Hey, Hey said the fine day....

A few things:

A) "Silver City" by Ghostland Observatory is the zenith of machine music. Never will there be a better song written with the use of a machine or computer. It is completely perfect and cannot be improved upon in any way. The pinnacle has been reached. ANYWAY....

2) No matter how old you are, your parents' perception of you will ALWAYS be as your 12-year-old self, and you will have to accept this. Despite any efforts at relating to them how old and wise and mature you've grown, you will still have to endure treatment in some form or another as if you were 12 years old. Even when you deliver to them an excrutiating point-by-point narrative breakdown that explains how you are, presently, at an older age than they were when they gave birth to you. Doesn't matter. You are twelve and helpless...and you always will be.

C) Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

D) Life is one big super-acid-freak-fucked-awesome-love-hate-hot-cold-eye-popping-curse-filled-lazy-Sunday-afternoon-in-the-park.

E) Christmas wrapping-paper is my kryptonite. It. Fucking. Owns. Me.

Should've Been In Love

I find out how drawn I am to you when I wake next to you and you're still asleep.
You're side of the bed is always warm.
Alarm clock is too loud.
At all times.
I used to yank it across lanes without minding lines.
Trying to cross the road,
Getting blasted at 70 miles per hour...
I didn't see you coming...
Blindsided and totaled like a blind man.
A blind boy.
A blind child.
Running free and flying wild.
So you say, "Your eyes tell more about you than anything else."
I suppose that's flattering, but that's never how I've seen myself.
Moving back and forth, mind racing through thoughts.
So selfish for the betterment of all that we caught.
When time wastes away, I don't mind wasting it with you.
Maybe we could change the world, but my time gets wasted too.
Wasted on you.
So I'm destined for greatness, you're destined for purity,
Singing all the songs that are inside of me.
A chorus of plans, a chorus of doubts,
A chorus of all the things we've lived without.
Little whispers rock me to sleep, prepare me for the night.
All those little whispers throughout the night,
Stand alone and ease into the light.
You act as an eraser, wiping away all the doubt,
Blank slates erase the screams and shouts...
For things in the past have let me down,
I don't want to let you down.
No iron walls, only doors open.
Serenity falls and fate calls.
An egregious expectation stalls.
I don't know what to expect from you.
I don't know what to do.
Everything in this is new.
I think of boredom as an enemy, but I can see that we've killed that beast.
Turned our heads to the West and our backs to the East.
Only standing over what we could be.
Blazing eyes like a prairie fire,
I can only give into my desire, and turn like an orb within the words of cryptic steadiness.

My heart stands in readiness.
Bleeding just the same.
But it rests when I hear you call it's name.

Also...

...I have a grown a beard, the likes of which have never graced my face. It would take a chainsaw to bring it down, and with it, I could bring a bear down. Because I am a man. A man with a beard.

Smoke Rings of Transcendence

In being recently and involuntarily forced into evaluating my mortality (yet again...not to mention on my birthday), I think I may have realized something. Not "realized" it in the way of knowing a life lesson exists and having some silly-ass reaffirmation that lingers a few weeks to fade away and be "realized" again, but moreso in the way we see contrasts between light and dark, hard and soft, wet and dry. I see it to be fact and foundation. My realization has something to do with being alone and surrounded at all times. My realization is that our life is shaped by events that we have little if absolutely no control over, and that condition makes for a feeling of helplessness and empowerment simultaneously. It seems much of my life (much of OUR lives) has been the consistent and all-consuming act of throwing shit at the wall just to see what sticks. Taking the shotgun approach and casting pellets out where they may strike to find some relevance within the spread pattern.

It's been the whole of my life that I've been moderately convinced that I'd die before 35. On the day of my 29th, I came uncomfortably close to fulfilling my morose prophecy. I've been told I live a charmed life, and so it seems. But the validity of such claims has made me pause with abject indifference...until recently. Sometimes, I think I couldn't be more boringly normal, but on the other hand, there's times when I glance in the mirror and see one wildly interesting fuck, with one zestful fucking experience after another. So instead of wretching on the tarmac, I gathered my peristaltic wits about myself and decided to drive home from the airport with the windows down and listen to my favourite song of all time over and over and over again until I got home; where I drank a bottle of something, kissed the ground, and embraced all the beauty and foulness of my life.

I don't know, really. How many times do we make promises that we don't keep? Or how many promises are made to us that are either forgotten or swept under the rug, like they meant fuck all to begin with? Then again, how many times have we evolved towards apathy to the point that we just don't bother with caring one way or another anymore? I think that we'd all like to believe that when we offer up that verbal contract of whatever it is that we intend for deliverance in the future, it's going to stick. Signed, sealed, and delivered. I've made promises to people I haven't kept. I've also had promises made to me that I thought would physically kill me and emotionally cripple me if they weren't fulfilled. Yet neither happened when they didn't happen. However, there are promises that I know are to be fulfilled. I know this with some certainty that only resides in the breathless altitude of the ether...in the peaks of the Heavens, and they rest easily in their parcels.

I've had a few "prayers on a ledge" experiences. Each one of them left me with some sort of profundity. It always sparks my recall memory, and delivers a few handpicked memories that are the perfect fit for situations such as these. I know we're all connected. I know that life throws signs at you, some with more subtlety than others, but it happens...I'm certain of it. I'm always reminded of a few minutes that I stood outside in the hallway of my high school when I was heading down the path of mediocrity, an apathetic kid, fucking up incessantly, who was more interested in raising hell and setting off alarms to those who had a vested interest in my future behaviors and successes. Not that I've measured up to become some fantastic success in any regard, but it definitely shifted my sails to catch a more productive wind. I was imparted wisdom from the only teacher I ever felt to be "wise" in the truest meaning of that term...words to set a motion on a path that would prove to be much more bountiful than that which I was currently traveling. Being headstrong and stubborn has done more than it's fair share of causing myself trouble, however it has seen me through times that were shaky ground at best. Those words, spoken with sincerity, drove home one singular message that I will never forget. "Don't waste your life. You have too much to misuse."

I'm no prodigy. I'm no savior, and I'm certainly no measure of what a man is to be...but those words, from that man, meant that I was something. And the journey to finding out what that is, is not to be wasted. It is to be cherished. It is to be owned fully and completely. Squander should hold no place on this quest, and neither should lack of heart or determination. They are enemies of this experience. They are the assasssins of completeness. The good and the bad.

I saw him for the last time that year. In that classroom. His pipe smoke filled the halls on the cold Spring mornings. And when you breathe in that scent, it holds a place in your head, in your heart, that takes you to something that either the universe, or fate, or God placed in each of our unique and signifcant experiences that lasts. Like the words, I can go back and remember the weight of what that meant. And as it is...years later, I can still recognize the scent. The smell still sits in its pipe reminding me that we all float up and become something new when there is a fire inside of us.

And while girls with the middle name of Marie, or any derivative thereof (Mary, Mariah, Maria, etc.), populate my life like a redundant tarot symbol in my deck of cards, holding resonance over the casual acquaintances, like some innocuous sign in some pyschic abyss, owning some prophetic signficance...I can assure myself that there is reasoning and patterns behind and beyond everything we can possibly understand. I can't possibly understand.

Charmed life...you just have to be faster than the hell hounds that trail you. In a smoke ring, I am in the twilight of my youth.

"...the unraveling of the grand design, you felt so alive at 29."

You Owe It To Yourself...

...to see The Darjeeling Limited. Do it to it.

Dive

Paddling out, looking forward, streamlining for the unknown.
The waves fold and roll over your board, and the little grains of sand riding with you are swept off to sink to the bottom of the ocean floor, where they displace their share of the world's seas, giving the ocean it's breadth and depth.
As small as they are, they carry weight, each and every one of them.
They carry purpose, each and every one of them.
Without each and every one of them, the mighty ocean would have no bed to lay it's burden...to lay it's trust.


Standing takes time and it takes resilience.
Picking the right wave is important.
It's important to all of us.
Timing is requisite.
Each of us knows which wave fits us best, but if timing is off and our effort lacking, we slide off the back side to watch it pass us by roaring ahead without us, or we are up-ended and thrown violently to the basement of the ocean floor rattled and dazed.
The visions in our heads are looking for a match, and when they come rolling in one by one, we watch patiently to judge it's breaking point and whether or not it fits those visions of desire.


When the right wave breaks in front of us, no lack of exertion should keep us from turning the nose and diving down the curl.
Arms flail, awkward at first, but with defeats and failures and tenacity and the ability to let go, our form becomes more precise and fluid...the next one gets easier.


Abiding by the shape and flow of the wave.
Letting go of precepts and adjusting to the ride and it's nonpareil idiosyncrasies.
Grabbing ardently at fistfuls of water to meet the speed of our chosen wave so that we can make the journey together as one.
Finding the balance to navigate and create through the churning, unharnessed waters.
Absorbing the seductive dance like it was meant to be; like you were meant to be there and nowhere else.
Trusting that this wave, the one you've chosen, will offer to keep you upright and suspended above the dangers that lurk below.


We ride in, splaying water from side to side; carving the ocean in beautiful cuts all the way in to God's golden shores; knowing you made the journey together.

Retribution Is Justifiable

When you have to pick her up off the floor and dry her eyes. Getting jerked around isn't on the top of my list, but it finds itself ascending. Have fun. There's nothing more to do.

For Our Love to Impart, or the Day I Met My Hero

When you step out onto the wet concrete you realize just how much nature has a choke-hold on our existence. For me to say it's rained would be understated. Try to find a collected step and make your way out into the night. There's about 14 billion things going through my head. I'm joined by the guitar man, my brother, my best friend, the cabbies in the street, and the hopeful lovers holding hands on their way to drunken exploits as the night falls closer into the depths of uncertainty and splintered pathways.

We make our way like a Tarantino film in slow motion through the streets of downtown in the city that cradles me at this point. The point is, this city is where I've chosen to make my launch. To find the finer points of life and be a corrected human being, not a human doing, but a human being. Within the grasps of reality. But what the fuck is reality anyways? It has so much to offer. So much behind the curtain that only takes an inquisitive mind to search and destroy. You can get your kicks here. You can find them in every alley, every restaurant, every club, and on the radio waves. But before there is solace in the fact that you've found a home, you must accept the fact that you are an individual living amongst other individuals. If you can't find that, you've missed this city, case and point, and disallowed everything this town was built on. It's a shaky foundation for some, but for others it's a mecca of sorts.

We stumble through the streets and exchange pleasantries with one another. Telling accounts of our days, and work situations that make no sense, neither do they matter. We live in our own little controlled circus. Show an ID with the doorman, tell him it's nice to meet him, and wander up to the bar to lay a tab. It's a retro-fashioned bar with a 16-bit video game system that seems to peak the interest of every patron...people lined up to get past the dragon and be the hero for a moment. People lay dollar bills down on the bar to take bets like it's a digital-block game of billiards.

The guitar man has his girlfriend with him. She's a lovely blonde sweetheart, one that has little to say, but faithful nonetheless. Always at his side and continues to be his number-one fan. The music isn't really my bag, but to deny his talent is to bring a forthright arrogance to the matter. He is talented, and he is humble, and he is a great friend with whom I feel fortunate to know. My brother wears his mountain-man garb, only caring about that which is to be cared about. I feel somewhat envious of his personality, and can carry on a conversation with him like no person I know. Accepting is his nature and relation is his weapon. He is the only person I know that close to zen. My best friend has big eyes that have big buildings giving them their sparkle. He knows of other places in the world that beckon his talents and he will soon join with them in a marriage that was meant to be.

I lay my card down and answer the obligatory text messages with mild anticipation on my mind. I know what walks through that door, in time. I know that I haven't figured anything, and there's always the possibility of let-down on the horizon, but tonight I've had enough to drink to stay positive about the prospect of keeping my thoughts in-line about a singular someone. We all talk of music, we talk of congruence with this reality we see and enact. We talk of girls, and football, and shit that you talk about when everything melts away and you can find a moment to breathe. After about four drinks, and enough of me staring at the door with my anticipation and brain in high gear, I look up to see her walk in. On this night, my girlfriend is very striking. She brings to mind certain characteristics I find in Audrey Hepburn (a tall brunette with legs that cover more ground than that which is legal), and on this night she reminds me of her, as if she just stepped off the set of Breakfast At Tiffany's to have a cigarette or run a wand through her eyelashes in a nearby vanity mirror. Following closely behind is "the lap-dog." A diminutive guy, smaller than me and less built, who has found success at every corner, like he was anointed for an elevated experience in life. He's lucky in life but not in love, but how prophetic this night would turn out to be...because it's on the way. If I had a crystal-ball, or perhaps a palm-reader, or maybe a Magic-8-Ball, I could've asked questions till my heart was content and reassured every suspicion I had, and asked the questions I already knew the answers to. To drop him like a sack of hammers with a swift hay-maker, or punishing uppercut, crosses my mind and it still does...it may come to fruition still...if I'm given the chance. Finding my knuckles pulsing in outward violence that knows no end would make a good story, if not a vengeance-filled appropriation, for everything that would come to pass. I am reminded of just how resourceful some critters in nature are. Carrion eaters, the vultures hovering and spiraling in the sky. Limitless patience to wait for their bounty to die. They...don't...ever...leave...until their bounty has fallen and taken it's last breath. He is a vulture. Eventually, I'll leave him with his prey. Open and gasping, looking for the first thing to stumble onto the scene of emergency. Eventually, I'll get tired of him circling above me...blocking out the sun, and with it, any chance for growth.

Conversation is awkward and it's because of the limited impatience I have with boundaries of authority. To be caged, by anyone, is my largest and most imposing fear. No matter how hypnotizing or fascinating I find the person. And fascinated I was. My French-Canadian Princess sits quiet with her head hitting the ceiling of the American Dream, but without hesitation she denies her heart and can't connect (separate) it to (from) her mind. It operates on an unfamiliar level that is foreign to me. I say two sentences to her before she finds the situation below her conceived status and sachés out of the bar with "the lap-dog" in tow. She's mad at me anyways for something I did, or rather didn't do, earlier in complete innocence, but from her perspective it doesn't seem to be that way. I think I know what I'm doing...I think. She kisses me on the cheek and turns to the "lap-dog" to lead her out. To be in his position is beyond me, and there are reasons to talk amongst the crowd they're in with. "That different boy I fell in with....my how he thinks. To only calm his thoughts and his fire-ball mind would be nice, but there's bigger fish to fry." Ironically, they make as much sense as Andy Warhol and his soup cans. And ironically enough, how Andy Warhol made his soup cans...with no original thought, but by repetition of that vacant and menial occurrence which was already there. A supportive numbness of that assembly-line thought-process that we try to make fun of, but come all too familiar with. To get their hands around the silver linings of life is the goal of those pre-programmed to see themselves in the mirror everyday and admire their reflection. The one who tries to hide what he doesn't know to begin with. Most people don't know shit about shit. This is disappointing. But neither do I, I suppose. It's the very thing that I had to walk away from. I can't take it. I try to wash my hands in a dirty sink to rid myself of this type of thinking, no matter the consequences or feelings of loss. I keep learning things about myself that excite and frighten me to no end. I make exceptions for nobody and my patience is conversely limitless when it comes to this. I'm not surprised though, and pictures don't lie. Oh how they explain the truth in great detail. This isn't the first time, and I'm used to it. Where others would fold in such a predicament, I feel comfortably at home.

At this point, I am reassured by the fact that I am taking her to see my hero tomorrow. He broke his wrist, and to play his guitar in front of a large audience is a burden of great proportions, but it's not my problem. I want to hear the sounds resonate through the old-style theatre like a fog-horn off the the walls of a partially enclosed cave. I want the words that I've heard so many times to be my guidance and give me comfort in the fact that I can relate to someone of certain fame. My best friend has been known to see the stream of consciousness that runs parallel between my own thoughts and those of my hero. To put it very simply, he says what I want to say. He owns his feelings and there has never been anything different from that course of action that I have done for the duration of my life.

We speak of total defiance and our disapproval of those who with we've been in the company of. I've even been warned on this night about "the lap-dog" and how he is a predator with limitless patience for moving in and scraping what is left of frayed ends because of his sociality. I shake it off as a precept of jealousy, but I know what they speak of. I know how situations are going to play out. Without the arrogance of such statements, I have always known what the next move is with certain people. I can see three moves ahead and while it's not an enviable trait, it is a useful one. It prepares the thought process for rehabilitation. I have never found the love I want.

My stomach is in knots.

We pay and tip. We decide that ending the night is the best idea that we can conceive at this point. Besides, it's been a wash for me. While walking out, I hear the familiar beep of those trying to contact me. Zeroes and ones flirting with the air, finding their destinations to my phone. I receive what first looks like hieroglyphics on a pyramid wall. "I AIM SITTINH NEXU TN RYAND BEANS." What??? It takes a group of young adult males to decipher such a message, and it's increasingly difficult when this group has been drinking like a divorced, middle-aged prostitute. But try we must.

After decoding the cipher, an excited rush runs through my nerve endings, cause I realize what is at stake and that the hour-glass has been turned over...sand grains falling one by one...losing my time. A quick and desperate glance down the street to count street signs to where I need to be prompts me to hail a cab as quickly as possible. We yell at cabs with swiftness on our minds. If I walked the distance the hourglass would sit idle, with time already vacated. Cabbie stops, door opens, I slide in shotgun, friends fill the back, we bark directions, we weave in and out of lanes, past horse and carriage riders, past petty-cabs peddling through sweat, past fraternity boys, through hipsters walking briskly and with purpose, and listen to the Hootie and the Blowfish song that our Arabian chauffeur has chosen as his soundtrack on this Saturday night of transporting drunks and horny girls across the city.

The cab rolls to a stop and we jump out. I hand the man $10 for our $5 meter. Tell him, "thanks bro," and get to stepping. I'm already looking ahead at the bar without paying any attention to the traffic as I cross the street narrowly being missed by a silver Mercedes with a man driving whose hair matches the color of his car.

The knots are slowly unraveling.

After a concerted effort, we find that he had been sitting next to my sister in a bar that I chose not to patronize this particular night. But it's of little importance when you find that the person who gives you descriptive words for your structure (like a blueprint for a building) is around the corner with the possibility of running a parallel line with that person and striking up conversation. He's left me a voicemail, but it was baited and less genuine than I'd like. Like he was forced to get hyped on the drugs that leave you chained to your couch the next day, wondering why you would choose such a path. Not to mention the fact that Bob Dylan says (and I quote), "...keep a clean nose, watch the plain clothes, you don't need a Weatherman to know which way the wind blows...." Indeed.

Following my brother, we run like school kids to a playground beckoning them with recess. Why does Goddamn Emo's have three bars? Wrong one. Turn back out the door, get a refund on the cover charge and sprint to the next door around the corner. Run inside and the music fills my ear canal, I've heard this song...it's Jeff Klein on stage. The song is 19th Hole, and while I like it, I've got no time for Jeff Klein. Our eyes scan the room like an oscillating fan. My sister is sitting at the bar with her friends, I run up to her and ask, "Where is he?" And just as I do, my best friend taps me on the shoulder and alerts us that we ran right past him outside at the door. Rookies.

Walk outside with my brother, who shares an equal admiration for this guy's work, and like a bolt of lightning, I'm standing right next to him...I quickly sober-up. He's standing against the wall with one leg propped-up behind him on the wall to stabilize his noticeably fragile frame. His hair is jet black and looks like it hasn't been washed in some time. He smokes a cigarette, a Lucky Strike (of course), and Neal Casal hands him a lighter with an Ace of Spades on the side. Dirty jeans, and a pearl snap shirt cover him up, and he looks like he may have just walked out of Savers with these recent threads. Shit-kicker boots, somewhat like my own, and a worn-out belt from some cowboy who got too fat to squeeze into it again, like retiring a jersey from more bountiful bull-riding days in the past.

We try reasonably hard to look like we're just two guys outside having a cigarette, instead of standing right next to a personal idol. I HATE celebrity worship, but if there is one person I can make that exception for, well...

I look at my brother and we are quick-timing a plan to talk to him through our brainwaves (we communicate this way, more often than standard forms of communication, it's a point of intrigue and amazement at times). Without talking to each other we know best how to play this out. In a move that I would later consider pretty lame and somewhat bush-league, I take a cigarette out of my pack and walk over to him and ask for a lighter. It's dark as shit outside except for the streetlight above us and the neon signs of the bars along 7th, and my vision is blurry. "Yeah man sure...here ya go...."

CORY, "Dude.......................................................but we're going tomorrow night."

HERO, "Right on, we've...................................................it's work you know?"

CORY, "I hear you, so..................................................cause I work up there, and they said you might be..........................................that's the way Austin is."

HERO, "Yeah, I just kinda......................................................cause it's pretty chill."

CORY, "Well, thanks...........................................................luck."

HERO, "Thanks bro."

I somehow restrain myself from vomiting out the 4 million things I'd like to ask him, "How does it work out?" "How do you get through it?" "When this happens, what should I do?" "C'mon man, shoot me straight." But I ease back over to my brother and stand there taking repeated drags from my cigarette, because I already know the answer to every question I have for him (talent divides in certain areas notwithstanding). I look at the sky and at the inside of the bar and see my friends laughing at something someone said. They're at the bar, and they are having a belly laugh. I wish I could say I was sorry I missed it, but in this moment, I would be fine with missing it...I would be fine if meteors came hurtling towards the Earth to collide with existence, sending it into billions of shards across the universe, planes could fly into every tower scraping the sky and topple them towards the gardens below like a timber axe, volcanoes could erupt and drown villagers in the unbearable warmth, my ex-lovers could show up on my doorstep in a bridal gown with groom in hand and ring on finger, the oceans could flood the coasts leaving people in rafts and canoes, the enemies of our nation could touch off the red buttons sending the world into the climax of the fireworks show that ends it all, and I would stand here, and I would finish my cigarette. And I would salute fate. For I met my hero today.

A blonde girl walks up to him and showers him with praise. Too much praise, and she pulls out a business card and hands it to him. I wonder to myself, what would he do with that business card? Is he going to call her for financial planning? Maybe an invite to the afterparty backstage after the concert tomorrow, or does he do something like write the date and city on the back and keep it in some box he has in the top of his dresser at home. Who knows? It looks like he's getting bored with her, turns to Casal and says, "You ready?" They turn and half jog down the block and disappear inside a cab.

The text messages begin. I must alert those I know of what has transpired.

The concert hall is dark...almost too dark, but it's somewhat breathtaking. An old-style theater with a sharp incline for seating. I wish I wasn't so drunk, and I've already spilled wine down my pants leg. Actually I'm really kind of a mess on this night...a burning man. My girlfriend sits beside me, and she's part of the reason I'm such a mess this evening. But we're taking it as it comes, and I take it in stride. I get lost. Really lost. It turns into one of the best nights I've ever had in this city.

Wake up the next day in a bed that's not my own. I roll over and it feels like someone has taken a crowbar to my brain. I see my wine-stained pants crumpled in the corner next to my boots and t-shirt. My phone beeping alerts at me that I missed, and my wallet halfway open. I take a deep breath and rub my eyes. Then I hear her say in absolute complete sincerity, "thank you for sharing that with me."

The sun rises, but the sun also sets.

Sometimes life bores me to no end. Therefore I have to strike the match against the grain to find my own spark.

By Virtue of Patience

Though the candle burns at both ends it will not last the night, but ahh my foes and ohh my friends it bleeds a lovely light.

Please hold onto your youthful nature. It is the only thing that sustains us. Some subvsersive force is constantly stalking us, making us pattern ourselves after everyone who has come before us in some devious fashion, hammering us into submission like a carpenter with a nail. Like a struggling band, keep your ideals close to the vest. Play your songs and don't give a shit about the opinions cast in your direction. For not only is our time precious, it is useful. When God calls us to action, we should answer with a thunderous response. We should do it without hesitation and without regret. There's no need to stand in the spotlight, but there is a need to be forthright with ourselves and accentuate that which makes us who we are. Let it be nuclear. Let it torch the world, and scar the very face of existence. We do what we plan to do. Every move you make leaves a wrinkle in the fabric of time. There is no outside force which pilots our ship, if we don't let it. We are the captain of our own vessel and it goes where we direct it. We continously beat our heads against the wall trying to make a path which is selected only for ourselves. Continue to do so, because redemption comes to those who stay true to themselves, yet patience is the formative factor. Even when life feels like a housefire, you can escape it. You can let go of all that is seemingly important to you only because the forward motion is all that matters. Live in the "is" and not in the "was." Okay enough of this shit. I wish things made sense and people would come to it.

Patience...don't let me down.

In and Out

in: PETA shirts
out: Vick jerseys

in: sausage wallet
out: va-j-j

in: love
out: hate

in: my mom
out: your mom

in: cereal
out: sausage/chicken biscuits

in: "Cat Show"
out: "Best In Show"

in: help
out: chaos

in: deed
out: house

in: Rilo Kiley
out: New Pornograhpers

in: college football
out: baseball

in: Betsy's
out: Marq

in: "Factory Girl"
out: factory jobs / stupid girls

in: nekkid
out: naked

in: walkers
out: stalkers

in: South Austin
out: North Austin

in: goat
out: turkey

in: gratis
out: free

in: Kate Rose
out: Cambell

in: Low-rise jeans
out: Low-rise jeans

in: Lamar Blvd.
out: Research Blvd.

in: print
out: broadcast

in: thin
out: fat

in: Indians (dots)
out: Mexicans

in: Black and Red
out: Maroon and White

in: the 60s & 80s
out: the 70s & 90s

in: prudent
out: appropriate

in: Maudies
out: Chuys

in: hydrocodone
out: nyquil

in: American girls
out: Canadian girls

in: crows
out: grackels

in: sports
out: politics

in: shag
out: faux hawk

in: Comal
out: Guadalupe

in: Dodge
out: Ford

in: QB's named Colt
out: QB's named Palmer

in: dickhole
out: pee pee face

All That Glitters Is Not Gold

Be careful of the webs you step into my child. Be even more cautious of those you spin. I see people throwing the fight every day. We owe it to ourselves to try and not be among them. Someone delivered a fast-rising aversion to countenance to my doorstep over the last three years. I trip over it daily, rushing towards my morning commute. It's sometimes a chore to keep it between the lines instead of yanking it across lanes, trying to induce chaos or rather, succumb to it.

All you need is a slow steady hand. I'm going to show up tomorrow to confirm the validity of this claim. If I could teach you anything it would be just that. To make something instantaneous that takes time and weathering is to do it an injustice. When the nervous butterflies leave, it careens wayward, so why wave them away? Let them stay as long as they please, and take residence among the consent of our youth. Jesus...

I'd caution a smooth smile and a pretty face. They won't get you everything. They'll get you out of the blocks faster, but you won't learn anything unless you open your eyes. I'd caution myself against turning into a sad-sack martyr for the self-styled fashionistas and starlets around every corner, but I seem to be a magnet for that shit. A summer-long love affair that runs out of gas can leave you starring blankly ahead and half-panicked. When I open you up and spill you on the floor we find quite a mess, don't we? Especially when we mix it with what's inside of me. It becomes an untidy house. That's why I had to wash my hands and walk away. You listen too closely to your traveling road prophets and they leave you with empty counsel.

It's easy to be deceived, but harder to be aware of it. Certain methods are unexplainable to me, and it's all a matter of perspective I suppose, but I'll take mine any day. I can't help but feel pity for the things you're missing. Life isn't ones and zeroes, and it's not black and white. There's quite a large gray area at play. It's not attainment or material. It's visceral and instinctive. Before the paint dries it shines and reflects the room. Later it collects dust. I remember anxious words and worried looks like a drunk who's rather unexpectedly hit the bottom of his wine bottle. There was no witness to it but me. I think it's the first time your weakness has seen light. To think I once heard, "I have no insecurities." To which I replied, "Oh yeah, how does that feel?" On the contrary me lady.

On paper, it should've worked.

Numbers

My veins open up like the Hoover dam. My fingertips are frenzied and blissful. Notches on the bedpost. I've been added to a list of names in the back of a book. My book has never been published. The heavens smile down sarcastically on the premise of self-control. Woe are the lovers twisted in themselves. A surgeon couldn't separate them. They are blinded.

Time To Take Her Home, Her Dizzy Head is Conscience-Laden

Un-fucking-believable.

ATTENTION ALL GIRLS!!!

We are currently issuing Psycho-Maniac Passes. These passes are VIP and will allow you exclusive entry into maddening dementia. For all of you with bi-polar disorder, you can register for your ID badge which will enable you to perform all of your manic-depressive wackiness with surgical precision. Be sure to show your identification at the door.

If you will approach the booth in an orderly fashion, we will get you properly outfitted and send you out into the world...













Shanna, will you marry me?

When Rome Burns

It's all been hand-delivered through end-times theology.
The forthright destruction of civility.
When we can't believe is when we start to.
The light finds it's way through the fractured cracks, and we know that we always knew.

Come one night, the North Star will be all there is to guide us.
It will point and shimmer on the things inside us.

The duplicitous heat will be more to handle than one million candles shining a path on antiquity...from start to finish, we'll stand accessible to infinity.

On the roof of the Plaza del Toro we'll watch the empire crumble before our eyes. Your hand in mine, we'll find out what all this is for. Look out over the river, it sends a shiver, but in the protective hands of a foreign country we find ease. We find peace.

Stand righteous and proud like a veteran toreador...pushing his luck....stand under my thumb, breathless and numb. I could be with anyone, but I don't give a fuck. I want to be with you. That marked night, when your eyes are as dark as the Mexican sunset casting shadows, hair as dark as an amber brew. My eyes on this night are a blistering blue.

The silence rests on our ears as the blasts and explosions fade away. Smoke and debris is all we can see through the chaos and heat, someone pulled the wheels out from under our feet, on the final day the world turned away. A stoned angel trying to find his way home after a night of drinking salvation, convinced he's done his deed for the day. Putting souls in his pocket to deliver to their maker. The howls resonate and evaporate from the metropolitan districts. From New York, to Dallas, to Miami, to LA. We've no care because we got away. It's dark as hell, but warm. We push on together, in total disarray.

This is the second time I've written for you, but I trust it won't fall on deaf ears, wasted senseless on an exalted ingenue. I feel the scars on your chest. Just know that there is rest. Just forget all the words we've already spoken, and just remember that we all come to the table broken.

I find myself, at the end, at the beginning.
It comes full circle.
In this time the world seems vast, the change has come and we'll avoid the harlots of my past.
Shedding cells of abuse, burning all the proof that we were ever imperfect before this moment.

Je vous veux dans ma vie
It seems to be all I can see.

We'll point our noses South and count our steps. I'll keep tally marks and you can tell me stories of youth and unrest. We're a beautiful mess. I'll smile and nod, we'll stop at the michoacana and get lost in the language we can't speak. We'll do it for weeks. We'll see where it leads. Drink agua frescas and stumble through the markets on the main streets. Bartering not our souls but our pennies. That's all we need. All we need. What do we need? Only a few Hail Mary's to the Virgin Mary to ask for safe passage, we're searching for something, always searching for something and our pursuit is beyond savage.

But I have you.

No matter the faults, there's always proof that everything happens for a reason. We will find ourselves in the middle of this season. When intensity reaches it's peak. For it's there that you learn how to be weak and coincidentally find your strength.

I hold your words like farewell letters from a pen. And I know, for certain, that I am blessed among men.

T.L.O.M.L.

It's quite ironic that the bracelet broke on the day that I saw you. It's quite ironic that I had a backup ready at hand upon my return. Why didn't I just leave it off? Why didn't I just let my wrist be free of it's reminders of so many things? It would've been fine without it. It still had a resident with my silver chain. Why did I have to return it to it's proper place? I've asked that question 100 million times. No answer. Just like the billion words that are sitting in wait to be exchanged between the two of us, but does it matter anymore? Maybe they're better served laid to rest.

If I could get paid for thinking about it, I could purchase countries. I could
outbid empires. Procure half the world. If I could tell you how difficult it is to actually address it, I could withstand all measures of dissolution. But it's rather important for me to deny my recidivist nature. You know this all too well.

It seems to be like a rusty mailbox. You open it up to see if there's anything new in there. To see if a delivery of sorts occurred. You already know what's in that mailbox because you looked inside of it for so long, but you wander if there's something divergent waiting to be removed and opened. I don't know how either perspective glanced, but the box was opened. My stomach dropped when I saw you. Hazy and blurred, but feverish and intense...like always.

Normally a tryst like this would've punched my ticket to depression, but there's something different this time. Something unfamiliar and blank. It doesn't hold that same old sting. I watched you drive off, and then went on about my day. Figuring I'd figure as much out if I didn't try to figure it out. It worked. Time and again, we try to outdraw each other and be the first to touch off a shot. But I don't want my gun anymore.

I can see you in your twilight. A woman looking back on her life and the places, people, and situations she's touched and those that touched her. That nice boy you knew in your youth. The one who always had the nicest things to say to you. Your reminiscent approval or dissatisfaction of my actions and movements.

If I'm not careful I can convince myself to fall in love with you again. I used to think we were just alike in certain regards, but now I see that we couldn't be more different.

God, I pray my last words aren't your name.

"Untie me, I've said no vow..."

Old Habits Die Hard

Discipline is a major concern. But hooray, we all fall down, right? There seems to be no forthright answer to anything regarding motive for actions or causal circumstance. Everything gets hazy, and when it gets hazy, decisions get sloppy. Laughter always comes before confusion, and there's always a palatable static in the air when I know I'm going to be stepping off the plank, falling off the wagon, if you will. It's like there's a tangible force that pulls at us.

Someone once told me, "it's possible to have everything." Fuck that. Maybe. But what bothers me more than anything is people who see something they want and will stop at nothing to achieve it. Often times, their periphery is blinded to the fact that they fist-fucked a line of people to get there. But I'm a hypocrite, because I've done the same thing. Maybe it is possible to have everything, but I think that statement was taken out of context, because I'm a firm believer that you CAN'T have everything. I know people who are in love with the world, (and who's not to some degree...I know quite a few people who'd say I am), but that love affair ALWAYS ends in heartache. You never break-up with the world, the world breaks up with you. It's my opinion that you maneuver through the world as best you can, and take the opportunities that are given you, and you either make the right decision or you don't. But this insatiable appetite to gain, and experience, and hold everything in the palm of your hands is ridiculous. You (I) end up swimming in a wake of consequence and betrayal. I am ridiculous and comical, if not totally hypocritical. I just struggle with myself sometimes.

Epiphanies regularly find me after sweaty nights. I'm stoked I'll be watching the Pacific sunset very soon.

Ryan Adams' new album came out today. Good thing too....I can drown myself in his melancholy. Robert told me that I am his clone. Now, that might be a bit too flattering, but he said he understood my affinity for the guy. A large and prolonged and satisfied smile followed.


Sunshine, bunnies, rainbows, puppies, daisies, ice cream, Root Beer floats, grandma's house, Super Bowl parties, Christmas gifts, Amy Grant, roller coasters, pinatas, homecomings, belly laughs, best friends, Sunday afternoons... !!!

Dear Chicago,

You'll never guess. You know the girl you said I'd meet some day? Well, I've got something to confess....

The Forest From the Trees

His skin is still tight from his youth. His teeth are still sharp and carry their edge, but his mind and his heart have seen the lengthy lives of a hundred men. Twisting and twirling and beating with tornadic velocity. His chest and his head hold tight, barely containing their contents, stubbornly refusing to breach.

He carries a razor-sharp axe by his side as he walks into the wooded canopy amidst the suffocating pines and lonesome oaks. The blade, acute and shiny, is his weapon for so many reasons. He files and tapers it down with infallible finesse on a wet stone. It glimmers and sparkles as the wandering sun catches it with each stride, reflecting light in the woods where no light has touched ground for ages. These vagrant rays from the sun find themselves lost as strangers in a place that was never designed to house them.

All his life he's heard that he and the men around him are the crown of God's creation, but he's not sold on that school of thought. Not yet. He hacks away for redemption. He chisels with accuracy as if to invite senseless inquiry into destruction and creation. One hand over the next, each splinter that falls to the ground reveals more insight on the exposed trunk...pulp unveiled and uncovered, blasting through the yearly rings, overly sensitive to being the new outer exterior of the tree. Shedding the trials and failures of life to allow new air to breathe at the soft center before it hardens from the harsh uncertainties of it's surroundings. He reduces everything in his sight to matchsticks...laid to waste, where it decomposes into the vacuum of time. Knowing he holds the power to destroy or preserve his environs, his choices are scattered and confused.

The tendency is to panic and overswing, but he's conditioned now and he is a master of precision. Surgical. He sees three moves ahead, before he makes even one.

He works hard to keep it together. His secret is a vice and his vice is a burden. It bears down heavy on his shoulders and he fights to keep it from sliding out of his guard. He is the custodian of an unwelcomed guest, and an agent of cognitive dissonance.

He uses his axe to keep the wolves at bay. But the wolves inside of him are seemingly more formidable. At times, he's given thought to turning the axe on himself, but he knows that this isn't the end that folklore and legend hold for him. He misses his innocence.

Quiet down now....hush, hush, my friend.

Give Me Your Eyes, I Need the Sunshine

I need sleep too....

God I love this city.

Slam the Goddamn Ball Bearing Factories With Freeform Destruction

I drink too much. This is public knowledge and I'm not ashamed to admit it. Alcohol and I have had quite the love/hate going on for quite some time. Occasionally (more often than not), his little friend, cigarette, finds it's way into my nightly pleasure-seeking routine....often bringing a pain killer as it's dance partner. Alcohol put me in the hospital my freshman year in college. I can't say it's a pleasant sight waking up from a whiskey-induced coma to see your mother and father standing over your hospital bed in a white room, when the last thing you remember is a hazy recollection of laughing with your friends in a green-leaf canopy park on a sweaty late-Summer night. None too eloquent...to say the least.

I won't go into the myriad of other "less than satisfactory" situations that were facilitated by alcohol in my time here. Let's just say that the devil dresses in liquid from time to time.

It's not just alcohol though. I have a whole host of demons who sit at my front door waiting to greet me as I step outside to meet the day. They're like a reliable old friend, tempting me and lulling me into gentle submission even though I know they don't mean well. And they usually come dressed in something shiny or alluring, but their intentions are hollow and numb and they turn out to be as genial as Michael Vick's dogs.

In fact, I would have considerably more time in my day if I'd take a break from kicking the shit out of myself. I've developed what you might call a ceaseless routine for finding ways to make several situations I'm in disjointed and complicated. But as problematic and absurd as life is somtimes, it's usually by my own making. I'll cut my nose off to spite my own face...without hesitation. But I'm not the only one. We're all our own worst enemies. I've got all my demons in a row.

Another World War reference....

When the United States Army Air Force launched the most expansive aviation raid in the history of warfare on Schweinfurt, Germany, their main intention was to cripple the Nazi's war machine by taking out their ball-bearing factories. They knew that without ball-bearings and the steel to produce ball-bearings, the Nazi war effort would slowly grind to a halt. Every weapon of war needs inertia, thus it needs ball-bearings. The thing is, the Allied High Command knew that they would take considerable losses, becase the Allied bombers would be flying further into Nazi occupied territory than they had yet ventured. In their first month of raids, the Allies lost 80% of the bombers sent to Schweinfurt from anti-aircraft guns, the relentless flak, and the sniper-like efficiency of the Luftwaffe fighters. EIGHTY PERCENT. These were no small-squadron missions. The Allies lost hundreds of bombers and thousands of men for this "objective." One of which was my Grandfather, who on his one and only mission as a B17 pilot, was shot down over occupied France on his way back after delivering his payload. Of the nine-man crew, six of them survived, three were picked up by the French underground and escorted back to England while the other three were captured by Nazi infantry on the ground. He spent two years in a German POW camp as a result. This was before the Allies had the technology to equip their P51 Mustangs with the fuel load which would serve the bomber groups as an incredibly efficient escort fighter. In the end, 2285 Allied aircraft were sent to the bloody skies over Schweinfurt and 1/3 of them never returned to England. The Nazi production...reduced by only 20%. Your nose to spite your own face.

I've had this talk quite a bit recently with different people. We all want to be good people, and do spectacular things. We all want to cure cancer, or win the Nobel Peace Prize, or house orphans, or feed Africa, or have the best carrot cake at the bake sale, or whatever the fuck...but sometimes our intentions go south on us and we end up in the exact opposite place of what we first set out for...be it by blinding ignorance or complete disregard for ourselves and others. And sometimes we have to make decisions where it seems like there is no right answer. Where we get into moral relativism. Weighing the pros and cons is an effort in futility and at that point it usually turns into whether or not you're going to actually make a decision, not what the decision actually is. It's a dangerous dynamic to be in, but it happens quite a bit in life. I was told (actually we're all told this...we're Americans) to follow my heart when these times approach, but what if you can't trust your own heart at times?

It can be small and inane, or it can be life changing decisions. Or it can be day-to-day, menial involvement with people and surroundings and circumstances, but we all face demons. Nobody is immune. It takes tenacity to overcome these temptations or evils, if you will, especially when they're whispering sweet nothings in your ear, promising delight and gratification.

I was told that there is no perfect time to do anything. Even when life is a shitstorm, if you want to accomplish anything, you just do it. You either do it, or you don't. Life won't always give you a lenghty stretch of harmony. There's always bumps in the road. You fight through that shit and do it. You try to improve your circumstances, try to stop kicking your own teeth in, and you stand up proud if your decleated by whatever madness surrounds you. You stand up and you stab again. Sometimes effort is all we have.

As one of my all-time favorite song lyrics so precisely says, "You spend half your life trying to turn the other half around."

Life is foolish and contagious.

Woman

"You're very generous."

"No just happy."

Those stolen at birth. Those floated down the river in a basket meet your face, and into your arms they fall...into your bosom they find rest. The Morning Glorys lie at your feet, as they make no sound passing through the garden. Your voice like a beach off Thailand, your hair like the spool of aureate shimmer. Horses run wild and evoke this response in the hearts of men. Skin like porcelain, and eyes like diamonds. Shine and crest and reflect the light of humanity in it's cradle. A chalice holds your elegance, and lips touch the rims. Only to drink you for a day, or a night, whichever the fates may hold. In song, we men revel and cultivate multi-billion dollar industries when our hearts are broken by your scent, your touch, and your release. I once heard that if no woman would have a man unless he walked on his hands, half of the world's population would be doing handstands within two days. No truth was more exact or literal. No more perfect truth comes from your ruby lips and the soft curves of your figure.

The sundress you wear is like a brandy drowning brain cells. Fortunate lottery winners are those who find the likeness of you. To gather strength and deal with the faults of man, you should not be enticed, but your heart rests easily on our shoulders and your tears fall gently on our laps. They are soaked up as a sponge would find spring rains, freshening the house with the windows down, wind blowing through, spreading your scent making everything new and vibrant. We watch you with curiosity. We are enthralled by your movements. All the art of men is somehow inspired by you. Wars have been fought over your preferences and men have died for your honor. Amorous is your vision and your warm preparation of our sons for the world is what passes the fondness of our admiration through the generations. You sculpt your daughters in an instinctual way. No man can comprehend your moves and never will.

Thirst is the way to describe the longing for your touch and "jealousy" does no justice to describe the feelings of betrayal. There is no word for the time when you turn your back in search of a more capable suitor. Murderous rage ignites, but c'est la vie. Fish in the sea, ahh...see.

Devotion hangs by a balance and when we are young we listen to testosterone, we listen to locker rooms, and we listen to foolery. But when we mature, and our minds find solace, we look to our mothers to find that which ushered us into this life and that which will hold us in the end. You live longer than we...and you see more of the world through your eyes, because God granted you longer life. But our life is cut short so that your's could be made long. It is a man's duty to find a mindful and loving woman. One who will dance in the rain. Let her shirt fall to the floor when unprovoked. Find a way to our hearts and calm the animal that surfaces when we are utterly violent. One who desires to be held and protected from the macabre in the world, trusting us with your safety. The words from your mouth can shatter glass and your look can break the hardest of hearts. You are the strongest drug in the universe. You are God's most beautiful creature.

We live for you.

My Father and His Father Before Him

My father is stoic. When he talks we listen. Reserved are the thoughts, poised for the right time. His wisdom is simple yet profound. His ethics are unbreakable. My father's mental capacity is an immovable force. He lost his father, my grandad, at the age of 13. The son of two depression-era children, he learned how to be capable and complete without any preparation. Hours sweating in a field, to help feed my aunts and my grandmother for years. At 13 he was burdened with the task of helping to prepare a life for three women that grown mature men are subject to endure. My father is quiet. My father is loving. My Dad doesn't judge, nor does he condescend. He is not without fault, but if our fathers are our models for God, then God is iridescent and complete. He once told me...in his logic, that the key to life is very simple yet profoundly difficult. He told me that life is successfully navigated by simply doing the right thing. No matter how hard, always do the right thing...no hesitation or wavering. I have tried to live by that. Failed around every corner, but have tried.

My Dad cut timber rows in Colorado to free up river passages down the Colorado River. He fought forest fires in Idaho during college, living on little more than beef strips and rice in the Rocky Mountains. He worked in Saskatchewan, Canada, learning all the wonders of the outdoors. He put himself through college and provided for my family when we were a young family starting out and were shit poor. He married my mother and has been a model of matrimony and sacrament to her throughout the years. My Dad taught me how to throw a baseball. He taught me to respect women. He taught me that at times we won't understand women, but to treat them kindly and offer support, and they will in turn, be faithful and mindful to you. He taught me not to settle for anything less. He taught me to respect nature, and it's power....and the wreckless power that we hold over it. He taught me that patience is one of the most important facets of life. He taught me to pray. He taught me that life is hard, but it's important to give every effort to be harder. He taught me that life is beautiful, and to take time to enjoy the pleasantries. He taught me how to be a man.

My grandmother on my mother's side, towards the end of her life, became very philanthropic with her thought processes. She wanted to bestow something great to a service which had helped her through very dark days...even though her mind might have been off-center of right. My mother and father had only been married for a short time. My grandmother wanted to sell the family ranch to a charity, while noble, almost succeeded in depriving her children of their inheritance and the lot of land that my grandfather had built and sculpted with his bare hands. Hours and hours of frustrated pleas by my mother and her brothers got them nowhere in diverting her intentions. After she had solidified her stance with her children, ceasing anymore of their pleas, she turned to my father and asked him what his advice might be on the matter. In typical fashion, he sat there quietly observing, replied by saying, it's not for me to advise, but your husband poured his life on this land. I think it would be a mistake for you to let it go. My grandmother simply replied, "okay....I won't." My father is sincere, and out of his sincerity comes the respect that others have for him.

My father is faithful, in all facets of the word. He is a man. He is the quality of man I hope to become. He is cut from a cloth of persistence and faithfulness. He is a provider and I've found him to be more wise over the years. He's proud of his son and daughter, and he let's them know this. Despite their many faults. We differ in innumerable ways, but by blood we are the same. He is my hero.

Bloody Knuckles On a Bloody Easel...Bloody Hell

My youth is a weapon.

No one listens. Until the bang grabs attention. It's the driving of my fist through a cinder block. White knuckles turn red. Blood tastes like wine. Drunk is my eyesight. Piercing is my energy. It's the energy...it swells and radiates a soft glow and lifts high into the air. Lofty is it's perch and blue is it's color. Fills the sky, and white wisps carve it up and pour down below the residue, washing everything anew, and regenerating emotive all the while. After turbulent waters, rivers are calmed and serene. Fertile valleys profit from havoc and disarray.

At peace...like how the other pillow smells like her well after she's left in the morning...or the come down after sweating out the toxins in a muscle-fiber rage...or pain killers camouflaged and hiding in my spine...or the drunk that makes the laughs harder...or when my mother calls on a lazy Sunday afternoon...or the cool air rolling through the truck with the full moon shining through the windshield, turning everything silver, Harvest Moon escaping from the speakers.

Walk to the shoreline, down the beach, into the water. Frenzied and hurried, but at peace...alive and surprised at my lucidity. My fist submerges, attracting the streamlined torpedos. Voracity on it's way. Dark, shadowy rogues encircle, swirling the water, face to face. Stalking the seduction of red blood cells. They bleed resonance. They bleed red. Teeth shine and water foams. Energy is reborn again.

And I'll end my life the way I lived it. Inside the mouth of a bull shark.

My youth is a weapon.

Chlorinated Pools

First of all, you must buy the new Wilco album...Sky Blue Sky...it's like being in love, and high, without paranoia, sitting on a beach and watching the sunset, with possibly one of your favorite people there with you...or being in love with being high. Es muy bonita...

It's nice to sit alone and think sometimes, but sometimes I do it too much. And sometimes...the devil creeps in and starts his subversive dancing. Luckily, I've developed a big bruising bouncer that will usher him out when he gets all too real and out of hand. A good friend told me that my thoughts were visceral and real. Like jumping into a cold, clear pool after boiling in the running heat...wash the salt off. But it's mostly just a geyser of bullshit. I've learned in recent years a very efficient way to cleanse myself of such thoughts of piercing uncertainty...and insanity to a degree. Maybe cleanse isn't the right word, but moreso manage. It's a pretty refined process now, and it only gets more practiced and proficient as time goes on. Like when I deal with issues of envy or denial or disallowance. You just remind yourself when times get too intense (as they often do with me) that there's always an upswing. Being patient and managing that shit is the key. Just wait...it gets better.

One of my friends, whom I consider a brother, just found out that he's going to be a father. This venture into fatherhood was not planned.

Diminutive and trivial are my doubts.

*insert veiled reference to some girl*

Trademark Insanity

I feel like this blog is like a canvas sometimes...a meaningless one, but a canvas nonetheless. I throw shit at the walls and see what sticks. But it keeps me in practice for more purposeful endeavors I suppose. Whateva.

Let's see here...

Sooo, McDonalds has robots that pour the drinks now. I hate McDonalds, but was in a rush to get back to work, and yep, I pulled up into the drive-thru and there was this conveyer-belt-ish mechanism that was pulling cups out of a stack, rotating around, filling them with ice, and then pouring whatever drink it was that I ordered in the cup. But the human still has control over putting the lid on. We're not completely irrelevant....yet. Plus, apparently McDonalds is ape-ing the new Shrek movie, which I won't see, but the best part is, they have these little hats. They're green. And they have the little antennae, that Shrek sports, on top of the hat. With that said, what does EVERY SINGLE MCDONALDS DRIVE THRU ATTENDANT LOOK LIKE? Oh you know...if you live anywhere in the Southern United States, isn't it always a 5'3" 180 to 190 lb. latino girl named Maria or Beatriz? Of course it is. She has a really round face and her jet black hair is always pulled back and she looks just....like.....Shrek. So of course, I pulled up to the window and who did I see...Shrekita. I paid my tab, pulled up to the next window and expected to see an Italian girl with a big nose dressed like Donkey. I don't think McDonalds thoroughly hammered out the idea from an employee-friendly demographic perspective when they thought these hats were "the thing to do." I guarantee in Texas alone, there's 4,680 latino Shreks working, swiping your card so you can eat your heart attack. Well done McDonalds.

I've always said, in about 30 years, pending any nuclear holocaust activities, Wal-Mart, Microsoft, McDonalds, and I'm gonna throw Toyota and Starbucks into the mix now, will battle for control of the Earth. I'll be hiding in the ocean by then, on my raft made of Outback bread trays/cutting boards. Shaded by a huge fucking American flag. I really need to sever myself from the zeitgeist surrounding me. Or create my own, I suppose.

So Rolling Stone came out with their 40th Anniversary Edition the other day, and the gig was, they interviewed all of these iconic music and social figures from back when Rolling Stone was a start-up publication. Of course, it's your typical "political activist Rolling Stone" issue. Bob Dylan, Martin Scorsese, Jane Fonda, Paul McCartney, Neil Young, George McGovern, Mick Jagger, Jimmy Carter, Steven Spielberg, George Lucas, Ringo Star, Patti Smith, Tom Wolfe, Norman Mailer..you know your standard lineup of 60's art-school figureheads. Every single interview was a "now vs. then," type deal. Vietnam, the draft, the counterculture movement, all of these things were central in every interview. I'm not saying that shouldn't be the way it is. I mean, Rolling Stone was taking it's first breaths in San Francisco in the middle of all that shit, but it's a bit too predictable...if you ask me. There wasn't just a whole lot devoted to the music that was covered over Rolling Stones existence or the impact it has had on the music industry. Fucking anyways, one of them says in the interview that times are different, regarding both of the wars (Vietnam/Iraq), because of the inactivity of the youth nowadays. He's basically calling us apathetic. I agree with quite a bit of his logic. But times are different. They are different wars, and in some instances, they're about different idealogies. Both of which are difficult to make a case for. Everything around us is different, especially our mental proclivity. We're numbed into submission by consumer products and the overload of information that bombards us everyday trying to bogart our attention. He basically says its a junk-image society for a junk-image world. There's a wealth of truth to that...I couldn't agree more. But like all things, it was "better then than it is now," and it was "more meaningful then than it is now." It's all kind of sanctimonious, really. I like it, and that's natural coming from their perspective. They felt their energy was more powerful and revolutionary than any the world has ever seen. The social and cultural impacts they made in trying to usher in this spiritual utopia, even though they fell well short, was the most important time in modern cultural history...in their eyes. Now that could be argued, yes, and I could write a thesis on this shit, about how I think the counterculture ate itself, and how the baby-boomers, who had all these splendid ideas of change and desire for setting a new precedent are the same generation who drove us into this shithole psyche-crumbling existence in the first place. I mean, their intentions were revolutionary, but their greed was ultimately more pervasive. Their drugs then were the vehicles of reformation, but their drugs now are a subsistence of numb coping. But I'm too tired and I won't get into all of that.

My favorite character on the Sopranos died. Chris Moltisanti met his end at the hands of Tony Soprano, ironically enough. He made it till there were 3 episodes left. I rooted for him from day 1, but he couldn't pull out of the funk, man. Too many drugs and bad decisions. All my characters are tragic.

The Kings of Leon concert we went to was fucking unbelieveable. As always. I think this makes the fourth time I've seen them. It saddens me a bit, that they're becoming increasingly popular. You can always tell by the crowd. At the other shows, it was nothing but hipsters, a few drug store cowboys, girls and guys with Buddy Holly glasses, and a few whiskey swilling drunks here and there. This time, I saw quite a few bullhead fraternity assholes with the pink polos, collars popped, Wolverine dura-shock boots, Oakland A's hat tipped slightly to the side...just your typical fucking douchebags really. I mean, I'm rooting for the KOL...I can take pride in showing them to just about every one of my friends who listens to them...I was there from the start, and they're a great band...simple as that. But it would be nice if they'd fly just under the radar a little while longer before they're adopted as the opening songs in frathouse parties, or played on the golf course by drunk salesmen, or at a Mavs game.

After the show, I drank enough alcohol to kill off the remaining rain-forest gorillas, and split my fucking head open like a coconut. I mean, I fucking ruined my face. You see, I think it's always a splendid idea to dance with girl's when I'm drunk, be it in a street or wherever. There doesn't have to be music...or even a dancefloor, for that matter. I usually have some kind of circus music playing in my head, and when I'm drunk, I'm a little misguided in thinking I have skills a la John Travolta. So I'm twirling the little lady around who happened to be with us and I crash like a fucking kamikaze into an aircraft carrier on the concrete....taking her with me. Split the wig with a nice three inch gash and bled like a sieve for 3 hours afterwards. It didn't help that my blood was like paint thinner because of all of the alcohol. It was red water basically. I didn't hurt her...I took the brunt of the fall, which is good...but still not. It's gonna be a pretty gnarly scar. My skull was breathing fresh air above my eyebrow, my ear looked like a terrier had been chewing on it for 3 days, and my shirt looked like "Attack of the 50 Foot Woman" had used it as a tampon. I had the fucking wah-wah's in my ears the next day at work and it sounded like everyone was talking under water for pretty much the duration of the day. In fact, I'm not 100% sure I didn't have a concussion. I went to the doctor the next day, because being so drunk you can't conjugate a sentence kinda gives away the mystery of how you acquired said scar. At least the next day I told him some bullshit about a softball game or something. He told me it really needed stitches, but once it closes up, there's not much you can do. My pride probably hurt more than anything. So aside from the fact that I looked like I called Lennox Lewis a nigger to his face, I had a pretty fun time that night.

On another note, there's things she does that are starting to become really cute to me as of late. I don't need those little particles coursing through my veins right now, circling around the chambers of my heart and the folds of my brain. I think I'll drink some lighter fluid tonight....put the ixnay on that shit.

Scissor-Tailed Sparrow

Oh, little scissor-tailed sparrow, why must you sit above my door?
Is it too much to ask that you refrain from shitting on my front porch floor?
I find it ironic that a bluebird chose my sister's house to nest,
And you chose my apartment to rest your breast, on three little eggs.
Safe from the sharp-eyed pellet-gun assassins and cats on the take.
Away from the wind and the rain and the gardener's rake.
I like that you and your husband are of the monogamous type.
One sits on the nest while the other's out of sight...somewhere in flight.
But you're both there at night, by each other's side, watching your kids.
You don't fly away when I unlock my door,
I can tell you've grown to trust me and aren't scared anymore.
When I come home drunk you don't pass judgement or scorn.
You just sit and watch as I fumble my words, and stumble indoors.
I can always hear your chirps in the dark.
It's not that big of a deal, but it makes sleeping kinda hard.
You see, I have to work in the mornings.
I have to get up fairly early.
I don't mind that you're rearing your young on my stoop,
But if you're gonna talk, can we think of something else to do?
Maybe you can use little head nods, or wing-tip signs.
Or maybe I could fashion a little pencil so your feathers can write.
I don't know....
Hey, you know that band, Kings of Leon, that I play in my room?
Well I'm going to see them tonight, it's outdoors, and you should come too.
It's downtown...so I know it's kinda far,
And you have to put the kiddos to bed, it's a weeknight, it's hard.
But I'd love to share something I love with you,
Since you're sharing your little life with me.
I could show you my music,
Just like the music you obligingly sing.
At first, I was a little apprehensive when you arrived, I'm not gonna lie.
Cause you'd swoop and strafe my head like a Spitfire in a nose-dive.
My friends called you "death birds," but that's far from the truth.
You're just dealing with the world in your own little way, it's what you do.
I'm happy you chose my home to make your home too.
And I'm glad you're a little family by my door!
It makes me smile and think that life is worth everything and more.
So take your time mi amigo pequeño, the rent is never due.
And when I grow up, I hope I can build a family as lovingly as you.

Complete

Short little breaths, staggered and few.
The butterflies in my belly used to dance and sing a chorus for you.
Succinct is the doubt in me,
Gathered, surrounded, and suffocated by the roots you sink.
Aim and fire at your brightest star before you think.
Another star gathered for your basket,
Turns into a man in your hand.
For what it's worth I abandon just about everything I can.
So don't worry about me,
I'll leave adoration destitute and free.
Deserving no epitaph,
Only a simple and trivial toast to the past.
Oh how close apathy is within our grasp,
Emotionless and detached.
There's secret talks for which there's no path,
Only furthering and solidifying this exhausted wrath.
A fiber optic cable for you to watch,
A blinding collapse for me to dodge.
A strain in the eyes for those who don't know,
Looking over the horizon for a sliver of hope,
These matters drag so effortlessly slow.
Smoothing a palm over the sand,
I wonder if you'll stand by your man.
Or return to attempt a long drive with me,
You can play the song that I did my best to sing.
It's in atrophy now.
Like an eraser,
All that's left are the ambulance chasers.
Like a dream,
Like a drink,
Like the pictures that make you think.
For everything you've gained,
Everything you talk,
Everything you smother,
And everything you flaunt,
I think to myself,
What could you possibly want?

J'ai abandonné mon amour pour vous

The Ferryman

To you, O Lord, I called; to the Lord I cried for mercy: "What gain is there in my destruction, in my going down into the pit? Will the dust praise you? Will it proclaim your faithfulness?" Psalm 30:8-9



It's time's like today, moments of the surreal, when there is one particular song that always pops into my head. Call it an organizational defense mechanism sifting through the remnants of chaos, or call it some weird synapse recall, but this song always pops in my head. It did on 9/11, today, and a few other moments when life became all to surreal, or almost painfully hallucinogenic. Bittersweet Symphony by The Verve. Special thanks to Richard Ashcroft for penning one of the more haunting, and somewhat creepy tunes that I've encountered in this life. It haunts me because of the scenarios it re-awakens in my memory, and the times it decides to have relevance to me. The lyrics take on a totally different meaning in these moments than those that accompany him in the video; walking against the grain down a crowded street, possibly New York or London, amongst millions of nameless and faceless people, pushing them down and crooning about change. Yet, maybe there is a reason that particular song comes to mind.

Everybody pays the ferryman. The singular facet of life that we all must face, and are all connected to is death. Every person and living organism from the dawn of time has fallen to it's timeless power. It pardons no one, and excludes no one. If you've taken a breath in this world, you will take a last. Wherever it is that we go after this life, the ferryman awaits, with his bag of tickets by his side. When you meet him, he slowly ushers you to the other side. No matter what creed, or demonination, or faith, or spiritual enlightenment, or lack thereof that you follow, it doesn't give you an exemption from death.

Today showed how powerful entities like time, and mortality, and temporality really are, and how insignificant we are standing side by side to them...just how vulnerable and ineffectual we really are. It's a sobering truth, but one which must be accepted, even sometimes violently. I absolutely hate talking about the fragility of life. It's utterly disheartening. Especially when you are often ringside for the examples of power and grace that humans possess. To see it crumble in one pointless fail swoop is disappointing at best, and revoltingly horrid at worst.

One thinks about the exit. How the pupils must have been dilated to maximum capacity, letting every ray of light in, squeezing out the color of the iris till it was just a sliver of color around a ring of black. Senses sharpened like a razor-sharp hunting knife, flight or fight responses and the monsoon flood of adrenaline down the spine, the disturbing sounds, the sights, the stale metallic smell of blood. Soldiers probably feel this type of feeling on a regular basis. Escaping (literally and figuratively) bullet after bullet, till the one on mark finally catches it's target...for the unfortunate. But in civilian clothes, when the preparedness is afloat somewhere not to be found, how can one explain the horror.

True story...my second week of work at my new job found me facing something that was considerably uncomfortable. One of my coworkers found out that her best friend, a young 39 years old, was going to be put on Hospice care because her battle with leukemia was coming to an end. I remember her sobbing and how uncomfortable it made everyone feel. But of course, it was understandable...it was just something that nobody wants to confront in a day to day routine. We want to come in, stick our widget in the hole, clock out and go home...not to be bothered with matters of mortality. The next day, she was speaking with a friend about the matter...within earshot. She began to cry and said, "I don't know what to do. The walls are thin and they're closing in. I just wanna know what's going to happen to my Annie when she leaves. Where is she going? I just want to know where my Annie is going when she leaves?" I remember how raw and powerful and Earth-shaking that statement was. It wasn't a question of religious destination. It was a human question of the unknown. Where was her friend going? Would she be able to see her again? Would they be able to laugh again and talk of their memories together? Would they be able to be there and connect on that level that saw them connect in this life? Where was she going, and why couldn't she see her again? It's so fucked up...

One of my friends married a girl who lost her sister to cancer recently. She has understandably taken it hard. Without going into detail, she has done everything within her power to hold onto the death of her sister. In ways that are heartbreaking. The funny thing is, we assume that the dead are hanging on to judgement of thankfulness and gratefulness about what we do in their absence. We do things to serve them after their passing and make assumptions as to what they would think...if they would be proud...if they would appreciate it. But the sad truth is, there isn't anyone to convince but ourselves. It's so human, and it's so sad. It's like running the stray puppy off that you fell in love with when you were a child and possessed your innocent love, but knew that you couldn't take it home. It hurt to turn it away. But the puppy didn't know any different. Only you did. It's that feeling magnified by an indefinable number. The dead are not concerned with our efforts after their passing. That is why the present is so consummately imperative.

Two days ago, my old roommate told me of how he witnessed someone passing into the infinite unknown. He works at a hospital and this kid, 20 years old, was rushed in after a car wreck. They tried a rapid transfusion, defribullation, cardio-pulminary resucitation, electronically advanced machines to revive, and they even split his chest to massage his heart for revival. You can imagine, as I can, how disturbing witnessing something like this can be. He had a relatively tough time with witnessing this for the first time. Called his mother for reassurance....as I probably would. To massage the heart for revival after such...

When I was in high school, I would spend one day a week in the Summer's mowing the lawn of my great aunt. A lady I respected very much. Very independent, and extremely intelligent. Her advice was always welcome and after my chores were complete, I'd sit and listen to her as she served me an ice-cold Coke for my efforts (which usually was the perfect cure for the hangover I carried into the job). She told me of a recurring dream she had since she was a child. The vision has stayed with me. She dreamt of the day of her death. To hear her speak of this in the calm and collectedness that she did, was intriguing. She was a woman of faith, and that faith sustained her throughout her life. That quiet assurance she had in her deeply-rooted faith pulled her through so many trials and unsettling waters. She stood by a river after her death. She stood with the man who would garner her path across this river. It was the river Jordan. There were people floating, lying down, face to the sky; floating up and down the river. Nameless, faceless people. Millions of people. Some people were going against the current, while many others were going with the current. Those who were traveling against the current were making their way to Heaven. It was for their efforts of denying the world's enticements that they found their way against the current. Those who were traveling with the current were not. When I asked her if they were going to Hell, she told me that she wasn't sure. She said that in her dream she felt that they were people of faith, but maybe their destiny wasn't to spend the next life in Heaven or Hell. She knew that her efforts got her to where she wanted to be, and that everybody else chose their own paths. God would be the judge of where they ended up. But she was hopeful that her path would lead her against the current of the river. Against the current of the nameless, faceless people.

Get out of my head Richard Ashcroft.


I thought long and hard about tackling this one....I am sad today.

Robbers In the High Fortress

There once was a time when the smug patriarch actually wasn't as repulsive.
But the pressures of wealth errode shreds of morality on the sweaty nights of accumulation.
Rockefeller would blush and his tentacles didn't quite reach as far and as deep in modernity, but penetrating they were.
While socialism is painted on his ceilings, the demons of capitalism guard the doors like sentinels.
It's too easy to strike a chord of paranoia and point toward an insidious plan of complete control, but it's so apparent on the smirk across their faces. They're annointed to play that role, and a scorching performance they deliver.
The CEO's spit out words like "blow jobs" and "great piece of ass" to initiate the new company blood and send some sort of sick relation down the ladder...that's it ole boy...appeal to their unbridled youth...bring them under your wing...soon they'll be suckling the poisonous milk...etched in your image. Give them the booster-shot of confidence to swagger their way up the ladder. Grab a rung and pull themselves up. Crawling over dead bodies if they must. The self-styled sons you never had. Steaming ahead to mastery...ascendancy conquering the Matterhorn.
That tone...that tone...when you talk to her...the young professional trying to break the glass ceiling. Headstrong to go where no woman has gone before. It's funny the door you open to her to find that lighted path. That tone. Ever wonder why feminism gets hostile sometimes? That tone.
It's hard to swim in a life this shallow.
The threads. The tailor, well tipped, makes you shine. Tunnel vision. Royalty. Gordon Gecko. Greed is good, bud. BMW 7-Series. Mercedes-Benz S-Class.
Framed pictures of the wife and kids. Smiling at Lake Tahoe. Honeymoon in Tuscany. Amusing anectdotes for the dinner deal. Company cards. Ice breakers. Closers. Closers. Close it. Can you close it? He can. Can't...can...can't...can...which are you?
Plaisantez-vous?
Cave dwellers eating by candlelight, scratching fingers to the bone, melting their brains, throw a smile from ear to ear when you walk by. The octave of the voice rises when revelling tales of weekends in which you have no care.

"How are you doing guy?" "All things considered?" "Well when you're not too busy hitting your budgets, we should hit the course." "Oh................well it's not for everybody I suppose."

My cigarette cherry burns as white hot as my malcontent and aversion. Luckily, the sun is out. My sunglasses conceal what would otherwise be easier to read than a warning label.

While he fingered the long stem of his champagne glass, he couldn't help but notice his reflection in the side, and he felt affectionate towards it.

And She Speaks French...

Take it easy, man. Just take it easy. Granted she called you a "guinea pig," (cobaye) but shit man.

A timely pull on the reins will do you some good right now, me thinks.

Hey INTENSITY!! It's me Cory. We go way back.

Holy shit I'm a tightly wound ball of nerves right now. Don't stand too close to me, the recoil could be concussive. It feels like electricity is coursing out of my fingertips. My vocal chords are the perfect pitch today. I'm totally and keenly aware. Don't know why I feel this way. I think the beautiful weather is playing a particular hand in it. I'm embracing Austin. Some days it just hits stronger than others, and today it's particluarly intense. It's definitely sending the needle into the red. I hope she doesn't notice tonight...after all, first impressions are the most important impressions, right? Today has been a good day. So far.

I really like feeling this way. I wish I could share it with people. If I could bottle it up, I'd keep a carton of it in my medicine cabinet and pull one out, and drink it down on the days where the world isn't so vivid. I am looking through a prism right now and the colors are fucking stellar.

To be continued....

AAAAAAAAANNND I'm still drunk. It's noon the next day...good God I got tore down last night, and apparently into today. Work is a fucking chore right now. It's Good Friday though, so its only a half-day. Liveable. More like Awesome Friday.

Well, I've solidified that my destiny will see me crashing head first into a big steamy pile of my dreams, or the alternative which is...ummm...shit man, there is no lid on what that could be. Anything I could imagine I suppose, and I can imagine quite a bit...no trouble there. I've got a big-ass future staring me straight in the face and I am thrilled by that.

I've also got a big-ass Summer staring me in the face. A Summer that I am going to put to good use. Austin is the perfect place to be in the Summer. So many bodies of water to dive into and get inebriated beyond all comprehension upon. Great outdoor bars and nightclubs where music fills the streets, interesting and friendly peeps, cute girls, and an international airport to jump a plane and scratch out when it all gets old. I've got a surprisingly large pile of airline vouchers that I intend to use this year and some of it this Summer. Finally making it out to California.

Cory and Matt's Pain-Killing Pacific Coast Highway Tour 2007. Set to take off with insanity and prepoderance. Matt's thinking of moving out there anyways, so it will give that fool a chance to prospect a bit. Plus, we're incensed with surfing again since Costa Rica (even though we're terrible...for now). Soooooooo free flights out there to get busted up by Mother Ocean, and a head spinning with alcohol and sedatives, mixed with shirtless beach wandering is on deck. Any and all are encouraged and welcome to join.

As I was drunkenly swaying in the stall last night, draining the poison (or making room for more), I strained to focus my vision on the wall and I read this beaut in red ink, small handscript, about eye-level above the toilet and I think it's bloody fabulous:

"I am the joke my mother played on the world."

Raw.