I went to Florida for a vacation that turned into a display of how fucked in the head I really am. I'm wondering if it's genetic. Prozac couldn't make a dent in this mess.

I rode my bike down to fly out of JfK. My intention was to throw shit at republicans this past Saturday and Sunday on the return to civilization, but some asshole in a BMW stopped short underneath the FDR and I went scraping across the ground. My arm is all filled with road rash and I think I broke my left big toe. Did not stop me from riding home last night at 2am in the fucking downpour that draped over NY state.

Why did I leave last night that late?

The reason is this. After mending my bike to the point where it was ridable with a broken toe of which is used for shifting (the pain is/was intense), and talking to a bum who made my day saying that they put him away for five years only to realize that he did NOT have a mental problem, I headed of course to Brooklyn.

There I met up with Kenny, got a cane and began to drink.

I met an existentialist on the F train half cocked and am now emailing her. She had a rule, "always talk to people who quote more than 3 existentialist novels in a five minute period." Again that was me, half cocked.

I made it to Gregs where I met many friends and vicadin (sp?). I knew I was too much for the drug and continued to drink to prove it. After doing that properly, we headed to a chique bar of which I was thrown out of, with my cane all the time smacking on the ground cursing republicans.

I woke up the next morning in my boxers and headed to the kitchen sink to continue vomiting. I laid down and heard the stories of the night before. Jesse sat up and shook Kenny and I and told us to head to fight the good fight.

It was at this point I heard this . . .

"And this ladies and gentleman," he said as he pointed to us slobs swiming in our own feces, vomit, and urine, "is why the left will never make it in this country."

I rode through the night once I recovered and made it to French class at 8 am this morning.

Bring on the chaos for I am not ready.

Oh oui.

I think censorship is the way to go. Fuck those who try to get abscure bullshit plaguing the airwaves. Those bitches fucking blow. They're all cheese cocks, I swear to Christ.

There is just too much vulgarity and bad shit out there. Fuck everyone and protect our children s'what I figure. Dickholes.

As for the terrorist fucking shitheads. You read liter . . . you read lietru . . . you read books yer a terrorist, okay, you fucks.

S'all I have to say.

All extremists should be shot by the way.

Well. It was truly amazing. Didn't spend much time, but the time spent was worth spending. What?

A Newcastle, a cheesburger, John Fante, some decent blues that moved into this 18th street lounge vibe, and a glimpse of a young girl swinging on a bar with my hoping to God she doesn't fall. An amazing time had by all.

I was left wondering, as I took a sip, why would someone do that? What's the point of flopping around a bar?

That was when I looked at what I was doing, which was of course flopping around a . . .


To bad y'all missed out. I will catch you next time.

I will now shave my head.

perhaps . . .

Okay, so I'm really done this time. I dropped the 350 page fiasco off to get bound. Now onto other work.

BUT, before I do that. I am goint o the Pink to get a sandwich and a beer while I read. This was where it all started after all.

So if anyone needs a place to chill for a bit (I have to get back and really start a bunch of other work, but first thing's first) I'll be there around a 8:30 or so, give or take. There should be no one there. I'm psyched.

I usually like to chill by meself, but I am extending the invitation. I've been seeing a lot of me lately . . .

Oh and if any one is wondering what this book thing I did is about, read this . . .


“The more people I meet, the more I understand that everyone is looking for something to happen – good or bad.�

- Tom Banaulski

        
Tom Banaulski has a decision to make and he has three months to do so. He is a toy designer with Silly-Smarty Brand Toys who has been put on probation because of his volatile attitude problems and irrational behavior in a corporate environment. The easy answer would be to quit his ostensibly fun job designing toys, but his complacency and anxiety has all but effaced that idea. Besides, like people constantly remind him, why would someone ever want to leave a job designing toys?

Tom constantly analyzes his position not only at his job, but in his life. He was happy once and wonders where and when it all went wrong. During the three months, he re-lives the time from his first day at the toy company four years ago, up until his life today. The more questions he asks, the more things don’t make sense, and the more he begins his decent into absurdity. He wants to stop thinking, and just be that toy designer he once was, but he does not know how.

What he does know is that something has to happen, one way or another.

This is pretty dead on balls accurate. But then, hoiw does one prepare for a life of enternal suffering? And if so, I should really just kick in the nihilism, don't you think . . .

For those who are confused check out Robin's journal. That was fun Robin, thanks a bunch.

Here it tis.

The wretched King Minos has decided your fate. His tale wraps around his body 8 times.
The sweet light no longer strikes against your eyes. Your shade has been banished to... the Eigth Level of Hell - the Malebolge!
Eigth Level of Hell - the Malebolge

---

Many and varied sinners suffer eternally in the multi-leveled Malebolge, an ampitheatre-shapped pit of despair Wholly of stone and of an iron colour: Those guilty of fraudulence and malice; the seducers and pimps, who are whipped by horned demons; the hypocrites, who struggle to walk in lead-lined cloaks; the barraters, who are ducked in boiling pitch by demons known as the Malebranche. The simonists, wedged into stone holes, and whose feet are licked by flames, kick and writhe desperately. The magicians, diviners, fortune tellers, and panderers are all here, as are the thieves. Some wallow in human excrement. Serpents writhe and wrap around men, sometimes fusing into each other. Bodies are torn apart. When you arrive, you will want to put your hands over your ears because of the lamentations of the sinners here, who are afflicted with scabs like leprosy, and lay sick on the ground, furiously scratching their skin off with their nails. Indeed, justice divine doth smite them with its hammer

Here is how I matched up against all the levels:

Purgatory Repenting Believers Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo Virtuous Non-Believers Very Low
Level 2 Lustful Extreme
Level 3 Gluttonous High
Level 4 Prodigal and Avaricious High
Level 5 Wrathful and Gloomy Extreme
Level 6 - The City of Dis Heretics Moderate
Level 7 Violent Very High
Level 8- the Malebolge Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers Extreme
Level 9 - Cocytus Treacherous Very High

I started in January. As of today, I've finally finished writing. Now all I have to do is revise my manuscript before Tuesday to get it bound to hand it in by Thursday. Simple enough.

Then I'll have my Masters and a 322 page post-modern book called Drowning Hermey.

I'm very tired people.

When do you truly know someone though. What is the time limit. A half an hour. A day. A week. Or do you go with your gut feeling?

My manager used to tell me that the hardest thing in the world to do is to talk to someone for an hour or two, take him out to lunch and then decide whether or not you should offer him $60,000 a year to work with people he doesn't know.

Call it judging but seriously, people judge all the goddamn time. It how it works. Take relationships . . .

You're getting know someone. Hell you might even have a girlfriend or boyfriend at the time. He/she seems cool enough. You get another cup of coffee.

Wow, he/she likes to merengue. Wow, sweet. Wait my he/she doesn't like that. You get another cup of coffee.

I just finished reading Camus too! Amazing! Wait, my he/she doesn't read Camus. Maybe I should leave my he/she. You get another cup of coffee.

NOw that's just going to far . . . you mean to tell me that you want to end up in New York too! My he/she hates New York! Your's does too! Wow! You get another cup of coffee.

My point is, it's all a gamble and it never makes sense. So you must go with what you know which is unfortunate because speaking for myself, I don't know shit.

Judgement happens instantly, and there is nothing you can really do about it. And I'm talking nothing as in, if you did do something, it wouldn't be you, so fuck em'. But then, you can't blame them either.

If anyone can define when the exact moment to commence movement would be, I'd call you a fool. No one knows. You can fault ignorance I agree, BUT you cannot fault someone for not opening their eyes. Like Dyaln said, "I mean no harm, nor put fault on anyone, that lives in a vault, but it's alright ma, if I can't please him."

That last part is my utlimate sickness with people. I have yet to find the way to not fault a person for shutting themselves off. I wish I was truly as self-centered as people made me out to be.

Then I wouldn't get physically ill talking to certain people.

so with all the shit talk I was doing, would you believe that I might not go to the shoot?

I just have way to much shit to do. And the way I figure it, if I can't even give God an hour a week, Tunick ain't getting any.

Who knows. We'll see. I'm just tired.

On a side note, I saw Sartre's [c] No Exit [/c] tonight. An amazing performance at Buff Sem by the way.

The words, Hell is other people, are lingering in my head. This has to stop or else I should really get to balls to become the recluse I've always dreamed of being.

Well okay, not a recluse persay, but a cowboy. Definitely a cowboy who has no home. That would be something.

So . . . P a [inlink]paul,1789[/inlink] u l . . . .

Sounds to me like someone's a bit afraid to show off his pee pee. We wouldn't want to get a rise out of you so . . .

and as Dick Cheney would say, Hey, I dare ya.

OOOOOOOh SNAP!

Shiiiiit.

I hear you Paul [inlink]paul,1787[/inlink] and once again you provide a great example of a persuasive arguement.

But okay, Tunick might be making some money off this shit, but he'll do it with or without you or I because yes, sex sells.

But dig this clappa . . . really, what about the experience of being completely nude with people you see everyday, walking around, giving you coffee, fishing with you, etc... . What of that? Am I doing this for Tunick and being a part of art? Nah, not really. It is interesting though, I will say that, but my kind of art is not of the performance kind, but I digress . . .

I do feel a bit odd about saying, shit guys, let's all go get naked, and I swear to God, I won't look at you in that way. Whatever about that. There is a difference between losing an article of clothing piece by piece before entering the kitchen (counters people, counters) and hanging out with 1,600 people in their most vulnerable form. It's completely garden of eden here.

Who knows what it will be like. I've promised myself to go, so I will. I'd like to go with a couple of people, or I could play the, hey-look-at-that-naked-guy-reading-Beckett-by-himself. I'm not sure.

Will this be a sexy thing, and will it alleviate all curiousities? Depends on your imagination. But I will say this . . . imagine if people became comfortable with their bodies? Imagine if guys and girls could talk, naked, fresh, and natural? Imagine people were open enought to say, Jesus you have very nice breasts ______, and I'm talking in the I would love to paint them way. Or . . . God Terry, nice six pack, were you a swimmer? Or, you know stickboy, you're pseudonim is accurate, wait . . . no it's . . . wait . . . um, okay, what are you thinking about?

It won't happen by the way.

As I've said before, nothing's more non-sexy than just hanging out, naked because you have to be.

It's not a very persuasive case, but it did do this . . . i needed to figure out why I wanted to do it anyway, so thank you Paul.

I will ask, that if anyone wants to go, or meet up, I don't know, let's meet up maybe?

I would really like to see all of you naked, I have no qualms.

I'll show you my bod, if you show me yours . . . and about a thousands other people's bods . . .

and just to add . . . as the great Woody Guthrie once said, talking to a bunch of critcs and tightwads

" . . . you are gathered here this morning to burn my finest papers. You are here in this room in this very hour to tell me that there is something ugly, vile, vulgar about me somewhere, somehow, someway, I excuse your ignorance. I am not ashamed of me, nor ashamed of myself. My body is naked now, and it was born naked."