So I got to thinking . . . a couple of you who do read my rants and diatribes might have once wondered, "Why stickboy?" Is that a euphemism for something else? Might be. Is it symbolic? Most likely, but maybe not. Is it the icon for the ostensible saboteur of the left wing? No, that, it is not. I have a different icon for that, HA! I jest. I'm really a nice guy actually, I just have opinions, alas.

Well okay, I'm here to sastify, as Clarence Carter says. This (below) is why. (disclaimer: the "stick it" is merely a play on words and in no way represents the thoughts and feelings of said journal writer in regards to his comrads. It's suposed to be funny in a dry sort of way.)



Well that clears it up, doesn't it?

As you were.

(incidentally, the weird looking guy to the right is my rendition of Puck, or Robin Goodfellow.)

I'm sorry but this is just funny. It's an article in the Times today, about all the protests. It makes fun of it at the end, after saying some decent things. You can tell that Alan Fueur didn't take the protests to seriously. I wonder what the rest of the world thinks. But yeah, okay, read this. It is pretty funny . . .again, this is at the end of the article. If you want the whole thing go to


"Even with the rallies planned well in advance, at least one protester got a little lost.

"In Washington, one person found out too late that there would be no protest in that city. A woman in a baseball cap and sunglasses stood in front of the White House with a sign reading, "U.S. Out. U.N. In."

"It's always nice to do a protest with other people," said the woman, Linda Wilscam, 43, of Vernon, Conn. "It feels lonely today, to be honest."

I think Nietzsche said something like, "Not that you lied to me, but that I no longer believe you, has shaken me"

That's love. Or rather that's finding a connection with someone. My version would be "Not that I'm alone, but that I wont find someone who gets what I am about, has shaken me." I'm not in a hurry or anything, and actually that's part of my problem. I hate to quote Bukowski, but like he said, "No one who ever wrote worth a damn ever wrote in peace." Or more appropriately, Flannery o'Connor, when her mother put nice curtains up in her writing room while she was gone one weekend, making the place beautiful, said, "Mother get rid of those curtains lest you ruin my prose!" I'm doomed to melancholy because there's so much more good material to write about.

I love being by myself (another part of the problem), but damn, you find someone who might be cool, and behold, the connection you have with each other is as strong as masking tape. I constantly find myself shaking my head, over hearing conversations at bars, and I don't know if it's envy or disgust. I'd love to talk about how someone looked sad yesterday in moment and then talk about a pimple on her forehead the next. I'm no deeper than the next person, but hanging around the next person, you could've fooled me.

So I'll resolve to find comfort in books until someone trips me up and makes me think. That would be great.

Nietzsche again: Danger in happiness. "Now everything redounds to my best, now I love every destiny - who feels like being my destiny?"

Now that's what I'm talking about.

I've always felt the need for a healthy amount of absurdity in my life, but as of now, I have to draw the line on certain aspects.

I am no stranger to protests and yet I can't help but walk through the crowd, as if I'm watching now, rather than participating. Of course you can argue that in being there, I am participating, but I need more. These days, standing on the left, I feel like a two-holiday catholic at a black baptist church in Savannah, Georgia.

The left frustrates me more that the right ever will. At least I know where the right stands and I commend them for their voluntary ignorance. Yet the left wing, as Ani sings, was broken long ago. Now we have Kerry, and he will save us. Hell he even calls a spade a spade, but next time senator, do it at a fucking press conference.

Yes I was at the protest this afternoon, getting drenched, and yes I do appreciate that I heard more people talk about my wet dog than the whatever in Iraq. (He's a cute guy, I've said this, and yet the irony is that he doesn't think he is! He suffers from the dog myth.) The rain was symbolic, sure, yet why weren't people on the grass up by the speakers? Was there not a permit? I did see a couple of you guys right up there, and I commend you. But here's what pissed me off: I actually heard a guy say, "Let's all spread out so that we look bigger!"

Why?

Is it all about deception across the board? Are people in Orchard Park, watching at 11 tonight going to say, "Oh my dear, look how many people are in Lafayette square! And they have so much elbow room . . . let's not vote for Bush honey."

Of course I am a culprit of the mundane as much as I consider myself a visionary. Did I speak up and yell like I did in Washington a while ago, face to face with riot cops in full gear, threatening us with nightsticks if we didn't shut up about the SOA? Not at all. What if I did yell? Would the reaction be, WOW he wants this war to stop! or WOW, he's a loud freak trying to get noticed! And yet, amongst freaks, one is no more bizarre than another. I miss New York.

This has always been my problem with the left and if anyone can shed light, I'll get out of the dark room of confusion. It's not enough to stand in the rain. It's not enough to hold a sign. NO ONE WILL BE SWAYED BY THAT. And yet I do know it's necessary, because after all, you fill Times Square will people holding signs, others will notice. Yet that is again, not enough. What do I propose? Satire, anger, and not conforming to what they say we should do i.e. stay off the grass, walk on the sidewalk, stop poking that officer with a wooden stick, etc.

Bush might win in November. Yeah okay, voting counts, but we need a back up plan. What will you do? Me? Can't go to Canada, I like New York way too much. BUT . . . I can be heard. That is if I ever get the gumption to actually not keep quiet anymore. We need a pissed off folk singer instead of Joni Mitchell singing "give peace a chance." It's cliche, and John Lennon would have written a new song by now if he could. No one listens to a priest unless one is about to die.

So that's it. Nothing will change until it gets bad. Half of me wants Bush elected again so people realize what's really going on. It's funny, when you're hungry, you look for food and that is all you do. Well we need a goddamn famine in this place.

As Tom Joad said, "Takes no nerve to do something, ain't nothing else you can do."

Does it need to get there people?

'fraid so

We need another Seattle, because that's what democracy looks like.

i have to go to work in about five minutes and get home at a reasonable time maybe 1am i hope people aren't as stupid as they can be tonight because to be honest i know it's my job but damn how i really hate kneeling down in the snow especially when there's mud underneath it's not bad when the ground's hard but alas of course it's not and here i go checking the weather and behold five more months of this shit my motorcycle will stay in the garage crying and although i do want to let it out to run around the snow is not that good to fly around curves with it's not like gravel at least gravel you can here your self slipping ooh that's a metaphor i should start to listen to my thoughts like i listen to my bike tires maybe i wouldn't fall so much be back in a few.

yup. there you go. here comes the music, or rather i should turn it on.

Outlets . . . that's all there is in life.
Lest you go nuts.

hey Emily, I'm a up for a bit. We're all out there, but we all just keep quiet once in a while. Know what I mean . . .

The Pink was nice at 3am, just so's you all know.

I'm at the crossroads here. Ok what do I do . . . first thing, coffee. My jerk dog got me up on my day off. Now he's sleeping again. Okay coffee, hold on.

Ah glorious coffee, okay so the crossroads I'm talking about is only a small intersection. I just have a shite load of things to do and I'm trying to figure out where to start. I have enough writing to do to keep me busy for my lifetime, but the main problem is that I have clothes to put away and dirty dishes.

And unfortunatley I want pancakes.

OH HELL!!! what to do . . .

(beat)

I will drink this fine cup o joe, walk into the kitchen, throw the raquet ball for ma dog to get his ass up (he's fat), put on a cd on the box in the kitchen (poss some Moxy Fruvous to get the blood flowing), wash the frying pan and mixer bowl (whilst shaking my tush), make pancakes, put too much oil in the pan so they fry not just cook, then do half of the dishes, finish the pot of coffee, forget the clothes, take a shower, maybe shave, take dog out, drive to Cafe Aroma (williamsville), meet with prof about life and a book I'm writing, come home, take dog for walk, go to Spot, more coffee, write a play about two guys who can't physically leave their seats, lest they get shot, and eventually end up at the Pink in the wee hours on the morning.

sweet, thanks for da help.

Now don't you tease me with that Beckett on film thing. And they say that cooking is the way to a man's heart . . . nah.

Yes, that would be good to see that, and I'm encouraged at the fact that you know him, HA just kidding, but you'd be surprised. Looks like we have a first annual Beckett night coming up. Y'all are welcome over here if you like awesome dogs. E-girl, how do we do this thing then, any ideas? Or if you were talking about the near future, that'd be great too. It's just that I need some inspiration. I have to write a play by Tuesday and I'm everywhere right now, and in the existential sense.

Oh wait Saul's not gonna be able to make it, let me think about this.

Tsk, tsk, Emily. Actually, that funny, but true. It is possible to hang out sans P man but only as long as I can talk freely about the American Dream. That's my deal. Whaddya say?

Oh and Robin, no one liked Leonardo. That power tripping anal-retentive bastich. He'd nix Splinter if he had the chance.

Yeah Paul, I tried to email you too, no go.

I am standing on a ledge on the side of a cruise ship which was at most, a foot wide. Below me, there is the ocean, with the waves picking up once again like they always do. But the water is a good 300 feet below my feet and so that I didn’t fall into the abyss of certain death, I found that I am hanging onto the side of the ship. My elbows stretched, as if I were getting searched, onto a sloping (upwards) diamond plated ledge, also jetting off of the ship in front of me. I look forward and see two people, a man and woman, both 20 something. They're talking, rather he's talking to her, and yet she looks somewhat concerned with my situation. They too are a bit stranded you could say, but at least they're able to sit down.
The guy gestures for me to grab a plastic PPR yellow colored handle, seeing as though I could lift myself up with it. I don’t trust him because earlier, I had attempted it and pulled half out, revealing a mere drywall screw holding it onto the boat. He knew this. Fuck him. I’m staying still.
I’m staying still because, like they said, I have to make it through twelve hours. Twelve hours and I’m done. They continue to talk, as I relax and take in the situation. I don’t need their help, I’ll do it.
I ignore them and turn my head to the right. The sun is a bright orange setting in a black sky which is barely propped above the pending turmoil of water. The wind is picking up and the storm will start at any moment.
You know the calm before the storm? Well I’d take any storm on if I could experience a sight like I see now, hanging off the side of a cruise ship, hanging for my life, onto a PPR yellow colored handle held on with a drywall screw.

Twelve hours and I’ll be finished. Here comes the waves, but the sun is still there. It will always be there.

Oh my prophetic soul.