The world was on the brink of strange happenings the day Barry Levinowitz saved the whole thing. The problems of both the large and small worlds had finally become so much that Barry's entire mind was consumed with them. In fact, it had gotten to the point that all he thought about all day was problems, the great push and pull that is the duality of existence. If the whole world had air-conditioning the ozone would be gone, but if no one had air conditioning people would die of heat stroke, bacteria would fester, hospitals would be unsanitary, cats and dogs living together....complete chaos. This is the lightest of fare that was ever on Barry Levinowitz's plate in the early part of the 21st Century when he decided to save every human on the planet.
It was the whole double helix of existence that really made the veins on his forehead surge everyday. All day. To build a home for a family you have to flatten many square feet of nature, in order to farm you have to destroy the forest and then build fences to keep perfectly innocent animals out of your goods so they don't eat it all themselves. Throw in livestock dung emissions, pesticides, farm equipment, and the next thing you know you're up to your teeth in destruction of the Great Mother. The other thing that made him so sick to his stomach everyday was how marriage was falling apart in America. All these ass jockeys running around sticking safety pins into strange women from different cultures while their wives were at home watching the TV and pills babysit the kids. A whole generation of people who were so disenchanted with romantic love that they had decided it was a thing that only existed in the movies, even though secretly they all knew it was there and longed for it with intense passion. The whole world was showing their tits to perfect strangers in exchange for cheap plastic beads and hard liquor and it made Barry Levinowitz shake like a leaf all day everyday. Where had morality gone?
Barry Levinowitz also cheated on his wife regularly with Sarah Apollonia from the accounting department where he worked at Benifold and Mason. Benifold and Mason was the largest manufacturer of children's toys that still had its factory in the United States of America. Benifold and Mason had been supplying the nation's children with toys since WWI when they came out with the Doughboy Kit. It came with a little tin gas mask, a tin can that said Mustard Gas on it, a fake knife, and a small toy pistol. Benifold and Mason continued to outfit the nation's youngsters, their toys were rated 4yrs and up by Uncle Sam you know, with weapons until the late 80's when it suddenly became unfashionable to teach a child that it wasn't so outlandish to settle an argument by shooting someone. So Benifold and Mason went two ways with their money. They began to make movie props such as the entire arsenal in the movie Death March and the futuristic weapons of Nebula Nemesis which won an Academy Award for best simulated death instruments in a fiction. It was only natural since they had made toy pistols for so long, adapting he kit to each war up into Greneda. They also began investing in the basically uncharted realm of home video games in the 80's and Benifold and Mason, whose subsidiary in the video gaming industry is named Game or Die, introduced the entire world to death at home when they outfitted the first video game paddles that were shaped like submachine guns. They made the switch to software and in the 90's gave us Riots: USA, Death March the Game, Corporate Army, Riots: Brazil, and NFL: The Refs are Dead! We're talking billions of dollars in selling violence to generations of Americans. All of this bothered the living shit out of Barry Levinowitz. He believed in peace and love towards all of mankind. Even though it made him want to puke that he had a chink as a boss.
Sarah Apollonia worked in accounting and every Thursday she would meet up with Barry Levinowitz and have sex in the missionary position on the floor of their office. They each had a spouse at home watching their children being babysat by their pills and the TV. They both had a reputation as a good Christian and they both thought that people who cheated on their spouses were despicable. They also had each had their hearts broken before by someone who they loved more than themselves who cheated on them. Yet every Thursday there they were. It went like this. Friday morning each was disgusted with their own actions from the night before. They were self loathers and barely looked at each other all day. They also went home and hugged their real spouses very tightly as if they had quietly without saying so decided to never cheat again. Saturday and Sunday they didn't see each other so technically they didn't exist. They were submerged in the world of their homes. Their children, the TV, each other, and fried chicken made the entire weekend a whole other world than the one of lust that existed on the office floor every Thursday. And Monday was met with new confidence because of this. Now they could resume their friendship. Both Sarah and Barry had decided without speaking to each other every Monday since this started that they could return to being friends as they had before they started sleeping with each other. And by Tuesday they were exactly that. Two friends who found each other sexually attracted and were bored with their lives of cubicles, pills, TV, and monogamy and who passed the endless hours of terrible old life in the office by flirting like mad dogs. By Wednesday they were getting touchy with each other again and then by Thursday it was back to making excuse to stay late at work and then fucking like pigs on the floor exploding out the emotions of the week like a supernova of hate and love all at the same time. This is how all things were in the life of Barry Levinowitz. Extreme black and white at the same time, a life full of constant mental torture.
And then one day he woke up with the most amazing feeling of peace and knowledge. The sun felt like God had sent in angels to kiss his face an gently awake him with massaging touch. His feet hit the ground and he began to walk towards his bedroom door with a clarity he has never before had in his life. You see Barry Levinowitz, our Barry Levinowitz, figured out how to stop all the people in the world from killing the world as they thrived. And he figured out how to stop being a racist, and how to stop those God damned chinks and towel heads from taking America and flushing it down the fucking toilet. He realized that every person had to stop buying products from China in order to make the Chinese have a weak economy and he also understood that here was only one place where he could afford to feed his family at and it was ValuMart. And ValuMart certainly did buy all of their products from China or how else would they be able to offer such cheap prices. If only Benifold and Mason would offer him enough money to buy American he could help cut the legs right out from under that big money making yellow chink monster the People's Republic of China. And he figured out how to make people moral again and how to make it up to his wife, Sarah, and even her husband and all of their kids. He realized what every man must do and started with himself to set the bar.
He walked downstairs and into his basement. His pajamas were wet in the back by this time because he walked right through the dog pee that he usually would have screamed about for hours. He walked right by the broken glass from where the paperboy had broken the window for the third time. He walked straight to his safe and thought of nothing but empty space. No more would he perpetrate the duality of the human existence. He was the worst kind of sinner, the sinner who knows that he is sinning while he is doing it but does nothing to stop himself. Only sins and then slumps in tender recognition that he is a failure in life. He isn't the mad man who eats flesh and believes God has given him the right to do so, he is the sinner who knows he is only man and knows he is breaking the rules while he is breaking them. All men and women do this everyday. They do things that they know are terrible and that they know are hurting people and the Earth but they do them anyway because it's socially acceptable. Or because something doesn't really happen if you pay no consequence because each action has an equal and opposite reaction. No reaction, no action.
And now was the time for Barry to save the world. He slumped onto the floor in front of the open safe door and reached inside. As he did he thought as hard as he could of fucking Sarah Apollonia on the floor of his office in the missionary position. And when he finally felt like it was real as real could be he slid the barrel of his .357 magnum into his mouth and blew his brains all over the back of the wall. And after his body had completely decomposed and no longer has any carbon to release back into the world, he would be done destroying everything he touched, as every human does. From hearts to blades of grass, a human hand breaks everything it touches. Except of course for the hands of Barry Levinowitz. But he's dead now so I guess he doesn't really matter much does he?
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
Monday, July 9, 2007
V: Darwinism Meets Speed Dating
I think I finally cracked the code of our species. That is if you'll assume that the most important aspect of all species on Earth is their mating rituals and all of the heartache and folly that comes along with just trying to procreate. Other animals have had a lot more time living than human beings. They're like high school seniors and we're freshmen, tucking in our polo shirts, getting lost going to class, braces and all.
If survival of the fittest is also to be understood as real and relevant, then you can see why there are so many problems between males and females in our species. Let's pretend for a moment I am a seagull. Every year I fly to one beach with all my other seagull bros to meet some babes. We fist fight until we get the best spot on the beach so we can impregnate as many females as possible. Our male goal is to impregnate lots of girls and be more fit than all the males so the girls will like us.
The female goal is different. Each mating season they look for only one male. One male who is the best, strongest, biggest, and brightest of all the seagulls. His genes are the most likely to produce healthy offspring that are are big, bright, and beautiful as his feathered ass. But they can only nurse one baby at a time so once they get nailed they fly off to feed.
Here's our problem. Doesn't work like that anymore. If it did, Michael Jordan, Bill Gates, Prince and the likes of legends would be the only people reproducing. We'd have all of our healthy females carrying either Gates, Jordans, or Princes. Because everyone else's genes suck next to the hit factory, the basket factory, and the money factory.
And because it doesn't work like that, we men aren't allowed to hump whoever we want to in order to pass on our seed. No, we cannot knock up one girl and then move on to find another female capable of holding our amazing seed. We have to win the affection of females through trickery and optical illusions and we're lucky to get one. And if they actually like us!? Forget it, you're done. If you give a rats ass about a female and she gives a rats ass about you you won't get any ass if you're trying to get other as while she's at work, you dig?
Turns out that the fittest surviving all these years has made things a little weird huh?
If survival of the fittest is also to be understood as real and relevant, then you can see why there are so many problems between males and females in our species. Let's pretend for a moment I am a seagull. Every year I fly to one beach with all my other seagull bros to meet some babes. We fist fight until we get the best spot on the beach so we can impregnate as many females as possible. Our male goal is to impregnate lots of girls and be more fit than all the males so the girls will like us.
The female goal is different. Each mating season they look for only one male. One male who is the best, strongest, biggest, and brightest of all the seagulls. His genes are the most likely to produce healthy offspring that are are big, bright, and beautiful as his feathered ass. But they can only nurse one baby at a time so once they get nailed they fly off to feed.
Here's our problem. Doesn't work like that anymore. If it did, Michael Jordan, Bill Gates, Prince and the likes of legends would be the only people reproducing. We'd have all of our healthy females carrying either Gates, Jordans, or Princes. Because everyone else's genes suck next to the hit factory, the basket factory, and the money factory.
And because it doesn't work like that, we men aren't allowed to hump whoever we want to in order to pass on our seed. No, we cannot knock up one girl and then move on to find another female capable of holding our amazing seed. We have to win the affection of females through trickery and optical illusions and we're lucky to get one. And if they actually like us!? Forget it, you're done. If you give a rats ass about a female and she gives a rats ass about you you won't get any ass if you're trying to get other as while she's at work, you dig?
Turns out that the fittest surviving all these years has made things a little weird huh?
Sunday, July 8, 2007
IV: Megan Little (fiction)
It was early in the evening. Early enough that the sun was still out but late enough to be tardy for an evening event. It had been hot all day. The kind of heat that makes you want to peel off your skin to be more naked. You could almost feel the city breathing.
The street was a mess with SUV's pulling trailers, 15 passenger vans, and overstuffed compacts. All of these vehicles haphazardly parked in a thousand spots decorated with as many signs explaining that there was only 15 minutes on Wednesdays when one could park there. When Sammy Brown got there, things looked like a mess he'd never seen.
You see Sammy Brown grew up in Western Pennsylvania, a place my father often called "God's country." The place his parents were renting from God was a very rural rancher with a giant flag pole out front displaying an American flag as proudly as could probably be done. Sammy's Dad had driven everyday from Scranton to Fort Whitman as part of a cold war project. He made missiles for the government for fourteen years and then disassembled them after the wall fell for another six. When everyone decided Communism wasn't so bad after all and all the missiles were gone, Mr. Brown got laid off. The flag never came down although Mr. Brown many a time yelled out that he was going to eat it since he hadn't enough money for food at times. Funny that they named a military compound after a poet isn't it?
But none of these political and economical thoughts were in Sammy Brown's head as his feet first touched ground on Ludlow and Stanton, no. It wasn't even the hustle and bustle. After 6 hours in the car he felt electric from the hustle. All he could think about was the girls. You see New York City has roughly 14 million residents, not including commuters who also number in the millions. That means even more roughly that 7 million of these residents are women. And by the blessing of good genes or Hudson water, any street in New York City is a running stream of beautiful women. Sammy had never seen so many in his life. He was snapped out of it by an officer of the law. A young 23 year old college dropout named Dan Fields who always wanted to be able to shoot people and get away with it. He yelled and pouted to Sammy Brown that it was inappropriate to park there. He shook his nightstick and pointed it out that it was no longer Wednesday and hadn't been for some time. He gave Sammy ten minutes in his wise and profound moment. He told him ten minutes to load the gear in and that was that. He'd be back, so in order to be able to come back he left.
Ten minutes! How could you possibly move two keyboards, two stands, three amplifiers, 4 guitars, three drums, five bags of equipment, and the cymbals in ten minutes? He'd have to figure it out. Cliff has fallen asleep on the ride. He was from Scranton too. Instead of old man Jones on his horse cart, he saw the lights of a hundred cabs fighting for the three feet of passage to the next street. He saw the distress on Sammy's face and quietly started moving his share of the gear into the venue. He knew better than to wait for instructions when the instructor was so obviously instructing. He elbowed Chief along the way. The giant awoke from his slumber and began to help.
Chief played the drums. He looked like a troll who lived under the bridge but instead of jumping out he just looked up the girls skirts as they passed. Burly and sporting a beard, he usually slept unless he was drumming. Even then it looked as if he was asleep, quietly keeping time with his eyes half open. He only drank whiskey for some reason and it usually made him sleepy. And as he started carrying drums across the street Sammy felt a lot safer all of a sudden.
The band entrance to the bar was a long narrow stairway leading to the second floor. It looked like it got narrower at it ascended and probably did. It creaked as if one more speaker in your amp would have sent you straight to the basement and for some reason it was crooked. The bar was dimly lit and the area to store your stuff before you played was more like a coat closet. Hence began a game of three dimensional Tetris that Sammy played at every show, moving the cases into a pattern that would hold them in vertical space. He had one hour to find a spot for the car before the band was scheduled to play. The bar gave them all a free bottle of water and that was that.
Fifty-five minutes later Sammy came into the bar sweating and wincing. He had spent the whole time looking for a parking spot when one finally opened up 37 blocks west of the club. He then had to walk the entire way back in the boiling of the night heat through the sea of people. It was ridiculous. When he got there Cliff had some bad news. Their set was going to be cut short. That famous jazz musician Piezo DeCantumbria who frequented the establishment in order to increase his chances of being recognized by some young college student was playing an impromptu set. They would only play twenty minutes. Six hours in the car, ten minutes to load in, and fifty five minutes to park for twenty minutes of playing. That was only ten minutes times two, five minutes times four. Five minutes is nothing when you think about it. Four times nothing is still nothing. That's terrible in terms of ratios.
They decided to do as many songs as fast and as hard as they possibly could. They jumped, flailed, power-slid, and flipped their hair for five songs before the sound man cut them off. They smelled like stale beer sweat and cigarette fingernail dirt. It was the policy of the bar to load the bands things right into the street after their set to save the vertical space. So Cliff and Chief were left to bring the things to the curb while Sammy Brown walked all the way up the Bowery for 37 blocks. 37 miserable hot and stinky blocks where New York City was a disgusting taste in his mouth. You're nobody here. In Scranton, they were the biggest thing since sliced bread. Everyone came to Chollie Mac's to see them play on Saturday nights, the whole town practically. Here, they were a drop of piss in the ocean. These beautiful women didn't want to talk to his stinky self, especially as he scowled up the Bowery with his stink lines in the air. He got in the car defeated, ready to apply to community college and become a traveling salesman.
He pulled up Ludlow St. among the rest of the trailers and hazard lights, chain smoking as to slowly but surely bring young death. They loaded the two keyboards, two stands, three amplifiers, 4 guitars, three drums, five bags of equipment, and the cymbals and Cliff had to piss. Sammy Brown was glad they were leaving, he was ready to go from the get go. The 37 block walk and the subsequent brutal automotive push through the same had made him decide he'd never return to this new Rome. A waste of time and money he'd concluded.
When it happened Cliff was still pissing so he didn't see it. Chief would have heard and seen it if he hadn't already fallen asleep in the backseat of the car. The most beautiful girl in the entire world walked by Sammy Brown and told him that she loved his band. She held up two fingers on her hand and turned to face him while still walking away and smiling to indicate the word peace. No one is sure whether or not she actually was the most beautiful girl in the entire world but in Sammy's world this girl had walked straight out of a magazine and into his heart. When Cliff came out to leave Sammy's heart had been filled to the brim by unbridled optimism towards his entire self. Suddenly he was again a good songwriter, singer, guitarist, and band mate. New York City was his bitch, their new marketing target, Jerusalem and Mecca all in one. All he wanted to talk about was taking over New York City but Cliff fell asleep as soon as they hit the turnpike. So for six hours, Sammy Brown mapped out from the first stages of his conquest of New York City's bar scene straight to his million dollar Sony Records honeymoon with the girl of his dreams who he happened to run into as he took New York by storm. He even gave his queen a name. By the time he got home, he and Megan Little were practically dead and in side by side plots. And for some reason that made him happy.
You see on smile from one girl made him go from being so depressed he wanted to die to so happy he wanted to die, but with a particular partner in crime. It was the same type of smile that made famous jazz musician Piezo DeCantumbria frequent the establishment that so many college girls would wander into to meet boys. The smile that fell Samson, Troy, and John Lennon. The interest of a woman can certainly keep a mans heart aflame with creation. Because as it's always been, there are only two things that can possibly inspire the creation of art by a man and that is impressing a woman or death. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
The street was a mess with SUV's pulling trailers, 15 passenger vans, and overstuffed compacts. All of these vehicles haphazardly parked in a thousand spots decorated with as many signs explaining that there was only 15 minutes on Wednesdays when one could park there. When Sammy Brown got there, things looked like a mess he'd never seen.
You see Sammy Brown grew up in Western Pennsylvania, a place my father often called "God's country." The place his parents were renting from God was a very rural rancher with a giant flag pole out front displaying an American flag as proudly as could probably be done. Sammy's Dad had driven everyday from Scranton to Fort Whitman as part of a cold war project. He made missiles for the government for fourteen years and then disassembled them after the wall fell for another six. When everyone decided Communism wasn't so bad after all and all the missiles were gone, Mr. Brown got laid off. The flag never came down although Mr. Brown many a time yelled out that he was going to eat it since he hadn't enough money for food at times. Funny that they named a military compound after a poet isn't it?
But none of these political and economical thoughts were in Sammy Brown's head as his feet first touched ground on Ludlow and Stanton, no. It wasn't even the hustle and bustle. After 6 hours in the car he felt electric from the hustle. All he could think about was the girls. You see New York City has roughly 14 million residents, not including commuters who also number in the millions. That means even more roughly that 7 million of these residents are women. And by the blessing of good genes or Hudson water, any street in New York City is a running stream of beautiful women. Sammy had never seen so many in his life. He was snapped out of it by an officer of the law. A young 23 year old college dropout named Dan Fields who always wanted to be able to shoot people and get away with it. He yelled and pouted to Sammy Brown that it was inappropriate to park there. He shook his nightstick and pointed it out that it was no longer Wednesday and hadn't been for some time. He gave Sammy ten minutes in his wise and profound moment. He told him ten minutes to load the gear in and that was that. He'd be back, so in order to be able to come back he left.
Ten minutes! How could you possibly move two keyboards, two stands, three amplifiers, 4 guitars, three drums, five bags of equipment, and the cymbals in ten minutes? He'd have to figure it out. Cliff has fallen asleep on the ride. He was from Scranton too. Instead of old man Jones on his horse cart, he saw the lights of a hundred cabs fighting for the three feet of passage to the next street. He saw the distress on Sammy's face and quietly started moving his share of the gear into the venue. He knew better than to wait for instructions when the instructor was so obviously instructing. He elbowed Chief along the way. The giant awoke from his slumber and began to help.
Chief played the drums. He looked like a troll who lived under the bridge but instead of jumping out he just looked up the girls skirts as they passed. Burly and sporting a beard, he usually slept unless he was drumming. Even then it looked as if he was asleep, quietly keeping time with his eyes half open. He only drank whiskey for some reason and it usually made him sleepy. And as he started carrying drums across the street Sammy felt a lot safer all of a sudden.
The band entrance to the bar was a long narrow stairway leading to the second floor. It looked like it got narrower at it ascended and probably did. It creaked as if one more speaker in your amp would have sent you straight to the basement and for some reason it was crooked. The bar was dimly lit and the area to store your stuff before you played was more like a coat closet. Hence began a game of three dimensional Tetris that Sammy played at every show, moving the cases into a pattern that would hold them in vertical space. He had one hour to find a spot for the car before the band was scheduled to play. The bar gave them all a free bottle of water and that was that.
Fifty-five minutes later Sammy came into the bar sweating and wincing. He had spent the whole time looking for a parking spot when one finally opened up 37 blocks west of the club. He then had to walk the entire way back in the boiling of the night heat through the sea of people. It was ridiculous. When he got there Cliff had some bad news. Their set was going to be cut short. That famous jazz musician Piezo DeCantumbria who frequented the establishment in order to increase his chances of being recognized by some young college student was playing an impromptu set. They would only play twenty minutes. Six hours in the car, ten minutes to load in, and fifty five minutes to park for twenty minutes of playing. That was only ten minutes times two, five minutes times four. Five minutes is nothing when you think about it. Four times nothing is still nothing. That's terrible in terms of ratios.
They decided to do as many songs as fast and as hard as they possibly could. They jumped, flailed, power-slid, and flipped their hair for five songs before the sound man cut them off. They smelled like stale beer sweat and cigarette fingernail dirt. It was the policy of the bar to load the bands things right into the street after their set to save the vertical space. So Cliff and Chief were left to bring the things to the curb while Sammy Brown walked all the way up the Bowery for 37 blocks. 37 miserable hot and stinky blocks where New York City was a disgusting taste in his mouth. You're nobody here. In Scranton, they were the biggest thing since sliced bread. Everyone came to Chollie Mac's to see them play on Saturday nights, the whole town practically. Here, they were a drop of piss in the ocean. These beautiful women didn't want to talk to his stinky self, especially as he scowled up the Bowery with his stink lines in the air. He got in the car defeated, ready to apply to community college and become a traveling salesman.
He pulled up Ludlow St. among the rest of the trailers and hazard lights, chain smoking as to slowly but surely bring young death. They loaded the two keyboards, two stands, three amplifiers, 4 guitars, three drums, five bags of equipment, and the cymbals and Cliff had to piss. Sammy Brown was glad they were leaving, he was ready to go from the get go. The 37 block walk and the subsequent brutal automotive push through the same had made him decide he'd never return to this new Rome. A waste of time and money he'd concluded.
When it happened Cliff was still pissing so he didn't see it. Chief would have heard and seen it if he hadn't already fallen asleep in the backseat of the car. The most beautiful girl in the entire world walked by Sammy Brown and told him that she loved his band. She held up two fingers on her hand and turned to face him while still walking away and smiling to indicate the word peace. No one is sure whether or not she actually was the most beautiful girl in the entire world but in Sammy's world this girl had walked straight out of a magazine and into his heart. When Cliff came out to leave Sammy's heart had been filled to the brim by unbridled optimism towards his entire self. Suddenly he was again a good songwriter, singer, guitarist, and band mate. New York City was his bitch, their new marketing target, Jerusalem and Mecca all in one. All he wanted to talk about was taking over New York City but Cliff fell asleep as soon as they hit the turnpike. So for six hours, Sammy Brown mapped out from the first stages of his conquest of New York City's bar scene straight to his million dollar Sony Records honeymoon with the girl of his dreams who he happened to run into as he took New York by storm. He even gave his queen a name. By the time he got home, he and Megan Little were practically dead and in side by side plots. And for some reason that made him happy.
You see on smile from one girl made him go from being so depressed he wanted to die to so happy he wanted to die, but with a particular partner in crime. It was the same type of smile that made famous jazz musician Piezo DeCantumbria frequent the establishment that so many college girls would wander into to meet boys. The smile that fell Samson, Troy, and John Lennon. The interest of a woman can certainly keep a mans heart aflame with creation. Because as it's always been, there are only two things that can possibly inspire the creation of art by a man and that is impressing a woman or death. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
Saturday, July 7, 2007
III: The Wee Hours (fiction)
There is a certain time that the 20th Century tended to call the wee hours. Generally it consisted of the hours after the night was over and before the next day had officially been bugle horned by the approaching sunlight. These are the so called wee hours.
Some months there are more so called wee hours than others due to the Earth's rotation around the Sun. Some months there are less. Sundays the so called wee hours start early for an unknown cultural reason.
Many myths in many cultures revolve around theories of what actually goes on during these so called wee hours between the time the fire dies and the time the Sun blows life back onto the Earth, saving us from all kinds of nocturnal, seven feet when erect, night lizard men that suck blood and eat babies. Repave paradise, put up a parking lot. With plenty of lights for safety. Here on Earth, the mere presence of light during the so called wee hours indicates safety. It's because everyone is really scared of what everyone else thinks about them so they only do certain things in the dark.
The truth about these so called wee hours is that they are actually the Weeeeeeeeeeeee Hours. That is because so many magical and incredible moments only happen during the so called wee hours and can't be described on paper or monitor. You have to be there. You have to live within the so called wee hours and operate with intensity throughout.
And like clockwork, as night becomes day, as you watch that great father Sun relieve every species of mothers fear that their baby was snatched during the dark time, magic happens. When the flowers realign, trees spread their leaves, dew manifests to sooth aching bellies, and God allows the Earth to keep spinning one more day and give it another whack, that is where it lives and dies.
The right set of circumstances during these so called wee hours here on Earth could cause an inaudible sense of we between you and God, you and humanity, or even you and yourself. Other known side effects include an entirely audible weeeeeeeeeeeee!!
Some months there are more so called wee hours than others due to the Earth's rotation around the Sun. Some months there are less. Sundays the so called wee hours start early for an unknown cultural reason.
Many myths in many cultures revolve around theories of what actually goes on during these so called wee hours between the time the fire dies and the time the Sun blows life back onto the Earth, saving us from all kinds of nocturnal, seven feet when erect, night lizard men that suck blood and eat babies. Repave paradise, put up a parking lot. With plenty of lights for safety. Here on Earth, the mere presence of light during the so called wee hours indicates safety. It's because everyone is really scared of what everyone else thinks about them so they only do certain things in the dark.
The truth about these so called wee hours is that they are actually the Weeeeeeeeeeeee Hours. That is because so many magical and incredible moments only happen during the so called wee hours and can't be described on paper or monitor. You have to be there. You have to live within the so called wee hours and operate with intensity throughout.
And like clockwork, as night becomes day, as you watch that great father Sun relieve every species of mothers fear that their baby was snatched during the dark time, magic happens. When the flowers realign, trees spread their leaves, dew manifests to sooth aching bellies, and God allows the Earth to keep spinning one more day and give it another whack, that is where it lives and dies.
The right set of circumstances during these so called wee hours here on Earth could cause an inaudible sense of we between you and God, you and humanity, or even you and yourself. Other known side effects include an entirely audible weeeeeeeeeeeee!!
Thursday, July 5, 2007
II: To Pose or To Pimp?
I'm not sure if anyone else has caught on to this yet so I'll say I discovered it, invented it's own school of thought to keep up with it, and it is now my property.
My enigmatic "this" is that my generation is the smartest, best equipped for their time to serve, and laziest of any generation in the history of mankind and the school of though it has provoked is as follows. As I said before, we have to remember that having time to think and lay around stroking oneself is relatively new. It can only be done between the hours of not needing to look for food and sleeping on a giant bag of simulated feathers. Remember also that this country is buried in the post-WWII state of mind and action, both culturally and economically.
That being remembered, the beat generation was the first generation to come of age in universities, with marijuana, and without a major depression or war going on. Their perversity and drug lust trickled down into hippies, coke heads, disco freaks, punkers, new wavers with rolled up sleeves on their blazers, grungers, and eventually posers. (For you beat generationers out there: POSER: ('pO-z&r) N slang One who pretends to be part of a certain social clique or following but really only has a shallow perception of what it really means to be a member.) And I do believe my generation to be the Poser Generation.
First, let's look at MySpace. Not only do you now have to be rather literate to be social with the invention of chatrooms, instant messaging, text messaging, and now MySpace, but LOOK at these fucking profiles man! Their chock full of HTML codes, pictures edited in pirated versions of Photoshop (a five fingered discount of $438-$689), blogs that share nothing in common but a general restlessness and a feeling things are not right, have never been right, and must be right before going forward with anything else. There are kids sitting in offices everyday doing 10,000 times more difficult computer work on their MySpace than they are given by their superiors. Yet, we refuse to be pimpin' (PIMPIN': ('pim-p&n, -pi[n]) ADJ slang (to be) To have the finest of everything, women, cars, clothing, job, bank account, sunglasses, etc... An attitude of utter confidence, physical intimidation, and 24-7 financial forethought (also known as hustling) are also necessary to be considered "pimpin'")
Our MySpace's are pimpin'. Working 9-5 in a cubicle is not pimpin'. Having to pay $60,000 and throw away 4 of the best years of your life you'll never get back to get a piece of paper that says you're capable of learning all you'll ever need for your job in the 14 day training session you'll have anyway is NOT pimpin'. Working for minimum wage anyway after all that work because fucking everyone has a college degree in nothing that they didn't want too is definitely not pimpin'. Neither are paying student loans for ten years, leasing a car you don't even need, or putting enough gel in your hair to kill a moose. Meth, cocaine, heroin, ecstacy, oxycontin, percocet, valium, xanax, aderol, conserta, morphine, viagra, rogaine, prozac, lithium, lexapro, and all the other garbage they WANT you to eat so you're sedated aren't pimpin' either. And pressuring girls into having sex with liquor and pills, beating the shit out of each other for no reason, spending $200 on a pair of jeans, watching youtube videos of people fighting, and many other things my generation has come to embody and LOVE with all their shattered hearts are all not pimpin'. Eating fruit full of radiation and pesticides that has to be delivered by a truck that runs on gasoline when there's an orchard in the area is so not pimpin' it makes me sick.
We could be the Pimp Generation. A big fuck you to the Greatest Generation who won the war and then thought that was all they had to do because it was so fucking great. Then they handed the country with a blind eye back to Washington because Ike and FDR were such swell Nazi killing guys during the war. Fuck you, we're pimpin'! An anal rapage, if you will, of the Baby Boomer Generation, who had half a chance and then ran scared after Kent State like crying babies into minivans, cocaine, ponytails, BMW's, organic juice factories, and general pussy shit homogenization. The Pimp Generation! The ultimate title and won fair and square.
If you can steal a $700 program you are pimpin'. If you don't pay for TV or movies or even music anymore because it's "free" on the internet you are a pimp. If you can get 10,000 YouTube hits for a video you and your friend made you are pimpin'. The pimp is there. The music industry, film industry, and TV/News industry are all digital now. Music is edited on computers. People create whole songs with a mouse and a monitor. Film is edited on computers. They don't even manufacture analog tape anymore and I bet you'll be able to say the same thing about 35mm film sometime soon. Look at cameras. Rich people are old and they do not know how to use a computer. They don't even know what MySpace and YouTube are, they have no idea how to market to us. There are high paying jobs with freedom of schedule waiting for you if you just get of your fucking lazy ass and FUCKING DO IT.
All I am saying is we have more potential to rise above our elders in a shorter amount of time than any generation in the history of humanity. And I'd say about 90% of us are throwing it away. Young millionaires means young politics which means reform. No more wasting time talking about gay marriage on the floor of Congress. If a man wants to suck only one penis for the rest of his life, he is going to do so whether he has a title or not. It officially becomes a non-issue because the interests of big business and their health insurance policies have NO FUCKING business governing the politics of the United States. Young ideas, young money, young politicians....
Don't pose, pimp.
I: Human Beings and Vonnegut
So I've been getting into some hardcore Kurt Vonnegut reading this past week, and what a week it was! I read Mother Night, Breakfast of Champions, and Bluebeard in four days which brings my novel total by Vonnegut to a meager and embarrassing four. He nails us humans right on the head from our pollution to our penis envy. We're a bunch of assholes.
No human portrays this more than myself I'd think. I am the worst kind of human being, the kind who knows what he is doing wrong and then does it anyway. I saw "Inconvenient Truth" and I litter still (although not as much.) I know what the real deal with cigarettes are and I smoke them. I know that a sugar pill will make you feel like you took a oxycontin if your mind tells it to. Do I care, no. At least not usually and outwardly because actions still speak louder than words.
Human beings are a DISEASE that is infecting this planet. We are the only animal, vegetable, or mineral that has no population thinner and takes more than it gives to the environment it lives in. African rainforest elephants will clear huge sections of forest as they eat their daily ton-age of foliage. They destroy all that's around them. This allows tiny animals to feast on shorter and younger foliage that wouldn't exist with out elephants clearing land and letting the sun hit the forest floor. We crash through the forest and then pave over it. We grow fields and fields of fruit trees and then spray them with chemicals so that no other animal but a human would eat it. Then we don't even let all of the humans eat. Only special ones with special access to gold.
Human beings are a DISEASE that is infecting this planet. We are the only animal, vegetable, or mineral that has no population thinner and takes more than it gives to the environment it lives in. African rainforest elephants will clear huge sections of forest as they eat their daily ton-age of foliage. They destroy all that's around them. This allows tiny animals to feast on shorter and younger foliage that wouldn't exist with out elephants clearing land and letting the sun hit the forest floor. We crash through the forest and then pave over it. We grow fields and fields of fruit trees and then spray them with chemicals so that no other animal but a human would eat it. Then we don't even let all of the humans eat. Only special ones with special access to gold.
And as we lose our primary animalistic concerns of where's the food, where's the infants, where's the shelter etc, we have something relatively new on planet Earth, time to think. And this new found time to think has finally allowed us to see beyond what we are looking at. To actually step out into the void and know that we are intolerable assholes. From Copernicus and Descartes to Gore and Hawkins, great minds have taken this time to think and used it to realize the importance of the human existence.
Take it like this...You have a swimming pool. It's the only swimming pool in the whole wide world so everyone uses it. They all shit in it everyday because the pool seems so big the shit will disolve and go away. But there's only one pool. So at some point it'll be so shitty no one will ever be able to swim in it again. The pool is not only the planet but humanity itself.We shit on ourselves. We take food out of the mouths of hungry people. There are more intelligent minds and scientific dollars looking for or disproving Bigfoot than there is curing small pox, a disease which we have wiped out in all the parts of the world we think are nice but let run rampant everywhere else.
And as always there is the divide inside. One part of me wants to help save us person to person. Each person who smiles is another person adding to the levity of humanity and bringing us that much closer to the harmony that can save life as we know it. And the other side that wants to kill everyone and drink their blood as I alone pollute the Earth just for spite.
Just for spite....
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