No matter how clever you think you are, there will always be somebody who will turn your reason upside-down. The most lucid thought that you've got beneath your hat is an enigma to them and there's no changing that.
You're not wrong and they're not correct; you're simply on different planets.
Comprende?
At this point you've perhaps construed the fact that I'm engaged in the most philosophical of pursuits, and one of the oldest.
Man and Woman.
They go together like ribs and body-blows. No biblical pun intended...
It is here that I cannot help but surmise, now, the possibility that some men are women, and that some women are men; kinda like 'body-snatchers' style madness.
It all adds up. Could they all be so dilluded into believing that none of this matters; and, who are they? Could it be that we are they, and that we haven't given one another the time of day for the span of Mayan years and years?
The idea of men and women being some sort of separate species is ludicrous.
That sounds, to me, like a weak-ass disclaimer that might've been put into place in order to keep people from feeling obligated to understand our other halves. We are not different species, we are part of an equation; it is our obligation to struggle toward the conclusion without assuming the conclusion.
It seems to me that all has become more fluid as the world advances; the colors have bled together and nothing is as it was and nothing will ever be the same.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Promises to Keep...
I've got a bottle of red sitting in a shady hiding spot. If it were on the table right now where I could see it I'm afraid it would turn into a mere bottle of air before you could say, 'alcoholic.' I've made a deal with myself that keeps me from breaking into the booze before sundown; the lease on that one will be good and canceled by April at the latest...
Meanwhile, I bribe myself to get all my shit taken care of, during the day, instead of getting cacked as soon as the first twitches begin to whisper their dark message to my liver; "you're impervious to cirrhosis, yesssssss...."
I wanna drink!
'I'll take out the recycling first.'
Now can we drink?
'Er, those dishes need to be done.'
Dishes are more fun wiv a bit o' sauce...
'After.'
Howboutnow?
'I should make something to eat. Maybe take a vitamin or some such shit.'
Round and round we go; me and the thirsty little imp, anxiously shuffling it's feet on my shoulder. Doin' the imp equivalent of the pee-pee dance it goes, and the other shoulder is suspiciously vacant.
The street-lamps have come to life outside and the imp has transformed into a dragon, uncurling and ravenous, eager to drain the life-blood of it's prey...
Meanwhile, I bribe myself to get all my shit taken care of, during the day, instead of getting cacked as soon as the first twitches begin to whisper their dark message to my liver; "you're impervious to cirrhosis, yesssssss...."
I wanna drink!
'I'll take out the recycling first.'
Now can we drink?
'Er, those dishes need to be done.'
Dishes are more fun wiv a bit o' sauce...
'After.'
Howboutnow?
'I should make something to eat. Maybe take a vitamin or some such shit.'
Round and round we go; me and the thirsty little imp, anxiously shuffling it's feet on my shoulder. Doin' the imp equivalent of the pee-pee dance it goes, and the other shoulder is suspiciously vacant.
The street-lamps have come to life outside and the imp has transformed into a dragon, uncurling and ravenous, eager to drain the life-blood of it's prey...
Friday, November 28, 2008
magma-born bacteria
Darlings! I've missed you so!
I am opening the velvet curtains of my misery, very soon now. For those of you that are unfamiliar with the disfiguring effects of grief and woe; I have a special gift for you. You freaks out there with too much familiarity with grief; it will never end. Get over not being able to get over it!
I am very close to publishing my impressions of standing around the death-bed of my late father. It's not going to be pretty. I knew him before he was an urn. Think of the most vital person that you've ever known and summon the smart part of your brain that understands what a detriment it is to lose contact with the major elements that shook and shaped you.
If you cannot cry on command then I don't think you're paying attention.
Or, maybe, you need to loosen up abit... It's only going to get uglier, kids... Have a laugh...
Did you catch the little up-date that tells us that there is a new microbe that lives inside of thrushing, MAGMA. Apparently, there are single-cell organisms swimming around inside of molten rock. If you ever thought that Darwin was your friend, think again...
I am opening the velvet curtains of my misery, very soon now. For those of you that are unfamiliar with the disfiguring effects of grief and woe; I have a special gift for you. You freaks out there with too much familiarity with grief; it will never end. Get over not being able to get over it!
I am very close to publishing my impressions of standing around the death-bed of my late father. It's not going to be pretty. I knew him before he was an urn. Think of the most vital person that you've ever known and summon the smart part of your brain that understands what a detriment it is to lose contact with the major elements that shook and shaped you.
If you cannot cry on command then I don't think you're paying attention.
Or, maybe, you need to loosen up abit... It's only going to get uglier, kids... Have a laugh...
Did you catch the little up-date that tells us that there is a new microbe that lives inside of thrushing, MAGMA. Apparently, there are single-cell organisms swimming around inside of molten rock. If you ever thought that Darwin was your friend, think again...
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
Life Sucks
Okay, I admit it. I'm on unemployment. I live in Oregon and I'm job-seeking but times are hard for someone with skills as limited as mine, not to mention my drop-out status, and I'm losing hope.
I went to the ATM to withdraw my weekly $ and it said 'insufficient funds,' to me. I thought, 'That's not funny! I haven't even touched my funds yet. WTF?!'
I went home to check my account on-line and, guess what? The 'relia-card' web-site that assures me 5star service while I try to get back on my feet tells me that I made a $100 dollar withdrawal this afternoon at exactly the same time that I attempted to collect that money.
I have no money.
Happy mutherfuckin' Thanksgiving! Yay! Every time I need to collect money during even the meekest of holidays it seems that I'm fed another trail-mix turd to eat before I can get another inoculation of that self-sustaining American Dollar.
Job-hunting wouldn't be difficult enough without having to deal with this crap so I feel very grateful. I need to keep sharp, somehow, right?
The cherry on top would be a shot-gun blast to my face and then I could go to that ugly-suicide heaven with all of the other interesting people who suspected that this 'living on Earth' thing wasn't as hip as we've been led to believe/hope.
I can only think of the immortal words: 'Suicide is the highest form of self-criticism.'
I'm tempted... Don't worry. From all indication, my true calling is to be destitute and cold. I'll be there soon...
I can't wait to see what happens, come Christmas!
I went to the ATM to withdraw my weekly $ and it said 'insufficient funds,' to me. I thought, 'That's not funny! I haven't even touched my funds yet. WTF?!'
I went home to check my account on-line and, guess what? The 'relia-card' web-site that assures me 5star service while I try to get back on my feet tells me that I made a $100 dollar withdrawal this afternoon at exactly the same time that I attempted to collect that money.
I have no money.
Happy mutherfuckin' Thanksgiving! Yay! Every time I need to collect money during even the meekest of holidays it seems that I'm fed another trail-mix turd to eat before I can get another inoculation of that self-sustaining American Dollar.
Job-hunting wouldn't be difficult enough without having to deal with this crap so I feel very grateful. I need to keep sharp, somehow, right?
The cherry on top would be a shot-gun blast to my face and then I could go to that ugly-suicide heaven with all of the other interesting people who suspected that this 'living on Earth' thing wasn't as hip as we've been led to believe/hope.
I can only think of the immortal words: 'Suicide is the highest form of self-criticism.'
I'm tempted... Don't worry. From all indication, my true calling is to be destitute and cold. I'll be there soon...
I can't wait to see what happens, come Christmas!
A Very Ramsey Thanksgiving
Have you ever heard of the show Hell's Kitchen or Kitchen Nightmares?
Chef Ramsey is a badass and I love his work but I can't help daydreaming of a SNL, Thanksgiving special where he treats his family dinner like an episode of Kitchen Nightmares.
Enter, Chef Ramsey: It's biting cold outside and he pulls his collar up to protect himself from flurries of snow. Outside of his mother's house he turns around to face the camera and speaks.
"Well, let's see. Another town, the same shit."
He opens the door and is embraced by the warmth of firelight and a mess of friendly faces.
With a kindly salutation he immediately makes his way to the candle-lit dining table. No one else has sat down yet but he is demanding items from the 'menu' as though he were in a restaurant or cafe.
"Lessee. I would like equal parts light-meat and dark-meat. Mashed potatoes and gravy, and a slice of honeyed ham. I want a fresh roll with butter, and a scoop of fresh stuffing. Don't forget the sweet-potatoes. Thanks."
His mother is wringing her hands nervously in her apron and it is evident from her expression that she is at a loss for words. Her eyes shift back and forth but she finds no help from the family members that have crowded around the door to the kitchen to get a better view.
"Honey? Is this...?," a pleading look on her face.
"There's no problem is there?" Chef Ramsey shoots her an inquiring look, eye-brow arched.
"No. No problem dear. I... I'll be right back."
"Oh, and cranberry sauce, please. Thanks."
She gingerly navigates the pots, pans, and platters to construct his plate.
"You must be starved." She manages a weak smile; her eyes quest toward his in an effort to descry the meaning of his strange behavior but see only a stranger wearing her son's features.
Brandishing knife and fork, Ramsey takes a whack at the turkey. Dipping a tidbit of birdflesh into a pool of gravy he brings it to his mouth and begins to chew VERY slowly. His brow furrows as he tries to swallow what appears to have the attributes of a tennis-ball.
Pushing away from the table the chair he's sitting on makes the requisite dragging sound across the wooden floor and he moves mechanically to the counter and grabs a glass and a bottle of Pinot. After re-seating himself he pours himself an over-full glass of Pinot and quaffs it like a medieval serf after a long day of hard labor.
He slowly grabs his fork and makes an attempt at the stuffing.
Before you can say 'hurk' he's whipped the linen napkin from his collar, arched his back like a cat and begun to make gagging noises.
Staring at his mother in disbelief and only slightly concealed revulsion he stands up and wipes the corners of his mouth with his sleeve.
"I think I've had enough. You call this Thanksgiving dinner? I wouldn't feed this shit to a dog!"
She visibly shrinks before his ire and begins to splutter. "John! You've always loved Thanksgiving dinner here. What's the matter with you?!"
He's just finished downing another glass of Pinot and has begun rooting through the steaming pots and pans on the stove-top.
"The name's Ramsey. Chef Ramsey. What have we here?" Upon opening the fridge, he scowls and begins to take out unmarked containers. "How long has this been in the refrigerator? How long?"
"Uh, two days, I think?"
The onlooking family is nervously shuffling their feet and avoiding eye-contact with the strange man who appears to be dissecting their refrigerator.
"Disgusting! Utterly foul!" He reaches way back into the cooling unit and withdraws a Tupperware container. Peeling away the lid he sees an indecipherable lump of dessicated vegetable-matter and throws the little stink-package into the kitchen sink, gagging a bit.
This seems to call for another glass of wine and before you can say 'lush' it's been emptied.
"Thishas alll gotta go!" He stumbles around to the cupboard where the trash-bags are kept, not realizing that the upper cupboard is open and before you can say 'bam!' he's bonked his melon on said cupboard and is lying unconscious on his back in the middle of the kitchen floor.
His poor mother is fighting back tears of confusion and anger.
"Should we call the Police?," asks Ramsey's slightly balding, paunch-bellied cousin.
"He just hasn't been the same since he got his fame," mutters his niece.
"He probably just needs to sleep it off. He's been acting a bit strange since that 'nightmares' show. Lay him on his back so he doesn't choke on his own vomit..."
Chef Ramsey is a badass and I love his work but I can't help daydreaming of a SNL, Thanksgiving special where he treats his family dinner like an episode of Kitchen Nightmares.
Enter, Chef Ramsey: It's biting cold outside and he pulls his collar up to protect himself from flurries of snow. Outside of his mother's house he turns around to face the camera and speaks.
"Well, let's see. Another town, the same shit."
He opens the door and is embraced by the warmth of firelight and a mess of friendly faces.
With a kindly salutation he immediately makes his way to the candle-lit dining table. No one else has sat down yet but he is demanding items from the 'menu' as though he were in a restaurant or cafe.
"Lessee. I would like equal parts light-meat and dark-meat. Mashed potatoes and gravy, and a slice of honeyed ham. I want a fresh roll with butter, and a scoop of fresh stuffing. Don't forget the sweet-potatoes. Thanks."
His mother is wringing her hands nervously in her apron and it is evident from her expression that she is at a loss for words. Her eyes shift back and forth but she finds no help from the family members that have crowded around the door to the kitchen to get a better view.
"Honey? Is this...?," a pleading look on her face.
"There's no problem is there?" Chef Ramsey shoots her an inquiring look, eye-brow arched.
"No. No problem dear. I... I'll be right back."
"Oh, and cranberry sauce, please. Thanks."
She gingerly navigates the pots, pans, and platters to construct his plate.
"You must be starved." She manages a weak smile; her eyes quest toward his in an effort to descry the meaning of his strange behavior but see only a stranger wearing her son's features.
Brandishing knife and fork, Ramsey takes a whack at the turkey. Dipping a tidbit of birdflesh into a pool of gravy he brings it to his mouth and begins to chew VERY slowly. His brow furrows as he tries to swallow what appears to have the attributes of a tennis-ball.
Pushing away from the table the chair he's sitting on makes the requisite dragging sound across the wooden floor and he moves mechanically to the counter and grabs a glass and a bottle of Pinot. After re-seating himself he pours himself an over-full glass of Pinot and quaffs it like a medieval serf after a long day of hard labor.
He slowly grabs his fork and makes an attempt at the stuffing.
Before you can say 'hurk' he's whipped the linen napkin from his collar, arched his back like a cat and begun to make gagging noises.
Staring at his mother in disbelief and only slightly concealed revulsion he stands up and wipes the corners of his mouth with his sleeve.
"I think I've had enough. You call this Thanksgiving dinner? I wouldn't feed this shit to a dog!"
She visibly shrinks before his ire and begins to splutter. "John! You've always loved Thanksgiving dinner here. What's the matter with you?!"
He's just finished downing another glass of Pinot and has begun rooting through the steaming pots and pans on the stove-top.
"The name's Ramsey. Chef Ramsey. What have we here?" Upon opening the fridge, he scowls and begins to take out unmarked containers. "How long has this been in the refrigerator? How long?"
"Uh, two days, I think?"
The onlooking family is nervously shuffling their feet and avoiding eye-contact with the strange man who appears to be dissecting their refrigerator.
"Disgusting! Utterly foul!" He reaches way back into the cooling unit and withdraws a Tupperware container. Peeling away the lid he sees an indecipherable lump of dessicated vegetable-matter and throws the little stink-package into the kitchen sink, gagging a bit.
This seems to call for another glass of wine and before you can say 'lush' it's been emptied.
"Thishas alll gotta go!" He stumbles around to the cupboard where the trash-bags are kept, not realizing that the upper cupboard is open and before you can say 'bam!' he's bonked his melon on said cupboard and is lying unconscious on his back in the middle of the kitchen floor.
His poor mother is fighting back tears of confusion and anger.
"Should we call the Police?," asks Ramsey's slightly balding, paunch-bellied cousin.
"He just hasn't been the same since he got his fame," mutters his niece.
"He probably just needs to sleep it off. He's been acting a bit strange since that 'nightmares' show. Lay him on his back so he doesn't choke on his own vomit..."
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
*tick-tock, tick-tock*
You've just brushed a thick layer of dust from the surface of your father's old army locker-box and cracked apart the old lock that's kept it's latch in place for what could have been decades.
You would never have hazarded such an investigation if he were still breathing in the causal substance of the universe, but...
After riffling through old maps and documents which, though intellectually stimulating, offer no immediate satisfaction you continue to pick through the private artifacts preserved in Dad's old crate.
A fine pair of dueling pistols, a compass degraded by time & etc., an alligator skin flask from (?); what really catches your eye appears to be a fist-sized jewelry box fitted in honey-colored velvet. It looks very-fine and your heart pumps a bit faster as your fingers grasp it and bring it up from the old wooden trunk.
The box seems to give off it's own warmth and when you pry it open the fragrance of jasmine and hashish gently embrace your senses. Not that you know the odour of hashish....
Inside, in much more cunningly worked golden velvet, you are taken aback by the sight of what appears to be a jewel-bedecked locket, or an old pocket-watch, or you don't know. Just pry it open!
Of course you do, Sucker(!), and of course it's not an old locket or pocket watch; it is two halves of a semi-flattened egg with hinges between and no purpose other than to exhale a slow coalescence of emerald-colored smoke.
It makes sense, finally, when said 'smoke' condenses into the shape of a djinn of about the height of your outstretched hand.
Bobbing imperiously on a pillow of emerald, it's lips move and a powerful voice booms from it's diminutiveness beseeching you to ask of it a question, only one question, which it will answer with absolute truth under the condition that you ask before the second-hand of the clock makes a full revolution and sends the little scamp back to it's intermittent 50yr slumber.
Well? Think quickly!
*To get all theological and question the existence of God, turn to pg. 50.
*To seek great fortune turn to pg. 496.
*If you are after great power turn to pg. 807.
*Seeking the love of your life? Turn to pg. 2,035.
*Concerned about the future? Try pg. 1002.
*Obsessed with the past? See pg. 2,642.
*Frightened for your sanity? I recommend pg. 299.
*Is the pursuit of knowledge your obsession? pg. 2,400.
*Do you like candy? See pg. 20.
You would never have hazarded such an investigation if he were still breathing in the causal substance of the universe, but...
After riffling through old maps and documents which, though intellectually stimulating, offer no immediate satisfaction you continue to pick through the private artifacts preserved in Dad's old crate.
A fine pair of dueling pistols, a compass degraded by time & etc., an alligator skin flask from (?); what really catches your eye appears to be a fist-sized jewelry box fitted in honey-colored velvet. It looks very-fine and your heart pumps a bit faster as your fingers grasp it and bring it up from the old wooden trunk.
The box seems to give off it's own warmth and when you pry it open the fragrance of jasmine and hashish gently embrace your senses. Not that you know the odour of hashish....
Inside, in much more cunningly worked golden velvet, you are taken aback by the sight of what appears to be a jewel-bedecked locket, or an old pocket-watch, or you don't know. Just pry it open!
Of course you do, Sucker(!), and of course it's not an old locket or pocket watch; it is two halves of a semi-flattened egg with hinges between and no purpose other than to exhale a slow coalescence of emerald-colored smoke.
It makes sense, finally, when said 'smoke' condenses into the shape of a djinn of about the height of your outstretched hand.
Bobbing imperiously on a pillow of emerald, it's lips move and a powerful voice booms from it's diminutiveness beseeching you to ask of it a question, only one question, which it will answer with absolute truth under the condition that you ask before the second-hand of the clock makes a full revolution and sends the little scamp back to it's intermittent 50yr slumber.
Well? Think quickly!
*To get all theological and question the existence of God, turn to pg. 50.
*To seek great fortune turn to pg. 496.
*If you are after great power turn to pg. 807.
*Seeking the love of your life? Turn to pg. 2,035.
*Concerned about the future? Try pg. 1002.
*Obsessed with the past? See pg. 2,642.
*Frightened for your sanity? I recommend pg. 299.
*Is the pursuit of knowledge your obsession? pg. 2,400.
*Do you like candy? See pg. 20.
Monday, November 24, 2008
*boo hoo*
This is the desperate flailing of someone too old to be calling themselves an 'orphan.'
I thought I might've been able to establish some kind of twisted, postmortem bond with my recently deceased father by working the stuff of the almighty written word.
Self-deceiving fool that I am...
The not so old, Old Man, denied the squirming things of the field a wicked feast by choosing immolation over the coffin. I mourn for that which died with that mean ol', uncompromising, tell it like it is, sonuvabitch. He was like The Riddler, if The Riddler was a tough-as-leather, gun-toting, 300yr old, interesting person. If ever I was off my game I would know it immediately because I couldn't understand a bit of what he was saying; bastard was so damn quick! He was never wrong, honest...
Now, each time an Islamic fundamentalist takes a bellyfull of shrapnel, along with his nearest and dearest fuck-face buddies, I shed a silent tear because Dad is dead. The death-toll has lost it's lustre. What's a death-toll without comedic relief?
From his archives, I've learned more about the man that I so vigorously avoided, and can only express regret that I didn't learn his language whilst yet he lived. Fuck.
I thought I might've been able to establish some kind of twisted, postmortem bond with my recently deceased father by working the stuff of the almighty written word.
Self-deceiving fool that I am...
The not so old, Old Man, denied the squirming things of the field a wicked feast by choosing immolation over the coffin. I mourn for that which died with that mean ol', uncompromising, tell it like it is, sonuvabitch. He was like The Riddler, if The Riddler was a tough-as-leather, gun-toting, 300yr old, interesting person. If ever I was off my game I would know it immediately because I couldn't understand a bit of what he was saying; bastard was so damn quick! He was never wrong, honest...
Now, each time an Islamic fundamentalist takes a bellyfull of shrapnel, along with his nearest and dearest fuck-face buddies, I shed a silent tear because Dad is dead. The death-toll has lost it's lustre. What's a death-toll without comedic relief?
From his archives, I've learned more about the man that I so vigorously avoided, and can only express regret that I didn't learn his language whilst yet he lived. Fuck.
Friday, November 21, 2008
If Dogs Can Smell Cancer...
Sometimes, when I'm on my own, an empty section of air will mysteriously seem to gain occupancy. I'm not sure whether it's a reflex from my days as a devout Christian when I struggled always to feel the presence of the Spirit, or if it's the early manifestation of some really fun type of dementia.
God, ghosts or aliens? Perhaps I'm sensitive to something on the peripheral of 'all this' the way that dogs can smell cancer...
I'll probably never know. At least I can get myself good and creeped out for no apparent reason. *sigh*
God, ghosts or aliens? Perhaps I'm sensitive to something on the peripheral of 'all this' the way that dogs can smell cancer...
I'll probably never know. At least I can get myself good and creeped out for no apparent reason. *sigh*
Saturday, November 15, 2008
Just a Thought?
Angel Soft toilet-paper. There's got to be something criminal about naming a toilet paper that. What are they trying to imply? "Got the winter-time drip? Out of tissue? Wipe that snot on an angel!" or, "Angel Soft toilet-paper! It's like wiping your ass with an angel!" or "Angel Soft toilet-paper! It's like having an angel wipe your ass for you. Feel like The King of Hosts!"
I'm not sure, but whenever that's my option in the bathroom I can't help but wonder if the angels in the vicinity are laughing nervously or wishing that they existed so that they could kick my ass instead of me wiping it on their effigy.
I recommend generic brands of TP for your ass-wiping needs. Try that Walgreen's stuff. That way you wont offend anyone or anything.
I'm not sure, but whenever that's my option in the bathroom I can't help but wonder if the angels in the vicinity are laughing nervously or wishing that they existed so that they could kick my ass instead of me wiping it on their effigy.
I recommend generic brands of TP for your ass-wiping needs. Try that Walgreen's stuff. That way you wont offend anyone or anything.
Here We Are
Well, well, well... You've stumbled across something rare indeed! Only the second blog ever by a talented genius born in the U.S. of A.
Such delights I have in store for you! Let's see, uhm... Self-indulgent rants on how unfair and stupid the inhabitants of my tiny little world be!!! Mwwwhahaha! Er, let's see... Hack fiction!!! YES! Do not turn away now, my friend! There is so much more for your questing eyes to find, so MUCH virgin text for your lascivious eyes to caress and your mind to hold!
Wait.... Nevermind. That's all for now. My apologies. That's really it. Damn.
Such delights I have in store for you! Let's see, uhm... Self-indulgent rants on how unfair and stupid the inhabitants of my tiny little world be!!! Mwwwhahaha! Er, let's see... Hack fiction!!! YES! Do not turn away now, my friend! There is so much more for your questing eyes to find, so MUCH virgin text for your lascivious eyes to caress and your mind to hold!
Wait.... Nevermind. That's all for now. My apologies. That's really it. Damn.
Headache
If this is a place where people go to purge their demons then I can only guess at what sorts of bottom-feeding detritum feed here and what hideous forms they may have adopted to thrive in a place so rich in barbs and ill-will....
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