Another casuality of the modern tourist facade, this bar use to be home to the resident street creatures for its ultra affordable selection of alcohol and Philipino women. The place has become nothing more than a highlight for travel guides and upper middle class wanna bees who have no problem standing in line for an hour in order to get the opportunity to rub shoulders with the remaining crop of neighborhood crack addicts, pimps, and prostitutes who to me appear nothing more than out of work actors making a few bucks pretending to be living furniture in a setting that has since departed from these once rundown streets. This past weekend was a real eye opener, not the typical west coast techno hip hop mash up renovated shooting galleries that have grown to seismic epic proportions in a plague like growth around the San Diego downtown area, no that is just opportunistic endeavor of the mentality, "if I do not do it, someone else will" maybe the great tyrannists of history felt the same way, plow everyone under, it is nature acting out in due course. However, witnessing a waiting line in front of the Star Bar took me by surprize. This was a place I use to sneak into as an 18 year old after heading down to Tijuana early Saturday and Sunday morning to make my college and pro football bets. The San Diego trolley ran right down to the border and a few of the sports books happpen to be conveniently located near the border gates, within a half hour I was back on the trolley looking to catch the early games with a bloody mary in my hand. The bartenders and the cocktail waitresses always gave me some money for bets, so by 11am on a Sunday there was quiet a focused crew hip deep in drinking and wagering side bets eagerly taking any action on any game, regardless of winning or losing streak. Never had to pay for booze, being young allowed the older women at the bar to treat me like their little boy toy, one on each side of me during the game depending on how busy the bar happen to be at the time, as the female staff waited for commercials to help the small built up crowd of football fans waiting to be served.
Gambling paid the bills back then, but I really never had too many back then which afforded me the ability to work at my leisure inbetween surf sessions at the beach, after high school I still had an entire summer to waste before creeping back into the reality of education, college was a distant and uncharted territory at the time I never truly embraced, blanketed by a lack of understanding on how high the bar would be raised in comparison from the rather laid back nature and generally uninteresting quality of learning experienced in the previous four years. Television and peers showed me how partying, sex, and a general disdain for focusing on achievement could lead to a life of unlimited cool, social success, and carnal satisfaction, what the above two things did not bother to tell me was that by following the fast track to frat league activity would transform all motives, actions, and mindsets into feeding those three needs over the next twenty years consequentially stunning my growth as a human being, an artist, and contributor to something larger than getting wasted, one night stands, and a total commitment to compulsive consumerism debilitating any sort of possibility of making a stand in working toward my real dreams of writing, film, and music. Those things have really never been know as money makers, but more like hobbies for the masses who drowned under the illusion that they have this hidden talent waiting to blossom into a Hollywood success story with all the trimmings of self destructive behavior, multiple sex partners, and a never ending supply of narcotic substances falling from the sky in a Willie Wonka factory dream breaking like a tidal wave of onto the delicate unmolested sanctified conscious of empty results, reality breaking critism, and utter lack of commitment.
Watching such people around me initally scared off the desire to do anything creative, it felt like anything realated to the current circle of musicans, artists, and other street freaks at one point or another needed a massive contract of financial wealth to give it any sort of sense of validity, bands back in the late 80's in San Diego were being given lots of money with nothing more than demo tapes in their possession, showcase concerts and opening gigs with national touring bands only fueled the already Hades like flames engulfing the San Diego music scene, of course the hype eventually moved on elsewhere taking the entire scene and all its sycophants along with it which was no big loss to me, resulting in the closing down of almost every irrelevant nightclub in town. A few still remain today not much different than they were twenty years ago with the same old worn down crusties in their fourties and fifties, with rockabilly tattoos and attitudes looking to get in the ring one more time if only for nostalgic reasons to induce a fix that has no cure, no escape, no eventual withdrawl, reborn by all the heros of real music, regardless of style from Jelly Roll Morton to Wilco, classical to dubstep, and reggae to reggaeton, possession is complete and final.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
Sushi Deli Too
The original Sushi Deli has been turned into a parking lot as a friend and I walked through old San Diego Downtown neighborhoods that have been over gentrified since living on these streets a few decades ago, even the homeless seem happier than back in the late 80's. There was many a day back then when my ex wife and yours truly would stumble out of the plasma clinic in mid daylight still hung over from the night before, broke, with our only option at the moment being our weekly trip down to the plasma donation center. Don't really remember whose idea it was to begin with, but nevertheless this ritual became part of a pattern of flight which circled the Salvation Army food depot, sperm donor medical office, and the local hipster bars where the two of us practiced freeloading off of the San Diego art crowd, intellectual high brows, and wealthy children who shuttled away into the night with their parents brand new luxury sedan, but before then all stood in awe of our ridiculous adventures throughout the city that turned into a ghost town once the 5pm friday bell struck, avenues became personal playgrounds, no one bothered us as we walked down for cigarettes and wine before the last of the local markets closed for the evening.
The trolley was about as sophisticated in the travel department as we got, in fact there was no car to speak of, I had to travel twenty miles inland to a job in the hellhole of a suburban poverty stricken, meth distributing, and whirlpool of misery outpost where most of my high school classmates made plans to either get knocked up, find a going nowhere job, or reside to cruising the main drag on the weekends trolling for underage girls whom they could tempt with wine coolers and mini truck dreams. The only food we had came from the whatever fit inside an apple box left out in the back of the grocery store I worked at back then. The idea of waiting for the bus with an enormous apple box did not feel out of the ordinary, no one ever questioned me in the hundreds of times I rode home with such a box, ocassionally a few steaks, frozen seafood and other expensive items found their way into my possession, so we ate pretty well.
But being in love, such as young lover will do, they cannot live being apart for very long which prompted me to cut my hours in half in order to spend more time in bed laying around wondering what the future had in store for the two of us.
Most of the money from the plasma center and various other endeavors gave me and the ex a bit of spending cash which we did not hesitate to apply to large meals at the Sushi Deli, drinking after donating plasma is a short cut to total anihilation, a couple drinks equalled a twelve pack after having my blood filter through a few times, the ex had to be carried home once and a while in the late afternoon, what a couple we were, falling asleep at 3:30 pm, best to get some rest if I had to work the next day or rest up for the even run at the bars down the street. Walking these San Diego downtown streets tonight brings back so many memories, every block, turn, and building is part of the story of the years the ex and myself lived here. As for the Sushi Deli Too, this place has become the new or possibly old hip hangout for twenty somethings, tourists, and the relics like myself who have had increasing trouble finding anymore of the old San Diego to roam around in, as it has been replaced with all the convenient, obvious, and unchallenging restuarants, shops, and nightclubs now dominating the regional landscape. Out of towners own this town during the summer and with good reason, the weather is much better than in most other places in the western hemisphere, which over the past decade has generated a revitalization of formerly burnt out hotels, abandoned banks, and vacant skyscrapers into a semi cosmopolitan hotbed of fun, so downtown San Diego is back, much safer to walk the streets today than decades ago, as the homeless continue to arrive by the train loads looking for their private square block to call home.
The Sushi Deli Too has a waiting list of about fourty people at the moment, a large crowd hanging outside while I head inside to get some drinks, where the alcohol of choice is sake and most of the cocktails revolve classic concoctions made with a sake twist, of course all the bartender had to do was tell me it was happy hour. Six large sake bottles and a quick tour of the cocktail menu at least twice later, I vaguely remember eating, much happier though, sort of snuck into the bar area cutting in line but tipping the bartender well has its advantages. Japanese cheers and the will to push things further led to more sake, while watching a couple of the off the menu sake based cocktails pass by, only inspired me to convince my friend to have a few more, more sushi, and the place is cheaper than anywhere else.
By this time, standing has become optional, yet their is still so much of the downtown to see, luckily it is Sunday, most of the crowds have left, no long pointless lines or dress codes or bouncers with private agendas, nothing but the streets, the panhandlers, and the nearby 7-11 which no doubt will be the last stop of the evening to acquiring binge drinking snacks and sandwhiches to send my heart into a partial stroke paralysis sometime when I sober up the next morning, until then all we need is a bar and a bit of luck.
The trolley was about as sophisticated in the travel department as we got, in fact there was no car to speak of, I had to travel twenty miles inland to a job in the hellhole of a suburban poverty stricken, meth distributing, and whirlpool of misery outpost where most of my high school classmates made plans to either get knocked up, find a going nowhere job, or reside to cruising the main drag on the weekends trolling for underage girls whom they could tempt with wine coolers and mini truck dreams. The only food we had came from the whatever fit inside an apple box left out in the back of the grocery store I worked at back then. The idea of waiting for the bus with an enormous apple box did not feel out of the ordinary, no one ever questioned me in the hundreds of times I rode home with such a box, ocassionally a few steaks, frozen seafood and other expensive items found their way into my possession, so we ate pretty well.
But being in love, such as young lover will do, they cannot live being apart for very long which prompted me to cut my hours in half in order to spend more time in bed laying around wondering what the future had in store for the two of us.
Most of the money from the plasma center and various other endeavors gave me and the ex a bit of spending cash which we did not hesitate to apply to large meals at the Sushi Deli, drinking after donating plasma is a short cut to total anihilation, a couple drinks equalled a twelve pack after having my blood filter through a few times, the ex had to be carried home once and a while in the late afternoon, what a couple we were, falling asleep at 3:30 pm, best to get some rest if I had to work the next day or rest up for the even run at the bars down the street. Walking these San Diego downtown streets tonight brings back so many memories, every block, turn, and building is part of the story of the years the ex and myself lived here. As for the Sushi Deli Too, this place has become the new or possibly old hip hangout for twenty somethings, tourists, and the relics like myself who have had increasing trouble finding anymore of the old San Diego to roam around in, as it has been replaced with all the convenient, obvious, and unchallenging restuarants, shops, and nightclubs now dominating the regional landscape. Out of towners own this town during the summer and with good reason, the weather is much better than in most other places in the western hemisphere, which over the past decade has generated a revitalization of formerly burnt out hotels, abandoned banks, and vacant skyscrapers into a semi cosmopolitan hotbed of fun, so downtown San Diego is back, much safer to walk the streets today than decades ago, as the homeless continue to arrive by the train loads looking for their private square block to call home.
The Sushi Deli Too has a waiting list of about fourty people at the moment, a large crowd hanging outside while I head inside to get some drinks, where the alcohol of choice is sake and most of the cocktails revolve classic concoctions made with a sake twist, of course all the bartender had to do was tell me it was happy hour. Six large sake bottles and a quick tour of the cocktail menu at least twice later, I vaguely remember eating, much happier though, sort of snuck into the bar area cutting in line but tipping the bartender well has its advantages. Japanese cheers and the will to push things further led to more sake, while watching a couple of the off the menu sake based cocktails pass by, only inspired me to convince my friend to have a few more, more sushi, and the place is cheaper than anywhere else.
By this time, standing has become optional, yet their is still so much of the downtown to see, luckily it is Sunday, most of the crowds have left, no long pointless lines or dress codes or bouncers with private agendas, nothing but the streets, the panhandlers, and the nearby 7-11 which no doubt will be the last stop of the evening to acquiring binge drinking snacks and sandwhiches to send my heart into a partial stroke paralysis sometime when I sober up the next morning, until then all we need is a bar and a bit of luck.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Counterpoint: Tweeker Strut
Ebb and flow of life in a twenty four span, stayed up till 6am again, the Cola crew crashed landed back in Vegas, all too eager to expliot my weakness in keeping the party going. Latched onto some bottle service VIP hounds at one of the local strip night club, there is nothing like weaving a tail to some unsuspecting female who most of the time are all to eager to believe a fresh serving of adventures which constitute the basic fabric of the media industry, most likely all industry. The classic tale of showing the clients a good time, most of my clients like to party all night, recreationally abuse narcotics, participate in casual anonymous sex and top the escapades off with the ever eventful post festivities paranoid psychotic episode of arm failing, heart stopping, physical seizure in their hotel room a few nights later. This routine is fairly common in the city, the only vehicle more prevalent than the stretch limo in Las Vegas has to be the medivac ambulance, another sort of exclusive form of transportation and from depending who you ask can range in response from poor unfortunate soul to bitch ass amatuer fuckhead who ruins it for all the other people who can handle their drugs.
For some reason it always seems the one of many spoils the fun parade for the others who take measured precaution against falling victim to their own self inflected damaging nature. I have been around some of the most over indulgent substance abusers through my time and even in the overdosed out, loss of control, and inescapable impending doom; these people never ignored how desperate of a state their mulit combo drug ingested corpse happen to be in at the time. In fact experience had taught them plenty in how to deal with this go for broke, clean out the medicine cabinet, local dealers, and a few Fedex packages. I was shocked initially learn a lot of these people led the healthiest of lives outside the nature of a part time decadent lifestyle, vitamins, working out, and a well defined diet seemed like the yin to their yang referring back to the first sentence in this episode.
Plenty of humor to be unearth with a discovery such as the above, a directive, commandment, and maxim I ahere to with the upmost dedication. In a 24 city that has no real time construct, conducting any sort of unnatural performance at any hour of the day or night here remains totally acceptable activity with a premium on rape, pillage, and scorched earth visual contact high like a razor blade across the throat.
110 today, even the insects are quiet, left a Mexican restuarant right outside the imperial gates of the compound known as the Las Vegas Country Estates. A well fortified castle ground who employs the most dilligent meth induced delusional paranoid private security contractors. The local HOA supplies them with unlimited stimulants and assualt rifles, not even feral cats, rodents, and the burrowing gophers on the golf course are safe. The guest cavity check at the gate is one of my all time favorites, three finger special they call it in Asia, here in the US I am sure there is another name for it. Either way I can comfortably fool myself into sleeping knowing the streets of the LVCE are safe once more. Crack hoes, wandering insane homeless, and local perverts roam the outer gate dejected in their inability to storm the castle guards without loss of life, a few of the more patient resistance fighters take up refuge in the abandoned bank building parking lot sharing tales of previous battle as well as coming together in an effort to rejuvenate the fighting spirit alongside morale in order to mount another challenge to penetrating the borderland between desolate, barren, unwatered strip mall vegetation and the oversatuarated golf course wetland tropical resort, local haven for young, nublie, twenty something women that habitate the area like Jamiaca's Club Hedonism. Who was the LVCE to prevent the local heathens from attaining squatters rights on some prime real estate, nothing a bit of well used cardboard, a few shopping carts, and a couple gallon jugs of raw urine couldn't do to help increase the overall property value of each residence within the community and with reasoning like that who could not resist such a solid financial opportunity. Apparently, the local battalion at the LVCE had no problem taking a stance of fierce reproach with truncheons in hand against such an aggressive, obvious, conjob posing as housing rights for the general public. The LVCE wasted no time employing the services of military trained German Shepards who were left off leash in moments of boredom, and apparently there have been plenty of them, to run off the seasonal influx of urban outdoor enthusiatist who ply their trades of multiple personality disorder, cognitive regression, and the lead role of spontaneous pants pissor in front of the nearby restuarants down the corner, entertainment at every turn which leads me to the Tweeker Strut.
A woman on this extremely hot day where everything moves very slowly unless it is in an air conditioned recently purchased luxury sedan. The woman was dressed in a neon pink bra moving with a dominating directional speed reserved for 100 meter sprinters and Formula 1 drivers, following her toothless, bare threaded clothed, Oliver Twist movie extra boyfriend/pimp who brought home the dope to keep the vibe alive and when smoking meth everyday for more than a decade, the tweek cells switch on like a magentic tractor beam, body formed GPS, a powerful intuitive possesion, this woman spots her man who has bailed out on a bicycle in haste, all the woman can do now is give chase like some near starving predator seeking prey, she hallucinates her environment a steadity devolving B Movie from the 70's where she fights collapsing to the ground after giving a final chase in total agony to slowly rot while her carcass is torn to pieces by scavangers out of visible sight who slowly circle overhead waiting for the psychosis to take its victory lap and drop the body to the ground in a deadly burst of aneurysm from the brain, that is it, last words, jet planes off into the sky, neon pink bra, thong, burnt tan skin roasted like over cooked chicken, ready to fall from the bone, no personal miracle, deceased, final, permanent.
For some reason it always seems the one of many spoils the fun parade for the others who take measured precaution against falling victim to their own self inflected damaging nature. I have been around some of the most over indulgent substance abusers through my time and even in the overdosed out, loss of control, and inescapable impending doom; these people never ignored how desperate of a state their mulit combo drug ingested corpse happen to be in at the time. In fact experience had taught them plenty in how to deal with this go for broke, clean out the medicine cabinet, local dealers, and a few Fedex packages. I was shocked initially learn a lot of these people led the healthiest of lives outside the nature of a part time decadent lifestyle, vitamins, working out, and a well defined diet seemed like the yin to their yang referring back to the first sentence in this episode.
Plenty of humor to be unearth with a discovery such as the above, a directive, commandment, and maxim I ahere to with the upmost dedication. In a 24 city that has no real time construct, conducting any sort of unnatural performance at any hour of the day or night here remains totally acceptable activity with a premium on rape, pillage, and scorched earth visual contact high like a razor blade across the throat.
110 today, even the insects are quiet, left a Mexican restuarant right outside the imperial gates of the compound known as the Las Vegas Country Estates. A well fortified castle ground who employs the most dilligent meth induced delusional paranoid private security contractors. The local HOA supplies them with unlimited stimulants and assualt rifles, not even feral cats, rodents, and the burrowing gophers on the golf course are safe. The guest cavity check at the gate is one of my all time favorites, three finger special they call it in Asia, here in the US I am sure there is another name for it. Either way I can comfortably fool myself into sleeping knowing the streets of the LVCE are safe once more. Crack hoes, wandering insane homeless, and local perverts roam the outer gate dejected in their inability to storm the castle guards without loss of life, a few of the more patient resistance fighters take up refuge in the abandoned bank building parking lot sharing tales of previous battle as well as coming together in an effort to rejuvenate the fighting spirit alongside morale in order to mount another challenge to penetrating the borderland between desolate, barren, unwatered strip mall vegetation and the oversatuarated golf course wetland tropical resort, local haven for young, nublie, twenty something women that habitate the area like Jamiaca's Club Hedonism. Who was the LVCE to prevent the local heathens from attaining squatters rights on some prime real estate, nothing a bit of well used cardboard, a few shopping carts, and a couple gallon jugs of raw urine couldn't do to help increase the overall property value of each residence within the community and with reasoning like that who could not resist such a solid financial opportunity. Apparently, the local battalion at the LVCE had no problem taking a stance of fierce reproach with truncheons in hand against such an aggressive, obvious, conjob posing as housing rights for the general public. The LVCE wasted no time employing the services of military trained German Shepards who were left off leash in moments of boredom, and apparently there have been plenty of them, to run off the seasonal influx of urban outdoor enthusiatist who ply their trades of multiple personality disorder, cognitive regression, and the lead role of spontaneous pants pissor in front of the nearby restuarants down the corner, entertainment at every turn which leads me to the Tweeker Strut.
A woman on this extremely hot day where everything moves very slowly unless it is in an air conditioned recently purchased luxury sedan. The woman was dressed in a neon pink bra moving with a dominating directional speed reserved for 100 meter sprinters and Formula 1 drivers, following her toothless, bare threaded clothed, Oliver Twist movie extra boyfriend/pimp who brought home the dope to keep the vibe alive and when smoking meth everyday for more than a decade, the tweek cells switch on like a magentic tractor beam, body formed GPS, a powerful intuitive possesion, this woman spots her man who has bailed out on a bicycle in haste, all the woman can do now is give chase like some near starving predator seeking prey, she hallucinates her environment a steadity devolving B Movie from the 70's where she fights collapsing to the ground after giving a final chase in total agony to slowly rot while her carcass is torn to pieces by scavangers out of visible sight who slowly circle overhead waiting for the psychosis to take its victory lap and drop the body to the ground in a deadly burst of aneurysm from the brain, that is it, last words, jet planes off into the sky, neon pink bra, thong, burnt tan skin roasted like over cooked chicken, ready to fall from the bone, no personal miracle, deceased, final, permanent.
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Routine 2
Have already done something to piss off the butcher at the local grocery store. This is not my side of town, suburbia, where all the attractive single women live. My homebase is filled with prostitutes, drug addicts, and gambling junkies; an active network of Vegas subculture living by their last threads, so my demeanor may not fit in too well with this crowd of pilate moms and recently married twenty something female professionals walking around in tight attractive clothing. The store looks like it just opened last week, the floors are clean, the produce section well kept, as if preparing to film the goods sometime in the next couple of hours. The butcher either has a substantial hangover or a lingering hatred toward my uncaring regard in selecting some lobster tails, large shrimp, and rib eye steak. What this butcher does not realize, revolves around the fact that I do not eat very much anymore, especially anything with taste, nothing but grapefruits, tofu, boiled chicken, and broiled fish. My kitchen smells like hell, but I have lost a lot of weight in the process, outside of going out to lunch ocassionally with my mother, cooked meals are a rarity.
After retriving the goods and some alcohol a friend and I head back to his house for a barbeque, not something I usually partake in but this house is a real chill spot, akin to living back in San Diego, regardless of how wasted I get the couch is always available, the weed is good, the food, the drinks, and the company. A couple of friends cruise over, time to get the bloody mary's going, real spicy mix, westishire sauce, hot sauce, and a bit of lime, plenty of ice, vodka, shake it up a bit in a cup, then enjoy, blaze up some pot, then sit outside and check out, forget about work, bills, time, and any other downers circling the horizon of my life. This entire experience is quite a luxury, one appreciated with the upmost of value in keeping sanity onboard in the brain, even when eating mushrooms. Soon enough I wake up and its 7am, everyone is asleep, nothing left to do but clean up the empty bag of Doritos polished off last night, drink down a warm beer, then fall back asleep to the undersea video loop on the television as satellite radio jam band music plays on the stereo in the background. Reclining leather sofas make great sleeping quarters and my spot is always well thought ahead, hit that couch like a predestined location, world cup finale is on in a few hours and the phone is already blowing up with status reports, texts, and a few veteran fans already wasted at 7am awaiting my arrival which was supposed to be some hours ago. Time for some water after the warm beer, maybe something resembling food, beside the chips, the ice cream, and alcohol from last night, just completely blow my eating habits, glad to revisit my former indulgent nature once and a while, but have hit the gym twice as hard now, then starve the following week, what a chore, something to do though, keeps me motivated. Not really feeling the drive back down toward the strip for the soccer match, laying in this recliner with the pregame show on in high definition is mighty tempting to keep me here which would have been the wiser and more affordable selection, but instead I head down to the Crown to throw away another 60 dollars on beer with the light of a new day anticipating my arrival.
After retriving the goods and some alcohol a friend and I head back to his house for a barbeque, not something I usually partake in but this house is a real chill spot, akin to living back in San Diego, regardless of how wasted I get the couch is always available, the weed is good, the food, the drinks, and the company. A couple of friends cruise over, time to get the bloody mary's going, real spicy mix, westishire sauce, hot sauce, and a bit of lime, plenty of ice, vodka, shake it up a bit in a cup, then enjoy, blaze up some pot, then sit outside and check out, forget about work, bills, time, and any other downers circling the horizon of my life. This entire experience is quite a luxury, one appreciated with the upmost of value in keeping sanity onboard in the brain, even when eating mushrooms. Soon enough I wake up and its 7am, everyone is asleep, nothing left to do but clean up the empty bag of Doritos polished off last night, drink down a warm beer, then fall back asleep to the undersea video loop on the television as satellite radio jam band music plays on the stereo in the background. Reclining leather sofas make great sleeping quarters and my spot is always well thought ahead, hit that couch like a predestined location, world cup finale is on in a few hours and the phone is already blowing up with status reports, texts, and a few veteran fans already wasted at 7am awaiting my arrival which was supposed to be some hours ago. Time for some water after the warm beer, maybe something resembling food, beside the chips, the ice cream, and alcohol from last night, just completely blow my eating habits, glad to revisit my former indulgent nature once and a while, but have hit the gym twice as hard now, then starve the following week, what a chore, something to do though, keeps me motivated. Not really feeling the drive back down toward the strip for the soccer match, laying in this recliner with the pregame show on in high definition is mighty tempting to keep me here which would have been the wiser and more affordable selection, but instead I head down to the Crown to throw away another 60 dollars on beer with the light of a new day anticipating my arrival.
Routine 1
3am Crown and Anchor, been up a couple days already, moving on ray beams, plenty of storage, fiends in pale yellow white bathroom stalls occupying their focus with piles of white powder. The room feels enclosed as sports news network repeats itself in one long chain with a built in automatic loop, a single hour segment the production crew shoots once then plays over and over until something else newsworthy or character damaging develops. The beers are five bucks a pop, rent in order to occupy a barstool even at this supposed slow hour, yet the dart board area is packed with late night shift workers who have yet to feel the creeping presence of exhaustion inducing the eventual onset of the physical characteristic simulating surface sensory sleep. Insomnia rules the land during world cup soccer play, not much different than the regular soccer season where the early game starts at 430am, so going to bed to get a few hours rest becomes pointless, not even enough time to shake off the binge drinking from the previous night, actually techincally still the same evening considering I have not gone to sleep yet.
Been pulling off this type of behavior way too often, but my friends are all too interested in watching the games as well or maybe just want late night company beside the usual companion of Columbian nose candy, these guys have no desire to go home, just biding time until the soccer crowd makes it way back into the bar, England is playing today so things are already beginning to constitute the basic disruptive activity that can result in a full scale anarchistic riot. A group of ten English blokes wander in to christen the early morning booze fest by filling one half of the bar with about sixty full pints of beer to be siphoned down with the upmost minimal effort, a tactical mission to be repeated at least ten more times before kick off, which is not for another 3 hrs. An asylum mentality has already moved in like a catagory 5 hurricane in search of a shore to crash upon. Faces are becoming more distorted, angry, disturbed, in search of any opposition to devour with verbal assualts, physical violence, and the possibility of brutal, mortal, vivisection.
The skylights from the roof have removed the veil of darkness that previous cloaked the grimest of harsh realities circling the already packed standing room only space growing more congested by the minute, intensifying the angst of this bitter filled, continously dissapointed English national soccer team fanbase, one of the most highly paid squads who have for some reason brought their differences to the table unable to find any sort of compatability on any level causing only more disdain and masochistic abuse. Pretty much have wasted this day already, not even six am, be lucky to sleep the rest of the afternoon, the fringes are making their way into the Crown and Anchor to run up their annual party flag like those Captain Morgan rum commericals, well rested, on the bench, somehow left off their leash by their women to relive the yesteryears of single bacholarhood with breakfast beer drinking. Shit I've been in this bar for nearly two days, just climb over the wall onto one of the benches then pass out for a few hours, I am well known here, my performance has always been well recieved, no matter, at this point it is time to dig in for another 8 hr run of soccer matches throughout the day, two pints please, I must be ready.
Been pulling off this type of behavior way too often, but my friends are all too interested in watching the games as well or maybe just want late night company beside the usual companion of Columbian nose candy, these guys have no desire to go home, just biding time until the soccer crowd makes it way back into the bar, England is playing today so things are already beginning to constitute the basic disruptive activity that can result in a full scale anarchistic riot. A group of ten English blokes wander in to christen the early morning booze fest by filling one half of the bar with about sixty full pints of beer to be siphoned down with the upmost minimal effort, a tactical mission to be repeated at least ten more times before kick off, which is not for another 3 hrs. An asylum mentality has already moved in like a catagory 5 hurricane in search of a shore to crash upon. Faces are becoming more distorted, angry, disturbed, in search of any opposition to devour with verbal assualts, physical violence, and the possibility of brutal, mortal, vivisection.
The skylights from the roof have removed the veil of darkness that previous cloaked the grimest of harsh realities circling the already packed standing room only space growing more congested by the minute, intensifying the angst of this bitter filled, continously dissapointed English national soccer team fanbase, one of the most highly paid squads who have for some reason brought their differences to the table unable to find any sort of compatability on any level causing only more disdain and masochistic abuse. Pretty much have wasted this day already, not even six am, be lucky to sleep the rest of the afternoon, the fringes are making their way into the Crown and Anchor to run up their annual party flag like those Captain Morgan rum commericals, well rested, on the bench, somehow left off their leash by their women to relive the yesteryears of single bacholarhood with breakfast beer drinking. Shit I've been in this bar for nearly two days, just climb over the wall onto one of the benches then pass out for a few hours, I am well known here, my performance has always been well recieved, no matter, at this point it is time to dig in for another 8 hr run of soccer matches throughout the day, two pints please, I must be ready.
Bottomless Margaritas
For only 9.99, looked to be quite a bargain, according to Tito the parrot and Roberto the Cat, these two character knew something about the extremely rusted out, nickel plated, and ambulance on stand by vomit inducing sugar high refills of rot gut margaritas that I only suspect. Bottomless Margaritas are the must do thing for 9 to 5 ers who want to spend an entire weekend hugging the edges of a toilet bowl in some piss filled stench ridden bar bathroom, inhaling acrid pain to the nose filtered luckily by the excessive amount of this paint removing substance posing as alcohol used by the local hotel maintence staff as paint remover, thankfully by the 3rd round of drinks a hallucingenic psychosis delivers such an intense set of delusional activity the entire event will seem no worse than a night wasting a night playing trivia on one of those portable gaming modules they hand to those who by way possible endure human contact but must drink for a living.Binge drinking on the cheap is just another level in the endless consumption trail that exists all over the city, not much different than the buffet and the two for one happy drinks at any local college themed bar wet t-shirt contest included. Since I have shut everything down in the fun dept, most of this type of middle class fun eludes me, yet somehow the memo did not reach the men at the prison gates, as long as I have a credit card, the desire to get fucked up, and an entire previous week spent doing nothing but grinding out a living trying come up with cashflow, new business, and spinning around a carousel of people like to check in for drink, drugs, and late night hours, prison break occurs and after little sleep and much money spent, the next day become a total waste, a write off. It is really getting in the way with the new lockdown philosophy that is going to get me out of this spiral which is leading to slow descent to oblivion.
When people try to squeeze you to gauge how much game you have, it feels like a big waste of time, considering how I have been down from the start, once others get leverage on you, nothing seems to matter, loyality, effort, committment, or desire, at the end of the day I am still just making money for these people, nothing more, nothing less, enough others come around, work for less then tell the people at top, those who are holding the entire three ring circus together are no longer useful, if anything these people are an expense who can be replaced, we all can be replaced, don't be fooled, we are all in the scope, of people high on sniffing their own shit, slaves to that brown mist making their eyes tear up and buy the lies mid level management have been so famous for selling.
Watched a two man team lay down the white block rectangular crosswalk mats which are placed on the ground to be smoothed out by one worker as the other with a butane flamethrower like machine, slowly roasts the crosswalk mats onto the blacktop surface of the street. The smoother must have some real confidence is his co-worker cause I would not feel to comfortable with another guy waving around a flamethrower three to four feet away from me, too dangerous, what if the butane machine guy shows up drunk, starts daydreaming, or just is in a fowl mood, few seconds later there is an arm looking like a burnt up hot dog, yet some folk have to almost do anything nowaday to get by, which means even putting your life in danger. The smoother did not appear too unnerved, just as robotic as the flame operator, going through the motions of the hourly wage, all to happy to feel the heat of that lit butane singe the ends of his arm hair, if there was any left to begin with by now anyway. Confidence and fear of losing it all are so much closer to each other than given credit.
When people try to squeeze you to gauge how much game you have, it feels like a big waste of time, considering how I have been down from the start, once others get leverage on you, nothing seems to matter, loyality, effort, committment, or desire, at the end of the day I am still just making money for these people, nothing more, nothing less, enough others come around, work for less then tell the people at top, those who are holding the entire three ring circus together are no longer useful, if anything these people are an expense who can be replaced, we all can be replaced, don't be fooled, we are all in the scope, of people high on sniffing their own shit, slaves to that brown mist making their eyes tear up and buy the lies mid level management have been so famous for selling.
Watched a two man team lay down the white block rectangular crosswalk mats which are placed on the ground to be smoothed out by one worker as the other with a butane flamethrower like machine, slowly roasts the crosswalk mats onto the blacktop surface of the street. The smoother must have some real confidence is his co-worker cause I would not feel to comfortable with another guy waving around a flamethrower three to four feet away from me, too dangerous, what if the butane machine guy shows up drunk, starts daydreaming, or just is in a fowl mood, few seconds later there is an arm looking like a burnt up hot dog, yet some folk have to almost do anything nowaday to get by, which means even putting your life in danger. The smoother did not appear too unnerved, just as robotic as the flame operator, going through the motions of the hourly wage, all to happy to feel the heat of that lit butane singe the ends of his arm hair, if there was any left to begin with by now anyway. Confidence and fear of losing it all are so much closer to each other than given credit.
Friday, July 9, 2010
Shop Day
Far and few between the days have seem like lately when all the crew get back together to relive some of the finer moments, recalling why life was meant to be lived in the first place, a rediscovery founded by a human being who understood the greater rewards existed beyond the constricted confines of the work place taking time to explore them and ultimately gain wisdom from the adventures that ensued. His influence has given invaluable reward over the past fifteen years and the confidence to breakaway from the typical brain dead path handed out to the commonplace laborer, the movie reels from my days play like French new wave counterculture midnight movies which without the influence of the man who we had all gathered together to remember today, might have kept me from setting out on such a caustic nonlinear go for broke journey to find out about how my past laid the foundation for my future from parents to parenthood, blue collar to white collar, and finally a mono culture America to a mulitcultured world.
I have never been too comfortable with groups of people no matter how well or little I might know them, granted if there is a lot of commonground which usually centers around narcotics, partying, and music my interest in conversation tends to swing from silent to overzealous either way causing more than enough uncomfortable moments for those around me. With such a large group of co-workers coming around today, it always makes me wonder why events like this are so few. The fact everyone in here has surrounded themselves with so much, from work, to children, to social insulation and a general desire to be aloof leaves me thinking about some of the causes for a minute, a largest looming fact that the one man we came to remember today was pretty much the glue for holding this loose network of people together and ever since his passing, we all have become marooned islands once more floating off back into our own little satellite worlds forgetting the lessons our guidance counselor, spiritual mentor, and good friend had taught us, which was don't get too caught up in the chaotic nature of life, there is no ryhme or reason, beauty, joy, and an appreciation of life don't come punching a clock, they arrive by spending time together, exploring the unknown, and not being afraid of risking everything to learn a greater truth not found in any book. These ideas have been my armor, my fierce resolve in the face of immense pressure, and lastly calming words to keep the chambered bullet from piercing my skull. Did anyone else getting such sacred philosophy from this man, not sure, but one thing I know my life has only benefitted from his presence in it, as I carry all the texts, the scrolls, the tablets, and papyrus of his knowledge through the rest of my days in an attempt to set as a great example of humanity as he did.
I have never been too comfortable with groups of people no matter how well or little I might know them, granted if there is a lot of commonground which usually centers around narcotics, partying, and music my interest in conversation tends to swing from silent to overzealous either way causing more than enough uncomfortable moments for those around me. With such a large group of co-workers coming around today, it always makes me wonder why events like this are so few. The fact everyone in here has surrounded themselves with so much, from work, to children, to social insulation and a general desire to be aloof leaves me thinking about some of the causes for a minute, a largest looming fact that the one man we came to remember today was pretty much the glue for holding this loose network of people together and ever since his passing, we all have become marooned islands once more floating off back into our own little satellite worlds forgetting the lessons our guidance counselor, spiritual mentor, and good friend had taught us, which was don't get too caught up in the chaotic nature of life, there is no ryhme or reason, beauty, joy, and an appreciation of life don't come punching a clock, they arrive by spending time together, exploring the unknown, and not being afraid of risking everything to learn a greater truth not found in any book. These ideas have been my armor, my fierce resolve in the face of immense pressure, and lastly calming words to keep the chambered bullet from piercing my skull. Did anyone else getting such sacred philosophy from this man, not sure, but one thing I know my life has only benefitted from his presence in it, as I carry all the texts, the scrolls, the tablets, and papyrus of his knowledge through the rest of my days in an attempt to set as a great example of humanity as he did.
Thursday, July 8, 2010
Let The Good Times Roll (Excerpt)
A sudden ineptness fills every cell in my body like some covert drug junkie being outed in public for the first time, the real joke and sadness being that everyone around him has already known about his illicit and self indulgent melodrama long before he was even minutely ready to admit those faults to himself. So now I am busted in debtors prison, drug court, and the no fun zone, a multiple award winning brute that must now spend the next ten years, maybe twenty, and possibly the rest of my living life, moving away from all the rash decisions compiled like some decadent encyclopedia of hellraising, carefree, unforgiving, and impulsive memories. They have not come to break my legs, only my heart, my spirit, and my independence, there is nothing left now but to become a cog to the labors of society who I have loaned my services to for the past 25 years. The bill is due, I cannot pay, the bosses will take me into their ownership, strip me of all wealth, priviledge, and access, there is a cell waiting for me in every town in every country in the world, a stale, yet sanitized space, a void where silence grows louder and louder, it is deafening, my only company amongst these confines. I've been told I can either work or die, nothing else, no more parties at the beach clubs, multi-day spending sprees in metropolitan cities with unlimited credit, carte blanche from the local authorities, and the blessings of the gods to act with the most lowdown, primitive, and obscene remoseless directive seen since the era of Genghis Khan.
No, the powers that be allowed me to rule, to beat the gong mercilessly, leaving a road of ruin in my wake no matter the place or time, the laws of nature did not apply to me, gravity, space travel, and black holes were completely at my disposal, other humans would not question those abilities only marvel in the actual performance of such metaphysical feats found in the texts of the ancient greeks. I did not question my role, just merely sought to execute the part with precision wrapped inside an exterior of anarchy like disregard for safety, consequence, and morality. Words, images, web page, and sublimation are the tools at my disposal, to craft chapter after chapter of historical context from half baked recollections, musings from a bar stool, and juvenille humor amongst colleagues who only dream of such burlesque conduct, yet since I have nothing but time now sitting in this cell, the only thing left to do is attempt to make some sense from a portriat that would even haunt the dreams of the painter Francis Bacon.
No, the powers that be allowed me to rule, to beat the gong mercilessly, leaving a road of ruin in my wake no matter the place or time, the laws of nature did not apply to me, gravity, space travel, and black holes were completely at my disposal, other humans would not question those abilities only marvel in the actual performance of such metaphysical feats found in the texts of the ancient greeks. I did not question my role, just merely sought to execute the part with precision wrapped inside an exterior of anarchy like disregard for safety, consequence, and morality. Words, images, web page, and sublimation are the tools at my disposal, to craft chapter after chapter of historical context from half baked recollections, musings from a bar stool, and juvenille humor amongst colleagues who only dream of such burlesque conduct, yet since I have nothing but time now sitting in this cell, the only thing left to do is attempt to make some sense from a portriat that would even haunt the dreams of the painter Francis Bacon.
And The Angel's Gonna Wear Her Pink Shoes
Hot Saturday afternoon in the summer where Las Vegas Strip pools are overteeming with young twenty somethings compelled to waste the finer moments of their life away paying for drinks to hand to hot young women who dance like drunk coked out strippers in the inescapable heat. While driving by the not so inhabited Paradise Rd making my toward one of the many local bars for a few beers before engaging my own diluted carnal desires on those same local strip pools, I drove by a woman armed with only pink shoes, a backpack, and a parasol to guard herself from the overwhelming presence of the slightly descending sun. The woman did not appear to have a care in the world, an attitude like one might see in those early fourties black and white movies where the main characters sort of took all of life's trails and tribulations like hills on the road, even an unpaved road. Today in a society where even the most trival of events can send people off the deep end, this woman had wisdom, patience, and an ability to seperate her own life from the events of a greater plane. What did she care marching along the back alleys of Las Vegas with no real direction or involvment, it sort of made me jealous to see someone who was so polarly opposed from my current place in life, locked down by nothing, no real agenda, no bills, or responsibilities outside of finding a place to sleep, some food, and maybe a few interesting things to pass the time.
She was her own personal caravan setting out across the modern desert of America, full of empty skyscrapers, foreclosed homes, and abandoned industrial facilities, to her these objects must look no different than the artifacts of ancient cultures to the anthropologist, a landscape of 21st century covered wagons gone bust, laying on the side of the road, cloth caponies burned right through with hundreds of arrows lodged into the wooden structure, total collapse, human bones slowly covered by the sands of unconventional winds, unpredictable nature, a downfall well foreseen but unheeded, these are the mean streets the lonesome traveler and her pink shoes walk past on her way through the lands, makers of the dream blowing dishwashing soap bubbles for the tourist hordes to dance inside, to fornicate, bending back the elastic waste of an overplayed production for a new crowd who has somehow even in 21st media ubiqutiousness not yet seen or heard about the miracle disaster of South Beach Miami pop culture on the dry lake bed of Nevada, or the ever increasing glut of subhuman congregations weilding three foot plastic drink cups in the shape of rock guitars, the masses coming to roost at one dollar craps tables, stuff into rooms ten deep, as Italian made sports cars splash waste water cesspools gathered at the edge of street corner gutters on the passing working class tourists. This illusion is dead, made for mass consumption, tell no one the party is over, the woman walking down the alley either does not care or has no clue and is lucky regardless, as I watch the generation influenced by my shallow behavior repeat the same mistakes, done in by the media, society, and each other to give up caring, mattering, and ultimately wallow in apathy, all for a chance to immerse their minds in the images and ideas they get from the telemarketing barons of the global junkmarket interzone broadcast facilities programming the general public's next move, next thought, and next idol, stay tuned.
She was her own personal caravan setting out across the modern desert of America, full of empty skyscrapers, foreclosed homes, and abandoned industrial facilities, to her these objects must look no different than the artifacts of ancient cultures to the anthropologist, a landscape of 21st century covered wagons gone bust, laying on the side of the road, cloth caponies burned right through with hundreds of arrows lodged into the wooden structure, total collapse, human bones slowly covered by the sands of unconventional winds, unpredictable nature, a downfall well foreseen but unheeded, these are the mean streets the lonesome traveler and her pink shoes walk past on her way through the lands, makers of the dream blowing dishwashing soap bubbles for the tourist hordes to dance inside, to fornicate, bending back the elastic waste of an overplayed production for a new crowd who has somehow even in 21st media ubiqutiousness not yet seen or heard about the miracle disaster of South Beach Miami pop culture on the dry lake bed of Nevada, or the ever increasing glut of subhuman congregations weilding three foot plastic drink cups in the shape of rock guitars, the masses coming to roost at one dollar craps tables, stuff into rooms ten deep, as Italian made sports cars splash waste water cesspools gathered at the edge of street corner gutters on the passing working class tourists. This illusion is dead, made for mass consumption, tell no one the party is over, the woman walking down the alley either does not care or has no clue and is lucky regardless, as I watch the generation influenced by my shallow behavior repeat the same mistakes, done in by the media, society, and each other to give up caring, mattering, and ultimately wallow in apathy, all for a chance to immerse their minds in the images and ideas they get from the telemarketing barons of the global junkmarket interzone broadcast facilities programming the general public's next move, next thought, and next idol, stay tuned.
There are No Innocent Bystanders
An advertising poster with those words have been blanketing the bus stops across the Vegas valley in the past month and after a recent reassesment of my own personal behavior both financially and party lifestyle wise has had me thinking about just how I ended up 40 years old in a downward spiral of debt, paycheck to paycheck living, and a less than reluctant attitude to disembrace from the prevalent Vegas culture of existing beyond ones means with no regard for the future. There really is no one else to blame beside myself falling into the recess of a bad month where a few weeks of work dissolves away in a five minute span. Yet this event has given me some perspective in reinventing myself but also looking at the larger picture in how I am generally imprisoned to a post viable single scene booze drug fest unlimited budget, especially after going through all my reciepts for the first two quarters of 2010. I am at the crossroads of moving on to a genuine carrer and total financial ruin. Waking up one day to the realization that my life might be over, everything to be sold, repossessed, or given away generated a sense of dispair that might make a lesser person consider suicide, however the thoughts going through my head did scare the shit out of me.
Still, there is the connect between the midnight rambler lifestyle of going to bars, nightclubs, out of town trips, and dining out twisted in with the nature of my profession and the ability to abuse all the above in the name of getting the job done allows a lot of people in my business the lattitude to go all out, then push it even further, the five star hotels, restuarants, booths at high end clubs, alongside the drinks and the women, no real end here, in the name of commerce, this has been well documented, but now, my life has come to a point where I must get past all co workers, bosses, and clients who are full blown party lifestyle addicts with no hope of change, dug deep into their profession, insulated from unemployment and discovery of their deranged character. But being surrounded by so many crazy sorts has made harder to change and easier to continue on with the brutish, lavish, spending, cabaret indulgent, free for all, the champions of my industry glorify on a weekly basis to merely to retire to my room on the road has been the largest of victories over the past year, but I can still feel them out there on the streets, going insane, running amok amongst the locals of whatever city, wherever on the planet, they have their golden ticket and will cash it in for all it is worth, possibly more, especially after a rough couple of nights where even the mightest have gone silent from abusing the environment and themselves just a bit too harshly. My guilt is absolute but my ability to move on from the post apocalypse of my work life will define me with more resolve then all previous nights of debaucherous chaos and blacked out memories have already done to my so called reputation.
Still, there is the connect between the midnight rambler lifestyle of going to bars, nightclubs, out of town trips, and dining out twisted in with the nature of my profession and the ability to abuse all the above in the name of getting the job done allows a lot of people in my business the lattitude to go all out, then push it even further, the five star hotels, restuarants, booths at high end clubs, alongside the drinks and the women, no real end here, in the name of commerce, this has been well documented, but now, my life has come to a point where I must get past all co workers, bosses, and clients who are full blown party lifestyle addicts with no hope of change, dug deep into their profession, insulated from unemployment and discovery of their deranged character. But being surrounded by so many crazy sorts has made harder to change and easier to continue on with the brutish, lavish, spending, cabaret indulgent, free for all, the champions of my industry glorify on a weekly basis to merely to retire to my room on the road has been the largest of victories over the past year, but I can still feel them out there on the streets, going insane, running amok amongst the locals of whatever city, wherever on the planet, they have their golden ticket and will cash it in for all it is worth, possibly more, especially after a rough couple of nights where even the mightest have gone silent from abusing the environment and themselves just a bit too harshly. My guilt is absolute but my ability to move on from the post apocalypse of my work life will define me with more resolve then all previous nights of debaucherous chaos and blacked out memories have already done to my so called reputation.
Friday, July 2, 2010
Writing/Living
Somehow both of these concepts feed themselves, no matter how many times I have gone to bed at 8am in the past year, time has been erased especially with the World Cup at the moment, let's see, got high, tried to sleep in my bed, did not work, as always someone called, told me to meet up at our local haunt, a british pub which serves as my second home where I will probably be heading in the next few hours without regret, this weekend will serve as a remind of what motivates me to write but at the same time puts me on the bench from time to time, trying to regain a bit of strength, yeah I still have a job, hard to believe with my nocturnal lifestyle, plenty of company though and they are interesting for the most part, no time for running away now, shed the fear, the weary bones, fatigued heart and mind, all games for the most part, just forget, isn't that what alcohol is for, might as well get a head start from the rest of the party army due to land in Las Vegas in less than 12 hrs, armed with sharp knives and a strong desire to obliterate all rationale thought, these are my counterparts, my friends, and allies all rolled up into one, finally the fun is on my home ground no last night of a five day run curled up in a ball in some midtown Manhattan hotel questioning my judgement and overall ability to run in the fast lane with people half my age.
Just write and write and write, not much on content, things ramble, instead of watch me stick my finger down my throat at 8am to go puke in toilet, then go back to drinking, not giving a shit about anything except getting more fucked up, chasing that euphoric feeling, dizzy, intoxicating, calm, unafraid, time to get things done.
Just write and write and write, not much on content, things ramble, instead of watch me stick my finger down my throat at 8am to go puke in toilet, then go back to drinking, not giving a shit about anything except getting more fucked up, chasing that euphoric feeling, dizzy, intoxicating, calm, unafraid, time to get things done.
Acceptance
Might as well wear these new clothes to bed, shopping for the upcoming holiday weekend is not something I normally do, even being single does not weight too heavily on the current decision to head to the uber hotel strip shopping mall. 200 bucks in my pocket, premediated, the era of unmanaged physical appearance has come to a close, where one thing is stripped away, something else becomes upgraded, a three dimensional puzzle with dark spaces and overly vibrant elevated plateaus. Walking around the apartment in my new clothes, dressed like your average cool kid about twenty years younger than myself, sporting the same look that was accepted twenty years ago, why does the youth always pickup on the shitty traits of their parents, uncle, aunts, or older co workers, such co workers who symbiotically search out such exchanges in order to relive some of that past where they fill a bit shortchanged, maybe not laid enough, an extreme addiction fresh undamaged physical flesh.
Young teenage girls help me pick out a few outfits, might as well be shopping with my daughter, do I really care about showing up this weekend in some current hipster nature, must or why would my so called artist nature currently being twisted into the guise of a first year fashion designer, overly critical and short on confidence. Already wasted a half an hour walking around the many racks of beach shorts in an attempt to find the right pair to match a light blue striped tank top, common traits now exist, my character shifts into a person, tourist from southern california, semi cool, mention San Diego, then beach cred becomes unquestioned as if born with surfboard in my hands. All I know is the fact I am putting so much effort into this quest for fashion acceptance, can make me only laugh at my attempt, found the proper pair of board shorts, even the hard to impress teenage girls gave me quite positive remarks on my choice, could have been the soft sell, who knows, the board shorts had creases in them, look like they had been slept in for weeks then balled up in a corner to be hung back on a rack hanger months later, throw on a price tag and wait for the next victim.
After purchasing the tank top and shorts, I walked out of the clothing store with a new sense of achievement, another sardine amongst the passing streams of the twenty somethings covered in tattoos, tight clothing, colored hair, and a sense of individuality my apathetic antihero nature refuses to ever buy into no matter how many pieces of metal they put under the surface of their skin, but would any of these cutting edge types, starve themselves for a month, sell all their belongings, go live on the roof of some abandoned warehouse, no. All I see is the passing judgement of life sentences here in this undertow of commerce, the real tragedy is that these people don't care, never have, never will, they know nothing else, the older adults won't stop carousel, they need them to support the economy and healthcare as the baby boomers grow old, the most self absorbed generation of all time who is on the precipes of going on the dole, which is going to turn America into a fourth world nation, but they don't care, I say give them all the free drugs they can handle, incapacitate them, like they are attempting to do to their children, this sick joke makes everyone vomit, very few have the stomach to stand witness of total and complete erosion of American society, ambition, hard work, and passion as obsolete as the relics of the 19th American industrial revolution.
The streams of fish continue to pass through the shopping mall as I head over to a competing clothing store who sells the skater look, I buy a few things and end up in a conversation with another twenty something about the need to buy an improved wardrobe for the summer, long sleeve shirts are out of the question, pants, too damn hot, hoodies, pull overs to the back of the closet, not sure working for minimum wage will foster the latest in So Cal freshness, but that is what theft is for after all, had no doubt those workers at this store found ways to accessorize their backpacks or friends automobile trunk with clothes at a 100 percent discount. During the conversation, I think how I have all this money to buy this shit, even worse following through with my initial impulse to put thought into action, then top if off by having a discussion with this store worker on how the will to adhere to consumer change flowed through my viens like a full blown addict only concerned with continuing on being fixated to this mandate, the omnicient command from the gods, but at least I'll look good doing it.
Young teenage girls help me pick out a few outfits, might as well be shopping with my daughter, do I really care about showing up this weekend in some current hipster nature, must or why would my so called artist nature currently being twisted into the guise of a first year fashion designer, overly critical and short on confidence. Already wasted a half an hour walking around the many racks of beach shorts in an attempt to find the right pair to match a light blue striped tank top, common traits now exist, my character shifts into a person, tourist from southern california, semi cool, mention San Diego, then beach cred becomes unquestioned as if born with surfboard in my hands. All I know is the fact I am putting so much effort into this quest for fashion acceptance, can make me only laugh at my attempt, found the proper pair of board shorts, even the hard to impress teenage girls gave me quite positive remarks on my choice, could have been the soft sell, who knows, the board shorts had creases in them, look like they had been slept in for weeks then balled up in a corner to be hung back on a rack hanger months later, throw on a price tag and wait for the next victim.
After purchasing the tank top and shorts, I walked out of the clothing store with a new sense of achievement, another sardine amongst the passing streams of the twenty somethings covered in tattoos, tight clothing, colored hair, and a sense of individuality my apathetic antihero nature refuses to ever buy into no matter how many pieces of metal they put under the surface of their skin, but would any of these cutting edge types, starve themselves for a month, sell all their belongings, go live on the roof of some abandoned warehouse, no. All I see is the passing judgement of life sentences here in this undertow of commerce, the real tragedy is that these people don't care, never have, never will, they know nothing else, the older adults won't stop carousel, they need them to support the economy and healthcare as the baby boomers grow old, the most self absorbed generation of all time who is on the precipes of going on the dole, which is going to turn America into a fourth world nation, but they don't care, I say give them all the free drugs they can handle, incapacitate them, like they are attempting to do to their children, this sick joke makes everyone vomit, very few have the stomach to stand witness of total and complete erosion of American society, ambition, hard work, and passion as obsolete as the relics of the 19th American industrial revolution.
The streams of fish continue to pass through the shopping mall as I head over to a competing clothing store who sells the skater look, I buy a few things and end up in a conversation with another twenty something about the need to buy an improved wardrobe for the summer, long sleeve shirts are out of the question, pants, too damn hot, hoodies, pull overs to the back of the closet, not sure working for minimum wage will foster the latest in So Cal freshness, but that is what theft is for after all, had no doubt those workers at this store found ways to accessorize their backpacks or friends automobile trunk with clothes at a 100 percent discount. During the conversation, I think how I have all this money to buy this shit, even worse following through with my initial impulse to put thought into action, then top if off by having a discussion with this store worker on how the will to adhere to consumer change flowed through my viens like a full blown addict only concerned with continuing on being fixated to this mandate, the omnicient command from the gods, but at least I'll look good doing it.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
The Well
The Well is what I stare into everytime the choice is made to write, create, or live life in some ridiculously excessive nature. There is meaning in The Well, humor, hysteria, and rarified pleasure, but there is also, emptiness, fear, and a liquid surface posing as a mirror which at times makes me want to seek death, seek pain, and become immersed in wholesale destruction of my public self. I sit here in a chair right now high on pills writing for the fact that I know very little else throughout the fourty years of my life, except running away from The Well, there have been other times, once or twice where the brain, body, and soul had gone so far down my fingertips touched the bottom. A universal existence blossoming to the forefront of a space in time where reality around me dissapeared while clarity struck like an assualt victim, total paralysis, harmonious visions, as well as fractured movie frames of sight to no longer to be believed or accepted. After moments such as the above, everyday life becomes nothing more than a prison yard. Waiting around to do something, anything that extends past all the people punching clocks, performing routine after routine, all meaningless, assigned through the choices they had made, days, weeks, and years before, haunting chains whose metallic clanging only gets louder and louder, so fix me a meal, give me a drink, fuck past it, watch some television, forget, teleport to the next day and the next, until middle age arrives with nothing to show for the effort of living, accept for fear of dying, maybe some extra weight, kids, bills, and the everpresent fear of watching it all slip away with one phone call, one wrong word, or one past transgression unforgotten as the balance of power continues it fluid movement to those seeking it from those who are either withered by it or shy from the responsibility, sure it is a mask, but like one of those worn by the ancient greeks in theatre, representing a god like status to eliminate the weakness in the psychological makeup of underlinks, right to the chambers, the gallows, becoming unpersoned, no longer allowed to hit the shopping malls, the restuarants, the movies, or sporting events, banned from the bars, a force migration like the Trail of Tears to the fringes of society to take up homestead on the World Wide Web, the last refuge for those who no longer want to belong, participate, or feel validated, only to be surrounded by The Well, the power of delusional insight, shamanistic vibrations, peering through a convex lens, tunnel vision, light has no form or shape, very little intensity, to the point dimension dissapears, just a dot in the iris of my eye. Giving up thinking anymore, believing, or playing along with this blockbuster movie that even James Cameron could not begin to recreate, so many humans, along so many vectors, the result of interaction is compelling enough, pretty much the only thing left to get me out of bed, the idea we can make others love us, hate us, control us, or fall to their knees with actions and words is fascinating, moreover some have no real interest in the follies of manipulation only using it like a remote control device then laughing out loud in the direction obident creatures who will never understand their role in society, as grubs for the brood, food minus thought, flesh magnetics right into the meat grinder, retrospace butcher, armed with cleaver, taking an ear, then a hand, then a leg, raidal saw around the skull, dine on the brain or better yet infect it with the illusion, the promise of entitlement, then sit back as time unfolds from the immature bassonet of mania to fully modernized penthouse of insanity. This is a thread with no end, this is The Well, with unending form, space, volume, yes there is a bottom but only for those foolish enough to seek it and those who survive, dispell dialouge like the above, makes sense to me, clarity comes with a price, the opaque well, dive, dive deep, reflections sucked away in a vaccum, no surface, no end from any side, so many bodies, minds, and souls lost in that well from a quick fix to a cell with no borders, all I can do is collect these eggs of wisdom like an over anxious child on Easter, not totally aware the task I am undertaking is a fast track to the sharp edges of self destruction.
Stranded at a Slot Machine
The woman was hysterically crying about the fact how she could not get herself home, whether it was due to excessive alcohol consumption, a spontaneous fit of amnesia, or a desperate plea toward a significant other who had been long overdue in a traditional old west coming to the rescue of her as a symbol of his total unconditional love to this woman. Well, by the amount of crying she is doing at the moment, appears the ship to salvaging her current relationship has sailed, leaving her in a enormous pool of tears, more than enough to fill the olympic size pool on the third floor of the Hilton hotel where I happen to be passing through after a zestful filled day and evening at work. As usual in Las Vegas, no one really paid any attention to the mini drama going on over in the slot section known as Penny Alley, not exactly where all the high rollers hang out looking to increase their already well endowed bank roll. Just another familiar story of wailers, screamers, and sobbers who have long since cease to be useful to their loved ones, the public, and most of all themselves, so they let it all go, emptying the bank account, the credit cards, and whatever forms of pawnable materials to sit in front of a slot machine with straight burbon, hoping a mild 300 hundred dollar victory or even the infamous pipe dream of Megabucks shall come along in the form of Prince Charming to save the day, to right the wrongs, and a lay large wraths of hate on everyone since grade school who ever vexed them with actions, words, and judgements of malice.
The woman continued to ball her eyes out while I took a lay of the land at this late hour to see what the local crop of prostitues looked like. Seems all the hot ones have long since packed it in, not that the Hilton is known for a high level of talent in the escort department, plenty of retirees who have seen finer days patrol these bars for the conventioneer or some bombed out drunk needing a bit more than a On Demand porno. An older woman is holding down a corner of the bar attempting to blend in with the scenery, nondescript, sort of just put the bait out like a spider and see if anyone tugs on the line and in Vegas they invariably do, without question, the later the hour, the more desperate as well as manical the male figure evolves. Within another minute, the woman has a fresh catch in the boat unveiling her well rehearsed script that will ultimately lead to retiring upstairs for a bit of matress mashing, whatever it takes. Ms. Stranded remains so with no help in sight and if she was a bit more attractive there would be a hundred guys at her beck and call resorting to fist fights for the priviledge ot drive her where ever in town she needed to go, but not for this one, any complementary lift in the automobile would contain a prelude of first stopping to some outskirt cul da sac where the driver could get a rapid fire poke in before she completely passed out, unable to communicate her address, leaving the guy with dead weight, what is left to do? Dump her out onto the sidewalk of some local casino, let her try her luck there, I have seen it in action, firecrackers, too hot for some guys to handle, a woman who is a fighter, a drinker, and shit starter can get a person killed, so here you go honey, here is a drink, I am going to the bathroom, be right back, but the guy does not return, fleeing, retreating like dog in mortal fear of a deadly opaque form, giving off heat, pain, and fury, something not to be toyed with, better off allowing a wide berth, chalk it up to cautiousness saving the day, as another would be victim saddles up beside this wildfire at the bar unaware of the dangerous line he is about to cross, the Vegas night moves on.
The woman continued to ball her eyes out while I took a lay of the land at this late hour to see what the local crop of prostitues looked like. Seems all the hot ones have long since packed it in, not that the Hilton is known for a high level of talent in the escort department, plenty of retirees who have seen finer days patrol these bars for the conventioneer or some bombed out drunk needing a bit more than a On Demand porno. An older woman is holding down a corner of the bar attempting to blend in with the scenery, nondescript, sort of just put the bait out like a spider and see if anyone tugs on the line and in Vegas they invariably do, without question, the later the hour, the more desperate as well as manical the male figure evolves. Within another minute, the woman has a fresh catch in the boat unveiling her well rehearsed script that will ultimately lead to retiring upstairs for a bit of matress mashing, whatever it takes. Ms. Stranded remains so with no help in sight and if she was a bit more attractive there would be a hundred guys at her beck and call resorting to fist fights for the priviledge ot drive her where ever in town she needed to go, but not for this one, any complementary lift in the automobile would contain a prelude of first stopping to some outskirt cul da sac where the driver could get a rapid fire poke in before she completely passed out, unable to communicate her address, leaving the guy with dead weight, what is left to do? Dump her out onto the sidewalk of some local casino, let her try her luck there, I have seen it in action, firecrackers, too hot for some guys to handle, a woman who is a fighter, a drinker, and shit starter can get a person killed, so here you go honey, here is a drink, I am going to the bathroom, be right back, but the guy does not return, fleeing, retreating like dog in mortal fear of a deadly opaque form, giving off heat, pain, and fury, something not to be toyed with, better off allowing a wide berth, chalk it up to cautiousness saving the day, as another would be victim saddles up beside this wildfire at the bar unaware of the dangerous line he is about to cross, the Vegas night moves on.
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