Friday, February 19, 2010
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
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.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, February 15, 2010
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
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.
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.
Friday, February 12, 2010
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.
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.
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