I got nothing; Inspire me.
I blame turtles. . they're so slow and boring.
Do they even have a taste?
Taste is important.
Turtle soup is that a real thing?
They are green; as colors go. . . .that's good.
I blame Wal Mart, and Honda Civic's and college ruled notebook paper, and "not Heinz" Ketchup, and you, (see all boring things).
ok some imagery perhaps;
snakes. . .children. . .sidewalks.. . beard, boring.
Ahhh Shel Silverstein! shit no no no, peaches, cream
Peaches and Cream hand cream. . .cream. Uggh.
Ok focus.
Pen write.
Pen. . . . . . . write!
Pen, . .write? right?
Muse, put on something sexy; I'm "feeling" no inspiration, Muse?
I'm sorry page, or is it Page, little obnoxious blinking cursor.
Ok, there was a girl, a boy, no. . . .
There was a transgender w/ a puppy, named "Taylor,"
both named "Taylor," maybe.
(how ambiguous)
Good start, really solid I'd say.
Pen write!
Hands type?
Get a quill maybe, dip it in ink, Shakespeare in Love? The world is a stage. ok good.
A house on the upper east side
Wait! a studio in Brooklyn. . . .No.
A box on Skid Row.
Yes a transgender living in a box on Skid Row, the band. . . scratch that the place,
with a puppy named "Taylor," both named "Taylor."
I'm doing this for you,
I'm doing this for me? No.
I'm doing this for Bukowski.
Pen write.
Quill dip.
Ok now write Britishly, ok and now pinky up. . .
A typewriter? (cave drawings maybe), finger paint this perhaps.
The blue represents Taylor with balls, the red well that's "shim" with a vagina;
he/she is pre opp and pre-menstrual ok?
Taylor worked in finance, or . . .telemarketing;
I mean Taylor was a retired dancer, a ballerina perhaps.
The box on Skid Row was a social experiment, like pop rocks and parachute pants or Candy camera;
no camera.
Taylor had his whole life savings at Washington Mutual; quite "loaded" really
and a box, a shitty, brown, damp, smaller than a refrigerator
Box.
Fuck. . .fuckety fuck fuck fuck me.
Nothing here, write! write!
Taylor wore heels.
Lets call him "Bobby" now; oooh how androgenous.
Bobby wore leather flats; cute flats.
Taylor liked pudding; shit, we're calling him Bobby now.
Neither would "go gently into that good night."
this is blocked, this is a writer, meet. . .welcome.
Hello, this is writers block.
Kill Taylor!
Bobby is dead.
The box was in a twister, in NYC; yes a NYC twister.
Sorry for the "Howl."
Fuck, write.
Ink, type, pen.
Damn't you're boring,
Ehhh, perhaps something next week.
-655321
Wednesday, September 24, 2008
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Snake Bites
Winston had an inclination towards Snake Bites.
No, not the act of being bitten (stung, sucked, plowed, ie. orally demolished) by the ruthless beast kicked out of that sanctimonious garden they called Eden, but similar in side effects by traditional observational means. This was actually gum for adults aimed at children; morally innapropriate like cigarettes for senior citizens marketed towards toddlers (point of reference: Kool is not cool), or tight hot pants aimed at overweight transgenders (see: women should not have a bulge in their tights in your corporate handbook). This product was a highly caffeinated, performance enhancing, sugary taffy-like gum called "Snake Bite," and it tasted sort of like cherry pie with a currently undiscovered periodic element injected into its core. "A temptation for your mouth," the corporate entity would advertise. Yes it did induce the fear, shock, and the eventual high that any normal masochist with a flair for too much black and an obsession with sleeping in the ground may experience from an actual snake bite, but this was also a veritable fruit explosion; thus appropriately named "Snake Bite."
These were individually wrapped candies with colors and designs that shouted louder than your uncles golf pants, "INGEST ME." The commercials went something like "Tired of living below? Get to the top with a bite of that Snake!" (what does that even mean) or "Can't stay up to cram for that test, Bite the Snake and stay awake" or even "Heart hurts? Make it EXPLODE with a Snake Bite." This was creative advertising with irony.
"That's the only way to get the kids into it these days; it's code these kids understand code, you tell them sex= babies= responsibility, they think I need to buy a cherry slushy and a new cell phone." Winston's father was aware of all this, and he would make these claims in every board meeting he spearheaded. He knew how to sell to children, he was a child, he had a child, he was even a registered sex offender for a couple years but gave it up for lent when the neighbors started to frown (can’t beat the first hand research). These campaigns were his babies, his snake eggs waiting to hatch and feed. Cherry and some strange metal were just the beginning; he had ideas for Grape injected with a low dose of speed, Orange with B-12 and Red Bull, Peach Cobbler with Echinacea and Zoloft, Blue Rasberry mixed with Viagra and flax seed (that one didn't really make much sense; deemed pending research contigent). There was literally a Snake Bite for every occasion and every mental or physical ailment.
Poppa Winston was aware of his impact on the youth of the 2000's lets call them "Generation Indecisive." He knew snake bites were an easy way of, A.) getting the consumer addicted and, B.) advertising a tasty snack that could prove "beneficial" to the illiterate and ignorant buyer; i.e. your average consumer. Poppa would take these juicy mineral injected delicacies in the most FDA unapproved of test states home and give them to the local children for observation. “Why charge the company for a test group of apes when we live amongst the most evolved animals one can find,” is what he used to claim. Snake Bites during the test stage were reserved for Johnny Phillips, and Suzie Crenshall, and even Gindi Mahresh when his father would let him leave the yard; but never Winston Caldwell. Winston was Poppa's son and regardless of how much he would beg, Pops would not let him try the bites in their experimental stage. Everyone else's son "not my son," he would unfairly explain.
Winston was nearly 7 that fall and he had a habit of bringing the FDA untested Snake Bites to school. They helped with popularity (he was "black market cool" perhaps?), that and he had an addiction comparable to a 65 yr. old chain smoker as a result of his fathers lack of research and discretion in passing these candies out in their test stages. He was partial to Blue Rasberry, though the 24 hour erections and extra hormones were honestly a wasted if not hurtful side effect on poor Winston's rapidly deteriorating health and body. An orange bite before school, a grape one before lunch, a cherry bite for the walk home, originally it was just something to keep his mouth busy. His teachers said he was a 'talker," not in a good way, if you're chewing you aren't talking he figured. Poppa had no idea how deep his son was into this kiddie smack, Pops was bringing products home in such excess to study the neighborhood children that he would never notice 3 bites a day missing.
No, it's appropriate to say Winston's father was fully clueless, after all only Cherry Snake Bites were street legal, so to speak, and Winston's father had only tried the product when it first reached the market. “You'd have to be crazy to snuff your own glue right, blow your own coke, inject your own black tar, chomp on your own Big Mac,” he’d reason. So Poppa was far from an addict and Winston, well, he didn't know what his father did for a living as far as Poppa was concerned.
The worry or threat really didn't build up at all, it hit like a crash test dummy into a GM test wall. Pops had a forced realization on a cold April morning that following spring when Winston's body was wheeled into the coroner's office, pockets full of Blue Raspberry Snake Bites, odd mounds forming breasts on his chest and an inappropriate bulge in his pants. Winston resembled a homeless circus clown more than he did a 7 and a half yr. old boy from the suburbs of Maryland. Children all around town began to come down with these strange side effects. First it was little Dan Dungall with a hyper activity disorder never before exhibited in his 12 years, then Jenny Gurtin with a propensity for licking all things made of plastic and a tick that put the word "Tourettes" to shame, and finally Robert Teelan whos heart actually exploded on the jungle gym one sunny Friday afternoon in May. Who was to blame, what was this horrible epidemic effecting the town? The only clue; each child held a different flavor of their choice of pure, hard, untested "Snake Bite" gum when the coroners wheeled their bodies in front of their teary-eyed parents. Snake Bites equalled "kiddie cancer," first a surpise disease or sickness, then months later a small plot next to Great Granny at St. Joseph's. That's when Pop's realized children are a most unfortunate of control groups, that's when he realized how to lie to the press, how to bury your son and deal with the guilt, how to say goodbye to your family because you are the corporate Anti-christ, and that's when Pops began to snuff his own glue, that's when Pops began to fill his pockets with "Snake Bite" gum, "A temptation for your mouth!!!."
-655321
No, not the act of being bitten (stung, sucked, plowed, ie. orally demolished) by the ruthless beast kicked out of that sanctimonious garden they called Eden, but similar in side effects by traditional observational means. This was actually gum for adults aimed at children; morally innapropriate like cigarettes for senior citizens marketed towards toddlers (point of reference: Kool is not cool), or tight hot pants aimed at overweight transgenders (see: women should not have a bulge in their tights in your corporate handbook). This product was a highly caffeinated, performance enhancing, sugary taffy-like gum called "Snake Bite," and it tasted sort of like cherry pie with a currently undiscovered periodic element injected into its core. "A temptation for your mouth," the corporate entity would advertise. Yes it did induce the fear, shock, and the eventual high that any normal masochist with a flair for too much black and an obsession with sleeping in the ground may experience from an actual snake bite, but this was also a veritable fruit explosion; thus appropriately named "Snake Bite."
These were individually wrapped candies with colors and designs that shouted louder than your uncles golf pants, "INGEST ME." The commercials went something like "Tired of living below? Get to the top with a bite of that Snake!" (what does that even mean) or "Can't stay up to cram for that test, Bite the Snake and stay awake" or even "Heart hurts? Make it EXPLODE with a Snake Bite." This was creative advertising with irony.
"That's the only way to get the kids into it these days; it's code these kids understand code, you tell them sex= babies= responsibility, they think I need to buy a cherry slushy and a new cell phone." Winston's father was aware of all this, and he would make these claims in every board meeting he spearheaded. He knew how to sell to children, he was a child, he had a child, he was even a registered sex offender for a couple years but gave it up for lent when the neighbors started to frown (can’t beat the first hand research). These campaigns were his babies, his snake eggs waiting to hatch and feed. Cherry and some strange metal were just the beginning; he had ideas for Grape injected with a low dose of speed, Orange with B-12 and Red Bull, Peach Cobbler with Echinacea and Zoloft, Blue Rasberry mixed with Viagra and flax seed (that one didn't really make much sense; deemed pending research contigent). There was literally a Snake Bite for every occasion and every mental or physical ailment.
Poppa Winston was aware of his impact on the youth of the 2000's lets call them "Generation Indecisive." He knew snake bites were an easy way of, A.) getting the consumer addicted and, B.) advertising a tasty snack that could prove "beneficial" to the illiterate and ignorant buyer; i.e. your average consumer. Poppa would take these juicy mineral injected delicacies in the most FDA unapproved of test states home and give them to the local children for observation. “Why charge the company for a test group of apes when we live amongst the most evolved animals one can find,” is what he used to claim. Snake Bites during the test stage were reserved for Johnny Phillips, and Suzie Crenshall, and even Gindi Mahresh when his father would let him leave the yard; but never Winston Caldwell. Winston was Poppa's son and regardless of how much he would beg, Pops would not let him try the bites in their experimental stage. Everyone else's son "not my son," he would unfairly explain.
Winston was nearly 7 that fall and he had a habit of bringing the FDA untested Snake Bites to school. They helped with popularity (he was "black market cool" perhaps?), that and he had an addiction comparable to a 65 yr. old chain smoker as a result of his fathers lack of research and discretion in passing these candies out in their test stages. He was partial to Blue Rasberry, though the 24 hour erections and extra hormones were honestly a wasted if not hurtful side effect on poor Winston's rapidly deteriorating health and body. An orange bite before school, a grape one before lunch, a cherry bite for the walk home, originally it was just something to keep his mouth busy. His teachers said he was a 'talker," not in a good way, if you're chewing you aren't talking he figured. Poppa had no idea how deep his son was into this kiddie smack, Pops was bringing products home in such excess to study the neighborhood children that he would never notice 3 bites a day missing.
No, it's appropriate to say Winston's father was fully clueless, after all only Cherry Snake Bites were street legal, so to speak, and Winston's father had only tried the product when it first reached the market. “You'd have to be crazy to snuff your own glue right, blow your own coke, inject your own black tar, chomp on your own Big Mac,” he’d reason. So Poppa was far from an addict and Winston, well, he didn't know what his father did for a living as far as Poppa was concerned.
The worry or threat really didn't build up at all, it hit like a crash test dummy into a GM test wall. Pops had a forced realization on a cold April morning that following spring when Winston's body was wheeled into the coroner's office, pockets full of Blue Raspberry Snake Bites, odd mounds forming breasts on his chest and an inappropriate bulge in his pants. Winston resembled a homeless circus clown more than he did a 7 and a half yr. old boy from the suburbs of Maryland. Children all around town began to come down with these strange side effects. First it was little Dan Dungall with a hyper activity disorder never before exhibited in his 12 years, then Jenny Gurtin with a propensity for licking all things made of plastic and a tick that put the word "Tourettes" to shame, and finally Robert Teelan whos heart actually exploded on the jungle gym one sunny Friday afternoon in May. Who was to blame, what was this horrible epidemic effecting the town? The only clue; each child held a different flavor of their choice of pure, hard, untested "Snake Bite" gum when the coroners wheeled their bodies in front of their teary-eyed parents. Snake Bites equalled "kiddie cancer," first a surpise disease or sickness, then months later a small plot next to Great Granny at St. Joseph's. That's when Pop's realized children are a most unfortunate of control groups, that's when he realized how to lie to the press, how to bury your son and deal with the guilt, how to say goodbye to your family because you are the corporate Anti-christ, and that's when Pops began to snuff his own glue, that's when Pops began to fill his pockets with "Snake Bite" gum, "A temptation for your mouth!!!."
-655321
Friday, August 1, 2008
"Earthquake!!" Stop, Drop, and Roll
I live in a location that is partial to earthquakes . . . . LA has earthquakes . . . I was in a quake that shook the earth under my cheap black office chair. Wow that's almost too hard to comprehend, who would think coming to grasps with something that average would be so difficult. Earthquake is defined by dictionary.com as “a series of vibrations induced in the earth's crust by the abrupt rupture and rebound of rocks in which elastic strain has been slowly accumulating,” or “something that is severely disruptive; upheaval.” Accurate . . . but who are we kidding; an earthquake is when the ground shakes like a blender trying to chop a set of cutlery, the vibrations shake your skull giving your brain a spanking worse than your dad’s iron palm, and shards of debris and falling earth pierce through your body like a knife through jello; thus you either get a shitty pina colada with brain damage and open wounds or a building in ruins with a mass death toll. It's hard to come to terms with but some even say LA is the future city of Atlantis. Something like Utah or Nevada is soon to be beachfront property (I don't know much about geography but you get the picture the mid west shall be the new west coast, wax up that surf board and get a medical marijuana prescription Farmer John).
I don't want to philosophize or complain or get all emotional and self exploratory like some would expect after an experience that could have gone much worse (5.8, 28 miles from LA not horrible); but let me run down the mundane and moronic thoughts that went through my head during this moment of "oh fuck." I'm sitting at said desk at said assistant job, tip tap typing away pissed that word documents don't read my mind like my google page as Mr. Executive and Mr. Executive Assistant saunter down the office hallway.
“Geez” I cogitate, said production backlot must have been made with the debris from the fat brittle bones of Old Hollywood executies; I can feel the ground shake as these men approach. “Criminy!” I lamely speculate, these guys are heavy its like they're driving a big rig towards me rather than casually slipping along in their business casuals. “By Golly” I deliberate, It must be the weight of Mr. Executive's sheer accomplishments and unadulterated power flowing through his body and culminating in a fantastical storm at his black “I kick ass” Feraggamo’s that's shaking this building as he walks. No. . . .. Scratch that . . . . . brain flat-lining . . . . .. You're an idiot. Seriously that is my pre-tragedy thought, "I'm a fucking idiot." You're in an earthquake and you thought Mr. Executive was Superman or some all-powerful god shaking the ground like a Mutant outcast as he approached your desk.
Next thought, "Earthquakes are real," that's right up until that point the fact that earthquakes were real somehow never crossed my mind. An epiphany of epic proportions in my little world was had at that moment: ”My brain only comprehends events that it has witnessed.” No I'm not trying to get all Descartes on you or Plato or Aquinas up in that asssssss, "I think therefore I exist," so what. My point is that according to my limited knowledge and the above stated observed theory earthquakes are now real and are officially validated in science books-- I have experienced an earthquake; they are real. Let’s put it this way: I have never been in a Tornado: thus tornadoes are a made up meteorological tragedy to try and save Helen Hunts career, never experienced a threesome (unless you count kindergarten in the "privacy tube"): therefore a threesome is a sexual nirvana your neighbors concocted at their key club, and I have never killed a man: thus killing is like eating three boxes of Thin mint cookies while a man with very large hands milks your prostate. Science doesn't matter, my observations are my reality.
Final thought/question: What does one do, and what does one think, and how does one act during an earthquake? Well I can tell you what I did, I sat and I made eye contact with everyone in my vicinity. I first glanced at said assistant sitting next to me and conversed and empathized through eye contact: “Wow these guys are heavy, shit that’s an earthquake; damn’t I grew up on the east coast and never received quake training, is it stop drop and roll? no that’s for a fire, search the brain. . . . ahh there it is, no that’s for when a “horribly misunderstood” child shoots up the school.” Then my eyes fleet towards Mr. Executive Assistant, he is calm and cool, his pulse: an even 60 bpm, no sweat on his starched blue button down. If necessary he knows he can carry two co-workers 150lbs or less on his shoulders for a half a mile, he has a pass to 24-hour fitness and has been training for such an occurrence, he has read “Earthquake Survival and You,” hell he got it signed by the fire marshal of the building. He scurries over to the doorframe and mounts it like 2 Chow’s in heat, this is a man that knows what he is doing. Finally my eyes pan over and fall on Mr. Executive himself. The blinds shake, the ground rumbles, my life does not flash, I don’t think much; I am locked on this man. I stare at his clear misunderstood blue eyes; they say, “Shit, I wanted to be a writer.” But who cares he eats dead writers as a pre-flight snack, (what does that mean? I dunno, I’m worried, me too hunny. . . me too). Well we lock eyes and we don’t flinch (well I kinda flinch, I’m kinda all flinch, I’m the opposite of Alex during the Ludivigo treatment in Clockwork Orange) I’m pure fear, maybe a bit of I wet myself and he’s all calm “what should I get for lunch today?” cool. Finally the earth quake lets up, I’m still in shock, my neck hurts and 2 hours later I’ll go blind for an hour and a half and walk around the office near tears (very true I’ll tell you bout it next week.) When it’s all over I say something like “Wow, I’ve never been in an earthquake before,” or maybe something less intelligent like “Wooooo, earthquake virgin!!!” as I wave my pointer finger in the air and address Mr. Executive and Mr. Executive assistant. But all Mr. Executive does is look at me and he opens his mouth, yet I have no recollection of the words that came out, all I know is that they were beautiful and they were something like “Blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah. . . . POWER!!!!”
-655321
I don't want to philosophize or complain or get all emotional and self exploratory like some would expect after an experience that could have gone much worse (5.8, 28 miles from LA not horrible); but let me run down the mundane and moronic thoughts that went through my head during this moment of "oh fuck." I'm sitting at said desk at said assistant job, tip tap typing away pissed that word documents don't read my mind like my google page as Mr. Executive and Mr. Executive Assistant saunter down the office hallway.
“Geez” I cogitate, said production backlot must have been made with the debris from the fat brittle bones of Old Hollywood executies; I can feel the ground shake as these men approach. “Criminy!” I lamely speculate, these guys are heavy its like they're driving a big rig towards me rather than casually slipping along in their business casuals. “By Golly” I deliberate, It must be the weight of Mr. Executive's sheer accomplishments and unadulterated power flowing through his body and culminating in a fantastical storm at his black “I kick ass” Feraggamo’s that's shaking this building as he walks. No. . . .. Scratch that . . . . . brain flat-lining . . . . .. You're an idiot. Seriously that is my pre-tragedy thought, "I'm a fucking idiot." You're in an earthquake and you thought Mr. Executive was Superman or some all-powerful god shaking the ground like a Mutant outcast as he approached your desk.
Next thought, "Earthquakes are real," that's right up until that point the fact that earthquakes were real somehow never crossed my mind. An epiphany of epic proportions in my little world was had at that moment: ”My brain only comprehends events that it has witnessed.” No I'm not trying to get all Descartes on you or Plato or Aquinas up in that asssssss, "I think therefore I exist," so what. My point is that according to my limited knowledge and the above stated observed theory earthquakes are now real and are officially validated in science books-- I have experienced an earthquake; they are real. Let’s put it this way: I have never been in a Tornado: thus tornadoes are a made up meteorological tragedy to try and save Helen Hunts career, never experienced a threesome (unless you count kindergarten in the "privacy tube"): therefore a threesome is a sexual nirvana your neighbors concocted at their key club, and I have never killed a man: thus killing is like eating three boxes of Thin mint cookies while a man with very large hands milks your prostate. Science doesn't matter, my observations are my reality.
Final thought/question: What does one do, and what does one think, and how does one act during an earthquake? Well I can tell you what I did, I sat and I made eye contact with everyone in my vicinity. I first glanced at said assistant sitting next to me and conversed and empathized through eye contact: “Wow these guys are heavy, shit that’s an earthquake; damn’t I grew up on the east coast and never received quake training, is it stop drop and roll? no that’s for a fire, search the brain. . . . ahh there it is, no that’s for when a “horribly misunderstood” child shoots up the school.” Then my eyes fleet towards Mr. Executive Assistant, he is calm and cool, his pulse: an even 60 bpm, no sweat on his starched blue button down. If necessary he knows he can carry two co-workers 150lbs or less on his shoulders for a half a mile, he has a pass to 24-hour fitness and has been training for such an occurrence, he has read “Earthquake Survival and You,” hell he got it signed by the fire marshal of the building. He scurries over to the doorframe and mounts it like 2 Chow’s in heat, this is a man that knows what he is doing. Finally my eyes pan over and fall on Mr. Executive himself. The blinds shake, the ground rumbles, my life does not flash, I don’t think much; I am locked on this man. I stare at his clear misunderstood blue eyes; they say, “Shit, I wanted to be a writer.” But who cares he eats dead writers as a pre-flight snack, (what does that mean? I dunno, I’m worried, me too hunny. . . me too). Well we lock eyes and we don’t flinch (well I kinda flinch, I’m kinda all flinch, I’m the opposite of Alex during the Ludivigo treatment in Clockwork Orange) I’m pure fear, maybe a bit of I wet myself and he’s all calm “what should I get for lunch today?” cool. Finally the earth quake lets up, I’m still in shock, my neck hurts and 2 hours later I’ll go blind for an hour and a half and walk around the office near tears (very true I’ll tell you bout it next week.) When it’s all over I say something like “Wow, I’ve never been in an earthquake before,” or maybe something less intelligent like “Wooooo, earthquake virgin!!!” as I wave my pointer finger in the air and address Mr. Executive and Mr. Executive assistant. But all Mr. Executive does is look at me and he opens his mouth, yet I have no recollection of the words that came out, all I know is that they were beautiful and they were something like “Blah, blah blah blah, blah blah blah blah. . . . POWER!!!!”
-655321
Friday, July 18, 2008
What the hell’s wrong with Randy Newman? And Assless Chaps?
“Textiles and maple syrup that’s why I’d leave LA, really that’s all it would take.” Not heard from the white powdered restrooms at Hyde, not heard from the quasi Euro Trash tempting each other with E in the shape of their family crest in a dark corner at Le Deux, and definitely not heard from the celebrities and new money spilling out of Kress. Me, yes I, and no not you; you’re too convinced otherwise. I would leave LA’s brainwashed streets and it’s piss stained walk of fame. I wouldn’t miss the tourists sporting that initial look of wonderment then the inevitable snarl after visiting the city that harbors their allergies worst nightmares and their brain and ego’s biggest let down. The other day I swore I saw a bum making a dirt igloo, It’s not impossible to find that much trash in Hollywood; seriously look behind a door, an alleyway, at your dirty white keds, (yes you, you post post hipster style guru you), and you can find enough shit to create a two story trash mansion elaborately furnished with central AC and a dishwasher dignified enough to light up the eyes of even the most regal of homeless royal blood.
Again textiles and maple syrups, a small store in the countryside maybe Pennsylvania, or Maryland, or Connecticut. Who doesn’t like maple syrup; and textiles well you’re wearing a shirt and pants aren’t you? If not how bout a t-shirt that says “Not!!!!” for 9.99 and some MC Hammer parachute pants circa 1989 for 7.99. Pants, t-shirts, scarves, hats, assless chaps, and maple syrup, that’s why I’d leave LA. I’m not even talking about that “Vermont” maple syrup; you know the kind that’s supposed to be amazing because it’s authentic but really ends up tasting like a sticky Molotov cocktail jammed into a glass maple leaf. I’m talking about the buttery sweet fake shit that makes you feel like McDonald’s wasn’t only a bad idea but you have no idea if you will be able to get your toilet as white and sterile as it once was after ingesting maple syrup.
“I love LA,” “I love LA?” come on Randy Newman specifically what do you like about this crotch sweat wasteland? “If your balls don’t stick to your leg, you’re not in LA”, that’s what mom always used to say. “Look at that mountain, look at that tree, there’s a bum over there down on his knees?” Excuse me, Mr Newman I can’t see the fucking mountain unless I go up to the Griffith observatory after a fresh rain and cross my fingers that a 3-day coughing fit haze won’t be yellowing my view. The trees are nice when they haven’t been herded behind some celebrity’s mansion so they can breathe fresher air then their “two-bit reality star neighbor.” And that bum on his knees well he’s praying to Allah because even he’s more religious then the devil worshippers that run this town.
I know what your all thinking “If you don’t like it that much then leave!!” Right, right the same shit they say to people when they bash America. Well I fucking love America so close your tight-pursed botox lips asshole. Ya know obviously I've been thinking maybe I should leave; textiles and maple syrup right? Well I exaggerate, and leaving would be too easy, I've always been a bit of a masochist and gosh if Newman doesn't have a pretty voice when he spews bullshit. I’m not leaving; this is my town; my new song: "I'm Secretly Ok with LA." You get the fuck out, the smell of hot piss and rotten sushi has grown on me, Miley Cyrus spottings give me half stock, and I like the excitement of that tuberculosis cough I get fighting my way to the ocean. “I’m trying to make it,” I live here, get used to it I like to complain, and you can take your vegetarian ass and sun kissed face out of my view so I can watch the slowly dying sun set. Besides I can’t sew textiles, obviously don’t understand the word and maple syrup will be around for another 3,000 years until the earth is swallowed by your neighbors giant cat after the nuclear war of 5008. Thanks Randy.
-655321
Again textiles and maple syrups, a small store in the countryside maybe Pennsylvania, or Maryland, or Connecticut. Who doesn’t like maple syrup; and textiles well you’re wearing a shirt and pants aren’t you? If not how bout a t-shirt that says “Not!!!!” for 9.99 and some MC Hammer parachute pants circa 1989 for 7.99. Pants, t-shirts, scarves, hats, assless chaps, and maple syrup, that’s why I’d leave LA. I’m not even talking about that “Vermont” maple syrup; you know the kind that’s supposed to be amazing because it’s authentic but really ends up tasting like a sticky Molotov cocktail jammed into a glass maple leaf. I’m talking about the buttery sweet fake shit that makes you feel like McDonald’s wasn’t only a bad idea but you have no idea if you will be able to get your toilet as white and sterile as it once was after ingesting maple syrup.
“I love LA,” “I love LA?” come on Randy Newman specifically what do you like about this crotch sweat wasteland? “If your balls don’t stick to your leg, you’re not in LA”, that’s what mom always used to say. “Look at that mountain, look at that tree, there’s a bum over there down on his knees?” Excuse me, Mr Newman I can’t see the fucking mountain unless I go up to the Griffith observatory after a fresh rain and cross my fingers that a 3-day coughing fit haze won’t be yellowing my view. The trees are nice when they haven’t been herded behind some celebrity’s mansion so they can breathe fresher air then their “two-bit reality star neighbor.” And that bum on his knees well he’s praying to Allah because even he’s more religious then the devil worshippers that run this town.
I know what your all thinking “If you don’t like it that much then leave!!” Right, right the same shit they say to people when they bash America. Well I fucking love America so close your tight-pursed botox lips asshole. Ya know obviously I've been thinking maybe I should leave; textiles and maple syrup right? Well I exaggerate, and leaving would be too easy, I've always been a bit of a masochist and gosh if Newman doesn't have a pretty voice when he spews bullshit. I’m not leaving; this is my town; my new song: "I'm Secretly Ok with LA." You get the fuck out, the smell of hot piss and rotten sushi has grown on me, Miley Cyrus spottings give me half stock, and I like the excitement of that tuberculosis cough I get fighting my way to the ocean. “I’m trying to make it,” I live here, get used to it I like to complain, and you can take your vegetarian ass and sun kissed face out of my view so I can watch the slowly dying sun set. Besides I can’t sew textiles, obviously don’t understand the word and maple syrup will be around for another 3,000 years until the earth is swallowed by your neighbors giant cat after the nuclear war of 5008. Thanks Randy.
-655321
Thursday, July 17, 2008
I think you're crazy, maybe
My heart has been ripped out and squashed with a Louboutin high heel. It's black, pointy toed, and has a beautiful red sole. The heel and my heart.
-mildredratched-
"Motion Picture Soundtrack" - Radiohead
-mildredratched-
"Motion Picture Soundtrack" - Radiohead
Friday, July 11, 2008
"Kadush," or Pudding Skin: Soundtrack to a French Neo-Noir Tragedy.
"Kadush, kadush, kaaadush," God, she's got pointy fingers, "This fucking thing won't work, Luc."
Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up! Stop pressing the damn record button and shut the fuck up. Patience is a virtue, right; life lessons: like sex is a disease, religion is an empty wallet, knowledge is an anxiety disorder, eating is a release, and shitting being the opposite of eating must be a . . . fill? No, no, start again, this is backwards, we are off track. Damn't she does this to me, fills my mind with, well, if it's being filled then I guess shit.
"Ha, well baby maybe you better stop pushing it so hard, I just bought that thing." Aka I'll hit you so hard you're wearing steak over both lids if you break my new toy. God, isn't that just the metaphor for our whole relationship; she keeps pressing record and all we get is empty space and time . . . and steak, for some reason room service won't stop bringing steak. A release from my wife, originally that's all this weekend was, watching this 22 year old little hard body, well it's turned into button pushing. How did Thursday turn into Saturday and where are my pants? How'd I end up here in a hotel room in Vegas staring at this patch of bleached blonde pubis while she fiddles with my "Sony record your sex;" leaving me flaccid as a pedophile in a nursing home. She says the cameras is an eager, albeit perhaps desperate, attempt to satisfy her Auteur cinematic needs. I say it's a gift for a little girl whose dad died on Christmas.
Let's say I won her number in a raffle the winning ticket: D-E-L-T-A 1751. A flight attendant more interested in tending than flight. Today's in flight movie "How Chelsea gets man in 1D off while serving stale Cheez-It's." She was my prize and Vegas her foolish handler. She said she liked pudding, that's all she'd share really. Pudding was usually chocolate Snack-o-pack's with crushed up vitamins, that's vicodin, percocets, oxy, synthamesc, drencrome, Moloko-plus, anything artificial really. I asked her about school and history was tapioca to vanilla cream, remember the crust that used to form at the top; there's a word for that; no its not "pudding skin," though Urbandictionary.com does define pudding skin as "the first lick of a vagina during cunnilingus." God did she love pudding skin. Science was frozen pudding (she usually got confused here; no change in state of matter; both pudding and pudding pop are solids my dear). Reading was "Chocolate Pudding: a how to." Gym was; well gym was all the places you could rub pudding on the human body keeping your heart rate under 100 bpm's.
"Je suis un petite fille," I have never heard this more in my life. You tell a girl your family roots are French Canadian and she assumes you shit brie. She's young though so I mess with her head, there's still time for her to be a mature contributing member of society if she could only wipe the layer of "I'm not with stupid, I am stupid" off her face. So its touch me here, lick me there, hit me way too hard under here (all in French); and I. . . . well, I have no idea what she's talking about so I sit there staring, pretending like French is my first language, and I hit her because I feel like it, I lick her because my tongue is salivating and she smells like orange shasta, and I touch her because I'm afraid I can't feel. Nothing she says makes sense and nothing we do is ever recorded because she can't press buttons and we don't work.
Sunday morning I glance over and she smells like motor oil, like a car that's been driven too hard. I think of Marie, and the children she's growing and I think of this young girl. I remember "Je suis un petite fille," and I think, Jesus 22 isn't that young, I owned three hotels and an airline when I was 22. So I lick her again, and she tastes like burnt rubber, I touch her and realize I can't feel, and I slap her to check if either one of us is alive. I come to the conclusion that she might be, but I definitely am not, and if she wakes up she may want breakfast. So I leave her a credit card that doesn't work, and I write her a note in someone else's handwriting about the physics of suicide from the Bellagio roof. I clean up my clothes, take a bite of old Filet Mignon and a box of dark chocolate pudding as a souvenir and I head for the door. The camera turns on from the corner of the room and finally starts to record, its response to touch two days too late, a metaphor wholly wasted. I leave the room and let it record, people will want to see the nothingness that occurred, years from now they'll want to know neither of us were really there. Vegas was an illusion; Vegas has fully faded from my memory.
-655321
Shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up! Stop pressing the damn record button and shut the fuck up. Patience is a virtue, right; life lessons: like sex is a disease, religion is an empty wallet, knowledge is an anxiety disorder, eating is a release, and shitting being the opposite of eating must be a . . . fill? No, no, start again, this is backwards, we are off track. Damn't she does this to me, fills my mind with, well, if it's being filled then I guess shit.
"Ha, well baby maybe you better stop pushing it so hard, I just bought that thing." Aka I'll hit you so hard you're wearing steak over both lids if you break my new toy. God, isn't that just the metaphor for our whole relationship; she keeps pressing record and all we get is empty space and time . . . and steak, for some reason room service won't stop bringing steak. A release from my wife, originally that's all this weekend was, watching this 22 year old little hard body, well it's turned into button pushing. How did Thursday turn into Saturday and where are my pants? How'd I end up here in a hotel room in Vegas staring at this patch of bleached blonde pubis while she fiddles with my "Sony record your sex;" leaving me flaccid as a pedophile in a nursing home. She says the cameras is an eager, albeit perhaps desperate, attempt to satisfy her Auteur cinematic needs. I say it's a gift for a little girl whose dad died on Christmas.
Let's say I won her number in a raffle the winning ticket: D-E-L-T-A 1751. A flight attendant more interested in tending than flight. Today's in flight movie "How Chelsea gets man in 1D off while serving stale Cheez-It's." She was my prize and Vegas her foolish handler. She said she liked pudding, that's all she'd share really. Pudding was usually chocolate Snack-o-pack's with crushed up vitamins, that's vicodin, percocets, oxy, synthamesc, drencrome, Moloko-plus, anything artificial really. I asked her about school and history was tapioca to vanilla cream, remember the crust that used to form at the top; there's a word for that; no its not "pudding skin," though Urbandictionary.com does define pudding skin as "the first lick of a vagina during cunnilingus." God did she love pudding skin. Science was frozen pudding (she usually got confused here; no change in state of matter; both pudding and pudding pop are solids my dear). Reading was "Chocolate Pudding: a how to." Gym was; well gym was all the places you could rub pudding on the human body keeping your heart rate under 100 bpm's.
"Je suis un petite fille," I have never heard this more in my life. You tell a girl your family roots are French Canadian and she assumes you shit brie. She's young though so I mess with her head, there's still time for her to be a mature contributing member of society if she could only wipe the layer of "I'm not with stupid, I am stupid" off her face. So its touch me here, lick me there, hit me way too hard under here (all in French); and I. . . . well, I have no idea what she's talking about so I sit there staring, pretending like French is my first language, and I hit her because I feel like it, I lick her because my tongue is salivating and she smells like orange shasta, and I touch her because I'm afraid I can't feel. Nothing she says makes sense and nothing we do is ever recorded because she can't press buttons and we don't work.
Sunday morning I glance over and she smells like motor oil, like a car that's been driven too hard. I think of Marie, and the children she's growing and I think of this young girl. I remember "Je suis un petite fille," and I think, Jesus 22 isn't that young, I owned three hotels and an airline when I was 22. So I lick her again, and she tastes like burnt rubber, I touch her and realize I can't feel, and I slap her to check if either one of us is alive. I come to the conclusion that she might be, but I definitely am not, and if she wakes up she may want breakfast. So I leave her a credit card that doesn't work, and I write her a note in someone else's handwriting about the physics of suicide from the Bellagio roof. I clean up my clothes, take a bite of old Filet Mignon and a box of dark chocolate pudding as a souvenir and I head for the door. The camera turns on from the corner of the room and finally starts to record, its response to touch two days too late, a metaphor wholly wasted. I leave the room and let it record, people will want to see the nothingness that occurred, years from now they'll want to know neither of us were really there. Vegas was an illusion; Vegas has fully faded from my memory.
-655321
Monday, July 7, 2008
Sentiments v. Syllables (Japanese Bonus Track)
Vegas still hasn’t quite faded from my memory. As I serve two-dollar ginger ale to the Asian men in first class, the two virginal boys prancing in the aisles of Delta Flight 1751 only excite images of masculine knights and their tight fitting unitards. Provoking me with their mushroom tips, these men look happy with their lives, with their ginger ale, while I am left stung by the sour looks of their detestation.
It was a Thursday night when Luc told me I looked pretty, but maybe that was because we were in the hotel bar. He talked to me about France, prehistoric elephants of the Midwestern plains, doing magic, and, to a lesser extent, about his wife, Marie. He also talked about eating my pussy, which was something new, something risqué, convenient, and in a rather depressing admission, essential. In his room he taught me French words, wore tight jeans, and exhibited a steady hand. On Friday morning, I awoke to a note from those steady hands. He wrote in all caps and thanked me.
That morning I ordered blueberry pancakes, charged them to his room, and felt almost nothing. Nothing except that little hint of nostalgia for the very recent past. I’ve found the trick is to try and not think about anything. Try for nothing, look for nothing, because the church of the subgenious is an order of scoffers and blasphemers, dedicated to total slack, delving into mockery science, sadofuturistics, megaphysics, scatalography, schizophreniatrics, morealism, sarcastrophy, cynisacreligion, apocolyptionomy, ESPectorationalism, hypno-pediatrics, subliminalism, satyriology, disto-utopianity, sardonicology, facetiouism, ridiculophagy, and miscellaneous theology.
By the afternoon I had sold the memoirs of my love life to a publisher. They are going to make a board game out of it and most likely nobody will ever pass go, nor will anyone ever collect two hundred dollars. The abrogation of my trip found myself in the airport, snacking on two chocolate chip cookies to pass the time. Remember, dénouement. Other French words: inconvenient, nonessential, etc. In the end I don’t want flowers, or spaceships, I don’t really want anything. I feel cold, like the ghost of someone who used to exist, but someone much happier than I, maybe someone like Marie. Vegas still hasn’t quite faded from my memory.
-mildredratched-
It was a Thursday night when Luc told me I looked pretty, but maybe that was because we were in the hotel bar. He talked to me about France, prehistoric elephants of the Midwestern plains, doing magic, and, to a lesser extent, about his wife, Marie. He also talked about eating my pussy, which was something new, something risqué, convenient, and in a rather depressing admission, essential. In his room he taught me French words, wore tight jeans, and exhibited a steady hand. On Friday morning, I awoke to a note from those steady hands. He wrote in all caps and thanked me.
That morning I ordered blueberry pancakes, charged them to his room, and felt almost nothing. Nothing except that little hint of nostalgia for the very recent past. I’ve found the trick is to try and not think about anything. Try for nothing, look for nothing, because the church of the subgenious is an order of scoffers and blasphemers, dedicated to total slack, delving into mockery science, sadofuturistics, megaphysics, scatalography, schizophreniatrics, morealism, sarcastrophy, cynisacreligion, apocolyptionomy, ESPectorationalism, hypno-pediatrics, subliminalism, satyriology, disto-utopianity, sardonicology, facetiouism, ridiculophagy, and miscellaneous theology.
By the afternoon I had sold the memoirs of my love life to a publisher. They are going to make a board game out of it and most likely nobody will ever pass go, nor will anyone ever collect two hundred dollars. The abrogation of my trip found myself in the airport, snacking on two chocolate chip cookies to pass the time. Remember, dénouement. Other French words: inconvenient, nonessential, etc. In the end I don’t want flowers, or spaceships, I don’t really want anything. I feel cold, like the ghost of someone who used to exist, but someone much happier than I, maybe someone like Marie. Vegas still hasn’t quite faded from my memory.
-mildredratched-
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
If it's not Christmas, Why the Hell am I Up?
A topical rant on a topic you mustn't know:
Do you ever just wanna fall asleep and only wake up on Christmas Day? Just get rid of your problems, the flies constantly buzzing through your daydreams, your seemingly tragic plight and stuff it all in for a hibernation of 364 days. Get rid of your cell phone, get rid of your computer, no such thing as email, no such thing as meetings, no such thing as appointments, no nagging neighbors or bill collectors. Your life is that one day; and you better make it worth it.
What’s perfect about Christmas is it’s the one day a year where everyone is an actor. You don’t have to be Brad Pitt to put a smile on your face and pretend your wife hasn’t gained five pounds every year for the last 15 years (yes that’s 75 rolly polly greasy pounds extra for you to love), "why no honey squeeze into that size 4 and stick that gigantic cantankerous mass in my face." You don’t have to be Tom Hanks to carve the family turkey and tell your son that you love his new boyfriend and feel perfectly comfortable with them culminating their relationship in your marital bed. And you don’t have to be Reese Witherspoon to give your husband a hand job while you flip through your Vogue magazine reading about how much "power the female hand has over the dick" and pretend it’s better than that ring you've been eyeing at Michaels Jewelers.
Imagine how rested you would feel if you slept every single day of the year except that one day; Christmas day. If you were born on this earth and all you knew was that one day a year; a day where people pretend they like shitty cake to curb negative relationships, they get loaded off sugary concoctions to deal with assholes that happen to share blood with them, and smiles are pasted in cyberspace forever recorded as digital memories. 75 days of life tops probably, that's all you could really hope for or expect. 75 days of an illusion that it’s all ok, that your parents don’t disprove of your lifestyle, that without a raise you won't post a youtube video titled "Larry destroys his office with a Louisville Slugger because he is underpaid and under appreciated", that the angel of death will strike every house except your white picketed piece of paradise. 75 days of covering up that you hate meatloaf, that you never loved your wife, that dad goes to the strip club because boners aren’t free, and that you can't stand to look at yourself naked in the mirror anymore because your balls/tits (lets really open this up) have become passengers rather than drivers in that failing body of yours. Imagine that; every day is red and green jello shots, every day reeks of pine and dead bird, every day is Starbucks seasonal menu (Caramel Apple Cider ahhhhhhh), every day there’s a more advanced I-pod under the tree with Steve Jobs briefing you on advances expected for Christmas number 33.
I’ll tell you what you would think, you’d probably think that this world is pretty decent, and that people are good at keeping secrets, and that society is overall pretty friendly and righteous, and that you wish you could be awake for the other 364 days of the year that you miss. But you know what you’d be wrong, because the only day, the only single day a year when families are civil and life is moral and upholds the values we are taught to look for, (if not a fake personification of a societal norm),is the one day you are awake a year and it’s all F U C K I N G fake.
-655321
Do you ever just wanna fall asleep and only wake up on Christmas Day? Just get rid of your problems, the flies constantly buzzing through your daydreams, your seemingly tragic plight and stuff it all in for a hibernation of 364 days. Get rid of your cell phone, get rid of your computer, no such thing as email, no such thing as meetings, no such thing as appointments, no nagging neighbors or bill collectors. Your life is that one day; and you better make it worth it.
What’s perfect about Christmas is it’s the one day a year where everyone is an actor. You don’t have to be Brad Pitt to put a smile on your face and pretend your wife hasn’t gained five pounds every year for the last 15 years (yes that’s 75 rolly polly greasy pounds extra for you to love), "why no honey squeeze into that size 4 and stick that gigantic cantankerous mass in my face." You don’t have to be Tom Hanks to carve the family turkey and tell your son that you love his new boyfriend and feel perfectly comfortable with them culminating their relationship in your marital bed. And you don’t have to be Reese Witherspoon to give your husband a hand job while you flip through your Vogue magazine reading about how much "power the female hand has over the dick" and pretend it’s better than that ring you've been eyeing at Michaels Jewelers.
Imagine how rested you would feel if you slept every single day of the year except that one day; Christmas day. If you were born on this earth and all you knew was that one day a year; a day where people pretend they like shitty cake to curb negative relationships, they get loaded off sugary concoctions to deal with assholes that happen to share blood with them, and smiles are pasted in cyberspace forever recorded as digital memories. 75 days of life tops probably, that's all you could really hope for or expect. 75 days of an illusion that it’s all ok, that your parents don’t disprove of your lifestyle, that without a raise you won't post a youtube video titled "Larry destroys his office with a Louisville Slugger because he is underpaid and under appreciated", that the angel of death will strike every house except your white picketed piece of paradise. 75 days of covering up that you hate meatloaf, that you never loved your wife, that dad goes to the strip club because boners aren’t free, and that you can't stand to look at yourself naked in the mirror anymore because your balls/tits (lets really open this up) have become passengers rather than drivers in that failing body of yours. Imagine that; every day is red and green jello shots, every day reeks of pine and dead bird, every day is Starbucks seasonal menu (Caramel Apple Cider ahhhhhhh), every day there’s a more advanced I-pod under the tree with Steve Jobs briefing you on advances expected for Christmas number 33.
I’ll tell you what you would think, you’d probably think that this world is pretty decent, and that people are good at keeping secrets, and that society is overall pretty friendly and righteous, and that you wish you could be awake for the other 364 days of the year that you miss. But you know what you’d be wrong, because the only day, the only single day a year when families are civil and life is moral and upholds the values we are taught to look for, (if not a fake personification of a societal norm),is the one day you are awake a year and it’s all F U C K I N G fake.
-655321
Sunday, June 15, 2008
FAWDER'S DAY
Or The Call:
"Ring ring ring," hmmm an unknown number, could be that offer to play point guard for the Celtics I've been waiting for or that call from Mastercard asking me if I approved the rental of “The Fuck It List” on my account. . . . or more than likely it’s the doctor calling to tell me I should really think about wearing condoms next time I go to Southeast, Asia. What the hell pick it up, live a little; the cookie you ate last night told you to take more chances. . . . . in bed!!! (haha, that game you know, fortune cookies, sex. . . humor is wasted on you).
“Hello,” nothing, "Helloo?” breathing, “Hello, Yellowwww. . . . yellow card," breathing “Holaa, como estas es esta una llamada de broma?” nothing “Hell hoe, hellooooo, elbow, hi, hiya there, goodentaug. . . . ok I’m going to hang up now.” And then a voice that sounds little older than a fetus, excited like mom just bought an ice cream cone for the whole soccer team, like its Sunday and we’re going to Chuck E Cheese; “Hewwo. . .. . .hi dis is Costa, Costa Smith, happy fawder's day” Hmmm how many kids have this number, besides the ones trapped in the basement I keep for creative inspiration?
“Hello there kid, thanks for the call, do I know you?” Is this some kind of miserable right wing charitable service call to encourage all those sperm bank fathers to keep better track of their seed? Is this just a nice little kid using the numbers from his chocolate stained sudoku book to call random’s with this happy sentiment?
“Yea dis is Costa. . . what are you doing?”, “No no this is Costa, Costa is my last name. . . who is this?” God this is getting creepy; here come the death threats and the grumblings of REDRUM from the back of his throat, please God don’t let this demon child have my address.
“I just got back from the park wid mommy and gramma, we took grampa for dinner and then to see Kung Fu Panda for fathers day.” “That sounds like a nice day, Costa, it’s Costa right? Your grandfather probably would have been happy with a bottle of scotch and a piss that didn’t interrupt him in the middle of the night, but a solid day I’d say. Why did you call me though, should I know you. . .are we related, like a little cousin I forgot about?” Maybe he’s harmless; he could be one of those invasive lonely conversationalists that shares too much. You know the woman or man who scrolls through the phone book to let you know that they tried suicide two days ago but their razor was dull; Or that they just bought a new Magic Bullet from QVC and the peanut butter shakes are amazing; kinda like mom when she felt the need to tell everyone about the divorce- the worst was when she made the Payless clerk cry.
“Well Mommy said for my 5th birfday, I could tawk to my daddy. . . so I waited for fawders day because my birfday is the 3rd of June and I got a new math game for the compuder and my daddy’s phone numba and a picture of him, and a whistle for swim pwactice and a cap gun, and thwee magic books, and the Back to da Future box set.” Damn, this kids cool, a little long winded and dillusional but surely a winner among the list of shithead kids polluting this world.
“That’s awesome Costa, great story, great gifts. . .great. . .just great, listen I have to go though, it was nice speaking; you should call that old man of yours and tell him all this.” Please just hang up, if I was 15 years younger I would invite you over to my birthday and you could invite me over to your house for a swim and tell me your mom likes it when you and your friends go swimming naked; and then we would take our bathing suits off and your mom could take pictures and ten years down the line get arrested for kiddie porn, and we could bond about it years later over beers after college graduation. But it's not in the cards and I gotta go.
“But that’s what I’m doing daddy, I’m calling my daddy on fawders day. Mommy said to say tequila, donkey show, Mexico and the day after pill that she didn’t take and you would remember. Happy Fawders Day.”
-655321
"Ring ring ring," hmmm an unknown number, could be that offer to play point guard for the Celtics I've been waiting for or that call from Mastercard asking me if I approved the rental of “The Fuck It List” on my account. . . . or more than likely it’s the doctor calling to tell me I should really think about wearing condoms next time I go to Southeast, Asia. What the hell pick it up, live a little; the cookie you ate last night told you to take more chances. . . . . in bed!!! (haha, that game you know, fortune cookies, sex. . . humor is wasted on you).
“Hello,” nothing, "Helloo?” breathing, “Hello, Yellowwww. . . . yellow card," breathing “Holaa, como estas es esta una llamada de broma?” nothing “Hell hoe, hellooooo, elbow, hi, hiya there, goodentaug. . . . ok I’m going to hang up now.” And then a voice that sounds little older than a fetus, excited like mom just bought an ice cream cone for the whole soccer team, like its Sunday and we’re going to Chuck E Cheese; “Hewwo. . .. . .hi dis is Costa, Costa Smith, happy fawder's day” Hmmm how many kids have this number, besides the ones trapped in the basement I keep for creative inspiration?
“Hello there kid, thanks for the call, do I know you?” Is this some kind of miserable right wing charitable service call to encourage all those sperm bank fathers to keep better track of their seed? Is this just a nice little kid using the numbers from his chocolate stained sudoku book to call random’s with this happy sentiment?
“Yea dis is Costa. . . what are you doing?”, “No no this is Costa, Costa is my last name. . . who is this?” God this is getting creepy; here come the death threats and the grumblings of REDRUM from the back of his throat, please God don’t let this demon child have my address.
“I just got back from the park wid mommy and gramma, we took grampa for dinner and then to see Kung Fu Panda for fathers day.” “That sounds like a nice day, Costa, it’s Costa right? Your grandfather probably would have been happy with a bottle of scotch and a piss that didn’t interrupt him in the middle of the night, but a solid day I’d say. Why did you call me though, should I know you. . .are we related, like a little cousin I forgot about?” Maybe he’s harmless; he could be one of those invasive lonely conversationalists that shares too much. You know the woman or man who scrolls through the phone book to let you know that they tried suicide two days ago but their razor was dull; Or that they just bought a new Magic Bullet from QVC and the peanut butter shakes are amazing; kinda like mom when she felt the need to tell everyone about the divorce- the worst was when she made the Payless clerk cry.
“Well Mommy said for my 5th birfday, I could tawk to my daddy. . . so I waited for fawders day because my birfday is the 3rd of June and I got a new math game for the compuder and my daddy’s phone numba and a picture of him, and a whistle for swim pwactice and a cap gun, and thwee magic books, and the Back to da Future box set.” Damn, this kids cool, a little long winded and dillusional but surely a winner among the list of shithead kids polluting this world.
“That’s awesome Costa, great story, great gifts. . .great. . .just great, listen I have to go though, it was nice speaking; you should call that old man of yours and tell him all this.” Please just hang up, if I was 15 years younger I would invite you over to my birthday and you could invite me over to your house for a swim and tell me your mom likes it when you and your friends go swimming naked; and then we would take our bathing suits off and your mom could take pictures and ten years down the line get arrested for kiddie porn, and we could bond about it years later over beers after college graduation. But it's not in the cards and I gotta go.
“But that’s what I’m doing daddy, I’m calling my daddy on fawders day. Mommy said to say tequila, donkey show, Mexico and the day after pill that she didn’t take and you would remember. Happy Fawders Day.”
-655321
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Bathroom Spy
The Toilet Trenches:
It's 9 am on a Thursday morning and you stumble into your work bathroom for a post-coffee piss. You close your eyes and hum the Cure song stuck in your head as you listen to the faucet drip and attempt to control your urine stream to the beat of both; (not an unusual morning feat for you). Let it drip, stop, retract, drip, drip, retract, jiggle, drip, flush; "Boys Don't Cry" remember? Dress shoes shuffle against tile floor and you see two black wingtips disappear beneath a stall door. What was that creature? What is this unidentified cockroach penetrating my morning haze?
This is what we in the work world call a culprit, a victim of unspoken bathroom blackmail and bribery. It is not a crime to use the work bathroom to export goods on the no.2 train to Empty Stomach City, in fact we all must exercise this right from time to time. But be prepared for bathroom mutiny; if you are identified as the culprit you mine as well flush your respect down with that horrid turd.
Ever notice how that Gucci toed criminal will not, positively not come out of his stall of ambiguity until you have "5 second rule" left the bathroom? C'mon people; I know it destroys the office myth that you are indeed a superhero but we all know you shit. It is just one of those things in our society and especially in the workplace; admitting you shit is like admitting you can blow bubble gum with your asshole, or that you fantasize about slumber parties with 2nd grade spelling bee finalists. So what do we do instead? We pretend "hey I'm a janitor I'm fixing the toilet paper mechanism" jiggle jiggle "be out in a sec". . . see proof, and then as soon as the bathroom is exited we leap from our stall, (where we probably completed the hardest task we will attempt all day), and we walk on over to the sink, otherwise known as home base. From that point on if Tim from business affairs comes in we can say "Ahhh Tim, nice day, Lakers or Celtics huh? Ohh that smell I don't know just peeing, just peeing in here, that's all Im actually capable of, don't know if you know this but I was born with coloneferus.. . .. it basically means I am incapable of excreting feces, huh, yea it means I cant take a crap." Why the lie, why the embarrassment, oh terrified one?
I don't necessarily get it; why this balance of power changes when we know our colleagues take a mean one every now and again; but hey “shitstalking” is what gets some of us our first raise. "I saw you shit;” the strongest words ever uttered in the work place, you mine as well give that person your wife, house, kids, and car because they own you.
Here is what I ask you, yes you I saw you in there yesterday; brown Paul Smiths and the grey Calvin Klein dress pants humming the first two versus of "Walking on Sunshine": Why wait until someone else has left the restroom, we know you shit, we know your not in that stall researching satellite orbits for NASA. "Hi my name is Bob, I'm a shitter. . . .I shat last night I shat this morning, and I'm going to go shit again right now!" Is that so hard? Don’t let the man take the power from you.
So what do I suggest and what do I do when I notice fashion clad employee #1 resting on the throne, how do I handle this situation? Well first off I must admit in all honesty I don't shit, never. . . .never have, never will I'm like the guy with coloneferus. But my game "shitstalking;" I want to see you sweat, I stay in that bathroom as long as possible while someone is in that stall, I want to catch them on the job; I am the reason for your IBS. I am a bathroom spy trying to infiltrate your hidden identity. "I can see your shoes, and your pants, as soon as I go back to my desk I will identify you!!" I will know who the shitter is, the pooper, the plopper, the turd philanthropist. Perhaps you say I am interrupting your quiet time, I say your the cause of the skip in my morning piss track. A shuffle of feet and I'm on you, ready to barter for a raise. It is not nearly as unacceptable to know someone who pees; my sister pees, my mother pees, Jim from accounting pees big deal, I saw Mother Theresa pee. . . granted she did it while floating on a cloud of recycled bibles. But to know someone that sits on the thrown and embarks on that most holy of journey's that’s something else. Just once I want to go in there and have a guy come out and go "high five buddy, I just shat!" and then I'll say something like, "Yea let's wash our hands first.. . . . and I know you shat, I've been watching you."
-655321
It's 9 am on a Thursday morning and you stumble into your work bathroom for a post-coffee piss. You close your eyes and hum the Cure song stuck in your head as you listen to the faucet drip and attempt to control your urine stream to the beat of both; (not an unusual morning feat for you). Let it drip, stop, retract, drip, drip, retract, jiggle, drip, flush; "Boys Don't Cry" remember? Dress shoes shuffle against tile floor and you see two black wingtips disappear beneath a stall door. What was that creature? What is this unidentified cockroach penetrating my morning haze?
This is what we in the work world call a culprit, a victim of unspoken bathroom blackmail and bribery. It is not a crime to use the work bathroom to export goods on the no.2 train to Empty Stomach City, in fact we all must exercise this right from time to time. But be prepared for bathroom mutiny; if you are identified as the culprit you mine as well flush your respect down with that horrid turd.
Ever notice how that Gucci toed criminal will not, positively not come out of his stall of ambiguity until you have "5 second rule" left the bathroom? C'mon people; I know it destroys the office myth that you are indeed a superhero but we all know you shit. It is just one of those things in our society and especially in the workplace; admitting you shit is like admitting you can blow bubble gum with your asshole, or that you fantasize about slumber parties with 2nd grade spelling bee finalists. So what do we do instead? We pretend "hey I'm a janitor I'm fixing the toilet paper mechanism" jiggle jiggle "be out in a sec". . . see proof, and then as soon as the bathroom is exited we leap from our stall, (where we probably completed the hardest task we will attempt all day), and we walk on over to the sink, otherwise known as home base. From that point on if Tim from business affairs comes in we can say "Ahhh Tim, nice day, Lakers or Celtics huh? Ohh that smell I don't know just peeing, just peeing in here, that's all Im actually capable of, don't know if you know this but I was born with coloneferus.. . .. it basically means I am incapable of excreting feces, huh, yea it means I cant take a crap." Why the lie, why the embarrassment, oh terrified one?
I don't necessarily get it; why this balance of power changes when we know our colleagues take a mean one every now and again; but hey “shitstalking” is what gets some of us our first raise. "I saw you shit;” the strongest words ever uttered in the work place, you mine as well give that person your wife, house, kids, and car because they own you.
Here is what I ask you, yes you I saw you in there yesterday; brown Paul Smiths and the grey Calvin Klein dress pants humming the first two versus of "Walking on Sunshine": Why wait until someone else has left the restroom, we know you shit, we know your not in that stall researching satellite orbits for NASA. "Hi my name is Bob, I'm a shitter. . . .I shat last night I shat this morning, and I'm going to go shit again right now!" Is that so hard? Don’t let the man take the power from you.
So what do I suggest and what do I do when I notice fashion clad employee #1 resting on the throne, how do I handle this situation? Well first off I must admit in all honesty I don't shit, never. . . .never have, never will I'm like the guy with coloneferus. But my game "shitstalking;" I want to see you sweat, I stay in that bathroom as long as possible while someone is in that stall, I want to catch them on the job; I am the reason for your IBS. I am a bathroom spy trying to infiltrate your hidden identity. "I can see your shoes, and your pants, as soon as I go back to my desk I will identify you!!" I will know who the shitter is, the pooper, the plopper, the turd philanthropist. Perhaps you say I am interrupting your quiet time, I say your the cause of the skip in my morning piss track. A shuffle of feet and I'm on you, ready to barter for a raise. It is not nearly as unacceptable to know someone who pees; my sister pees, my mother pees, Jim from accounting pees big deal, I saw Mother Theresa pee. . . granted she did it while floating on a cloud of recycled bibles. But to know someone that sits on the thrown and embarks on that most holy of journey's that’s something else. Just once I want to go in there and have a guy come out and go "high five buddy, I just shat!" and then I'll say something like, "Yea let's wash our hands first.. . . . and I know you shat, I've been watching you."
-655321
Thursday, May 29, 2008
Food it's TV You Eat
Random/Revolutionary Thought:
If you are in "The Industry" (Entertainment that is, no porn doesn't count. . .yea I know it's entertainment, give me a break ok) the only television channel you should be watching in your spare time is the Food Network.
After a long day of being told you’re worthless, throwing out rotten strawberry Yoplait’s, getting paper cuts from horrible reality television show sheets, placing calls to people incapable of picking up their own phones, and sitting through the kind of traffic that makes you want to pull over your car and use your tail pipe as a pacifier; the only saving grace is a little thing called food TV.
Do you really want to watch the efforts of the people you work so closely with everyday, and the job you pour your 20,000 salary and failed dreams into, plastered on your television screen during the 4 hours, (if that), of free time you get a night? No, I’ve got that one for you, the answer is no. Do you really want to watch the half rate movie, with the failing star/waiter, and the straight to DVD distribution deal you worked on all winter expecting a career changing credit, on your “me time” weekend? No, the answer is no yet again.
When you get home from work and your trying to think about what you should do with those two hours after eating your microwaved dinner, after exercising your administrative soul with a four mile run, and after making those urgent phone calls to your dead end contacts to further your career, you should not turn on the tv or go to a movie that reminds you you’re nowhere near your goals. What you should do, what you should really do is turn on the Food Network.
You should watch the carefree chefs of the best channel in the world create the Chicken Parmigian recipe your mom used to make you after school on Wednesdays before karate. You should watch the eclectic talent on Have Fork Will Travel move around the globe sampling the finest cuisines from countries you can’t even draw a line to on a map. Sit back and relax as Ace of Cakes try and tackle mango flavored frosting in the shape of a palm tree on a desert island mirage cake. Flip on Diners, Drive-In’s and Dive’s and reminisce about that diner back home where Paulie used to fry eggs in the center of your pancakes, or where Chef Molly used to bake homemade Twinkies on Fridays after baseball practice.
The Food Network reminds us of what’s good in this world, it reminds us of where we came from and where we would eventually like to go back to. It reminds us of the white shingled suburbs, of the nooks of the city, of the beach and the mountains. It reminds us of little league, of the donut shop downtown, of skipping out to the crab shack during lunch in high school, of family get togethers, of movie nights with friends, of barbeques on the first warm day of spring, of summers at the beach, of hot cocoa at the homecoming game, of an ice cream treat after surviving your first trip to the doctors office; it reminds us of what truly is important in this world. The Food Network reminds us of a simpler time when we used to ask “Mom, what’s for dinner?” and it reminds us that there doesn’t have to be a point to everything we do. So go home, ignore the perils of life in your chosen career, and remember what once used to be important to you, and what can be important once again. Get back to your roots and your values and have a piece of apple pie with a slice of cheddar, or you know skip the cheddar . . . . .because pie and cheese don’t mix well.
-655321
If you are in "The Industry" (Entertainment that is, no porn doesn't count. . .yea I know it's entertainment, give me a break ok) the only television channel you should be watching in your spare time is the Food Network.
After a long day of being told you’re worthless, throwing out rotten strawberry Yoplait’s, getting paper cuts from horrible reality television show sheets, placing calls to people incapable of picking up their own phones, and sitting through the kind of traffic that makes you want to pull over your car and use your tail pipe as a pacifier; the only saving grace is a little thing called food TV.
Do you really want to watch the efforts of the people you work so closely with everyday, and the job you pour your 20,000 salary and failed dreams into, plastered on your television screen during the 4 hours, (if that), of free time you get a night? No, I’ve got that one for you, the answer is no. Do you really want to watch the half rate movie, with the failing star/waiter, and the straight to DVD distribution deal you worked on all winter expecting a career changing credit, on your “me time” weekend? No, the answer is no yet again.
When you get home from work and your trying to think about what you should do with those two hours after eating your microwaved dinner, after exercising your administrative soul with a four mile run, and after making those urgent phone calls to your dead end contacts to further your career, you should not turn on the tv or go to a movie that reminds you you’re nowhere near your goals. What you should do, what you should really do is turn on the Food Network.
You should watch the carefree chefs of the best channel in the world create the Chicken Parmigian recipe your mom used to make you after school on Wednesdays before karate. You should watch the eclectic talent on Have Fork Will Travel move around the globe sampling the finest cuisines from countries you can’t even draw a line to on a map. Sit back and relax as Ace of Cakes try and tackle mango flavored frosting in the shape of a palm tree on a desert island mirage cake. Flip on Diners, Drive-In’s and Dive’s and reminisce about that diner back home where Paulie used to fry eggs in the center of your pancakes, or where Chef Molly used to bake homemade Twinkies on Fridays after baseball practice.
The Food Network reminds us of what’s good in this world, it reminds us of where we came from and where we would eventually like to go back to. It reminds us of the white shingled suburbs, of the nooks of the city, of the beach and the mountains. It reminds us of little league, of the donut shop downtown, of skipping out to the crab shack during lunch in high school, of family get togethers, of movie nights with friends, of barbeques on the first warm day of spring, of summers at the beach, of hot cocoa at the homecoming game, of an ice cream treat after surviving your first trip to the doctors office; it reminds us of what truly is important in this world. The Food Network reminds us of a simpler time when we used to ask “Mom, what’s for dinner?” and it reminds us that there doesn’t have to be a point to everything we do. So go home, ignore the perils of life in your chosen career, and remember what once used to be important to you, and what can be important once again. Get back to your roots and your values and have a piece of apple pie with a slice of cheddar, or you know skip the cheddar . . . . .because pie and cheese don’t mix well.
-655321
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Mouth the City Lived in
A journal entry from LA's finest Madame::
Hi, I'm from LA by way of New York, Chicago, Akron Ohio, Virginia Beach, Fredericksburg Texas, and Melbourne Florida but yes I'm from LA. Me I hitchhiked out here in 78, worked as a street vender specializing in body parts; ears, eyes, toes, lips. . . . .(yes both sets), whatever you're into. Bought a car and an apt in Korea Town where I ran my business. My mouth was open 24/7 and the back door was revolving. Businessmen poured in and out of this office. The front, well I left that locked for love unless I couldn't make rent that week.
“Ahhh Mr. H R Puff n' Stuff good to see you good to see you- do you have a job for a 20 something aspiri. . ahh. . oooh. . brrrrrb ooh sorry I didn't realize we weren’t going to talk this time, wow someone is an eager beaver. Can I take out my retainer first? Oooh yes you're right that’s me, right beaver funny it’s like a pun.”
They all used code names, as if it mattered, and I was the hottest, cleanest, most innocent bull’s-eye on the market. Girl next door looks, with Ivy League wit, but they wouldn't know since mouths weren't for speaking when you charge by the hour. An Ivy League Whore makes for a snappy business card. Hey I'm an entrepreneur- we are all good at one thing and me, I know how to run a business, Korea Town to Silver Lake, Silver Lake to WeHo, WeHo to Beverly Hills. This bumpkin moved up and over and out, I can do it all and done it all.
“Well hello mister DeLlama and Snorcese, how imaginative you both are, sure all at once lets give it a shot, and by the way you wouldn't happen to have a position at your companies for a smart, willing (obviously), attentive young, oh yes, uh huh I just got tested yesterday, yes for sure.” Who do you have to fuck to get ahead in this town. . . . I dunno but I'm sure I fucked them and I didn’t get a head, I gave a lot though. This is not a business you want to get old in. “You wouldn't happen to have a job for a 30 something, desperate, eager. . . . ahh the bed this time.” “Hello, good to see you again Mr. Brant, no no, sorry no ladies here that look like futbol players, you're in America, here take one that looks like Brad Pitt in Fight Club.” That’ll be in the trades tomorrow.
I can go to parties, I can hand out my card, I am a confident, intelligent entrepreneur I run a business that is a necessity. “Well hello, yes call me when she's out of town, let’s talk.” “You sir you wouldn’t happen to need a clean 50's something development girl with an ivy league education. . . .oh yes, I role play as well. What huh? You cant hire me because nobody in town wants to look me in the eyes. . . . contacts, numbers . . . well I know all their code names, did you know Christian Slater used to like to be called Officer Ballbearings, yea had something to do with really firm testicles. . . I have dirt on ‘em all.”
I am a business woman, I make the movies now, I give you the ideas when you're curled up in a ball telling me bout your daughters drug problems post coital, how bout a detective who can see the future, or a dog that can talk. But yes to answer your question I love it here it defines me, I am LA, I'm its tits, I AM THE TITS OF LA. Though I'm more like the silver lake these days, if ya know what I mean. . . . .grey pubes. LA defines me it is home, it is life, it is death . . . is that the right answer, please tell me I passed? I know this, this is my job, this is my town, if Yale taught me one thing it's don't bite off more than you can chew. . . .I know how much I can bite, and lord knows if you cause a problem with me. . . or my girls I sure as shit know how much I can chew.
-655321
Hi, I'm from LA by way of New York, Chicago, Akron Ohio, Virginia Beach, Fredericksburg Texas, and Melbourne Florida but yes I'm from LA. Me I hitchhiked out here in 78, worked as a street vender specializing in body parts; ears, eyes, toes, lips. . . . .(yes both sets), whatever you're into. Bought a car and an apt in Korea Town where I ran my business. My mouth was open 24/7 and the back door was revolving. Businessmen poured in and out of this office. The front, well I left that locked for love unless I couldn't make rent that week.
“Ahhh Mr. H R Puff n' Stuff good to see you good to see you- do you have a job for a 20 something aspiri. . ahh. . oooh. . brrrrrb ooh sorry I didn't realize we weren’t going to talk this time, wow someone is an eager beaver. Can I take out my retainer first? Oooh yes you're right that’s me, right beaver funny it’s like a pun.”
They all used code names, as if it mattered, and I was the hottest, cleanest, most innocent bull’s-eye on the market. Girl next door looks, with Ivy League wit, but they wouldn't know since mouths weren't for speaking when you charge by the hour. An Ivy League Whore makes for a snappy business card. Hey I'm an entrepreneur- we are all good at one thing and me, I know how to run a business, Korea Town to Silver Lake, Silver Lake to WeHo, WeHo to Beverly Hills. This bumpkin moved up and over and out, I can do it all and done it all.
“Well hello mister DeLlama and Snorcese, how imaginative you both are, sure all at once lets give it a shot, and by the way you wouldn't happen to have a position at your companies for a smart, willing (obviously), attentive young, oh yes, uh huh I just got tested yesterday, yes for sure.” Who do you have to fuck to get ahead in this town. . . . I dunno but I'm sure I fucked them and I didn’t get a head, I gave a lot though. This is not a business you want to get old in. “You wouldn't happen to have a job for a 30 something, desperate, eager. . . . ahh the bed this time.” “Hello, good to see you again Mr. Brant, no no, sorry no ladies here that look like futbol players, you're in America, here take one that looks like Brad Pitt in Fight Club.” That’ll be in the trades tomorrow.
I can go to parties, I can hand out my card, I am a confident, intelligent entrepreneur I run a business that is a necessity. “Well hello, yes call me when she's out of town, let’s talk.” “You sir you wouldn’t happen to need a clean 50's something development girl with an ivy league education. . . .oh yes, I role play as well. What huh? You cant hire me because nobody in town wants to look me in the eyes. . . . contacts, numbers . . . well I know all their code names, did you know Christian Slater used to like to be called Officer Ballbearings, yea had something to do with really firm testicles. . . I have dirt on ‘em all.”
I am a business woman, I make the movies now, I give you the ideas when you're curled up in a ball telling me bout your daughters drug problems post coital, how bout a detective who can see the future, or a dog that can talk. But yes to answer your question I love it here it defines me, I am LA, I'm its tits, I AM THE TITS OF LA. Though I'm more like the silver lake these days, if ya know what I mean. . . . .grey pubes. LA defines me it is home, it is life, it is death . . . is that the right answer, please tell me I passed? I know this, this is my job, this is my town, if Yale taught me one thing it's don't bite off more than you can chew. . . .I know how much I can bite, and lord knows if you cause a problem with me. . . or my girls I sure as shit know how much I can chew.
-655321
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
All of you Please, Drink until you're Real
“They’re not even drunk those girls.” We stare at each other through knowing eyes- maybe even a bit judgmental, as if that isn’t a factor here. But we know it is. Here's the thing about LA girls- about all these self-loathing transplants and LA people in general, If they aren’t drunk then it's “Oh I live in East Hollywood. . . .you know its on the line (what the fuck is East Hollywood), Brentwood is my home, yea Bel Air born and raised. . . . before that, well there was nothing.” None of these girls were “Born to Run.” New Jersey? No I took that trash out with the garbage last night. None of these girls were Knicks Fans, Cheese heads, part of the Big Apple, Georgia Peaches. . .. . ewww whats with all the food references, I heard you can get fat by reading about calories.
Regardless of whether they’re really from Dallas, Michigan, Seattle, East Boondocks Bumfuck Mississippi, etc. a sober Los Angelean is a native for life. Only when she’s drunk does her true Raleigh come out, only when she’s had a few too many whiskey sours does miss Evansville Indiana show her corn fed ways, only when she’s had a few Irish car bombs does Ms. Maine tell us about clam digging with pops in the summers. What does it mean that everyone in this city wants to be this city so much and that they desire to define its very essence so bad that they neglect their beginnings? How much alcohol does it take for you to tell me you aren’t really from LA.? It’s like a game, sort of like hungry hungry hippos, except the marbles are red headed sluts (the drink or the actual breed of female, you choose) and the winner gets their honesty and integrity back.
I may be a bit different I’ll gladly show you my khaki pants after one shot of Jaeger. Fuck it I’ll tell you where you can get a decent slice of pepperoni pizza on a random street in New Haven for half a shot of vodka. I’ll even let you know that I shoveled snow every winter to have a little spending money if you give me the remains of your tequila shot. You ask me and I’ll tell you all this without the liquid coaxing. Do we all really have to be that embarrassed of where we came from in this city? I grew up wearing collared shirts and fantasizing of Ivy League, I grew up with a year round white paste about me. Ghosts would laugh at me behind my back because they went surfing during the summers. How is it that this town has so much disdain for every other city? We have billboards, websites, books, magazines, television shows, movies all letting us know that you can “Disappear Here.” Everyone truly is so eager to belong to the cult that is LA. Please stop by the Scientology Center and donate your first months rent to the cause. It really is the first step if you’re looking for a sense of community.
“So no, these girls aren’t drunk,” that means they’ve lived off of Lemon Grove Avenue all their lives, or they’ve spent many a weekend in Palm Springs. Do tell, I’d love to hear the story. . . . in detail I might add. No, you’re not feeling well, let you have a drink first ok. How many shots until you can tell me about how hard your mom had to work as a single parent to raise you and your sister in rural Minnesota. How many vodka crans to raise that New York discourse from your Yankee blood? Please LA fill yourself with alcohol so each of us could have something a little bit more interesting to discuss over cocktails.
-655321
Regardless of whether they’re really from Dallas, Michigan, Seattle, East Boondocks Bumfuck Mississippi, etc. a sober Los Angelean is a native for life. Only when she’s drunk does her true Raleigh come out, only when she’s had a few too many whiskey sours does miss Evansville Indiana show her corn fed ways, only when she’s had a few Irish car bombs does Ms. Maine tell us about clam digging with pops in the summers. What does it mean that everyone in this city wants to be this city so much and that they desire to define its very essence so bad that they neglect their beginnings? How much alcohol does it take for you to tell me you aren’t really from LA.? It’s like a game, sort of like hungry hungry hippos, except the marbles are red headed sluts (the drink or the actual breed of female, you choose) and the winner gets their honesty and integrity back.
I may be a bit different I’ll gladly show you my khaki pants after one shot of Jaeger. Fuck it I’ll tell you where you can get a decent slice of pepperoni pizza on a random street in New Haven for half a shot of vodka. I’ll even let you know that I shoveled snow every winter to have a little spending money if you give me the remains of your tequila shot. You ask me and I’ll tell you all this without the liquid coaxing. Do we all really have to be that embarrassed of where we came from in this city? I grew up wearing collared shirts and fantasizing of Ivy League, I grew up with a year round white paste about me. Ghosts would laugh at me behind my back because they went surfing during the summers. How is it that this town has so much disdain for every other city? We have billboards, websites, books, magazines, television shows, movies all letting us know that you can “Disappear Here.” Everyone truly is so eager to belong to the cult that is LA. Please stop by the Scientology Center and donate your first months rent to the cause. It really is the first step if you’re looking for a sense of community.
“So no, these girls aren’t drunk,” that means they’ve lived off of Lemon Grove Avenue all their lives, or they’ve spent many a weekend in Palm Springs. Do tell, I’d love to hear the story. . . . in detail I might add. No, you’re not feeling well, let you have a drink first ok. How many shots until you can tell me about how hard your mom had to work as a single parent to raise you and your sister in rural Minnesota. How many vodka crans to raise that New York discourse from your Yankee blood? Please LA fill yourself with alcohol so each of us could have something a little bit more interesting to discuss over cocktails.
-655321
Tuesday, May 6, 2008
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Pull the Cord
So this will be the first entry to this blog that I may or may not keep up depending on time, work, states of mind, food intake, alcohol consumption, re-runs, depression, lack of depression, finances, movie theater listings, weather, dark green 98 Pontiac Bonneville's and their reliability , whats going on at Bronson, my thesis on lunch meat as a metaphor for economic status in middle America - really the list goes on and on.
The plan is to use this space to showcase my work as well as the work of others - work that revolves around LA and its culture (whether it be positive or negative). You may like this place, you may hate it, maybe you are impartial (lazy - make up your mind)... Regardless, surely it stirs up some feelings and creativity; regurgitate it here. As to be expected, ranting will happen from time to time, hence the oh so clever title.
Of course this is overly self serving, being that we are posting fiction and ranting, so feel free to comment and/or help out if need be - we want to hear your ideas and opinions. At any rate, this will be the purpose of this digital parking space. For now its back to watching re-runs of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and waiting for the "thought" to strike me. I'll leave you with a random quote because I feel like it. Think it over or think it under:
"And as things fell apart, nobody paid much attention"
Talking Heads
-655321
The plan is to use this space to showcase my work as well as the work of others - work that revolves around LA and its culture (whether it be positive or negative). You may like this place, you may hate it, maybe you are impartial (lazy - make up your mind)... Regardless, surely it stirs up some feelings and creativity; regurgitate it here. As to be expected, ranting will happen from time to time, hence the oh so clever title.
Of course this is overly self serving, being that we are posting fiction and ranting, so feel free to comment and/or help out if need be - we want to hear your ideas and opinions. At any rate, this will be the purpose of this digital parking space. For now its back to watching re-runs of Fresh Prince of Bel-Air and waiting for the "thought" to strike me. I'll leave you with a random quote because I feel like it. Think it over or think it under:
"And as things fell apart, nobody paid much attention"
Talking Heads
-655321
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