So wow . . . I met a lot of (e:peeps) tonight and I am a better person for it. It was a very intriguing night which started off with TK calling Rachel from my phone (sorry Rachel), then moving into an existential talk about why we do things, and how lucky TK is for being so goddamn smooth. Check that, there is no luck. Any luck you acquire is simply a part of the plan, if you believe of course in said plan.

Anyway, with hand rolled cigarettes, we journied outside to further my talk about nihilism and the benefits of it, save morality. But I have to say that it's easier to talk about nihilism, than to do it. Me? The guilt is too much for me. And so I will remain my starting self with no hopes of ever finishing. That might be between me and me.

After I left, feeling great and rejuvinated that I can place a face to the names of Lilho, Tina, and Terry, I headed to get a slice of pizza of course. This is no euphamism people, as much as I would love it to be. Well I saw an add for a artist model that was needed, and now I ask you, do you think that my stickboy self, all skinny and nerdy, could grab a couple of bucks standing still every Wednesday? I did it in college why not now, right? The tattoos might be a problem or a benefit depending on which side of the drawing pad you are on.

Paul, I think you've made me catch the tattoo bug again. I love them and the entire process. If you need any advice, just ask. Make it black and something that you will look at and will make you think. This should be everything in life people. Everything should make you think.
Especially these movies,

Donnie Darko
Magnolia
Hurly Burly
13 Conversations About One Thing
Glen Garry Glenross
and of course Requiem for a fucking Dream
(that is not for the faint of heart)

God speed gents and ladies. I will see you soon certainly. And Lilho, even though I was adamant about the opposite, we can truly be friends. Although I warn all of you, Blest are those whose blood and judgements ar so well commingled that they are not a pipe for fortune's finger to sound what stop she please. Give me that man who is not passion's slave and I shall hold in my heart's core.

I am passion's slave and I apologize not for that. Good night all.

Terry, brotha, we do not have a democracy, come on, you know this. We have as much freedom as they'll let us have. It's not a bad gig actually. At least our McDonald's cheesburgers are still less than a dollar . . . last time I checked.

SO we all have a choice. We can live in this ostensibly free and democratic place, or we can march around holding signs that no one gives a fuck about. Regardless what we believe, at this point, and since the Civil War (I am not a confederate by any stretch of the imagination, I'm a Yankee through an through, but there is a school of thought that with the south losing, as they should have, so too was lost the idea to challenge your government), we have limited choices.

I think Twain said it best: Love for your country always. Love for your government when it deserves it.

Here's a way to look at it (this was once told to me by a professor in college. It was probably the most useful information I got out of RIT). . . you wake up one day in the pitch black (very Poe)and you know two things. ONE, behind you is a blade on a pendulum, but you don't know how far back, and TWO, in front of you is a river of shit, but you don't know how deep.
You need to go somewhere, so where do you go?

answer below . . .






life sucks, deal with it.


We all have to swallow medicine sometimes brother. But hey I say, that if you want to not vote, or to vote for Nader, do it! It's your conscience that you have to deal with, no ours.

Godspeed.

Dylan tomorrow.

Let's all get a drink and toast the demise of this once great country.

I did it. After doing it for so long, every month or so, it becomes less meaningful. The first time was absolutely terrible, but now I have to say I'm damn good. Especially at the details. Hell, I don't even have to ask the someone else how they like it anymore, because honestly it's me who I need to impress. We've all been there - you stop,look in the mirror, walk around and if need be, you're right back at it. It used to be life changing, but now it's just something I do.

So. If you see a really good looking guy walk down the street, with a slick new haircut, I'm the other guy leaning against a building thinking, "Next time, I'll pay for mine."

It's neither hair nor there.

HA.

I now have to venture into the mind of someone who knows for a fact that he, one way or another, will, poetically speaking, shuffle off this mortal coil within moments. You can see why I'm not exactly diving into this shit infested, maniacal, but very real pool. I'd rather dwell here for a bit, so if you'll have me, I am yours.

Distractions. They are what separates the sane from the absurd. Case in point. I type here and NOT in Act 1, Scene 1 of the new and original play, Hostage.

But of course, I have a question. Some of you are self proclaimed artists. Some of you dabble conceptual art, and to actually be moved by something like that gives you major points on my Clue check-off list. Who hasn't seen Kosuth's three chairs and has not left thinking, which one is real? Powerful stuff and I applaud y'all for drifting into a profession that can only be understood if you use your head.

My question is simply: Will you ever be satisfied? And secondly, would you want to be satisfied?

I toy with actually becoming happy, but then, my writing will suffer. I'm serious. So again it's the language or the kiss (anyone get the reference?). I will be up sorting through the scum covered boxes in my mind, looking for that thing. You know . . . the thing. Haven't found it yet. I'm going to look in a minute.

I now know I need artists in my life. I miss design school and the legitimately free thinkers there. There are to many carpet salesman for my taste right now.

Interested applicants are encouraged to meet at a bar eventually, to talk about random shit that will change our lives forever.

The woods are lovely dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Cliche, but goddamn, if there ever was a thought in my head, it's that.

Ajay brotha, I will definitely take you up on your offer for TAL shows. Details will follow. I'm just not in the right mindset to talk about a drop off. I trust you understand. Mental note is made.

I do appreciate it though my friend.

God speed and may you not have to see the Passion to renew your faith . . . in where ever your faith dwells.

I did see the movie, not because I had to, but because I wanted to see if it moved me.

It moved me to think about how fast I would probably kill Jesus Christ.

See, I am very spiritual and Jesus is pretty much the man to me, and yet leaving the theater, I was not inspired in the least. I agree with most critics that it was an excercise in sado-masochism. There was no glory in Gibson's dipiction.

I went in not knowing the ending, which helps . . . very Sixth-Sense. Really, I suppose that I was looking to be inspired, but what simply happened was that I was left empty and unfulfilled, akin to going to Lundy's Lane to see the ballet. Does it need to be seen? Sure. It was interesting, and as the Pope said, "It is as it was." Because obviously he was there.

You'd do better to see Jesus Christ Superstar, because at least there is glory in that. You empathize (as if it's possible) with Christ. When the cross is lifted, the music takes your breath away, and you understand. When it is lifted in Gibson's version, the thought was, "Die already . . . for Christ's sake."

Besides, he changed lines in the Bible, which isn't a big deal, and yet, I prefer, "It is finished," as compared to, "It is accomplished."

It just doesn't have the same ring to it.

okay this is really bothering me so I have to make amends. I must have been really off my rocker last night, to commit a blunder such as this. It might not matter to any of you, and to be honest, I hope it doesn't affect you in the least. But I am disgraced, and would have to attempt a literary equivalent of seppuku if I didn't clear this up.

I spelled Hunter S. Thompson's name wrong and I apologize for being an idiot.

God I feel better.

And Ajay, one of these days, if you could let me know how to download TAL shows, because as sad as you think it is to have 24 shows, I am incredibly envious and want to be like you. Thanks. I don't know how to do it because, well, see above about being an idiot.

I might or might not be at the Pink tonight. You'll recognize me as a stick-like person. That's a comlete metaphor.

What isn't . . .

rock on . . .

I want nothing more than to have the energy to walk my ass to the Pink, but no, it's just not gonna happen tonight. How does tomorrow look? I'm feeling good about tomorrow.
This, by the way, is because of Car Talk and This American Life, both on tomorrow on 88.7 (at various times, 10 and 4 I believe), or on the web. I can't be the only guy around here who really looks forward to these radio shows, right? There are others out there, right?

By the way, is any one a big fan of David Sedaris, David Foster Wallace, and/or Hunter S. Thomson? (there is a reason I ask, but like Hitchcock said, there's no suspense in a fired gun)

Though it be madness, there's method to it . . .

What makes me tick . . . huh . . . very good question my dear Rachel.

Could it be the desire to find a connection, knowing only that it has been done before?
Perhaps.
Could it be that there has to be a reason for something somewhere and quite possibly I'll find out tomorrow?
Perhaps.
Could it be seeing a sunset from the seat of a motorcycle listening to "Where the Streets Have No Name."
Perhaps.
Or it could be that for all the absurdity, all the times I mess up, lose it, lose someone, give up, stop working, stop giving chances, stop taking chances, start riding fast, stop going slow, stop sleeping, quit reading Thomas at the Pink, stop writing about my day, my year, my decisions, my, my, this person, that person, that one over there with her head in her hands, me over here, face in a notepad, on the cusp of something, figuring out what someone else knows, thinking about what you know, or I know, or what Woody Guthrie knew and tried to tell, what I know and am trying to tell, or trying to listen, trying to keep my mouth shut for once, or open my mouth for once, for being honest, for saying sorry, or thanks or let's have a drink, or let's live, now, here, not tomorrow, today, the moment is gone as soon as you think it, but the clock still goes on and the apathy is enviable, especially when you stand on the rocks at the marina on a hot August evening when the storm clouds frame the sun over the water, a raindrop hits my book and the next line reads "and the rain began to fall," and makes me think, yes, this is where I am at, that is why I'm here, and I will see that again, and I can show this, regardless if you see what I do, I can show you this, and you can say what time is it, and I can say, "God knows," this is all worth it.
Bob Dylan said the answer to everything can be found at the Grand Canyon at Sundown. I'm not sure because I haven't been, but I can go and I will, and I'll see what he saw. That is beauty. That you can, I can, and yet those who can't, never will. That is all ye know on earth, and all ye need to know. Or in my own words, it's that simple.

Perhaps.

tick

thanks Rachel.

"Get some sleep."

I probably hear that at least once a day from random people. Actually, one time I did get, "You look sad," from a girl at a bar, which made me laugh hysterically, because of course, I couldn't have been happier.

Sleep, in my eyes is overrated. But then again, my eyes are tired, so go figure. But here is my question: why are people so concerned about my sleeping habits? I know the gut reaction is, well they just simply care about you, but if that's the case, wouldn't it make more sense to work with someone on his lifestyle? I mean if a man is a Christian, do people, in all seriousness come up to him and say, you should really get some buddha in your life? Well sure, possibly, but the point is that I like staying up at night, so why is it that people who sleep a lot, need to force their habits upon me? I don't cal my friends up in the middle of the night and say, "GOD, you are missing SO much. You should wake up."

No, of course I don't. I do have an answer to why I stay up, writing the night away on existentially absurd Camus induced plays and chapters of a book about a misguided elf. Actually Dylan Thomas has the answer. He just says it so much better than I ever will. I'm no poet, I know it.

In my craft or sullen art
Exercised in the still night
When only the moon rages
And the lovers lie abed
With all their griefs in their arms
I labour by singing light
Not for ambition or bread
Or the strut and trade of charms
On the ivory stages
But for the common wages
Of their most secret heart.

Not for the proud man apart
From the raging moon I write
On these spindrift pages
Nor for the towering dead
With their nightingales and psalms
But for the lovers, their arms
Round the griefs of the ages,
Who pay no praise or wages
Nor heed my craft or art.

yeah, take THAT.

Incidentially, has any seen the movie Chelsea Walls?

eh . . . y'all are probably sleeping. I suppose it is that time of the month.