Secondly, my tight ass sticks

feels good to have the ego back !!, damn, augh, augh, augh, writing about love is tight but it also sucks the life out of you.

If You're Feeling Ok...

April 24, 2007

Had a job as a food inspector/TV host, inspecting meat at a Chinese restaurant, especially the burgers they had, for grasshoppers. They cooked a bunch of grasshoppers into their meat and I went to tables and cut open people’s burgers to see if I could find any grasshopper parts. The main woman at the restaurant had been away for a week, but she was protesting that she didn’t know anything about it and that’s not why she left. Eventually I inspected a long piece of beef with my partner – a steak that somebody was about to eat. It was about three feet long and half a foot wide, and thin. We argued over whether we should inspect it or not because it wasn’t ground beef. We cut it in half and looked at the piece we cut. Then we cut that piece in half and looked closer. We argued over whether something on the surface of the meat were the two little mouth-clencher-things of a grasshopper. I said they weren’t. Then we agreed we needed one of the microscopes that were back in the kitchen/the inspecting base we had set up. Here I had a little mental detour about magnifying glasses and burning things. I forget exactly what that part consisted of. Eventually someone brought something to look closer with but it wasn’t a magnifying glass or a microscope, and by this time we had lost the suspicious thing we wanted to examine. Somewhere in this process the person eating became agitated. Then there is some blank time where I forget what happened. Then we were inspecting a large piece of white paper, which we both understood to be edible and which felt like the same piece of meat we were examining earlier. Somewhere along the line the TV host aspect faded away. Then an airport setting became apparent. It was a Chinese restaurant in an airport. And eventually we realized that the pad of paper we were inspecting might be made somewhere else besides the Chinese restaurant, so I looked on the cover, and something something, I think it was. Eventually we returned to the girl waiting in an airport corridor, with her various pads of paper, also by this time aware that she most likely wouldn’t eat most of the pads of paper so we probably didn’t have to inspect them. She was a little annoyed, and I became aware that for all my good intentions I was still just a somewhat incompetent airport employee. I empathized with her not feeling it her responsibility to separate the employees from the company with regards to criticism. I explained that it was my first day – I think I had already explained this. Also, she opened up the pads when we gave them to her and was kind of disgusted at the idea of grasshoppers in them, although I explained if she was drawing on them it wasn’t that bad. And then one pad she opened up had instructions for rolling cigarettes and I realized it was huge rolling paper. She took her pads and left and then, something, I can’t remember. She was being asked by some sort of touch screen advertisement if she wanted to join a smoking competition for a chance to win money/cars – a Lexus. On the right side of the screen there were three cigarette brands, one starting with a 3, one with a 6, and one with a 9. Near the list it prompted the user to choose their brand. There was some sort of green swirling of other options down below which seemed like sub-categories of the three brands. Above the list there was a red box like thing that alternated company names – coca cola was one although it felt like a cigarette brand. She hesitated and obviously struggled with the moral/health dilemma, but despite this as well as an echoed parental warning behind her, circled an option on the left of the screen in a green electronic line which acknowledged wanting to compete in the contest. Then I was outside on a street and she was throwing a Frisbee down to me, out of the little airport-room world hovering above and a little bit in the distance. There was a Frisbee throwing sequence here and I gained some insight about how we make decisions and communicate although I forget the specifics. There were also, right before this, or in transition to the down-below-street-world – some flashing numbers and cars – like $15,000 $25,000 or something, in a banner ad-obnoxious style, along with a flashing of a Lexus SUV that was the prize for the contest. I understood that cigarette smoking was supported by nice cars because money allowed you to live in a comfortable enough world to smoke. Nice cars as just another extension of health care, insurance, etc… Then something else happened, but I kind of forget the end of the dream.

On Manifestos

Recently, some have accused me of being an irreverent writer. But let me reassure you, folks. I am ALL business. And we have some particularly compelling business at hand.

I’ve been cruising a special tangent lately, exploring the unpraised art form of the manifesto. I don't mean to brag, but utilizing my sleuthy talents, I scoured the darkest corners of the InterNet and unearthed a virgin goldmine of historic manifestos! You can check out the Wikipedia page here …

Alright, so it turns out not every manifesto is really worth reading. Some are dry as leaves, and others were obviously written by nerds. I don’t have time for even the most well meaning nerds. What has science done for me lately?

Almost everyone has heard of the Communist Manifesto, but it was news to me that Ted Kaczynski, The Unabomber, had written his own with regards to the future of industrial society. Dude is wordy, but scary eloquent. I had to quit about halfway through because I found everything he’d written up to that point remarkably convincing. I know enough violent back-story to understand that he’s not the kind of guy whose advice you’d want to heed.

But of all of the works that I perused, only one truly knocked me senseless. Something about the Futurist Manifesto set it apart from all the rest, and it sure as hell wasn’t that I agreed with it’s bold declarations on progress. It’s content just doesn’t seem especially relevant in the 21st Century, but I feel sympathetic towards the restless young poets that hammered it out nearly a hundred years ago. I myself have spent countless evenings in the good company of like-minded brothers, debating and musing on modern times. I completely understand the fiery urgency that compelled them, those embers are flaring up today in the face of accelerating societal division and an uncertain future. Something’s just got to give.

I urge you to give it a reading , and then ask yourself this question: Is it time we write our own Manifesto?

The Life & Times of Howie Poindexter: A Beginning

I feel obligated to give you some context so be glad, Citizen, because you've got a hot serving coming your way:

My current living situation finds me renting out a barren, second-floor room in a house situated just south of the tracks in an affluent Southern California city. It's a colorful neighborhood, the kind of place where one can boost their status by throwing some fresh chrome spinners on their El Camino. It's not really rough, you don't have to think twice before taking a stroll around the block. Colorful is the right word, and I really can't get enough of the color that it has to offer.

Now, several years back, I forsook the convenience of temperature control and acquired a taste for sleeping with the windows wide open. One all-purpose blanket is more than enough to keep my bones warm, plus I can still reap all the benefits that the cold night air has to offer. And in my corner of the block, the sonic fruit is ripe for harvesting. Through my northern facing window comes a wide variety of sounds. I've got the large Latino family off to one side, with their highly vocal posse of kids always playing cruel children's games out in the backyard. At eye-level is a nearby apartment with its four super-cute college girls, incessantly gossiping about this and that, busy celebrating celebrities and such. For many in collegiate circles, Thursday night is just an early Friday night, so I always know when I can count on them to do some righteous partying. At least until some hefty cavemen in attendance start brawling over spilled beer. Look at 'em go!

But it is to the east, a rough thirty feet away, that true magic is made. Just over the rotting fence lies a property that looks like it got really tired and just gave up on life. Brambles strangle rusting metal curiosities and scattered buckets harbor piss-like pools, solely for the purpose of mosquito breeding. Mother Nature is staging a comeback in this small patch of land, give her twenty more years of neglect and I bet the place would be a certified forest.

The centerpiece commanding this beautiful chaos is an imposing and appropriately un-manicured palm tree, of which what specific genus type eludes me, but looking much like an unholier version of this. The spread of it's fronds successfully covers the whole of the lot, much like the gnarled fingers of an ophiophile would fiercely guard a prized basket of snakes. But enough of this distracting hyper-link business! Forging on with context, there is a rickety ladder extending straight up and out of sight, into the heart of this forsaken tree. I've questioned one of my housemates about the purpose of this peculiar/permanent ladder placement, to which he could offer no explanation. He did, however, blow my mind with this fun fact: the tree is teeming with opossums. Yikes. I have since seen the godless things prowling about, and frankly want nothing to do with the vermin.

Other respectable witnesses to the condition of this strip of land have offered varied opinions, ranging from "Shit Hole" to "Garbage Dump". And in many other circumstances, I might completely agree with their diagnoses. But they don't sleep where I sleep. They haven't been sweetly serenaded the way I have, basically every other night for the three months I've lived here. They know not of Howie Poindexter.

Howie Poindexter is a noble gentleman who has recently fallen on hard times. I don't actually know that, since I have never laid eyes on, or spoken to the man himself. To be perfectly honest, his name might not really be Howie Poindexter. It just sort of came to me the other night, and to me, it just feels right. So until proven wrong, I shall continue to refer to him as such.

Howie currently occupies an improvised structure of tarps and planks, that even in the daylight hours is well-hidden from view by said palm fronds. I don't know if he owns the property he occupies (the lot serves as an exciting backyard for a modest home), but I suspect he is allowed to stay, out of the generosity of another person's kind heart. As for Howie's heart, it must be made of gold. Here is precisely everything that I know about Howie Poindexter, a profile of sorts:

• Howie is short for Howard, for those who didn't know.
• Howie is primarily nocturnal, that is, he thrives in the dark of the night.
• Howie has a lot to say, but to whom specifically, I can only speculate.
  
• Howie is a passionate speaker and singer (!)
  
• Howie actually has pretty bitchin' taste in music.
  
• Howie is prone to knocking stuff over and cursing profanely soon after.
• Howie is a braver man than me, he lives beneath a tree teeming with 'possums.
  

Again I must emphasize that my intimate knowledge of Howie comes only from removed auditory observation, which curiously only happens in the wee hours of the morning, when Howie is feeling feisty and running strong. I've never once heard him during the daytime. I'm also pretty sure that Howie doesn't know the companionship he provides me, which leads into the next chapter of our story. Rewind to last night.

Stoked off of a victorious bout of psychological warfare against two surly/burly, cave-type Swedes, I retired to my room for the night, amply drunk. My heart soared to even greater heights when I realized I would not be falling asleep alone. Howie was doing his thing just a short distance off in the darkness, howling vaguely recognizable obscenities. It might have been wholly due to the liquor in my system, but nonetheless I was inspired not to let Howie's words and wisdom just die off into the night. I quietly hooked up my neglected WebCam and aimed it into the darkness towards the light that is Howie. YES! I almost vomited due to over-excitement/beer. Though I couldn't capture any visual input (which is fine by me), I was finally chronicling the good word of Howie Poindexter, straight to hard drive! After listening enraptured through headphones for a time, I fumbled around with my computer and promptly managed to lose everything I had just recorded. Dammit Janet. I gave it another round, because Howie was still on a roll. He wasn't being nearly as talkative as on the earlier recording I botched, but the sound was still sweet music to my thirsty ears. Nothing could have prepared me, though, for what I was about to hear next.

"Don't let me doooooooown", belted our good friend in his touching baritone.

I was floored. Was it possible? It hadn't occurred to me that I might hold unknowing influence over him, just as he has unknowingly influenced me. Just days earlier I was pumping the same song he was singing over my stereo speakers. It isn't a very well known tune, what are the chances he picked that earworm out of nowhere? It was all too much excitement for one night, so I opted to wait until morning to decide my next move...

After a great deal of sober moral deliberation I have chosen to meet the challenge before me, to stand up and take hold of destiny. Howie Poindexter has graciously been broadcasting himself for some time now, and I intend only to amplify his signals for the benefit of the mankind, utilizing InterNet technologies. Now begins our Saga, and I invite you on a journey to get to know the real Howard.

I'm still hammering out the logistics of such an undertaking, but with A/V support from my close friend, Ustinjh, my technical/editing prowess should soon be up to snuff. Stay tuned, loyal reader, for continuing installments in 'The Life & Times of Howie Poindexter'.

Penned a new song...

The working title of this draft is "Lunatics and The Lunar Fix". It's largely about that time I went AWOL. Pretty rough, you don't even know, man. Pending my general motivation, I might even knock out a low fidelity recording to post in the coming days. Cause I'm all about the full-effect, man. God Bless America.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ & ~

LUNATICS & THE LUNAR FIX

Stepped outta line, It’s obscene, it’s a crime
The Shepard says he wants my hide
Lord knows I’ve cracked, still I could’ve gone back
But the Temptress keeps calling my name

Happened last night, a spider crept into sight
But I couldn’t finish him off
Didn’t seem right, seems I’ve lost all my fight
Just one way you’ve moved me to more

I’ll lay down my weapon, to sing the praises unsung for you
Oh, the races I’d run for you

But you know we’re just lunatics and we’re waiting on our lunar fix
I’ll take my chances and shoot for the moon
It’s a long shot, but I don’t really want to go it alone
And that’s all depending on you

They can’t undo, what I know to be true.
Can’t save a wretch like me
Nowhere to hide, only chance is the skies, but
I can’t pay my way into space

I could save all my money, but it’s never enough for you
I’d even give up my sun for you

But you know we’re just lunatics and we’re waiting on our lunar fix
I’ll take my chances and shoot for the moon
It’s a long shot, but I don’t really want to go it alone
And that’s all depending on you

Should they ask, if I ever felt ashamed
Answers no, sir, the seasons aren’t the same
It’s for her

Said you know we’re just lunatics and we’re waiting on our lunar fix
What could be better than love on the moon
Just wasting our days while they soldier on, soldier on
I wish they could see what we knew

Success (via iggy pop)

Here comes success, here comes success
Over my hill, over my hill
Here comes success, here comes success
Here comes my car, here comes my car
Here comes my Chinese rug, here comes my Chinese rug
Here comes success, here comes success

In the last ditch, in the last ditch
I'll think of you, I'll think of you
In the last ditch, in the last ditch
I will be true, I will be true
Sweetheart I'm telling you, sweetheart I'm telling you
Here comes the zoo, here comes the zoo

Here comes success, here comes success
Oh, hooray success, hooray success
Here comes success, hooray success
Oh oh success, oh oh success
I can't help myself, I can't help myself
I just got to got to got to, I just got to got to got to...
I can't stand it, got to got to got to

Here comes my face, here comes my face
It's plain bizarre, it's plain bizarre
Here comes my face, here comes my face
Out of the crowd, out of the crowd
Sweetheart I'm telling you, sweetheart I'm telling you
Here comes the zoo, here comes the zoo

In the last ditch, in the last ditch
Here comes success, here comes success
Here comes success, here comes success
I'm gonna do the twist, I'm gonna do the twist
I'm moved, man, I'm wiggged, oh I'm moved and I'm wigged
I'm crazy, I'm gonna, I'm gonna go crazy. And if you, maybe you'd like..
Let's blast off!

Alright! Baby, let's blast off, oh, baby let's blast off
Blast off on success, blast off on success
Oh you slay me, oh you slay me, baby, ooooh, you slay me, baby
I'm gonna do the twist, I'm gonna do the twist
I'm gonna hop like a frog, I'm gonna hop like a frog
I'm gonna go out on the street and do anything I want
I'm gonna go out on the street and do anything
Oh, shit! Oh, shit!