Tuesday, March 16, 2010

keep those full-body scans to yourselves

I see you’ve secured yourself a new credit card—frequent flier miles—and now you can finally go to that wonderful Cancun resort you saw on that show.

Aye, the best kept secret until that godforsaken Joe Francis spilled the beans (wrong parlance?) on the place. Gosh darn! It’ll be grand! I just love sunshine and I cannot take another winter in this dreary smog-ridden place!


let's elope in Singapore, but we'll have to veer away from our paths of excess.

Those aren’t substantial goals my fine-feathered dreamer. Your desires must drive you crazy. I can't imagine being driven in one direction or the other when trying to decide on which giant new plasma-HD-BD-ROM to buy. Don’t throw away all your money just because some stooge on the tube tells you the economy is back on its feet. It’s not, big spender.

Oh shush! you cynical libertarian! I want to have my cake and eat it! Enjoy this godforsaken mortal coil while you still have breath! Besides, I have enough savings to keep me afloat if things get really bad. You don’t even have a real bank account, just some two-bit Slovenian savings & loan contract in Lancaster.

Surrender your dreams. You’ve been born too late. 1920s housing boom’s an aging grandmother. Opine, lament, sappy nostalgia in a Seagrams fifth. You must hate the radical idea of a banana daiquiri. The American dream is s sham, dear comrade! Do you think I’m telling you this to make myself look good? I’ve shed all my unnecessary ego. This is not for myself! I’m trying to help you!

Then help me pick out a new pair of swim trunks for my trip! Wait, why am I asking you for fashion tips? Look at those rag-tag slacks you’ve got on.

(….blank stare, followed by a wry smile, exasperated shake of the head, leans forward…)
You need some serious peyote, followed by the most extreme groove of power chords, infinite reverb and chest-caving bass.

……are you sure insanity doesn’t run in your family?

I make few guarantees, and now isn’t any different.

Labels: , , ,

Saturday, March 06, 2010

VOUS AVEZ PERDU VOS ARTISTES

"What special good would it do to found an Establishment if the few who gave intimations of high talent were instinctively excluded? I wanted a chance to preach to the President and to the First Lady. "Speak to the people a little more," would have liked to say, "Talk on television about the things you do not understand. Use your popularity to be difficult and intellectually dangerous. This is more to greatness than liberal legislation." And to her I would have liked to go on about what the real meaning of an artist might be, of how the marrow of a nation was contained in his art, and one deadened artists at one's peril, because artists were not so much gifted as ENDOWED; they had been given what was secret and best in their parents and in all the people about them who had been generous or influenced them or made them, and so artists embodied the essence of what was best in the nation, embodied it in their talent rather than in their character, which could be small, but their talent—this fruit of all that was rich and nourishing in their lives—was related directly to the dreams and the ambitions of the most imaginative part of the nation. So the destiny of a nation was not separate at all from the FATE of its artists. I would have liked to tell her that every time an artist failed to complete the full mansion, jungle, garden, armory, or city of his work the nation was subtly but permanently poorer, which is why we return to obsessively to the death of Tom Wolfe, the broken air of Scott Fitzgerald, the gloomy smell of the vault which collects already the horror of Hemingway's departure. I would have liked to say to her that a war for the right to express oneself had been going on in this country for fifty years, and that there were counterattacks massing because there were many who HATED the artist now, that as the world dipped into the totalitarian trough of the twentieth century there was a mania of abhorrence for whatever was unpredictable. For all too many, security was the only bulwark against emptiness, eternity and death. The void was what America feared. Communism was the name they gave the void. The unknown was Communist, and the boys who grew beards, the people who walked their dog off leash. It was comic, but it was virulent, and there was a fanatic rage in much too much of the population. Detestation of the BEATNIK seethed like rabies on the mouths of small-town police officers.

"Oh, there was much I wanted to tell her, even–exit sociology, enter insanity–the obscene had a right to exist in the novel. For every fifteen-year-old who would be hurt by premature exposure, somewhere another, or two or three, would emerge from sexual experience which has been too full of moral funk onto the harder terrain of sex made alive by culture, that it was the purpose of culture finally to enrich all of the psyche, not just part of us, and damage to particular people in passing was a price we must pay. Thirty thousand Americans were killed each year by automobile crashes. No one talked of giving up the automobile: it was necessary to civilization. As necessary, I wanted to say, as art. Art in all its manifestations. Including the ride, the obscene, and the UNSAYABLE. Art was as essential to the nation as technology. I would tell her these things out of romantic abundance, because I liked her and i thought she would understand what one was talking about, because as First Lady she was queen of the arts, she was our Muse if she chose to be. Perhaps it would not be altogether a disaster if America has a Muse."

Labels: , , , , ,

Tuesday, February 16, 2010

Answer to Max Schreck

Spoken at some point in the outmoded future.

"He also said—pointedly—that space travel nowadays was an escape from the problems of Earth. That is, one took off for the stars in the hope that the worst would happen and be done with in once"s absence. And indeed I couldn't deny that more than once I had peered anxiously out the porthole—especially when returning from a long voyage—to see whether or not our planet resembled a burnt potato."

Labels: , , , ,

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Aerosol ideology

"The sun is setting on Cold War ideologies."

Volcanic aerosols continue to provide us with spectacular colors during twilight.





Labels: , , , ,

Friday, December 04, 2009

Be In My Video

PLEASE BE IN MY VIDEO!

Labels: ,

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

conspiring against my illness

Such a fun, fantastic weekend, has devolved into the horrible situation of having to deal with an irritated, sore throat. This throat's morphed into a raw pain, covered in phlegm. It's a fucking drama queen. It got "a due notice" and thinks it's the end of the world. This throat had never been unemployed before, but then came the downsize at the expense of a floundering economy; the local clam-bar and juiceria have fallen along with the government IT specialist. It used to work for the Dept. of Homeland Security, but the coup of the NSA lead to Beckström dragging it along with him. This was merely to cushion the fall. My throat got axed from its position based mostly on vague accusations Beckström made of its failure to efficiently manage intelligence during past risk levels. It was such a vague accusation but one to be expected from an agency that experimented with domestic data mining; people need to be fired or let go because of minor infractions when a vie for power's at hand. The changing of the guard is met with fatalities of a superficial kind, yet an evil power won't have sympathy. All the for best yeah? No problems with being freed from cold war, at least that's the way I'd feel.

It took all of three weeks for my throat to find a job as an IT specialist for New York Life. THREE bloody weeks! There are some financial specialists who've been looking for a job over a year. This fucking throat of mine is out of work for a mere three weeks and collapses into a frantic paranoid state. It feared coming down with yellow fever and then not having life insurance, and also something about germ-warfare in subway corridors. I would say to it, "You're fucking bonkers! Are you panicking because of the likely hood of total economic collapse, or are you just insecure about not having a pick-ax to hammer away at that mountain of debt you've been chipping away at? I've always told you the banking system would get you in trouble, but some people have literally been thrown out onto the street because they allowed the media to pander to their deepest wants and desires. These blind fools allowed themselves to be stabbed in the back while their hands were severed. But a large collapsible SUV was promised if they complied. And to tie my digression with you...how can you afford that huge collaspible Escalade with 30" rims?"

After I'm done with scolding, this throat I used to call my own becomes a skulking mess. It doesn't wash, it sits alone and plays the same old James Bond game for the Gamecube it's been playing for the past six some odd years. It takes rejection so fucking personally! I mean, it DID find more work. Motherfucker's just a stubborn insecure prick. I think my throat fears socialism the most. It listens to The Savage Nation periodically and keeps a lot of commemorative currency as collectibles. If some ridiculous coincidence occurs that a PIECE OF HIGH-GRADE STOCK PAPER LAMINATED WITH SILVER PLASTIC ever becomes valuable, I'll sell my vinyl sleeves for fucking sushi platters. Mad spicy tuna...mad spicy tuna.

Honestly, this douchebag simpleton of a throat I used to have is so easily jipped. And now that his creditors have repossessed its fucking Escalade, he's got no way of commuting to work. The subways are out of the question. Cab fair is just eating away at my throats savings. It's become a nuisance and a slug, slowly being dragged down amid the transition towards a high level of connectivity. I don't want to appear mean, but it's come to the point where I'm going to have to evict this throat I used to have.

Telepathy is not yet an evolutionary trait, is it?

Labels: ,

Thursday, March 05, 2009

Spare Change

After tossing in all fourteen nickels and eight dimes into the fare meter, I walked to the back of the bus and wondered how long the line inside the post office would be. The moment I sat down, I noticed the large glutton I'd passed while walking down the aisle. I wish I could have pontificated my objections to the Fatso Rizzo for throwing gnawed ribs onto the floor of the bus. He was oblivious to all matter around him, and instead of breathing, sucked in air only between the large chomps he took of his dead pig. He left no room for empathy, as he didn't even offer anyone on the bus one of the several dozen ribs I assumed he got from the corner BBQ place. I'm sure they closed shop after this guy trotted out with his palette of ribs. I wish I could have asked him:

When is a layer cake just too much? After the eighth spare-rib you've crammed down your fat neck. Let's put some thought into this gorge-fest. The amount of pig flesh consumed could be reduced to six ounces from the seven or more pounds you probably consume daily. I doubt you're regular on the toilet. Meat does not solve all problems, unlike the MEAT COUNCIL would like you to believe. If only you knew half the chemicals your meat probably contains, let alone what's on the COUNTRY HAMS I'm sure you dream of fornicating with. Because of the unsanitary conditions at many INDUSTRIALIZED FARMS a large number of pesticides and fumigants are being used to control pests who may otherwise damage a pristine strawberry. (Not that you'd ever be caught sucking down a strawberry with your greased up pudgy digits) Chemicals are also sprays on freight cars and cargo trailers to microbes and vermin don't eat it all before you can. DEATH is possible from being exposed to such chemicals. Even though you may get to be on TV for being a large Macy's Thanksgiving Day balloon it's not advisable, as such publicity is also extremely life-threatening. You may have somehow been inspired, but this is not the way towards a better end. AND FOR FUCK'S SAKE, PICK UP YOUR DAMN BONES! RATS LOVE PEONS LIKE YOU! If I could somehow procure all my necessary , I would sit cross-legged on top of a tenement and watch our life-giving orb set over the Palisades everyday.

Improvisation should be practices as soon as a child starts to write his/her name.

Labels: ,

Saturday, December 02, 2006

dead, but Alive...(dead, not alive)

....to be dead again?

woke up, found i had been writing a small bio on a certain band last night. it must have been late, and after i had gotten home; i do not remember writing it. Even in a drunken stupor, i must say, i could make sense out of most of it. i think i'll finish it...maybe.

Labels: , ,