Test Pattern

Quotidian things

Judas Iscariot. Expounding on peccadilloes. The evolution of the American folk hero via the celebrity virus of revisionist historian on the smallest of scales. Some thoughts heavy on my mind, and part of a larger something I am writing which now has characters and a plot. Fist bump

Took the kids bowling tonight and they had a blast! It was some kind of pizza party for this incoming Navy ship, so picture a white trash Valhalla and you'll be in the moment with me. The bowling staff were overwhelmed by the spouses and children that filled the place. Needless to say, the pizza queue was worse than the DMV, with twice as many felons (or potential felons). A night of families, prison grade pizza, beer, and of course bowling... what a blast! Most fun we've had in a long while. There was also this amazing black lady with distressed jeans with pink leggings through them. She was the resident superstar, giving out raffle tickets and telling jokes.

Here's a list of movies I've watched during funemployment:

Little Miss Sunshine
500 Days of Summer
Kurt and Courtney (with the exception of Rozz Rezzenbek, a terrible piece of sensationalist shit)
About a Son
Let the Right One In (I have scoured the internet for the song in there... any help?)
Sherlock Holmes
Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
Ladies and Gentleman, the Fabulous Stains (teenage Diane Lane/Laura Dern w/ Sex Pistols &Clash members)
Brief Interviews with Hideous Men (White hipster thought piece)
Extract (not that great, surprisingly)
Annie Hall
Up in the Air
Good Dick
Iron Giant
SLC Punk
Half Nelson
Bye Bye Birdie

Caught up on Archer and Community. Watched the entire Buffy/Angel series.
Found a Comic Book reader
Started emailing every place I've worked for the past 4 years to FINALLY file taxes (need that gov't $)

Christ, I need a job.

No One is Exempt.

you, your inheritance, and your creeping paranoia

So sad. So successful. No one is exempt from pain. Just sitting alone watching the rain, romanticizing a life encased in the pages of a well worn spine. A tome, a tomb, a poem a womb. The most primitive of information exchange, tracing letters in the steam. If someone is fragile, are we equal? As people, can we condone pain as this growing experience that both embraces and transcends humanity? A world without pain, is a world without love. Being reduced to what we are, what we want, acting out an objective we would like to believe was written just for us. In the stars of space, the napkin of a bar our parents met in. A snow-globe of parts and phrases, we are all require some assembly. The glue dries. We choose words, ideas, places to act as our spirit totems in a culture that patronizes or ignores such a imagination. Falling off a carousel of the prosaic, this fascination with starts and stops. The in between falls by the wayside, like fast food garbage, our legacy in the wind. Our formative years spent deciding on stability, redemption, happiness. Which path has the most rest stops, ease of traffic.

I'm watching this movie that illustrates a long held belief. This overpowering sense that nothing is new, or original, but valid nonetheless. This transition from a linear story to the highlighted reel of dysfunction and deception. The "shallow waters" of our most private desires and how we cope with our decisions. What did we give up to show our possessions? The amusements we rely on and resort to in our evolving interaction. A resonating tale. The acceptance of a part, whether or not you feel it's the one you wanted or deserve. Being there.

Hum a Tune

We are our actions.
Slander and retractions.
What of good intentions.
The signposts for the road to hell,
Where else I am going to find a match.
Comes to your attention
These doors are missing a latch.
This burned down bastion
With half a warring faction.
Trading presumption for pretension
Consumption for contention
We don't keep in touch because I never liked you much

"Your weird and your interests are weird" sic

(Interesting list...its de rigeur for the art school postmodern genre...there are some gems hidden in there, or should i say "diamonds"?)
You raise an interesting point on the nature of being via "the internet", if I do say so myself. The meta reality of being over an expansive medium...
I want someone who isnt just looking at a picture. I like lists, as a base line. Anyone
can, and many do, claim to "be funny". Well, there is a huge difference to me between early Jim Carrey and Maria Bamford, both of whom are funny objectively. I hope that being so specific, I can find someone to lighten me up, but know who I am or have the potential to be. I am tired of guys writing how they "like fun" or hang out. I mean, we all do, so how does that let me gain insight into someone. I would assume that everyone on here is a human being. Check. So fun and pooping come into play somewhere. I would prefer it if people would just say (even through the veil and projection of the internet) Looking for someone to laugh at their jokes and thus validate themselves as being interesting and humorous. Or someone to reinforce the cultural aesthetic decisions I have allowed to dictate my perception of reality. Or someone to blow me in the parking lot at my job.
My favorite are those that say if you want to know more, ask or post one line and complain that four lines is too much on a voluntary site aimed at getting you to connect with other people. Truly, you get what you pay for. So without sounding like a total jerk, people are types. They do things to attract those similar to themselves. If I put I liked "da beach, hanging out and fun" I'm sure I'd get a different and probably more frequent response. If I can't be honest in cyberspace, then where can I be.

Brevity is the soul of wit, after all. :)

so my question is: why do you let your intellect screen so much of your experience?...why dont you let your heart breathe and beat?...who killed that heart...what would it take to revive it again?...why must the world burn so that everything will remain frozen inside...i want to know the story!...i want to know how it happened...

When one makes a self fulfilling prophecy, one gets the desired results. If I had open standards, it would be constant weeding. I suppose mine are a bit constrictive, or intimidating, but I dont know how to relax. Fantasies are easy, life is the hard part.

Intellect doesnt screen my experience, it shapes it. Part of growing up is the tenuous balance between how something is done and whether you don't want to know. From rainbows to special effects, something is lost in knowing, I'll admit. But I am who I am.

Who killed my heart... no one in particular. I was a very sensitive child, raised Catholic, surrounded by the thoughts of redemption, reconciliation and sin. I was an altar server, I stared at a large crucifix for long periods of time. There are so many
terrible things that go on and I'll I can do is be nice. It seems kind of pale in the cosmic balance. Holding my 2 and 3 year nephew and niece, watching the sun set, finding a great restaurant, singing a song or sharing a laugh with a friend ... I do these
things, but just not enough to keep out the thought that it isnt enough.

Get It

If ever I wanted to class up the base of a penis ....

Also, I cannot wait to see how many HOT BOIS by this, sight unseen.

http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/alltherage/2010/02/qa-cyndi-lauper-one-of-macs-new-viva-glam-faces-1.html

In the Car, Trains and Graves

Coming of age Reagan post divorce, you can carbon date the apathy of the anti-Izod ethos. The road to my generation's atheist aesthetic awakening was paved with cigarette butts and second hand clothing. His eulogy made his observations somehow more valid, as if the pain of understanding was what consumed him. A convenient attachment for another malcontent to be crowned a prophet. The narcotic slumber and the worldwide attention, this is how we watch an implosion on the human scale. We can only take so much, before we become one with the indifferent universe.

If you allow me to indulge in a cultural delusion, this guy deserves a VIP pass to the drug filled disco ball promiscuity of an afterlife filled with bi curious straight boys. When you work around florescent lighting that makes unhollywood undead of us all, there is usually a jukebox. We are accustomed to ironic detachment, after all, there were raisins in our toast. But when you hear peole filled with patriotism, earnest sincerity and a lifetime of heart disease singing it's five o'clock somewhere at 10 am, it's no wonder we turned to drugs and drag(cigarettes and queens) to gain a sense of realism surrounded by the absurd.

Authentic music, death , computers, acceptance and coming of age in the south. This is how we roll, all the way to the grave.

Untitled, half formed

We all pay a price to revel in vice.
I hope yours is cheap, for the silence of sleep.
The slaughtered sheep are yours to keep.
Take your advice, poured over ice.
Keep it down.
Keep it down.
Rome after the fall, I've seen it all.
Often pillaged, the rest an empty village.
Progress stalled, morality appalled.
The gall and the guile, the stall and denial.

Stinking of Your Ex

So you fucked an icon, and in a way, he fucked you too.
Your ungainly evolution with the flashing lights and the frequent fights
With all the icons and exes you put in the ground
With only you to hold their sound
How's it looking lovely?
Always keeping lively
Typecast as your self
Completely exposed
That familiar sneer
Seems a bit posed
The price you paid
The gods you laid
You should have stayed
That glamour fades
That narco cushion
Doesnt stop the fire
In your veins
In your heart
The truth stains your clothes
Like the pen to the page
Evidenced in your art
Your big break (up) is all the rage
You coulda done worse kid,
Too bad that limo was your hearse, dig.

Occam's Razor, applied to dating

The genetic fallout of a match made in Chernobyl. Coming apart at the atomic level,still looks good in a suit of karma. Blood stained charmer

This is what it comes to; a sick degeneration of morals and a fear of intimacy, glad I signed up!

Conjoined at the forked tongue because that brain isn't big enough to share.
That van-i-t-shirt,
Tight enough to show how much "you dont care"
Apathy b(r)and and you
Your face couldnt sell it
With that oh so styled hair
Wake up and gel it
It was only a matter of prime (mortgage) and numbers

Caritas, with apologies to St. Paul

Everybody dies alone, but does everybody live alone? Which is worse, which is more likely? The morally ambiguous protagonist who glides through the murky alleyway of good and evil, all leather jacket clad, blowing smoke out of a smug mouth. Revenge is personal, and by extension, selfish. Can redemption be selfish? A solitary consumption to alienate, isolate into the secure realm of self fulfilling prophesy. The unanswered questions which form our personalities, our later choices and affirmations about the world, in which we were are the tiniest of significance. Looking up, surrounded by the expansive black we are our choices. Everything leads to now, a swirling mass of the was and the maybe and the no. People and loyalties lie in different directions. We get torn asunder while we pray for thunder. It all comes down around us.

Your fantasies are unlikely. But beautiful.

I cannot believe the Saints won the Super Bowl. It's like this alternate reality filled with possibility, or the script for a terrible Spielberg film.

"If you have been rejected many times in your life, then one more rejection then one more rejection isn't going to make much difference. If you're rejected, don't automatically assume it's your fault. The other person may have several reasons for not doing what you're asking her to do: none of it may have anything to do with you. Perhaps the person is busy or not feeling well or genuinely not interested in spending time with you. Rejections are part of everyday life. Don't let them bother you. Keep reaching out to others. Keep reaching out to others. When you begin to recieve positive responses, then you are on the right track. It's all a matter of numbers. Count the positive responses and for get about the rejections." Thom Yorke

An Emerging Pattern

Wake me up sometime before the end of the world. Why, so you can experience something great before it ends? No, I just want to see it happen
"What we once were informs all that we have become. The same love will infect our hearts,even if they no longer beat. Simple death won't change that"

Because I could not stop for Death,
He kindly stopped for me;
The carriage held but just ourselves
And Immortality.
We slowly drove, he knew no haste,
And I had put away
My labor, and my leisure too,
For his civility.

We passed the school, where children strove
At recess, in the ring;
We passed the fields of gazing grain,
We passed the setting sun.

Or rather, he passed us;
The dews grew quivering and chill,
For only gossamer my gown,
My tippet only tulle.

We paused before a house that seemed
A swelling of the ground;
The roof was scarcely visible,
The cornice but a mound.

Since then 'tis centuries, and yet each
Feels shorter than the day
I first surmised the horses' heads
Were toward eternity.

Pain from Old Wounds: Pink Scars and Empty Bars

Tongues and trips, tasting of acidic bitterness. The cowards and the martyrs dropping ash on the self-serving altars. We wore world weariness like a dead father's coat, a familiar history tainted by hormones and growth spurts. Spurt of the moment, changing every time we closed our eyes to see the stars. You saw the good in me like fog on the stained glass window of a burned down church. Settling for happiness over the nose bleed head rush of the high ground. Take some bad advice, get hurt and accept humanity for all the ill fitting promises of divinity. Every time we spoke of setting the world on fire, I knew you would be our fireman. A St. Paul surrounded by wounded atheists: our hearts ashtrays, our bodies landfills, our minds filing cabinets for the ongoing quid pro quo. Once at that stone bench, across each other with a pack of cigarettes I told you I would save the world if I didn't hate it so much. As if I could be an anti-hero in someone's story, powers of cynicism and fear that the world isnt that bad peppered with bon mots. I'm ready to accept the redemption that gets neglected in the metamorphosis from damaged to productive. To stop saying what if and how come and say so what. That last bad year of tabloid headlines, then to today, all the blood shed along the way. The collateral damage of Stockholm Syndrome suicides. The "I think I like you because I hate myself" greeting card gets burned at the self improvement is exasperation seminar. I want to rewrite the shooting script. Take it as it comes, not how I think it should or want it to. When the environment begins to show in the destruction of the free radicals, the nuclear holocaust becomes a bit less funny, and a lot less romantic. Good writers kill themselves. I'm not ready to take that step. I want to hold the mirror to the lines being cut of my generation. People want the graphic details of a familiar story. They arent ready for unknown beauty, I can crack wise and philosophize, but the simple things keep eluding me.

In to out, left to right.

	St. Vincent And The National - Sleep All Summer .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

	Mountain Goats - This Year .mp3
	Found at bee mp3 search engine

Finish what you start

Appreciates death to illuminate the importance of now and everything we neglect or protect.

Dropping standards like your pants,
Nobody comes here just to dance.
The motion, the movement,
the music, the ocean.
Dates on a calendar.
I don't like anyone, haven't showered in days
Spent over a decade, saying it's just a ph(r)ase
The time has past, and has become as such.
A rippling puddle and a splintered crutch.

Continuation

They had film noir, we have bubblegum grit. The reimagined neon splash trope of genuine emotion, skewed to service this demographic. No future.

A signature, proof - a pretty face and a puddle of blood. This fine artistic noose we fashion for ourselves, playing hangman with our style until the bloated corpse of our body of work becomes a derisive epithet for "selling out/buying in/feeding the floating shark". That's a lot of integrity for people who grow up wanting to be famous of something, instead of becoming something.
Crayola's Dildo: Growing Up in Technicolor.
You begin saving the world by saving one person at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics. Bukowski
I still want someone to draw this comic for me, about a gay superhero called the Ice Queen that transforms smoking crystal meth.

It's not the greeting card, or the radio hits that are responsible for this feeling. Everything meaningful was a moment in time. By something crafted and precise, we approximate the intangible happiness of a single perfect moment. If we blame the media, we neglect the action. We want to be happy, happy is there, we stay for as long as we allow ourselves. It's that simple.

Older and Far Away

My sister was talking to me yet again about significant others... in an attempt (probably) to help me. She feels I am too picky and thus will be left with nothing. Like significant others are the limited art books or that one Hunter Thompson book that isnt Fear and Loathing at the Friends of the Library book sale, and if you arent awake before time itself to search for it amongst the other faithful, you will be left with a used, stained, cat calendar. My thought before writing this was "The reason people enjoy supernatural things are because they allow deep dark humanity to masquerade as an alien or vampire to distance ourselves from our darker, some would argue, true self." Especially when it is agreed that we are speaking in metaphor, the understanding and emotion seems to be more palpable and less overtly hokey, when all things are really just soap operas. Regardless of the costume and posturing, we all want to see human relationships being created and destroyed like the atoms that comprise us. So in that sense, still waiting for Hiroshima, praying for the fallout.