“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
Friday, July 18, 2008
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
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