sleepless nights and forcing you to have to stare at pictures of puppies for hours to break your pathetically dark moods? Maybe this can be a first step toward quieting all the voices in your head telling you to kill and play with feces and stuff? Probably not. At least the one asking about how I feel about the Ramones will stop driving you to email me all hours of the day and night with questions about Dee Dee and stuff. I am a half deaf writer who sings in a voice so out of key that I can actually make nearby squirrels scream in terror and fall over and just lay there twitching until you kick them, so I don?t know why you would bother asking me shit like this?
I guess it comes from me jokingly referring to myself as ?lifes? punk. ? This is not the same as being into the clash and dressing up in needles and tattoos? Punk and about every other trend you can name avoided the part of Indiana I grew up in? meaning, I suck way too much to be in on any movement as it happens?
Okay, You Know My Position On Chronic Assholism ? shoot those pushy, snooty little poofs. Fire for their heads!!! I say!!!! And Joey Ramone is, by his own reckoning, a mean asshole.
No, not really?. I write shit like this sometimes and then think of Matthew Hale, him being a real honest to dog, full of shit from head to foot, racist, and realize that if you are NOT laughing as you read this kill kill crap that I am writing, and are, indeed, just nodding along and thinking ?Yes, yes? they do deserve to die,? please forgive?. but, much as they deserve to die, that doesn?t mean that I am promoting violence; no, no?. it?s true? I am just trying to make myself laugh despite the decay (blame this long, long sentence on an early obsession with Henry James). I can wait for the fruition of the The Mighty Beat Them To Twitches and Moans Hamster Army.
Oh, yea, the Ramones?. They were assholes and weird, weird people? who inspired a lot of cool acts. I wish I had seen them play sometimes now, but they?re almost all dead at this point. I never hear them, and I don?t buy music, really?.. the dvd?s cluttering this place are of course the pack rat M?s, even though all are of course at the mercy of my destructive nature and stoned stupidity? so she doesn?t much approve of my using them anymore
Okay, I hope that cleared up the Ramones question that has been giving you all those sleepless nights and forcing you to have to stare at pictures of puppies for hours to break your pathetically dark moods? Maybe this can be a first step toward quieting all the voices in your head telling you to kill and play with feces and stuff? Probably not. At least the one asking about how I feel about the Ramones will stop driving you to email me all hours of the day and night with questions about Dee Dee and stuff. I am a half deaf writer who sings in a voice so out of key that I can actually make nearby squirrels scream in terror and fall over and just lay there twitching until you kick them, so I don?t know why you would bother asking me shit like this?
I guess it comes from me jokingly referring to myself as ?lifes? punk. ? This is not the same as being into the clash and dressing up in needles and tattoos? Punk and about every other trend you can name avoided the part of Indiana I grew up in? meaning, I suck way too much to be in on any movement as it happens?
UNDER A GODLESS SKY
Stumbling
away
from the warped words
Set echoing in mind
Watching infinity become finite
In a day swirling away from the horoscope
Under a godless sky
Laying down in the grass hearing
the faint heart beat of the mother
away
from the warped words
Set echoing in mind
Watching infinity become finite
In a day swirling away from the horoscope
Under a godless sky
Laying down in the grass hearing
the faint heart beat of the mother
THE HAMSTERS ARE BEING DEPLOYED, AT LAST!!!!
I have been approached by a group of revolutionarily indoctrinated ducks, mostly Mallards ? which is who I have been meeting with, though I guess there are other species involved, as well. They are armed, trained, and prepared for an insurgency against the heavies around their pond, the insolent, buck toothed, ever penny pinching and perverse, Beavers.
Or course the Ducks want me to provide them a few contingents from what has thus far been known as the Mighty Hamster Army,
Though they may soon change their name to THE MIGHTY BEAT THE ENEMY TO PISS AND TWITCHES HAMSTER ARMY, if I can figure out a way to get even the initials of this name on their little green army jackets. Which I really am going to make, even if nay sayers in the liberal camp, like M., think I am making up the jackets, as well as various feats that I have tried to attribute to the jugular nipping whisker twitches (as I sometimes call my troops).
The Ducks seem to think some bloody line was crossed by the beavers, when a song became popular with them which dissed ducks in a way that could be taken as just fun, or totally racist. I listened to it, and all I heard was another one of those stupid, beaver drunk tunes that the whisky-addled rodents sing to boost up their flagging buzzes.
The Ducks are sophisticated enough in matters of cultural conditioning to know that this kind of veiled brain washing of young beavers into believing that their beaked brethren are, as the song lyrics in contention call them, ?brain dead ducks,? must be stopped. This kind of first strike against cultural trends among other species that threaten their well being, has to be supported, of course, so I was quick to back them?. Telling the ducks gathered down at the beach this morning, ?Yes, I will help you take down the beavers.?
Other dog walkers were a little taken aback when I told the ducks this. I tried to explain to them that they were there to meet me, because of the hamster army? there was a young couple with bouncy terrier and a black kid with a white puffy poodle. They were all in a hurry or something because they didn?t seem to really be listening after the first few minutes of my explanations of general strategies like the use of indigenous peoples as low wage slaves. I guess they wandered off or something? I of course went on with my lecture? until finally the ducks flew off and I let the tugging Ruby Doo pull me on down the beach.
I like to believe that my troops are now trained and ready to go to war . . . actual troop strength is of course a national security secret at this point, and that has nothing with my making all of this up. I?d like to say that sixty hamsters have survived thus far, out of the sixty-six that started out weeks ago as young recruits. I?m afraid the code of hamster operational secrecy would be broken were I to actually say this, though?
I can confirm that the hamsters do learn quickly. You see their little whiskers whipping back and forth? That is how quick they think.
I will of course come to the aide of the ducks (whom this article in a New Yorker says are thought by scientific researchers of the joke to be the funniest species of all, so I cynically threw them into my pandering hamsters rhapsodies); anyone who is fighting the scourge of the Beaver would receive my full support, of course. MAKE THEM ALL INTO COATS I say, now that my belief in saving the environment and all other ethics have dissolved into cynical, petty name calling (or so my blog aspires, at least)?.
Like the Ducks, I cut off all diplomatic talks when the beavers messed with this stream, building a dam that swamped three duck nests and nearly killed a duckling.
Yes, everything here is true?. Every hamster tale is even now being scribed into the myths of our tribes?right now, before your eyes, in this CIA sponsored site that is intent on controlling your mind. I just want you to make you open minded, personally, though I suspect my sponsors may be wanting more?
Nah, I just made that up, like all the other hot shot journalists are doing. The CIA would never go so low as to sponsor a site like this? I know, oh how I know? I tried to sell my ass to anyone, you all know that? no, my attempts to sell out have thus far all been thwarted? the most recent attempt crumbled when no one would believe me when I said I setting up a tsunami relief fund?
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Or course the Ducks want me to provide them a few contingents from what has thus far been known as the Mighty Hamster Army,
Though they may soon change their name to THE MIGHTY BEAT THE ENEMY TO PISS AND TWITCHES HAMSTER ARMY, if I can figure out a way to get even the initials of this name on their little green army jackets. Which I really am going to make, even if nay sayers in the liberal camp, like M., think I am making up the jackets, as well as various feats that I have tried to attribute to the jugular nipping whisker twitches (as I sometimes call my troops).
The Ducks seem to think some bloody line was crossed by the beavers, when a song became popular with them which dissed ducks in a way that could be taken as just fun, or totally racist. I listened to it, and all I heard was another one of those stupid, beaver drunk tunes that the whisky-addled rodents sing to boost up their flagging buzzes.
The Ducks are sophisticated enough in matters of cultural conditioning to know that this kind of veiled brain washing of young beavers into believing that their beaked brethren are, as the song lyrics in contention call them, ?brain dead ducks,? must be stopped. This kind of first strike against cultural trends among other species that threaten their well being, has to be supported, of course, so I was quick to back them?. Telling the ducks gathered down at the beach this morning, ?Yes, I will help you take down the beavers.?
Other dog walkers were a little taken aback when I told the ducks this. I tried to explain to them that they were there to meet me, because of the hamster army? there was a young couple with bouncy terrier and a black kid with a white puffy poodle. They were all in a hurry or something because they didn?t seem to really be listening after the first few minutes of my explanations of general strategies like the use of indigenous peoples as low wage slaves. I guess they wandered off or something? I of course went on with my lecture? until finally the ducks flew off and I let the tugging Ruby Doo pull me on down the beach.
I like to believe that my troops are now trained and ready to go to war . . . actual troop strength is of course a national security secret at this point, and that has nothing with my making all of this up. I?d like to say that sixty hamsters have survived thus far, out of the sixty-six that started out weeks ago as young recruits. I?m afraid the code of hamster operational secrecy would be broken were I to actually say this, though?
I can confirm that the hamsters do learn quickly. You see their little whiskers whipping back and forth? That is how quick they think.
I will of course come to the aide of the ducks (whom this article in a New Yorker says are thought by scientific researchers of the joke to be the funniest species of all, so I cynically threw them into my pandering hamsters rhapsodies); anyone who is fighting the scourge of the Beaver would receive my full support, of course. MAKE THEM ALL INTO COATS I say, now that my belief in saving the environment and all other ethics have dissolved into cynical, petty name calling (or so my blog aspires, at least)?.
Like the Ducks, I cut off all diplomatic talks when the beavers messed with this stream, building a dam that swamped three duck nests and nearly killed a duckling.
Yes, everything here is true?. Every hamster tale is even now being scribed into the myths of our tribes?right now, before your eyes, in this CIA sponsored site that is intent on controlling your mind. I just want you to make you open minded, personally, though I suspect my sponsors may be wanting more?
Nah, I just made that up, like all the other hot shot journalists are doing. The CIA would never go so low as to sponsor a site like this? I know, oh how I know? I tried to sell my ass to anyone, you all know that? no, my attempts to sell out have thus far all been thwarted? the most recent attempt crumbled when no one would believe me when I said I setting up a tsunami relief fund?
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
SECOND CHANCE... film noir
. If there was a god, I would never have to say these sad, sad words again?. ?Oh, so, you?ve never heard of Robert Mitchum??
A beautiful disaster.
SECOND CHANCE is a Howard Hughes movie starring Mitchum and a busty woman with puffy, pouty red, red lips? The Weed Smoking Actor God As Much As There Is One loved shooting this picture in Trinidad; the movie creates an exotic city filled with smiling natives selling whatever, in crowded streets filled with tough talking men and women who always yield; a Shangri la where the maiter?d?s are more informed than the local police. He got good weed there, his wife was at home so he could do any woman he wanted, and he loved to drink and sing and was welcomed into the local music scene, where he gained his life long love for Calypso music, which he actually introduced into the US on an album that he ended up being forced to sing on when everyone he elicited claimed that Mitchum was the better mambo singer. He could sing. On the album, which I have (as well as the DVD and all things Mitchum, due to M.?s particular form of geekiness), Mitchum sings like he is a native. He recorded this album not as a white guy doing his interpretation, but as an actor trying to convey how the natives were singing calypso. He gets across how much he enjoyed getting drunk and listening to the music, smoking a j and holding the shapely, soft ship of the night in his arms.
This Movie Second Chance also has a young, mean Jack Palance going up against a thirty something Mitchum face. The Mitch is at his zenith during this time, physical appearance wise at least. His ?duck walk? strut is at maximum leopard like coolness. Palance is so mean that the little kids shouldn?t see this one. The violence is stark in this Hughes Product, with a man beating his wife in public, then later falling down cliffs and bouncing bloodily to his death == just as Jack Palance does later, when the Mitch finally kicks his ass, on top of a cable car strung between the peaks of two mountainous peaks in Trinidad. The last words spoken in this movie are, ?What a beautiful disaster,? and come from the lips of the operator of a cable car, who is among those who have just been rescued from their original cable car, which they are watching do a deadly bounce down the cliff ? which is, oddly enough, the third deadly bounce down this cliff in the last twenty minutes of the movie?. for reasons inexplicable to me and more than likely you.
?What a beautiful disaster.? HMMM???? What does it mean when this phrase ends a movie? I like the idea of this line being spoke over the dead as their lives are remembered.
I hope some kid will have the decency to spray paint this on my tombstone one day. The list of phrases that I wish to have spray painted on my tomb is another of my lists that is ?seemingly? ?getting too long to be stored in the apartment any longer. ? At least that is M?s take on what she refuses to acknowledge are sacred piles of parchment? actually, M. has been particularly harsh with her censorship of my work ever since she spent a horrified morning last summer going through all the lists and charts and general source material and other data that I had gathered while doing my study, Bikini Usage At The Jarvis Beach,--which she still to this day sees as nothing more than, ?Criminal Invasion of Privacy,? and other assorted crimes.
The moral of the story is, obviously, that you should be sterilized if you start developing an interest in my writing.
.eal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
A beautiful disaster.
SECOND CHANCE is a Howard Hughes movie starring Mitchum and a busty woman with puffy, pouty red, red lips? The Weed Smoking Actor God As Much As There Is One loved shooting this picture in Trinidad; the movie creates an exotic city filled with smiling natives selling whatever, in crowded streets filled with tough talking men and women who always yield; a Shangri la where the maiter?d?s are more informed than the local police. He got good weed there, his wife was at home so he could do any woman he wanted, and he loved to drink and sing and was welcomed into the local music scene, where he gained his life long love for Calypso music, which he actually introduced into the US on an album that he ended up being forced to sing on when everyone he elicited claimed that Mitchum was the better mambo singer. He could sing. On the album, which I have (as well as the DVD and all things Mitchum, due to M.?s particular form of geekiness), Mitchum sings like he is a native. He recorded this album not as a white guy doing his interpretation, but as an actor trying to convey how the natives were singing calypso. He gets across how much he enjoyed getting drunk and listening to the music, smoking a j and holding the shapely, soft ship of the night in his arms.
This Movie Second Chance also has a young, mean Jack Palance going up against a thirty something Mitchum face. The Mitch is at his zenith during this time, physical appearance wise at least. His ?duck walk? strut is at maximum leopard like coolness. Palance is so mean that the little kids shouldn?t see this one. The violence is stark in this Hughes Product, with a man beating his wife in public, then later falling down cliffs and bouncing bloodily to his death == just as Jack Palance does later, when the Mitch finally kicks his ass, on top of a cable car strung between the peaks of two mountainous peaks in Trinidad. The last words spoken in this movie are, ?What a beautiful disaster,? and come from the lips of the operator of a cable car, who is among those who have just been rescued from their original cable car, which they are watching do a deadly bounce down the cliff ? which is, oddly enough, the third deadly bounce down this cliff in the last twenty minutes of the movie?. for reasons inexplicable to me and more than likely you.
?What a beautiful disaster.? HMMM???? What does it mean when this phrase ends a movie? I like the idea of this line being spoke over the dead as their lives are remembered.
I hope some kid will have the decency to spray paint this on my tombstone one day. The list of phrases that I wish to have spray painted on my tomb is another of my lists that is ?seemingly? ?getting too long to be stored in the apartment any longer. ? At least that is M?s take on what she refuses to acknowledge are sacred piles of parchment? actually, M. has been particularly harsh with her censorship of my work ever since she spent a horrified morning last summer going through all the lists and charts and general source material and other data that I had gathered while doing my study, Bikini Usage At The Jarvis Beach,--which she still to this day sees as nothing more than, ?Criminal Invasion of Privacy,? and other assorted crimes.
The moral of the story is, obviously, that you should be sterilized if you start developing an interest in my writing.
.eal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
not the ramones, again...
Of course I can read your mind?..
I know exactly what you are thinking: ?Why doesn?t he write more about the Ramones?? I get so many emails on this, and while I wrote them, spell checked em, and sent them off to myself, they are still quite impressive in their number.
Okay, You Know My Position On Chronic Assholism ? shoot those pushy, snooty little poofs. Fire for their heads!!! I say!!!! And Joey Ramone is, by his own reckoning, a mean asshole.
No, not really?. I write shit like this sometimes and then think of Matthew Hale, him being a real honest to dog, full of shit from head to foot, racist, and realize that if you are NOT laughing as you read this kill kill crap that I am writing, and are, indeed, just nodding along and thinking ?Yes, yes? they do deserve to die,? please forgive?. but, much as they deserve to die, that doesn?t mean that I am promoting violence; no, no?. it?s true? I am just trying to make myself laugh despite the decay (blame this long, long sentence on an early obsession with Henry James). I can wait for the fruition of the The Mighty Beat Them To Twitches and Moans Hamster Army.
Oh, yea, the Ramones?. They were assholes and weird, weird people? who inspired a lot of cool acts. I wish I had seen them play sometimes now, but they?re almost all dead at this point. I never hear them, and I don?t buy music, really?.. the dvd?s cluttering this place are of course the pack rat M?s, even though all are of course at the mercy of my destructive nature and stoned stupidity? so she doesn?t much approve of my using them anymore
Okay, I hope that cleared up the Ramones question that has been giving you all those sleepless nights and forcing you to have to stare at pictures of puppies for hours to break your pathetically dark moods? Maybe this can be a first step toward quieting all the voices in your head telling you to kill and play with feces and stuff? Probably not. At least the one asking about how I feel about the Ramones will stop driving you to email me all hours of the day and night with questions about Dee Dee and stuff. I am a half deaf writer who sings in a voice so out of key that I can actually make nearby squirrels scream in terror and fall over and just lay there twitching until you kick them, so I don?t know why you would bother asking me shit like this?
I guess it comes from me jokingly referring to myself as ?lifes? punk. ? This is not the same as being into the clash and dressing up in needles and tattoos? Punk and about every other trend you can name avoided the part of Indiana I grew up in? meaning, I suck way too much to be in on any movement as it happens?
I know exactly what you are thinking: ?Why doesn?t he write more about the Ramones?? I get so many emails on this, and while I wrote them, spell checked em, and sent them off to myself, they are still quite impressive in their number.
Okay, You Know My Position On Chronic Assholism ? shoot those pushy, snooty little poofs. Fire for their heads!!! I say!!!! And Joey Ramone is, by his own reckoning, a mean asshole.
No, not really?. I write shit like this sometimes and then think of Matthew Hale, him being a real honest to dog, full of shit from head to foot, racist, and realize that if you are NOT laughing as you read this kill kill crap that I am writing, and are, indeed, just nodding along and thinking ?Yes, yes? they do deserve to die,? please forgive?. but, much as they deserve to die, that doesn?t mean that I am promoting violence; no, no?. it?s true? I am just trying to make myself laugh despite the decay (blame this long, long sentence on an early obsession with Henry James). I can wait for the fruition of the The Mighty Beat Them To Twitches and Moans Hamster Army.
Oh, yea, the Ramones?. They were assholes and weird, weird people? who inspired a lot of cool acts. I wish I had seen them play sometimes now, but they?re almost all dead at this point. I never hear them, and I don?t buy music, really?.. the dvd?s cluttering this place are of course the pack rat M?s, even though all are of course at the mercy of my destructive nature and stoned stupidity? so she doesn?t much approve of my using them anymore
Okay, I hope that cleared up the Ramones question that has been giving you all those sleepless nights and forcing you to have to stare at pictures of puppies for hours to break your pathetically dark moods? Maybe this can be a first step toward quieting all the voices in your head telling you to kill and play with feces and stuff? Probably not. At least the one asking about how I feel about the Ramones will stop driving you to email me all hours of the day and night with questions about Dee Dee and stuff. I am a half deaf writer who sings in a voice so out of key that I can actually make nearby squirrels scream in terror and fall over and just lay there twitching until you kick them, so I don?t know why you would bother asking me shit like this?
I guess it comes from me jokingly referring to myself as ?lifes? punk. ? This is not the same as being into the clash and dressing up in needles and tattoos? Punk and about every other trend you can name avoided the part of Indiana I grew up in? meaning, I suck way too much to be in on any movement as it happens?
SLAPPING AROUND YOUR INNER CHILD
SLAPPING AROUND YOUR INNER CHILD
This is a treatise on how to avoid another Columbine Massacre, or another wordy waste of time ? you be the judge. Here with ye shall find that there are too many people walking around controlled by their inner child ? the side of us that sees all the bright and shiny things and reaches out with pudgy little hands towards, feeling an anticipation and need that wasn?t even there before the commercials started showing you all the bright and shiny things. (I suppose I should write that this is a reference to u2?s song about this, since I doubt I can expect YOU to do much THINKING, and I sure as hell can?t expect everyone in this blog wide world to have listened to BONO, even though I have never met someone who hasn?t. . .). Lexus commercials appeal to this part of your inner children; the part of ourselves who says, ?Fuck the environmental concerns, I am driving a tank because I can afford to now, and it is bright and shiny, inside and out ? even in the trunk.? Which is much like saying some vile, monolithic missive like: ?I am RESPONSIBLE only to my OWN NEEDS ? A MERCILESS MICROCOSM IN A HABITAT OF MERCILESS MICROCOSMS.?
This makes you a danger to the rest of us. History shows that a lot of little ?footnote? leaders around the world, when forced into the dilemma of what to do with a predatorial caste, saw the wisest solution written in bullets. NEVER WORKS.
I just read over this entry for the first time and I had to laugh, I tell you, because it is so apparent in my prose that I am in a particularly warm hearted mood today. I hate that.
teal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
This is a treatise on how to avoid another Columbine Massacre, or another wordy waste of time ? you be the judge. Here with ye shall find that there are too many people walking around controlled by their inner child ? the side of us that sees all the bright and shiny things and reaches out with pudgy little hands towards, feeling an anticipation and need that wasn?t even there before the commercials started showing you all the bright and shiny things. (I suppose I should write that this is a reference to u2?s song about this, since I doubt I can expect YOU to do much THINKING, and I sure as hell can?t expect everyone in this blog wide world to have listened to BONO, even though I have never met someone who hasn?t. . .). Lexus commercials appeal to this part of your inner children; the part of ourselves who says, ?Fuck the environmental concerns, I am driving a tank because I can afford to now, and it is bright and shiny, inside and out ? even in the trunk.? Which is much like saying some vile, monolithic missive like: ?I am RESPONSIBLE only to my OWN NEEDS ? A MERCILESS MICROCOSM IN A HABITAT OF MERCILESS MICROCOSMS.?
This makes you a danger to the rest of us. History shows that a lot of little ?footnote? leaders around the world, when forced into the dilemma of what to do with a predatorial caste, saw the wisest solution written in bullets. NEVER WORKS.
I just read over this entry for the first time and I had to laugh, I tell you, because it is so apparent in my prose that I am in a particularly warm hearted mood today. I hate that.
teal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
JUST SAY, 'DUDE, DON'T BOGART."
The JUST SAY: ?Dude, don?t bogart!!!!.? campaign
The new campaign I am starting is ?JUST SAY, DON?T BOGART.? Or possibly the ?JUST SAY, DON?T BOGART, DUDE? campaign, depending on how big I make the letters on the signs. I always end up measuring something wrong and losing the last word, or having to write it too tiny to see. . . being stoned all day does have a disadvantage ? I never would have thought there was one, and no matter how sad that makes me, I take heart in the knowledge that the little weed will soon enough make me forget all about this sad little smear.
Now, I know, you know that I don?t like to preach?. humble shit for brains I am, but once in a while, like during the Disposable But Monkey fad of 2003, I have to say something about a topic that is not being addressed by what I personally know to be the Wombat controlled so called free-press? Let me tell ya, when I heard that Nancy Reagen is starting some Just Say No campaign about pot, I had to be the first to say something, naturally. I mean, I have been watching the news and papers and no one is saying anything ? not even The Smoking Gun? so, to be startlingly current and controversial, as I find myself being so naturally?. let me now write down the proper thing to say while a joint is being passed around ? because if you say something about Just Saying No, you will probably be beaten, and quite justifiably so, I might add.
So join the disheveled giggling and Just Say:. ?Dude, don?t bogart the hamster? (See, I told you that all those pleading entries I wrote about sending hamsters really was a code for SEND ME WEED; using it like this in a sentence proves me right).
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
The new campaign I am starting is ?JUST SAY, DON?T BOGART.? Or possibly the ?JUST SAY, DON?T BOGART, DUDE? campaign, depending on how big I make the letters on the signs. I always end up measuring something wrong and losing the last word, or having to write it too tiny to see. . . being stoned all day does have a disadvantage ? I never would have thought there was one, and no matter how sad that makes me, I take heart in the knowledge that the little weed will soon enough make me forget all about this sad little smear.
Now, I know, you know that I don?t like to preach?. humble shit for brains I am, but once in a while, like during the Disposable But Monkey fad of 2003, I have to say something about a topic that is not being addressed by what I personally know to be the Wombat controlled so called free-press? Let me tell ya, when I heard that Nancy Reagen is starting some Just Say No campaign about pot, I had to be the first to say something, naturally. I mean, I have been watching the news and papers and no one is saying anything ? not even The Smoking Gun? so, to be startlingly current and controversial, as I find myself being so naturally?. let me now write down the proper thing to say while a joint is being passed around ? because if you say something about Just Saying No, you will probably be beaten, and quite justifiably so, I might add.
So join the disheveled giggling and Just Say:. ?Dude, don?t bogart the hamster? (See, I told you that all those pleading entries I wrote about sending hamsters really was a code for SEND ME WEED; using it like this in a sentence proves me right).
Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates. Or sued or something bad like that...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
