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.

It's Good to be a Gator

If there is a standard-bearer for success in the ranks of collegiate athletics, the mantle explicitly belongs to the Florida Gators. I mean, wow. If you're a Gator fan (which I'm sure their numbers have increased infinitely in a short amount of time, because let's face it...everybody loves a winner), then you're undoubtedly floating lightly on cloud nine.

I have never been one of those SportsCenter hacks, babbling about the most inane record or streak that some insignificant team has broken through to be aligned in the pantheon of meaningless statistics, but I am a college sports fan. I love the pageantry (even though that word is used all too frequently when describing our scholastic brethren), the rivalry, and the passion that athletes and fans alike subscribe to, and the carrying on of that passion to future generations. It is unrivaled, to me at least, in the "investment" of being a fan. The NFL, NBA, and MLB, are so mired in contractual disputes, and a feeling of ego-selfishness by players, coaches and team-owners alike, that it kind of takes the air out of the actual meaning of the game. While it is impressive to see Lebron James, or Peyton Manning will their respective teams to victory, it is equally, if not more impressive to watch someone like Jared "I think I might be white" Zabransky overcome insurmountable odds to deliver the big "W" to the seething fans of an underdog organization, bringing them the taste of victory that eludes them most of the time and is reserved for those programs who have an infinite amount of alumni support, and an over-flow of blue-chip recruits.

For the longest time, the SEC has arguably been the best football conference in the nation, and it's hard to dispute that point with the turn of events this past football season. Poor Auburn had to relegate themselves to second best, when no one gave them the nod in 2004 against USC. Not to say that they would've won, but what Florida did this year against Ohio State was proclaim loudly (what Auburn was not allowed) to the world that, "the SEC is fucking hard, and we dare you to try and have an umblemished record at the end of the season in this alignment...(looking at you USC)." Every year, the SEC produces a minimum of four national championship contenders and basically, their chances of being in the final game hinge simply on something like scheduling. Who has who at home. Non-conference games should not even be considered when dealing with an SEC team because of the brutality that the conference provides.

Being a huge, and bled-red Big 12 fan, I can always make a legitimate case as to why the Big 12 is the best conference. But mostly my argument lies in the "type" of play you find in the Big 12 being better than any other conference, because even I understand that the quality of teams is better in the SEC. Put Arkansas in the Big 12 this last year, and they would've played Ohio State in the national championship. Hell, put Kentucky in the North Division of the Big 12 this year and they probably would've won it.

So to see the gains that Florida has made, not only in football, and almost more importantly in basketball, is nothing short of amazing. In a year when Duke was bounced early, Kentucky couldn't secure over an 8 seed, and traditional powerhouse Kansas continued to exhibit it's streaky play (overwhelmingly underachieving), it's time for a new power in college basketball to step up to the throne. What's so amazing about Florida's repeat is that they are doing it in a time of mass exodus from underclassmen to reap the harvest of millions of dollars awaiting them in the NBA. They showed a graphic last night of all the teams who have repeated as national champions, and as monumental an achievement as it was in their time, the landscape of NCAA basketball has changed drastically in the matter of a few short years. Every one of Florida's starters returned specifically to repeat as national champs and they did just that. Corey Brewer, Al Horford, and Joakim Noah (who by the way, is ludicrous in interviews), all were first-day draft prospects after their title last year, but they stuck around with the goal of repeating and I have to applaud that.

There was a controversy surrounding the Final Four, that Billy Donovan (coach of the Gators) may leave for "greener pastures" at the University of Kentucky, the long-time traditional powerhouse of the SEC. Kentucky boasts the winningest record in NCAA basketball history, and recently let their head coach go after only 1 national championship, and only 4 Final Fours in nine seasons, prompting a search for the best replacement candidate. First of all, Billy Donovan would be a complete moron to leave for Kentucky.

Reason One: Florida has cornered the market on success in collegiate athletics which ultimately translates into more money. Success breeds success, and more importantly to school administrators, success on the field and court breeds success in the markeplace. Ticket sales rise, University-licensed materials see a spike in sales; it's a trickle down effect all because of the results of winning. So the money issue shouldn't be an issue. His contract can, and should be restructured to pay him anything that Kentucky would put on the table. It is also great timing what with the downfall of Florida's two biggest regional, athletic, and most importantly, recruiting competitors, Florida State and Miami. The state of Florida is buzzing over the Gators. I can't tell you how many "newfound" UT fans emerged from the woodwork after The University of Vince Young defeated USC. It seemed the whole state of Texas found themselves a new winner to latch onto in the public eye...and let's face it, they kind of deserved it and needed someone with a little more flavor of cool, especially with who we Texans have at the apex of world reknownment. *ahem...Mr. President your new opinion poll is in...you may want to sit down*

Reason Two: Kentucky has unrealistic goals, and an unrealistic fan base. I read an article where Tubby Smith (Kentucky's old coach) knew that it was time to move on. He was doing a radio show and a listener called in and had this to say, "Coach Smith, I just want you to know that I haven't given up on this team yet. I still believe we can right the ship this year." What was Kentucky's record at the time? 25-4. TWENTY FIVE AND FOUR!! RIGHT THE SHIP??? Seems pretty fucking righted to me. Whoever walks into Kentucky is walking into a buzzsaw. Of course, the money is good. Of course, the fans are supportive. Of course, the talent is the cream of the crop. But is it a better position than Florida right now??? Absolutely not.

I'm sure the whole state of Florida is just one big blue and orange orgy right now. I mean, UT only won it in football. Florida did it in basketball, football, and basketball again...CONSECUTIVELY. At this rate, Florida will be crowning tennis, track, baseball, and golf champions this year as well.

Not in my lifetime have I ever seen such widespread rise to dominance from one particular program, and it's a program that actually has risen in my lifetime. I think the whole University of Florida athletic world owes a great deal of debt to one Steve Spurrier. Before Spurrier, Florida was the wicked stepchild to Florida State and Miami, and perenniel also-rans in the SEC. Under Spurrier's direction, the program grew and were the most successful program in the SEC during his tenure...occassionally the University of Tennessee made a strong argument, but even record-wise...Spurrier owned Tennessee. With the rise of Spurrier's program, so did the brand name of the Gator's. In turn, the success of the football team spilled over into the rise of the basketball and baseball programs, who in the last ten years have seen their success-rate skyrocket. Florida's basketball team has risen to power within the last ten years, a relatively short time when you consider the dynasties of Kentucky, UCLA, and Bob Knight's Indiana teams, being capped by the last two national championships.

So here's to Steve Spurrier, for (pardon the pun) spurring the Florida Gators to athletic dominance.

But underlining this misprojected admiration of Spurrier, is the hope and faith that it brings in another similar, offensive-minded, spinster-wizard who is taking a certain football team to heights of success it hasn't reached in it's streaky existence...and my wishful hoping that the Florida dynamic is repeated somewhere on the South Plains of West Texas in the near future.

Here's to hoping.

The Futility of Apologization

I'm assuming it's understood that this is only a forum for me to speak my insignificant voice, vent my frustrations and conversely revel in the bliss of life. Let this be a disclaimer* that I am insane, and the critique or analysis of any sentence on this thing is an utter waste of time. It IS inane psycho-babble. But it's mine.

The beauty of it is, if you don't like it, you don't have to read it.





*This is not an effort to sound self-important...I am quite aware of how that could be perceived.

Jenny, You're Barely Alive

Jesus Christ.....

Blasphemy...oh my blasphemy....

I was told that I have a seat reserved in Hell. Hell awaits the bulb of searching that I've entertained it with during this little lifetime. Cory, you're barely alive. Jesus Christ. I hope the devil is a gracious host. I hope he appreciates the lengths I went through to meet his demands. All the condenscion and the blind eyes I diverted to those in need. On my knees I told God that I would be my brothers keeper...as He asks in the Good Book...but God Damn Him...He's got me barely alive. Maybe there is no Hell. Maybe Hell resides with us on Earth...like a sour neighbor. One who doesn't mow his lawn and drives your property value down, which only we Americans find annoying.

I could have two cars and a broken moon in front of my lawn in another country where I scratched and clawed through life and God wouldn't be quite the prick that He is to those who are perfected through the privileged life...Heaven through the eye of the needle type shit. But that's the American way right? I have the means and the finding to be my own God. I don't need God, because I get my own wishes brought to me by the stars I shoot down with my "anti-aircraft guns" of fortitude. If I'm foolish enough to believe that, then cut me down...which I'm not...truly not. Adam was only a spectator. He did exactly what I would've done. He trusted the most beautiful creature in the world. Her curves led him to the fall. I guess she wanted to know shit, right? It's funny...the Bible explains, in detail, the inherent nature of women. This may sound sexist, but I don't give a shit...they want to know everything...at least those I've been involved with. And that's not just to say those who were romantic with me. Every one of them. They are the most curious creatures in existence. Their very nature is to analyze. Their very nature is to have a bead on that which they are enthralled with. Once they have every detail mapped out, they are hardened with moving on to something else that they can immerse themselves in.

God Damn their fish-like ways. Shine something flashy in front of their eyes and they bite like a tiger shark off the coast of California. Don't blame me for my parallels Mark Twain...you did it too. Your complete inability to figure out the opposite sex is exactly what has plagued all those with a penis between their legs. The phallus is your greatest blessing and simultaneously your greatest curse. Don't make exceptions to me...for you know EXACTLY what I speak of.

Eve.

It's not only the spin cycle that their minds are on. It's the ruling of emotion that rules their days. For fucks sake...HOW CAN EMOTION RULE THAT MUCH??? It's all-encompassing with them.

I am totally intrigued by their ways. And if you're a girl reading this...then YES I've been intrigued by you. Swallowed like a whirlpool in the sea. I'm intrigued by you. More so than anything else this world has to offer. Even every fiber in the muscles in my abdomen tense when my mind examines your every move. I'm totally fucking intrigued. Like a scientist studying your every move, I want to know what makes you tick. I want to know your biological patterns, and the peaks and valleys that you oh so comfortably find yourself in, when I'm trying to find level ground to place my feet.

God put you on this Earth to drive us crazy.

I wonder about God's intentions.

God bless celibacy. I understand. By the way, I trust Your every omnipotent move...even if I don't trust it.

I think on some level You might be able to relate. I mean, for what it's worth, even You couldn't control those who were closest to You.

Hyper-Sensitive Trigger Finger

Father says to son, "You've got to take your time. You've got to learn patience. You kids nowdays...especially you boys...you think everything is going to happen for you all the time, and when it doesn't you get derailed. That's the problem with your generation. You always try to be Superman, but you forget that even he was Clark Kent the majority of the time."

Son says to father, "But Clark Kent didn't have to prove anything to himself. He knew he was Superman. He didn't harbour doubt."

Father says to son, "Welcome to manhood son."

Eddie Rickenbacker flew for years over Europe engaging the Red Baron's "Flying Circus," ripping bullets through the air. Both knew of each other, both respected each other, and both wanted to bring to the other their final breath. Although Rickenbacker never found the crimson wings in his sights enough to deal a fatal blow, it was the thought of bringing down a foe of equal or greater power that kept Rickenbacker in the air and caused him to be the most decorated Allied pilot in the first World War, and one of the most famous fighter-pilots in aviation history. He was intensely devoted to ridding the skies of this seemingly unconquerable foe, but his purposeful (and respectful) indignation for von Richtofen, even in the absence of his ability to track him down and end his reign, led him to be the face of the US Army Air Force for the coming generations. It's what some might call a fateful reward for "patience and devotion to the ride."

But where were the seeds of doubt? They were surely riding high in the skies as a co-pilot. The Air Force almost sent Rickenbacker to the bloody trenches of Europe to serve as a bullet-sponge amongst the infantrymen because of his perceived lack of "aviation expertise," but he continued to familiarize himself with the mechanics of not only the aerial weapons of war employed by the Allies, but of flight itself. He learned the physics and nature of flight, with an almost preternatural willingness to become flight himself.

Nobody sweeps your room for you. Nobody draws water from the well for you. Nobody breaks the stallion in your absence. If you want to ride, you have to bleed your own blood through the dirt.

The same dynamic can be found in Pat Garret's incessant stalk of William H. Bonney through Lincoln County. Or George Patton's unquenchable desire to not only destroy Erwin Rommel, but do so in a fashion that wrote eminence in the history books. He wanted to crush Rommel like a dried-out clay jar and let the sand sift through his fingers. For it was in Rommel that Patton found his scripted destiny. Rommel was the greatest, and to become the greatest, you have to surpass greatness.

Of all these circumstances, there is a common denominator...respect. Even a year after Bonney's death, Pat Garret released a pointed, if not overtly exaggerated biography called The Authentic Life of Billy, the Kid. Respect and patience. Patton would've fought Rommel in ten different lifetimes if given the chance.

Far removed from the destruction of an individual, lies the point to whatever the fuck this is that I'm writing. The point lies in the accumulation of the victory over something impossible and the attainment of what was once thought unattainable. The target in sight beckons your move. It stands in the distance for a fleeting second giving you an opportunity at fulfillment.

I don't think it takes an unhinged, maniacal schizophrenic sense of tunnel vision that so many historical figures possessed to attain such goals, but I think it takes a certain amount of commitment..or a fire, if you will.

I've asked myself why do such thoughts cross my mind so frequently in recent days, and I have no answer for it. I can suppose that maybe it's a part of feeling my footing in this world through the aging process, or maybe it's the search for something greater and more fulfilling than the prescribed living that I fight tooth and nail to avoid. I don't know what it is, and even the fact that I write out my sentiments (mostly privately), and the desire that prompts me to do so, are unknown to me at this point. What is important, or to me at least, is that these thoughts are crossing the mind. That they are finding their way to the surface and being arranged in a somewhat coherent manner...even if it only makes some sort of sense to myself.

Sometimes I think I'm going crazy.

So what was it?

I swear my intentions are good. So why do I have to wait?

Here's To...

Here's to the words.
Don't stop talking now.

Here's to the warm days.
May they envelop us in their entirety.

Here's to the girl.
The girl who is the Edie Sedgwick to my Bob Dylan.

Here's to overestimation of circumstances.
May they forever be overlooked.

Here's to the futility of depression.
For high waves follow close behind.

Here's to the inebriated archangels, drunk on salvation.
When the hell-hounds pursue, they descend to drive them away and shepherd us home.

Here's to the armistice.
It's been a long time coming.

Here's to the venture capitalists.
Funding the crusades of their unworthy sons and daughters.

Here's to the transparent alibi.
Easier to read than a neon sign.

Here's to the incessant need for our wants.
Oh, how each continues to evolve.

Here's to those we've lost.
And their headstones which send us to shivers.

Here's to the unhinged love of our youth.
It can never be bottled and contained for future consumption despite our best efforts.

Here's to the laughter of a person.
It can bring strength to a thousand men.

Here's to the physical attraction factor.
Misleading us daily.

Here's to flashlights.
Rejoice for their innate ability to always look to the future.

There's a hole in the bucket, Dear Eliza, a hole

Like a freshly opened wound, it pours out all my warm ambitions. I want to pour myself over the world.

It's been recently brought to my attention that I, strangely enough, simultaneously appeal to the light and dark side of people. An unlikely blessing and a curse. But you cower like a defenseless puppy in my long, dark shadow. It's unjustified, because I am intensely devoted to my ideals. I desire to leave things better than I found them. No matter how much it hurts, or strains my senses. No matter the insurmountable climb and fall. Better in some way.

I hate it when people confuse having a wild heart with a damaging inability to be content. They are not one in the same and it's a turn-off. Through attainment they are exponentially different. And through appreciation they stand alone...one on it's own legs, and the other on it's shaky insecurities.

A Costa Rican moon hangs low, suspended like a blade, ready to drop and sever the ties of a pyschological crisis, bound and weighted down in the depths. I've seen what they've seen, I've heard the poetic words. The words are like music. Angel dialect, a chorus of praise beset on those willing to hear. Those willing to sing with the words are those who run free and their hearts are wild.

A Strange Threshold

New walls and faces, streets and signs, voices and numbers, girls and dogs walking down the street, fax numbers and business cards, bosses and colleagues, keys and bills, stores and restaurants, bars and churches. I lie awake and embrace "change anxiety." I stare at the ceiling fan and wonder if the people I once met in an old city will remember me. I miss them in this moment of a few sentimental seconds. If they'll think about my time with them. If I'll see them again. If it matters. I won't sleep well tonight, but I will soon enough. I am vexed by ambivalence this evening.

New perspectives are nice. If there were a bride I'd carry her across this threshold for good luck.

It's strange. Right now in this very instance, everything is strange. Everything. Nothing is familiar. Everything is strange.

I like it. I like where I'll be at the end of this week.

You used to say, live and let live. You know you did, you know you did, you know you did...

On the Precipice of Change

Job offers are comical. Especially when there's doubt, but there's always doubt. I already like the rolling hills and the rivers even though it's cold as hell here right now. That's quite alright...in two weeks I'll be settled in a place much, much warmer. Too much thought has been given to not returning from Costa Rica. I have already blueprinted a legitimate plan in my head of how I would situate my life back in the States should I choose to go all Darwin and hop the hypothetical Beagle for an indefinite expedition. It's actually quite scary and perfectly exciting. I could make the colones.

I'm promising myself a few things. I hope to hold myself to these promises. While I furlough a few ideals long enough to have a plan established, I'm keeping them warm on the backburner. Everybody needs a plan. And a speech. You never know when you'll need a speech. I'm surrounded by hipsters...which is great...they're a funny breed...but I like it...because nobody will look at me strange when I go all weird. I liked saying good-bye to the Neon City. It was strange, but appropriate. This town is stunningly affable. I think we are going to get along very well. I see it being a long and passionate matinee love-affair. I assign nothing to expectations.

I like staring uncertainty in the face to see who blinks first. It's unsettling. It's terrific. And it's maddening. I'm happy.

Hard Charging Fool

When the drug hits the vein the strut becomes more pronounced…a gliding walk that is aided by the breeze floating through downtown. They can see the reflection in the silver spoon that was previously shined by their tongues. “I’ll show you the world tonight babe. We can see it. We all can see it.” Who says that?

I like the reflection of the beaded water after a summer rain with the neon sign showing through each drop and the prism of color cast into the night air. We all look at our reflections, admiring the selected threads, in the tinted glass with the electro-funk music emanating out into the line, beating with the rhythm of our hearts. The bass brings you to life. Everybody pays cover here. Some wallets are heavier than others, but apparently tonight we’re going to see the world.

I observe a messy Kleenex with spires of blood...”wait...this is one of my favorite songs...”

“...and it’s hard to believe the mess you’re creating. With your triggers and trash heaps, hidden and waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey, waiting for their prey.”

There’s no power of refrain on the lips of the children tonight. It is hard to believe. I don’t seem to care, no one does. The only thing on my lips is Bulleit Bourbon and it tastes mighty fine this evening. It’s a nice compliment to the Vicadin I visited with earlier. They slow-dance together in my belly, and their vibes send a sense of calm throughout my bloodstream and into my limbs. Stop my anxiety and the restlessness that is ever-apparent in a moment of sobriety.

Swaggering over are the bad boys and the bad girls. Swing-rope diving into whatever river of decadence was chosen somewhere in the neighborhood of 6:30pm to 8:30pm, when Sprint, Cingular, and Verizon digitally carried plans from one hipster’s ear to the next. Some perfected gesture of hand-shake is given and topical conversation is exchanged. A girl looks at me. Then looks at my friend. Then looks at me again. The look. I know that look. She’s a blonde though. I like brunettes. Whatever. Bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. I’m sure she’s bored. Or I’m sure she’s boring. They always are.

Next song comes on. I don’t much like this one but for the mood it’s about par.

“...life is just a lonely highway. I’m out here on the open road. I’m old enough to see behind me, but young enough to feel my soul. I don’t wanna lose you baby, and I don’t wanna be alone. Don’t wanna live my days without you, but for now I’ve got to be without ya...I’ve got a pocket full of money, and a pocket full of keys that have no bounds. But then I think of lovin'...”

Geez...play something else.

Fuck it. “What’s your name? Oh yeah? Is your last name Sarandon? It would be much cooler if it were. YOU would be much cooler if it were. What are you drinking?”

What lies outside these walls is none of our concern. We’re twisted. We’re suspended. I think to bring up the important matters that I wanted to share with my friends, but hell...would it matter? No. I can’t stop staring at the girl in the sundress in the corner. Maybe she has some answers, or would like to hear those that I can offer. Maybe she’s not crazier than a boiled barn owl. She probably is though. They always start out normal. Much to my disappointment...well, it ends up quite different. It seems my friends have retreated to the bathroom…yet again. I’ll have a cigarette.

‘Absinthe Party at the Fly Honey Warehouse?????’ I fucking love this song...who the hell played this fucking obscurity? I’m buying that kid a drink.

“...heeeeeeeeyyyy, let’s cross the sea and get some culture. Red wiiiiiiiiiiine with every meal, and absinthe after dinner. We look good side by side...walking back to the hotel. We’ve got to get something to eat and to drink yeah. We’ll find a place to stay that’s not far off the main way...we’ve got to plan our day...Rodin at the Orsay...and find a way to cram it all in before we drink hard again...let’s get a bottle and drink alone tonight.”

“Yo, have you heard that new Arcade Fire album?” “It’s pretty fucking cool. Where’d you guys go? Oh right.” Our vision as a collective is getting more rotten. Not just visual vision. Pathological vision is getting worse. In fact, if we were in an open field in Europe during the war with a Browning .30-ault-6, we’d be sawed down. We can’t see past our own noses right now. Could we ever though? I’m not sure that we could. Then it hits me. BAM!! Fucking psychosomatic distress. The brain shifts into high gear, and starts hurling violent vibrations down my spine. A pretty fucking large existential crisis starts churning behind my eyes. It always does at this point. Oh shit...we’re the middle children of history (sound familiar?). We’re likely unfortunate parallels to The Sun Also Rises. If Pete Townshend were here, I’d kill him. *Shit I had to get drunk just to write whatever this is* Smile though, don’t let them know what is going...wait, wait, wait, go have a cigarette.

That “Young Folks” song is still a fucking jam. It’s bringing me back to normalcy. Youth and young love. We stare at each other. Boys at girls, girls at boys, boys at boys, girls at girls, with hypothetical fingers crossed hoping that we intersect tonight with someone who carries with them the bucket of butterflies that our stomachs are so ready to ingest. Make me want you. We’ll flash that ever present sequence of events in our drunk, blurry heads thinking “insert YOU into such and such vision I’ve had of the perfect so and so.”

“...no one will surprise me unless you do...”

“So have you done any traveling? That’s awesome. Yeah, I’m actually going to blah in blah. I’m going with two of my blahs. It should be a blahtty, fucking blah. I KNOW!! Life’s too short to sit around and not see the blah. I think it’s so awesome that you’ve blah. So what do you do? That sounds blah. How’d you get into blah? I have a blah who blahs...small blah.”

What????

Another cigarette. Someone has a camera. This is the interestingly unique time when we do things that wouldn’t normally cross a mind of sobriety. Because who loves it better than to look over these digital images the next morning and say things like, “MAN, shit got crazy last night. You remember this girl? Wait *clicking through* remember this one? Remember what she TOLD ME? HAHAHA!! I KNOW!! Fuck man...what was her name? She told you that too??? What a crazy bitch!!! Myspace worthy? This girl was awesome...remember her? Who talked to her most of the night? I thought she was pretty cool...I talked to her for awhile. And who’s THIS dude. He just stumbled over and started throwing up gang signs in our pics?!?! What a douche. HAHAHA!!!”

We lose one of our party to a fight. They’re too busy sorting it out with the significant other. After a 45 minute text message skirmish, they have conceded and lost the battle, BUT hopefully they’ll win the war. I close out their tab for them. “Good luck with that. Hey be careful...holla at me tomorrow.”

Wow, fucking clink the beers, it’s that car commercial song...

“...see me driving down the street. I’m bored with looking good. I’ve got both hands off the wheel. The cops are coming. I’m listening to the music with no fear. You can hear it too if you’re sincere...cause I’m a...”

*Screaming* “You know this is Iggy Pop right???” “Yeah he does vocals for this song.”






In youth, there are moments that we strive for. With youthful integrity we hold onto ideals and dreams with a death grip. The sad part is that many of us have to watch them die before our eyes. The thing that is our ultimate hope is that we can hold onto those ideals and dreams with our youthfulness and somehow collide with maturity enough to see them to fruition. But mostly we watch them die. We are the kings and queens of modern society. Our cares are minute, comparatively. Only to be born in another nation. Our mothers would mean more.

Bad boy lines up and boots the game winning field goal sending me home. Fucker always wins doesn’t he? I blink and you’re gone.

Not this time. I’m convinced...slow and steady wins the race.

I love my friend’s stories. He’s a lot like me. Too much like me. Because he is me.

In Defense of Minimalism

If providence is our most powerful ally, then minimalism is it's weapon of choice.

I've come to realize through an incendiary thought process that what I'm really looking for more of is 'less,' and as recently as right now, I still believe that while I want more of things, I want less of the things that bring us less.

I've always told myself that you should never get overtly attached to something that you can't fit through your front door in a housefire. My main point in this philosophy is the specific inclusion of only the people you care about in this life, and the specific exclusion of those things that get in the way, and obstruct our paths of safety and fluidity. Easier said, "people can walk through doors better than your foolish wants and needs, and ultimately are infinitely more important." I think minimalism takes care of this philosophy.

Too often, I am completely amazed by how insipid people can be. Taking in, consuming, and returning only a fraction of the energy or worldly effort it took to acquire whatever it was they desired to acquire. This lustful ownership over things, be they ideals, material belongings, people, financial entities, or whatever...it bores me.

Some might say, "well where do you stand?" "Are you so swamped in abnegation that you don't believe that we have to claim ownership over anything?" Actually...nobody I know would say that to me, but I'm finding the holes in my own argument, and for each of them I have a rebuttal. Of course we all claim ownership over the things our heart desires. I have friends who desire any and all the world can throw their way from a material standpoint. I'm dumbfounded by it, but it's natural human existence. I have friends who take on a more ethereal approach to their ownership who not only publicly state, but privately live their lives to make the world max out it's potential and be something worthwhile. I defer to the latter of course and my preference for self-awareness is usually found in my friends of the latter. I often find myself loving my friends of the former, but end up patting them on the heads in an almost patronizing way and saying to myself, "it's okay...you can't help it...you don't know any better." Asshole-ish? Maybe. But maybe not.

Maybe some people just are more self-aware. They see the efficiencies and inefficiencies of life. Unfortunately for them, they also are privy to the catatonic despair that can creep through your synapses when you see the world from a different angle. It can become disconsolate. A feeling of hopelessness can find a fertile breeding ground in a mind of this type. People whom I've noticed, and in my opinion don't have a certain matter of self-awareness, aren't as easily victimized by the 'hopeless factor.' Their limits are met by the meeting of their desires, and at times, they become sedentary and fortify their 'position of acquisition.' This is especially true when you contemplate how easy life is when you accept things only superficially and don't utilize inquiry, completely devoid of any functional intellect. But living life that way is not really living, is it?

When you have something that satisfies you, be it worthwhile or not, your sights go no further than that object leaving you in it's grasp. Of course, this is all subjective. All of this is my opinion and the whole argument is based on what I (or anybody) would deem worthwhile or not, but my point here is to at least bring light to the dynamic. So where does that leave the seeker who is never satisfied and always looking for the next best thing? Trapped. It leaves them trapped.

Trapped to the pursuit. Which in effect, is the actual object which keeps them from fluidity. You see, we all have the things we desire in life, whether it's a new car, a successful career, a fabulous lover, a rolodex of memories, world travel, financial security, happiness, contentment, and on and on. The thing is though...nothing is guaranteed. None of these desires can be met, and all of these desires can be met. That's the beauty. Nothing is guaranteed. But my reason for supporting minimalism is in this point: Being attached to things you have no control over or to the pursuit of things that have control over you is going to make you a prisoner. Having fluidity to claim ownership over only the most basic and important necessities in life is going to give you a better chance at fulfilling these desires...and with self-awareness, you might just find that there's an acceptance out there that you couldn't have imagined.

Down and Distance

"Give me your hand," she said. "Your love-line and your life-line don't intersect." "You know what that means don't you?" No. "It means you better stop hedging your bets. That's what it means."

A swift-talking blue-blooded despot of modern society. Who takes them seriously, anyways? At some point we all do. But it's an illusion. You better stop taking things seriously if you want to be taken seriously. It gives an illusion of arrogant transcendence. I'll walk the line, whether it be my love-line, or my life-line, I might walk both of them at the same time. But maybe I'll run. Or maybe I'll pass.

Hey look at that?!?! What a lovely picture of people fulfilling their dreams! Good for them!

"At some point, you're going to have to come through in the clutch son. It won't be all the time. In fact, you'll fall flat on your face time and again, but there will be a time when you need it the most. I'm confident that you will. Are you? Because that's all that matters."

You rack up stats every day. Set records every day. Small wins and losses. All in the strategy of X's and O's; probable maneuvers; tactical excercises; accidental defeats, and improbable victories. It's all compiled and listed on the back of your card, with your picture on the front, in a striking pose. Hopefully the numbers will get you consideration for 'the Hall.' Your face (or likeness thereof), displayed proudly on the wall, beside the "Late Greats," in the Hall of Fame. Your accomplishments bested by no one.

Try to go out on top. At one point, Pete Townshend strongly believed that he wanted to go out on top. I heard him screaming about it on my radio this morning. He wanted to die before he got old. Before he burned out. I wonder if he still feels that way? I wonder if I will. I wonder who will.

When it's third and goal, and you can see your destination, and you can feel that feeling in your chest cavity, and you have the chance to impose your will on the obstacle before you, and you can earn nicknames like "Mr. October," or "The Natural"...what do you do?

You don't think. You let instinct take control, and you trust it with all you have.

Get up Mr. Tittle....



It's time for you to catch lightning in a bottle.

I Cannot Save You

From the orgies and the blow. From the inebriated "heartfelt" conversations that you have with drunk boys during the pre-dawn hours; thinking they are listening to (much less comprehending) the "real" you, when all they're really waiting for is for you to shut your mouth so they can fuck you...not understand you. From the rotating turnstile of boy, after boy, after boy, after boy who always end up letting you down in some way or another in due time; even when your eager little heart told you otherwise from the beginning. From that lonely feeling that nobody in this world truly understands you, or will accept you if they knew you, or the fact that you feel you can't give love. From the ego-centric fog that flows through the people in your surroundings, blinding them to the rest of the world and even themselves. From the self-righteous-psuedo-intellectualism doused in an overly-spoiled adherence to life during the height of their days. From the esteem-killing cycle of relationships that last only three or four months when they all turn out to be shit anyways. Much to your chagrin, the next one in line always ends up the same. Maybe if you took some time for yourself and figured out who you really are and what you really want...things might take on a different perspective. Maybe if you didn't have a consant love interest on your plate at all times...but I can't save you from your synapses. From that little roller coaster you find yourself on, reacting to the ups like they were the best, and the downs like they were the worst, not meaning what you say, and saying what you mean. From those little human idiosyncrasies that net the blame for inconsiderate selfishness. From the poisonous way you see yourself. From your hypocrisies and blinding damnation of someone else when you see their's. From the evil side of you that derails you at times and chokes the life from you. From the way you treated me and the accountability that comes with it when you're confronted by me. From your cleverly disguised lies; which you tell straight through your teeth in much the same way a rifle would shoot ice-cold bullets into the chest of another. From the hurt that your own lies cause you. From the walls you build up to keep people from them. From the people who are sour with you and have nefarious fun at your expense without you being the wiser. From your failures. From your past. From your guilt. From your inability to put it behind you and let go. From your condescension towards those you consider less capable and adaptive than you. From your elitism. From your sanctimonious bullshit. From your attention-grabbing. From the people who have hurt you over and over. I cannot save you from my anger towards you, and I cannot save you from truly knowing deep in your heart, that you felt loved at least once in your life, and that haunting little sting that resides there.

See, the problem with you is that you let the things that hurt you define you. You identify with it and you let it become your identity.

Are you mad that I'm mad? You shouldn't be. This should all be comfortably expected. I have a multitude of reasons; each of them you should already be well aware of. None of them, less substantial than the last. Is this gonna motivate you to prove me wrong? I hope so. Is it going to send you into a downward spiral of anger and resentment? Who knows. Does this validate your reasons to brush me aside? I have a pretty good guess. I'm sure you're too cool to let this bother you. Too apathetic towards these words to let them irritate you. Too collected to let it ruin your day. But the simple fact of the matter is, I've been too nice to you. I'm putting many things behind me in this time, the least of which is you.

I cannot save you from yourself. And I will not try.

You don't know everything, angry little girl.

I Need a New Muse

My old one is busted. I think I've squeezed every last drop from that rag. I'm glad that my surroundings are about to change. I'm tired of this town and the ghosts who reside here. They've worn out their welcome with me. The neon buildings with their monolith presence and the times I've gone in and out of them rub through straight to the nerve now. It gives me a headache and it's worn me out. I'm tired of lying to myself, but most of all believing them. This road leads to nowhere which is why I'm making a sharp detour to the south. Brand new chance in a brand new town. I've got my pick axe, my pail, and my polishing cloth. I'm gonna pan the rivers for a new muse. I'm going to burrow in the sides of the mountains for a jewel that shines a little brighter and is more geometrically sound. I'll see where that gets me, if anywhere. I've said this all before...

C-Word

My boss is a "C-word." I don't use that word often. I reserve it for a select few. It's like the silver bullet of cuss words. Particularly effective if you've been cussing at werewolves, or perhaps Dracula. But yeah, my boss...she's a C-word. Not the one who's repeatedly told me that she wants to have sex with me...she's cool. It's the other one. I'm pretty sure she has a dong, and fornicates her husband's anus with it.

If one were to tell me that after I had departed that she caught and lost a raging bout with gonorrhea of the face, I think my reaction would be somewhat on par with this:

"Good."




*fist-pump following shortly thereafter*

Hemingway = Genius

This is my favorite short-story from Hemingway.

Itsa good....

Hills Like White Elephants
By Ernest Hemingway


The hills across the valley of the Ebro were long and white. On this side there was no shade and no trees and the station was between two lines of rails in the sun. Close against the side of the station there was the warm shadow of the building and a curtain, made of strings of bamboo beads, hung across the open door into the bar, to keep out flies. The American and the girl with him sat at a table in the shade, outside the building. It was very hot and the express from Barcelona would come in forty minutes. It stopped at this junction for two minutes and went to Madrid.

'What should we drink?' the girl asked. She had taken off her hat and put it on the table.

'It's pretty hot,' the man said.

'Let's drink beer.'

'Dos cervezas,' the man said into the curtain.

'Big ones?' a woman asked from the doorway.

'Yes. Two big ones.'

The woman brought two glasses of beer and two felt pads. She put the felt pads and the beer glass on the table and looked at the man and the girl. The girl was looking off at the line of hills. They were white in the sun and the country was brown and dry.

'They look like white elephants,' she said.

'I've never seen one,' the man drank his beer.

'No, you wouldn't have.'

'I might have,' the man said. 'Just because you say I wouldn't have doesn't prove anything.'

The girl looked at the bead curtain. 'They've painted something on it,' she said. 'What does it say?'

'Anis del Toro. It's a drink.'

'Could we try it?'

The man called 'Listen' through the curtain. The woman came out from the bar.

'Four reales.' 'We want two Anis del Toro.'

'With water?'

'Do you want it with water?'

'I don't know,' the girl said. 'Is it good with water?'

'It's all right.'

'You want them with water?' asked the woman.

'Yes, with water.'

'It tastes like liquorice,' the girl said and put the glass down.

'That's the way with everything.'

'Yes,' said the girl. 'Everything tastes of liquorice. Especially all the things you've waited so long for, like absinthe.'

'Oh, cut it out.'

'You started it,' the girl said. 'I was being amused. I was having a fine time.'

'Well, let's try and have a fine time.'

'All right. I was trying. I said the mountains looked like white elephants. Wasn't that bright?'

'That was bright.'

'I wanted to try this new drink. That's all we do, isn't it - look at things and try new drinks?'

'I guess so.'

The girl looked across at the hills.

'They're lovely hills,' she said. 'They don't really look like white elephants. I just meant the colouring of their skin through the trees.'

'Should we have another drink?'

'All right.'

The warm wind blew the bead curtain against the table.

'The beer's nice and cool,' the man said.

'It's lovely,' the girl said.

'It's really an awfully simple operation, Jig,' the man said. 'It's not really an operation at all.'

The girl looked at the ground the table legs rested on.

'I know you wouldn't mind it, Jig. It's really not anything. It's just to let the air in.'

The girl did not say anything.

'I'll go with you and I'll stay with you all the time. They just let the air in and then it's all perfectly natural.'

'Then what will we do afterwards?'

'We'll be fine afterwards. Just like we were before.'

'What makes you think so?'

'That's the only thing that bothers us. It's the only thing that's made us unhappy.'

The girl looked at the bead curtain, put her hand out and took hold of two of the strings of beads.

'And you think then we'll be all right and be happy.'

'I know we will. Yon don't have to be afraid. I've known lots of people that have done it.'

'So have I,' said the girl. 'And afterwards they were all so happy.'

'Well,' the man said, 'if you don't want to you don't have to. I wouldn't have you do it if you didn't want to. But I know it's perfectly simple.'

'And you really want to?'

'I think it's the best thing to do. But I don't want you to do it if you don't really want to.'

'And if I do it you'll be happy and things will be like they were and you'll love me?'

'I love you now. You know I love you.'

'I know. But if I do it, then it will be nice again if I say things are like white elephants, and you'll like it?'

'I'll love it. I love it now but I just can't think about it. You know how I get when I worry.'

'If I do it you won't ever worry?'

'I won't worry about that because it's perfectly simple.'

'Then I'll do it. Because I don't care about me.'

'What do you mean?'

'I don't care about me.'

'Well, I care about you.'

'Oh, yes. But I don't care about me. And I'll do it and then everything will be fine.'

'I don't want you to do it if you feel that way.'

The girl stood up and walked to the end of the station. Across, on the other side, were fields of grain and trees along the banks of the Ebro. Far away, beyond the river, were mountains. The shadow of a cloud moved across the field of grain and she saw the river through the trees.

'And we could have all this,' she said. 'And we could have everything and every day we make it more impossible.'

'What did you say?'

'I said we could have everything.'

'No, we can't.'

'We can have the whole world.'

'No, we can't.'

'We can go everywhere.'

'No, we can't. It isn't ours any more.'

'It's ours.'

'No, it isn't. And once they take it away, you never get it back.'

'But they haven't taken it away.'

'We'll wait and see.'

'Come on back in the shade,' he said. 'You mustn't feel that way.'

'I don't feel any way,' the girl said. 'I just know things.'

'I don't want you to do anything that you don't want to do -'

'Nor that isn't good for me,' she said. 'I know. Could we have another beer?'

'All right. But you've got to realize - '

'I realize,' the girl said. 'Can't we maybe stop talking?'

They sat down at the table and the girl looked across at the hills on the dry side of the valley and the man looked at her and at the table.

'You've got to realize,' he said, ' that I don't want you to do it if you don't want to. I'm perfectly willing to go through with it if it means anything to you.'

'Doesn't it mean anything to you? We could get along.'

'Of course it does. But I don't want anybody but you. I don't want anyone else. And I know it's perfectly simple.'

'Yes, you know it's perfectly simple.'

'It's all right for you to say that, but I do know it.'

'Would you do something for me now?'

'I'd do anything for you.'

'Would you please please please please please please please stop talking?'

He did not say anything but looked at the bags against the wall of the station. There were labels on them from all the hotels where they had spent nights.

'But I don't want you to,' he said, 'I don't care anything about it.'

'I'll scream,' the girl said.

The woman came out through the curtains with two glasses of beer and put them down on the damp felt pads. 'The train comes in five minutes,' she said.

'What did she say?' asked the girl.

'That the train is coming in five minutes.'

The girl smiled brightly at the woman, to thank her.

'I'd better take the bags over to the other side of the station,' the man said. She smiled at him.

'All right. Then come back and we'll finish the beer.'

He picked up the two heavy bags and carried them around the station to the other tracks. He looked up the tracks but could not see the train. Coming back, he walked through the bar-room, where people waiting for the train were drinking. He drank an Anis at the bar and looked at the people. They were all waiting reasonably for the train. He went out through the bead curtain. She was sitting at the table and smiled at him.

'Do you feel better?' he asked.

'I feel fine,' she said. 'There's nothing wrong with me. I feel fine.'

I Have A Bleeding Heart...and you're fucking addicted to it

I'm gonna use it. I'm not gonna address it. I'm an antioxidant farm with the amount of chemicals producing love in my heart and the wine mixed in. I stare at that goddamned picture way too much. Sometimes I want to make you cry. But mostly just laugh. You should watch yourself cry in the mirror. I think everybody should do that once in their lives. It's haunting. I just wanna laugh.

I'm laughing at myself right now.

Our Secrets are the Same

And they're like two nylon ropes unraveling at the ends. We use a lighter to singe the ends to keep them from being frayed. Each little strand is one big secret. The rope gets wrapped around your neck, and vision gets blurry with a shortness of breath. Our secrets choke us, and restrict us. To tie them in knots is a great defense to keep people from straightening them out...figuring them out. That can't happen. When it's coiled up it's easier to carry, because I hate it when I trip on the loose end. Maybe my rope is longer, but maybe not.

An uncorked bottle of wine existed 1 hour ago, but it has since disappeared. As well as these menthol cigarettes mysteriously left here overnight. Just observations. Cognitive dissonance is masked hilarity.

But yeah, they're the same.

I'm there like a polar bear

I'm officially going to Costa Rica in early 2007. I'm not sure I'll come back. I give it 50/50 at this point. Moving sucks.

General Disdain With Sweeping Reform

Let me preface this with a few points here.

1) I'm not going to cite certain instances, or factual numbers gathered by the media, because for any point that I give you a number, you can come back with another number or figure to totally negate what I'm saying. We can go back and forth in that arena for days, and I don't have neither the patience nor the desire to get into a pissing contest of political knowledge. I don't care what you know, and you don't care what I know.

2) I'm also not taking sides. From a guy who could be the poster boy of political inaction and deserves to be berated for his lack of participation in our most basic of democratic rights, I'm aware of my apathy....and with it my choice to divert allegiance to either of the sorry excuses for political parties that we have at our disposal. So lay off of me. I'm self-aware of my laziness and indifference. Plus, nobody likes a finger pointer. More on that in a moment.

It's the political season and it's a time when names like Nancy Pelosi, Rick Perry, Barak Obama, and various sundry political figurines come into our collective consciousness. To be honest, I don't care much for any and all of the names. It's time for the posturing, the flexing of goals attained in previous terms, the freak-sideshows like Kinky Friedman (following in the blundering footsteps of Ventura, and Schwarzeneggar), the (and I cringe when I hear this) loud bellowing of "sweeping reform," and the general lies and casting of judgement that comes with this oh so exciting time.

Now, I appreciate it when people get passionate about whatever moral virtue they stand behind, or whatever whistleblowing figurehead shouts out wrongdoing of his supposed enemies in the political arena giving a passionate and well-informed argument for why he is in fact right (and most likely, in his opinion smarter and more intellectual), but I've got a problem with the fact that we can't seem to see the forest from the trees.

Let me sum this up really quick so you's know where I stand:

1) I agree with state's rights. What's good for Maine, is not good for Arizona. What's good for California, is not good for Connecticut...so on and so forth.

2) The less the federal government governs, the better. Now before you blow a gasket, hear me out. I don't mean that the government gets a free pass and all of societies advancements are left on the shoulders of it's citizens. What I'm saying is, to meet all of our interests, you can't make generalized decisions. What ends up happening in the course of pleasing everyone is that you segregate everyone. It's a retroactive outcome. The less the federal government is telling you what to do, the more freedom you have to do what you want to do. How you make your money, how you live your life, who you live your life with, who or what you worship. A government that has the decency to respect the American people by staying out of their lives. I don't want to use the "C" word (ends with "-ism") here, but we all know about it. It's a wonderful idea. There's only one problem with it though. It doesn't work.

We hear about sweeping political reform every time these elections come around. Right now we're hearing about how the Democrats are hoping to "turn the tide," and " seize the House and Senate."

The problem with it though, is that there isn't any sweeping reform. Just short of wars, natural disasters, and Acts of God we don't see any noticeable change....and that's change out of necessity. Maybe our perspective is limited until we can look back under the critical eye of history, but your measured in the times you live, sorta like "environment determines your reality" type shit. When was the last time we had major advancement (note I didn't say "change"...we've had that...in the other direction) in our political environment? Are we so past the learning curve that we've overdrawn the "idea bank" in this lovely governed nation of ours?

My problem with the two-party system could be a lengthy discussion that will not take place in this mish-mash of paragraphs about American politcal inadequacies. I'm only making observations, but I'll sum it up really quick-like. The two-party system is so entrenched in our government that I don't expect I will ever see a legitimate threat to it in my lifetime. As good as it is to be king, it's better to share the crown with your queen than to relinquish it altogether. They will fight tooth and nail to remain in power, and what's even more twisted is that they will fight tooth and nail to protect the other. Sure, they talk and tell of differing ideals and social systems and how they affect the nation...how their differing ideas will benefit the voting public, making it your "right" to choose; how they work via "bi-partisan" committees to solve the pressing social issues as a team, like some kind of boy-scout troupe. Fuck that. Every single one of them is a trained liar and deceiver of honest, unique, hard-working Americans. Now, now...I'm sure they all started because somewhere in their youthful heart they thought they could "make a difference," but after the mind-numbing bureacracy, and the life-polishing money was heaved into their pockets, I think those ideals became a little less sharp and that ache in the belly to make the world a better place resides somewhere in the back of a Mercedes C-Class.

This all sounds completely cynnical, and I can see how my little thesis here could be critiqued from every angle. I'm very well-aware of all of this. Like I said, you could pull numbers that show just how many starving tree-ridden kittens were pulled from trees by our government and how much money was generated, blahhty, blahhty, blahhhty, friggen blah.

The fact of the matter is...in a generalized way, I don't think our government is living up to it's potential...much less it's expectations. I think the two-party system has something to do with this. I say make a change, before we're forced to change it for you. The possiblities in that scenario are quite unnerving.

I Caught the Travel Bug

...and I have a passport.

Oh, and my cousin is doing quantitative research on racoons.

That is all.

Let's drink.

"Broken Records of Misplaced Desire"

Eventually every dog ceases to chase his tail. My only hope is that one day I’m fortunate enough to do the same. Lovely…

I remember a little black book. I remember being referenced in this book. Singularly, this little black book gave me valuable insight that I am still trying to process to this very day. The words in it made me question who I was and how I was viewed by those around me. Questioning the sanity of those involved doesn't even begin to do the processing of information justice. That book led to so many different destinations, but they were all deceiving paths. You see, the only real destination it led me to was a place I could never find, nor ever will. I'm seeing now that its fortunate that I'm being prohibited passage to that true destination. The written word can be a powerful tool. There's no facial expressions to hide behind, or vocal variations to throw you off. There's no patterned mode of delivery that audible language can help smuggle in. It's there in front of you...how you were meant to read it...how you are perceived...how you are treated...where you stand.

Call a man a coward if you want to crush him. Call him a coward even if you're not sure he is one or not. Validity be damned. What are the measures you measure him against to bring that conclusion? Perhaps it's your own valiant heroism? Perhaps.

Even though I no longer read the words in the book, there are still words that are strikingly familiar. Some that are audible and some that are written. Round and round we go. We'll meet at the ball, dance this dance, pour our drinks on each others heads, leave in a screaming fit of passion, throwing rage to the wind, and meet in a few months to do it all over again. In some circles I suppose this is considered pleasant, or God forbid...even normal.

Well, I've been writing a few words myself. Deprogramming is what I call this little process of mine. My words might be mistaken as sloven...to be perfectly honest. But they're mine. You see, I love words. I love the way they express your emotions and sometimes your actions. But I choose mine wisely. I realize the formidable consequences words can have. While they look like and sound like little symbols and syllables, they actually carry quite a heavy significance. Tossing them around like some kite being tossed in the winds of March is sometimes unwise. I'm fortunate enough to have a filter in my head that taps the brakes when there are certain words running the gamut in there, waiting to get out. A little red light comes on as they forcefully rear-end each other, stand up and look around and say things like, "maybe we shouldn't head outta here like this...all frantic-like...someone could mistake us for what he really means. Let's rearrange and try this again...slower."

I've learned a valuable lesson from this type of stricture, because well...when you don't have that filter and you say things that may not necessarily be what you mean...well, you have to find more and more and more and more and more and more words to disinfect the words that came out smothered in subterfuge. Eventually, you don't even know what you meant.

The little black book taught me that.

Inspired

A heavy foot on the accelerator gives you tunnel vision. When there is nothing left around you, is when you find your purpose. Once you figure that out, everything else becomes more dull. The contrast in your line of sight lies with your purpose. Everything else takes a back seat. It's the hardest thing in the world to find purpose, and even if you're lucky enough to find it, you try to talk yourself out of it over and over again. Is it really this? It can't be....right? Who knows? That's the way I see it. Justification doesn't come easy. Especially for a restless soul. With whatever pains I have to endure to get to that end, I'm willing to sign up. With purpose comes validity. With validity comes silence. Things make sense. In the way they're supposed to make sense.

Put the houses in a row, on the streets we used to know. The street leads to wherever you want it to. For a boy with unconventional ambition, that's a pretty sight...albeit scary. Without revealing too much, I'm waiting for Austin. Patiently.

Slayed by random acts of kindness...

It's sometimes amazing to me how life shows you how good it can actually be. When all practicality is taken from motivation, it leaves you wondering, "how am I this fortunate?" When you open a mailbox and the surprise of your day rests inside, it's a good feeling. When you're in the position to help someone in need, and not only recognize that opportunity, but follow through with it...well, that's a good feeling too. You always hear folks speak of how there are still good people and how, generally, there is still good left in this world. We sometimes find ourselves questioning that notion. But times such as these shine a floodlight on that observation. Even when the the bricks in the walls seem to be losing their mortar and falling from every which angle, it's the simplest things that remind you of why every breath is a blessing. Why every moment holds it's own weight in the infinite moments of our lives.

"To do something that matters." That's the best quote I've heard in months. I feel that's been a guiding light in my life. To do something that matters. What does that mean? It means something different to every person, but when you do something that matters, you know it. When something is done for you that matters, you know it. Without hesitation, you know it. The equation is different for every person, but the feeling is the same. Do something that matters. These matters are the matters of the world. They are the rise and fall of the sun every day. They are the rain that sprouts the seeds. They are fortitude burning in your belly. They are the climax of the novel. They are the one-liner in the movie. They are the tide that smooths the sand. They are the thaw of the cold winter snow. They are the lips of lovers. They are the presence of God. They are what we are, and with out them, nothing matters.

I am blessed with so many people in my life who are doing things that matter. I try daily to be one of them. Those relationships are the most valuable possession I own.

Sometimes it causes me to tremble...

The world is waking up around me and all I can think of is the dreams. When you bleed blue, it's hard to explain your ideals. She bandages my wounds when she lays next to me and asks me why my mind is so heavy. There's no way for her to understand. Even when I don't understand. She asks if she can carry some of the load, but she can't. The thought is there though. I suppose that's enough.

Swinging a revolver around makes people nervous. It makes it tough to approach somebody. Especially when it's in a foreign land, out of your comfort zone...on a date with uneasiness. Everything is welcomed on American soil. Nothing is ever ill-conceived...at least not in the arena of self-fulfillment. Even in the hotels you feel at home. I see her eyes squint through the smoke at the party, while she tries to make it known that she's not looking at me. She knows that I know, and I know what she knows. It's a fun little game. Maybe.

It seems to be a "boomerang effect" thought. You throw it away, out of sight, but the tricky bastard always seems to find it's way home. Like an albatross with an internal compass. I wonder if you can lose yourself in the mass. In New York, masses of people. In Montana, mass of sky. In Arizona, mass of sand dunes. Colorado, mountains. Florida, ocean. California, assholes. Texas, ignorance. So on and so forth.

Why is as simple and stupid as it is complicated and impossible. Wasted hours in some high-rise office building, banging away on a keyboard. The Spanish Conquistador never came close to this. The Decembrist never came close to this. Their wars were fought outside of their minds. Oh how fortunate.

I Think MySpace is Fucking Stupid

You know, I've been thinking. I wonder to myself, (pre-2003) how people ages 20-32, communicated with each other, being that MySpace/Text Messaging/Emailing/etc., etc. have become so ingrained in our social networks. The funny thing is, MySpace isn't really about other people. It's about you. It's in the friggen' name. MY - Space. "Look at me, I'm unique, my life is full of excitment. I have a higher existence and consequently my experiences are far suprerior to your's...and here's pictorial proof of every one of those points." Space. It's all vanity-induced. The mass-gathering of "friends," the pictures, the poses, the digital vomit that comes off our cameras from every weekend, or drunken party we attend. Shit, I'm guilty of it too. I always post pictures of my latest trip, or stupid weekend excursion for the world to see. Yet, I understand the irony of self-promotion. Nobody cares....nobody but me for mine, and nobody but you for yours. In fact, I would go so far as to say that I hate it. Much like my hatred for American television. I have gone far beyond seeing past what TV does to a person. Makes you mindless, dumbfounded, staggering drones. Blathering on about who fucks who on Desperate Housewives, or who has the most "talent" in some ridiculous phone-in-popularity-contest-reality-show. What does it really matter? Same with MySpace...what the fuck does it really matter? All it does is make us egocentric, internally-driven robots only concerned with further perpetuating our "online persona" (the most important of all...I mean, for God's sake...who wants to find out who the real person is behind that profile pic...definitely not me), and giving us a faux reality of who a person really is. When the reality couldn't be any further from what's posted on the bulletin board. We all shit in toilets and wipe our asses the same. We all eat too much or too little, we all cry when we're weak, we're all jealous of something or somebody, we all want more money, we all undercut people, love people, have times of happiness and sadness, puke when we've drank too much, smell bad when we don't shower, use credit cards too much, think of weird shit in our weird little brains, and all the other things that make us connected on so many levels.

You see one of the problems I see with MySpace is actually a splintered effect of a much larger underlying problem with society in general. We all HAVE to be unique. Uniqueness is a fucking commodity nowdays, and the weirder you are the better. The more independent from status quo living, or what we deem to be status quo living, the better. But what the fuck is the status quo anymore? We're hit over the head every day, from every which angle, from every form and type of medium with an extreme overload of information. It's too much information to process. We get all scatter-brained. So we force things out and force ourselves up to be louder than the noise. To be noticed. Before we know it, we're balancing ourselves on our own pedestal screaming, "LOOK AT ME! I'M A PAINTER/MUSICIAN/SURFER/BALL PLAYER/SEX KITTEN/COMEDIAN/RICH GUY/ACTRESS/BULLSHIT AFTER BULLSHIT. PLEASE LOOK AT ME!!!! PLLLLLLLLLLLLEEEEEAAAAAASSSSSSSSEEEEEE!!!!!"

You see, back in the old days. Like say the pre-internet/9-11 days....we got to know somebody with our own senses. We touched them, we listened to them, we saw them (in person), we heard about their weekends, their trips, their stories, and if we were lucky enough, we even gained some insight on their inner monologue, instead of reading it on some stupid blog or bulletin. Yes, I realize the irony at play here. But, after the contact with that person, if they were a piece of shit, we knew they were a piece of shit. If they were a lovely person that you'd love to date if only they weren't married, then you knew they were a lovely person that you'd love to date if only they weren't married. But we did it with a trial by fire.

When I move to Austin, a city chock full of "I don't really give a shit" attitude, I think (know wait, I know) I'm going to bury my MySpace profile six-feet in the ground. Then, if I want someone to know about me or what I do, or have done, or will do...well, I'll fucking call them and have dinner. I might even ask them about themselves.

And I'll try to be as humble as possible.