Modern Day Malaise

My first Polish Wedding; OR someone agreeing to only have sex with Mateusz forever.

2009-03-01T17:31:00.000-08:00

To view the slide show of the wedding that is a much more interesting tour through these events than my words, click here. If you want to view as a slideshow, click here.

Prior to the day we left, I had been scouring areas all around the cities of Poland that I had already visited, searching desperately for anything that may even remotely resemble wedding attire. Seeing as the one-backpack-per-international trip rule, didn't exactly accommodate carrying an additional dry cleaning bag; it meant I had to assemble something cheap, disposable, and not ENTIRELY offensive to the Polish sense of wedding decorum.I arrived at the conclusion of ill fitting shoes, brown pants, a short sleeved black shirt, and a pink striped tie.

SO, now that you know what I will be wearing to the wedding (obviously of the utmost importance) we fast forward to our van of Mateusz family, along with me, Brendan, and the hired Polish driver of the van. The driver had difficulty finding the tiny hole in the wall hotel and reception village, which was about 45 minutes out of Warsaw. We finally arrived at a series of seemingly condemned buildings, that served as our lodging accommodations, well hid from the windy main "road". We all check into our respective rooms, as our trusty van driver shines his shoes in the shoe shine machine by the front door. This was the first and last time I had ever seen anyone use one of those. The room was a state of the art, classy, tongue in cheek homage to the common prison cell. Our entertainment was a small am/fm radio resting quietly below a dirty mirror. The radio doesn't work. We quickly prepped, two men trying to look their finest for the big show; someone actually agreeing to only have sex with mateusz hawasceiviz in front of the disbelieving eyes of god, as well as a church full of concerned spectators.

There was a bus we all took from the hotel to the church, we we reunited with nikolai Martin, and very few other people that spoke english. It definitely felt as though me and brendan were interlopers in an alternate universe. We got to the church and witnessed the wedding itself, of which I remember very few details of, other than it was pretty much like any other service at a church I have ever attended, only it was all in polish, and it ended with someone being stuck with mateusz forever.

The most interesting part of the service was actually outside of the church, when there was the usual assault of rice throwing and light flashes, but in addition, an unfamiliar practice of spectators also throwing change at the newlyweds, and the pristine white clad bride, was also expected to scrounge around around the ground to gather the various polish currency. I wasn't too clear on the meaning of this tradition, but think it had something to do with Polish people accepting any currency that others were to offer them.

We finally go from the wedding to the reception, and are inducted into the hallowed halls of a true polish wedding; in through the 2 large wooden doors, revealing an elaborate courtyard, with women servers dressed in traditional polish wench garb, assisted by younger girls with flower garlands braided into their hair. As a 4 piece group in funny costumes played polish music, the servant girls took care of the guests milling about on the exquisitely rustic, stone paved grounds. There was a ceremony where Matuesz and his bride were supposed to release these pigeons together, but mateusz let go of his bird too early, and the whole thing was fucked. Once it was finally time to enter the reception area, we found ourselves inside a beautifully crafted wood cottage, and every element of our environment, seeming to reference a simpler time before industriulistic tendencies, reflected in the aesthetic of natural materials, retaining the culture of an entirely unique, and totally foreign place. Entering the innards of the banquet hall, we entered tables adorned with spreads of the most delectable morsels that any commoner could ever hope to consume. It was also something unique to a Polish wedding that each place setting also contained a shot glass and an entire bottle of Stoli Vodka. The fun progresses and really gets underway with a long series, of almost consecutive toast, all spoke in a language I didn't understand, that also resulted in me getting progressively more wasted.Thank god there were about 7 full courses of food, and constant serving of minor courses, that definitely helped to soak up gluttonously copious amounts of booze. I begin to understand the nature of extremely heavy and lard soaked polish cuisine, as being the perfect accompaniment to drinking extraordinary amounts of booze. The heavy must be there to just soak up the excess. Still, I got wasted.

Almost everything I ate or drank that evening was incredible, asides from a mystery food that looked like an overturned cup of jello, jiggling on a plate, only the jello was lard, and there were floating pits of meat and vegetables in the congealed center. This may have actually been delicious, but I was afraid to give it a try. Me and Brendan learning dirty polish words was humorous to other guests, until they realized I was going to pretty much yell the polish word for pussy (cheapka) every 5 minutes; much to my tutors dismay. As the night wore on, barriers in communication were easily usurped by the social lubrication of shot, after shot, after shot, after shot, of straight vodka. The polish quartet played while the main courses of food were consumed, before the dance floor opened up and the real party began. Polish people were generally pretty bad dancers, with the one shining exception being littleLeo Trotsky (Mateusz'es Dad) who spun his wife loving about the floor- after having yanked her from my eager arms, as the it was his first, last, and truest love. It was truly redeeming to see a couple, advanced in years, that truly exhibited such a healthy and compassionate love for one another. �

My First Polish Bachelor Party

2008-09-06T06:58:00.000-07:00

Authors Note; the correct spelling of my friends name is Mateusz Halaczkiewicz, but since I would never in a million years remember how to spell that name, every time his last name comes up, I just type the letter "H" and for the rest of the word, just smush my hands on the keyboard to finish up the rest. I could have just kept copy pasting the last name, but this was more fun. Note #2, if you click here you can witness the slideshow of these events, which is probably far more interesting.

So, we start where Brendan and I grab a train from Krakow (Krakov) to Gdansk, to meet mateusz and his brothers for the bachelor party. The train pulled in to a cold and rainy station, and I immediately got the impression that I was going to get extremely sick by being woefully under-dressed for adverse weather conditions.

One backpack for 2 weeks= not alot of layers.

We had a loose, but seemingly reasonable arrangement to meet Mateusz at a certain time, then go to the hotel, but somehow it got all fucked up, and me and Brendan ended up sitting around a fountain of some god throwing a trident for hours.

Despite Mateusz fucking up our plans, and the temporary shitty weather, Gdansk is actually really rich with character, and was one of my favorite cities I visited in Poland (Krakow being #1). It is similar to old town in warsaw, due to the fact it was pretty much obliterated in ww2 by the germans (yay german ancestry!) and rebuilt again from its original design- almost made to look as if nothing had ever happened. The effect of these places being relatively-recently-rebuilt gives a strange "Disneyfication" to the whole thing, and it feels more like a theme park than a living breathing town. Its hard to say whether it is better to rebuild as nothing happened, or to accept the loss of the place as you once knew it and begin to build again. Although.. seeing the soviet concept of reconstruction in downtown warsaw.. I would absolutely take rebuilding according to the original design. The post ww2 soviet communist influence on architecture in warsaw makes the place feel like a square, concrete tomb.

*Extraneous History; After poland had just endured a decade of devastating German occupation, they then had to stand idly by while russia quickly occupied the vacuum of tyranny that had been left after germany lost the war. Poland says goodbye to hitler and says hello to an almost-equally-more? brutal Joseph Stalin. Work camps and the gulag were no picnic.. even relative to the holocaust. Poland is the kind of country that completely changes your perspective in regards to world history. For average Americans, World wars and occupations have been abstractions, notes in history books. Poland is a place where it all happened, again and again. There are so many reminders of all the awful things that happened throughout the country (which could also be considered triumphs of human spirit) that it is no wonder the citizens of Poland didn't seem to smile a whole lot. Except for polish babes... at me.

Back to Gdansk:
Me and Mary (brendan while now be referred to Mary for the duration of this writing) took turns looking for something to eat, while one of us stayed put with all of our shit. For me, it is really bad to be exceptionally hungry in a place where all of the food is new / interesting / and readily consumable. Outdoor food stands and beer gardens are ubiquitous in Gdansk, and throughout the more populated cities we visited in poland. Do you want pigs knuckles with Saurkraut (my mouth just watered) Bread with lard spread and pickles on top? Sausages? Keilbasa? Pierogis? These weird things like a longer Stouffers french bread pizza called zapiekanka? or EVERYTHING AT ONCE? I actually decided on a sausage from one stand (delicious) and a piece of this bread with a salmon? spread on top. All I know is that it was some kind of salty fish, and surprisingly satisfying.

Fast forward to when we actually meet Mateusz and go to this ridiculous suite we rented for the bachelor party, themed after someone named Don Kichot..
"who the fuck is Don Kichot?"
you ask me?
"no fucking clue"
I answer.

Once we check into the suite, Mary pretty much immediately gets Mateusz into the bathroom and starts giving him a back massage.. nothing weird about that!

Then just a casual meeting in a hallway that lead to some groping and heavy petting.. nothing to see here!!

Oh right, then the full on wrestling match, that was decided by Mary forcibly throwing matuesz ass on to his own face... NOW THATS A BACHELOR PARTY!!!

Then we go out to eat after we meet up with the rest of the Hawaskesivesrs brothers, and as we wander through the main strip, Mateusz recommends a restaurant that he had actually been to before. I would have assumed that this would also mean that this was a restaurant Mateusz had LIKED, but no, Matuesz readily admitted it wasn't that great last time he was there. Why would he recommend it then? I do not know. Service sucked ass, and we around getting shitfaced for way too long, but thankfully, when the food DID come, Mateusz got something to eat he hated, and everything else was pretty good.

During the course of the meal, I felt compelled to apologize to Nikolai, because, back in the day, at the lunchroom where we all went to high-school (won't mention the name of it out of spite) I threw Nikolai down on the floor of the lunchroom, and relentlessly humped him as part of some weird personal highschool ritual to gain peer acceptance.

After I say "Sorry about that" Nikolai says..

"well, I always thought I kind of deserved it"
"what?"
"I had a class with your girlfriend, and I would stare at her legs so much, that the teacher had to physically move me to a different chair where I didn't have such a good view.."
"mmmk"
"so i just kind of assumed I deserved it for that"

That seems like such an appropriate catholic sensibility, to feel so guilty about something like staring at a leg, you assume it merits being publicly shamed by a dickhead.

THEN, we go to a Polish hooters, and its called "the rooster" and its a chain in any of the big cities in poland we visited. It was pretty embarassing. Then everything gets blurry, and happens fast, and lots and lots of shots of vodka, and getting really into some foreign dancing. I meet a girl who asks me how old I am, and I watcher her job drop when I say "30". Then she makes my jaw drop lower, when she says that she is "18". Then Mateusz blows it for me, and we end up roaming the streets in a drunken fashion, and a horrible, horrible next day hangover. THE END.

Kendal, Texas Vegetarian

2008-06-19T06:43:00.000-07:00

At the laundromat, met a girl from dallas named kendal. Pink thong through the hole in her jeans. Invite her to dinner, frustrated with tortuous conversations in broken spanish to strangers with such a stronger grasp of the language. I would be lying if I didn't say "I invited her because i wanted her". No phones on this trip. so I tell her to meet me at the hostal at 7.

I sit on the balcony chain smoking strong spanish cigarettes, knowing in my gut its stupid to care so much about something in my head. I get ready to drown my sorrows in a night of liquor, when i see her turn the corner of the calle.

We meander about, talking about nothing while i want it to mean everything. we go to the botanical gardens and i want to take her clothes off there. Go to the place I have been going everynight since I got to spain, where they have the cheapest and most incredibly delicious wine I have ever had. She gets tipsy and tells me she broke up with her boyfriend on this trip, that she was from dallas texas, and he wasn't worth her time. Judging by the fact she was even remotely interested in me, I assumed that she was (in-truth) devastated by the break-up. We walk to try and catch the late flamenco show. SOLD OUT. go get a later dinner than I have ever had in the states with a bottle of wine. somehow impress her with shitty spanish. Texans. Drunk now. We have a shitty waitress who makes kendal mad. I say "who cares". as we were leaving I handed the aforementioned waitress a 5 euro tip and say "tu tiene mi corazon". Kendal said she had never seen a woman light up like that before. I felt the stage of life before me, presenting my best performance to people who didn't know that I wasn't really this clever, or daring or interesting. I am just on vacation, so I wear the costume of my ideal.

WE got to the park with only her, and the sprinklers throwing lights everywhere, and the excitement of a foreign country, and each other, and i kiss her. again. and she is so light. wo go back to my room to get bags that she had left at my hostal, I am a huge pussy, so we grab her bags and I tell her I will walk her home. We find a mannequin leg in the trash, she drunkenly picks it up, and looks drunkenly adorable. look at her just right there in that moment, the white leg slung over her smooth bare shoulder, her hair coming out of its neatly tied little pony tail as she laughed from the belly and out through the mouth. wild eyed with the evening.

We get back to her hostal, up several flights of these dark gothic stairs, like nothing i can justifyably describe. She slings the mannequin leg on the couch in the lobby. is this real? and she opens the door to her room. kiss, touch, wet. she says "There isn't a chance if you spend the night we wont have sex together... is there?" I weigh my responses... "theres a chance". we are naked and she says i love you, which confuses me, but she comes, which is nice, and she asks me, when we are lying quiet, smoking cigarettes "will you go to san sebastien tomorrow? do you surf?"

I lie and say "yes, I surf"

I wake up and leave her hostal, going to get my things together for an adventure in pretending to surf, and when i came back, i came back late, and she had gone.

Lazer Karaoke of Madrid

2007-12-14T08:36:00.000-08:00

Madrid is exactly I imagined, old, beautiful, sun bathing the warm toned stone buildings on small, windy, cobblestone streets. The slow smoking old folks enjoying each others quiet company- in the empty haze of late morning.

The Hostal Lopez is where I am staying- found after an obnoxious journey, because I didn't realize that the names of streets don't exist on street signs, but rather on little ceramic indicators on the sides of buildings. I notice a bar on the way to the hostel lopez- , dubbed "Lazer Karaoke"

Go to the hostal and encounter a kindly older woman adorned in a moomoo, exuding a very motherly prescence. I stumble through my awful Spanish in a language they dont understand, before being given a small room with its own bathroom (with a butt cleaner), and doors that swing open to the day, light linen curtains blowing in with that warm breeze of foreign opportunity, the flamenco melody from the guitar studio across the street providing the soundtrack.

Wake in the afternoon to the life on the streets and savory scents of Spanish cuisine. Go grab a glass of wine that becomes a bottle. I remember lazer karaoke after awkwardly talking to the most beautiful waitress I have ever seen, who has a boyfriend- everyone here is small and wonderful looking. I Enter lazer karaoke at around 11p Madrid time. No lazers, and songs i dont understand being massacred by spaniards (if pizarro could sing). Meet a phillipino guy named frank who politely offers me a "boy, girl, anything you want, just let me know". Frank was a waiter working in a Madrid hotel, and was at lazer karaoke with some other English guy with an obnoxious attitude, who speaks better spanish than me. Frank was poor and I had vacation money so I bought him a drink, and immediately made a friend. He says "Jason, if you come to my work, I will serve you". He makes me depressed talking about how much he wants to return to the phillipines, and we get exceedingly wasted.

Buy more shots for Frank and his female companions, the english guy, and another quiet spanish guy I liked. The the tequila hit the loud English guy fast and he immediately started accusing me of not taking my shot because he was so much more drunk than I was. Little did he know my blood had been replaced with Spanish red wine.I bought us both another shot we did at the bar so as to prove his wrongness.

Sang my song in a labored and scratchy booze soaked voice. ROXANNE. Frank and his English friend are screaming the words along, Frank occasionally screams my name as well. High notes are a problem. Go back to the table, one of the spanish girls who speaks no english, offers an awkward dance, where we turn in eachothers arms and neglect what one another is saying out of lingual ignorance. More shots, english guy is tanked, things are getting weird with Frank- I am beginning to suspect his intentions. Go to a late night food place and forget what I ordered.
Go home and sleep like the dead. I love Madrid.

On a plane

2007-12-14T08:29:00.000-08:00

The big metal bird is huge
full of noisy spanish girls i don't understand.

Sit next to an ex-navy man with bad breath and a desire to talk.
cant tell if he is gay.
Please go to sleep.

Trying hard not to think about the fact that I am in a big metal bird for 6 hours over the atlantic.

Defying natures denial of my wish for wings.

The Spain Series- King of Fuck ups

2007-10-17T11:01:00.000-07:00

10-09-07
Philadelphia Airport- International departures.

I am truly the king of fuck ups.

Forgot that I need paper tickets for my flight, can't really remember if they had ever been sent. Maybe that was during one of those weeks I was drunk.

Pleading at the U.S. Airways desk again, searching for a heart beyond the stony exterior of one unaffected margaret J.

I didn't find one.

"you need paper tickets"

I didn't budge while my heart sank deeper into a well of despair that seems to only exist at a US airways departure desk. The sight of my most painful moments, in front of all the stone cold bitch Margaret J's that seem to find their true calling as U.S. Airways employees, realizing that the position of "Dark Lord of the Underworld" has already been filled.

She tried to shoo me, so she could shit on the face of the next traveler, but I stood there, stammering and shaking, begging fore mercy. She called some #, and bullshitted with a supervisior, trying to make me concede yet another defeat to the heavily favored U.S. Airways.

I found a chink in the armor- money.

Margaret fat Bitch- The only way your going to fly is for
(looks at screen)
$1,200

Me- fuck it, yes, book it

Throw her my card. Temporary eye contact stand off. Back on the phone to her dark master... time ticks. Every time she looks at the screen and says "whats this?" or, "never seen this screen before", my genitals crawl into my stomach to offer him comfort as he moans in anguish.
"there there", my genitals say.
"there is always next year"

Getting dangerously close to the scheduled 6pm departure, the end is nigh.
Suddenly,
Tickets print; heavens shine glory to the earth, and i bid that miserable cunt Margaret J adieu, to meet again when we are both burning in hell.

where I will be sure to greet her with a fiery kick to the puss.

but for now, I don't care. I made it.

New Writers

2007-08-06T08:14:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, in these periods of extended boredom, I feel like my life is a show that has been extended for about 5 too many seasons.

Like season 24 has basically just been repeating itself for the past 5 years.

Maybe I just need new writers.

MURDER VS SEX (the FCC's perspective)

2007-07-31T11:45:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I was gardening and masturbating, taking occasional breaks to watch terrible television.

One of the shit shows I watched featured Ralph Fiennes getting graphically shot in the head and the face. Shot in the face! In real life, I have never seen someone get shot in the head or the face. I don't think I have ever actually SEEN someone get shot. Television though, would have me believe that I am in the rare minority for not having seen someone punched, slapped, gored, or blown up in the past 24 hours. Like the Soprano's is based on most families in Jersey.

On the other hand, one thing I have seen upwards of 1 million times is my ding-dong. Most people have encountered their own genitalia quite a number of times during the course of their existence... and yet, somehow, it is more acceptable for us to see the most absurdist level of violence as not only acceptable, but hardly worthy any substantial debate, all over the airwaves.

Somehow nudity and sex is something that the Evangelical christian types tend to oppose, perhaps forgetting that Adam and Eve were naked BEFORE sin. In their most innocent and purest form.

I am by now means advocating dude wang all over my soaps, because I even have kind of a love hate relationship with my own noodle, and if I look at it too long I cry.

Seriously, think about it, you have probably had sex with someone, and you probably haven't murdered someone. It's like television is saying the violence is SUPPOSED to be a bigger part of your life than love, or sex, or whatever you like to call some of the old in-outing.

The FCC is a bunch of fucking fat fag tards that probably HAVE NOT seen their own tiny skittles under the layer of all that lard, so they go around shooting guns and complaining about how immoral penises and vaginas are on the weekend.

Basically, I am tired of paying for porn.

genius cabbies

2007-07-27T08:42:00.000-07:00

Last night, on the way back from a stinker of some creative club meeting in Manyunk, me and my friend Jeremy picked up a cab back to the city.

I don't remember exactly how it came up, but one of us happened to mention an area code, and the cab driver immediately rifled off the city the area code was for. I think I was impressed, because my initial assumption was that he hardly knew english, let alone corresponding area codes to american cities. Then he challenged us to name any area code, and he could tell us where it was from.

He knew every area code in my phone, and even nailed the only international one I had for Manchester in England. He knew them from LA, Maine, Oregon, and also proceeded to name every state capital.

I have a hard time remembering what street I live on.

It's kind of obnoxious that I would start off this conversation with this cabby with such a preconceived notion of who he was, what he was capable of, etc. He apparently also does C+ programming, so I took his name and #, and really want to be able to offer him an amazing job someday.

He was also a fan of jokes:
"why does a basketball players wife never get pregnant?.... because he dribbles before he shoots"

jokes were not his strong suit.

Why you should help talented friends..

2007-07-24T01:15:00.000-07:00

I had agreed to help a friend named Ted Passon with a music video that he was working for, on a video for the local rap group Plastic Little.

I wasn't sure how the rappers giving birth to themselves was going to come across, and with a full-time job, I am always a little bit squeamish about extra work that I stand a 90% chance of flaking on, but in the end, I was very happy with how Ted pulled it all together, (not to mention actually finishing) and it is a really cool feeling to see your work being seen and noticed, and being able to make people laugh at something, that they probably shouldn't be laughing at.

Especially the people at Mother Jones.

you can also check it out @
http://www.dazeddigital.com/incoming/item.aspx?a=665

Back of the Bus Mentality

2007-07-16T09:05:00.000-07:00

On a late night trip, taking the China bus from NY to Philly, I was almost a participant in a vehicular homicide.

I don't know if the people that drive those buses ever sleep, or are all hopped up on thousand year eggs, green tea, and ginseng- but one thing is certain; that they don't see pedestrians and other vehicles as anything other than runover-able objects.

I was taken from my pleasant reading of my book, in the urine soaked back seats of the bus, where shadows in the blue-dark rest heads on each others laps; subdued moans of fellatio, by the squealing momentum of a bus headed for disaster. I looked to the front of the bus, past the wifebeaters and tattooed arms, past the filled bags of trash hanging off the sides of the seats, past the illuminated faces thrust into digital devices, and realized we had been inches from killing someone walking their child across the street.

No one seemed to take much notice as we lurched forwards again after the pause, but it really started to make me think.

I wondered, "what if I was in a bus that killed someone". I wondered if it would really bother me as much as if I was driving a car by myself. I wondered if it was the same as the difference between being the person that pulled the trigger of a gun that killed a civilian in Iraq, as opposed to being the tax payer that makes that event possible.

Maybe we are all murderers by being complicit with institutions, and fundamental ideals that allow certain trends to continue. Like the idea of eating meat that has been cleanly packaged and processed, as opposed to going out to the field and seeing that animal alive before you blow its brains out with some kind of stun gun. Sending shards of its mad cow crazy brain all over the meat you are about to consume, but I digress.

Then again, isn't everything I do bad for someone? Can I possibly exist without some negative impact? I have no desire to be a monk.

Innapropriately dubbed...

2007-07-10T19:29:00.000-07:00

There is a gay bar in Philadelphia called "uncles", which happens to be right around the corner from the lesbian bar dubbed "sisters".

I don't know why, but the name Uncles and Sisters for gay bars seems a little weird to me, or just, the idea of associating close relatives with any kind of sexual predispositions whatsoever.

Maybe I could open up a strip club and call it "Mommies"

Or a hardcore porn shop called "Dads"

Or, is it really just the fact that it's a gay bar what strikes a chord. Would I care if it was a straight bar named Uncles with all the usual innuendo and lusting? Am I a closet homophobe?

I was uncomfortable walking through the gayborhood on the way to the gym, when an older man was obviously staring at my unmentionables region. I wondered if it was the same feeling that a woman gets when an ugly person (me) tries to say something to her. Also part of the same phenomenon that says if it was a hot dude leering at her, it would be fine. Basically, if I was attracted to that man, his look wouldn't have creeped me out. Then I wonder, can I ever really not be homophobic, unless I was to actually be gay? or can I really ever not be racist, or sexist, unless I was ever black, or a woman? How can you really understand or empathize, unless you have physically seen things from the viewpoint of someone else? Maybe just acknowledging and accepting difference is enough, but I don't know that there is a real truth to that.

I hate when people fake it more than anything, and overcompensate for their inability to relate with cosmetic offerings, like apologies for being sheltered.

Do I think too much about this shit?

Funny scenes

2007-07-08T10:44:00.000-07:00

i thought it would be a good scene in a movie to have 2 people (a man and a woman) talking to eachother over cell phones. She is telling him how much she misses him, feeling like she finally found someone who can understand her. He is kind of absentminded, just trying to balance the cellphone on his ear while he works, obviously more focused on his official tasks.

man- Yah, I just really wish I had you on speaker right now

woman- speaker?

man- yah, you know, have this conversation over the speaker phone.. so I have my hands free.

woman- hands free? what are you doing with your hands that they need to be free?!

man- I've just gottalot of work here, I'm just trying to catch up on it all.

woman- your still at work? its 10:30! thats disgusting.

man- well I just bought that siberian tiger.. it wasn't cheap.. the guys at the club are going to be so jealous though...(impersonating himself talking snotty at the club) hmmm... nice rolex Bill, really, it is... have I shown you my SIBERIAN TIGER? (under his breath) faggots.

woman- and here I am, telling you how much you mean to me, how desperate and lonely I feel when you aren't with me, and your over there, doing.... wait, what is it that you do again?

man- I come up with the name for the latest Pukey Lou's Drive-Through Bowel Smash sandwich. This new one is over a pound. I am going to call it, "THE WIDOW MAKER"

woman- exactly

man- what?

woman- nothing, look, I gotta go.

man- we still on for hawaii next weekend?

woman- (pause- whispering) yah

man- k, catch ya babe (hangs up phone immediately after)

Man sits back in his chair and looks at what he had been working on at his computer, a pixel looking drawing of a hamburger being towers higher above nearby hand drawn buildings.

then the drawing becomes a real life image, and the beginning of the "widow maker" Pukey Lou's commercial.

soon to come.

it could also have boobs in it.

Our Secretary

2007-06-11T11:28:00.000-07:00

is spraying enough floor cleaner on this disinterested spider, chilling out on the roof, to poison everyone in the office. it is floor cleaner, not spider killer.

watching her makes me crazy.

what is going through her head? what kind of problem solving skills is she lacking?

spray, spray, spray.

people are stupid.

African New Year

2007-06-10T12:34:00.000-07:00

Today was African New Year.
I found out walking over the south street bridge, and instead of seeing trash floating down the schuylkill, there were multicolored flower petals, being tossed overboard by the people with dark skin and comfortable white linen on the bridge.

Incense was lit, protruding proudly from a basket of offerings, with dundee Honey Brown Beer as the centerpiece.

I stopped to ask a couple what was going on, and they patiently explained African new year, enlightening me to the fact that the only reason that the western calendar starts in January was because Caesar wanted his birthday to coincide with the new year for ages to come. The woman with a pleasant face who clutched her man tightly had lipstick on her teeth.

The petals and honey that a women was dumping into the river from a plastic container were to some African Deity, who's name I happen to forget.

I sometimes wish I had a belief, a ritual, a foundation, but other times, I am happy to pass through rituals I don't understand without the judgement that weighs heavy on the hearts of those who have a belief system that tells them they are right, and that others are wrong.
I don't know either very well.

everything is mud, but recognizing it as such, gives one the opportunity to extract whatever one might need from the great shit of existence.

I extract barbeque.

Chuck Palahniuk gave me a wedding bouqet

2007-05-11T09:46:00.000-07:00

We went to a reading on Chuck Palahniuks Rant tour last night, at the free library in Philadelphia.

The crowd was very hip, adorned in wedding dresses- apparently something he had asked fans to do, happily obliging were the salty smoke stinking tattoo sleeved lovers of a rare author that demands this cult following.

Elmore Leonard talked first, and despite his sweet senility, it was certainly second tier to the main event. Funny, considering some 20 of his 30 novels have been made into, or optioned for motion picture release.

After his departure, the hundreds of people that came to see Chuck Palahniuk talk poured into the small auditorium. It was so over-attended that they had to move speakers up to the main hall of the library so there wouldn't be riots from all the people that thought probably thought Chuck Palahniuk was actually Edward Norton.

He was a skinny, kind of Ichabod Crane looking guy, white shirt tucked into black pants. He said if you asked a question, you would get a wedding bouquet and two books he was really into. I was determined to get something from a famous person, so I squirmed and wiggled my fingers until they were finally on the receiving end of a bouquet. I asked something about whether he really felt the need to experience what he writes, or feels more comfortable cannibalizing other peoples experiences (asked in a much more softball tone). He basically confessed to being normal with more interesting people around him to draw material from, and continued with his talk. Muska said I was lucky, but she was just jealous.

He read amazing stories, and told amazing stories; off-the-cuff stories from other fans and people he had met along the way. Stories that affirmed that truth is much darker and more terrifying than fiction. He had such a wonderful, slow and purposeful delivery. Whenever I try to tell a story or recount an anecdote, I always stumble, like the next word is going to be the one that people finally lose interest in. He left you hungry for every next word that marched from his throat, conquering hapless ears.

There was a grotesque story called "guts" that left a lot of empty seats from the older crowd that had come more to see Elmore Leonard, than to hear a tale of someone chewing off their lower intestine, after their asshole got sucked into the pool suction pump while masturbating underwater.

The entire audience laughed in that "man that felt good" kind of laugh. Deep from the stomach, and sounding different than the soft chuckle around the water cooler. I felt closer to the world afterwards, more realized or something. He ended his talk by reminding us that this guy who sent a letter who actually had bitch tits was going to die, that we are going to die, that he is going to die, and that all his friends, no matter how great, are all going to die. He said his stories where basically ways of making sure that little parts of people close to him would keep living on.

Go see him talk, read his books, you will be glad you did.

Jihadism & Democracy Talk @ Penn= Bag Searching

2007-05-10T07:41:00.000-07:00

We went to a talk titled "Jihadism vs Democracy" at Sitteler hall on Penns campus. I felt like a some kind of pervert going to a college campus talk, I don't know why. I assumed this talk would comparatively look at secular vs religious governing systems, possibly enlightening me on positives and negatives of each that I wouldn't have seen myself.

Of course, there was an impromptu bag search before we went in, and loads of cops. I was stoned, and scared shitless someone was going to throw me in jail, but the bag searchers were all a little confused about what they were supposed to be looking for, so you pretty much just handed them your bag, and they handed it back. I asked one of the young black bag checkers if they did this kind of routine for all talks at Penn. He said he wouldn't know because he hadn't had to do it before, I am assuming that means because they only check bags at anything remotely related to the middle east. If McDonalds had a Jihad extra value meal, they would probably check bags there as well.

The guy who was supposed to talk wasn't there, and the guy they got seemed like a douche right off the bat. They listed his credentials with all the television he had been on- Al Jazeera, CNN, Whatever.

He basically just had a talk on everything I ever wanted to know about the history of terrorism in the U.S. Citing all the specific examples of Middle Eastern aggression, how it started, how America never did anything in response, basically giving enemies a green light to continue doing what they were doing, blah-blah. The whole talk basically deteriorating to reasons we should have killed some middle easterners way before the Iraq war. He kept using this term "deterrence", that we needed to have more instances of successful deterrence, in order to make countries respect our bark- because they know it will lead to a bite.

I got annoyed with his military solution to a problem that is more than ammo deep. At the Q and A I suggested that the US begins to employ the use of American suicide bombers to get the respect of Al Qaeda and other ne'er do wells in the middle east*. People laughed and stared, but I didn't really get an answer from douche man. I explained that right now, Americans will kill in bulk from the otherside of a rifle, or targeting system, but not to slice a throat on a video recording, or blow oneself up in the home of his enemies. These brutal attacks send a much greater ripple than our quiet blanket massacres, that we always try to end up covering up anyways, to appease the nightly news viewing public back home. Why not just have some very pointed and well choreographed brutality, that sends a message bigger than a small military victory in fallujah. He said that was too Machiavellian for him, and moved on. I said "fuck you!" and spit on the ground, and walked out (no I didn't). I didn't really mean that, but if its a matter of choosing between one style of killing and another, I would take the terrorist method. As we all know, it gets the job done. One 9-11 gives Al Qaeda everlasting street cred / until we all blow the world up sometime in 2010.

*Note: when i speak in public, I start to vibrate from head to toe, and I seem to lose all voice modulation as I try to loudly shove the words out of my mouth, so people will stop looking at me.

prison reunions always make me nostalgic

2007-04-29T19:21:00.000-07:00

We went to the William Penn penitentary on a sunny day while most people in the art museum area paraded with pink clad daughters and silly fuzzy dogs through doors flung open to the public, offering free snacks, wine, and art viewings.

who doesn't like the stench of prison walls, rich with the memory of those who routinely hung themselves as an alternative form of a prison break?

There was a prison inmate reunion on the day that we happened to enter those hallowed walls of punishment, and despite my initial hesitation to view a talk, we made our way towards the "ballfield" with a quick trip through the musty and cavernous walls of various cellblocks, rich stink of dirt like a basement in my nose, "is this safe"? dark vines growing up through the cracked cement, how quickly nature lays claim to mans abandon.

At the ballfield.
There were old men there, who had either worked at the prison, or been inmates there. They all spoke with raspy voices, and seemed as weathered as the walls that had sheltered or indirectly fed them for all those years. The first one we saw was a teacher, carrying a certain optimism, untouched by the real character of a prison, free to leave at the end of the day. The second was an inmate, who spoke with the importance of one who was aware of his freedom, and every sentence hung heavy like lead floating above the ground. you had to listen. Another man who was a guard, spoke of an experience where an inmate handed him a knife and said "now like me up, because I just killed a man with that knife". The guard locked him up, went to the cell the inmate directed him to, and sure enough, there was a man dead from knife wounds. This man also spoke of his helplessness when inmates would hang themselves in a cell, and since there was a protocol to getting keys to the cell (not all guards had them) they would essentially have to watch someone die. He seemed very affected by his experiences, and had trouble speaking when he ended his talk with "I don't know what would make a man do that, to just.. end his life like that"- applause.
The man I remember most was the rabbi, because he undoubtedly reflected on his experiences the way many religious people do- that is, to extract a deeper meaning from the seemingly insignificant. He spoke with respect and deference to the inmates that actually did hard time there, and said that 5 days in that prison was enough to make you leave and never commit another crime. He said any longer than that, would make one a hardened criminal.

I agreed.

I thought to when I was in jail for a couple days (4) for a bogus charge of terroristic threats. I practically had a meltdown, and I imagine that any longer than the time I spent there would have a.) killed me or b.) made me into something that I would abhor in order to survive.

I went with Muska, who made the decay kind of beautiful.

There was an area where they had a recreation of a guantanemo bay cell, only a fraction of the size of a cell in a notoriously small celled prison. There was an arrow pointing to mecca, and it reminded me of a dog pound.

this will conclude our tour....

virginia tech and apathy

2007-04-19T05:55:00.000-07:00

33 dead at virginia tech, a stat, a number that is supposed to extract an emotion, and 50cents for the paper it's written on from the casual passerby.

a stat that leaves me flat, flip to the commentary, what movies are out?

It was a bit unnerving with watch the coverage of this event on cbsncfox, and to also realize that I didn't care. After all of these massive debacles and exposes, the oj's, the columbines, the iraqs, I realize that it is permanently impossible for me to feel anything for a nationally televised tragedy anymore. empty.

it was a china-man who did it, so they found all the china-men and put faces to the ground

In the same headline about the virgina tech shootings, there is another story advertising that some 163 died in iraq. why is 33 at virginia tech a tragedy, and 100000 civilians in iraq a righteous cause? doesn't really matter, I don't care either way. got a job, got a girl, who gives a shit about the rest right? what strings are you trying to pull?

If i was a child seeing bloody corpses dragged along a street in the darfur region for the first time, you might catch a gasp of shock or dismay. now you can just hear the click as i switch to the next station repeating seinfeld for the millions time.

wearing a diaper

2007-04-18T11:19:00.000-07:00

its strange to find myself wearing a heating pad to soothe my injured back after a few consecutive nights of penis in vagina-ing.

getting older. reminding myself that everytime I try to do anything adventurous in bed, other than laying prostate with an erection, I will be seriously injured, and forced to wear some form of heated manpad- a gentle reminder that 29 is only moments from 40.

at the gym i wear braces for my ankles. when i run, i make sure to avoid the cobblestone. when i shit my pants, i make sure i am wearing a diaper.

realizing there is a physical freedom to youth that I took for granted, even more than the psychological freedom of knowing everything is ahead of you.

getting older. multivitamins, oatmeal, special chairs. conversations.

will my balls hang like my grandfathers? a satchel that could double as a parachute?

probably.

my prosthetic hip and low hanging satchel, mouth too full of oatmeal and flax seed to talk. remembering everything before, with the time I could be experiencing now.

listening to jazz.

No Guns At The STD Clinic

2006-08-23T08:42:00.001-07:00

It is strange to see a familiar face at the free clinic. Legs crossed, feet vibrating with tension, fingernails held firmly between clenched teeth; "You look different that when I saw you last, did you do something with your hair?". We have an unspoken agreement to ignore eachother until one of us gets called into the doctor.

It is like any other public health center I have ever been, somewhere in between a prison and a hospital. Many forlorn faces awaiting some kind of judgement. There is a striking black woman there, an the thought that keeps running through my head is "you know she puts out". There is a terrible movie playing on the tv there that keeps reminding me of how late for work I am; but I guess if I have aids then it won't really matter.

I sure as hell would be content to pretend STD's were just another liberal myth, but I am here under digress, alone and anxious, wishing I had brought my gun.

Baseball Is Boring

2006-08-21T20:23:00.000-07:00

If there is one thing that I took from watching Saturdays epic battle between the Philadelphia Phillies, and the Washington Nationals; it is that baseball is a boring, boring game- full of sound and (a kind of) fury, signifying unhealthy father-son relationships.

First off: it is hot. So hot that Sophia sweated peanuts.

Secondly, it is dirty: onions come out of this.

Thirdly, it is baseball: so the only enjoyment was the drunk muppet on an ATV, and the fact each player had a theme song when they batted.

By the 6th inning, the fans started to turn, and despite the fact the Phillies held the lead, the insults fell to the field like the trash from an Escalade onto Broad street. I really like the cries of "BUUUUMMMM", from the overweight guy with a violent sunburn- penetrating all the way to his internal organs, while he waved a hot dog around and spilled beer on his waify unacknowledged pre-pubescent son. "BUUUMMMM!!".

We left early, because there is a point when staying to the end of a baseball game in breezeless 100 degree heat is more of a personal test of will than anything remotely resembling my ideal Sunday.

Speaking of receiving pleasure, how did this loaf get such a fine piece of ass?

Sept. 11th Tapes: Helping Us To Hate

2006-08-16T15:24:00.000-07:00

It is great that these tapes detailing the harrowing experiences of people in the WTC, on the phone with emergency operators, have been released. They are supremely valuable to firefighters that deal with the daily reality of passenger planes careening into one of the worlds tallest buildings. The lessons of people plummeting to their death while talking to hapless operators are invaluable.

Honestly, the sad thing, is that the overwhelming reaction that people have when they hear those, is a renewed sense of hatred and desire for vengeance upon those that perpetrated the crime. So I am also not entirely sure why this was used as admissable evidence against Zacarias Moussaoui- I would have thought it was prejudicial and irrelevant.

I also find it interesting that it hits the news headlines in time for the release of a shameless 911 film, again "helping" America to remember the awful tragedy, so we can continue to perpetrate other awful tragedies, on the rest of the middle east. I wonder if these subtle reminders of 9/11 are coincidental, or will just "happen" to pop up, whenever we find ourselves embroiled in an unwinnable war. I wonder if those tapes of people on the 80th floor, that they were listening to in court, were of some of the HUNDREDS OF THOUSANDS, of people killed since the beginning of the war on terror that 9/11 precipitated; I wonder if we would feel the same about the voices pleading for help in a language we didn't understand, or if we would continue to justify the amount of people that die in Lebanon and Iraq with "well that is just a way of life for them... and we were innocent for chrissakes!"

F these people that exploit the memories of 9-11 to further an agenda that will bring us all closer to the brink of world war 3.

Selling the Japanese Soy Milk

2006-08-15T08:39:00.000-07:00

If I was a Chinese Company selling soy milk makers, I would market it to the Japanese, and I would use the most powerful image I could think of, an image that would fill the Japanese with so much fear, that they would have no other reaction, other than to buy my soy milk maker.

It would also look like this.

Gnarles Barkley: A Reason To Live

2006-08-14T11:45:00.000-07:00

Gnarles Barkley at the Electric Factory rocked my penis inwards until it was a vaj.

I was afraid the show would suck due to the fact that Philadelphia is the city where good things come to die, but I was pleasantly surprised that Cee-lo seemed to think Philly was worth the same performance that he gave at Coachella and NY.

As soon as the backup band came out in scrubs and surgical masks, and started covering Dr. Feelgood by Motley Crue, I had a pretty good feeling that things were going to get awesesome. Cee-lo took the stage like it has always been his, and every other band that had ever played at the Electric Factory was just holding his spot.

I loved the back up vocal nurses..

They were so good that I wasn't even jealous that they were doing something I would like to be doing myself, because I didn't think I could do it any better. I get jealous when I see mopey emo bitch bands on stage, that rely on the starfucker mentality of their audiences to forgive them the apathetic drivel they dish out with the energy of a Zanexed Hipster @ Johnny Brenda's; because I believe I could do it better- and then I go home and watch TLC while masturbating to patterns.

The only thing dissapointing about the show was Mike Patton opening up as the frontman for a group called Peeping Tom, that somehow managed to get Rhazel to sign on as a human bass. This is the reaction that Peeping Tom got from most of the audience: exemplified by Arlene Tucker.
If you have the chance, see Gnarls Barkley, they will be happy you came. Also, if you get a chance, write Mike Patton, and ask him if he remembers Faith No More, and then say something like wtf!? or just include some anthrax.

Just Another Drag Show

2006-08-11T09:13:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when you go to a drag show at Bob and Barbaras, you end up waking up the next morning without any pants on, and lipstick around your areas. Other times, you wake up without any pants on, because there is piss all over them. You can just never tell with pants.

Robley MacDonald was there, and he found a better gf than Chubbles Mchomebody.

Davey Freedburger found love, in a pile of sweet lezbian dreads.

CJ misses girlfriends, and chins

as long as your a man- dressed as a woman, you can get away with anything.. except aids.

Duane Lauginginigger, ruiner of sexy couples pictures

Beuf is pissed

It feels way better than it looks

In Conclusion, Drag Shows are awesome, and so is everyone that participated.
Especially Davey Freedburger.

Ikea Jihad- Update

2006-08-07T08:08:00.000-07:00

This weekend, I took a break from my Jihad, and went to Delaware to meet my lady friends family, dining like a true mujaheddin soldier on dumplings and tempura shrimp, while at home the war against Ikea continued to rage.

Due to my abscence, I had my roomate Colin take some things back that I was intending to return, because the zionist sizes of those faux bamboo blinds were all wrong for my windows, and that infidel glass of the impossible to hang picture frames was cracked. He brought it to the infidel woman behind the counter who gave him her familiar racist "underpaid employee who works unhappily at a corporate chain, and doesn't like white people who appreciate clean modular furniture" attitude. I gave Colin the receipt to return the crap with, but the zionist receipt ink that they use, comes right off if you accidentally get drunk and wash your pants with a receipt-filled wallet in them. So the woman just rolled her infidel eyes and shimmied and moaned, and rolled around behind the counter, until she got another apathetic zionist manager, who rolled around and moaned some more, until finally giving him a gift card for twenty some dollars. 20 dollars! I spent like 60 bucks on that shit. DAMN YOU TO HELL FOR THIS SHORT-LIVED VICTORY IKEA. BE PREPARED TO ROT IN THE FLAMING ABYSS!

As the Ikea crisis escalates, here is an up-to-date tally of the wars casualties.

Ikea- 3600 meatballs I have abstained from eating
Me- 40$ in the hole

it is clear that the rebel fighters (me) will rise from this conflict victorious, and zionist Ikea will be crushed under the big stinking boot of Allah.

My Jihad Against Ikea

2006-08-03T12:00:00.000-07:00

After Ikea launched and unwarranted attack with ill-fitting screws, while I assembled a piece of shit clothes-hanger-type-thing, I retaliated by not eating all of my swedish meatballs, and now I find myself embroiled in a Jihad against the Zionist institution known as Ikea.

This is mainly because everytime I have ever bought anything from there it has fallen apart soon after purchase and assembly, or has never actually gotten through the assembly process, due to shoddy Zionist craftsmanship; however this is secondary to the main reason for my conflict: the direct insult to Allah, in the form of cream covered meatballs with Zionist lingonberry sauce.

My war begins tomorrow as I move into enemy territory , to return some Zionist bamboo curtains that didn't totally cover my windows. There is great hardship that comes with a full scale Jihad, such as the sad fact that I will no longer be able to enjoy Tuesday evening Jazz at the Ikea restaurant, and I will never again be able to wander through those windy corridors that never let you leave when you want, looking at other ridiculously hot and well manicured women with matching tank tops and nail polish.. oh dear god, those sweet delectable breasts, almost as stimulating as those delicous balls- so reasonably priced .

Actually, since I am going there anyway to return these curtains, I should postpone this Jihad until next weekend when the rage from having to return even more shit is fresh in my head, I never know when I am going to need a stainless steel bread cover. Allah will understand.

Diplomacy is Destined To Fail With Iran

2006-08-03T06:54:00.000-07:00

Here is the Iranian President Mahmoud Ahmadinejad discussing Jews, after he called for the complete destruction of Israel, in a meeting of Muslim leaders to discuss the current fighting

"Who are they? Where did they come from? Are they human beings? 'They are like cattle, nay, more misguided.' A bunch of bloodthirsty barbarians. Next to them, all the criminals of the world seem righteous."

Where does that leave us when we start to discuss nuclear disarmament? Can we expect a calm diplomatic discussion with someone who declares that Allah's wrath will be brought down upon those who do not isolate the U.S. from Israel? There will be no conversation that Ahmadinejad understands that doesn't involve bloodshed.

The irony of it all, is that our nations hyper religous sensibilities, are also a large impetus for the foreign policy of the Bush administration- often slipping on camera, and likening our actions in Iraq and Afghanistan to a "crusade". How can we take a moral highground when our own constitution, and rights of individuals here are threatened by an administration that caters to people who say homosexuals or abortions will also incur God's wrath. A country with a president who gets a ride to speeches on the corrupt ideology of Middle Eastern leaders, with Pat Robertson by his side, a man who called for the assasination of Hugo Chavez.

In the Middle East now, the most threatening trend to all, is the quieting of moderate voices: people who can see reason above their own personal ideology. The sad truth, is that moderate voices with in our own nation have been polarized by an administration that isn't too far removed from the blind allegiance to a personal faith that drives despotic regimes in Iran, Lebanon, Somalia, and Afghanistan. Bush's speeched demonizing Saddam Hussein, and the Taliban, sound an awful lot like Ahmadinejad's tirades against Israel.

Global Warming Is A Liberal Hoax

2006-08-02T06:25:00.000-07:00

I mean that sincerely, because the hoax of it all is that liberals give the lofty impression that they are actually doing anything more than their right wing counterparts; that get demonized for the conditions we are all equally responsible for. Liberals are generally a bunch of educated, whiny, lazy shits, that would rather observe than actively participate. I know, because I am a big, hairy, liberal, pussy.

My liberal response to global warming is to read every article on the subject: The empirical data in Harpers magazing, the Al Gore interviews; to go see it first hand on Alaskan glaciers, and to hear it from the mouths of the citizens of those towns, witnessing first-hand the recession of ice; Hear the emotional speech from the guy at the sea-life center, practically crying while he details the losing fight for existence of the Sea Lion.. and yet, I do nothing.

I can argue and complain about the GOP, and the unwillingness of politicians to join the Kyoto Protocol; or perhaps like others I know, to buy an automobile- the leading cause of the situation, and put a clever bumper sticker on the back saying something about how I don't like Bush, or "NO WAR FOR OIL" while I drive around in my middle east oil dependant SUV or Element, listening to NPR and nodding in agreement to the decline of the world under the helm of the Bush administration, occasionally chiming in with a "I knew this would happen if he got elected, I am sooo right".

*I don't actually drive because seeing people in their metal coffins, soft and mushy, devoid of their own volition, I am filled with a desire to grenade entire highways, forcing people to pedals, feet or mass transit.

What I do not do, is to recycle (because where I live in Philly, they don't do it curbside), I don't work towards a concerted attempt at making mass transit a more plausible solution to driving, I don't speak out or encourage arguments on the topic, I don't go without air conditioning, I have that little hippy hemp WholeFoods grocery sack, but i never use it, I don't compost, I don't plan trees, or basically anything that takes effort.

My point is that if you are a liberal speaking out against the powers that be being solely responsible for the current global condition, than you are as guilty as a citizen of Nazi germany, unwilling to address the elephant in the room or act out on what conscience dictates. Let's all get off our cushy liberal asses and blow up some SUV dealerships.

Mel Gibson: Scottish Hero, or Hezbollah Spy?

2006-08-01T08:18:00.000-07:00

Despite the fact that Mel Gibson's bravest of hearts, pretty much single handedly freed Scotland from the Indians in 1935, there is new evidence I have uncovered/seen in every trashy tabloid paper on the street, that he is actually a Hezbollah spy living in Malibu.

Exhibit a: hatred of Jews
"F*****g Jews... "

Exhibit b: Hezbollah type beard and uber religous crazy eye.

Exhibit c: Disrespect for women
"What do you think you're looking at, sugar tits?"

To me, and my years of policology, this would provide irrefutable evidence that Mel Gibson should be kept at Guantanemo as a Hezbollian spy, along with all the other people that are kept as a result of ignorant suspicions.

I Exploded the Shit Out of That Rearview

2006-07-25T14:46:00.000-07:00

Lest I should forget.

Last night, I went to a going away picnic at the art museum. It was for a girl Sandy I didn't know who worked at a place called Sabrina's, where I bussed tables until getting fired / leaving on purpose. I was pretty much the only caucasian amongst badly paid illegals who didn't speak enough english to tell me how much they resented me getting paid more than them- for being white. For Sandy, going away meant, "I am going to Amsterdam for six years" Six Years?! I can't even know for sure if I will still be legally considered male in six years, let alone be surrounded by doob thirsty Amsterdomians for that long.

There was a blanket laid out in the friscillating dusk light, some guac, cigarettes, doob, booz, borderline hippy ladies, etc. The sex on the beach was in abundance, and I drank enough of it to think that it was a great idea to ride my bike with hot lez Kirby and frizzy haired Hannah to The Cantina in South Philly. It actually was a good idea for awhile, cool evening air, bikes cascading effortlessly to their appointed destination, no cares for anything... that is, of course, I turned to ask Kirby a direction as we rode around Rittenhouse square and then, "HOLY SHIT!" I am over the handlebars amidst the shattered debris of some Silver Mercedes Benz rear view mirror.

Before my brain could talk to my body about what had just happened, and whether my body thought medical assistance was necessary, body got right back on the bike and cruised with the wings of samothrace to any location more than 20 blocks away. Note: One experience in general population prison due to a misunderstanding, is enough to insure that after drunkenly exploding a rearview, you don't sit around and hope the police aren't in a jailing kind of mood.

There was many "are you really o.k." type questions for the rest of the night, but overall, it was amazing there was just a scratch or two on my arms. Even worst for my health than the crash however, was the fucked up sausage burrito thing I made at 3 in the morning. "The dentist will be pleased", I said to myself before another satisfied slumber.

Date Raped @ Transit

2006-07-24T14:07:00.000-07:00

Even though I wasn't on a "date", unless you consider my lez friend Arlene a woman, I have a disturbing tale to tell.

First off, let me say that the bar on Sausage parties has just been raised thanks to the Hollertronix reunion party @ Transit. This also happens to be where I am pretty sure I was raped on the dance floor. It is a special, once in years, event where the amount of hipster boners I felt rubbing against me far exceeded the number of drinks I had, equaling: total discomfort.

Note: The equation is thus, where x=Boners, and y=Drinks consumed
if y is greater than x, the sum of the two parts is gay sex with a stranger
if x is greater than y, the sum of the two is the aforementioned total discomfort.

I couldn't necessarily tell who penetrated me through my shorts, because of how many dongs at eye-level that I was maneuvering around, but I have a pretty good feeling it was this guy here.

He was probably also the same one that ass-sampled my friend Shirley. Thankfully I was not the only one there who was probably raped.

I have sympathy for the plight of hipster ladies after this evening of dong assaults, and I implore them to seriously consider free speeches at the public library for their next attempt at a dude wrangle. Or perhaps not look like a street whore from a shitty Harmony Korine movie. Either one of those suggestions should help to avoid unwanted dongs/babies.

All I know is that rape sucks, and it hurts, and I don't want to think about those gangly badly shaven bastards putting it inside of me everytime I try to get down to the latest indie/dirty south mashup.

Here is an awesome game I call, "Where's Women?"

Shubs and Zuuls

2006-07-21T08:21:00.000-07:00

During the rectification of the Vuldronaii the Traveller came as a large, moving Torb. Then, during the third reconciliation of the last of the Meketrex supplicants they chose a new form for him-that of a giant Sloar. Many Shubs and Zuuls knew what it was to be roasted in the depths of the Sloar that day, I can tell you.

Gayer By The Minute

2006-07-20T14:57:00.000-07:00

Went to Radio Shack to get a battery for my camera, and after half an hour of the guy tapping around on the keyboard (googling "pussy") he got a suitably sized one-millions of dollars costing RadioShack battery, and put it in my camera.

He winced for a minute as he powered it on and handed it to me after quickly hitting the power off again. "look at this" he said. I turned it on and realized it was a picture of me at a party wearing a tube top (it was really hot outside, and once I put the dress on I realized how comfortable it was) "Uhhhh, whoops" I uncomfortably giggled. My obvious discomfort was not enough for the counter man however, and he beckoned to his co-worker.
"Leon, come take a look at this here"
"what?"
"this man here wearin a dress"
"what you talkin about"
"look here"

At this point the man behind the counter took back my camera to show Leon the offending picture. They both calmly inspected it before looking up and hand my camera back with dual looks of dissaproval.

I am sure they thought that I was a raving gay rapist, and that I would somehow have that unexplained power to force them into gay sex if I so willed. I have noticed that some people that strike me as homophobic have a quality about their discomfort I could only describe as fear, like "what if he casts a gay spell and my pooper spreads times 2". I don't know why they would think that, particularly if they happened to see any of the other pictures in there. Nothing gay about those.

China Bus Hell

2006-07-17T06:27:00.000-07:00

The China bus is a huge piece of shit, and if I wasn't so cheap, I would never take it again.

After one of my usually glorious weekends of swimming, sunning, pillowfights, and eating hotel buffet breakfasts in upstate NY, I reluctantly had to go back to the grind on Sunday evening, and catch a China bus ride back to Philadelphia. The bus was late for the 7:00p, but other passengers waiting near the outdoor grocers, said the 6:00p had never shown up either.

It was hot and smelly ; putrid piles of trash outside of various Chinese eateries: no one was happy. The children were already crying with discomfort and the elderly looked dangerously close to keeling over at the stop. The bus finally arrived and riders anxiously piled on to escape the rising heat. This was a mistake.

We sat for close to an hour, and realized in the first 15 minutes that there was no air-conditioning. Groans rose from the crowded bus, along with heavy rivulets of sweat from frustrated brows. Then, finally, I asked the guy what was going on, which I had to do with a translator that spoke vietnamese and english on the bus, and determined that no one had a key for the bus, and no one knew where the driver was.

The large black man (sounds cliche, but true nonetheless) next to me was less polite about it, and threatened violence upon the squirrely vietnamese man. Just at about the time I thought a pummeling was inevitable, another bus arrived and we all got off the first bus, and piled into the replacement. This bus also had no airconditioning, and no air circulation. It was 2 and a half hours of wanting to cry, and knowing everyone else on that bus wanted to cry as well. I went up to ask the driver to get some air back there for the Indian woman in funny slacks who kept crying out "ohhh this is punishment! I know this is punishment". There was a thermostat to the left of his arm that read 92 degrees as he explained in broken english that he didn't know what he was doing, and tapped around on the knobs with a limp wrist of "I don't give a shit". I wanted to blow the bus up, but I would have blown up as well, so instead I gave everyone that was Asian on the bus a very stern look of dissaproval.

If only Greyhound wasn't one million dollars...

The Hippy Bonfire @ Moose Pass

2006-06-30T07:26:00.000-07:00

My greatest strangest time in Alaska. I left Seward to try and get to Homer, which happens to be on the other side of the Kenai Peninsula. The goal was to hitchike to this fork in the road an hour and a half from Seward and my aunt's ex- husband would meet me and take me the rest of the way to Homer. Of course, I woke up late, and then took forever to get a ride. Standing by the roadside, looking at all the people passing me, trying to avoid eye contact, or making some vague hand gesture as to why they couldn't pick me up, my thoughts drifted back to those ragged vets begging for scraps in the median in front of the Philadelphia IKEA- that is until the man with the wolf-dog finally agreed to take me to Moose Pass: a town with a silly name that the man said was home to some kind of music festival he was going to check out. His car reeked of the dog who watched me hungrily from the back seat.

We got to Moose Pass, and I was already about five minutes late for the pick up, but the fork in the road was only five miles up the road. I didn't think it would be a problem to get a ride, but I actually ended up on the side of the road for almost an hour, until a little blue hatchback slowed down a little bit up the road, and seemed to analyze me with it's headlights. Finally it slowly eeked a couple more yards, until it pulled over and popped the trunk to let me graciously unload my pack of a million pounds. The driver was a her, and I was immediately bonerfied, due to substantial time alone surrounded by boobless rocks and trees. Beer cans rolled about in the back when I unloaded my pack, amidst the spent casings of a shotgun. She had a masons jar near her stick shift with an undiscernible substance: somewhere in between a solid and a liquid. Her name was Laura. We drove to the fork and my ride was nowhere to be seen, so she took me back and said whe was also going to the music festival happening later at Moose Pass, in case I felt like hanging out. I decided this was the best / only option, so she dropped me back at her place, and I had to hitch another ride a couple miles to the festival. This was, again, a huge pain in the ass and it felt like I was prostrated by the callousness of other motorists for hours before a girl in a VW wagon finally picked me up. She was going to Moose Pass to sell her art work out of the VW, and she let me flip through the portfolio that she carried with her in her back seat. The work really wasn't bad, and it seemed like she wasn't afraid to experiment. What interested me though, were the pictures after those, if her on a boat in a bikini, and various other scantily clad poses. I had to steal a look at the drivers seat to make sure that the woman in the photos was the same in the loose fitting sweats with a tye-dye shirt. She said she used to model in California before she turned 18, but got tired of the pressure of staying so thin. I found myself bonerfied yet a second time flipping through her photos.

We got to the "festival" which was more like a medieval carnival than the warped tour, so I wandered around with my pack and looked for strange folk to photograph. I hung out for awhile and the ladies at the bake sale let me leave my bag under the table, and I bumped into Lauren after I had already drunk myself comfortable. She said she had a bowl whenever I wanted to smoke, so I said "now". I bought her a beer for her weed and picking me up on the lonely road, and then it was time to dance in the mud with the hippies, while the fattish troll type Janis Joplin lady threw dark on some Gloria Gaynor. There was a swirl of half toothed old women, hands, men with sallow cheeks and sheriff badges on weathered hats: remnants of a more innocent time. I forgot myself until Lauren grabbed me and said there was a bonfire party I should go to, "very low key". We got there and it was many people I saw mudding around at the festival, a roaring bonfire by a tiny house on stilts that seemed more like a shed than anything someone would actually live in. Some of the bonfire-goers in attendance had brought with them instruments that they made out of logs. It wasn't long before the bongoes came out, and after about 30 pipes of doob, I settled down on one, and started wacking until my eyes rolled back in my head, and I saw the origin sphere. 45 minutes later, hands bruised, and all sense of direction lost, I stopped and saw a bonfire party of strangers looking at me like a u.f.o had just landed in their midst. I stopped and awkwardly hid behind the beers in the back of the pick-up truck. Lauren said I was "in the groove", which I think means "being an asshole". She was busy with her own thing, as she forced people to play a song that she sang over, something about her boyfriend getting a d.u.i. (a song I was humming in my head the next morning). The party continued and just as I thought it was starting to get dark, I realized that it was only getting light again. It was about 3:30.

Laura said I could stay at her place, and we trampled through those bluish green woods with much difficulty, me standing upright for longer periods of time. The road was empty and the explanse of everything was before us. We got to her house on stilts in the valley, and she undressed in front of me like our object was understood. It was my greatest/strangest time in Alaska.

Hitchhiking Stoned

2006-06-26T10:48:00.000-07:00

After hiking Johnson's Pass in two days at a breakneck pace, I was ready to lay down in my own stink and die in the parking lot, swarmed by the mosquitos that followed me from the forest to drain me of my life force. On the way down the mountain I smelled the sweet dankness of the various erbals growing along the side of the footpath, and felt sure I would be able to find some errand doob stalks growing that I would be able to smoke and kill the numbing pains in my knee. I had no such luck before reaching the end of the pass and returning to the light of man and the Sterling Hwy. I had no means of determined transportation to get to Seward- the next town on my trip, so I tried my hand at hitchhiking. I dejectedly walked to the road and stuck out my thumb for a ride- exhausted and certain no one would want me.After about five minutes a white work pick-up with the name Tellaska printed on the side, pulled over a couple yards ahead of me, and waited for me to grab my pack and the camcorder I had laid on the ground (which was still recording) as I jogged to the passenger side door. I opened it up and was greeted with a blast of Jimi Hendrix filtered through a cloud of marijuana smoke that had me half-baked before I said even said hello. "I'm going to Seward" I said, "Alright! hop on in. I hope you don't mind if I'm smokin' a joint"
"not at all my friend, not at all".
He told me his name was Luke and that he had lived in Seward his whole life, except for the past couple of summers he had spent in the place he had bought in Jamaica to grow coffee beans. He showed me pictures of it on his i-pod, and it was mainly shots of him hauling around massive stalks of doob, with a bunch of large black men tilling the field. In lulls of conversation, he would spark up what seemed to be his never ending joint again, and changed songs to some really terrible obscure reggae jam bands. He was entirely interested in everything about me, and didn't bother once to mention that my lips had started to turn white like those of the crackhead character on Chappelle's show, from my previous trail dehydration, mixed with my complete stonededness. He was comfortable enough to leave me, the hitchhiking drifter, in his company truck while he would go into various hardware stores and gas stations to run errands. I actually followed him into a mom and pop hardware store at some point when I thought that death by weed induced dehydration was imminent. The elderly working the counters looked at me like a madman as I grabbed bags of jerky and handfuls of Snickers- eyes bleeding reefer madness. As I waited in line I realized that Luke was still in the truck with everything I had on the trip, easily able to just take all my shit and leave. I got weed paranoia and franticly ran out to the lot to see him calmly re-adjusting his dreads back underneath his ballcap. He took me downtown, told me the places to go, things to see, as nice a guy as any I had ever met.

To top it off, I left my camera in the cab like an asshole, and he found me walking down the street one day to return it to me. I would occasionally see him in town after that, driving by with a honk and a point of his finger with a nonchalant nod of his head in my direction.

Nature Is Gay

2006-06-24T09:22:00.000-07:00

The first trip I took was to hike Johnsons Pass off the Sterling Hwy on the way to Seward, which was a 2 day trek through some of the most picturesque landscapes that I had ever seen. There was a point, when I looked around and saw another picture perfect 360 panorama that I was almost hoping for some imperfection. Experiencing it for yourself is one thing, but trying to recapture it by taking the same photograph of beautiful landscapes that everyone has already seen a million times over, and come to expect, was just redundant. I kept wishing there was a Hooters on the horizon to add a bit of personality to these shots of water and rocks and shit.

I got to the top of the pass and hiked through some cold ass knee deep snow before getting to Bench lake, where there where these cute little prairie dog looking things scurrying into holes everywhere, and not another human soul to be seen for miles. Only one night of dehydrated meals had me desperately craving the gastronomical comforts of a city, but the the stench of accomplishment / socks more than made up for it.
The hike back down the other side of the trail was dank and boggy, mosquitos swarming from moist overturned logs, down, down, down the never ending forest. My knees were kind of blown by the end of it, and I found myself desperately searching the growth along the plant for marijuana I could cut and smoke- History of the World style. Fortunately for my weed cravings, I discovered the wide stoned world of hitchiking (to be cont'd...)

TO ALASKA! (pt.1)

2006-06-24T08:35:00.000-07:00

Went to the philadelphia international airport for the 6:45 am flight working on an hour of sleep. I stayed up with Shirley who I curse for having a boyfriend. She was staying up with me, but I wasn't getting shit done, because I was hoping the fact that I was leaving would somehow trigger some formerly placated desire; it didn't, so I just ended up doing a terrible last second job of packing, and couldn't seem to eat or drink enough to conceal the fact that I was still actually completely drunk the next morning. I have learned to embrace the part of me that says "yes, you are leaving tomorrow at 6:45 am, no, you are nowhere near being packed, and yes, it is the perfect time to drink and smoke weed until 4 in the morning, while you video tape people re-enacting their drunk dialing experiences with the kitchen (make believed to be a hostel) phone. The cabby woke me with a honk and he tried to take my bags as I stepped bleary eyed and miserable into the light, but he hobbled with such shaky old man knees that I took pity on him and told him to move faster, so the pain wouldn't last so long. Got to the airport at 6, ate a disgusting overpriced sandwich from a shitateria, that made me feel ashamed of myself for eating it, and boarded the plane next to a friendly clean cut older man that I assumed was a republican, due to his sweater vest, and "everything is o.k. with the world" vibe. I applauded our good fortune that there was an empty space between us to store our crap, when a large middle eastern man with a pungent cologne that woke me up more than any cup of coffee that I have ever drank, squoze uncomfortably into the seat between us. I hated myself for being immediately suspicious of him, and internally calculating the increased risks of death by bomb or death by spice. His ears had hairs growing out of the sides of them like I had never seen, as if someone was growing a garden of hair from them, that the owner of the ear wasn't aware of. He changed seats and I never saw him again. I looked out of the window as we got near San Francisco and started to get that inexplicable urge to never go back to where I was coming from- no matter where that may be. The urge to want to keep seeing, waking up each morning as a new person in a new city, subject to all life has to instill, an open vessel to the philosophy that there is more on heaven and earth than dreamt of in any philosophy- Mr. Tabula Rosa. We descended from the clouds and I fell back asleep .

Richard Rice

2006-06-08T06:47:00.000-07:00

Richard Rice took me to lunch today. I went because I needed to pick up the majority of my trip supplies for Alaska from I Goldberg army navy, and got much more than I bargained for from one of the most enigmatic characters I have ever known. Richard is a small man with big ideas, and a swagger that stems from his confidence in his self- ascribed intellectual prowess. There is a messy collection of sharp stray hairs protruding from his face as he undergoes one of his many appearance overhauls by trying to grow a beard - a hipsters badge in Philadelphia. He dresses younger than his years and makes public his scorn for old people - often threatening to run them over in our bosses borrowed VW. I actually don’t know his age, he is as private about it as he is his many personals listings that exist under assumed names out on the world wide web. Richard talks in furiously sincere bursts of wild but loosely strung themes of introspection; staccato assaults on his own inability to find happiness. Despite the fact I often realize that I missed the last five minutes of one of his epic tirades, lost in my own thoughts, it is not for lack of interesting subject matter- rather being overwhelmed by the sheer volume of syllables. After my half-assed acquisition of supplies at the army navy- including not buying a stove or compass, he took me for dumplings in the reading terminal market and divulged the architectural details of the defunct train terminal above (mistakenly believing the architect was Eiffel, and it was actually F.H.Kimbal of the Wilson brothers architectural firm). His reservoir of almost accurate knowledge is invaluable.

Richard's mood and tone shifted with the environments we passed through, like a chameleon on the various surfaces of the market. His attention shifted to me, and he began to provide complimentary suggestions on how to succeed in my own endeavors, and slowly shifted to a broader assessment of Philadelphia’s second-rate art affliction. He somehow succinctly addressed the stagnant and regressive Philadelphia art scene in the most concise manner I have heard from any other artist or critic in the city. He described, from his own experience the Philadelphia Academy of Fine Art, the incestuous dialogue between two similar points of artistic reference that have no external influence, and the resulting conceptual inbreeding that becomes the mongoloid offspring known as the Philadelphia art scene. He railed that art educators with art universities here, have just stayed with their respective schools under tenure, and have never been tested by fire of a New York or L.A. His observations never come across as redundant complaints, but rather as concerned criticisms to help rectify a faulted situation. It was easy to see this truth in so much of the current work, supposedly meaningful or groundbreaking, that only has that connotation because it is other Philadelphians in the vacuum of the art scene here, that haven’t seen the same work done a million times already (and better) in galleries in NY for the past 5 years. Specifically I am referring to an Andrew Jeffrey Wright exhibit that sucks balls for a multitude of reasons. I was disappointed that our 3 hour lunch had to come to an end, and was realized how bleak the landscape would be without people like him occupying it.

Dodgeball To The Head

2006-04-21T08:56:00.000-07:00

So The Male Room™ took to the dodgeball arena in Manayunk yesterday, with a meager handful of die hard players who value pride and heart over what some might call "skill". We qualified to play, and qualified to lose every single game of the evening.

Dave Friedenberg (meatnormous) started strong with a public display of push ups that would have intimidated even the coolest of customers. Paul Westergard (built to kill) didn't have his glasses, and his girlfriend wasn't entirely thrilled to consistently be the last member of the team on the court, I believe here exact words as she faced an entire team of rocket arm meatheads on the other side of the line was, "I don't want to do this". We also picked up 2 street boyz off the playground, and the fact they're shorts hung low enough to trip on was a real point of concern for Dave.

We look forward to a more successful game 2 with a stronger showing of large women. There is also a plan for a pre-game involving a few laps around the court while we play The Final Countdown by Europe on a boom box, before we all do a set of push ups, and then group up in the center to have our team cheer (TBD)

I was thinking something like this:

Meatnormous power strike
We know how to go all night
Your team smells like donkey dicks
AXE don't mask the smell of shit

GO TEAM!

Play A Live Show Entirely Unprepared

2006-04-19T11:44:00.000-07:00

It is always a good idea to agree to play a show with someone, and have 2 hours to practice a set. It is one of those character building type situations where you sit with clenched teeth under the red lights of attention, and feel your head fill with the blood of fear.

Being in front of people on stage is such an all consuming experience to me, that I have a hard time remembering who I am. Maybe that is part of the allure of playing live.

I played with fellow band man Duane, who could comfortably play a live show himself wearing a speedo. His bravado entirely compensated for my nervous noodling, but it was still a test of endurance.

Afterwards I felt like a zombie, having dedicated any of my mental energy to being scared as shit, and it was kind of nice. It is kind of a sink or swim type therapy that lets you realize you really could do anything if you just have the balls.

See Gogol Bordello / Fall In Love With Pamela Racine

2006-04-17T06:54:00.000-07:00

There are "cool" mod bands, and the live shows they put on where people stand with their arms folded, occasionally bobbing their heads if the lead singer is looking particularly handsome or affected, and then saying something along the lines of "they really rocked" after the show.

Then there is a show like the Gogol Bordello puts on that lets you remember why you ever got into live music in the first place. Their show was the kind that reminds a pop-music cynic that there are still things on heaven and earth not dreamt in his own musical philosophy.

I, thankfully, hadn't heard a stitch of their recordings, which I later listened to and thought sucked ballz. I instead went to the show based entirely on the recommendations of people that had seen them, describing the GB show as "crazy, awesome, exciting" etc.

Before GB even came on, the crowd was already bristling with energy that kind of scared me, as people were already crushing each other on the way towards the front, leaving the timid cleverly dressed hipsters trampled under the boots of the shirtless Social Distortion types. Lead man Eugene Utz worked the crowd to a fervor like a Gypsy Iggy Pop with a handlebar moustache and electric blue eyes- noticeable even under the armpit of a meat head. He was sensually emaciated, and slinging sweat from every pore. The other male members of the band could have doubled as characters playing a crack team of European thieves, assembled for a big heist.

This was all foreplay for the coming of the woman I now love known as Pamela the gypsy, or Pamela Racine (seen in a bad picture above). She was a percussionist that drove daggers of hypnotized yearning into my well maintained "area". She sauntered about all strangely asian and smooth, muscular yet not bulky, curvacious but not to excess. I could have cared less about anything other than her beguiling thumps of the drum as her pelvis moved with the beat. It was awesome, and I now love her.

This is also written with the knowledge that she is seeing Elijah Wood, who I also know happens to be gay.

Drink Mojitos Outside

2006-04-13T15:11:00.000-07:00

The best way to handle any bum mood is to drink mojitos outside. We proved this once again, last night at the absurdly upscale outdoor patio of Washington Square. The mojitos were delicious and the company was highlighted by Karas torn jean shorts, Duanes wifebeater, and Robley/ Jasons mass of tattoos. This is amidst attire that could double as board room power suits. The 129 tab was chump change to a man of the night, and there was a new rule to the eve, no one is able to drink a "not-gay" drink. There is only one place for such a rule, and that is Bump- where the gay go to play (I just made that up). We went straight to the outdoor patio and inadevertantly all started lisping a tiny bit, and making excessive hand movements.The classiest point of the evening was when Lila proceeded to grab a slab of uneaten fish from another patrons leftover salad. I saw there was still some scraps and I grabbed a slimy stinking slab myself. There was a disagreement about whether it was salmon or tuna, but Lila only eats food from Wawa, so I am sure her pallette was unreliable at best. To settle it I asked the woman who's plate we just ate off of, "excuse me, was that salmon or tuna on your salad?" She was happy to answer, "Oh, salmon, you can go ahead and uhh..." I believe she was going to offer us the leftovers but that was when she caught a glimpse of a naked bed of lettuce that led her to realize that yes, we were the dickensian dirty faced paupers who would steal a moldy loaf of bread to survive. Thank you, kind woman, for not calling the constable. We continued to drank a slew of disgusting martinis that reminded me of what my vomit would later feel like in my mouth, Lila had got a sweet raise so she joined to club of money spenders that I was previously the only member of. Then I double rode home on a cruiser bike in the cool spring air and felt like one of the french dudes from Jules and Jim.

But remember, it all starts with mojitos outside. This is the first lesson I have learned in my new life, if you are going to drink, do it outside.

Moving On Up

2006-04-12T07:44:00.000-07:00

As I prepare to depart from the aero bed in a dark basement of a single mother and her seven year old child, I look to a birth back into the world of the living. There is infinite possibillity with no attachments, yet accompanied by a overwhelming fear of the unknown. The venom of that fear can paralyze potential until you are caught in a web of your own insecurities. I am leaving that web and flying like an eagle into the nearest McDonalds, for nuggets with every kind of sauce.

I figure I will just keep this like a diary of progress/ decline. A map to wherever the hell it is I am going- just in case anyone else cares to come.

Totally Mexican

2006-04-06T12:05:00.000-07:00

Qdoba is totally authentic mexican food, because when I went to get my delicious mound of meat and cheese today, every single person making burritos behind the counters was referring to a quesadeeah, as a ques-a-dill-a.

They are so authentic I wouldn't be surprised if they were all illegals.

Knight Rider Is a Liar

2006-04-06T11:56:00.000-07:00

I was watching an episode of Knight Rider at work where there was a prison break. There was a point when the denim clad escapees used a pair of jeans to dangle below and help a fellow prisoner over the wall. Very ingenius indeed, but leaving a host of questions that lead me to the conclusion that knight Rider is a liar. One: No pantless prisoners running around
two: if they did steal pants from an inmate, would they have had time to subdue him and remove his pants before the guards caught up with them?

Then David Hasselhoff gave a Sheriff such a punch to the face that the Sheriff remained in the exact same pre-punch position, only he dropped his gun.

If Only

2006-04-03T14:26:00.000-07:00

I wish that everyone that sits around inconsolably lamenting emotional distress could refocus all that energy towards any other single subject. I swear to god (note the lower case) that if I could channel all this wasted anguish I am feeling now on science, I could come up with a cure for cancer- and maybe AIDs. So next time people want to complain up and down that it is the governments fault for neglecting people with HIV, perhaps they should write a strongly worded letter to my ex-girlfriend skeletor for being a shit-poo fuck egg.

The thing that sucks, is that when I finally snap out of it, I will just get really hungry and start thinking about sandwiches and sex again. I will retain none of my ability to focus, and all my idiot neurons will just start hob knobbing around my brain again with no particular destination- trying to figure out if the pool is open past 7pm. I know that any friend of mine who has had one track pain can testify to the amount of mental energy that it consumes. The best part is that it is impossible to force out when you don't want it, and impossible to recall when you would like to use it towards something productive. Bitches man, bitches.

Weight Loss Plan for the Unloved

2006-03-31T11:40:00.000-08:00

There is alot of hub-ub about what diet really works. I have found that what works for me is to have the one person you have ever really loved jump to another random dude immediately after four or so years of a serious relationship, and not even pretend to remember why I was ever there in the first place. To have the diet work, you MUST feel entirely worthless as a human being, and she must agree to continue to treat you like nothing for the duration of the plan. This will guarantee at least 10 pounds, which I have lost after only 4 days- if not starving you entirely to death.

Here are some expected results after x amount of days on my plan:
2 days: 5 pds
4 days: 10 pds
1 week: 25 pds
2 weeks: 45 pds- grotesquely skeletal appearance
3 weeks: Success! You are now dead.

If the results don't seem to be working at first, try continually imagining your love enjoying sex with someone else, glad to have the opportunity to be with a new partner. 10 pounds guaranteed.

The fact that this plan is being offered on this blog at no cost, is offset by the emotional turmoil that keeps a stomach like it is a storage space for flaming arrows.

As my bagel sandwich becomes cold and hard, I can testify that this is the best weight loss plan on the market. This coming from someone who really used to enjoy food.

Johnny Look At ME

2006-03-24T23:01:00.000-08:00

I went to a bar called Johnny Brenda's in Philadelphia tonight, and I have determined that being there officially invokes a desire to puke blood. The thing that sucks, is that it is a neat layout, with good music, but the almost ironic reality there, is too much for anyone that isn't a yuppie masquerading as a hipster can handle. I think at this point, it would be important to note that hipsters are yuppies, the fact you buy your clothes at a boutique rather than a banana republic, does nothing too diminish this fact.

This bar is one where people prefer to stand in discomfort, revealing the entirety of how meticulously they cover their physical shortcomings, with scarfs, legwarmers, wristbands and hobo beards. Hobo beards make me so confused and furious that I feel like I am going to suicide bomb the place just to spare myself the pain of seeing it ever again. A hobo beard is when someone hair club for men's their facial hair, to look like someone would if their mom dressed them up like a hobo for halloween when they were five. The funny departure from coming clean as a hair club for men wannabe, is combining it with a fatigue or earth tone urban outfitters / H&M Ron Kovic look (with scarf).

I hate when everyone stands around, looking for someone to appreciate them for how they appear, looking at speculative glances, like one might check email. To me Johnny Brendas is the epitome of the new millenium egotism. People far removed from real physical connection, or harsh reality, as they justify their complacency with political affiliations and redundant musings of social justice. I miss substance when I am there, conversations where people will laugh, dance and cry with you, not worrying the whole time whether their collar is sticking too far out of the sweater.

GO!

2006-03-24T09:04:00.000-08:00

If ever you are in a funk, I highly recommend going to see a live GO! Team performance to lighten your load.

Once you shove through the annoying dudes with hot girl friends that clog up the peripherals with motionless apathy, you get to the area close to the stage with the underage kids, who don't need the magic drink wristband- because they are wasted on the experience, and whatever prescrition meds that they stole from their parents cabinet.

When GO! Team kicked into their more shameless Jackson 5 knock offs, the crowd started moving around, and suddenly I realized that I was in a Charlie Brown style dance party, everyone just needing to get it out. The kids were great, like fawns learning to stretch their dance legs for the first time. Drifting between a mosh a bounce and a grind, never sure on wobbly pubescent legs.

The lead singer was commanding and infatuating, arousing a curiosity in how many different kinds of gorgeous there are- types of hot that I haven't even begun to know.

My friend Duane said it made him feel old, but thats because he's like 40. I felt young and fancy free, even the stink of someone whos mom left the clothes in the washing machine for a day too many (moldy clothes) was a welcome addition to the experience.

I am never going to a show where people stand uncomfortably static the whole time with arms crossed and shitty looks on their faces ever again. Thats the kind of show that makes you hate music- and singer songwriters can eat shit. LEts get back to our tribal roots.

Experience

2006-03-22T22:27:00.000-08:00

There are moments, when I sit back with a drink looking at some wonderfully crafted lady, illuminated by the glow of the street-lights through the thin red curtains, that I say to myself "this moment right here and now- that excitement in her touch- means so much more that anything that I have ever experienced" and suddenly- it all makes sense. In these moments, any contradictory inspiration to anything apart from getting closer to the object of my desire, becomes a distant din that merits no thought or additional attention. So what is the goal. What is the point. There are alternatives, do you (a.) go for a very palpable moment with this wonderful specimen, that burns itself into the annals of the mind as purely passionate and satisfying without any mundane negative consequence, or (b.) gravitate towards a kind of pathetic nesting that earns years of obligation with the negatable reward of emotional convenience. Are you a doosh bag, a meat-hungry animal- or a decent human being with ideals. An important element to that equation should be: Even the most captivating individual in the universe becomes commonplace after enough evenings of feigned interest in dull conversations that revolve around the pros and cons of each individuals daily experiences.

What can possibly keep two people together for eternity other than fear? can it be perpetual attraction? Can it be a sincere interest in everything that this other person has to say? or is it entirely the fear of waking up in the morning and not having anyone to hold on to? Is it the fear of coming home after a long day and not having that person that will treat your wounds like a parent who kisses a boo boo. The fear of getting old, the fear of the world without a partner, a doppelganger with an opposite part- I wonder if these are truly the driving forces behind any relationship.

About Leaving

2006-03-21T11:51:00.000-08:00

The worst part about leaving anything, are the memories of it.

Love Is...

2006-03-21T09:35:00.000-08:00

Love is waking up one day in the apartment of your roomate/ ex-girlfriend, and thinking to oneself, "I need to get the fuck out of here right now, or I swear to god, I will blow my fucking brains out". Then realizing that love ends up kind of like the guy who was wrongfully imprisoned for 3 years in Guantanemo Bay- looking back on a senseless prison term, falling to ones knees after years of torture and screaming "WHY! GOD! WHYYYY!" Seriously love is so goddamn stupid. I want to illegalize it like the religous right wants to outlaw abortion.

Love really means - not attracted to someone enough to just have sex and get it over with, but lonely and insecure enough to engage in a long drawn out and eventually pasionless puddle of liquid shit, that streams down the sides of your legs, as you try to awkwardly walk with your legs far enough apart to avoid getting crap all over your jeans.

Hopefully I will be in the throes of an unsuccessful 5 year relationshit by the end of next week.

My Dinner With Edan

2006-03-17T15:34:00.000-08:00

It was my friend Lila's daughters birthday yesterday, and Edan wanted Lomein (interesting request from a 6 year old) so we went to a Malaysian restaurant called Penang with lots of interesting food that I didn't entirely understand; in terms of its relationship to the digestive system. We ate hungrily, and at some point, Lila mentioned to our waiter that it was Edans birthday. He nodded confusedly, and i assumed he was still a little put-off by my used of hand gestures when ordering. For some reason I think that hand gestures will help people who don't speak english very well, to understand what I am trying to say. This is obviously not the case and I usually end up frightening timid asian waiters.

After receiving dessert, I got the impression that the meal was coming to a close but that was when a roaring swell of badly accented voices drifted into the speakers, like a chant for chairman Mao, and then some Malaysians with wide, smiling, smokers-teeth faces came singing from up the stairs with Edan's flaming fried ice cream; "Happy Birthday to you, Happy birthday tooo youuu". Edan immediately burst into tears, as they laid her ice cream on the table, and I think I was actually pretty close to crying myself. Our poor accomodating hostess rushed over, mortified and dabbing frantically at Edan's tear stained cheeks with a little white napkin- as the other patrons looked bemusedly on. I hate to laugh at crying children, but even Edan will look back as an adult, and laugh heartily, after years of therapy due to a deep seated fear of Malaysians.

The moral of the story: Don't have Malaysians sing Happy Birthday to 6 year old girls.

Church of the Plastic Face

2006-03-05T20:21:00.000-08:00

The Oscar celebration is such a decadent incestous cult of personality that it makes me want to jump out of my own skin, and into any other living creature that isn't human. All the shiny tin gods with their vacous melons agog; trying to gauge exactly when the cameras will allow them optimum face exposure. It makes me want to throw up inside my television all over the perfectly tanned shoulders of the supernaturally gorgeous women that will always make me feel that the girl I'm with can never be pretty enough (however Selma Hayeks breasts have given me my self-flagellation fodder for a week). The speeches go on forever, with all those glittery bastards patiently sitting like parishioners to a sermon on self. Congratulating eachother up and down for accomplishments that only serve to make the lives of the people involved in the movie film industry better. Syriana sure doesn't help improve relations in the middle east, but it helps insure the producers relations to the bank. If this was such a banner year for humanitarian films and causes, then why didn't they go all the way and use all of the money that went into this years oscars to rebuilding New Orleans. "Woah, we don't care that much about these causes".

Instead of the Oscars, it should be called "church of the plastic face". They all just sit there for hours listening to the redundant praises lavished on people no one else has heard of, because they somehow believe in the academy. They believe in the academy like a god, a prophet, an oracle that will determine their worth and bestow glory or shame on their name for the rest of the year. They then return to the Oracle again at the same time next year to see if he will look kindly upon them once more. It really is something you might try to explain to a person from a different planet and realize how absurd and vapid our priorities are.

I wonder if I won an oscar for making a film, if I would forget my criticism and be grateful to be given that kind of attention- I would probably be happy as a pig in shit.

My Favorite Things

2006-03-03T15:41:00.000-08:00

One of my favorite things to do at work, asides from writing in a blog and sleeping, is to stare at my computer monitor until I slip into a kind of comatose state. When I reach this point, I allow the fantasies of winning the lottery, far off lands and opium, to seep into my cerebellum. I am quickly whisked from fantasy to fantasy, and somehow end up giving a speech to a large group of people on the condition of the world, as seen through mine eyes. I dip in and out of the sexual escapades that fill the gaps my creativity leaves. Then I am usually flying for awhile, maybe eating an ice cream cone- this is where it usually gets hazy.

At some point someone I am supposed to be doing work for will undoubtedly saunter in and crush my dreams with a single "hows it coming". The monitor is suddenly just a harbinger of pain, and my listless fingers begin their duty to the body. I don't know if thats called hope, or deep seated discontent with my current situation. Maybe they are one in the same.

Bush "Knew" About Katrina

2006-03-02T06:49:00.000-08:00

So a new video shows Bush knew about the Katrina catastrophe. At this point, I can't say that, despite the video of Bush being told point-blank there is "potential for large loss of life", that he really even knew about Katrina- or that it was a storm, or that oceans are made of water.

People need to appreciate the fact that the information Bush recieves goes through a vast assortment of cocaine destroyed neurons, and is translated into cartoon form, so he might be able to kind of understand the day to day workings of the presidency. You really can't blame someone who watches cartoons in his head all day for not being able to prepare New Orleans for Katrina. If anything, people should marvel that he has the mental capacity to put his shoes on the right feet every morning.

Lets give Bush a break, we voted for a retard, so thats what we're stuck with. We would have the same issues now if Corky Thatcher was in the oval office, only we wouldn't say he doesn't care about black people, we would give him a snack for not making a poopy in the Lincoln bedroom.

Screw It

2006-02-22T20:28:00.000-08:00

After reading up on what promises to be a spectacularly vitriolic civil war in Iraq, I decided war there was probably a good idea. Not in the traditional sense of "things that make Iraq a better place for Iraqi's", but more of a "things that could help out America by fucking everone else". Think about it, all the current residents of Iraq kill eachother off in an increasingly popular form of religious expression known as an islamic bloodbath, and then replace Iraqi's with Americans who wear bad disguises and have convincing Arabic accents. This way the U.S. would be insured a foothold in the middle east, without having to concern themselves with any more pesky insurgents. You may ask, "wouldn't people catch on?" The answer, according to hurricane Katrina, is no.

The Never Ending War On Terror

2006-02-19T09:08:00.000-08:00

I was watching some Sunday morning roundtable show, with all these diaper wearing politician types, whining to one another about what the other side is doing wrong. I was astounded that they were still actually discussing the "War On Terror". I like the fact you go to Harvard or Yale, spent 10 years as a politician, then slap on a bow-tie to earnestly argue a big fat fucking joke on live television. The War On Terror, is a timeless political tool that allows for any number of failures and wrong doing to be overlooked by the bigger picture of a never ending war and threat to the security of America. Seriously think about it, "The War On Terror"; hasn't anyone taken a look at what that actually means? You can never ever ever win a War On Terror, unless you eliminate human beings from the earth entirely. It is a mythological notion with no basis in reality, yet all these supposedly educated representatives throw around ideas on the best way to win a war that will never be won. I don't actually believe these people are that nieve, I think they are simply using the War On Terror for what it is. A political tool of control.

Lets say you actually do what many in our country would deem as protecting America; blowing the entire middle east off the face of the planet. Does that take care of the despotic regimes in the Phillipines, Indonesia, Africa, The Soviet Union, China, America, Ireland, Europe, Japan, basically every place on earth man exists? Of course not, it will never happen, there is no such place as Candy Land, and no George W. Bush will ever win a war on terror.... Actually, thinking further on it, I take that back. I think that may actually be George Bush's plan, to construct the ultimate failure, on a scale that far exceeds any baseball team or oil company. To fail as the leader of the free world, and succeed in a war against terror, the end of mankind is the next step. I think George might actually have a shot here.

To be fair: I don't honestly think it is George Bush, or Republicans for that matter, who are responsible for this countries easily fixable ails and declining global image, it is every one cowed into believing these absurd national debates and rep vs. dems campaigns are for us- the average citizen, who should have more to say in defense of his own well-being than a corrupt politician, selling his countrymens voices to lobbyists.

Smaller government, more power to city councils and local politics. Get these watchdog groups out of washington and into City Halls- god knows Philly needs it.

If I Was King

2006-02-18T08:41:00.000-08:00

If I was king of our country, I would take some measures to prevent the kind of dissent that seems to be brewing now against our current, benevolent monarchy.

First and foremost, I would take any perpetrators of counter ideology (Islam) and detain them in prisons far away from international jurisdiction. In order to justify this to plebes I lord over, who already ignore my obvious disdain of them through corporate- oil interest giveaways, I would tell them I do it for their own good. I would give speeches with this general summation; If I don't torture, kill, maim and murder, then I would be subjecting the plebes of our great nation to a terrible fate, perhaps using a vivid nationalistic image to drive the point home- A twin towers if you will.

I would then begin a campaign of fear in my own country, declaring the ideology of our enemies as the catalyst for extreme measures, which may otherwise be construed as excessive, illegal, or moronic. I would quell any voice of dissent that tried to bring up an obvious hypocrisy: I am condemning the religious ideology of other nations, while selling the country to a conservative and religious constituency that represents my own personal belief system. I will ride in a car with Pat Robertson on my way to give a speech about how religous ideology is a breeding ground for tyrants in other countries.

I would surround myself with people who could bark down any opposing views, people with such overbearing rhetoric and manipulation of truth that they could shoot someone in the face with buckshot and make the victim feel somehow responsible. I would have press secretaries who spoke loud and certain, people who can be confronted with their own lies in a public forum and not blink an eye.

Then I would eliminate any burdens to the nations financial prosperity, by neglecting the lower classes (burdens on the tax payer) to the point of genocide. Then dispensing responsibility to lackeys in my administration who are paid to take the fall. Letting the outrage from the poor silence over time, and frustration over the inability to achieve any kind of beaurocratic justice.

Finally I would retire after taking care of me, my family, and my friends, and wait for a son or like-minded senator to take the crown.
So on and so forth.

The One Romanian I Know Hates Jews

2006-01-19T06:33:00.000-08:00

I was just on the bus with this old white bearded romanian man in black, who I mistakenly assumed was some Jewish Orthodox thing, and we started talking. He described Romania as beautiful country, having need of naught , as they were entirely self sufficient with natural resources, and that the exhausting of their petrol exports was only temporary. I was asking him about the country and the new involvement with the EU, and whether he thought it was better for Romania, and how the new concentration on capitalism would affect the existing culture. Then he started talking about the fact there was only one religion in Romania, which is Christian Orthodox- this is, of course, after he called me Stalin for saying money is Americas religion. He then started getting a little muddled in some rambling about the state of religion in the America, and how it got all "screwed up" here. I was getting confused about his intention, until he started saying stuff like "50 years ago they come", "they with the money", so I asked him "are you talking about Jews?" and then it was like a light went off in his head. He nodded and tried to tell me how much they have infiltrated the fabric of our society, pointed to our alliance with Israel, and how they were responsible for the deterioration of Americas religous fabric. I tried to make the case for a strategic alliance with Israel, but he was unphased in his focus on Jews and what was wrong with America. Then, in response to his Stalin comment, I said he was acting like Hitler, and just about at that point it was my stop. It was funny that because of his Romanian nationalism, that I guessed he hated Jews. He was articulate, intelligent, witty, and lively beyond his years, but plagued with a fatal flaw- something that was probably as ingrained in his upbringing as his religion. Hatred and religion usually go hand in hand.

Maybe he could have his white Christian Orthodox city, next to Ray Nagan and his chocolate city. They could sit around hating Jews together, in perfect harmony.

For God

2006-01-16T21:39:00.000-08:00

Once there was a man who lived his life for God. He traded any of his own concepts of right and wrong for what he believed to be Gods greater plan. He married and made children- for god;He fought, and killed his fellow man- for God. He eventually lost all concept of self through the years and rode on a rollercoaster of unconcerned bliss, having let his fate fall into the open arms of the supreme provider. He aged with confident dignity that his life for god was bestowed with honor, and marked only by righteousness. He prayed with a heart devoid of doubt, believing wholly in his books and sermons, his fellow disciples; a follower- in every sense of the word.

As the time of his death drew near, he looked back on the sum total of his life and smiled, assured that greater glory would soon be his. He kissed the products of his faith and closed his eyes forever. He drifted interminably through fog and misshapen memories of what had been, and even more undistinguishable premonitions of what he had never experienced. He swooped and soared through the mist; losing all concept of space and time. The haze cleared, and he found himself in a waiting room with no discernible features asides the chair he waited in, and a frame posted of a puppy with a plastic firefighters cap on.

The man waited for weeks and weeks. Praying in feverish fits of devotion- The man realizing that judgement was almost upon him. Finally in mid prayer, after what felt like an eternity of waiting, the walls of the waiting room fell away, and he found himself walking towards a silhouette masked in undulating waves of light and color. There was no doubt that this was the Lord he had dedicated his life to.

As The Man came upon the Lord, seemingly preoccupied with his own creation, The Man found himself both relieved and distressed. The Man fell to his knees and began to plead his case to the Lord- going over it as he had rehearsed it in the waiting room. He pointed to the sacrifices and contributions he had made to please the Lord. He categorically revisited every time he had clasped his hands in prayer, and pointed to the murders he comitted the sake of his religion. God continued to look out upon a great expanse of beauty as more and more elements of this landscape continued to weave and wind round one another; falling together in picturesque harmony. The man became troubled by his Gods indifference, after all, he was pleading for the sake of his own immortal soul. "God! My God, Why has thou forsaken me?" cried the man, as he fell prostate before the Lord. He burrowed his head in his hands, and then, finally- the Lord began to laugh. He laughed until the mountains shook one another to pieces in the distance, and wild winds brought rain, snow, sun, and thunder about his jubilant frame. He held his sides as he continued to bellow amusement. The man was too enraged to feel humiliated, and wished the Lords laughter would be the death of him. "I haven't laughed like that in awhile!" boomed the Lord. The man recovered from the precipice of blasphemy, "How can thou be so callous to such a devout and pious follower of thoust will my Lord?" replied the man. The Lord raised an eyebrow and quickly lost his sense of humor "Oh.. well let me go ahead and stop what I am doing, as the maker of all things that have ever been, and ever will be, and reassure some zealot who puts his own self-righteous concept of the world over all of my own creation! " exclaimed the Lord, "and knock off the thou and thoust shit, it's annoying." The man was so mortally offended that he had to choke back tears in order to respond, "but my Lord, I have done everything thou has asked, what more does thou, I mean, you.. want?" The Lord turned back to the matter of creation as he replied, "Do you truly believe that I would make all heaven and earth, and then decide to spell out a path to divinity for only one people? divinity is acceptance of all things at all times, holiness is the sum of all things, one-ness with all of my creation. If there is dischord, or any kind of rift of man against another man, there is a rift- or dischord with me. You made all of my domain into a narrative that only you and your narrow minded, fear mongering, insecure, uninspired, ugly, and insensitive thugs were privy to. There is no beginning, middle or end, and if there was, then there would be a limit to my power, and an end to my being. The universe is as infinite as I am, so why would you think I would concern myself with a group of people that put their own self-serving hopes for salvation above the paradise that I gave you all to live in. The place that was as beatiful as that which you see before us now". The Man took a moment to look upon the perfect beauty that flowed outward in front of him. He became filled with the holy spirit. God swiped his hand down and transformed that paradise to the Earth the man remembered leaving. "That place you left was your heaven, your reward for being created by a perfect being. Yours was that paradise, that you, and swine like you, took and made your own shit filled sty, unable to be content with what is. I gave you paradise- I do not create anything less than divine. What more do you want?" With this the Lord was gone, and the Man was left with only flat gray infiniti, and of course, his own thoughts.

The end

Man On the Verge of a Technological Breakdown

2006-01-09T21:08:00.000-08:00

Tonight I signed up for a Myspace account. I typed in my name, my age, and my real name, and submitted myself to the rigors of trying to maintaing my on-line identity. I went to my profile page as the fear and uncertainty began to peak. What am I supposed to do? who do I now attempt to start appealing to? what am I doing with my life? do I really need one more little nugget of ego (like this blog) that I incesantly toy with, when I should really be working. One more excuse to avoid friends and significant others, one more excuse to put off calling mom, or starting that project I swore I would do entirely with my hands. I started to get really uncomfortable in my own skin, and I wasn't sure if I could handle life with the constant awareness of me representing myself to other carefully crafted avatars that can't really have a concept of one another until they share the same physical space. Having to live with eachothers imperfections, as well as being treated to nuanced graces.

So I caved under the pressure, canceled my account- and breathed a sigh of relief.

Tadd has a really good page on it though. You should visit him and make him your friend.

Start Snitching

2006-01-08T06:43:00.000-08:00

I saw a magazine in a music store yesterday called F.E.D.S- Finally Every Dimension of The Streets. It also features the glorified exploits of murderous thugs against their own people, as well as giving them props for keeping their brothers dependant on cocaine. Fuck That. There is nothing worse for Black communities then these small time cartels that keep the citizens of poverty stricken neighborhoods dependant; for drugs, protection against other ignorant thugs, or for the cash flow that lawless streets prevent from being provided in other forms of capital. The kind of capital that gives voice to people that were formerly marginalized, without the financial muscle to make a change. The publishers of F.E.D.S should be thrilled by the exploits of someone like Joseph Kony, who makes the Junior Black Mafia look like bitches with their skirts up. He not only kills his fellow Africans, he takes the children of the slaughtered to fight against their own families. Oh wait, thats kind of what innercity gangs do, get them young, make them believe there is no other way, and then turn them against the people that once had a positive influence on their lives. The code of the street is bullshit. Its a marketing technique created by gangs to remain in power. It wrongly gives black communities only one way out, you are with us or against us, sound familiar ? George Bush might not care about Black people, but "brothers" that profligate a culture of death and drug dependance on their own people aren't showing they care a hell of a lot more. Whats funny, is that I found the picture on the cover of the magazine on a site hyping some real nubian power-to-the-people stuff, I guess thats what Afro-american is all about- shitting on eachother and calling it pride. Oh yeah, and hip-hop that makes money off of glorifying ghetto genocide is doing a better job of getting rid of black people than the kkk, or government sponsored method could ever hope to. Good job guys, David Duke thanks you.

Hey World Justice, You Better Shut the Hell Up!

2006-01-04T12:50:00.000-08:00

Hey, you remember those terrorists that we supported to overthrow the Nicaraquan government called the contras? And you remember how that what we did paramounted to a crime in the eyes of the world court, and the United Nations General Assembly? And remember how that we left the country so decimated that it is the second poorest nation in the world now? And remember how the origins of crack/cocaine in California were linked to Contra's? You remember that? Oh, you didn't hear about it, ever, from anyone? Thats strange, because it was kind of a big deal to the rest of the world, particularly the civilians in Nicaragua we were responsible for killing- and California. Funny no one talks about it in discussions on terrorism. That might be because we don't call what we do "terrorism" we call it taking care of "soft targets". I read a bit of the opposing view - denying that any of this ever happened on this site. I encourage anyone to read it, then the follow up comments, and do a bit of your own research, figure out what the facts are, and then discern your own opinion.

By understanding that many Americans will never believe anything that implicates their way of life as a cause of terror, you can understand why we will never win this war.

America, Home of Criminalized Stoners

2006-01-02T08:31:00.000-08:00

The Dutch debate whether to ease contradictory drug laws. In America we are content having more people that smoke marijuana in a given year (8.6 percent/25.5million) than the Dutch (3 percent/408,000), as well as more people that go to jail in the states for using (45% of all drug arrests as of 2002). Many people still believe in outdated statistics on drug use from the U.S.D.A, while the plain and simple fact that marijuana is less harmful than alcohol is something people refuse to let register in debates on legalization - but to be fair, there really isn't that much of a debate in the states. People that still think Reefer Madness was a documentary are the ones writing Americas drug policy, from their caves/churches in the heartland.

Here are some statistics
• There is one alcohol related motor vehicle crash every 31 minutes in the states (40% of all traffic related deaths), as opposed to marijuana and all other drugs combined (18% of all motor vehicle driver deaths) AND they are usually used in a combination WITH ALCOHOL.

•According to mortality data from the National Center for Health Statistics, from 1968 through 1978, 11,806,737 people died in the United States. Of these deaths, 22,958 were attributed to acute alcoholism,* acute ethylism,** or unspecified alcoholism (ICD*** 8-rubric 303.9); and 3,415 were attributed to poisoning by alcohol (ICD 8-rubric E860)

•Perscription Drugs killed 32,000 people in the United States in 2000, as opposed to ZERO for marijuana.

•One in every five deaths in the United States is smoking related, including 3,00o deaths of lung cancer from second hand smoke. (Where is the War On Cigarettes?)

If anyone has any additional statistics proving or disproving these, I would greatly appreciate it.

This shouldn't be a left-right issue. This should be a common sense, fully logical, statistics on the table issue. There should be no subjective argument from either side, just a long hard look at what is harming ourselves, and our loved ones. WHY ARE WE NOT MORE OUTRAGED AT HEALTH RISKS FROM CIGARETTES, ALCOHOL, PERSCRIPTION MEDICATION, OBESITY, AND WAR.

This issue is personal for me, as someone with a father who died of a heart attack at 36, suicidally drunk uncles, and a poor personal health history. I had a cousin that overdosed in 2005 in a trailer, alone and left for days to rot at the age of 23. She had a son named Anthony. I wish that she wasn't pushed to the outskirts of St. Augustine Florida by a foolish demonization and belligerant condemnation of drug-use - accompanied by a stubborn born-again mother that wouldn't accept the reality of her daughters life. There was no one there to help her, most certainly not her father, my uncle, who was probably pounding the last beer of his 24 case - a lifelong alcoholic. Maybe if he was smoking an occasional doob as opposed to life threatening amounts of alcohol and cigarettes, he could have been a better father to his daughter, and not had to see her lifeless body decomposing in a trailer park.

That Median Was My Home

2006-01-01T17:27:00.000-08:00

Sudanese refugees were forcibly removed from their makeshift residence in a public park in Cairo, Egypt. There were some 23 killed, all elderly, women or children. It should not have happened this way, but I don't entirely understand the situation. This part in particular.

"UNHCR officials had washed their hands of the Sudanese refugees after the group balked at a deal that would have had them leave the park in return for help finding new homes in Egypt and for having all of their cases reviewed. The refugees refused. They wanted to leave, period. And so the matter was turned over to Egyptian authorities, which decided to turn it over to the security forces."

Why were the refugees happy to live in a public park for 3 months, as opposed to being given the opportunity to live there legally? Is there something about living in Egypt that would be any worse than Sudan? Unless most of the cases reviewed would lead to deportation, or the offered living situation was unacceptable.

I don't know, but I wish that after 3 months there would be a better solution than fire hoses, beatings, and deaths - a gentle reminder that people of African descent are treated as second class citizens the world over.

Feeling It

2005-12-30T08:14:00.000-08:00

I am detained by my dependance on this sterile pre-fab lifestyle that masquerades as an identity. There is the life that I envisioned as a youth that exists in the fantasy of someone who can come home from school, masturbate, and take a nap, while dreaming of a career as a photojournalist in the Serengeti. I think about the things that I want to do here and now, but are they right? I want to eat steak all day while watching teenage girls pleasure eachother, is that right? Is righteousness the perpetual struggle against carnal desires. If this life is it, what reward do you retain from righteousness? I understand dependance on religion to provide a footpath that is too tortuous to define for oneself. What is keeping me from indulging my sordid fantasies. It's not god with a stern look in his eye, it isn't my family - too far away or under the ground to judge. So what is it?

The answer lies in the successful marketing strategy that keeps me a consumer above all else. The need for stuff, and the job that provides me with stuff, supercedes any attempt at true happiness, or even the search to find it. I will work until I am 65 and then die soon after. I will look back on my life at some point and filter the amount of time that I spent staring at a monitor, and there won't be much there. That is what keeps our country working, the tool that allows the few to rule the many. I have to go though, there is an ipod I saw on ebay that I need to be sure and bid on.

South Dakota, or Reasons Why You Are Broke

2005-12-29T07:13:00.000-08:00

Have you ever wondered why you get credit card statements and other collection type goodness from strange podunk states you never hear anything else about? That is because they have almost non-existing usury laws, which allows companies that reside there, to charge as much interest as they want. Originally there was a fairly stringent set of Federal usury laws, but in order to get things moving after the Great Depression, they allowed states to set their own standards... and standards in South Dakota and Delaware really suck. There is a non-profit group called Americans for Fairness in Lending that is trying to end unethical lending and credit practices. Their site still isn't up, but it will be lendfair.org.

COMEDY FUN TIMEZ

2005-12-28T15:08:00.000-08:00

This is just some clip of Bush someone slowed down and made it look like Bush is drunk... or at least look more drunk than he really was.

Sweatshop Free™

2005-12-28T13:55:00.000-08:00

I went to an American Apparel store to purchase some clothing that will contribute to more explicitly degrading billboards of under-aged girls who don't know any better. When I looked at the bag after making my dude-sweet purchases, I noticed that there was a line that read Sweatshop Free™. This means that the idea, or term Sweatshop Free, is so unique and unusual to a clothing company, that it can be trademarked. Its great when the only company that gets positive press for Sweathop Free, is also the one that uses amateur fetis porn to sell its clothes, and a founder (Dov Charney) that only appeals to lowest-common-denominator hipster ironists. America Rox.

Living Property

2005-12-27T06:58:00.000-08:00

Much to my joy, I have recently come across the knowledge that you can patent a living creature, as long as it has been genetically engineered. This is a relief to me, because I was keeping my Cancer Cats™ under wraps because I was afraid someone else was going to make money off my invention. In case you were wondering Cancer Cats™ just kind of hobble around with an advanced, horrifically unpleasant cancer, that the cats didn't have until I administered it to them. If you want more information, or would like to purchase one of these legally owned cats, you can write to: jason@newdesignfront.com.

Human Genomes, and gene sequences can also be legally owned under current patent laws. This might be troublesome, until you take into account that it is Corporations that own these shared bioligical resources. Thank God Corporations are human beings with a conscience.

The White House IS Telling the Truth

2005-12-23T22:15:00.000-08:00

There is a lot of cynicism towards the level of integrity in Washington, and after closer inspection I realized that it is entirely unfounded. They have been straight shooting with America, and people that don't see it are just lefties who want to keep crying about "Rovian conspiracies", while they pray to Allah to send another passenger plane into a large corporate building.

Here is a list of things that the White House has been truthful about.

1. Iraq really did have WMD's, and that is why we went to war
2. The Mission in Iraq is already accomplished
3. There was not preferential treatment or no-bid contracts for Cheneys former company Halliburton in the reconstruction of Iraq
4. New Orleans really has been one of the largest reconstruction efforts in the history of the world, and hasn't just fallen completely off the radar screen
5. the Bush administration did not cut funding requested by the New Orleans district of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers for holding back the waters of Lake Pontchartrain by more than 80 percent
6. The President has legal authority to spy on American citizens without any system of checks and balances
7. The current administration has done its part to bridge partisan divide
8. Bush tax policies do not favor the wealthy over everyone else
9. By the year 2042, the entire social security system will be exhausted and bankrupt
10. Karl Rove was NOT involved in the Valerie Plame, CIA identity leak
11. The Bush admin never recieved any pre-9-11 intelligence that planes might be used as weapons
12. President Bush recieved the same pre-Iraq war intelligence that congress did
13. Jesus Saves

I think I have provided ample evidence that we are dealing with a trustworthy administration that doesn't deserve all the whiny liberal cynic attacks it recieves.

Serious Ass Benergy

2005-12-23T11:54:00.000-08:00

The upcoming exhibit for Benjamin Franklin at Philadelphias Constitition center, reminds its audience that they will never ever come close to filling the shoes of one of our nations greatest citizens. Big Ben Franklin is the kind of mythological entity that poses questions like "why am I so shitty?". This is a valid question, because compared to The Big B.F. most people are really just straight up shitty. The guy figured out electricity for chrissakes, not to mention his bijillion other discoveries. This brings me to my point, The Benjinator is also partly responsibe for our uninspired purchase driven brains. Electricity and technological advancements have limited our imaginations, and numbed our perceptions. The great discoveries and great thinkers were more abundant before nowadays, when being born immediately qualifies you as having an attention-defecit-disorder.

These great thinkers are like our leniant parents, who make our lives easier, and hold our fat baby hands through the mysteries of life, without letting us figure it out for ourselves. Einstein pulled the same shit, so smart that he made it easy for other people to be stupid and live off his genius. However, Einstein also made nuclear holocaust the worlds inevitable future, and then checked out before his skin started dripping off his body as the result of a hellish nuclear winter. I wish that sonofabitch was never born.

I Voted For Saddam

2005-12-22T19:08:00.000-08:00

After examination of the nominees for the elected assembly in Iraq, I noticed that Saddam Husseins name was not listed among those to lead the country back to secular, torture friendly, greatness, just like here in the U.S.! I know he would have got my vote. My slogan for his campaign would be "Vote Saddam, or he'll kill your mom!"; and you know what? it would work. The guy's got spunk, and just the right blend of insanity / masochistic tendencies, to keep a country with the amount of ideoligical diversity that Iraq has in line. His political party, the Baathists, were also far more secular than the United Iraqi Alliance, with a considerably less likelihood of being absorbed into a dangerous Iranian theocracy. People might site all of Saddam's atrocities against the Kurds, but America trumps that in its genocide of Native American tribes - the only vote they got would be to choose between having their dried and cured testicles made into a tobacco pouch, or a change purse. Sure killing an entire people was bad, but HEY! That resulted in America being a future beacon of bloody democracy for subjugated peoples the world over - as long as they aren't the systematically slaughtered, original inhabitants of our own country. So maybe we give Saddam the benefit of the doubt, and say maybe he can make good just like Papa America did. He sure couldn't have fucked up Iraq any more than we did.

Ugly Friends

2005-12-20T05:43:00.000-08:00

I read an article in the Sunday Philadelphia Inquirer that attempts to dispell the notion that people of opposite sexes cannot be friends. I agree with the article to a point, but I have an additional qualifier. People of the opposite sex can be friends, as long as neither of them are attracted to one another. So basically, men and women can be friends, as long as they are both physically repulsive. If that condition doesn't exist, then it is your typical "I'd rather be screwing" friendship. OR both parties' genitals have been removed, or severly damaged. That could lead to a friendship as well. AND in some cases, a woman might be physically repulsive at first, but the longer the male friend gets to know her, the more he stares at her sweet boobs, thus destroying the original-repulsion based friendship.

Liberal Media, or Conservative Con

2005-12-19T15:47:00.000-08:00

Is the mainstream media as "left-wing" as conservative pundits have made it seem? Tadd Trueb, a homosexual conservative friend of mine, submits this paper by Tim Groseclose as evidence that the media is "decidedly left".

There are a few subsequent objections I have to this paper.

1) The exclusion of VNR's, and intentionally misleading reports as right wing bias.
2)Excluding instances of biased programming decisions by conservative network owners
3)the failure to include NewsCorps print media:"the world's leading publisher of English-language newspapers", as a more accurate right wing counterpart to the New York Times, than FoxNews.
4) a subjective definition of left, right, and center that doesn't take into account Americas international right-left positions.

At the end of the day, I believe conservative media, and willing broadcasts of misinformation, was one of the primary reasons American citizens were willing to go to Iraq in the first place. I believe if the strength of the liberal media was as strong as it has been purported, Al Gore would be president right now, and Clinton would have never been impeached for a B.J.

CG Holocaust

2005-12-17T13:14:00.000-08:00

Finally, someone with the guts to say what so many people who have been living in a cave for the past half-century have been thinking. I admit, at first I was skeptical that the entire extermination of so many jews was a western myth; but then I saw the trailer for King Kong again. If they can make New York circa 1930 look that accurate, then imagine what they could do for faking the holocaust. I would go even a step further, and say Peter Jackson was probably behind the whole thing.

The Vocabulary of Freedom

2005-12-17T12:02:00.000-08:00

Once again, the white house has failed to put a positive spin on something beneficial to all Americans, wire tapping. If I was in charge, I wouldn't have let a bunch of rag-tag flag burners usurp my authority to eavesdrop on terrorists/Americans. First off, I wouldn't let them call it "wire-tapping" I would made them change the name to "freedom-tapping" in the name of national security. Second of all, it shouldn't take a whole lot to convince people that only the "bad-guys" are being freedom-tapped™. I mean c'mon, who is making international calls from the states to anyone that's not a terrorist. To be honest, terrorists are the only people that would return our calls, the French have blocked our number, and Europe just answers and pretends like there's some really bad static before hanging up finishing their pint.

Nip Suck

2005-12-17T07:56:00.000-08:00

I just got back from my surgery to fix a deviated septum. Despite the fact I could hardly breathe before hand, the way I feel now is making me question whether it was worth it. To any of you thinking of getting surgery, for purely cosmetic reasons, please take a look at my glorious post knife face. If it is a matter of you not feeling good about yourself, you can give me a call and I will say nice things about you, seriously.

Satans Work be Done

2005-12-15T07:02:00.000-08:00

Despite Al-Qaeda affectionately dubbing Iraqi elections "the work of Satan", the political process move forward today. Iraqi citizens look forward to a rosier future where 307 different parties can finally argue about god in a violent, democratically elected theocracy.

If our country can't keep god out of our political process, how can we expect the islamic middle east to be any different.These are people that die for god, they will never have a government that is secular enough for the west, unless they decide to choose a god we are more comfortable with. If they wanted to prevent women from voting because of "Allah" we say "damn this oppressive, taking-rights-from-women regime!", but if they wanted to prevent women from having abortions because of J.C. we say "HALLELUIAH, Democracy works! in your face!".

An interesting detail about the elections ...

"Some 6,655 candidates, 307 parties and 19 coalitions registered for Thursday's ballot, electoral officials say."

We have enough trouble in America with 2 parties, imagine 307 and 6, 655 names we can't pronouce. "I vote for Jali-la uhhh... abdala..chhhkkuhhoohshit. I'll take Bush"

Prison Without Tookie

2005-12-14T09:37:00.000-08:00

Tookie Williams was executed yesterday in California, fulfilling our Nations promise to Hammurabify our legal system. Asides from my aversion to eye-for-eyeing criminals, I believe Tookie should have been kept alive to scare Bloods away from prison. Given the amount of beating / shanking he did in jail, I would sure as hell keep my distance from general population if I was in a rival gang. Keeping Tookie alive could also ease some of the pressure off the impending race riots our government is hell-bent on inciting.

I for one am stating that I am unequivocably on the side of the black man. A declaration that has nothing to do with the amount of times I have seen a black dude physically destroy a honky. Seriously, look at the size of Tookies arm, thats where the smart money is.

Exactly Like America

2005-12-13T19:24:00.000-08:00

In Philadelphia yesterday, Bush spoke with more eloquence and less monosylabic cant than the Au Naturale crowd, was accustomed to hearing. The one part of the speech that had me perk up my ears was the portion where he begins drawing comparisons between Iraqi's current struggle for any government at all, and the roots of American independence here in Philadelphia.

"It took a four-year civil war and a century of struggle after that before the promise of our Declaration was extended to all Americans."

It is important to keep this history in mind as we look at the progress of freedom and democracy in Iraq.

I agree that we should keep this history in mind. The history that the American revolution was the choice of our forefathers to rebel against a government that they didnt agree with. They CHOSE to throw some reasonably priced tea (the cheapest in the entire british empire) into the Boston Harbor. Iraq didn't choose to depose Saddamn Hussein in exchange for bedlam. We chose that for them. The actual oppressions the colonialists endured was more akin to what Iraqi citizens endure from OUR CURRENT military occupation. The american colonists fought against british soldiers coming into their homes in improper search and seizures, soldiers taking the law into their own hands, threatening their livelihoods, homes, and families. They threw off the yolk of an oppressive colonial power that "knew what was best for them". They fought back using guerilla, "hit and run" tactics, that a more organized army, unfamiliar with the terrain, was ill-equipped to deter. These guerillas weren't dubbed terrorists however, they were bestowed the honor of "revolutionary".

So yes there is a comparison to be drawn between Iraq and the American Revolution, but I believe through the eyes of the middle east, it is seen in a drastically different light then the way King George presents it.

Torture: The New American Pastime

2005-12-13T06:51:00.000-08:00

So it seems the CIA is finally getting back at that Arab that ripped all of George Clooney's fingernails off. I for one, am glad. I am sick of all these liberal Nancy-boys confusing eagle friendly freedom, with illegal abduction. I am glad to finally be given the green light to send the first suspicious person I see to Romania, for a little one-on-one time with a pair of pliers. No one tapes Clooney to a chair and beats him ugly in my town... NO ONE!

I also suggest that all of these enemy emboldeners stop calling places where people are stripped nikked and beaten "Torture Chambers", and start calling them by what they really are, "Freedom Chambers™"

Why Am I Doing This?

2005-12-12T16:22:00.000-08:00

I really dont know what the point of starting this blog is other than seeing if anyone will really care what a dissilusioned twenty-nothing with some extra time has to say. I know that part of me just wanted to choose a pre-packaged blog design that makes everything look like Ben Franklin wrote it. Perhaps the most I will get out of this is to purge my doubts and misgivings into a vast black-hole of interwebbery that will never care to know the meaning of the words, like a modern day confessional (without the kissy pee-pee).

My loftier reason for writing this, is that there is nothing I read in terms of politics or public discourse that accurately reflects my beliefs, as well as those close to me who share similar views. I suppose its absurd to expect everything to cater to my own narrow perception of the world, but I feel that there are some fundamental changes that need to be made before anyone can conscienably participate in any forums where they are encouraged to "shut up and let the powerful do the talking" or, to mimic the hyperbolic tone of our current kings, "shut up and be patriotic". Of course there are the daily kos's, the move ons, the air americas, and what-not but these are still selling the same old tired and repackaged pile of shit from a "leftist" perspective. If you are so easily sold to the right, or left, you are not thinking for yourself. We need to get to a place where we can take government from the few and begin to become participants in our own lives again. The patriots of our countries inception were not anything more than people with a vested interest in their own future, and a government that could be held accountable for these aspirations. These current tabloid worthy national debates on morals are entirely innapropriate for a government to give credence too. This isn't to say that these issues are not important, far from it, I am suggesting that perhaps the home and local communities are more productive places to take the majority of our current "political" issues.

Our government is becoming a circus, a tabloid, a boxing match we pay over-priced tickets to catch a brief glimpse of, while the well-fed bookies run the show behind the shadows of the luxury suites. So why don't we take everything, and make it smaller, take it back, make it ours. Then maybe we have a reason to start talking to another on the bus, on the train, in the park, at the coffee shop, at the mall. Maybe we will be encouraged to communicate with one another when we believe our opinions matter, and will be taken into account by a representative body that is close enough to its constituency to truly respect the original ideals of our nation.*

*future posts won't be so long winded