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All I know is that I don't know nuthin'.  Links and whatnot Blogs and FriendsPreacherman Johnny Payphone Mr. Nosuch Teresa Strickland radiohodgepodge Just Cheap Dirt xpurple Fairly Crass Babble Book Staircase Wit Pezman Jack Jackson's Dirty Pictures 2000 Jgrrl's LJ lfirebrand Funny, yet true The Onion Modern Humorist Something Awful X-Entertainment Seanbaby What's Better? Homestar Runner Triumph, the Insult Comic Dog Get Your War On Maakies A Softer World News and stuff Plastic Google News Movies IMDb Roger Ebert Cinema Confidential Rotten Tomatoes Music and Art Pitchfork They Might Be Giants Bongwater Taffy Rate Your Music Rocket From The Crypt The All Music Guide 2.13.61 Publishing Tha Friendly Gangstaz Committee The Wooster Collective Star City Scene OLGA The Terminals oh my god The Zyklon Bees Strawberry Burns Lone Prairie Records eagle*seagull Genuinely Useful Stuff The Straight Dope Adbusters SpamCop Pandamail h2g2 Download.com Analog X The Free World Pilonidal.org 
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Thursday, February 26, 2009
I want to write beat.
I want to write Beat. I want to reclaim the passion of discovery. I want to learn to read again. This. This writing is not beat. Not Beat. I can't give up punctuation. I can't give up CAPITALIZATION. I can't write, transcribe, internalize, externalize, symbolize, hypothesize, synthesize bebop. I sold my soul to rocknroll. Four beats, three chords, sometimes harmony, sometimes screams, all passion, all feeling, all accessible. No edits, no... "Don't you realize you can't be saved? If you can't feel fear you've gone insane." I want to reclaim my heritage (?) I want to be 151617 again. To feel that passion, that unbridled unrefined unclear unfocused energy emotion extascy! To be punk again. (were you ever?) Getting old is a young man's game. It takes strength to become what you are destined to be. (By the age of 50, every man has the face he deserves.) I don't know what I want. I do, but I lack the cojones to make it happen. I lack the drive. I lack the passion. Yet, somehow it's ok, cuz I'm listening to Queen right now. Saturday, January 03, 2009
Sunday, December 21, 2008
Sunday, December 14, 2008
Hey, all.
It's been awhile since I last blogged. I mean, legitimately blogged. Hard-core BLOGGED. Just opened up my head and vomited out all the bad noise, the bad blood, the hopes and fears, the laughs and tears, the junks and rears. And, I apologize. I apologize for many, many things. First of all, I apologize for writing like Alcoholic Lange-Kubick. I am truly sorry for writing in sentence fragments. I know that I am better than that. I apologize for writing like I think. I apologize for speaking with poor grammar. In my defense, however, I am not surrounded by the New Brahmans. My work environment isn't exactly conducive to... well, however the fuck those guys spoke. Secondly, I apologize for not having blogged. I work, on average, 12 hours a day as a waiter. After work, I want to relax. By "relax", I mean "drink several beers". By "drink several beers", I mean "Wow. I need to go home and pass out." This is not conducive to writing. Unless you're Ernest Hemingway. Or, when mixed with amphetamines, Jack Kerouac. I am neither. I don't have that sort of talent, drive, or addiction. (BTW: "Lover's Rock" by The Clash could be covered by Ween without anyone batting an eye.) Thirdly, I apologize for not leading that interesting of a life of late. "Yeah, fucker. The life of a small-market radio DJ with no skill in softball was SO engrossing," you're thinking (if you've been with me from the beginning, that is. If you haven't, I invite you to read my archives which include such bits as: "I suck at softball", "I am bored and lonely", "I think I am a disappointment to everyone" and, everyone's favorite, "Why don't girls like me?"). SO, that out of the way, here's this update. I don't know if I'm dropping science on y'all, I don't know if you care, hell, I don't even know if anyone apart from Dav is even reading this. (Thank you, Dav. Knowing that someone periodically checks this shit out does mean a lot.) I am tired. In nearly every sense of the word. Physically, mentally and emotionally. (True story: I answered the phone one day. I'd been working 14-hour days for around 6 weeks. The co-owner of the restaurant asks how I'm doing. I reply that I'm tired. She asks, "Why?") I am tired. I can not trust my memories because there is cross-talk between my dreams and reality. I know for a fact that DoubleWide, the acapella octet I was in in college was not in the hallway at the Ed Sullivan Theatre waiting for a cue to perform during the commercial break of "The Late Show with David Letterman", but, I remember it happening. I am tired. I wait tables. I am OK at it. I make decent money. But, every day is exactly the same. I show up, I set up, I do my thing, I set up, I do my thing, I go to the bar, I come home, I lather, I rinse, and I repeat. I am tired. Several weeks or months ago, (and, honestly, it's tough to tell sometimes) I had what I thought was a brilliant idea. A million-dollar idea. I had found a way for people to have their privacy invaded, like it, and pay money for the privilege. One of my favorite books of all time is 1984  by George Orwell. I can't rightly explain why, except that the textural details of the book always stood out for me. The dull razors, the metallic gin, the overcast sky (would it be the color of a TV tuned to a dead station ? I think that it would be.) The "branding" of the book is absolutely phenomenal. Orwell's skill at drawing you into the world, the "immersion" that the book presents always struck me. It, along with Flowers for Algernon , is one of the books that I was compelled to liberate from my Junior High.My million-dollar idea was this: Victory Bars. All of the alcohol would be Victory brand. Victory Gin. Victory Bourbon. Victory Beer. Everything would be slightly greasy. The atmosphere would be drama-free, but slightly uncomfortable. The bartender would give you booze, but not conversation. The customers would be aloof. And then, you would get a text message. "Look straight ahead." "Go to the bathroom, NOW." "Order a top-shelf gin and tonic." Why on earth would you get a text message like that? Because, in the backbar, there are White Hat crackers/hackers/phreaks who have opened up your cell phone. By performing the action you were texted, you give tacit agreement to participate in the ARG that Victory Bars, a subsidiary of JohnnyCorp, is hosting. The bar customers? Many of them are plants. Actors, playing a role. The "police"? Same thing. The bartender? He/she would be the GM/DM. The one calling the shots, finding the "marks" who might be interested in playing, who might want to pretend they are part of an underground resistance movement against a totalitarian government. This plan would work for a week, tops. And, this, ladies and gentlemen, is what being tired results in: really dumb ideas that sound good until you take a nap. Good night! Monday, December 08, 2008
Amy Sedaris has some FANTASTIC legs. I am sitting at a bar, drinking,
smoking, and admiring her legs. Man, I need a girl. Thursday, December 04, 2008
Thursday, July 19, 2007
OK -- this is strange. W.bloggar, the interface I've been using to blog is no longer working, but, that's ok. I'm too tired and drunk to care.
HEY! What's new? I've not posted jack shit in months and months and months. I'm sorry. I'd love to say that it's because so much stuff has been happening that I've not had time or words to catalog it all, but, sadly, it's because I've been busy. Busy working and drinking. I still remember Pastor Jeff, and Dav, and Mark, and, honestly, you three were the only ones really reading this damned thing in the first place. So, how have I been? Hellbound, apparently. I always suspected as much, but, now that El Pape has confirmed it, I've loads less on my mind. Time to bang all the pussy I can, I guess. I guess I can kill, lie and covet, too. None of these things is as fun as banging pussy, though. Why are some sins more fun than others to commit? Yeah. Anyway, turns out that I know an entirely worthless piece of shit. I'm not Pastor Jeff, and I've not met and/or counseled truly awful people, but, fuck. I am not a violent person. I'm not one who gets riled up over shit that doesn't matter. I don't like being angry, I don't like acid in my stomach, I don't like my nose swelling up, my hackles rising up, none of that. I take drugs to prevent anger/anxiety/emotions. And I drink. But, I've got a story to tell. A story about a dipshit. I am not changing any names, because I think that dipshits should be exposed for what they are. This dipshit is named Schuyler. When Schuyler fucks up, he does not fuck around. If he had the same sort of dedication towards life as he had towards fucking up, he would be richer, smarter, quicker... hell, he would be better than any of us. He would be great. He would be a great boy. No, he would be a great MAN. As it stands, however, he is a dipshit who should be put in jail. Let me clarify -- Do I think that jail will help a 17-year-old? Absolutely not. He will be raped, beaten, fucked over, ripped raw and taken advantage of. However, he needs to be punished, severely, for what he (and his girlfriend, don't think I've forgotten about you, Sadie (yup, she's a minor (14 years old), but, dammit, she's given birth to a child) has done. Wow. Parentheses. Anyway. Schuyler decides to try to teach himself to drive. Not a bad plan. I did the same thing. However, he sucked really bad at it, and wound up performing a hit-and-run on a parked car. Vonda (his mother) now has a very, very damaged car. Schuyler gets a girlfriend. That's fine. It's part of growing up. Not one that I was particularly good at, but, c'est la vie. Schuyler is 17. Sadie is 14. This is a problem. Not technically a legal problem, but a problem, nonetheless. Schuyler, like every other (teenage) male, is horny. He wants to put his penis in something. For single guys, we have hands and various lubrications. For guys with girls, well, there are other things. Schuyler and Sadie... Well, they fuck. Blah, blah, blah, lectures are given, people are grounded, blah blah blah. Sadie winds up pregnant. Sadie admits she's pregnant 2 1/2 months before she is due to give birth. Vonda takes charge. She takes custody of Sadie from her RAGINGLY ALCOHOLIC biological father, she schedules appointments with doctors, she does what Schuyler and Sadie are too immature/stupid/lazy to do on their own. Vonda takes charge, because she is going to have a grandbaby. And, when that child arrives, she is going to love it. Vonda gets everyone to where they need to be on the special day, and things look fine. Of course, things go to shit. Vonda is the only breadwinner in her family. Vonda's husband, Pat, has rheumatoid arthritis, so "can't work". Whatever. Schuyler, of course, given that he has a child on the way, gets expelled from school one week before the end of the school year for tokin' in the boy's room. And then, doesn't get a job. Sadie, well, fuck. She's a 14-year old girl. So, we have Vonda, trying to take care of this baby, her grandson, but, she has to work. Sadie and Schuyler are dipshits. They are teenagers. Things happen. Darren/Darin -- Son of Schuyler and Sadie, Grandson of Vonda, Annoyance of Pat This child, this innocent, this tabla rasa, this unfortunate, is in the hospital. The "official" story is that Schuyler "accidentally" sat on Darren. The truth is that Darren has a broken leg. Darren is less than six months old. The truth is something that is horrible. The truth is that Darren is in the protective custody of the State. The truth is that there are people that need to go to jail. The truth is that Schuyler and Sadie need to have their parental rights terminated. The truth is that Darren should have been placed up for adoption. The truth is that Vonda's heart is broken. The truth is that there are some dipshits that need to have at BEST, a severe assbeating. The truth is that I am angry, and I am impotent do do anything. The truth is that I want to beat the hell out of a seventeen year old boy (and that mustache isn't fooling anyone) and a fourteen year old girl. But, then again, the truth is that I'm going to hell regardless of what I do. Sorry for being such a bummer. The new TMBG album, "The Else" is pretty good. And "TransFormers" kicks ass. Comments by: YACCS |
. This is what it is like to be me.