Wednesday, July 21, 2010
A Short Circuit To An Ass Kickin'
Walk into the rock-a-billy bar of your choice at 11PM and scream out, "Johnny Cash is a pussy!"
Biopic Fodder On A Blustery Day: With Video Accompaniment
What if I said I was a casual acquaintance with destiny manifest as I go wandering the torn, shattered world of my grandios cosmos? Shit. What hyperbole for a man who walks through life like a busted machine, or a ‘broken robot’ (thanx Boozer)! Spiritual bankruptcy. A copy of Cash in hand, drifting on the breeze, walking the line in a zig-zagging, crisscrossing fashion…between dirty hands, dirty lands, and dirty deeds. How’s a child grown like ditch weed and expected to flower in these darkest of times? Thompson would say something about this foul year of our lord 2009, but we won’t go into that malarkey right now (or ever, if you know how I roll).
Video: Guitar playin' sonuvabitch.
Now I have to say that the massive edifice called life, monumentally clouds my chakra. My third eye is crying. I try to whisper the meanings. Then I yell them while out and about in the world, and it never works. BulIshit cliches about rhyme and reason tickle my eardrums with empty echoes. Beware the bunnyman! I have to tune into my scary transmissions and amplify them to the deafening roar of light and dark, good and evil, right and wrong for them to even eventually be heard by the others. Dualism is a blinding force sulkily creeping around in my universe, but I shall overcome! I was weaned on cheerleading atrocities and molded out of shape into believing in icons, slogans, xenophobia, and some secret things much, much worse.
Video: Quicksand
As a child languishing in the mid-eighties, I once munched greedily on Rambo cereal. I dined on the corny sugar shapes of knives and guns, or something of that nature, but I don’t look back so fondly on these times, as I keep seeing it all come crawling back around all glassy eyed in the form of a golden, halcyon nostalgia in the looking glass, drama, dream machine. Unbelievable. My whole existence through the early stages of my process through time, it seems, was shaped and influenced by the media. It is almost like I have a childhood story cobbled out of television shows with such horrible little plots, and of news headlines screaming only of triumphant tragedy. Fuckin’ hell. Me thinks the technology of it all is bringing some form of rotten desolation which is blowing into town on the back of an ever accelerating wind.
“They’re spoon feeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they’ll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words …just being punished for going
To Desolation Row” - Dylan
This little ship has been tossed around and is finding a hard time in celebrating his own triumphs against the agents and energy of ‘Control’.
The simple truth is…I want to be ablaze like a God, astride a wondrous chariot, mastering a team of galaxy trampling horses, content, and solving only higher puzzles. What do we do with a supposedly approaching ‘golden dawn’? Dammit, I wanna know! “I shift gears and I drink beers.” Huh? That’s a clever fucking name for a rockabilly song if I ever heard one, or twenty three. I do know where all my troubles started, that’s a step in the right direction, I think. I think moving forward would spring me out of the little, fragile, wooden cages I have constructed for myself out of doubt and open hostility towards other humans just like me (or really, truly me if the Buddhists or that Scottish 23 comics are to be understood).
I have at the back of mind, an animal of an idea that I have been fighting the wrong battles and dragging the war through multiple dim decades. I am 32, almost. I was born on December 10th, 1976 and I do believe I have just recently begun to learn on a more prescient level, most of the time. Other times I blunder and blither, but that has been caused primarily by my predilection towards drinking copious amounts of lagers, and ales, and stouts, and pilsners, and bocks, and hefeweizens, and whiskeys. And further down the rabbit hole we go.
Video: Whiskey Dick
I spent time in the Air Force, a derelict, on duty, following in my Dad’s economic footfalls and baby-making, traditionalist ways. I hated the Communists and I revolted the Queers in Kalifornia (SF flavor). I spaced the years of my early twenties learning technology and a valuable work ethic (although I think that it had always been innate). I kicked and screamed, cringed and cried, only to learn, recently, that I was breaking down the walls in the ruins of an ancient city created from the energy of blaming my parents for all of my pain, sorrow, and existential misery. A dead end if I followed through, but with no useful conclusion.
Video: My Back Pages
Anyhoo, the dogs bark orders and the lesser dogs march through the hell of Control’s machinery and drink to their destruction and eat their own souls. Some found comfort in being this way, but I could not. I had come to gain an inkling of the abstractions and ideas I could hardly ever convey to the others in these broken circles. My testosterone surely has had an awful influence on some of my illest actions and behaviors, but some of the shackled beasts I lived and worked with then were like the Island of Jackasses in Pinocchio; on steroids. Seeing soulless Creatine cretins, the cream and the clear, the cream of the crap, cheap thrills and canned Keystone beers as the smell of cigarettes, sweat, sex, and pent up Yankee v. Southern aggression roiling on the air can lead a sensitive one to surely suffer some sort of social paralysis. Fuck and fight, yell and scream, then fight and fuck some more seemed to me to be name of that consensus reality game. Oh yeah!
Video: Sgt. Baker
Afterword, heads filled with thoughts of a trumpeting Jesus booming from the PA system like some sort of weird Evangelical version of a cacophonous call to a Muslim morning prayer made my eyes water with loathing and my stomach quiver with fear, for I knew we were the fleeting lifeblood, fixing flying machines, with the sole purpose of projecting destructive power onto the global peasantry. WEWJD? What Exactly Would Jesus Do?
Video: Build my hotrod, of course.
And I can never forget the cloying, carcinogenic chemical soot wafting through the air on tendrils of demon fingers, creeping into the olfactory centers of my once baby-freckled nose, as I was ever cringing from the unholy scent of airplane flatulence. The air machines bled poison and leaked excrement onto the concrete in maniacal Rorschach patterns and caused the fresh flows of rain to be all cloudy and rainbowy-like as they fled away into the storm drains and eventually disappearing into some distant, nameless body of the bluest, purest water.
And I, avoiding breaking the rules of the institution became a full time obsession. I felt like some of the heaviest, densest material had been placed squarely on my shoulders for me to trudge around with in addition to all of the niceties and necessities of married parenthood grinding on the back of my skull like the strong jaws of some depraved, invisible Dingo. A dingo ate my baby! Indeed.
By now you have most likely come to terms with my blatant cynicism and twisting tortured sarcasm. What can I say? “I guess I am just a product of my environment” likely to be sang, and then chanted loudly in the chorus, by some obscure punk rock band named the ‘Cop Outs’ or some similar shit I heard in an interlude on an Ice Cube record. I cannot pretend to be something I am not; and why not? And what I most certainly am not, is bubbly, so deal with it or quit reading this unplanned, biographical manifestoon and go turn on the neon and drink one for me. I am now going to tune out of this digression, so let's just light it up and move along.
Now the truth of the matter is, after the aforementioned last little spell cast, I have to say, I have no idea what I am doing here, or there. I can’t help but feel like I am closing in on something grand and tragic in the same instant. I feel like a momentary collapse of our life-star. I feel like our awesome post-post-modern apocalypse in full bloom like a daisy chain crown of thorns consisting of, all in all, DNA and a streaming consciousness outside of time and space; now bringing you to my point. What does it all mean, man? Or woman! Or whatever it is that I’m supposed to say, or do, or cherish, or become!
Video: Third Eye
Always in a state of becoming...I am always reminded of that gourmet trash can gracing the succulent kitchen adorning my house, my home…that whenever I read the box…or see it taking up valuable shelf space in one of those awful Red stores that burn my eyes like wine…I think it to be smug, a self-assured robot with a tin can human voice who is always saying, “Simple Human ™”, when he happens upon one of us fragile flesh-creatures frolicking joylessly in the emptiness of the street. Or I think of Chomsky, who just has to be robot or one of the golden ones Bowie crooned about 30 years ago, come yesterday. Is time travel possible? What sort of question am I asking? From whom should I seek the answers?
Video: Pretty Things
LSD…almost…really didn’t work…a catalyst definitely maybe…but it did not finish the job. We only projected up and outward, then slowly went under, sank back; all slow-like into ourselves and consumerism. Just ask the cocaine kids on the IPODs and the internet, and the TV, and the Zoloft, and read the text messages (I may be becoming square like those before me, but seriously, I cannot understand, nor want to understand the hyperspace spelling, 3v!l) and the jingoisms raining down through the clouds of the media, Stormin’ Norman like our great arena warrior traipsing through surreal cities Godzilla-style.
Video: Zoloft
Cheesy Velveeta is what it often regresses to in the mind of this thing called Mickey Moodswing. I have been called a beautiful dork by so many people, beautiful in their own right, rite of passage, climbing the hill or currently on a plateau. Does it all end when we are dead? I think that that is the million-dollar question on everybody’s mind. “Enquiring minds want to know, I want to know.” Again the question is begged, “From who should I seek the answers?”
Video: I won't get to get what I'm after, till the day I die.
Video: Guitar playin' sonuvabitch.
Now I have to say that the massive edifice called life, monumentally clouds my chakra. My third eye is crying. I try to whisper the meanings. Then I yell them while out and about in the world, and it never works. BulIshit cliches about rhyme and reason tickle my eardrums with empty echoes. Beware the bunnyman! I have to tune into my scary transmissions and amplify them to the deafening roar of light and dark, good and evil, right and wrong for them to even eventually be heard by the others. Dualism is a blinding force sulkily creeping around in my universe, but I shall overcome! I was weaned on cheerleading atrocities and molded out of shape into believing in icons, slogans, xenophobia, and some secret things much, much worse.
Video: Quicksand
As a child languishing in the mid-eighties, I once munched greedily on Rambo cereal. I dined on the corny sugar shapes of knives and guns, or something of that nature, but I don’t look back so fondly on these times, as I keep seeing it all come crawling back around all glassy eyed in the form of a golden, halcyon nostalgia in the looking glass, drama, dream machine. Unbelievable. My whole existence through the early stages of my process through time, it seems, was shaped and influenced by the media. It is almost like I have a childhood story cobbled out of television shows with such horrible little plots, and of news headlines screaming only of triumphant tragedy. Fuckin’ hell. Me thinks the technology of it all is bringing some form of rotten desolation which is blowing into town on the back of an ever accelerating wind.
“They’re spoon feeding Casanova
To get him to feel more assured
Then they’ll kill him with self-confidence
After poisoning him with words …just being punished for going
To Desolation Row” - Dylan
This little ship has been tossed around and is finding a hard time in celebrating his own triumphs against the agents and energy of ‘Control’.
The simple truth is…I want to be ablaze like a God, astride a wondrous chariot, mastering a team of galaxy trampling horses, content, and solving only higher puzzles. What do we do with a supposedly approaching ‘golden dawn’? Dammit, I wanna know! “I shift gears and I drink beers.” Huh? That’s a clever fucking name for a rockabilly song if I ever heard one, or twenty three. I do know where all my troubles started, that’s a step in the right direction, I think. I think moving forward would spring me out of the little, fragile, wooden cages I have constructed for myself out of doubt and open hostility towards other humans just like me (or really, truly me if the Buddhists or that Scottish 23 comics are to be understood).
I have at the back of mind, an animal of an idea that I have been fighting the wrong battles and dragging the war through multiple dim decades. I am 32, almost. I was born on December 10th, 1976 and I do believe I have just recently begun to learn on a more prescient level, most of the time. Other times I blunder and blither, but that has been caused primarily by my predilection towards drinking copious amounts of lagers, and ales, and stouts, and pilsners, and bocks, and hefeweizens, and whiskeys. And further down the rabbit hole we go.
Video: Whiskey Dick
I spent time in the Air Force, a derelict, on duty, following in my Dad’s economic footfalls and baby-making, traditionalist ways. I hated the Communists and I revolted the Queers in Kalifornia (SF flavor). I spaced the years of my early twenties learning technology and a valuable work ethic (although I think that it had always been innate). I kicked and screamed, cringed and cried, only to learn, recently, that I was breaking down the walls in the ruins of an ancient city created from the energy of blaming my parents for all of my pain, sorrow, and existential misery. A dead end if I followed through, but with no useful conclusion.
Video: My Back Pages
Anyhoo, the dogs bark orders and the lesser dogs march through the hell of Control’s machinery and drink to their destruction and eat their own souls. Some found comfort in being this way, but I could not. I had come to gain an inkling of the abstractions and ideas I could hardly ever convey to the others in these broken circles. My testosterone surely has had an awful influence on some of my illest actions and behaviors, but some of the shackled beasts I lived and worked with then were like the Island of Jackasses in Pinocchio; on steroids. Seeing soulless Creatine cretins, the cream and the clear, the cream of the crap, cheap thrills and canned Keystone beers as the smell of cigarettes, sweat, sex, and pent up Yankee v. Southern aggression roiling on the air can lead a sensitive one to surely suffer some sort of social paralysis. Fuck and fight, yell and scream, then fight and fuck some more seemed to me to be name of that consensus reality game. Oh yeah!
Video: Sgt. Baker
Afterword, heads filled with thoughts of a trumpeting Jesus booming from the PA system like some sort of weird Evangelical version of a cacophonous call to a Muslim morning prayer made my eyes water with loathing and my stomach quiver with fear, for I knew we were the fleeting lifeblood, fixing flying machines, with the sole purpose of projecting destructive power onto the global peasantry. WEWJD? What Exactly Would Jesus Do?
Video: Build my hotrod, of course.
And I can never forget the cloying, carcinogenic chemical soot wafting through the air on tendrils of demon fingers, creeping into the olfactory centers of my once baby-freckled nose, as I was ever cringing from the unholy scent of airplane flatulence. The air machines bled poison and leaked excrement onto the concrete in maniacal Rorschach patterns and caused the fresh flows of rain to be all cloudy and rainbowy-like as they fled away into the storm drains and eventually disappearing into some distant, nameless body of the bluest, purest water.
And I, avoiding breaking the rules of the institution became a full time obsession. I felt like some of the heaviest, densest material had been placed squarely on my shoulders for me to trudge around with in addition to all of the niceties and necessities of married parenthood grinding on the back of my skull like the strong jaws of some depraved, invisible Dingo. A dingo ate my baby! Indeed.
By now you have most likely come to terms with my blatant cynicism and twisting tortured sarcasm. What can I say? “I guess I am just a product of my environment” likely to be sang, and then chanted loudly in the chorus, by some obscure punk rock band named the ‘Cop Outs’ or some similar shit I heard in an interlude on an Ice Cube record. I cannot pretend to be something I am not; and why not? And what I most certainly am not, is bubbly, so deal with it or quit reading this unplanned, biographical manifestoon and go turn on the neon and drink one for me. I am now going to tune out of this digression, so let's just light it up and move along.
Now the truth of the matter is, after the aforementioned last little spell cast, I have to say, I have no idea what I am doing here, or there. I can’t help but feel like I am closing in on something grand and tragic in the same instant. I feel like a momentary collapse of our life-star. I feel like our awesome post-post-modern apocalypse in full bloom like a daisy chain crown of thorns consisting of, all in all, DNA and a streaming consciousness outside of time and space; now bringing you to my point. What does it all mean, man? Or woman! Or whatever it is that I’m supposed to say, or do, or cherish, or become!
Video: Third Eye
Always in a state of becoming...I am always reminded of that gourmet trash can gracing the succulent kitchen adorning my house, my home…that whenever I read the box…or see it taking up valuable shelf space in one of those awful Red stores that burn my eyes like wine…I think it to be smug, a self-assured robot with a tin can human voice who is always saying, “Simple Human ™”, when he happens upon one of us fragile flesh-creatures frolicking joylessly in the emptiness of the street. Or I think of Chomsky, who just has to be robot or one of the golden ones Bowie crooned about 30 years ago, come yesterday. Is time travel possible? What sort of question am I asking? From whom should I seek the answers?
Video: Pretty Things
LSD…almost…really didn’t work…a catalyst definitely maybe…but it did not finish the job. We only projected up and outward, then slowly went under, sank back; all slow-like into ourselves and consumerism. Just ask the cocaine kids on the IPODs and the internet, and the TV, and the Zoloft, and read the text messages (I may be becoming square like those before me, but seriously, I cannot understand, nor want to understand the hyperspace spelling, 3v!l) and the jingoisms raining down through the clouds of the media, Stormin’ Norman like our great arena warrior traipsing through surreal cities Godzilla-style.
Video: Zoloft
Cheesy Velveeta is what it often regresses to in the mind of this thing called Mickey Moodswing. I have been called a beautiful dork by so many people, beautiful in their own right, rite of passage, climbing the hill or currently on a plateau. Does it all end when we are dead? I think that that is the million-dollar question on everybody’s mind. “Enquiring minds want to know, I want to know.” Again the question is begged, “From who should I seek the answers?”
Video: I won't get to get what I'm after, till the day I die.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Turn that frown into a shining crown...
And now, for something completely different:
American Psychosis by Chris Hedges
I couldn't have described the decline any better than the drunken, smoking, pompous, atheist Mr. hedges did in the above linked article.
Bad Religion also does a decent job of describing the collapse collectively over the course of their record catalog using sonic mosaics that rapid-fire in 2-4 minute bursts (with amazing prescience, mind you). However, I still go to see them play and I witness punk on punk violence like some of the 'punks' are just jocks/wolves in sheep clothing who never even paid attention to the lessons embedded in the lyrics. Domination/Submission.
Please, please be objective and look through the facade of the glitz and glamour. Peer into the shit storm brewing...and then do nothing about it...like me, the lazy middle-class intellectual that I be...a hopeless cynic seeking hope...
"lascivious, it's all that I can think of as I drag my feet,
searching like a diogenes,
dangerous, the adjectives of the decade
and of your alluring intricacies,
I can see your green-screen mentality
and I can feel the sting of it's consequence,
and I know I shouldn't
but it's too much to ignore, an emotion I deplore,
every time I look at you,
I just want do it,
I can clench my fist right through it
but I just want to get off
rectilinear, this direction we've been heading
never realizing we are on a runaway machine,
angular, the momentum that does turn us one
step further on our ladder,
one more turn toward the east,
I realize your green-screen mentality
and I know it is shared by many more,
I know it's quite impossible
but I am damned to find a way to revolve the other way,
every time I scrutinize I just say "screw it",
we're on a ride down a blind conduit
and I just want to get off."
Audio: Bad Religion - Get Off
Anyhow, my writing offers a calming catharsis, a soothing respite from the tangled bramble in my brain. My personal life is a daunting gauntlet of emotional stormy intelligence gathered by trial and error. I nearly careen over cliffs of consequence and lie low in valleys of artificial amusement, clinging to the deeply embedded Judeo-Christian idea of finality and paradise at the end of...the end of something.
I got mixed up confusion
Man, it’s a-killin’ me
Well, there’s too many people
And they’re all too hard to please
Well, my hat’s in my hand
Babe, I’m walkin’ down the line
An’ I’m lookin’ for a woman
Whose head’s mixed up like mine
Well, my head’s full of questions
My temp’rature’s risin’ fast
Well, I’m lookin’ for some answers
But I don’t know who to ask
But I’m walkin’ and wonderin’
And my poor feet don’t ever stop
Seein’ my reflection
I’m hung over, hung down, hung up! - Bobby D
When an empire collapses something must come, be born, out of it.
We Americans have Roman amusements, decadent ranting, a national consciousness born in war, conquering heartland, freedom spilled from the blood of the conquered and those carried along with the winds of 'success' to be the labor and technical experts in the advance of civilization (as seen through our Western eyes).
We Westerners also have imbued within our psyche the apocalyptic collapse of the Roman Empire. The idea of an apocalypse engenders a creative myopia in our national consciousness, a disjointed view of the reality of competition to an end that only benefits a few and strangles the hopes and aspirations of millions, starves the life out of children, then points to the sky and says, "it's him" (thanks for the last bit or lyrical mashup, Mr. Dylan).
Where are we going, really?
Whatever comes, I think it will be tainted by those with mean minds shouting slogans, hard heads rationalizing US global dominance (or else), and heavy hands wielding loveless, locked, and loaded guns to smear the brains of their imagined enemies. The me first crush groove country cavalry. Yahooooo...I need a Toby Keith (or Lee Greenwood) excerpt right about now...
These are the internal forces I truly fear. It's going to suck when brown shirts are in fashion. Soon come.
And now the final word in today's quote cafe, you know, for a bit of philosophy disguised as eighties levity:
"Life moves pretty fast. You don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." Ferris Bueller
Peace and freedom for all the world, not just the fortunate few...
American Psychosis by Chris Hedges
I couldn't have described the decline any better than the drunken, smoking, pompous, atheist Mr. hedges did in the above linked article.
Bad Religion also does a decent job of describing the collapse collectively over the course of their record catalog using sonic mosaics that rapid-fire in 2-4 minute bursts (with amazing prescience, mind you). However, I still go to see them play and I witness punk on punk violence like some of the 'punks' are just jocks/wolves in sheep clothing who never even paid attention to the lessons embedded in the lyrics. Domination/Submission.
Please, please be objective and look through the facade of the glitz and glamour. Peer into the shit storm brewing...and then do nothing about it...like me, the lazy middle-class intellectual that I be...a hopeless cynic seeking hope...
"lascivious, it's all that I can think of as I drag my feet,
searching like a diogenes,
dangerous, the adjectives of the decade
and of your alluring intricacies,
I can see your green-screen mentality
and I can feel the sting of it's consequence,
and I know I shouldn't
but it's too much to ignore, an emotion I deplore,
every time I look at you,
I just want do it,
I can clench my fist right through it
but I just want to get off
rectilinear, this direction we've been heading
never realizing we are on a runaway machine,
angular, the momentum that does turn us one
step further on our ladder,
one more turn toward the east,
I realize your green-screen mentality
and I know it is shared by many more,
I know it's quite impossible
but I am damned to find a way to revolve the other way,
every time I scrutinize I just say "screw it",
we're on a ride down a blind conduit
and I just want to get off."
Audio: Bad Religion - Get Off
Anyhow, my writing offers a calming catharsis, a soothing respite from the tangled bramble in my brain. My personal life is a daunting gauntlet of emotional stormy intelligence gathered by trial and error. I nearly careen over cliffs of consequence and lie low in valleys of artificial amusement, clinging to the deeply embedded Judeo-Christian idea of finality and paradise at the end of...the end of something.
I got mixed up confusion
Man, it’s a-killin’ me
Well, there’s too many people
And they’re all too hard to please
Well, my hat’s in my hand
Babe, I’m walkin’ down the line
An’ I’m lookin’ for a woman
Whose head’s mixed up like mine
Well, my head’s full of questions
My temp’rature’s risin’ fast
Well, I’m lookin’ for some answers
But I don’t know who to ask
But I’m walkin’ and wonderin’
And my poor feet don’t ever stop
Seein’ my reflection
I’m hung over, hung down, hung up! - Bobby D
When an empire collapses something must come, be born, out of it.
We Americans have Roman amusements, decadent ranting, a national consciousness born in war, conquering heartland, freedom spilled from the blood of the conquered and those carried along with the winds of 'success' to be the labor and technical experts in the advance of civilization (as seen through our Western eyes).
We Westerners also have imbued within our psyche the apocalyptic collapse of the Roman Empire. The idea of an apocalypse engenders a creative myopia in our national consciousness, a disjointed view of the reality of competition to an end that only benefits a few and strangles the hopes and aspirations of millions, starves the life out of children, then points to the sky and says, "it's him" (thanks for the last bit or lyrical mashup, Mr. Dylan).
Where are we going, really?
Whatever comes, I think it will be tainted by those with mean minds shouting slogans, hard heads rationalizing US global dominance (or else), and heavy hands wielding loveless, locked, and loaded guns to smear the brains of their imagined enemies. The me first crush groove country cavalry. Yahooooo...I need a Toby Keith (or Lee Greenwood) excerpt right about now...
These are the internal forces I truly fear. It's going to suck when brown shirts are in fashion. Soon come.
And now the final word in today's quote cafe, you know, for a bit of philosophy disguised as eighties levity:
"Life moves pretty fast. You don't stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it." Ferris Bueller
Peace and freedom for all the world, not just the fortunate few...
Monday, June 28, 2010
A Few Things I Have Noticed In Seoul:
1) I have seen little to no stray animals. I don't know why this may be. And don't pipe and say it's because they are getting consumed by people. They use certain farmed breeds for this use in specialty restaurants.
2) I have seen very few stray humans (houseless folks). I have not seen more than one or two at a time, unlike other places I have lived or have been for periods of time in the US: SF, PHX, DC, Salt Lake, New Orleans, Tucson, Sacramento, KCK, etc. The previously mentioned places, I have found, have small to large groups of homeless people who often seem to be under the influence of a variety of illicit and licit substances. A qualification to the previous sentence is that the people on the street may seem to be under the influence, but may really have variety of mental illness due to a lack of affordable mental health in the US.
3) The subway trains and stations are amazingly clean (including the bathrooms). I am impressed by the lack of grafitti, trash, and smell of urine.
4) Most of the public places I have been so far (various malls, the subway, alley merchants, etc.) have had a shockingly low amount of police presence, if any. I do see police near military installation gates and during protests (there are many protests by my work). But, here's the thing, this city of 13-14 million people has super-low crime. I have heard form Koreans that you can walk down the street at anytime of night, anywhere in the city, and be unaccosted. This atmosphere is very foreign to me, save Germany and some of the rural places I have lived.
5) The food is fucking awesome and super healthy. I have seen very few fat Koreans, which is suprising, as I have seen some of them pound food like it is going out of style.
2) I have seen very few stray humans (houseless folks). I have not seen more than one or two at a time, unlike other places I have lived or have been for periods of time in the US: SF, PHX, DC, Salt Lake, New Orleans, Tucson, Sacramento, KCK, etc. The previously mentioned places, I have found, have small to large groups of homeless people who often seem to be under the influence of a variety of illicit and licit substances. A qualification to the previous sentence is that the people on the street may seem to be under the influence, but may really have variety of mental illness due to a lack of affordable mental health in the US.
3) The subway trains and stations are amazingly clean (including the bathrooms). I am impressed by the lack of grafitti, trash, and smell of urine.
4) Most of the public places I have been so far (various malls, the subway, alley merchants, etc.) have had a shockingly low amount of police presence, if any. I do see police near military installation gates and during protests (there are many protests by my work). But, here's the thing, this city of 13-14 million people has super-low crime. I have heard form Koreans that you can walk down the street at anytime of night, anywhere in the city, and be unaccosted. This atmosphere is very foreign to me, save Germany and some of the rural places I have lived.
5) The food is fucking awesome and super healthy. I have seen very few fat Koreans, which is suprising, as I have seen some of them pound food like it is going out of style.
Blast from the Past: Musings of a Man in His Later Twenties...
They can actually prompt him to speak. He always feels berated, but he will certainly open up like morning glory blooms in the dawn’s early light. The information he divulges is broken and strained in as much as he can twist the truth into what he believes. Nothing is vast, and the fact that he knows this makes him believe in nothing, as it exists in its entirety. Where the road ends, misery begins. This is the situation, as it stands, just beyond being halfheartedly crippled. He nods his head and shakes with the sickness of a broken man from a broken home. He is broken from the oh so lovely opiates that keep him going strong in his convictions to disagree with these inquisitors from the Devil’s system of imperfection. Given all the possible outcomes of the night, death seems like a very comforting alternative.
All of these tumbling hours, and ours is just a shifting path of irregularities and random acts of conspiring forces that seethe in alleyways trying to obliterate his sanity. “What is this all about?” He creeps, and as the drone of voices rage on overhead he dreams of everything good and wholesome in this life; burritos on Haight, warm, clean sheets, kind bud, and the pale, prickly-pear goose flesh that blankets the lush labia as he licks life’s holy eye. That will be enough of this rambling on in such a venereal fashion.
The seriousness of the present predicament is lost in the faded consciousness of the Asian flu sickness that makes him shiver with a sort of moaning anti-delight. He feels like Oswald when Jack Ruby stuck a gun in his guts; however, a knife to the hilt would more apt; a straight classic. But, opinions never counted in the American gray matter of separating black from white, rich from poor, good from evil, right from wrong, tastes great from less filling, for better or for worse, so help me God. It’s all the same fucking thing! Delirium is settling down for a permanent stay in the confines of his thick skull.
How would Uncle Bill handle this situation? Well, he would probably call Ronnie Milsap, Ray Charles, Little Stevie Wonder, and the rest of the Blind Boy Scout Battalion to croon lullabies of redemption into his sweltering ears. “Hell, Zimmerman never wrote any shit this crazy, never strayed so far from the path”; I think to myself crankily and quite conceitedly. Everything occurring since his breaking point, even with the flow of time, has not made any more sense than it did on the Western Plain.
The eyes open, dry and red and irritated by the fumes of the peeling paint. His eyes roll wildly, dart furtively, then open wide with an expression seeming to exclaim, “My God! (My Dog!). What a blindingly brilliant world that waits for me to…to…run away and hide from…me.” What is that creature squirming in my throat? Did I swallow my pride? It tastes a bit like bilious, Hollywood homicide. His mouth is parched. His dreams are decayed. His wants are trivial. He runs to look in the mirror. “That’s not zombie road kill in my throat, that’s my tongue.” It’s all purple swollen and abused like Linda Lovelace escapades into celluloid insanity. Saliva! Where are you? Where did you go? Tears.
The night before is a torturous, blank memory. The course of the day remains to be seen. The sun scene seems to be polluted with ideas of nothingness, and where my liver used to be, now resides an I.O.U. Well shit, I don’t want to pay up…I’m destitute…I’m zero balance on Karma…you can even ask my friends. The guy wasting away 6 doors down is a junkie, but not me.
I rode all the way from heaven in a Uterine Carriage, some 23 or so odd years ago. I fell from heaven as if a broken angel. The fall has been long and hard, the road full of potholes and broken promises. I have been told by various, nefarious women of the night that I am an angel, that my personality exudes the necessary generosity that makes men of mice and saints of sinners. No way. No how. Not this kid, not this gullible, Goat-head wannabe. This walking stranger headed for nowhere, that eerily empty place where the sunshine fix awaits.
Now, as may or may not know Raoul Duke and the great Dr. Gonzo went off on their little excursion into the neon nothingness of Vegas searching for that Dream, American and proud. What they found there had completely tainted the glory of the story all together, but somehow the general idea of my situation isn’t the same. I feign Rap and Roll like a frat boy, jock talking the king of swing. I eat paper wrapped, salted crap for dinner. I scrub my nether regions; Carlin fashion. I dine on moist animal flesh. I was raised transfixed by the fix and the glimmering sheen of the Tee-Vee screen. I learned to fuck missionary style just like a good God! fearing citizen, so is it such a wonder why a life that should be so full of bliss and so mightily meaningful feel so wasted, so broken, so hollow like busted, bar slut, brain chambers? Will I ride the snake to the lake with that brown tooth, dangling cigarette droop, writhing in the wrinkles of sin, buttered and basted, by back-seat thrill rides and drunken jokes with forgotten punch lines?
Yessir.
All of these tumbling hours, and ours is just a shifting path of irregularities and random acts of conspiring forces that seethe in alleyways trying to obliterate his sanity. “What is this all about?” He creeps, and as the drone of voices rage on overhead he dreams of everything good and wholesome in this life; burritos on Haight, warm, clean sheets, kind bud, and the pale, prickly-pear goose flesh that blankets the lush labia as he licks life’s holy eye. That will be enough of this rambling on in such a venereal fashion.
The seriousness of the present predicament is lost in the faded consciousness of the Asian flu sickness that makes him shiver with a sort of moaning anti-delight. He feels like Oswald when Jack Ruby stuck a gun in his guts; however, a knife to the hilt would more apt; a straight classic. But, opinions never counted in the American gray matter of separating black from white, rich from poor, good from evil, right from wrong, tastes great from less filling, for better or for worse, so help me God. It’s all the same fucking thing! Delirium is settling down for a permanent stay in the confines of his thick skull.
How would Uncle Bill handle this situation? Well, he would probably call Ronnie Milsap, Ray Charles, Little Stevie Wonder, and the rest of the Blind Boy Scout Battalion to croon lullabies of redemption into his sweltering ears. “Hell, Zimmerman never wrote any shit this crazy, never strayed so far from the path”; I think to myself crankily and quite conceitedly. Everything occurring since his breaking point, even with the flow of time, has not made any more sense than it did on the Western Plain.
The eyes open, dry and red and irritated by the fumes of the peeling paint. His eyes roll wildly, dart furtively, then open wide with an expression seeming to exclaim, “My God! (My Dog!). What a blindingly brilliant world that waits for me to…to…run away and hide from…me.” What is that creature squirming in my throat? Did I swallow my pride? It tastes a bit like bilious, Hollywood homicide. His mouth is parched. His dreams are decayed. His wants are trivial. He runs to look in the mirror. “That’s not zombie road kill in my throat, that’s my tongue.” It’s all purple swollen and abused like Linda Lovelace escapades into celluloid insanity. Saliva! Where are you? Where did you go? Tears.
The night before is a torturous, blank memory. The course of the day remains to be seen. The sun scene seems to be polluted with ideas of nothingness, and where my liver used to be, now resides an I.O.U. Well shit, I don’t want to pay up…I’m destitute…I’m zero balance on Karma…you can even ask my friends. The guy wasting away 6 doors down is a junkie, but not me.
I rode all the way from heaven in a Uterine Carriage, some 23 or so odd years ago. I fell from heaven as if a broken angel. The fall has been long and hard, the road full of potholes and broken promises. I have been told by various, nefarious women of the night that I am an angel, that my personality exudes the necessary generosity that makes men of mice and saints of sinners. No way. No how. Not this kid, not this gullible, Goat-head wannabe. This walking stranger headed for nowhere, that eerily empty place where the sunshine fix awaits.
Now, as may or may not know Raoul Duke and the great Dr. Gonzo went off on their little excursion into the neon nothingness of Vegas searching for that Dream, American and proud. What they found there had completely tainted the glory of the story all together, but somehow the general idea of my situation isn’t the same. I feign Rap and Roll like a frat boy, jock talking the king of swing. I eat paper wrapped, salted crap for dinner. I scrub my nether regions; Carlin fashion. I dine on moist animal flesh. I was raised transfixed by the fix and the glimmering sheen of the Tee-Vee screen. I learned to fuck missionary style just like a good God! fearing citizen, so is it such a wonder why a life that should be so full of bliss and so mightily meaningful feel so wasted, so broken, so hollow like busted, bar slut, brain chambers? Will I ride the snake to the lake with that brown tooth, dangling cigarette droop, writhing in the wrinkles of sin, buttered and basted, by back-seat thrill rides and drunken jokes with forgotten punch lines?
Yessir.
Sunday, June 27, 2010
And today's all-original, aweful joke of the day is:
What did James Bond say to the Madame when he got to the brothel?
"I'd like a fresh lady, shaven, not furred."
"I'd like a fresh lady, shaven, not furred."
Thursday, June 24, 2010
'Sweet Burn' or 'Ode to Mr. Jerry Tomato (slightly bruised)'
Girl come! Come into the darkness…Draw the curtains on my calm Korean morning as the dew beads on my upper lip, too. We’ll steal ourselves from the shining, oven light of the sun. I see the sweat stand out on your soft skin as I fall from high heaven, naked and wailing, only knowing you’ll leave here and I’ll be holding my dead-beating heart in my outstretched hands. The contempt brews just beneath the surface slurry. Your gaze eats my mind as it sputters in the shallows, trolling for an excuse; fishing for the reasons. Why do we pretend to defend the sanctimony of our empty promises, the olden, golden, glory-gone, leaves gathering out in the garden? Our version of the fall of…
Man, I despise that man-thing, that bumbling beast; the interloper who hobbled in from the flatlands in the East with a smiling sneer and the glossy veneer of a snake semen salesman seeking a rosy rube to spill syrupy, kind words into a leaking vessel. Tears strewn throughout the home from one cherubic, naïve, the mother of us all. The tales she tells, true fiction, ever seeking, solace and redemption in the aisles and alleyways of her heart. Or so I see…
Slowly and sleepily, Stuttgart dreams call, peevishly, pandering, and pensive, the salesman pounces, panda-like, reeking of fermented, phony bamboo, on his prey. With the prospects of no gal, no beautiful babes, and no home, the mouse in this man is left tattered and torn from the ever-brewing, bawling battles. A white flag covers his shame. Pencil on paper soothes my pride. Rock crushes scissors. It’s a losing game. A bitter bet…better yet for all of me to all of thee that I have nothing else left to write; even less to say.
Man, I despise that man-thing, that bumbling beast; the interloper who hobbled in from the flatlands in the East with a smiling sneer and the glossy veneer of a snake semen salesman seeking a rosy rube to spill syrupy, kind words into a leaking vessel. Tears strewn throughout the home from one cherubic, naïve, the mother of us all. The tales she tells, true fiction, ever seeking, solace and redemption in the aisles and alleyways of her heart. Or so I see…
Slowly and sleepily, Stuttgart dreams call, peevishly, pandering, and pensive, the salesman pounces, panda-like, reeking of fermented, phony bamboo, on his prey. With the prospects of no gal, no beautiful babes, and no home, the mouse in this man is left tattered and torn from the ever-brewing, bawling battles. A white flag covers his shame. Pencil on paper soothes my pride. Rock crushes scissors. It’s a losing game. A bitter bet…better yet for all of me to all of thee that I have nothing else left to write; even less to say.
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