Bastions of Cool:
Cellophane Girl*
Copy, Right?*
Fluxblog*
Girl Come Undone
Girl Under Glass
Life Hacker
Music For Robots*
Post Secret
Regnyouth Archives*
Snappy Hour
Stereogum*
Sweet Blasphemy*
Will Christopher Baer
| 12.31.05 2005 in Review |
Threats of my mom moving in “temporarily” in March weren’t necessarily highlights. In April the family dog ran away for a few days and in not-so-merry month of May my tire exploded and fucked up my car not to mention replacing the ‘2’ in front of my age with a ‘3’. In the mean time I listened to the new NIN and VNV cd’s while cracking out to God of War and Mario Kart.
Halfway through the year and the nadir seemed endless till June when I went vacation to New York and saw VNV Nation twice. In July, I spent seven days in the 3rd World vacationing to Mexico for a week, finally my year was looking up. I enrolled for a creative writing class at SCC in August, something I almost didn’t do after my cooler started leaking and caused $1000 in damages: that weird accident later help me meet someone who made a big difference in my life and saw Coldplay perform.
In September I saw three great acts in one weekend, Tori/NIN/Decemberists rocked my world as the ninth month also saw my sweet little Sapphire go to that great headshop in the sky. I did a lot of writing in October and had another crazy night during Halloween after leaving Sadisco. November saw more expenses and car problems.
Sigh, December wound down with a two week vacay and an A for my writing class.
If only there were some way to freeze time, to capture those moments when everything seems perfect, if only for a little while. It is the dark before the dawn, symbolizing in many ways life even in death: the midnight of the year. Every year. ANOTHER year over, another year less in our life and on the bright side, another just begun. Of course, I realize that none of us *really* knows where we're going. It's generally satisfactory to know that we are going at all, and that, in so going, we must eventually arrive somewhere.
And, in the immortal words of Voltaire, "If we do not find anything pleasant, at least we shall find something new."
Sometimes I think there is something to that statement. And sometimes I blink.
Happy New Year.
Song of the Year: Blonde Redhead "Misery is a Butterfly"
| 12.27.05 Hour to Ours |
“Uhh, last time I checked.” I answer, wondering if the old bastard in the velour tracksuit had forgotten to take his medication. I grab a table and start eating my breakfast before checking the receipt for Al B’s lunch.
Whoops
Oh, well, I’m sure the old man got his food eventually and if not let him blame it on the chick’s lack of enunciation.
Sigh, my vacation is flying by in a rhapsodic blur of malls and tinsel, it’s already Tuesday and my vacay is more than halfway done. At times my life seems to be a still life portrait of stagnation yet with only four days left of the year, I have to ask myself where has the time gone?
In moments of conversation and fragmented dreams our lives melt like candle wax before our eyes. Someday sooner than we expect we will be old, older than our parents are now: ancient, like those blue-haired dinosaurs at the mall who drive RV’s and smell of mothballs and butterscotch.
And if we live long enough, some young punk will steal our lunch.
♫ of the day: The Avalanches "Frontier Psychiatrist"
| 12.25.05 Somber Glow |
if there is nothing beyond it, I am not so ungrateful that I would complain. Is this not enough? To breathe, and to feel, and to wonder? To love even at the risk of impossibility?
We celebrate the birth of a martyr who died for our sins. Rejoice and pretend that we are not afraid of tomorrow: that we know where we are going and know how to get there. Pretend that Roy G. Biv's dim Christmas tree lights burn like a thousand bonfires, glowing as if the core of every glittering reflection was the light of all things: of a distant place called heaven, of a safe place called home...
Pretend...
Merry Christmas,
Alvaro
♫ of the day: Johnny Cash "Personal Jesus"
| 12.24.05 Cynic Stars |
♫ of the day: Franz Ferdinand "Fade Together"
| 12.19.05 Expensive Beep |
Just what I need to start my vacation, I called in Friday to take my car to the dealership. I swear camelback VW and Visa are in cahoots! Much like that camp counselor from so many years ago, they love to bend me over without lube. I got to spend the day Christmas shopping in a dodge neon that screamed poor-cheapskate; my god the thing had a TAPE deck! At 4:30, the fugly latina with the painted eyebrows and fake nails from the dealership called to tell me my car is ready. Mentally I prepared for the news, but it always hurts as I found out the lovely cooling sensor and the flanger for the radiator were going to cost me $415. I also had to brave Friday-night rush hour traffic to return the rental by 6pm. With the frenzy of a crackhead on payday, I rush home trying to get ready for my date, who ended up being two hours late for circumstances beyond her control. At least she managed to salvage the night before I started cattle-prodding assholes and the assholes they are attached to.
♫ of the day: Veruca Salt "Bombshells & Pinups"
| 12.16.05 Eng 217 #7 |
I exhale a yawn as my vanilla-weak legs stretch under covers of body heat. Ten extra minutes in bed would be bliss, but it’s time for school and my odium for the song playing on the static radio knows no bounds: “Shiny Happy People” my ass!
Bare feet quiver on the Smurf-blue carpet as I walk the vacuumed cornrows that are my mother’s specialty. Before Michael Stipe can utter another yelp, I flick off the alarm and head to the bathroom. Like a squirt of lemon juice, vanity lights sting my eyes as I rub the angry peach-fuzz on my 15year old cheek, forming it into two symmetrical 90210 sideburns.
I stare in the mirror as pomegranate eyes gaze at the Krakatoa of a pimple perched on my nose like a pus-filled vulture: it’s the kind of king-size monster zit that works like a magnet on the eyes. Like Quasimodo’s hump, the reddened bump my nose demands attention. It might as well be dangling from a church bell auditioning for Cirque de Soleil as it breathes in the zephyr of crisp wet air pouring in from the window. Blanketed by gravid cobalt clouds, the sky will soon birth a billion drops of water. This is the kind of day rarely seen but often remembered in Arizona.
By the time I’m done borrowing my mom’s foundation, I realize I’m fifteen minutes late and have to walk to school. I dart to the door as my father stands sentinel like a cigar-store Indian holding my lunch money in one hand and a garbage bag in the other: his brand of indentured servitude. In between sips of thermosed coffee he inquires: “What’s that on your nose?”
I grab my per diem from his sausage-like fingers and dump the trash in the curbside bin. Like Easter Island heads, single-file rows of pistachio colored bins point my way to school. As I start my march my father offers me a ride, something that happens with the frequency of Haley’s comet.
I request to be dropped off at the 7-11 half a mile from school, risking getting wet over being seen dropped off by my dad. With the Lincoln in my pocket, I walk inside the teenage-loitered store, treading the Slurpy stained linoleum to grab the breakfast of champions: a cherry flavored Clearly Canadian and chocolate mini-donuts.
I notice Jennifer, the cute auburn-haired girl from my Biology class standing by the arcade machines. We had flirted like Southern cousins on and off since the beginning of the year. She, a party girl with affluent though absentee parents and I, a lothario with enough charm to be interesting despite the tumor growing on the side of my nose like a volcano on the Big Island. Inhaling the scent of Calvin Klein’s Escape that wafts like a magazine advertisement from the nape of her neck, I approach her. Jennifer’s friend notices me, catching the hint and leaving as I arrive.
“Hi” I smirk, cocking my brows the way Dylan McKay would, “how was your weekend?”
“Good” she mentions, exhaling a gasp, “Wow, look at that zit!”
“Yeah, it sucks,” I try to change the subject, “You think it will rain?”
“Totally, too bad gotta go school…” her Prussian blue eyes light up mid-sentence, “…Hey, you want to ditch and hang out at my house?” she offers almost rhetorically.
Faced with the choice of spending the day summoning eyes to the reddened Mount Everest on my nose or hanging out with a cute girl outside of school, it didn’t take me long to decide. I follow the random serendipity, switching directions and heading over to her house.
We stroll through her neighborhood discussing high school gossip and bad-mouthing mutual acquaintances as the first drop from the sky heralds the deluge. The floating reservoir above our heads bursts into a million angry drops of water falling from indigo clouds at machine-gun rates. The pitter-patter of fat globules pellet us like liquid bullets as we run the rest of the way to her house. My jean jacket and the umbrella of my Trapper-Keeper offer little protection and I’m drenched by the time we get to her place. In between hyena hysterics, she tells me: “You’re going to get sick, take off your clothes so I can put them in the dryer.”
I do as I am told, heading down the hall quilted with pictures of Baby Jenny; like degrees in a doctor’s office, they hieroglyph the achievements of an only child. As wet hair liquefies on my face like melting wax, I wait naked in her jade vanity room counting the seashell shaped soap reflecting on the spotless brass. Knocking like a bill collector, Jennifer opens the door; startling me as I grab the wet bundle of damp clothes to cover my crotch.
“Hey” she giggles handing me a towel “give me your ID so I can call you out sick saying I’m your mom, then you do the same pretending you’re my dad.”
I congratulate her reasoning, “You think of everything.”
Like an emaciated Fabio, I walk out with a towel around my waist. Following Jennifer’s hall of fame back to the living room as she hands me the phone to call the school. She pokes at my ribs like mallets on a xylophone guiding me to “Paulina’s Room”: a guest bedroom used for laundry and storage, wallpapered corner to corner with pictures of model Paulina Porizkova.
She sits on her childhood daybed tapping the spot next to her with one hand and grabbing the TV remote with the other. Jennifer flips through channels before settling on the night-scope view of the Gulf War on CNN. As tanks strafe and patriot missiles intersect Scud’s, my vision pendulums between her eyes and mouth. Like a metronome, the serenade of raindrops pelt on the rooftop mounting the palpable tension while each of us waits for the other to act as if the wall of air between us were covered by razor-wire.
In between gulps of anxiety chased by tepid flavored seltzer, I watch her with nerve-fraying hesitation. I gaze at the inner-labyrinth of her ear, like all her recesses, holding a mystery heretofore unknown as I fantasize about the possibilities of the moment I had imagined since seeing my first Playboy five years earlier. I wait for Jennifer, like a crossing guard at the junction between Boy Boulevard and Man Street before realizing the road to manhood must be jaywalked. Feeling the weight of my tunnel-vision stare she flashes a smile that shines like a green light to a sports car. With virgin trepidation I lean into Jennifer’s terry cloth bathrobe for a kiss. In tongue-twisting osculation, we mimic the tumble of clothes inside the dryer: clothes as hot, wet, and tangled as we.
Goosebumped skin collides against hot flesh as we collapse on the pink bedspread. With more twisting arms and pretzeled legs than a Hindu god, the duet of our syncopated breath matches the squeaks of her bed.
Hours later, I strut home as the sun peeks through clouds like a biblical scene, waiting for the great non-virgin epiphany I’ve seen in movies to arrive. While thoughts of pregnancy inundate my head, I watch the rainbow-slicks of oil on water picturing myself wearing a grease monkey shirt with my misspelled name stitched above the left pocket and a pregnant teenage wife. By chance and circumstance I claimed my manhood but unlike so many of my friends it’s not at prom or in the parking lot behind the Safeway. I bask in the sense of self-accomplishment, after finally getting rid of the virgin stigma that haunts teenage boys like bad acne. The ebullient grin on my face almost deafened the taunts of “pizza-nose” that came my way at school the following day.
♫ of the day: Enigma "Sadeness"
| 12.13.05 Unabridged |
I remember how nervous I was about taking this class; frankly I expected more competition than a 35yr old mother of two. Nevertheless my writing did improve, and it’s the only part of this mortal plane that I will leave behind, my words, as legacy of my undying thoughts. I met and got to know some very cool people in class by the stories they told; a myriad of different perspectives and theories, arose.
Each of them possessing a different version of the truth, basically the whole reason blogs are read. Words are here to be heard what ‘they’ say is subjective to each one of us and our experiences. It’s that unfiltered, unsurgar-coated inside information, the utter confessional vulnerability we hunger for. That’s why you’re reading these words, isn’t?
You want to be the priest masturbating to my sin.
♫ of the day: Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds
"Where the Wild Roses Grow"
| 12.12.05 Silently |
How dare I think myself as different?
To think I would be spared the charade perfected to a second-nature?
As this newfound knowledge falls through my mind like sand in an hourglass, I wish those words would inhale back into my lungs and out of my memory.
For it is the wisdom of fools that sets me free.
♫ of the day: Sneaker Pimps "Low Place Like Home"
| 12.07.05 a day that will live... |
Last night was awesome, my close personal friend came over after class. After the requisite rounds of green and vicodin, we had an incredible time. Which continued this morning before the “auditing” appointment.
Oh in other news, Sam Hernandez, a teacher I used to work with my first year at the District was busted yesterday for making homemade porn on school equipment. He now teaches video production at Shadow Mountain. Where he left a tape of himself doing the nasty that a student found. He was always a shady character and now everyone knows it.
♫ of the day: God Module "Little 15"
| 12.04.05 ENG 217 #3 |
An invisible wave of fetid animal tsunamis into my nostrils much like a dumpster on a summer day, making my eyes wince as the squalid stench greets my nose. The culprit of the funk is an incontinent Sharpei /Labrador mongrel christened JoJo that scratches mercilessly beneath a mirrored coffee table. Its pumpkin colored fur moth-holed by a disease that prevents skin from shedding creating a putrid state of zombie-like ambulant decomposition. There is no cure, just expensive medication its owner can ill afford; still he cannot and will not put his beloved companion to sleep.
I step over the soiled carpet layered with dog hair and dirt while Capt. Picard and the crew of the Starship Enterprise entertain my unemployed roommate, Adam. Slouched across the black pleather couch like a farm-tanned Jabba the Hutt, he holds a bong and a lighter in hand. In gurgles a thick alabaster cloud ascends the Z-shaped glass before vanishing into his vacuum lungs. I head to my room, drop off my backpack and take a deep breath of the Plug-Ins working overtime to keep the outside musk from breaching my haven. I absorb the Feng Shui of a spotless room and a bed you could bounce a quarter off of before heading back to drop off the mail.
Adam’s coiled hippie hair hides a face that much like a child’s is incapable of masking pretense or holding any secret too long. As I read the tealeaves in his hazel eyes I know something is coming.
“Hey dude!” he inhales “I need a favor.”
“What’s that?” I mention grabbing the tepid paraphernalia still smoking like fired pistol.
“Dude, I need a bro to come with me to Camp Verde.” Exhaling a ghost of pungent fog.
“Do you know how far that is?” I glower with the aversion of a 10yr old boy kissing his mother in public, “ It’s 9 o’clock and I have to work tomorrow!”
“Shawn’s car died out there man” cashing out the bowl mid-sentence “…he’ll give it to me if I can tow it back to town but AAA wont pick it up unless I meet them.”
As per our routine I refuse his requests at least once but usually twice. “So what does that have to do with me?”
Supplicating like a televangelist he admits, “I don’t want to go alone dude.”
“Let me think about it.” I tell him, enjoying the pleading and knowing he’ll sweeten the deal on the second offer.
“C’mon, c’mon, c’mon Alvie be a pal” he tells me using the charm of a politician during election year, “I’ll get us some Red Bull and roll up a fatty for the trip.”
With adventure on one hand and regret in the other I check my cell phone and set of keys, “Let’s go.”
“Wooo!” He screams with the volatile gap-toothed smile of an 8th grade anarchist after tagging his first wall.
The glimmer of twilight illuminates our driveway as we get into his car, a mess for mess reproduction of our house. Moving CD cases, Big Gulp cups and empty packs of American Spirits, I clear a space on the cracked grey vinyl of an ’83 Toyota Tercel with 230 thousand miles. How he keeps a 20year old car running is beyond my powers of deduction. Not unlike a live version of Frogger driving with Adam is an adventure all its own. Barreling 20 miles over the limit he lights a cigarette, shuffles CD’s and follows a trail of crimson lights zigzaging towards the 17. Locker room worthy conversations of conquest and lust keep us entertained while we spark up what he brought for the trip, in between tokes he confesses:
“I know a guy who will buy it for parts off me for five-hundred bucks.” Adam always ‘knows a guy.’ “That’ll take care of most of the bills I’ve let slip by.”
“Good,” I remind him “because the third notice for the light came in.”
“I know, I know” he interrupts “and I’m tired of buying dollar-menu McPigeon’s and Mc.MrEd’s in bulk.” “Touché.”
Things weren’t always like this so much had changed since that summer in middle school when he and I met. Adam lived with his dad and gold-digging twenty-something stepmother. He was thin, drug free and surely college bound, his life seemed perfect. Then his house of cards tumbled: Adam’s dad got cancer. He lost his job, the house and his trophy-wife when she moved to Vegas after milking out every penny of her ASU degree from him. Adam had to get a fulltime job to pay for an apartment during Senior year, but 40 hours of work afforded little time for school and he dropped out four months before graduation. Slaloming through circumstance is his way of life. Adam is a survivor and survivors do what they must even if that means driving his ornery roommate and himself halfway to Flagstaff in the middle of the night for the promise of money.
Under a blanket of stars we reach our destination, a graveled curve for out of control big-rigs five miles from nowhere. However, there is no broken car or AAA truck to be seen. His golden ticket has been towed away by the Camp Verde Parks & Recreation Dept. It’s going cost more to pay the fine and haul it to Phoenix than what the guy he knows is offering. Pacing in figure 8’s like a caged tiger, Adam screams to the moonlit nothing around us while dialing a signal-less cell phone. At this inhuman hour there is little I can do to calm the vitriol and lunacy but join in the profanity-laced tirade.
Fifteen minutes of diatribe and exhaustion later he climbs inside the car wiping tears of rage and defeat from his eyes and says, “Let’s go home. ”
The dashboard’s toxic glow displays the connect-a-dot equalizer of Drum & Bass techno music that rattles the aluminum doors like lose change inside a dryer. With veins pumping apathy and bile in a rage devoid of mercy Adam takes his frustration out on the steering wheel; something he would’ve ripped off by now if I weren’t in the car. White knuckles choke the wheel as he utters guttural curses under his breath.
Like God’s own Lite Brite, city lights twinkle in the distance as the car accelerates towards it redlining past 100mph. Faster and faster, a rhapsody of reflectors blur past like stars at warp speed. In the split second before A reaches B we see something furry and red on the road. A dog skewed across yellow lines tries to drag its broken hind legs to the other side of the road. It’s as good as dead, mopping behind a red streak perhaps still warm to the touch if we took the time to check. However at this moment only two choices are very clear: we can do what every other driver has done and swerve out of the way sparing it a quick if painful death or aim straight for it. On this night Adam picks ‘Or.’
Each ensuing instant feels like a lifetime as my eyeballs ping-pong between driver and dog, not wanting to bear witness yet not daring to look away. The reflective shine of headlights on canine eyes is tattooed in my brain before I feel the sickening thump. The basketball-against-a-tin-roof cacophony of metal verses flesh that shatter its bones into a thousand pieces; much like my heart a moment ago and a mile behind as I realize what just happened.
Staring back into the serene darkness of the rear tinted window I scream, “What the Fuck!?!?” But Adam has no answer, it was a speechless ride home where he hugged his dog and said “Goodnight.” As I turn off the light my mind’s eye replays the moment over and over trying to find reason in the unreasonable. Soaked in darkness, my answer is whispered through pillow-muffled cries emanating from his room.
Today we make decisions tomorrow we live with the consequences.
♫ of the day: Sebastian Teller "Fantino"
| 12.01.05 The Glass Screen. |
The wetbacks next door were blasting shitty White Stripes last night while I was trying to sleep. I didn’t go to bed till after 12:30 and had to get up at 5:30. I awoke in a rage, flipping my surroundsound satellite speakers to the wall and cranking up the Industrialicious mix on my iPod. If they didn’t let me sleep, I sure as hell was not about to let them either! Lack of sleep does not become me, I’m in a pissy mood and have 8 hours of non-productivity to spend in the most worthless way imaginable. Staring at a screen as I waste away like fruit left on the vine to pay for my german car and two-story condo. Contemplating contemplation itself, realizing I need to go back to school.
♫ of the day: Moby "Extreme Ways"
| 11.30.05 The Ocean of You |
My selective amnesia ignores the times I’ve drowned in regret as I swim the sea of tears from my past. A tarnished libertine: burnt by love and lust, supplicating for redemption like a disciple seeking benediction. Just to whisper you are everything and I am without words for wanting you.
♫ of the day: Pinback "Soaked"
| 11.27.05 Vicodin Eggs |
♫ of the day: Madonna "Hung Up"
| 11.25.05 Eng 217 # 6 |
Like a moth dancing to tendrils of fire, I follow the click-clack of my mom’s lambent heels. The pinion of gravid shopping bags hinders the typewriter pace of her heel-toe sashay, brushing against her legs like tinseled bowling balls. I stray ten paces behind counting pinecones hanging from plastic garlands, trying to hide the fact I’m at the social epicenter of pre-teenhood with a sister in pajamas, a brother in sweats and an uncool parental unit.
My mother leads her elite team of children on an assault of the mall: a coordinated effort to get all our Christmas shopping done in one day. My mom’s sadistic annual tradition encompassed mapping out store locations and performing voodoo rituals on visa cards before hitting the mall at the ungodly hour of 7am. A tradition she often declared, my siblings and I would pass on to our children, as her mother had done to her. In her best Mary Poppin’s, our Drill Sergeant warns:
“If the little elves want their presents…” expecting a resounding answer from her troops. “…they have to help Santa.” We yawn in unison like cynical Von Trapp children, rolling our eyes with every syllable.
Like sharks around a drowning hemophiliac, shoppers surround merchandise tables searching for on-sale couture. The $60 Guess jeans I want have to be one size bigger because my mom only buys clothes we can grow into. But even as we wait to pay in lines snaking between mannequins like the Great Wall of China, it’s not the clothes I’m interested in. Like any boy spoon-fed the American diet of violence, only one item can satisfy the quiescent desire of my 11 year-old heart: an air-powered gun. A ballistic accessory to match the mail order Rambo knife I had gotten for my birthday, able to projectile darts and BB’s at eye-gouging and flesh-tearing speeds.
However, the slight possibility of injury and my recent ‘D’ in algebra had decreased the odds, making reality ache like my teeth after a bag of Skittles and leaving my bloodthirsty hopes as empty as the kettles of Salvation Army bell ringers.
Unabated, I call for reinforcements when I get home; deciding my mom needed a dose of fatherly advice, I pull rank and call my grandpa. I ambush my mother with the phone, handing it to her like a demerit. She shoots me a scowl at me as I mention: “My Tati wants to talk to you.”
My mom sighs for composure, picking up the cordless receiver as if it were a dirty diaper. By the grimace on her face, I can tell my Tati started the conversation with one of his many “When I was young” stories. My Tati’s specialty: regaling the sage wisdom of a man reliving his childhood through his favorite grandson.
In “Yes”, “Dad” and “…but” my mom tries to explain herself, edging out words as her sentences are devoured by Tati’s picaresque tales of a young sharpshooter in the Old World.
With the rancor of a private peeling potatoes, my mom braves another day of holiday shopping just for me. I cruise the aisles of a sporting goods store, smiling like a diabetic in a pastry-shop as the ‘Outdoor Sports’ sign lead me towards the back of the store like Toucan Sam to a bowl of Froot Loops. Under plexiglass, the object of my desire shines in ebony like a relic from an Indiana Jones movie. I stare at it, drooling like a coma patient waiting for my glacially slow mother to join me. Still stinging from Tati’s patriarchal sermon, my mom is less than pleased at me. With reluctance she buys my Tati’s Christmas gift, handing it to me in a bag as large as the smile of my face.
Like a snail on Vicodin, days inch towards Christmas. I check my mom’s closet daily to admire the gift-wrapped box. On Christmas Eve, the adrenaline of anticipation fuels my restless sleep and I awaken with a pounding heartbeat. At 5am, I dash out of bed like my ass is on fire, tripping over the dog to open presents screaming like Tiny Tim on tweak: “It’s CHRISTMAS!”
I skip out on my mom’s other holiday tradition: the Christmas day movie matinee, spending the whole day perforating soda cans and shattering beer bottles. But skeletons of broken glass and carcasses of aluminum do not assuage my powerlust. To combat the boredom of listless objects, I decide to shoot at moving targets.
The billowing wind strips trees to bark and branch as saffron leaves fall like a golden rain rustling on the ground. I grab my grey hoody and greet the early dusk, while birds chirp on naked branches gleaming like gossamer to the orange glow. BB’s rattle in my pocket like change in a blues singer’s guitar case as the sepia of decomposing leaves crunch under my Reeboks.
I stroll over to the tallest tree in the yard, reach into my pocket and roll a metal bearing between my fingers. My index feels the tension of the trigger caressing its banana shape. It feels different this time, the weight on my hand, the cold charcoal steel. It is heavier than I imagine, heavy with power: the god-like ability to dispense death with the greatest of ease. All it takes is just a muscle twitch within my finger, which now cradles the handle like lover’s hand. I load the chamber and aim the gun, winking at the sky before pulling the trigger. Leaves fall like confetti as a thousand wings take flight; the dissonance of squawks almost drown the chirp from a tiny brown bird plummeting like my conscience from a branch.
I drop the gun, running as fast as my feeble legs can take me to the bird, still breathing but badly injured. Soft as plush, its sanguine feathers stain my fingers as shrill squawks clamor in my ear. The consequences of my actions hit me, heavy as the weight of the guilt accompanying them. My might had not equaled my right to shot the poor creature now succumbing to a slow and painful death. Like a bassinette, my hands pick up the bird and carry it over to the gun as wind-cooled tears run down my cold-kissed cheeks like melting ice cream. With trembling fingers, I load another cruel pellet into the heartless chamber. Its incessant chirps get louder as I hold the brutal barrel against its head, before pulling the pitiless trigger to end its misery.
♫ of the day: Depeche Mode "The Sinner in Me "
| 11.22.05 Fish Can Drown |
The best possible time, after work and the longest time between more work. Days that will unfortunately disappear faster than a set of rims at a rap concert.
♫ of the day: Iggy Pop "Nazi Girlfriend"
| 11.20.05 Landing Eagles |
Saturday, a day spent doing chores and at night the numi-nums kept coming. After a few green-cocktails of shwag/dirt/green/KB I was beyond faded and passed up the chance to hit Sadisco.
Sunday brought it usual slow boredom appeased by the new Harry Potter movie, that wasn’t as good as previous efforts.
♫ of the day: Sons & Daughters "Blood"
| 11.17.05 Daisychain of Decadence |
like money, takes too long to earn and too easily spent.
Walking in the starry firmament
as the slow dawn of winter begins in this island of cement.
♫ of the day: Dar Williams "Comfortably Numb"
| 11.14.05 Concupiscent Thoughts |
No matter the species, all guys are the same.
♫ of the day: Anya Marina "Miss Halfway"
| 11.13.05 you two, find JESUS! |
A monk joins an abbey ready to dedicate his life to copying ancient books by hand. After the first day though, he reports to the head priest. He’s concerned that all the monks have been copying from copies made from still more copies. “If someone makes a mistake,” he points out. “it would be impossible to detect. Even worse the error would continue to be made.” A bit startled, the priest decides that he better check their latest effort against the original that is kept in a vault beneath the abbey. A place only he has access to. Well two days, then three days pass without the priest resurfacing. Finally the new monk decides to see if the old guy’s alright. When he goes down there though, he discovers the priest hunched over both a newly copied book and the ancient original text. He is sobbing and by the look of things has been sobbing for a long time. “father?” the monk whispers.
“Oh lord Jesus,” wails the priest. “The word was celebrate.”
A little boy is standing on top of a cliff, looking down at the sea and crying his eyes out. A priest approaches and says, "My child, why are you so upset?" The little boy turns to him and says, "My mommy and daddy were in their car – and it just rolled over the cliff and smashed on the rocks down there." The priest slowly looks around him while unbuttoning his cassock and says,"It's just not your day, is it?"
♫ of the day: Funker Vogt "F117 (sol mix)"
| 11.11.05 Chains |
In many ways, a lot of us are those elephants. We carry the heavy chains from our childhood. The furrowed brows of our parents, school and/or religious leaders, telling us what is wrong and what is right.
The mores limiting us from experiencing life without the repercussions of guilt.
Break the chains that limit your mind.
♫ of the day: Franz Ferdinand "The Fallen"
| 11.09.05 when it’s not one thing… |
At least someone made me a muffin
ok, no one did, this was just googled =(
♫ of the day: David Gray "Ain’t No Love"
| 11.08.05 Death Cab for Ugly |
Death Cab was ok, but not very crowd interactive which is what makes a great show. Those ugly bastards did not play “Someday you will be Loved” which pissed me off but the first encore was “I will follow you into the Dark” which was great since everyone in the crowd was singing.
I don’t regret seeing them but I don’t think I would see them again. Three indie shows this year! Arrgh! the masses of bespectacled youth donning tight pants boggles my mind or maybe I’m just too old for this shit.
♫ of the day: Bloodhound Gang "Something Diabolical"
| 11.04.05 Alvie, the Barrowboy |
I’ll add that to the other squirts of piss in my life’s cereal bowl.
And speaking of pissers, today I got to test at a catholic school; those are scary places, ubiquitous saints and crucifixes, ruler paddling nuns and pictures of the good and the bad pope. It wasn’t a girls-only preparatory. At least it’s finally Friday, a very long week is ending I met with my MILF professor today she looked like she just got there from home depot. Losing major MILF points, she did say I had talent. Sometimes all it takes to soothe my frayed nerves is getting an A in my writing piece. Proving that I’m not a snob, I’m just better than everyone else.
♫ of the day: The Decemberists "The Mariner’s Revenge Song"
| 10.31.05 Mummenschanz |
Happy Samhain pagans, it’s Halloween!
Don’t you hate it when stores run out of decorations and all you can’t find razorblades to stick inside chocolates like Cracker Jack prizes? Well I do, I mean X-acto blades are just too expensive, although if I put my thinking cap on, maybe I can get some Ex-Lax and pass it off as chocolate. I also have my frozen-mud in the freezer.
Who wants chocolate ice cream?
♫ of the day: Sero.Overdose "Never"
| 10.30.05 All Hallow’s Eve 2005 |
The crowd was good and almost everyone came dressed up. It definitely has its own crowd and music, not as ‘pretty’ as Tranz but more raw and industrial. Best of all few to no Romantigawths who are in fact ‘old’ BabyBats (like Allorah) to ‘blah’ the party. I left around 12:30 and headed home trying to find the freeway through the confusing streets and that’s when I see a cop car pull in front of me flashing those baby-blue’s. Apparently I was driving the wrong way down a one-way street. Last year I was stopped for rolling a right coming home, this year for I wasn’t even drunk I just don’t know downtown phx.
Is it possible for me to have a Halloween night out without involving cops?
♫ of the day: Hocico "Poltergeist"
| 10.26.05 Happily Ever Now |
Come to think of it, it’s actually a very true assessment of every relationship. How or why people stay together longer than that is anyone’s guess. There should be mini-marriages where you agree to be with one person for a year and a half.
After that it is over, no fuss, no muss. No guilt-trips or hurt feelings, no lame it’s-not–you-it’s-me excuses, simply a renewable yearly contract without a lifetime obligation or guarantee.
Of course, should a couple be stupid enough to procreate an equal percentage of their combined income would be set aside for the child’s welfare for 18yrs.
Just a thought.
♫ of the day: Jeff Hanson "Hiding Behind the Moon"
| 10.25.05 ENG 217 #4 |
The doldrums of Christmas break away from home found me under the jaundiced eye of my grandfather’s youngest son. As pristine powder crumples under my feet I march behind General Snowball, my intrepid 15 year-old leader, half-uncle and the most feared snowballer this side of Taos, Juan. Like war medallions, Walkman headphones blast Duran Duran around his neck as shaggy dark hair hides Windex-colored eyes. Juan’s lanky teenage swagger and acid-washed ripped jeans radiate ‘cool’, representing every facet of 80’s rebellion an impressionable mind can hope to worship.
Like a disciple seeking benediction, I follow the lead of the older brother I always wanted. I dare not question his methods as I had been warned: in this General’s army, a recruit did not request knowledge lest a recruit be tickle-attacked by snow-numbed fingers. Unfolding the Buick-sized refrigerator box he found in the garage, the General decides to make camp close enough to be seen by the house but far enough not to be heard. Juan rolls up his sleeves and begins packing snowballs. Even as my Arizona blood turns to vermilion slush, this monkey does as he sees cinching up my parka sleeves to my goose-bumped elbows. Wincing as my gloveless hands compact needles of snow into lopsided fists of ice, the shield to save face is my only shelter lest the General see me as weak or worse yet, uncool.
“It only hurts till your hands numb.” Juan assures me.
“Yes sir!” Shivers a sycophantic smile.
Like a cartoon bull against a matador, my numb nose emits streams of steam as it faces the artic breeze cascading from the Rocky Mountains. Secluded in our cardboard fort, the General sizes me up and calls my name through his American-accented Spanish:
“Alvarito” he wonders in a joker’s smile gleaming like the driven snow “Ever seen one of these?”
Juan pulls out a folded magazine from the inner pocket of his grey Member’s Only jacket. At 10 years old the naïveté in my eyes must have lit up like a Colorado sunset as he flipped through the kind of publication that peeks from beneath every father’s bed: Playboy. Its dog-eared corners folding with the breeze, like the summon of a lover’s index.
“Holy Shit!” I cuss for the first time in front of family, “I’ve heard about them, but never seen one.”
“Hey” Smiling in shock his visible breath warns, “watch your fuckin’ language!”
A sonnet of lust and wonder plays in my mind as my eyes window-wipe across the dangerous curves of Miss November. Few are moments as special as seeing the first naked woman, that life affirming moment which separates the men from the boys. Like a tour-guide in the mysterious and enticing world of grown-ups, the General shows me images that enter my innocent mind and open my hungry eyes like Moses at Mt. Sinai. I tread on nervous feet as I tiptoe around subjects without ever stepping on them, though Juan clarified that nothing was off topic. With no subject barred, a myriad of questions flee my lips seeking the omniscience of my leader. Through my shyness I gulp:
“What’s it like to kiss a girl?” I ask, using my carte blanche into the teenage mind. “It all starts with a kiss,” his ne’er-do-well hyena howl admits, “and they taste better stolen.”
In Juan’s philosophy it was always better to ask forgiveness than to ask permission. He makes a circle with his left hand and penetrates it with the lit Marlboro cigarette in his right, showing me puzzle piece connection of genitalia.
“If you ever expect to get laid” Juan pontificates like a preacher, “you better listen to me.”
Through anecdotes and details, via Venn diagrams and drawings he clarifies just what birds do to bees with the confessional braggadocio of a boy who’d been there and done that. Far and away surpassing anything 5th grade could’ve taught me.
In between frozen brownie bites and sips of cocoa-marshmallow soup, he educates me for an hour with startling visuals and revelations; at that hinge moment in life when self-knowledge brings intimations of one’s destiny. Juan reveals the double-entendre of the adult world along with the dirty punch lines in seemingly harmless jokes with that punk-teenage smugness that I tried to emulate through my teens.
“Thank you for not treating me like a child.” I tell Juan as we bury my mental virginity in a blanket of snow and walk back to the house. That afternoon I wasn’t his nephew I was his equal. Everything seemed both instantly alluring yet ever more frightening. Like a bite from the tree of knowledge, I tasted the forbidden fruits my parents had warned against.
The General and I lost contact after that Christmas break. Through his teachings I survived middle school a little wiser than the rest. During Freshman year the phone rang I at my parent’s house, my aunt was desperately searching for my father to inform him of an accident. At 20years old my uncle was dead, falling 4 stories from the rooftop of his Berkeley dormitory. That night my father and I flew to Albuquerque to be with my mourning grandfather and attend the funeral.
Like an angel’s stairway, light descends through the kaleidoscope of stained glass as the sweet flamenco melodies of my grandfather’s guitar lead the service. The small rainbow-lit catholic church in his birthplace of Taos is filled like Christmas Mass with those whose lives he’d touched. After the service, the funeral procession made its way through the rustic town like a lachrymose parade. Behind limousine glass, I watch mantles of snow deliquescing into puddles of mud by the side of the road, much like my childhood four years earlier. It was the last time I saw snow, as such it remains a frozen memory like a portrait of innocence seeking knowledge and finding wisdom in the plumes of smoke escaping from my General’s lips.
♫ of the day: Depeche Mode "Sinner in Me"
| 10.24.05 uninspired |
♫ of the day: Stromkern "Stand Up"
| 10.19.05 Morning |
♫ of the day: Sufjan Stevens "To Be Alone with You"
| 10.18.05 Wishing for a Vic’ |
T’is bliss.
♫ of the day: Felix Da Housecat "Hunting Season"
| 10.14.05 Eggshells |
Ngoc: who are you trying to kid...playing dumb, naive with your wording such as "unspoken", "clarify to me", etc, etc. you know damn well that is the universal rule.
Alvie: I didn't do anything wrong
Ngoc: whatever...you just don't go there. but dude... you went there.
Alvie: What is the use of walking on eggshells if you can't be the one breaking the eggs?
♫ of the day: Malvina Reynolds "Little Houses"
| 10.11.05 Vermilion eyes |
Ten and a half hours of work followed by a three-hour class, it’s the longest day I can remember. Luckily I was able to pick up some Arby’s (even though they’re dirty republican pro-life supporters) before my training. I’m exhausted and the only things soothing my pain are the ‘dirt’ and the delicious brownie I was given.
All hail free brownies.
♫ of the day: Noisuf-X "Das Ende Der Welt"
| 10.10.05 Dirt Weed Deluxe |
That unpleasantry was lessened by a great First Friday: good art and great company.
Saturday was last min opera night, seeing a beautiful performance of Carmen with an old friend.
The last three days lost to a haze of smoke and a blur of vision, with only memory as its requiem.
♫ of the day: Bright Eyes "We are Nowhere and it’s Now"
| 10.05.05 Beautiful Wreck |
I regret nothing.
♫ of the day: Mirah "Nobody has to Stay"
| 10.02.05 Irony of Youth |
I flush and wash my hands as Opie continues his misbegotten plan. Not one to start conversations with little boys in public restrooms, I think before telling him "You must be OCD" as I check my rabbit eyes on the chipped mirror. Not wanting to ask what the acronym stood for, the punk just disagrees and tells me he just does things "differently." When I’m done washing my hands, I hold the door open so the kid can finally leave. He runs off and what does he do? Puts his hands on the dirty handlebars of a 20yr old arcade game. Nice.
PS: Do any of you have The Hookup? If so holla at me, I’m in desperate need and desperation does not become me.
♫ of the day: Gorillaz "O Green World"
| 10.01.05 Mr. Peep 1980 |
Father tries to win a rainbow haired doll by whacking a mole, however, the third time was not the charm. The raven-haired host tries to get another Lincoln from my father. I quaff the kind nepenthe of a blueberry slushy, as my Windex-blue mustache quotes the carney “just one more!”
The aroma of fried food on a stick lingers in the air, intoxicating my nostrils. Only the salty-sweet batter-covered entrails, of a corndog will satisfy my hunger. My sweet tooth begs for a pink afro of blown sugar as we pass a cotton candy seller towards the livestock competition.
A pistachio-green hanger houses Blue ribbon pigs and red ribbon chickens stacked in cages like an Animal Farm version of Hollywood Squares. 4H Club and Boy Scout banners line the walls of a cement floor cushy with sawdust. To my right, a Pied Piper of a man gathers a crowd of children and their parents with a large box. My sticky, cotton-candied hand tugs on my mom’s blouse so she can satisfy my curiosity. She picks me up, carrying me on her hip to look as he lowers the box, to my line of vision. Inside baby chickens scurry back and forth over newsprint. My mouth, still lipsticked with an orange mix of ketchup and mustard cries “I want it, I want it!”
She gives into my demands and buys it for me. Happiness in a brown lunchbag.
When I get home and I play with the newly christened Mr.Peep till bedtime then I grab an old shoebox and place it inside. I wake up the next day and run to my chicky in a box, still asleep and unmoving. I don’t want to disturb it so I wait an check an hour later, it’s still sleeping and in the same position, realize my chicky is dead.
I cry an inconsolable river like any five year old with a broken heart, my father consoles me by going to the county fair and buying another chicken. Mr. Peep 2 doesn’t have the same spunk or personality, but it’s good enough. Learning my painful lesson, I decide to house this one in my lunchbox over night. The next morning, I wake up and find another dead chicken. I’m five, no one told me how to take care of chicks and really kind of heartless bastard sells defective chickens to little kids?
♫ of the day: Depeche Mode "Precious"
| 09.28.05 The Numb & the Dumb |
My boss likes to have restaurant meetings. This means discussing 10minutes worth of work over an hour’s worth of time at the lovely Randy’s: a diner serving hospital quality food to an over-abundance of geriatric clientele. Where quality of service includes a 60yr old spring chicken rattling through her denture what today’s specials are while calling everybody “honey.” I swear my boss does this so she doesn’t have to eat a lone at a crappy restaurant. Which is sad for a woman that makes 100K a year.
Sigh, all of these sheep happily grassing on mediocrity, why must someone like me dwell amongst thee?
♫ of the day: Ladytron "Blue Jeans (Interpol mix)"
| 09.25.05 Death in the Family |
Rest in pieces, dear.
♫ of the day: Rilo Kiley "With Arms Outstretched"
| 09.23.05 ENG 217 #2 |
I grew up with my maternal grandparents, Nani and Tati: the two most loving and caring individuals I have ever known. In my Tati’s house, where peaches hung like plump Christmas ornaments from the backyard orchard, I spent the first, and happiest five years of my life. I never knew of want or ever have a need, everything was provided and then some. Truly I was blessed, and at times worshipped, by the people I loved. A simple Y-Chromosome was to thank, my Tati like all men had always wanted a son, try as they might have my grandparents ended up with four daughters. When my mom’s sister got married/pregnant she gave birth to my cousin, another girl. My Tati was a lonely Y drowning in a sea of X’s, till I was born a month later.
My mother was a 20yr old child when she had me, while my father was completing his architectural degree. I saw him only on the days he wasn’t busy with schoolwork, typically on the weekends for a few hours. After church and in our Sunday best, we would ride buses filled like circus clown cars to the park. With my hand holding the chocolate colored safety belt of my mom’s long locks; I was appeased in the protection of my mother’s arms while being hypnotized by a turquoise earring that swayed like a pendulum to the bus’ ebb and flow. We would meet my father for a long lunch before walking the trail as weeping willows cast their shadows during those slow Sunday sunsets that always seem to last a bit longer than any other. My father would ride the bus back with us but would never enter the house where portraits of St. Alvie loomed on mantels and walls like angels in a cathedral. He would stand on the public side of the fence and talk with my mom and I while mosquitoes encircled a top our heads like vultures over a carcass. My grandparents weren't too fond of the man their daughter had chosen: lower class and Mexican, after all they were European, Spanish in fact, the country that used to own these people. I never knew how good I had it, till that spring in 1980 when we took a trip to Phoenix.
My father’s father had invited us to his home, a man I had met twice in five years of life. A professional Flamenco guitarist, my grandfather was/is a tough man who stressed the importance of education and hard work over any other matter; even if that meant abandoning his wife and their five children to find his fortune in America. When he wasn’t touring from Santa Fe to Salzburg or playing a drug dealer in Easy Rider he was rarely, if ever, heard from. We were in Phoenix because my grandfather wanted his eldest son and his family to move here. The lingering scent of orange blossoms perfumed this moment in my mind as it does every spring, taking me back to the earliest memories, running around the citrus trees in my grandfather’s Arcadia house.
The fall of ’83 brought the news we would be moving to Arizona after the holidays. My heart dropped like a bomb of nervousness and anxiety, replacing my once smiling façade as I felt my world tumbling like a row of dominoes. I was the only 3rd grader going through complete and total decompensation at the thought of transplanting my spoiled, private schooled, 8yr old self to another state with a man I barely knew, and forced to attend a public school. The dawn after my grandparent’s 31st anniversary, January 19th, 1984, they drove us to Phoenix.
We arrived on a Friday, I would be starting school the following Monday, I have never been that scared before or since. Surviving that school day and that school lunch is still one of my greatest accomplishments. I managed to, well manage, a bit better than my father. With another mouth to feed and his English skills less than stellar, frustration set in and he began to drink.
First, it was just the Friday night pitcher of beer at Peter Piper Pizza before Miami Vice. Something he would try to hide by giving my brother and I enough arcade tokens to keep us away from the table. Eventually the drinking became a weekly staple. Every weekend the same drama would unfold like looping videotape. It often started with a barbeque for him and his twelve beachwood-aged friends. Some said they tasted great, others argued they were less filling. I can’t remember who won, what I can recall was the retina-burning 100watt light-bulb being flicked on every time my father needed to lecture someone at two o’clock in the morning. Someone, anyone, to listen to the miserable drunken ramblings of somebody always looking for answers at the bottom of an amber bottle. He was only a father when it was convenient: the roles of disciplinarian and tyrannical despot fit him like mirrored glasses on a southern sheriff, raising children however, was never his priority. With my mom working, I was in charge: the disaffected latchkey child of the Reagan 80’s, raised on a steady diet of MTV videos, Nintendo and Saturday morning cartoons. Subjugated from my Only Child pedestal to a life of diaper changing and babysitting.
Whether it was for celebration or defeat, my father’s drinking only increased as we grew up, but no longer could he just barge into our rooms as my brother and I got bigger and grew less afraid. Though he constantly threatened to kick all of us out of ‘his’ house. As the oldest, I was often the pupil of his under-the-influence teachings, like changing his flat tire or broken headlight. “I don’t know how to change a tire, I can’t even fix my bike!” I argued as I was handed the greasy jack still hot from the trunk.
“You will learn!” mumbling between sips, as his bloodshot eyes tried to keep focus. “You’re the oldest, it’s your duty to help me.” Staggering back into the house with his familiar brown paper bag.
He complained about having to do “everything” including taking his wife to work or teaching me how to drive, though he did try when I was 13, in another inebriated spree on a rainy day atop South Mountain, somehow I survived the drive down. Eventually I learned how to drive and became the official family taxi, since he was always too busy to drive anyone, anywhere. My mom bought me a $2000 clunker without AC that constantly broke down. Taking my mom to work the early morning after the ’92 election, I got t-boned at the Biltmore. I was gurney-ed to the hospital, and as a minor, had to let my father handle everything, the first time in 17yrs he actually did something for me. I used the resulting settlement to pay for my tuition at ASU. It was a horrendous experience, but it made me appreciate never having to thank my father for my education or the liberty of a prison-cell sized dorm-room.
By the time I was out college, I was completely indifferent to my father besides the seething rage I felt at how he treated my family every time his demon came over during the holidays. Everyone else’s joyous occasions became another reason to dread when I moved back home whilst looking for a job. One night, he came drunk from the casino and found me smoking pot in the front of the house. In his do as I say not as I do philosophy, the intoxicated sensei had the audacity to lecture me about the dangers of marijuana. Apparently it was the stoners causing all those horrible road accidents:
“You will become addicted and lose everything. I’m telling your mother!” he slurred.
Red eye to red eye, I shut the door in his face screaming “I’ll tell her myself!”
I moved out as soon as I could afford it, swearing never to live under the same roof with him again, besides everyone knows the Booty Train doesn’t stop at the ‘rents house. My new home, Le Pimp Chateau, was a dilapidated, three bedroom bachelor pad, I shared with an old friend and his putrid dog. The fridge might have only been stocked with ketchup, beer and a few leftovers turned Chia pets, but the taste of freedom was never so sweet. Though still quite different than what I had envisioned my twenties to be, which involved a lot more European models and cosmopolitan vacations, than were present.
As I grew so did my brother and sister. The nights when either of them had a school activity I would be there with my mom, as both chauffeur and mentor. My brother became a scholar and an athlete, one of the popular people I always wanted to be. I would cheer for him during his basketball games in middle and high school while remembering the blur of days when he and I used to shoot hoop on the weekends. After high school, my brother attended Rice, a prestigious university in Houston and is currently working on his PhD at NYU. My sister the musician: artistic and caring, took the best qualities my parents had to offer. Oftentimes during her orchestra concerts, I would let the music wash me with pride knowing I had something to do with her upbringing. She graduates from UW next spring and lives in Seattle. My mom still lives with him, out of convenience and matrons the empty nest for children who will never call it home again.
These are words of a first born with entitlement issues: a 30yr old boy who has sought male approval since the day he was born. I do not regret teaching my brother how to shave or the early Saturday mornings spent teaching my sister how to drive. I’ve raised children, but do not have any offspring, in all honesty fatherhood scares the hell out of me. I never had a dad so how can I be expected to be one? Let alone a good dad. Still, there are those Sundays when I’ll take a walk in the park and sit under a weeping willow till the horizon swallows the sun and just, think.
♫ of the day: Explosions in the Sky "A Song for our Fathers"
| 09.19.05 “nobody knows…” |
Thursday I went to the club, Area 51 has been declining in both music and clientele, sad but true.
And speaking of decline, Friday night found me at the Tori Amos concert. I didn’t care much for her Beekeeper CD but she did do a nice cover of Betty Davis’ Eyes at the show. Not enough singles so there were only a few highlights sprinkled throughout the night. After the show, it was Tranz time, not a particular favorite of mine but it does get a good crowd weekly. I made it to the overrated VIP section, basically a small smoking lounge with a large mirror, soft chairs and few less than Important looking people. Vile, the bartender/Tranz promoter took one of my Cohiba’s before pouring me her specialty the ‘Death in the Family’.
Saturday, just something about going to the mall with my mom, baked off my ass. Sunglasses hiding the bloodshot eyes, iPod creating the soundtrack for the movie in my mind as I look through sales racks while spacing out in changing rooms and at shiny metal objects. My new friend came over to visit, I had blast and French toast for breakfast on Sunday morning.
Which brings me to last night’s Decemberists show: it was kickass fantastic! They’re great live, I had a better time than at Tori. Quite sad considering the price difference.
Just one question: what the hell is up with Indie fashion? Or lack their of?
I can appreciate the quirky hair and glasses, even the tight non-sequitur t-shirts, but what is up with the super-tight pants? Don’t indie-dudes have balls? I haven’t seen kiwi-crushers like that since my aunt’s pair of Sergio Valente’s back in ’82.
♫ of the day: Psapp "Cosy in the Rocket"
| 09.15.05 Spic, Cracker & Coon |
Last nights, attempt at easy money backfired horrible. Even getting paid $66 for three hours of work was not worth the aggravation. No more babysitting Southies for me, I really learned my lesson. Five kids out of 23 were god-awful undisciplined hellions: one Mexican, three White, one Black, I don’t know how their parents put up with that crap. I should’ve followed Weirich’s advice, “nothing drops a kid like a baseball bat to the knees” The more time I spend with kids, the less I want to have any. If I ever had a child that acted like that, he would’ve seen the back of my hand faster than a penniless Ho on Sunday morning.
♫ of the day: Covenant "One World One Sky"
| 09.13.05 Children for Sale |
Tomorrow and Thursday, however, will not be so fun. I’m babysitting brats at a couple of schools for overtime pay. Still there are so many kids that, after taxes, it works out to less than a dollar a kid.
Damn, I’m already regretting this.
♫ of the day: Rufus Wainwright "Hallelujah"
| 09.11.05 Underneath the Veil |
The dawn breathes in a new morn.
Light creeps through the folds of sheets and curtains.
Recycled air and naked flesh, inches from each other.
You, ensconced in my bed, a single crimson sheet flowing along the curves of your body.
Me, hopelessly watching you, hoping you won’t awaken by the weight of my stare.
Half closed eyes meet half-crossed fingers, the memory of your kiss still lingers on my lips.
Rushing in blurs of flesh and desire coming at me like conversations in a crowded room.
And for one second, I taste heaven.
♫ of the day: Butthole Surfers "Whatever (I had a dream last night)"
| 09.09.05 Constant Cravings |
Frankly, I have better plans than that tonight.
♫ of the day: Charlattans UK "Judas"
| 09.05.05 Understated Laziness |
Though is there ever enough time to do nothing?
♫ of the day: Combichrist “Enjoy the Abuse”
| 09.02.05 Darling Diablerie |
The sun slowly descends into the horizon as I pull into my house. I check the weather-beaten mailbox and take out my usual correspondence: bills and junk mail. Shuffling my keys against loose change as it rattles in my pocket, I make my way to the door.
I step inside the empty abode, relishing the serene quiet of living alone. I turn on the lights and make my way towards the pomegranate walls of my kitchen. I open the only sign of bachelorhood in this place, the empty fridge. Filled with refreshments and enough free condiments, to open a drive-thru ketchup store.
I head upstairs and into the shower. It is there, at my most naked state, emotionally and physically that I wash the chaos from my skin and prepare to expatiate about it. Full of zest, the feeling, not the cheap soap.
I gather my thoughts and head to the extra room. My office is a 13’ x 15’ sanctuary where I flip the switch of the black Ikea desk lamp and unpack my laptop. Even sitting at a computer for 8hrs a day does not dissuade my interest in the written word.
Peace of mind will come tonight, the only peace I know these days. Hidden amid words and tastes of vanilla mint and peach iced tea. Drifting in the haze of holy smoke and secrecy.
♫ of the day: Death Cab for Cutie “Someday You will be Loved”
| 09.01.05 ENG 217 #1 |
It was Mr. Barber, he of “the night time, sniffling, sneezing, coughing, aching, stuffy-head, fever so you can rest” lectures. Apparently he is not appreciative of my book-as-a-pillow attempt to learn through osmosis. The stench of sour coffee on his breath permeates the air. While corn-yellow teeth gnaw at me in yet another lecture preparing me in case Grendel decides to attack Arcadia HS. Five of the longest minutes in my life, and not a breath mint later, I pass the hand-painted Homecoming banners towards the cafeteria.
Lunchtime means standing in long lines for bad tasting, overpriced food. I’m late, no choice but a re-cheeser. Arcadia’s famous re-cheesed pizzas: whatever pizza had not sold the previous day was warmed up with a new layer of cheese the following day. Not uncommon to bite through three layers of white, green and grey before hitting pizza dough.
As I wait in line a vision walks by. She is breathtaking, long brown hair and sapphire blue eyes. The most ravishing reverie I have ever seen. Time stops, the world becomes a black and white copy of itself. She saunters by, leaving a trace of Calvin Klein’s Escape in the air. My fantasy brought to life. A classmate notices the weight of my stare and tells me, “that’s Laura, and she is so out of your league, you’re not even playing the same sport.”
I speak in monosyllabic tones for the rest of the day and start doodling her name in my notes. After school I see Laura again. She is with a security guard, along with a few other students heading for after-school detention. “Hot and a bad girl”, I hear my mind say.
Exercising my infinite freshman wisdom, I decide this will be the best way to meet this angel. The next day, I show up late enough to grant me detention, or as I see it, 30 minutes to enchant and enthrall this goddess. I’m almost giddy until I line up with the other no-gooder’s that afternoon, but soon realize my girl has completed her sentence and now I must do my time alone.
I walk around the circle in the center of campus, cellophane bag full of sticky soda cans and ruffled up half eaten lunches in hand. Cursing myself for my backfiring plan, I spot a burgundy spiral notebook on top of a locker. I open it, mostly blank pages, notes, and phone numbers. A typed page sneaks out from a pocket divider. It’s a story written by another student.
I begin reading, my eyes feeding on every letter, absorbing the images they create one word at a time. This is different than Shakespeare or Beowulf, so much more personal, so relatable. I immerse my mind into the story, devouring it over and over. Studying the rhythm of the words, the cadence of the sentences. How the paragraphs fit and segue into each other creating the perfect movie in my mind. After the fifth read-over and second paper-cut, I tell myself If he can do this, so can I.
The next day, I walk to the auditorium, where the author and other kids like that hang out. Ian is a year older, he wears all black and listens to Sisters of Mercy as he inhales a clove. “I think this belongs to you” I tell him, admiring a breed of cool heretofore unknown.
“Thanks” he exhales “I’ve been looking for this.”
“I hope you don’t mind, but I read your story. I was very impressed.” I tell him with all of my 14yr old veneration.
“Do you write?” he asks.
“I do” (lying through my teeth.)
He lifts up his sunglasses “some of us are starting a writing ‘zine, and we need more writers, are you interested in doing a piece?”
As I hear my inner Jiminy Cricket asking what I’m getting myself into, my mouth utters: “Yes. I am.”
The end of the day finds me upstairs at the library, the perfect juxtaposition of those quietly studying and the hard breathing, smacking of lips by teenagers making out between bookshelves. Pencil and paper prevaricate the pensive persuasions needed to fill half a page worthy of a dog-eared, photocopied, locker-delivered “published work.” I fast-forward my Walkman for the perfect song to describe my mood and my surroundings. As if on cue, Laura walks upstairs. A muse for my imagination, the words pour out of me. When I finish, I introduce myself and ask for her locker number.
A week later, I sneak the ‘zine into her locker with a note thanking her for the inspiration with an open invite to Homecoming. She accepts and for the first time, I see the power of words in action. Suddenly, English class doesn’t seem so boring and irrelevant. I begin to see the design behind writing structures. From Poe’s haunting mise-en-scene to Hemmingway’s braggadocio, the beauty of the written word begins to change the way I express myself. I start writing down ideas, poetry and short stories, and reading the dictionary…for fun.
Freshman year of high school was filled with all of the turbulences and life changing experiences it ought to be, but few more important than that fall day in 1989. Words have proven a trust worthy companion in my life. Laura was the first, but by no means the last girl I’ve been able to conquer with words. Capturing my ephemeral thoughts and feelings, from the bliss of someone new to the cathartic release of heartbreak when the relationship inevitably ends.
Words are the historians of memory.
♫ of the day: Dave Matthews Band “Seek Up”
| 08.28.05 Words |
So far no luck and homework is due Tuesday. Bad time for the block to hit, although according to some, there is no such thing as the ‘muse’.
I’m feeling listless, I know the story I want to tell, I just can’t find the words.
♫ of the day: Damien Rice “Delicate”
| 08.24.05 Wrong Right |
How insanely fucked up is that?
They will rue the day I become Emperor of this country and change its name to New Sodom. It is exactly these backwards, closeminded, bush-loving, conservative, republicans that have ruined this country.
I say we exterminate them instead!
Sigh, these are the days I really miss Clinton.
♫ of the day: Rotersand “Exterminate, Annihilate, Destroy”
| 08.22.05 Dime a Dozen |
Sigh
Summer is truly over. Although it’s something I lament, I had a great summer. Filled with the kind of serendipity I’ve always wanted but, until now, never got.
♫ of the day: Pinback “This Red Book”
| 08.20.05 Vanilla Mint |
Surging like a monsoon storm on a summer night, you come to me.
Above the city grid where traffic lights and evanescent moonlight frame your opalescent cheekbones.
Sweat on skin and perfumed sin.
Haunted by the implied but unspoken nuance of your nature.
Ephemeral moments of bliss scream for impossible possibilities.
♫ of the day: Damien Rice “Delicate”
| 08.18.05 “at the cliffs of Dover” |
Monotone inflections of existence feel the Summer days burning into Fall. Tasting the blood, the calling of love and that which we’re told is right and wrong. A meditation of mortality, morality and lost innocence, as it cliff dives into the unknown. Taking the wrath of our silent desires with it.
We vent, and rage and bitch because we need to or perhaps because we want to. We want to tantrum our pain out and into the sympathetic ears of others. Our soapbox in Trafalgar Square, where we can yell ‘til our faces turn blue just to say: “look at me!”
To make our victimization seem more real, in a place where our thoughts and pain can be shared and therefore, lessened. We are all here to share the human experience, the joys, the sorrows and to represent what we’ve become. Each of us a reminder, a collection of memories, stories and theories.
Both teacher and student, in ceaseless sieges of experiences, head first and sans safety net. Living and cart-wheeling, lying or speechless. Rational or irrational, lackadaisical or headstrong. We are the amalgam of those who’ve touched us and those whose lives we’ve touched.
Intelligence is a discipline, life its tutor.
♫ of the day: The Decemberists “We both go down Together”
| 08.15.05 Ad Mortem Festinamus |
Heralding the work week as it deathknells my weekend. Nevertheless it was a good weekend, one of the best ones I can remember:
Sometimes you find serendipity and sometimes it finds you. Perhaps sitting alone on a Friday night, an invite will come that you’re not sure you should accept. You take a shower and you take a chance. You have a good time and realize miracles do come true.
Since I had missed the Mera Luna Festival again, Saturday found me sporting my Hawaiian shirt for only the third time ever. As it was de rigueur at Roxie and Tim’s wedding reception. It was a good time and Roxie looked beautiful.
Always a scary thing when friends start getting married.
Oh yeah, and big ups to my little bro for turning 24.
It’s hard for me to remember being that young, and that is so sad, I think I’m going to cry.
♫ of the day: Nine Inch Nails “Get Down, Make Love”
| 08.11.05please sir,I want some more |
It turns out Apex, the AC repair company doesn’t take credit cards, cash or check only.
Fan-fucking-tastic! Now I have to cough up $980, along with my insurance and car payment this week. It hurt when I wrote that check, it will hurt even more when they cash it.
My life is like chewing on aluminum foil: though it may look pretty and shiny, it’s often a very unpleasant experience.
♫ of the day: Bloc Party "Like Eating Glass"
| 08.08.05 Bitching Season already? |
one Mississippi,
two Mississippi, three Mississippi,
four Mississippi, five Mississippi, six Mississippi…
drip.
Like sand in an hourglass, water pings against a Teflon-coated metal pot resting on the bench above my stairs. As luck would have it, the pan of my ac unit decided to rust through a mere 36years after it was installed. I’m sure all of these places have similar problems, however, they probably have insurance also. Yes, I shouldn’t have let mine lapse, but you have to admit insurance is a complete rip-off until you have to use it. I mean, I pay thousands of dollars on different insurance policies a year and rarely, if ever, do I use it during that year.
(Knock on wood, right?)
Well, this one came back to bite me in the ass, since it will cost me at least a thousand to get it fixed. I need to call the ac guys tomorrow.
Oh, and yes with the flip of a coin and $200 later, I enrolled in a writing class at SCC. How am I going to afford that, plus my roof and possible car problems looming on the horizon is beyond me. But at least I’ll be eloquent in my sure-to-come bitching.
♫ of the day: Snow in China “Mindsucker”
| 08.05.05 “hyper-mediocrity” |
I tell you, those random acts of God really love to stick it in and break it off.
♫ of the day: Destroid “Broken & Abused”
| 08.03.05 Pensive Precipitation |
Standing in my doorway like an alabaster goddess.
With fingers crossed I close my eyes.
To face your cobalt veneer which hides
the mercy
Where misery runs while and free.
As kamikaze water drops cleanse a scorched city
you whisper to me
‘Rain is the sound of a dream dissolved.’
Like the tears of the heavens which lull me to sleep.
♫ of the day: Blonde Redhead “Misery is a Butterfly”
| 08.01.05 Mercurial |
As night wears onto day, I gather my passing moments of zen. The sinew of ideas that well up in me only to be released, almost sexually, from my vibrating fingers. Those are the moments I live for, when every synapse is firing and the thesaurus of my mind explodes in meaning and phonetic resonance.
I wonder and when I wonder I say it out loud. Do you ever see the hoards of humans at school, or the mall? Masses of human flesh ambulating like cows with goldfish stares in their eyes? Perhaps it’s not just me that sees a clear and distinct difference between my view of the world and theirs. They live in this happy-go-lucky existence where things are peachy keen. While I see the layers of bullshit that hold this house of cards together.
Morning found me awakened to the sound of my single speaker alarm radio. I truly detest Monday mornings but work and responsibility call. By the time I make my bed and beautify myself to go downstairs I’m already 10min late.
It’s Monday, sue me.
♫ of the day: Psyclon Nine “Genocide”
| 07.30.05 transcendently yours |
Time passes but nothing changes.
It seems my catalyst has been delayed, again.
Two by space and one by time.
I still dream in black and white of a city lit by fireflies.
Where serendipity doesn’t come with clauses or laws.
The roll of the dice that is our lives will one day find us far away from home and alone.
We will take that leap of faith, and our existence will forever change.
A pinpoint in my lifetime in which to look back upon and compare like a before-and-after picture.
To which nothing can compare.
♫ of the day: Johnette Napolitano “Suicide Note”
| 07.28.05 Burning Summer |
It’s always good to catch up with the guys. Laid back and chill talking about guy stuff: cars, computers and the lack of ho’s in the place. It’s good to hang out with the boys, something rarely done in my life since 90% of my friends are females with never ending drama.
At least it’s been a mellow week. Taking time to enjoy the finer things in life and catch up with stuff.
I only have two more Fridays off, and school starts in three weeks.
Where is the summer going?
♫ of the day: Funker Vogt “Lügner (Erzal Mir Doch Mix)”
| 07.27.05 Hell on Wheels |
Who else loves to cut them off?
♫ of the day: Massive Attack “Futureproof”
| 07.25.05 Back in the Saddle |
♫ of the day: Bloc Party “Tulips”
| 07.20.05 Iron and Tamarind |
I went to exchange some dollars for pesos so I could pay the dentist. Two fillings and a wisdom tooth extraction for $2,500pesos ($250 USD) not bad at all considering it would’ve cost me about five times that to get the procedure done in America and that’s without the white-resin that makes it appear as if I had never had a cavity.
Sadly I wasn’t prescribed any painkillers, just boring antibiotics and anti-inflammatories, that and an ice cream only diet to avoid getting food in the hole.
Tonight we headed toward the ruins of Las Quinta Carolinas, an old hacienda in the outskirts of the city formerly the home of Don Luis Terrazas, a wealthy cattle/land owner and governor of Chihuahua in the early 1900’s. He hunted apache Indians for cattle rustling and would pay 3 cents for the head of any apache someone brought. The tall tree outside his home is where he would hang them as a warning to other Indians who dared enter his land.
After that historical trip, we cruised to a nearby church from the olden days. As the full moon rose over the mountains, we made our way to the Deportiva (Chihuahua’s Central Park).
A 2 Km walking track loops around a tree filled park with an Olympic size pool, a stadium for soccer games and racquetball courts. I was actually pretty impressed with that place, I wish Phoenix had something like it.
♫ of the day: Gorillaz “El Manana”
| 07.17.05 Like Nyquil |
♫ of the day: London Suede “Lost in TV”
| 07.16.05 fuzzy wave of recollection |
♫ of the day: Skinny Puppy “Assimilate”
| 07.15.05 7 days in the 3rd World |
Have a good weekend.
♫ of the day: Ladytron “Destroy Everything You Touch”
| 07.14.05 Quick Rant |
Reality TV in all its talentless incarnations:
I want to be a Hilton? Paris and Nicky’s mom wants to be famous for being famous like her offspring, I don’t think so.
Hogan Knows Best: why Hulk? Why? Are you that hard up for ‘roid cash?
Summer Movies 05: This summer’s movies have sucked monkey balls:
War of the Worlds was a disappointment at best.
Dark Water was so stinky, I had to light a match after watching it.
Dukes of Hazzard how dare they ‘remake’ this classic from my childhood? Especially with former ‘reality’ tv personality and bastardizer of classic hits, Jessica Simpson. She is one of those women who I hate so much, I wouldn’t even fuck her if I could.
♫ of the day: Prodigy “Spitfire”
| 07.13.05 Mexican or Mexican’t? |
What happened?
Here I am getting ready to visit your country and send back some postcards when I read you are recalling the stamps I’m disappointed in you, Vicente. Pancho Villa would be rolling over in his grave, if his head was still attached. I can’t believe you gave in to the Americanos.
You swallowed your pride because some pinche gringo told you? Since when is Mexico under the Bush Administration? Sure some people protested in the States, but that’s because they had nothing better else to do (they don’t like to work, remember?)
The stamp withdrawl is a sign of weakness on the part of your government. Withdrawing the stamp will not stop the ongoing sale of the comic book. You gave in now, the next thing the blanquitos will want is a stop to the bull-fights, or to treat the Indians as first class citizens.
You showed the world that you’re on that guero’s leash, he says jump and you say ‘how high?’. Mr. Fox, you let Mexico and the pride of its citizens down.
♫ of the day: Assemblage 23 “Disappoint”
| 07.11.05 My Manic Monday |
And as the orange tongue of flames licks the glass, I bid you goodnight.
♫ of the day: Icon of Coil “Remove/Replace”
| 07.08.05 Always Dreaming |
Dreams and hopes prevent life from turning stagnant. Something to shoot for, something to better ourselves. Even if we never reach them, there would be no point in living if you didn’t have anything to yearn for. Perhaps men dream more than women. Or maybe the same but men don't have a duty or a calling in life the way women do. Most women have the capacity of birthing. Which is what most women, at some point, aspire to be: Mothers. Men don't have that capacity. We must build and create and conquer. All to leave a legacy, an undying proof that a man once stood.
Dreams keep us yearning to the day we might have them. It’s also a way to identify with another person. Someone who has similar dreams-or even just someone who dreams. You know what they want. Subjectively speaking, it gives their life meaning.
I have not forgotten my dreams, nor have I reached most of them. But I do appreciate what they do for me. It’s a simple reason to stay alive.
♫ of the day: David Gray “An Afternoon's Debauchery”
| 07.07.05 let allah sort them out |
Which reminds me, someone really needs to drop an atom bomb in mecca. They're crazy anyway, might as well give them a reason to be like that.
Exterminate them like the roaches they are.
♫ of the day: Alice in Chains “Nutshell”
| 07.04.05 “…on a Camel’s back” |
Four days of rest fly by when you are having fun and tomorrow I have to report to work. Thursday I began the weekend right at Area-51. The club was happening and I stayed longer than usual. Friday, I went to the First Friday artwalk with Renzy and then to Tranzylvania looking for salina. Apparently she’s been talking shit about us and we wanted to confront that jobless, ugly, psychotic piece of shit about it. I don’t know where she gets off talking smack, that loser can’t keep a job and sits her fat ass all day in a crappy studio apt collecting social security like the parasite she is. Who the hell does she think she is? She’s nobody, she has nothing and will always be nothing and if she keeps talking Renzy knows where that cunt lives and it will not be pretty. Of course the whore didn’t show up, I was disappointed and not necessarily pleased with the music either. Such a lovely establishment and they can’t find a decent Goth DJ.
Saturday and Sunday were just a chill evening since I had gone out two nights in a row. I didn’t feel like going to either the 80’s night or the Atomic Café night.
Tonight, I’ll watch the fireworks from Camelback Mountain.
♫ of the day: Gorillaz “Feel Good Inc.”
| 06.30.05 The Clock ticks… |
Throwing another piece of me away.
Tearing the skin, like a displaced memory.
The suffering she feels giving into me.
Painful is he
Burying the rattle of lunacy.
Loser lust always comes with fee.
♫ of the day:Spy “One Million Miles Away”
| 06.29.05 “My Succotash Wish” |
♫ of the day: Hot Hot Heat “Bandages”
| 06.27.05 “all of us are done for” |
Especially after a nice vacation and before seeing your supervisor about a promotion.
A promotion I did not get, at least not until HR does a salary study and determines pay rates which won’t be for another 4 months.
♫ of the day: Coldplay “Don’t Panic”
| 06.25.05 Funeral Carpool |
I was at the light for two turns while car after car passed.
Hmm, I wonder how many people would show up if I died?
♫ of the day: Billy Corgan “The CameraEye”
| 06.22.05 Do I look like a donut? |
It seems whenever I get a response for one of my personal ads, it’s always some girl describing herself as: zaftig/rubenesque/curvaceous/voluptuous and any other euphemism you can find for FAT.
I'm talking more Mama Cass than Jennifer Tilly big. Speaking of plump, I like the new Kelly Osbourne song it’s very House-y with a catchy chorus:
it’s just the way that I need it,
day after day”
♫ of the day: Kelly Osbourne “One Word”
| 06.19.05 Breaking the Horizon |
We went back to my bro’s place to rest a bit before eating out last dinner together: NY Pizza. Something that I found vastly overrated. It’s like any other pizza, just overpriced. After that less than delicious meal, we got our bags and grabbed a cab to JFK.
Because it was a nonstop cross-country flight, we took jetBlue. That is one nice airline. Among the great things about flying jetblue, besides the low airfares are the complimentary items: three or four servings of excellent snacks (Biscotti’s, chocolate chip cookies, Terra chips) 15 different types of drinks, great personal service and best of all in a long flight- free, satellite cable tv with disposable headphones! I watched like three hours worth of Mafia shows and since we were flying west, the longest sunset of my life.
Four and a half hours later, I was back home, exhausted sure but this trip was worth every muscle ache and penny spent.
♫ of the day: Coldplay “White Shadows”
| 06.18.05 “city sunset over me” |
From there, we headed to St. Patrick’s Cathedral, one gorgeous looking building with turn of the century gothic architecture. We keep heading down 5th Ave, passing the Trump Tower and all the big store names (Rolex, Saks, Tiffany) as we make our way to Central Park.
Since all of Manhattan is composed of one way streets, we have to go up or down a block to catch the bus heading in our direction, in this case The Met.
I have never been in a museum like that, it is massive: one wing is bigger than the Phx Art Museum. It houses everything from 3000yr old Egyptian artifacts to medieval armory to Renaissance sculpture to Monet and Picasso paintings. You could spend five hours in here and not see everything. Being in here delays our itinerary and we grab dinner at Sombreros, the worst Mexican restaurant I’ve ever been to. I know what good Mexican food tastes like and this place was worse than Taco Bell!
After that, we went to the center of Manhattan, Times Square. The area is insanely busy with lights and people, like a TRL episode. We went back home on the subway to rest before the seconde VNV show.
♫ of the day: Blonde Redhead "Ego Maniac Kid"
| 06.17.05 “Woke up in NYC” |
A red-eye flight is just that because I found it nearly impossible to fall asleep. And the few times I succeeded I would wake up when my head fell out of my hands. Either way, I was here and I had to handle the very long day and night ahead of me. I get out of the plane and walk around Terminal 6 of Kennedy International. At my brother’s suggestion we would catch a shuttle into Manhattan.
Waiting at that bus stop in 60 degree NY summer morning was a bad idea. The shuttle was late and, literally, traversed all of the ups and downs of JFK stopping at ever remaining terminal for another pick-up on our way to Grand Central.
It was only when I saw the Manhattan skyline that my exhausted mind realized I was finally here. Looming in the distance, almost like being sucked into a movie. Passing through tollbooths and turnpikes stacked four rows high, traffic jams and people cutting each other off in rush-hour traffic.
The morning rush greeted us as we left the airport. New York is insanity in motion, people, bicyclists, cabs, it makes LA traffic look like paradise. Signs posted warn of a $350 fine for horn honking, something that does not dissuade hardy New Yorkers from honking. We arrive, safe and sound (by the grace of god) and walked into Grand Central. Beautiful masonry like so many New York landmarks we wait about 15min for my bro to arrive then take a taxi to his place.
“Damn! My cell back at Chino was bigger than this place!” I utter as I enter my bro’s upper-eastside Manhattan apt. And by New York standards, it’s a big place. We had a busy day ahead and only caught our breath for a half hour before we were in the New York Metro.
The local ABC station was running a story on the replacement of a conductor by a computer and they interviewed my brother. Our first stop was Battery Park, it houses a badly damaged sphere, that once stood at the World Trade Center on IXXI. This park is a tourist haven, and where there’s tourist, there’s money. This is the place to go when you want to find bootlegged Prada and $20 Rolex’s. With the few English words these Africans know they say “I give you good price” which by time your done haggling and threatening to walk to another bootlegging tribesman, will be available for less than half of what he originally wanted. We take pics of the Statue of Liberty from the pier at the park before heading into Wall St to visit the building my bro will be moving into. We walked by the barricaded financial district that houses the Trump building, and the stock exchange. The latter guarded by police carrying automatic weapons, dressed in riot gear. After passing through, we headed towards Ground Zero, basically a chain linked fenced hole in the ground next to “New York’s best kept secret” Century 21 where you can designer wear at clearance prices. We went on Canal St were Asians sell bad designer clones.
Trust me, all that walking in no sleep is not easy and we were starving, next stop the cosa-nostra district, Little Italy. We ate at this joint where they filmed that piece of crap Sandler movie, Big Daddy. The kind of joint with stereotypical Guido types on the walls.
The adjacent Chinatown was next, stopping by to pick up a few souvenirs before heading to NYU. We stopped at my brother’s office to rest our weary feet for a half hour before going to the NYU bookstore and Washington Park. The park is full of people, as all of New York City.
Union Square was the next stop and another designer discount store called Filene’s Basement, located ironically enough on the top floor of a building. Every store in NYC has turnstyle doors and a doorman (always an intimidating looking black guy). Also, you need your ATM card to open the bank door to use the ATM or talk to a teller, through a speaker, behind 5” thick bulletproof glass. We grab a snack at Au Bon Pain, a pastry shop in Union Square before walking back to my brother’s place. We pass Irving Plaza and there were already people lining up for the show.
Back at my temporary home, I crash for a couple of hours, which felt like heaven.
When I wake up, it was time to get ready for the show.
Funny how time flies in a city that never sleeps.
♫ of the day: Richard Ashcroft "New York"
| 06.16.05 …and it’s snowing |
You know the type, Abercrombie-Fitch looking blonde/blue with a pearly white smile. They run in golden-tanned, haute couture packs and thick wallets, the Golf Pros and Tennis Ho’s set. Those that won the genetic lottery: born beautiful with the money to stay beautiful. The Girl even talked back! A rarity for those of us outside the looking in.
Ngoc faked the sunshine on my shoulder smile and chatted her up for a while. ‘The Girl’ even walked out with her. If Ngoc was a guy he’d be so money on that ass. Ngoc saw this as a good sign, and according to her there “is hope” all we have to do is ‘fake it’.
Meanwhile I’m like a poor child at Christmas time fogging up the toy store window.
♫ of the day: Pinback “Boo”
| 06.14.05 “if I can make it there…” |
Last Friday, I was informed I could work my regular 8hr days using 2hrs of ‘general leave’ time.
Yesterday they tell me I can’t use ‘general leave’ only vacation hours, of which I don’t have many. Which really pissed me off, at least my vacay starts at the end of this week. I get to see my bro, the Big Apple and VNV Nation (twice).
I’ll need to write another review for those shows.
Yay! New York City here I come.
♫ of the day: In-Grid “You Promised Me”
| 06.12.05 Heaven of Dispair |
Don't ask me how, but we just have faith that god or the fates or someone will smile upon us from up high and give us everything we want. Just like that, something greater than us will bestow all of that which we so richly deserve.
We should just realize we are going to die alone.
♫ of the day: Imperative Reaction “Scorpio”
| 06.09.05 Kids with Chemicals |
I get to the full parking, and realize maybe I should’ve gotten there earlier than 8:15pm, because the lot was full. Not only that, but nearby parking was non-existent, the nearest parking was Tempe ‘Beach Park’. Sonofabitch that was far, at least a mile and a half if not two miles from the lot to the theater, at least I had taken my comfy, NY shoes for the trek.
It took me 15min to get to the door, longer than the trip from my house to Tempe. Luckily the male-line was only four deep and I got in pretty fast. As you could imagine it was full of sceney-weenies and really I was one of the few non-indie kids, along with a handful that I’ve seen at different Goth clubs. I got a $7 Long Island that some crackerbitchfuckingcunt almost knocked off my hand. I made my way to the patio and chatted with Renzy while I watched the menagerie of skinny kids with glasses and bad hair.
After a few minutes I walked into the stage area, coincidentally as the lights were being turned off for The Faint’s set. For a Nebraska band, these six guys put on quite a video/audio spectacle. Their neo-electro-punk sounds incited moshing and crowd pushing similar to NIN’s set. The songs however were good, and plenty of them were off of Danse Macabre. All in all, I was quite impressed with their showmanship, I would see them again, but not tonight.
After The Faint, I wait for Bright Eyes’ set, a young indie couple stands next to me and the guy asks me: “Are you ready?” I answer “Umm, yeah” “No” he clarifies “are you ready?” smiling down on his hand to show me the joint in his palm.
“Oh, Fuck yeah! I’m ready!” I reply. Throughout the set treat me to a few hits. The lights went out and musician after musician came out. Bright Eyes had no less than 8 people and as many as 10 onstage besides Conner, including two drummers, a cellist, a violinist, two guitarists, a bassist, and two keyboardist. Conner Oberst came out, to a huge cheerthe lanky, pasty kid with a vulnerable sensibility, and a wavering voice. He plays guitar or piano, when he’s not down in the pit between the railing and the crowd. He talked to the audience in between sips of Tecate, taking the time to thank whoever threw a ring onstage because it’s the only ring that has fit him. The band played for a little over an hour and encore with Lover I don’t have to Love (my fave Bright Eyes song) and Lucky/Easy/Free.
I walk another exhausting 15minutes to get back to my car.
Realizing three things:
1)I’m not an indie-kid,
2)I’m so not ready to walk, NY style and
3)I have to get up in five hours.
♫ of the day: Joseph Arthur “Honey and the Moon”
| 06.08.05 Indie Kid, Moi? |
I don’t suppose one my Goth outfits would go well at that show.
So the question is: What does one wear to an indie show?
I mean, besides ugly, mismatched, second-hand clothing.
♫ of the day: Damien Rice “Volcano”
| 06.07.05 Sing Me to Sleep |
My eyes are closed all I hear are the clicking of keys from adjacent cubicles. Slowly, my fingers massage my temples. Summer Hours began yesterday, hellish 4day weeks of 10hr days. Granted the Friday’s off are nice but waking up at 4:45am for 2 months should be considered cruel and unusual punishment.
♫ of the day: R.E.M. “Radio Free Europe”
| 06.05.05 Smurfylicious |
Now I'm jonesin' for some of that shit.
♫ of the day: Jack Johnson "Sitting, Waiting, Wishing"
| 06.04.05 Scenester city |
Since I was going to Tranzylvania, I decided to go earlier than usual and check out First Friday, or at least a part of it. I got to Roosevelt and 3rd and parked in a dirt lot. It was already packed with scenester’s young and old in the ‘Nix ‘Place to be Seen’. I cross the street and shift through some of the different bohemian posts. A lot of different styles of art, trinkets, sculptures, drawings and painting, I stop at one guys booth displaying what could best be described as gothic surrealism. Themes of heartbreak and loneliness, uses of heart shaped symbolism and Heironimus Bosch meets Dali juxtapositioning. I bought this print of him. Go to other vendor booths before going into one of many gallery houses. These old-Phoenix homes, small and without AC feel warm with body heat and mildewy recycled air. The art at the houses is impressive, but anything worth getting begins at $100, which is a little more than I brought with me. I walk the rows of neighborhoods I would visit without the safety of numbers. Stopping by different galleries and checking out the live acts ranging from punk to acoustic, slam poetry to DJ sets. Around 10, I start heading to the club, passing another portion of galleries I had missed I flip a bitch and stop again. A lot of impressive art near McKinley and 3rd, I’m definitely coming back to check this out every month.
When I finally get to the club, it’s somewhat dead, even at 10:30 since this is an even later crowd than Anderson’s. Speaking of which there’s plenty of regulars there tonight, including the sexy Shannon who I spot when ordering my drink. She always looked cute as a waitress, but she looked damn hot in the skirt and halter-top she was wearing. She tells me she’s still looking for work as a bartender since she left Anderson’s. The music is better than the last time I was here since the DJ added VNV to the mix. I dance for a few before ordering another drink and bumping into Stanton. He’s getting an Appletini and tells me it tastes like a crack-whore’s pussy. I ponder how he knows this considering he’s queer as…folk. I watch the dance floor and spot Shannon again telling me about her dilemmas, she worked a Sunday night at a hip hop club, which she didn’t like because ”the music sucks and black people don’t tip well.” Not too long after chatting with her, I notice it’s already 1am. I don’t have enough for another drink so I head home but knowing I’ll be back every First Friday.
♫ of the day: Apotheosis "O Fortuna"
| 06.01.05 Halfway |
Where is the cataclysm that was going to change this year for the better? I’m trapped in reality, knowing if my life hasn’t changed in the last three decades, it will never change.
♫ of the day: Marilyn Manson "Suicide is Painless"
| 05.31.05 is it Friday yet? |
I’m tired and I don’t want to be here, any day after a three-day weekend sucks harder than a whore at a frat party.
♫ of the day: Dot Allison "I Think I Love You (Radioactive Man Dirt Remix)"
| 05.27.05 “Jellyfish Kiss” |
To you and her, and she
and to everyone that’s come between.
To the Lies I once called home.
Give me what I need.
Hold me in my sleep.
Running with tigers.
Released from their cages.
Released from their rages
Burning my soul tonight.
♫ of the day: Shivaree "The Fat Lady Of Limbourg"
| 05.25.05 Wish Me Luck |
Today is the last day of school (for students/teachers). I’m amazed and somewhat freaked out how fast this year has flown by. Yes, I do say that every year, but it the older I get the faster it seems to go. Last week it was spring, today is summer, tomorrow will be fall and next week will be winter.
Well, it might be my last day too if I win the $180M Powerball Jackpot tonight.
If I do, ain’t none of you ever seeing my rich ass again.
♫ of the day: Violent Femmes "Color Me Once"
| 05.24.05 House of Puke |
I detest IHOP, the food, the people, the smell. Not only was this a working meeting, we were also celebrating birthdays. Nothing quite like celebrating Birthday Breakfast at a place I loathe while having our whole table serenaded by a chorus of tie-wearing servers reeking of fried onion and pancake batter.
And at once, it rushes in like a flood.
I flashback to when I was an only child circa 1980.
My father’s father still lived in AZ at the time. One of his many charming qualities included going to restaurants and telling the hostess that one of the members of his party was having a birthday, usually my mom or myself. This would be done as a surprise so at the end of the meal we would get a free ice cream or cake along with a healthy dose of public embarrassment.
Sigh, 25 years of suppression wasted on a plate of crepes.
♫ of the day: Apoptygma Berzerk "Spindizzy"
| 05.23.05 Her Random Majesty |
One by one, bleeding hearts hear the voice of the expectant mother shy, piercing the hatred of another fool in waiting.
Lost in this, wide awake ever consumed in fascination to PLUME your feather’s with my hand.
In it, lies another piece of YOU.
I keep it here to remind me of the poison shrieking within you still takes and wastes whatever thoughts fade into me.
Pouring into you with more love than the storm it brings.
Every second of shock brings to my eyes the TASTE of your breath. Taking you in with the swallow of another hurt, another day is lost.
Your precious self, nurse your dreams and dissolve into ME.
♫ of the day: Fuel "Shimmer"
| 05.19.05 It's a Ballon |
God that was embarrassing!
She didn’t say anything but you know, it’s still my mom handing me back my rubber.
♫ of the day: Bloc Party "Compliments"
| 05.18.05 Twenty-Ten |
She’s right, you know, what the fuck happened to the last dozen years? I mean Thirty?
Sigh, I need a group hug, as I leave this lovely last decade of my ever-fading youth. This last year has been the hardest on me mentally, emotionally and physically. If the rest of my years on this earth are like the last, I rather not live long.
To the disenfranchised and the lost.
To all self-medicating twentysomethings yearning to live free from the bounds of FAFSA loans, college dorms and overdue assignments: learn to appreciate these fleeting moments. Enjoy the ennui of coffee-house study groups and all-night cram-sessions.
They will be gone before you know it.
As you’ve heard (or been threatened with) the ‘real-world.’ Which is out there and it knows where you live. It will kick you when you’re down; if you ever think you’re having a bad day. Take it from someone who knows, fate is not done with you yet. Never think it ‘can’t’ worse, because, trust me it can and often will. It will sneak up behind you, much like your roommate, and give it you rough and lubeless.
Yes, much like your girlfriend, the world is a cold-hearted whore.
Your friends will pair up and split off as if Noah called a chance for rain. Friends you will never see again. They will marry and move away or have kids and change forever. That is the world that awaits you.
Heed this, darlings, for time moves like water through our hands. In my petulant youth, I always thought (and secretly hoped) I would die by the age of 30. To exit this world before the ravages of age took toll on my body. Yes, I know 30 is just a number, just a very ugly number.
What scares me the most is that there really isn’t much to look forward to now besides death. At this point I don’t know if I want someone to blame, or just someone to hold.
♫ of the day: The Album Leaf "Eastern Glow"
| 05.17.05 Birthday Eve |
So excitied I could piss my 29yr, 364day old self!
All hail VNV!
♫ of the day: Beck "¿Que Onda Guero?"
| 05.16.05 Oblique & Elegiac |
I’m jaded, well, that happened a while ago.
I believe, every responsible human should question authority. Religious, political and educational leaders all yearn for control over our lives. Society is in place to comfort us. Church and state are its guidelines: organizationally brain-washing, and programming into us what they say is right.
I think I was about seven when I started questioning everything and not accepting anyone’s philosophy on life. It only got worse when I got older, as my moods and philosophy became as mercurial as my tastes in clothes. During the teenage years, men go through the angry “me against the world” phase. We are angry at the world and everyone in sight. Yearning for independence while mourning the passing of childhood. We exchange toys for clothes and blissful ignorance for cold reality. Realizing that everything our parents had told us was a lie.
A deceit beginning with Santa Claus and the tooth-faerie, enduring through our little-league and pee-wee football years when they said we’d be the next Keith Hernandez, or Joe Montana. We were never going to be professional athletes, presidents or movie stars. Our disillusionment leads to rebellion, resolve or resentment. The death of our childhood dreams, with each year of adolescence becoming another funeral. To give in means to give up and to settle is to betray yourself.
♫ of the day: Die Form "Silent Order"
| 05.14.05 Regret |
re-gret
Pronunciation: ri-'gret
Function: verb
1 a : to mourn the loss or death of b : to miss very much
2: to be very sorry for
3: What a 50yr old woman realizes after she has been with a fucking bastard for 30-odd years.
I should've been aborted at birth.
♫ of the day: Fairlight Children "Invade my heart tonight"
| 05.13.05 Hell Awaits |
May is well underway, the harbinger of summer, it's already feeling warmer. While only a 4 on Alvie's Hotness scale™, if you live in Arizona, you know what that summer means:
Retinas burning from the glare of white cars, glass buildings and heat-waves emanating from the road.
Stealing mom's oven-mitt to open your car door.
Creating tar-donuts in parking lots, because asphalt smolders under your wheels.
Alvie's Hotness Scale™
5.Open flame
4.Arizona Summer
3.Hell
2.Solar Surface
1.Teenage Girls
♫ of the day: De/Vision "Try To Forget"
| 05.12.05 Soundless Scream |
I swear, if I sat on a haystack, I would find the needle stuck to my ass!
♫ of the day: Elliott Smith "Needle in the Hay"
| 05.11.05 Summer of my Discontent |
I wasn't going back to work, so I did some chores and got my haircut. Great Clips was giving away coupons to try the new Artic Rush drinks. I chose watermelon. MMM, it tasted like diabetes! Nah, diabetes tastes much different, this actually tasted more like a liquid Jolly Rancher. Delicious.
That took away some of my anger at my tire explosion. Sigh.
Tempers do it. Toads do it. Tires do it.
I've had three of those sonsabitches explode on me on different locations in different cars. This last one cost $1,759.07 worth of damage.
Luckily I only owe the $500 deductible and the rental car fee.
If you can call that luck.
♫ of the day: The Decemberists "Eli, The Barrow Boy"
| 05.10.05Renegade good intentions |
A few days ago, one of my neighbors suggested I put some air in my tires because they seemed "dangerously low". So I put some air in all my tires, checking the tire gauge to make sure they were under the 44psi indicated on the tire wall.
This morning, I woke up to find that the left front tire of my car had exploded. Not only that, but the explosion had shredded the metal around wheel-well. I thought someone had hit my car but from what the neighbors said, the tire just popped. Loud enough to wake them up, but not me, even though they said they knocked on my door and rang my bell. It was loud enough to activate car alarms, but not the one in my car.
This is going to cost me $500 in deductible fees, plus another tire, plus rental car costs, I'm estimating at least a thousand dollars (there went my birthday celebration).
Granted, better here at my place than on the freeway where I might have put my life and that of other drivers at risk. But better still: never than now.
PS: Check the pressure on your tires.
♫ of the day: Nu Shoes "I Can't Wait"
| 05.09.05 Don't Close Your Eyes |
Someone once said it's hard to keep up with time. I didn't believe them but the older I get, the faster time goes. Remember when years actually felt like 'years'. I can tell you it felt like forever before I turned 12 or 13.
When I was young everything seemed endless. The summer days lasted forever, as did my hopes and dreams.
Now it seems if I blink, I wake up next week.
♫ of the day: Combichrist "This Shit will Fuck You Up"
| 05.06.05 Das Uber-femme |
This morning I'm listening to the bittersweet melody of a heroin laced, whisky soaked voice. It's Janis Joplin, ever yearning for a good man.
Behind me is a beautiful blonde in a BMW 5 series.
Have you ever seen someone so breathtakingly gorgeous, so unbelievably beautiful that you can't do anything but stare and feel like a slug in her presence?
The typical, lyposucked, Scottsdale rich-bitch who has sucked a lot of cock for everything she has. Barbie incarnate, the kind of girl too good-looking to ever have a "real" job. Perhaps she models or sells designer clothing to other rich-bitches till a man wealthy enough to buy her beauty gives her the kind of lifestyle she's accustomed to: a Scotts-digger.
Fake & bake tan, silicone-valley breasts, big hair, long acrylic nails with that 'everyone-wants-me' attitude. Everything about her is perfect, the face, the cheek-bones, nose, lips and eyes. Every strand of hair immaculate, a Paris Hilton clone.
She talks on the phone, flashing her cat-ate-the-canary grin as her pearly whites glimmer in the sunlight. Needless to say, she's gorgeous. Beautiful in that overtly sexual way, like a stripper or a pornstar. I'm sure she has the kind of ass I would ride like a ten-cent pony, with a pocket full of dimes.
And so beyond my league, we weren't even playing the same sport.
I stare into my rearview mirror, missing the green light.
Till she honks away my fantasy for me to drive again.
I guess Janis never wrote a song about that which is harder to find than a good man, the illusive "good woman."
♫ of the day: Janis Joplin "One Good Man"
| 05.05.05 Taste of Summer |
Red Hot Chili Peppers' "Under the Bridge"
Sigh, 1992
And it reminds me of the taste of summer: Chlorined eyes and sunburnt skin. Barbecues, pool parties and Zima fueled make out sessions. Drakkar Noir and D'Jarum cloves.
You know those rare and perfect moments?
The special times shared with the right people at the right place and with the right soundtrack when all of the divine forces descended and brought you a little piece of heaven? The stuff memories are made of. No pretense or self-consciousness. The times when you could just be yourself and be perfectly content basking in good karma. When it all seemed like a bolt of lightning caught in a 2Lt bottle of Purple Passion.
Disappearing like smoke from my lips.
♫ of the day: Red Hot Chili Peppers "Under the Bridge"
| 05.04.05 Dual Problem |
I ordered the dual-disc version only to find out that the dvd-side won't play on my dvd-player and the cd-side won't rip on my iTunes. The dvd-side will play on my computer and my dvd-player can play the audio-side.
Dammit! That's the last time I buy a dual-disc. I need to find a way of getting it ripped into my iPod, I'm the mood for something dark and foreboding even if it's industrial-pop.
I've been iPoding a lot of different music lately, and while I'm as segregationist as anyone, I do have a vast love for different genres of music.
There are those wish-I-was-still-at-ASU days, when I'll listen to Alternative Era bands (Smashing Pumpkins, Radiohead, etc.) I really miss that soft verse-loud chorus structure of alternative music.
When I'm an angry at whitey, I get my black-on with Dre, Snoop, Cypress Hill or the blackest of them all Eminem.
When I'm feeling like an 8th grade Anarchist, I bust out Mötley Crüe or Guns N' Roses, those good old metal days before Metallica sold out.
My childhood is trapped in old tapes (do tapes still exist?) full of cheesy 80's music. Say what you want but I'll take a black, non-childmolesting, Michael Jackson over the bleach-out freak on Court TV. Who knew bleach not only took the black skin but the talent away, as well.
♫ of the day: Nine Inch Nails "Only"
| 05.01.05 Private Dancer |
What would a weekend in PHX be without freeway closures?
Hmm, good question considering how the 202 was again closed on my way to Tranzylvania. Taking the scenic route through the ghetto is not as fun as it sounds, believe me. I know Dark 'Tranz' doesn't translate to Goth/Industrial but the music still needs work, it got damn near rave-y for a while.
Saturday:
I headed to N. Scottsdale for the 'End of the Year' work-party. Well, if you can call a work-party, a "party." I was the youngest and best looking man in the place, as always. Drunk latin women, dancing around while the loud hip-shaking salsa played on the stereo (usually a good sign), unfortunately they were all old enough to be my mother. I was the only guy in that crowd and they had their way with me. Offering me a dollar per dance, per dancer. It was like a non-sexual gang-bang with me inside a circle of drunken 40somethings dancing with all of them. Feeling quite used when they wanted more dances for the same buck. The Queen and her court were also in the enormous backyard, all wearing ponchos and talking business. Because that's all the Queen talks about. I left after two of the longest hours I can remember, and headed to Anderson's for another night of Dirty Girl-Scouts and so-so music.
Sunday
This boring day was spent watching the Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy, a strange comedic-philosophy movie which I don't recommend.
*Sigh* I'm in dire need of a good weekend.
♫ of the day: Jimmy Eat World "23"
| 04.29.05 Whirlwind of Fortune |
I invited you to see Twister at the Stardust, the Saturday after we become "steady."
There I was, running late, as the incendiary orange sunset burned the horizon, casting long shadows of Oak trees across the fields by your house. I pulled up in a cloud of dust, wearing my Sunday best and half a bottle of Drakkar Noir.
You were wearing that virgin white dress and your strappy brown sandals. Your golden hair glowing like an angel's halo around your head. Carrying your mom's antique picnic basket stuffed with carbonated apple-cider and Tupperwared ham-and-cheese sandwiches.
Dusk settled as we pulled into the Drive-in.
We jumped in the bed of my truck. I spiked our cider with a flask full of vodka I had borrowed from my parents and replaced with water. A process I had done so many times in the past, the liquor was already half diluted. You lit the candles with the dashboard lighter and set the table of paper plates and plastic cutlery for our picnic. We exchanged glances and coy smiles while laughing with hand covered mouthfuls on the quilt my grandmother had sown. You fed me grapes as I poured you another glass.
As I stared into your hazel eyes, you asked what I feared most: "the possibility that love is not enough" not lying.
I asked you about the future, in between sips you answered "getting out of this place." My sentiment was the same; we were too big for this town. We would find our glory in the whirlwinds of fortune or die trying. Under the weight of my stare I leaned in for a kiss. Your lips, glistened from cherry flavored Wet N' Wild lip-gloss and vodka.
A kiss leading to more, much more than intended. Collapsing on the blankets, we disappeared from view. I kissed over and under the gold chain of your crucifix. Your hands pressing hard against my jeans fumbling with a zipper about to burst. I surrendered to the silk tongue wrestling within my mouth.
Warm drunken bodies intertwined in flesh and blankets. Your flushed skin, giving in to the sin of fingers reaching never explored nether regions of your body. Biting my neck in a wide-eyed wince as I entered you. Whimpering in the summer night looking up at the full moon as a cow flew across the screen.
You still blush whenever you watch Twister reminding of you of the night you gave your innocence to a boy in the bed of his rusty old truck.
♫ of the day: Bright Eyes "Lover I don't have to Love"
| 04.27.05 Smellin' Bacon |
When they help you get away from the cops.
♫ of the day: Kid Rock "Warm Winter"
| 04.26.05 Boredom |
I found myself in a roomful of school employees at the last ADE meeting of the year. I was visibly bored and when that happens my mind starts its usual maelstrom of malaise and wonder.
- Who had sex this morning?
- Are the ceiling cameras on?
- Why are the women here so homely?
Heads begin nodding and I realized the meeting had started. This happens quite often. I catch the scary looking bull-dyke woman mid-sentence "I don't want to bore you with the details." Too late for that.
Speaking of bull dykes who needs a movie about this?
I already knew Rosie rode the short-bus to Tuna Town.
I went home for lunch consisting of a Squirt soda and a Big Grab bag of Cheetos. Ooh, I felt like a celebrity (hey if it's good enough for Britney and her zygote, it's good enough for me) I just need a wifebeater, a sideways Von Dutch cap and my IQ lowered by 70pts to fit right in.
♫ of the day: The Shins "Your Algebra"
| 04.25.05 Handicapped Camel |
Some are harder than others, but eventually all shit hits the fan. The final straw will eventually leave the camel crippled.
Insanity's hurricane will sweep through through our personal Oz and drop a house on our peace of mind.
The easy road is just that but the high road, the longest and darkest is what will test mental fortitude.
♫ of the day: Ani DiFranco "School Night"
| 04.24.05 Solo |
I made my way out as a storm blew over the valley, because neither sleet, nor snow can stop the party people from having fun. I got there and ordered my Saturday poison: Dirty Girl Scouts. I got a call from Roxie, she was with Angie and they were heading to Anderson's as well. My solo night became a social with girls who had a reputation for partying. Right on. I hadn't seen Roxie in ages and certainly hadn't partied with her in years. Ang, she of the pimped out Truth from Fiction Blog, and I had only met once before in Tucson about 4yrs ago when I got hella fucked-up on Sex on the Beach at DV8, wore Roxie's coat and took this pic.
Sigh, I was so pretty back then.
But I digress, they got there a little after 10 and the party started. We chatted about life while listening to songs that reminded us of High School dances. Drinking and laughing, laughing and drinking.
And being flirted by a married woman is better than sitting alone at home.
♫ of the day: Mogwai "Take Me Somewhere Nice"
| 04.22.05 Solitaire |
delivered by the postman of our fears..."
She tells me stories, adventures if you will, involving Mr.Whiskers and Medelia-May. Two strays she picked up at the pound on a particularly lonely weekend.
She is bitter at the world and reminds every one, every chance, she gets. Not that can anyone could blame her for it.
The rest of her time is spent either bitching about her ex-husband or playing solitaire.
But I'm not here to judge, her money is as good as any.
Pensively, she stares out at the green, malaria-factory courtyard pool from the window of my motel room. I offer her some warm but stale coffee from this morning. Not that she would taste the difference. "Do you like it strong and black, like your men? or sweet and white, the way I like my women?"
I joke, but she's not in a joking mood.
"Did you know that bastard gambled our away our retirement money?" She tells me, as she closes the curtain in disgust. BJ reaches into her red pleather bag with the paisley pattern for another cigarette.
"I've heard you mention it" I say, hoping I wouldn't hear yet another rendition of her sorrow-laden life.
She inhales:
"Every night he'd come home from the casino, drunk. Making a racket in my kitchen, turning the stove on to make tea before bed. That's where I got the idea, but I never had the guts." She states as she paces around the room like a caged tiger.
"You're sure about this?" I ask.
"Of course I am, I want to make sure it will be done right."
Exhaling.
"You're the boss." I assure her.
"Just make it look like an accident." she tells me, taking another drag. "Here's the key."
Her bony, liver spotted and varicose vein-ed, ring studded hand reaches towards me.
She hands me a fat envelope filled with cash and desperation. We shake hands.
11:11pm
I snap on the latex gloves, feeling the calcium nitrate coating my hands making them slippery against the rubber. The key slides in and I step inside. Cold brass hides what I had imagined: early 70's décor, wood paneling and velvet "art". Plastic furniture and shag carpeting, all in avocado green. I almost expect to see Cindy Brady coming from the kitchen where the mustard-yellow linoleum glistens in the moonlight. Water boils, bubbles simmer and gurgle from a pot.
It's chamomile.
I turn the pilot light off. Slowly the room fills with gas, simple and accidental.
I make my way out past a room lit only by a monitor displaying a half finished game of solitaire. BJ, asleep on the keyboard.
The sleep of angels.
Accidental, just like she wanted.
♫ of the day: Hooverphonic "Eden"
| 04.21.05 Look who's talking |
Last year, it was dead rats with googly eyes, and now this.
You know what I hate?
Talking babies.
Fuck Quizno's.
♫ of the day: Garbage "It's all over but the Crying"
| 04.20.05 Passed-over |
Oh well, Happy 4:20. Smoke it if you got it!
You scored as Marijuana. The most beautiful, chill drug out there. You want something that's not too harsh on your body, and soothes the soul. It's also not addicting, so smoke it up, baby! And never have to go through withdrawals.
Marijuana | 75% | ||
Mushrooms | 69% | ||
None! | 63% | ||
Alcohol | 63% | ||
Inhalents | 56% | ||
Ecstacy | 56% | ||
Cocaine | 25% |
What's your ideal drug?
♫ of the day: Cypress Hill "Roll it up,light it up,smoke it up"
| 04.18.05 But can he Fly? |
What the hell is a monkey going to do with a two-way radio?
Granted we've all thought about amassing armies of monkeys, (hopefully flying ones) but let's get real here. If you're taken hostage, do you want a monkey to come rescue you?
However, I can commiserate, I want a monkey butler. I'll name it Bobo, and he will do my bidding: mix my drinks, roll my joints and take out the trash. Right now, Renzy is Bobo, and she's not too happy about that.
♫ of the day: Morris Day & The Time "Jungle Love"
| 04.17.05 4 on the Floor |
The weekend now only a memory of Goth music and drinks; smoky rooms, bright lights, and four-on-the-floor beats.
I literally pissed a lot of money this past few days but I needed a catharsis from my slump. I haven't had a Gothic Week since back in the golden days of The Jar, Requiem and Area-51.
I packed in three straight days of partying. Going to bed no earlier than 2:30am and getting up no later than 8:30am.
Thursday: The standard, but declining, Area-51. Decent music but lackluster crowd (too much of a sausage-fest).
Friday: Tranzylvania - opulent and packed, but goth-lite. Needs drink specials and Industrial music. Though bathrooms that don't reek of evaporated piss are worth their weight in gold.
Saturday: 80's Night, well back in Anderson's Elbow Room. Better music, but a lack of variety (I like Depeche as much as the next guy, but not four times in one hour). The damn DJ needs to stop singing, karaoke style, through the song as it plays. Different vibe than last time, the 80's side was sucking with too much pop and no fish were biting.
I'm tired and worn out, I can feel sleep catching up on me as I finish this post and close my heavy eyelids. Lefty and Righty (legs not balls) are sore and torturing me now like I tortured them on the dance-floor.
Sigh.
The workweek will bear no resemblance to the bliss that was these last few days.
Monday is a mistress that is so hard to please.
♫ of the day: Tactical Sekt "Xfixiation (Hellfire Mix)"
| 04.16.05 "if you build it..." |
I didn't get back on the grid, till 19th Ave and Buckeye. We are talking train-track ghetto here people(sign #3). "Fuck it!" I declared, "I'm going to the club!" Lost and fearing a carjack, I drove till I found the first street name I knew and headed east till I got to Central.
Not knowing the downtown 'Nix too well, I drove north till I saw kids in PVC. Yes this had to be the place. The parking lot was packed with club patrons. It took me a while but I finally got a spot a block away. I followed my brethren to the door.
A wind flame flickers on the outside and a somewhat cheesy, dayglow, K-mart Halloween display of a Dracula announces the night, the rest of the club is anything but: a long corridor of entrance, cement gargoyles, high ceilings, marble flooring, and Roman arcs that separate the bar from the floor, even a VIP area upstairs. The bathrooms are clean (you can always tell the quality of a place by it's bathrooms) and well maintained and the outside area is huge.
Among the opulence of leather couches and iron-wrought mirrors, there are black lit paintings of naked men and women dancing through the flames of hell, castles lit only by moonlight, scenes of an orgy, and three separate windows display three scenes of a vampire girl in a vinyl suit, orally pleasuring her vampire lover in the next, then getting done from behind by him in the third panel.
I didn't think a place like this existed in town, let alone downtown phx. It reminds me of a California club, stylized on a nicer scale than even Deathguild in SF, though not as big as LA's Perversion. Who ever designed this place has gothic style and goes to show that if you build it right, they will come. I thought the scene was slowly but surely dying, seeing a club that big and that packed is a good sign for us Darklings. Around 1am I ran into Allora, who I hadn't seen since Halloween. However, it was a good night, the drinks cost $5 but are not watered down like Anderson's drinks. It's not as big a sausage-fest as Area-51 but any girl worth taking is already taken.
The only bad thing I can say about that club is that the music is not dark enough. The DJ doesn't have a request pad and his choice selections don't drop any darker than EBM. No Suicide Commando,:wumpscut: or And One, he didn't even play VNV!
Something about the dark notes and heavy beats that makes my body want to move. It's the inherent darkness. Like a black light calling a lonely moth home. The gravity of the music seduces me like a siren's call. Beats that own my soul and notes that grab my body telling it "tonight, you're mine." I start moving to the shaman's of the music. The Voodoo Priest DJ commanding my limbs.
Swimming in ether.
♫ of the day: VNV Nation "Entropy"
| 04.15.05 My Fellow Americans |
Just because you put kittens in an oven, that don't make 'em biscuits.
So give deep, won't you? How else can we buy them purrty camera-loaded, air-to-ground
Thank you and God bless America.
Just make your checks out to your pal,
George
Remember, you can't spell theirs without THE-IRS.
♫ of the day: Klirrfaktor "Sieg Der Wissenschaften"
| 04.14.05 Evergrowing Gripes |
"but so soon?" you ask, Yes, my friends and confidants, I'm pissed yet again. I need to ad Isotank.com to The List for still not sending me my order of VNV Nation's Matter+Form cd. I mean, here I am, spending hard-earned money and actually buying a cd in the age of the digital download. You'd think I have it in the warm coral-like folds of my warm hands and ears? But nooo, I just got an email yesterday saying my order has been packed and processed and will be leaving their warehouse in the next 24-48 hrs. What? The cd came out Tuesday and they still haven't sent it? I ordered it last month. It should left their warehouse last weekend, so it would arrive at my house from philly, when it came out.
If I had known it was going to take this long, I could've just driven to Stinkweeds on Tuesday and picked it up. Maybe order it from Amazon and saved two bucks. I did order NIN's "With Teeth" from there, let's see how long it takes them.
This could've have happened in a worst time. Work has been hell and I'm currently caught in the April-spiral: the depressive-moody cycle before my birthday. It seems like every six months, I need to have a sort of emotional maintenance service. An emotional overhaul if you will: to release the bottled up toxins of sorrow and worry that eventually break me down.
Consider it Controlled Angst.
♫ of the day: The Shins "Those to Come"
| 04.13.05 Postcard from 1987 |
If I close my eyes, I can still remember.
Walking diagonally across a field of dry grass. Daring not to look back for fear of being caught. If we were going to be bad boys, we had better start acting that way. Afterall, there were 8th graders to impress. I had befriended you in 6th grade, watching you play Basketball while listening to your License to Ill tape.
The tall Texan skater-kid with the Samhain bangs, I should've known you'd lead me astray.
We reached the rusty gate with the No Trespassing sign. We took a breath, and went off campus. It had been unbelievably easy. Heading east across Arcadia Park, we ventured to the 7-11. I got a Big Gulp and you bought a pack of Marlboro Red's.
We made our way to the dry drainage ditch next to the canal. An empty, soot filled, garbage laden space that contained two cylindrical tunnels. A soft streak of cool air blew from there as it echoed our words. We sat and chatted, with the excitement of what we just done. You leaned back, took a smoke out and flicked the pack at me. Choking on harsh tobacco, you taught me how to smoke that day.
We left our fort and walked to an abandoned house you knew about. A house of squatters reeking with the unmistakable talcum-powder-on-shit smell of diapers. We stayed on the porch and added to the graffiti while bullshitting about school and the politics there-of.
We left and walked through the courses of the Arizona Country Club. No we weren't members, no we didn't play golf. It was you and me: two 7th graders with an attitude and no desire to go to class: Truants.
Happy 31st, Dylan
| You Belong in 1987 |
|
1950 - 1959: You're fun loving, romantic, and more than a little innocent. See you at the drive in! 1960 - 1969: You are a free spirit with a huge heart. Love, peace, and happiness rule - oh, and drugs too. 1970 - 1979: Bold and brash, you take life by the horns. Whether you're partying or protesting, you give it your all! 1980 - 1989: Wild, over the top, and just a little bit cheesy. You're colorful at night - and successful during the day. 1990 - 1999: With you anything goes! You're grunge one day, ghetto fabulous the next. It's all good! |
♫ of the day: Jimmy Eat World "Hear You Me"
| 04.11.05 Additions to The List |
1. Women beer drinkers: I can't stomach that frothy piss and there is nothing less attractive than a woman who smells like my father on Christmas morning.
2. Costco: why do they move the items they have on sale or at least 'in coupon' It took me 20 minutes to find the Starbuck's Frapuccinos in a bottle because they weren't where they're normally located.
3. Greatest Hits CDs: sure I can have all the hits from my favorite artist(s), but damn does it make me feel old when I remember buying (insert artists' name) debut cd.
4. =W= Did you hear Beverly Hills? Yeah, another Pop-py, commercial-friendly, Weezer song. I miss 90's Weezer, when River's was depressed and fucked-up. You know Undone (The Sweater Song) would've never whored itself out to sell Caribbean vacations like Island in the Sun did.
5. Liquor ads: Why do they tell me to "Drink Responsibly" If I need a preachy voice telling me how to drink, I'll go talk to my mother.
6. Lottery/Gaming ads: those with the captions reading "Play Responsibly." Hey, if math-deficient old people want to piss away their pensions, let them. Just don't gamble away my inheritance, Granny.
7.My iPod: Don't get me wrong, I love my iPod, but it has given me musical ADD. I can no longer listen to the same artist twice in a row.
That's it for now, although more additions are sure to follow.
♫ of the day: Tsunami Bomb "20 Going on..."
| 04.07.05 "Empty party afternoonsï" |
-Dave Matthews-
Not that you could tell, right?
In fact, I'm still on the outside looking in. Understood only by those who are outcasts themselves. I can wear the clothes, I can drive the car-but those are nothing more than bad camouflage. I'm not fooling anyone but myself to think that looking like them will make me like 'them'. The holy 'inner circle' of those whose life seems so easy, make me wonder who pissed in God's cheerios the day I was born.
I will never know what inside joke those smiling faces hold.
Welcome to the basement of my soul.
♫ of the day: Tori Amos "Toast"
| 04.05.05 "Therapeutic Smile" |
"when the going gets tough, the tough get going"
as Kathleen Turner, Michael Douglas, and Danny Devito backed him up on vocals.
You know those days that really kick your ass? The kind that beat you black, blue and bloodied?
Sure you can go home, curse God and kick the dog, but is that going to make things better?
The question to ask, is not why it happened, but how you are going to deal with it.
Will you drink your beer or smoke your joint? Maybe sit in front of your computer and write something reflective, like Doogie Howser used to do?
BTW, don't even front, like you didn't watch Doogie.
My trick is: letting the mind go blank.
You know, Paris Hilton it. Let it all air out.
The world is a more beautiful place when you don't think about it.
♫ of the day: Billy Ocean "When the going gets tough"
| 04.01.05 Fooling April Morn |
Hung over and late for work.
You wear a pair of jeans and a striped shirt -cuffs up and untucked-as is the style for the day. You spray the Holister unisex cologne, the same one your ex-roommate used to say made you smell like a French whore. You head downstairs, each step pounding your head like a jackhammer on crack.
In the ruby red kitchen, Red Baron's single serve pizza and Starbuck's in a bottle is the breakfast of champions. You contemplate it's saucey goodness as the tastes recall the ones from lunch your freshman year of high school. Whatever pizzas didn't sell that day, where 're-cheesed' and served again the next day. Once you found three layers of white, grey and green reheated dairy.
You look up and wonder what the day has in store. Grabbing your laptops, you jump in your car, face the morning sun and a commute to south-N.Scottsdale. With hugs and coffee, you're welcomed like a prodigal son 'back home' where you cut your teeth years ago. You do your job and smile through a headache that has Excedrin written all over it. After you're done, you don your sunglasses James Bond style, call them ladies and wave goodbye because there's nothing older married women like more than to be flirted by a younger man.
Off to the next episode, as Dre would say. You arrive at your next destination, put on the happy face and walk into the office. (trade secret: pearly whites hide bloodshot eyes). Another job done you head back to the office but not before stopping for a haircut. The office is calm, the Hydra of Blondes is gone and you begin to answer your emails. Another appt made, another student entered, all in a days work.
Tonight you have two options: go to Sugar Daddy's and celebrate Marla's bday with her and her friends.
Or stay home and write this entry.
♫ of the day: Elastica "I Want You"
| 03.31.05 "Pretty Like Drugs" |
Don't take your pets and/or friends for granted.
Speaking of friends, I miss having male friends to hang out. Sure, I love the ladies, but there's just something about drinking with the boys that female company just can't give you.
I could hang out with Francis, but since he started working I don't hear from him often, plus that nigga just drinks too damn much. Dylan is flaky and a tweaker, plus I haven't returned his calls since Adam left. Then there's the fuzzy-one, who is now a cook (and I don't mean culinary school). I just need to stay away from that kind of energy.
But it's not that easy, I work with all females. What am I going to do? Walk up to males at the club and say "Hi, wanna be my friend?"
Yeah right, they'll think I'm gay and if I'm going to go to that much trouble, I rather they be female.
♫ of the day: Nine Inch Nails "Gave Up"
| 03.29.05 As if... |
Good morning world!
As always, I'm coming to you, live and incredibly personal from the confines of my office. It's Tuesday morning five before 8am, while I usually would be at work at this time, today I have an ADE meeting. Honestly, I hate going to those things, but I appreciate the extra sleep and having a slow morning.
6:44Update
This morning started off well, after Christina picked me up we drove all the way to downtown PHX only to find out the meeting had been cancelled. What a waste of time and gas, granted for us it was just an inconvenience, but there were people there from Tucson and Sierra Vista who had driven hours for this thing. Annoyed at missing my chance of 3hrs of (on the clock) snoozing and iPod listening, I went back to work. It would be a short day, since I work late yesterday and needed to take my mom to her doctor's appointment. I was going to chill the half hour that was going to take, by going to my fave source of free music, the Scottsdale Library! However this was easier in planning than practice, because there was the Giants were playing a preseason game against the Diamondback's next door. Parking was impossible until I made my way around to the courthouse and just happened to secure a spot. I found enough stuff to keep my iPodding needs satisfied, speaking of free music my work disabled the ability to visit my fave mp3 blogs/journals (to your left). I left the library as the game was ending, sun burnt work-ditchers, stoned school-skippers, the retired and drunken tourists scattered about jaywalking across Drinkwater Blvd.
I pick up my mom and she informs me that our dog echo has been missing since nine this morning. Fuck, he has run away so many times, I'm not sure how much he wants to temp his fate.
My parents haven't received any calls so far (7:50pm) and I'm starting to get worried. Hopefully a shelter or someone will call us with good news.
♫ of the day: Wilco "At Least that's What You Said"
| 03.27.05 Bad News Pairs |
I do take those precious seconds every day to enjoy my current reality. I know that someday, I'll look back and say, "Wow, I really had fun at Alvie's crib" just how I look back how and smile when I remember Le Pimp Chateau.
I loved that time of my life, but trust me living alone is where it's at. Something that, as of this morning, may change. There's been talk about selling the 'rent's house again. If that happens, my mom may move in with me for a while. How long? I have no idea but I can't really say no to my mother.
And in more bad news, Fox cancelled my new fave show 'Point Pleasant' =(
♫ of the day: PJ Harvey "A Place called Home"
| 03.26.05 Third Eye Open |
Earl Grey and Radiohead, how deliciously English.
Sitting amongst steel and stone, the pomegranate walls enrapture my surroundings. I breathe and think.
Do you ever have a conversation with yourself? I do that all the time, sometimes it's a devil's advocate voice countering my decision making. I have arguments or just simple discourses with myself and don't front like you don't. Sometimes I so into my head that I lose track of the current world and disappear into my psyche. Recalling memories and events, both real and imaginary of what my life used to be like or wished it could've been. That ageless cognoscenti that is our third eye. Memories of events play like movies when I close my eyes. Sometimes those times that I felt so free and even other realities seemed possible. I guess that's what blogs do, give words to those thoughts flashing in our head.
| Your Brain is 60.00% Female, 40.00% Male |
| Your brain is a healthy mix of male and female You are both sensitive and savvy Rational and reasonable, you tend to keep level headed But you also tend to wear your heart on your sleeve |
♫ of the day: David Gray "Baltimore "
| 03.25.05 Dixieland |
She would stare out at the immense yard of the old cotton-field and see the reflection of the full moon glistening off the pond. The woods outside her Grandpi-pa's old plantation home, would crinkle and buzz with mosquitoes and fireflies.
Mary-Claire, as she was known back then and her older brothers, Jefferson and Davis, would sit and absorb the tales of Grandpi-pa, Obediah Collins.
Grandpi-pa, who everyone in town called "Colonel" would regale the children with stories of his youth as a Moon-shiner during the prohibition. "A Southern right, tradition and privilege" he would often state. Occasionally making the illegal 'Hillbilly Hooch' for Medicinal purposes only. He flew the stars & bars of the Confederacy outside his home and a plaque that read: American by birth, Southerner by the grace of God hung on his front door.
Grandpi-pa sipped Mint Juleps, smoked a pipe and sounded like Foghorn Leghorn when he spoke. His clothes were as white as his silver hair. A kind soul who addressed everyone as "Sir" or "Madam" but still referred to Northerners as "Yankees" and black folk as "Negroes."
♫ of the day: Johnny Hollow "Gone"
| 03.23.05 Todesengel ? |
In the 80's, Heavy Metal was the blamed for every mullet & jean-jacketed suicide committed.
When that trend wore off, people started blaming videogames for violence. Now this:
I'm sick and tired of motherfuckers criticizing the Goth culture anytime a kid shoots up a school. How many Goths commit murder?
By percentage, those people are less than 1% of the blamed population. Would you use those the odds to judge an entire subculture? Those are the odds you take using a condom, are we going to blame every unwanted pregnancy and STD on Trojan?
When are people going to stop prejudging anything before getting to know it? This kid who killed classmates a la Columbine obviously had other factors wrong with him.
An indian Neo-Nazi? What the hell? His non-aryan ass would've been killed by real Nazis. Was this kid actually 'goth' or did he just like to wear black?
I can tell you that wearing black doesn't make you goth anymore than singing in your underwear make you Madonna.
When will people stop fearing what they do not understand?
♫ of the day: Cruxshadows "Leave Me Alone (Shaft 20/20 mix)"
| 03.22.05 Breaker of Spring |
I started my vacation with my brother and ending it with my sister. Good family times. The privacy of living alone has accustomed me to simple joys like loud music and nakedness. Which of course, tend to be frowned upon by company. Mleh.
I've spent the last few days entertaining the guests, although I really don't like sharing my space. And why are they at my place? Because my father is such an asshole that he would freak if he knew his "little girl" was road-tripping with a boy. I guess when it comes to fathers and daughters, the pot can always call the kettle black.
♫ of the day: Arcade Fire "Neighborhood #3(power out)"
| 03.20.05 Us vs Them |
♫ of the day: Bravery "Honest Mistake"
| 03.17.05 Smell of Spring |
Most houses in the Arcadia area have at least one orange tree, so around my neighborhood, spring time means Orange Blossoms. In one whiff, I can go back to one of my earliest memories running around the 21 citrus trees around my parent's house. Smells best at dusk, after the sun has cooked open the white buds during the day
It has also meant cleaning and time with friends and family.
I've been catching up with homies during this spring break. Last week, my boy Lane, was in town. It's always good to spend some time with Adam. This week, my brother has spent his spring break here and let me tell you time flies when you don't have to work. He leaves tomorrow and my sister comes home, well to my house with bf in tow, on Saturday. I've been kickin ass at cleaning my office and making it respectable for company. I've IKEA-ed my office with bookshelves and coffee tables. I'm glad she's coming since she got me off my ass to do something with the extra room. Damn, it's already Thursday. It's already ending.
♫ of the day: Jack Johnson "It's All Understood"
| 03.16.05 Know Nothing Knowitall |
Perhaps we are the divine: a little piece of God, like everything else in existence. Maybe that's why we say God is everywhere, because where ever we are, theirs is God the 'observer'. Not necessarily the Judeo/Christian judging God that will punish us if we trespass on His rules, but a God made from the sum of all our parts. Flesh is the vessel, something to get us from birth to grave. Inside us is the piece God that experiences life, that hurts, that loves, that creates. A God that exists in everything that is and ever will be, interacting with itself in every combination possible. When we go back to the source we join the collective like rewinding a tape to be viewed, although the Almighty Energy experiences everything live and in person.
♫ of the day: Zombie Nation "Kernkraft 400(Chant)"
| 03.13.05 Orange Crush |
Above him birds chirped on naked branches. He reached into his pocket, rolling the rolling the metal pellet between his fingers. He aimed the gun at the sky and pulled the trigger. Leaves rained as a hundred wings took flight, only one chirp. A tiny brown bird plummeted from the tree. The 10yr old dropped the gun and ran to the bird. It was still alive but badly injured. Bloodied feathers, soft as plush. Its shrill squawks scared him even more. He didn't know what to do it was his fault this poor creature was going to die. He picked up the bird and brought it over to the gun. Tears ran down his cold-kissed apple-red cheeks as he loaded another BB into the gun. His fingers trembled as he tried loading the heartless barrel. He listened to the chirps as he held the barrel against the bird's head. Pulling the trigger to end its misery.
Its cries ended as his began.
♫ of the day: Bright Eyes "Bowl of Oranges"
| 03.12.05 Hold our Hands |
♫ of the day: Ani DiFranco "Tamburitza Lingua"
| 03.11.05 Debauchery Revisited |
Blow the friends he had plans with at Chaser's, or hang with Alvie, some Goth/Industrial and a couple of girls, at the old club. Where, "back in the day" we used to get trashed on 'dolla-drinks' and '2-fitty' Long Island's while staring at the Gothgoddess. Mr.Lane arrived about an hour after we got there and the drinks began to pour. We reminisced when the club was 'happening': 3 years since the days we would get wasted till 1am, when the club would close. We would pray the road would be Po-Po free, at times pushing our luck and our inebriated asses by driving all the way down to 32nd and Thomas to get some Whattaburger. Sigh, good ol' days. We caught up and order more drinks. By the time Adam got on the dance floor, we were all pretty toasted. We left the club around 12:30 and proceeded to the Wendy's (quite a fine meal when drunk with Luna di Luna wine). Then the smoke party started, passing the Muse after a course on Mario Kart. I haven't been that fucked up since my days at Le Pimp Chateau. This lasted till 3:30am and I had to go to work in the morning.
And this morning's headache was a rude awakening, but sometimes hangovers are the price of memories.
♫ of the day: Damien Rice "Baby Sister"
| 03.08.05 Fall of the Righteous |
Ok, I'm not beyond empathy and even sympathy, but my brother has always had everything handed to him in a silver platter. For the most part he has led a charmed life: a popular jock in High School, accepted into two prestigious universities, enrolled in a doctorate program (that I would sell crack to nuns for) and dates only cute, rich girls.
She wants me to cheer him up?
Does she forget who she's talking to? I went to a state university, didn't get into gradschool and haven't had a new date in 6 months. He wants my sympathy? He should be commiserating with me, not the other way around.
C'mon that's like someone on welfare lending money to Donald Trump because he lost his wallet.
♫ of the day: Lou Barlow "Home"
| 03.06.05 Drugstore Cowgirl |
For in it we find the inner-peace we desire, as the sweet smoke swirls from our lips. And slowly a tangent begins as a conversation with myself. As I explore this inner-voice conversation I realize the only way to capture this experience is by typing it up. A defense mechanism: Because we are afraid to deal with reality head on, because we are afraid to reason with our minds.
Why do I have to drink or smoke to reason with myself? It's an impossible answer to ask, yet i bother asking. If only to fill my time and waste yours.
♫ of the day: The Cure "This is a Lie (Ambient Mix)"
| 03.04.05 Mission: NIN |
After Tuesday disappointment, the mission was simple, go to work then drive to Tempe and wait in line for NiN tickets. Arrive at the office around 9:15, as compared to the usual 7am. It matters not, for it's Friday and all anyone does is spend it clock-watching and killing the minutes away till 3, which for school-employees, is quttin' time.
I made my way to the Marquee, and stood in line. Sustaining my sanity by with my iPod and a wing, a hope and a prayer that I would score some tickets. At 5pm one of the workers stated that the mad rush online had sold most of the tickets and there would only be enough for the first 50 people in line. I didn't know what number I was but I stayed in line. As I approached the window and ordered my tickets they told me it was 'cash only'. I didn't have that much cash on me and had to use those rip-off branchless ATM's that charged $2.50 for usage.
But alas I had my tickets in the warmth of my hands.
♫ of the day: Stars "Your Ex-Lover is Dead"
| 03.02.05 "Aus der Vergangenheit" |
And if you can't remember those days, I envy your youth.
♫ of the day: Apparat "It's Gonna be a Long Walk"
| 03.01.05 Holding the blur |
What the hell? it's already March! Someone needs to push the stop button on this ride. We're already a quarter of the way through the year. We meander through this existence, living for weekends, holidays and paychecks and the next thing we know another year is gone. Overwhelmed and worn out. Confused and lost, and left my own devices. There is no exit on this ride.
♫ of the day: Baz Luhrman "Everybody's Free (To Wear Sunscreen)"
| 02.25.05 Sanitarium |
I remember it was fall.
The wind blew.
Saffron leaves fell and rustled on the ground, like golden rain stripping the trees down to bark and branches. Through the crunch of decomposing leaves you told me this place was a spider's web, one wrong step and you are trapped in gossamer strings. Speaking from the frantic perspective of someone who had tried and failed many times before. You told me no matter what happened, you would never make that mistake again.
We had a plan and ourselves, a desperate attempt to escape the prison we had found ourselves in. In the milky night, when the warden wasn't looking, we would make a run for it in the florescence of the autumn moonlight: together or alone.
You would run and hide, dye your hair and change your name.
I would run as fast as my vanilla legs would take me.
Spidering up the cold razorwire, we climbed towards freedom while searchlights 360-ed around us. The vicious growls of bloodthirsty hounds echoed like hell's very own surround-sound system. Running over the mountains and through the woods, until our muscles burned and our tears turned to blood.
In my crimson vision I slipped into quicksand, and witnessed my conjugal visitor disappear into the night. You knew I was going to be taken, something you never told me. Perhaps someone or something would come to my rescue. I thought it would be you, like you had done a few times before and if we had the time maybe you would have. I just screamed for you to run far, run fast, run free, and never look back lest you turn into a pillar of salt.
I don't know if you turned yourself in or the warden caught you between a gun and a waterfall and you were too afraid to jump. Whether your pretense to castigate and masticate such a powerful manipulator was genuine or freedom just seemed a little too boring without someone invading your life, will only be left for you to judge in the future.
I continue searching for my way out, as I mark each passing day. Until then, welcome home to the grey walls, black halls and blue lights.
♫ of the day: Postal Service "This Place is a Prison"
| 02.24.05 Reticence |
I would do the whole Blogroll thing, but I don't know how to do that. But when I do find something interesting, it will either inspire me to I'll borrow it. This comes straight from Kelly's Spell Bound site. Which hosts mp3's on Fridays so bookmark it.
Choose a band/artist and answer only in song TITLES by that band: Smashing Pumpkins
Are you male or female: The Boy
Describe yourself: Frail and Bedazzled
How do some people feel about you: Zero
How do you feel about yourself: Blissed and Gone
Describe your ex girlfriend/boyfriend: My Mistake
Describe your current girlfriend/boyfriend:
An Ode to No One
Describe where you want to be: In the arms of Sleep
Describe what you want to be: Perfect
Describe how you live: Daydream
Describe how you love: By Starlight
Share a few words of wisdom: Farewell and Goodnight
| 02.21.05 R.I.P Hunter |
Saturday: someone once said, "there's always going to be a wet-spot, and someone is going to have to sleep on it."
Yeah, sleeping on cold ass spots sucks. Much like karmic hot potato, the bad luck just continued. Today I woke up, usually on my days off I have two choices, veg-out at home, or do something productive. Well Renzy and Mary had a party going so I decided to stay in bed for most of the morning. Later I did my taxes, they charged me $67, minus my $10 coupon, equaled $57. I gave her three 20's and she gave me back $13. Yay, that was about the only highlight of my afternoon. Even with property taxes and real estate taxes, I still owe $409 to the State and another $162 to the Feds. Fuck, that's going to cost me. I still had to buy Anais' iPod Shuffle, and luckily, the Apple store had some in stock on my way there Saaid called to tell me Hunter S. Thompson was dead. How does a guy that survived as much as he did, just 'end' it?
Well, rest in peace, wherever you are.
Hunter S. Thompson
♫ of the day: R.E.M "Texarkana"
| 02.17.05 Societie's Clone |
How simple everything must seem when you are the cookie-cutter clone of what W.A.S.P America wants you to be. A clone of a clone of a clone with the need to giggle in between sentences while wearing your raincoat, in Big Bird Yellow. You follow rules and don't feign your happy go lucky smirk to go along with your vast collection of Winnie the Pooh and other characters of the 100 acre Woods. The kind of church-going, upstanding citizen who is befriended by cops and old people. And yet you somehow find the reason to bitch about 'how hard' your life is? Hey, Pollyanna, how dare you complain about anything in your life when you've had everything handed to you on a silver platter. You just "can't find the right man" Maybe if you grew up and stopped acting like a 12yr old inside a 31yr old's body, things would be different.
Until then blondie, keep your damn mouth shut. People like you will never understand how hard life is because someone will always be there to sugarcoat reality for you.
♫ of the day: Matthew Sweet "Sick of Myself"
| 02.14.05Bleeding perfumed Blood |
Another year, another
It would be called Booty Call Day and people would pass out red condoms and candy-flavored lube. Remember those days in school when everyone would pass out valentine's cards and those nasty little hearts that tasted like pepto-bismol? Well continuing that old schoolyard tradition, this is my Valentine's Card and I promise not to pull your hair or push you at recess.
To all the lovely ladies, I hope this day is filled with all of your heart's desires.
Now take my big Banana!
Take it like a bad girl!
♫ of the day: Death Cab for Cutie "A Lack of Color"
| 02.13.05 The Valley Ho |
She realizes she can't stoop that low (a rarity really). CD suggests they go bowling. She just wanted to get out of that house before doing anything she'd regret. "You can ride with us" says Tweedle-Dum. "No, I like to take my own car so I'll meet you at 32nd and Shea."
She gets into her car and the phone rings. Her part-time lovah Mango calls. "Hallelujah! Saved by the bell." She takes off and doesn't tell Tweedle-Deed and Tweedle-Dumb anything. Completely punk'd their asses.
Wondering where she was, while she was getting her freak on some place else. I haven't laughed that hard in ages.
♫ of the day: M.I.A. "10 Dollar"
| 02.12.05 *Need* |
Creating poetry from my madness and art from my sorrow.
Practicing passive aggression to perfection while waxing on thoughts of tomorrow.
Make me. Break Me. I'll Come back for more.
Berate and penetrate me- I'm still here.
Dress me up like your doll,
I'll lose myself in make up and hair rolls.
I'll play pretend to be anything you want.
Need me, feed me, just don't ever leave me
I'll cry and beg,
on my knees if you please,
and trust me, I know you do.
Just.
Simply.
Love Me.
♫ of the day: Depeche Mode "The Happiest Girl"
| 02.11.05 To the broken hearted. |
Thought I was getting karat gold and what I got was you."
Well praise the Lord and pass the ammunition!
It's raining, it's Friday and it's payday! I always think of rainy days as more contemplative. A change of view from the average sunny & hot Arizona day. This week has sucked big, hairy, monkey-balls. I've been working on my auditing report and on top of that I had more work dumped on me. Yet another fucking project that my coworkers and I were 'voluntereed' for by Boss Besitos. Goddamn, I need a raise or better yet a new job.
But even with all of this crap, I'm still doing somewhat better than my brother whose g/f broke up with him last night. I suppose it really couldn't last long-distance over the next four years, but he was madly in love with her. Things happen for a reason, whether we like to believe it or not, hindsight is more than 20/20. At least he is still in school and has the chance of meeting someone new there. Not to take anything away from the depths of hell that is a broken heart. Time does heal all wounds. Everyone goes through it, almost like a right of passage. You can't understand what being in love is until you are in it. You can't appreciate the good, unless you know the bad. And the kind of pain that doesn't kill you but makes you want to die, is the perfect teacher.
♫ of the day: Modest Mouse "Black Cadillacs"
| 02.09.05Daddy, Jr & The Spook |
Now drop and give me 50 Hail Mary's in Cantonese.
♫ of the day: Muse "Sunburn"
| 02.06.05 Periwinkle |
The perfect blend of blue and grey that reminisce gravid clouds on rainy days. The mixture of sorrow with a dash of hope.
Remember that time we saw the sunset from the window of Hole in the Rock? You wore your flaxen tresses up. Your nose and cheeks glowed in the pink hue of a sunburn. Your dried, chapped lips stung when you smiled, not that it would stop you from smiling. As much as it hurt you, you still let me kiss you.
It was July and to a Midwesterner, it must've seemed like the pit of hell. You had come to Arizona to meet an internet fling. For two weeks, you escaped your listless, post-military existence of Dairy Queen and Mary Kay. You got away from your small, racially segregated, town: blue collar and stereotypical. The kind with a higher than average ratio of Bowling Alleys, BBQ Houses and NRA memberships. A town where the only things kids can do for fun is drink and fuck. And god, you knew how to fuck. Like the time you were tag-teamed by your bf and your guy friend.
You told me of the camping trips were you and your friends would remove the nails from train tracks and hope for a derailment. Always somewhat disappointed when nothing happened by morning.
You told me of Blue Light Specials, coupon-clipping, and malls without escalators.
You told me of the times you would drive to Flint and hang out with a killer for hire.
Because that was life in Roscommon.
♫ of the day: Silverchair "Freak"
| 02.03.05 Doers & Talkers |
U2, legends in our own time, but I don't know if I can justify the price. I mean the cheapest tickets are $49.50 before ticketbastard charges and taxes. So basically it'll be sixty bucks to either have standing room only or seats in the nosebleed section. As much deference as I have for them, they haven't put out a great cd since Achtung Baby.
And then there's the show of the year.
I know I say this every year, but I have to find a way to Coachella this year. Have you seen the line up for this thing? Saturday 4/30: Coldplay, Weezer, Bauhaus, Snow Patrol, Chemical Brothers, among many. Sunday 5/1: Nine Inch Nails, New Order, Bright Eyes, the Faint, Prodigy, Jem, among many. A very Indie flavored affair with a strong Brit Pop base and just enough big names to make me drool.
Ohh, Coachella, you are making me hard just thinking about you, naughty girl!
♫ of the day: Snow Patrol "Gleaming Auction"
| 02.02.05 Reality check |
You have no concept of how hard it's going to get when mommy and daddy stop paying your way. When all of you lose your looks and bodies and your smiles no longer open doors. Then you really have something to complain about.
In the immortal words of Ice Cube:
"Check Yo'self before you wreck Yo'self"
♫ of the day: Project Pitchfork "A Cell"
| 01.30.05 Words of Insomnia |
Karen lent me her copy of 50 First Dates which she recommended vigorously. Anyway, while watching this flick, I noticed several references made to SPAM and the Hawaiian love for it (SPAM & eggs). I wonder if this was done accidentally since Hawaii is #1 in state consumption of SPAM or because of historical reasons.
You see ages ago, the Polynesians (a direct ancestor of the Hawaiians) sailed the South Pacific seas. They were a warrior people oftern battling nasty sunburns, that damn scurvy and each other. There was another unique characteristic to these early Samoans: Cannibalism.
Gorging on the flesh of their enemies after battle.
So what, pray tell, does this have to do with SPAM?
Well, Grasshopper, the salty, processed goodness that is SPAM is also the most similar to the taste of human meat. So, even to this day SPAM continues to sell out in the Big Island because, Haole, these big kahunas still savor and crave human flesh.
Somewhere in the background the scratching clicks of a Bic and the gurgle-sucks of the bong add to the soundtrack of my night. Not the sun and not the church will be waking me up early tomorrow. The spiral of colors mixed with the light speed of your voice in my head. You told me I was the reason Troy went to Agamemnon, and I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. The drugs run out as the night fades away.
We see the light, and it burns.
♫ of the day: Sneaker Pimps "Wasted Early Sunday Morning"
| 01.28.05 Alvie Approved |
I have a bad case of the sickies. Sore muscles, throat and my nose is both runny and stuffed. I stole a box of Kleenex from work because I refuse to use ghetto-kleenex ie: toilet paper. I then proceeded to toss these rolled up snot-balls from my bed, across the room into the garbage can. Banking them off my wall, basketball style. I should've called in sick, but previous appointments prevented me from it.
Today I went 'up-north' to what makes Scottsdale, well, Scottsdale: the rich part of town. I did some auditing: long, tedious and downright painful when you are battling illness, sleep-deprivation and a slight hangover. I was originally going to audit five schools, which I would've been insane in my condition. All I had to do was survive three schools and then have lunch with Karen. She knows how to treat a brotha right, buying drinks and food whenever we get time to do lunch.
At the Tango Grill, we kicked back and bullshited about the politics and dirty underbelly that is public education. Mentioning the inside jokes and "remember when" stories. Like the time Xtina got with Marty-Party: a 50yr dirty-old-man with a penchant for the John DeLorean Bisquick. Or at last year's Barrett-Jackson Car Auction when people confused Karen's husband with the guy who had bid on a ton of cars. They played the crowd along and got all their dinner and drinks bought for them the entire night. Yeah, she parties hard.
It's hard to find people that can hang with me, at least these two can.
♫ of the day: Faithless "Drifting Away"
| 01.25.05 Where am I, Mexico? |
Woke up late. Nice
Missed the news. No Biggie.
Ate Breakfast: Cinnamon Crunch cereal.
Brushed Teeth. Normal.
Heard news in radio: Water in PHX is contaminated.
Shit. So this is what 'ignorance is bliss' means.
♫ of the day: DMB "Don't Drink the Water"
| 01.23.05 Sweet Nostalgia |
From the 14yr old Frosh; a freshfaced punk trying to score tang by any means necessary. Being dropped off at the Mall on a Saturday morning. While the Soph's hated on our license-less asses, driving their cars while flipping us off and calling us 'faggots.'
At 15 my first truly 'drunk' experience at the mercy of Jungle Juice during 91's New Year's Eve bash thrown by Bill. I walked home and passed out on the lawn, waking up just in time to sneak back into my room before anyone noticed. Being 16 and turning my Algebra D's into B's by intercepting the mail during progress report week and re-Xeroxing it. Senior Year nights kissing girls and boys while playing spin the bottle in a black-lit room while a vinyl copy of Pretty Hate Machine played in the stereo.
Yeah, at some point I'm going to need a time-machine.
♫ of the day: Keane "Walnut Tree"
| 01.20.05 Cabron! |
I've said it before, and I'll say it again:
FUCK OHIO!
♫ of the day: Thievery Corporation "Lebanese Blonde"
| 01.18.05 Chocolate Microscopes? |
I tell you this, because umpteenth years later, it is the reason why I have both strong bones AND bad teeth. I currently have a cavity the size of the Grand Canyon in one of my wisdom teeth. I would get it pulled, but that costs money. Money I don't have because I my credit card got maxed out when my car was being a bitch, as well as my previous dental appt. and Christmas.
I have enough Vic's to get me through the month (I hope) though I don't know if I'm going to take, trade or sell them.
♫ of the day: Massive Attack "Teardrop"
| 01.16.05 fountain of teenagehood |
STP's "Plush" reminds me of that summer before my freshman year at ASU. Getting sunburnt as I walked around campus trying to find my classes before the first day of school.
The Offsprings "Come out and Play" reminds me when my car broke down and I had to ride the fucking bus to ASU for a week till it was fixed. Listening to mix-tapes on the Walkman I suckered my sister out of for an Atari system and about 20 game cartridges.
This music becomes an emotional enema making me experience both happiness and heartbreak in rhythm and chords. The times gone by both good and bad that have shaped who I am. It's scary to think how fast this last decade went by, almost as scary as how fast the next ten years will go by.
♫ of the day: Sponge "Plowed"
| 01.14.05 the reason I work |
The only thing worse then waking up everyday to do something you hate, is waking up next to someone you hate.
♫ of the day: Vanessa Daou "Sunday Afternoons"
| 01.12.05 D Minor |
Needless to say, I'm exhausted and I think it's my bed-time.
♫ of the day: Marilyn Manson "Para-noir"
| 01.11.05 Chemical Romance |
It's a lovely place to be.
♫ of the day: Dresden Dolls "Coin Operated Boy"
| 01.07.05 The Price of Honey |
Here we are again, another pensive Friday night. Sitting in my bathtub as gallons of warm rain pour over me from above. Massaging my back, almost sensually, as I end my week. The back of my head thumps the cold tile as I look up to the streams that pelt my face with water, bukkake style. Pondering as always if circumstance brought me here, or if I created this reality that I find myself trapped in. Unable to change the here and now for the 'there and then' image I had as a child of what my twenties would be like. Which, trust me, involved a lot more European models and cosmopolitan vacations, than currently present. Indeed, this hard-fought cognitive dissonance is making my life a post-millennium hell of stagnant dreams, vanquishing desires and arrested development.
It seems as though if you're not working towards something (graduation, marriage, parenthood, corporate ladder) you are not achieving your potential. Personally, I would love to be able to go back to school and get a master's degree. As deathly afraid of failure as I am.
Maybe it's the American way. Because, if I can be honest with you, and I think I can: we have been dillusionalized since day one by Disney movie endings, institutionalized by happily ever after fiction and brain-washed by parental units spoon-feeding the theory that if we work hard enough, we could all be president someday. But there's that first step, a step that is easier accomplished the younger we and with less responsibility. We work to acquire, and by the time we possess enough items, do they instead possess us? We can't back-pack through Europe for a month because we have plasma TV's, cars, and houses to pay. We're too worried about keeping said items instead of increasing our potential.
The American Dream is a mind-shackle, imprisoning worker-bee's to the hive.
♫ of the day: PJ Harvey "The Whores Hustle and the Hustlers Whore"
| 01.06.05 Abstruse Simplicity |
♫ of the day: Lightning Seeds "Pure"
| 01.04.05 Next Stop: Nadir |
A downward spiral into the nadir of my existence.
♫ of the day: Jimmy Eat World "Bleed American"
| 01.03.05 My Year? My Ass! |
I woke up an hour and a half late for my first day back at work.
I also got an estimate on my car from Camelback VW(roughly $700). One of the many burdens of owning a European car in the States.
If this is an omen on how this year is going to go, take me back to 2004!
♫ of the day: Placebo "Twenty Years"
| 01.01.05 Electro-Lush |
So kiddies, here we are in 2005. According to Ngoc, it's going to be "our year", bless her Polly-Ana heart, she says that every year.
Hope it's yours as well.
♫ of the day: The Shins "New Slang"
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