How I Killed Thanksgiving

Sullen air and misery surrounded the living room; a funeral was being held today to commemorate the institution known as Thanksgiving. There are just two of us now with the rest of the family either dead or too far away to care, engulfed in their own series of personal tragedies which I only tend to hear about via contemporary social media. I personally have not cared about this holiday ever since the break up of the annual family gathering that consisted of a series of drunken discussions, then arguements, and finally relatives flying out through any door of their choosing usually head first. Once everyone got so pissed at each to the point no one cared to bothering travelling anymore, I was left to be marooned with the small cluster of relatives left on the west coast, too bad none of them liked each other anymore. Long gone now are those days of arguements amidst cousins that carry on for hours over the most minute of words spoken amongst each other, led with the traditional assaults of stupid, retard, you have no idea what you are talking about, you are just acting out, and last but not least, I'm going tell on you, then the punching ensued .

The teenagers during this time used their new found school time intellect to confuse the younger sibilings, as the small ones ended up stomping off with mother's purse and cigarettes which always brought on spontaneous spankings from various aunts, no one could catch me, so if it meant staying out all night till my mom left or if she just dumped me off at my grandparents resulted in sleeping in the back of a car or crashing on a friends couch down the street. The holidays only made me tired, close a bedroom door and sleep all day, easiest way not to face all the insanity, babbling drunks with half mashed menthols in their mouths, greasy burboun lips, ash burnt nylon polyester shirts. Drinks spilled as the dogs cleaned up the mess, very few ever escaped the celebration sober, people of such inclination hardly ever made it through the door and if they hung around were made to feel so uncomfortable and periodically attack as a signal to any square who attempted to sanitized my family holiday parties. Part local bar, part tribal beat down. I can remember my realtives telling me how much of an asshole I was as a kid, a wild heathen who did not listen to anyone, they would gang up on my mom over it, but this only encouraged her to give me more freedom, luckily I was smart enought to employ my talents to their full potential.

There was not much of a learning curve on how to get over on the relatives, all of them had little schooling, blue collar, and maintain a thirst as well as lust for anything subversive and decadent, therefore my educational passion as a youth came under siege with such great confidence boosters as Beaner Kid, Bastard Asshole, just like your grandfather. Well whoever I happened to be like, my appreciation of laughing at my family's expense outlasted their ability to keep the show going, just like so many great acts over the centuries; the focus, commitment, and will power to deliver the next great hit overwhelmed this particular comedy troop, so now my mother and myself have be left to laugh over Seinfeld and That 70's Show reruns.

I miss the madness of alcohol fueled battles and that were just the kids, the adults did not bother with toning anything down, the partying began days before the actual holiday. A virtual 70's era flophouse, a legion of aunt and uncles all passed out around the place, of course my grandmother leading the parade with a smoke, a whiskey on the rocks, and foul mouth cuss shit storm to put anyone in listening distance in a state of constant of fear and laughter. The great thing about my transient vagabond so called relatives crashing at my grandparents house was that it gave me and my cousins plenty of time to rummage through their pockets and purses for cash we could spend down at the neighborhood market or just keep the money they gave us to buy cigarettes for them cause everyone was too drunk to move by 2p in the afternoon.

Just left to formalities now of the afternoon meal today, how is the food, want something else to eat, you have to try this I spent 8 hours pulling it together, all of which I can quickly throw off with a yawn in a fit of exhuastion from work. The rest of the time is filled with football games and comedy reruns, can only really just fall asleep for periods in order to duck out on any meaningful interaction as if this late in the relationship between my mother and myself was possible, not that it matters, just the conventional ritual of Thanksgiving has never retain much traction, rather be in some bar or beach in a tropical country far away from the consessions of this holiday that make me feel so hypocritical and conformist. So the easiest thing to do is get on another plane and get back to work, cause Christmas is not far away.

Tues Afternoon

Everyone must have the fn day off, a short reprieve of temperate weather has brought the masses out for one more go around of holiday cheer, black fridays, and aggressive panhandling before the usual high desert chills come back around sending the hoards scrambling back to their televisions and weekly cold water pads. Pretty pissed at everyone right now, just in a general state of being ran into the ground for no other reason than shooting up a pipe dream of accomplishing some future goal that is as transparent as the evening sky in a remote outland mountain pass. Either way, the Mexican women inside the laundry mat are being extra nice to me as they try to figure out how to place well worn dollar bills into the change machine. It's a talent I have cultivated over the years from video game arcades to old school gambling halls. The lady's understand this new revelation and use this new found skill to keep their already smiling attitudes well intact. Not me though, can't take being nice to anyone right now, have had too many months of bullshit lying, grins, and half hearted sincerity. Those who know me, understand to forego all the thank you's and praise, what do I care, just give me dinero in which I can buy people, services, or some narcotics to melt my brain into forgetting all the time being wasted conducting such false activity.

Multitasking, trying to get paperwork, technical surveys, and soft core porn spam all addressed and sent out to the proper authorities. Rushing around like a bat on speed and acid, no real direction, a lady tosses all of her clothes out of the way, in aggressive mode, mumbling to myself and anyone else who will listen to the complexity of my daily life, moving past the basics of food, water, and shelter have only led to an intricate web of personal carnal desires that have become the base for my existence and to pay for them has led me into a few alleys that must constantly be maintained, nothing more than a junkie, a slave, and drone so I can fry my nervous system, much easier than holding it in, being amongst the public does not solve this problem, really only makes it worse, still there are a few out there for whom I shall deal with the general public with my fingers holding me nose, great material once and a while. Otherwise, have to get the hell out of this laundry mat, the woman in charge during the day keeps making eyes at me, tired of the traps, the mistakes of others which I have been handed responsibility of, its so much weight that occasionally fatigue gets the best of me. Well, off to the Rebel basketball game and a standard of allures to convince others that the gun barrel has been dropped back down to the side of my leg, we'll see, later.

7 Billion

Filling up the streets, freeways, and cyberspace, I can remember the projected population reports of high school social studies classes that offered up a relative time line for a time when planet earth would earth 7 Billion inhabitants 2015 might have been the date, possibly 2013, but here is 2011 and let's have a round of applause for the human carnal desire . The bodies just keep piling up, there is not enough plague, war, violence, disease, and natural disasters to stem the tide of the global reproductive frenzy taking place all around us. As long as sex and an hereditary inclination to have mini replicas of ourselves exist; there shall always be room to give birth to someone who will fix romantic relationships, as well as social, economic, and personal psychological issues of the human race. But what the hell are we as adults, elders, and mentors truly offering the children of tomorrow. So many of them already walk the streets muted by the technological gifts borne from the collective need to find distraction instead of purposeful intention. We adult/children have lost the mettle which set our elders apart from us in eras past. Throughout the past decade I have seen so many nations, rich and poor bursting at the seams with humans all vying for the same limited resources or just for the opportunity to buy an XBox, IPod, or satellite television.

How much further can this population trend go without seeking alternative planets for living, where those who can afford the adventurous transplantation get away from the sprawling masses that sicken of existing on one bowl of rice a day. Or will this planet simply swallow up the entire human race discarding our existence like the ancient animal fossil scattered throughout the world. Of course, the most convenient answer is, "Well, I'll be dead before anything gets too weird." I remember my grandparents telling me that exact thing. They were so overly concerned about how the US was heading down the shitter, but why bother changing things. " I went through WWII and the Great Depression." so it was as if they felt as a generation; they had a pass to stick their collective heads in the sand and bequeath the misery onto the future. Well, the future is here and there does not seem to be anyone out there overly concerned with where society and the human race could be headed in the next hundred years. Technology is no savior, I see more facebook users than anything clogging up the internet, just more virtual drugs to bury the pain of existence, the chain of the digital human race has made the 7 Billion a campground where people hang in cliques and screen out the others with the checkmark of a few boxes. Regardless, people will continue to fuck, have children as an answer to their problems, then set them adrift at the earliest convenience, as the cycle keeps repeating until we have nothing left to consume but each other, Yum!

Kicking in Circles

There seems to be no end to my binge like behavior. The slightest invitation is the best excuse to crawl out from under my bed with great zeal into the arms of the burning night and sometimes the daytime under the fog of substances and booze. From the teens, to 20's, to 30's and beyond, not sure I can imagine my current hellbent zest for life continuing with such determination, yet at this point in life, it has become a matter of understanding what drives me, experience has offered its gifts and dark hours as well. Taking a break for one day feels like a victory, a week, almost unheard of, yet after recollecting on the past fury and near falls, the next day hangover does not offer much in the challenge department. Granted, I do not desire to go into a full blown narcotic stupor; the come downs are way too intense these days, until the spine stiffens and the clouds burn away from inside the brain, confidence builds as well as the need to speed things up around the Miller residence.

Planes, work sites, hotels, are followed by an assortment of bars, television, and occasionally sleep, may not always be the proper way to live life, but at this point there is very little left to do but fall into some religious based transformation rebirthing as a brill cream lathered, fear laden, flesh zombie, infected with the virus of mediocrity, incentive to write is key, the pain between the inspiration and the exit chute to reality is the only time left to express emotions, visions, and ideas on here. A quick window that closes the better I start to feel, when the writing is good, the corpse pays the price, but when the body is well, the soul suffers and so the circle runs round.

General Public

Are offended by the clothes I wear and words expressed from my thoughts. They pay my bills and believe my lies, just because they all want to be like me, without worry or care in their well planned, mediocre, and safe existences. There are times when I wonder about the communication gaps between myself and them, but without family, structure, and direction it should come as no surprise that when the two of us come in contact, very little dialouge can be pieced together. Like a friend of mine said, my life at five is life nine for everyone else. Tough to argue with that kind of logic, still not much time to ponder upon that statement if only to illustrate the divide between, dockers wearing, tucked in shirt, clean cut robots who sell venom, addiction, and death to the masses with the justification that they have a family to feed, passing worms to the brood has never had such dangerous conotation than with this bunch of righteous leeches who would blow up the world if meant that they got a bigger bonus or better yet kill the ill like crack dealers in the ghetto, sell, sell, sell. They need more patients, like convicts in prison, the medical system to keep the rabbits alive, test subjects, data to further the vacations to the Carribean, what does it matter, everyone eventually dies, bring out your dead.

The Outpost

Communication with satellites across the globe typing away in a medevil slumber, can barely make sense of all the people I have effected over the years, not even counting family, who have been casted into exile like myself, either to become stronger or be digested like the wounded, sick, and the elderly. Technology pisses me off most days because it morphs into some prankster who does such idiotic things as erase everything written in the past twenty minutes. No emotion or recollection, even at this moment the damn cursor pad keeps deleting my writing to the point where I will have break my thirtieth laptop in the past five years, turning into something less than recyclable parts. Through all the lost moments of my life, there are people whom I have touched, effected, those who might even care about my well being, which totally blows me away. Team members, fan club attendies, of those whom at times I have given very little thought of while swimming in my own sea of personal disasters, yet they are still out there amongst the 6 billion or so, with their stories, songs, and art, twisting my thoughts, words, and emotions into a sicker, darker, more realistic piece of expression than I could ever hope to create.

Feedback has never been en vogue with me, just for the simple fact that I do not care about anything and have set sail to every human being on this planet like a match stick struck against a box in the night, quick, bright, and fast fading. Desperate entities within me put these words down, as my middle class parasite tries to mute expression, best to me leave to the workforce, long hours, and dulling the mind, who shall win, guess I still write, so the battle continues. Outposts cry in the night all alone, vexed on empty promises from a side show con artist who has only felt the need to serve his own personal desires. I told them all, but no one ever listens, sly smile, seductive nature, and primal lust do all the talking. In my lonliest moments from extreme drug withdrawl, decadent partying or laying half dead in some anonymous country, the will breaks, the thoughts of others give me something to cling to, something to fight for life, a small window in a micro second of escape from cosmic recycling. That's it for this one.

Painted into a Corner

After so many years of auto repeat hangovers, lovers, and blackouts, options can sometimes dwindle down to desperation and blind faith. The single thread that remains in my hands doubles as noose in which I occasionally attempt to hang myself with after explosions from wreckage in the fast lane. Everyone tells me life is meant to be lived, yet due I rarely witness words put into action, no need for judgement cause little does it matter to me whether others care to participate or standby awaiting the cliff notes. If 7 hour layovers, 28 hours on planes, and 3 weeks of self indulgent behavior have not cured me of the desire to implode, guess nothing will. Seeking out the unidentifiable, wandering through desperate wastelands, and blending in amongst the local populations, offer up opportunities to feel life in foreign lands. Dialogue no matter how broken can seem like injecting myself with overdose of LSD, escape the fear, the stress of being so far from self perceived personal safety can wear me down faster than any weekend binger, yet coming to terms with my fears has freed me to go anywhere, talk to anyone, and explore parts of the world, others only see on television. So why stop now.

The Corporate Vortex

Got a small introduction into the enormous scope of politics that exists with large budget television productions, without going into names, a situation arose where due previous existing grudges; a mad scramble was created in order to interview a very high profile person. The person set to interview the guest did want to conduct the interview for personal reasons. Not sure what the beef entailed, yet it was enough to send all of middle and upper management into a near panic mode. Plenty of folks shouting, running in and out of the room swearing under their breath, as the moments drew closer to one on one, still no progress made in finding a replacement. At these times, all I can really do is just wait the storm out as everyone gathers around in a dynamic vortex, aggressively seeking a solution to the new issue at hand. Time passes, co-workers play with their cellphones attempting to look occupied or just leave the room until the hurricane passes over. Someone is yelling at me about the ignorance of a certain interviewer. Okay, I know this person, yeah, they are a bit of a crank, still there is a reason I work Below the Line and not above it; this particular incident would serve as a great example. The end goal here is to deliver superior technical service to the client and maybe interject the occasional suggestion when something looks out of place or does not sound right. But as always in my industry, a solution shall be made, then time to move on, minus all the grief caused by the schism, no problem, throw on a couple of microphones, don the headphones, then get back to work.

The Chameleon

Just spent the early morning walking amidst the hordes of business types heading into the workplace amongst the urban decay of antiquated building soon passed by, then left to erode as the new foundations of the new rich are built somewhere safer. Haunted hearts wander around here like sideshow carnival shows with a narrow minded interest of conning the general public into parting with a few dollars from their pockets. No one bothers or ever turns to acknowledge the presence of some middle aged man with a greying mohawk who stands in the middle of the street juggling butcher knives as the people in traffic transmit inner thoughts of just how soon it will be before this performer nuts out and begin hacking up drivers at red lights. Someone nearby starts to size me up and his allies are not far off in the distance, invisible at the presence time yet all too rapidly to emerge when the fishing line gets a tug. This is the situation all those travel guide books have warned me about, luckily it is the daytime and there about a hundred other tourists walking around these downtown Sao Paolo streets in search of some lost language, written out in the form of a riddle. Complex, disorienting, and at times practically unbelievable; this part of town is a one way exit for most, but for the others in urine, blood, and dirt soaked clothing nothing more than a close circle forming a moat of sewage. The only thing more disturbing to the eye is the visible leprosy dissolving the relic skin of homeless types into a canvas of lesion, sores, and scabbed up patches. Barefoot, drunk on the passion of survival, citizens use the power of ignorance to erase these people from existence and when that does not work; the only thing left to do is beat the shit out of them, starve them, and even kill them anonymously in the night. As darkness approaches, the street sweepers get out their guns, then proceed to take out the trash while everyone else sleeps.

Body Art on City Streets

They just lay there in renaissance like poses asleep or passed out on jagged decaying infrastructures made of concrete, praying to invisible gods who have turned deaf ears on their please to miraculously reawaken a member of the hominal bivouac who step over them in legions while on their way to work. I take pictures in order to make people believe in the desperate nature of adventure seekers from the farmlands who find salvation in drug use, alcohol, and depression, when there is nothing else left to do, the outcasts curl up in a ball like some dog who knows its time has arrived, awaiting a return ticket back to the holy land from where they believe the origin of humanity once began, but no omniscient deity here to offer comfort in the waning hours, just pollution, starvation, and the final hallucination of being grounded down into something less than a human being.

The Walls of the Cave

There is something on my face resembling freedom and when stared upon by others generates a large sense of jealousy and disdain. How could have know I would be chosen to wander the ends of the earth if for no larger reason than it seemed like quite an entertaining sort of idea. So after a trip, I have to re-don the skin of liquid bubble to insulate humanity from my weird reasoning. Why does it seem stupid to drop everything and take off to Munich for Oktoberfest this year? How can someone have the luxury of living so spontaneously, what gives that person the right to skirt the urban professional lifestyle, so full of VIP tables with over priced liquor menus and legions of flesh bots who gradually sicken with the quicksand slowly working itself up their legs. It is the invisible drowning of witnessing graphic suffocation, eyeballs start to swell and their faces take on a joker like appearance. The caravan will end, then what shall be left, where is the soft landing all these beautiful people have been promised, it is the birth right of the beautiful to demand entitlement in all facets of life, a get out of jail card free for eternity.

So being amongst the masses I find an interesting pleasure in watching them come together en masse, as the luxury sedans begin to file into the valet, no one could ever be to over dressed here, dark wrap around shades adorn every face. I feel like the janitor whenever I go into high end nightclub, usually due to the fact that some my friends DJ at these super clubs, whatever the term, I am not sure what is so super about them. These new mega clubs have warnings about drugs possession and usage. The signs are in the bathroom, the hallways, nailed to the VIP tables; I remember when all the old clubs did everything to encourage self indulgent drug use, shit some of these places had to be in on the action, because I can remember watching deals going down in public view. No one hid anything back then, people would just toss the stuff out on the table and honk away, what did it matter; everyone else in the club was doing the same thing or melting their brains out on the dance floor high on ecstasy.

Something changed or someone changed, now flesh bots line the floor tonight; the last of them zipping up their black go go boots, when just minutes before they were all walking around in little pajama like furry slippers. I felt for them, having to walk around for six or seven hours in those things like a sexy black leather spiders, looking to nearly walk over the customers as if on a pair of velvet stilts. Bearing down on the crowd like junkie with the serious case of withdrawls, quite a terrible sight indeed; spent the past half an hour pretending to be working while flirting with some woman who set off something that makes my eyes glaze over and dumb down to that everyday run of the mill fairly uninterested in education kind of guy, just give me a fucking beer and some hallucination of my perverse imagination to come to life. So there she appears before me, from England, has the accent, hypnotizing looks, almost teetering into creeper mode, but some how pull it together enough make a few amusing comments to get the interest rolling.

This is how I spent the majority of the evening, attempting to gain her favor, how dumb does that sound, almost mid-evil but not in that demonic sort of brimstone and hellfire manner, but more like the knights of the round table comes to my mind, yet why care really at all, except the fact that my humanity always catches me off guard, just because it sort just decides when it wants to come out and go into weird high school love mode, those emotional years of riding the rollercoaster of teen romance. Do not miss those crazy years, except for the intense caring of another person, I feel like such piece stone in this age, almost afraid to offer an real feeling for fear of compromising some other component in the process, time to wrap this up, just weird thoughts tonight after another round of the corporate free booze after party, but usually we would be twice as hammered at this kind of event, where the main sponsor happens to be a liquor maker, what are the odds, against all odds, damn windfall here, nothing like sanctioned alcoholism to take the edge of a long day the office, just does not seem fair to all the other stiffs out there who have to actually grind out a living and at times I can sort of feel the old Vegas flow through my veins that no limit, take everything, and live it aura seems more like a film than reality, when I can drink into a blackout mode, who can't get behind that kind of throw down.

People would be lining up around the block for their chances to get a piece of the action, run with that junkie narcotic of complete bliss, regardless of how short that high lasts. Ghosts of that lifestyle still haunt me, then occasionally possess me, manipulating me into spending way too much money on booze I can buy at a liquor store for at least a tenth of the cost, but it is all the flesh bots, the bright lights, and sonic wavelengths coming from the audio speakers that everyone in this super club are paying for tonight, just for a brief moment, a total recreation of that decadent uber-rich Miami Beach party scene. It is where the word no does not exist, everything and everyone has a price, I just sit down and watch the night unfold then try to bring it back to you.

The Streets of Prostitution

Fleshbots, you know them well, as middle Euro sex tourists take advantage of the exchange rate to get as much pussy as humanly possible. There is no disguising their carnal nature of power, abuse, and domination. Attempting to cure that primitive need to expel cum from their cocks, as old as time itself, spawning the human race as we know it, what an accomplishment. I have watched fifteen year girls be offered 50 US to be some would be serial killer's sex slave, right off into the ditch of some nearby river channel. There are kids to be fed, mothers to support, and some male being off in the distance standing by to collect all the earning before the money can be put to good use. You can't see the knives or the guns, but I can feel them, while standing at a bar with a beer thinking about how teenage hookers can learn the english language with such ease and I barely know portuguese. Motivation is the key, the belief that someone can escape their fate, their terminal life sentence in a personal hell of birthed sperm that have over populated every corner of this tropical whore house called Copacabana Beach. Murder, addiction, and pregnancy are the only solutions around here, everything else, a tv mini series of the week, no happy endings, just cocks and more cocks with hairy bodies pressing against their flesh, their hips, in hopes infecting them with the hate of the world, from long across the seas, like the conquistadors before them, but only bringing disease, the disease of hope.

Afterbirth

There is anger on the streets tonight with the death stare conviction of Rio De Janiero favala youth who press naive tourists into hidden alleyways to be mugged. Flash floods wash the filth of the Las Vegas strip onto the door steps of suburbia, porches lined in mounds of plastic trash, furniture, and human excrement. No salvation tonight, the music is loud, intense, and unforgiving; everyone is in a hurry for sex, mainlining, and self mutilation. No time for fear right now as anonymous asshole drivers ride my bumper, seeking a personal audience of physical conflict, only to speed away when I slow down and pull over to the side of the road. Conscious knowledge consumes as the masses lay in a trap, a circular wall stretching into the furthest depths of the universe. Those who walk home on midnight streets with Norteno music jamming into their headphones contemplating what to watch when they get home later live amongst exit less walls. There is no freedom for these people. No trips around the world or the mental toughness to go out into enemy territory with nothing more than a pen and a notebook.

Let the world come at us, the stronger my violence, the faster they run, turn a quick eye, and others cast me off as some malcontent who has obviously been abused as a child. Well, either way, none shall stand in front of me. I will offer up horrors more appalling than the most perverse taboo snuff style b movies. Mirror, mirror on the wall, deliver the beast in us all, rip away the dark shell and slow motion illusions. Language can be a barricade or a battering ram depending on how it is used. Culprits come clean, face the chargers, serve out the conviction, blood acid bath rain, so cute, so chic to rub elbows with the world leader pretenders who make small talk with other con artists to legitimize their constant buffonary. Hate swells in ocean meters, causing invisible banks of sanity to overflow into the neighborhood streets. Bodies move through the currents like possessed souls on their way to hell. A fast track to work tomorrow morning while I sit around with the blinds up watching the masses down some more cocktails, puff up their chests, and spin yarns of global business endeavors with alien species in a fit of unlimited capital. Rio Beach hooker cock rot, give me your money or give me your life.

Sidewalk Sex Palace Cafe

On the tourista streets of Copacabana middle aged sex tourists engage in negotiations of skin trade and overpriced hourly death mattress, where flesh bots dissolve youth for a handful of Brazilian dollars. Stretched out from babies, rapists, and edgy nightlife, their hallow presence projects a three dimensional hologram of pain, misery, and a lot in existence which borders more on indentured servitude than personal freedom. Sex tourists have dried up the well replacing humanity with the illusion of happiness. The multinational corporations dining on the flesh of Rio, Brazil, and South America send out legions of faceless workers to maintain the facade of carefree Southern California life, but do not be fooled the millions of invisible non human whom crawl alongside the buildings of Copacabana seeking prey, hustling internet narcotic, while awaiting a better deal, a more lucrative career, violence, intercourse, and playing dress up have turned this stretch of coastline into a Hollywood film sob story. Everyone is trapped, content to have somewhere to be while practicing con jobs on visitors to the city. Kick the tires before you buy the automobile, the body, the paint, and the contour may seem legit, yet underneath there is a sharp, jagged, corroded frame, rusted, broken, and beyond repair. Fleshbots rise up and take notice, birth, life, death, is nothing more than a tshirt, a semi conscious automaton pushing a broom down these lonely avenues, where orgasms supplant, care. Round up the fleshbots once more, the sun is rising bringing with it, the reality of just how upside down this reality has become.

Cobwebs

Decend from the roof and rise up through the floor boards, where has the last three months gone. From isolation to complete immersion into the structureless amoeba of life in the 21st century. Give me more comforts to erode all desire, fembots to calm the nerves, and chemical substance to erase the past, present, and future. There will be no heroes, no thunderdome of intellectual battle, just give the public a funhouse of mirrors to endlessly walk around, no exit, no problem, who wants to ever leave the party of the mind?

Erotica

Miami Madonna high on exstacy grinding on a faux marble pillar. There is nothing else her world at the moment, no human, no object, space has narrowed down into the small five foot radius where anything entering it is viciously rejected like a mother bear protecting her cubs, as male after male after male after male is under the impression that her overheating sexuality symbolizes nothing more than a prehistoric mating ritual, possibly one on level with the praying mantis or carnivorous spider. Her unseen transparent barrier grew larger and larger as the sound the progressive house music on the nightclub soundsystem awash the club in tsunami like waves of sythesized keyboards and 808 kickdrum beats. Miami Madonna slowly started to merge with the gathering energy of the dancefloor, like a cobra from the wicker basket, charming, hyponitizing, and deadly, give her space, there is danger surrounding this one.

Party Boy 2011

This kid has been standing in front of me for now over five minutes mumbling about my soccer jersey fashion statement of choice today. A brief attempt at disscusion inregard to my nationality ensues only to be drowned out by the excessive amount of violent bass soundwaves overloading my ears into a near state of deafnesses. The ringing in my ears has been replaced with a constant piledriving tempo of pop dance music while the only real thing keeping my interest is a hot female twenty something parading around in skin tight black vinyl pants and a very revealing bikini top, but everyone has to make a living, even Party Boy in front me as he attempts to light the filtered end of a menthol cigarette. His lighter is mashed inbetween a good half dozen cigarettes that are nothing more now than a pile of loose tabacco finding its way onto the sandy beach floor. His behavior continues inbetween pleas from the singer on stage for the fans to raise their hands in the air and pump up the energy of the crowd; as if controlled by some invisible frequency Party Boy begins to clap his hands together with the vigor of a dancing monkey overdosing on meth, banging his cymbals together as if that was the only possible action to maintain his presence on planet earth until the effects of the drug began to wear off. I do everything to erase him from my personal space yet without much avail, just having to watch Party Boy work on his lighter for the next five minutes finally causes a direct intervention in order to get him on to the next freak magnet like myself. Quickly, aggressively, and single minded, I grab the pack of crunched up cigarettes, dig through the refuse to find one cancer stick that would still light up, then put the smoke into his mouth and attempt to light it, yet his constant swaying made sparking the the cigarette impossible. The only alternative was to shake him by the shoulders, then planted his frame into the sand and light the smoke as Party Boy automatically took a drag generating an enormous grin across his 10 dollar sunglasses covered pasty white face. New commands filter into his brain cells sending Party Boy into another direction where he begins to start freaking some big girl who loves the animal like passion he shows while grinding on one of the many folds of fat hanging over her bikini, true love indeed.

Bob the Gambler

Possession exists, in the soul, in the mind, submerging impulse into a ever enveloping tide of heavy water that consumes, drowns, and ultimately sweeps the evidence away in rushing thrusts of downhill river gravitational pull. Alongside a row of glass screen video poker machines, Bob practices his high end martial arts one inch punch on a few of the more uncooperative computers underneath the Nintendo like graphics facade image of blackjack game. Another 300 dollar series of 20 dollar bills is rapidly consumed by the apparatus, continously starving for more paper currency, tonight this machine contains very little desire to offer Bob the Gambler any sort of satisfactory return on his initial investment which at the time of my third beer has escalated to the level of degenerate, desperate, and cocksucking for crack in the valley of no return.

Bob works as a bartender in his off hours, a wage that is no more than a guise for his registration into endentured servitude. A fine trade so many others in Las Vegas share, those who in their off hours attempt to saite their gluttonous unconvinced lonliness with illusions of becoming genuine non actor poster children who get plastered all over the hall of winners in local casino video advertisements. Billboards with photos of an oversized check awash in decadent rows of zeros caressed by a needle pop infusion, love drug, distraction kick; this could be you, top dog, promoted to a world sans the 9 to 5 factory whistle blow, chocolate cakes and stripper thighs, money come be...... my friend.... forever, Believe!

A score immense enough to continue the feeding troughs a flowing in rushing current made of gold. Still, those day actors are nothing more than check presenters for the insane, puzzle piece conduits of a larger scam that only invites greater numbers to the lead beat down for misery. All those nice elderly people aside who are fed to the meatgrinder faster than they can cash those mythical cashiers slips; their remains an absolute opaque caustic presence. a being, entity which has no sense of morality, sympathy, or savior; a dark energy that will put the junk in the arm, the gun to a person's head, a once tiny whisper that now speaks like a bullhorn through a rock concert stadium PA system.

The voice is the only bit of dialouge left to interpet, all others have become various forms of gibberish comparable to a roadside evangilist speaking in tongues. Nothing left to do but for Bob the Gambler to go back into the till, pull out another 1000 dollars, while sharing a bit of information of how he is already down 3000 tonight. The gun might be easier, right in the mouth, pull the trigger, could be the only way out from under all the psychic weight pressing down on him like a soon to be demolished automobile in a car crusher. After feeding some more cash into the machine, Bob goes on a bit of a winning streak, pauses for a moment to serve some drinks, then walks back over and asks me if he should let ride the 500 hundred dollars he has already won in the last five minutes. "Sure, why not." I reply, anything to get him down the road faster. Coming out of this ride ahead does appear to be the end game for Bob; it is something more disfiguring, more grotesque, a subversing desire to play with a loaded weapon, firing into a completely darkened room. Shot after shot, dull thuds hit the floor, never ending ammunition, the lights come up in a hall of mirrors, all cracked, broken, and fragmented; his self reflections all lay on the ground, dead, where the only thing left to do is stare into the spider web lines of shattered glass as they form like viens around his face etching their permanance into his skin and eyes forever.

Observation Lane

Three teens mill through the racks of tabloid mania, damn near close to perfection as these youth dare to dream. Those papers have a magnetic pull of the sick american nightmare where the events of the famous take on story like proportions not written since The Odysessy. Kino the woman working behind the cashier counter tonight has a long sleeve shirt on to hide the trickling of colorful ink hearts trailing down her hands, well at least they are not tears next to the eyes. The trio of kids have spent the past ten minutes seeking to decipher the exact meanings of the various vitamin based athletic replenishment soft drinks which read like the chart of a chemistry periodic table and within all this well written advertising copy on the sides of the bottles; a decision can hopefully be formulated to convince these consumers on the health benefits as well as the austere sense of chic that comprises the overall taste, flavor, and ever important social rewards for purchasing a 3 dollar bottle of artifically flavored water.

Thankfully, there happens to be at least twelve flavors for the modern day rocker kids to choose from which serves as a pressure valve release amongst a generation of indecisive shoppers who can't be bothered with any sort of material acquistion that does not involve pop stars, 3rd rate B-list actors, and the random cute house pet. Have to do everything in my power to not get sucked into the tabloid racks, such an utter waste of paper and time, yet more than not every housewife and hard nosed construction worker can be seen throwing a 2 dollar copy into the loose arrangement of frozen foods, hard liquor, and processed meats. Time to say hello to the cashier, if for no other reason than to watch their reaction whether it be total robotic animation from too many years on the job or the venomous silent teeth clinching eye burning stare of a human one bad day removed from loading up on assualt rifles for an impromptu session of The Island of Dr. Mareau within the confines of this grocery store.

We are all locked down in one format or another but watching people tonight has convinced me of its indelible stain on the minds of the general public. A young man searches through rows of cough medicine in hopes that his keen male instinct of not asking for help when he is unable to find something will allow him to interpet exactly what his diaper wear infant child might need in order to fight off a routine cold. The gentleman sits on a large box of disposible diapers almost like the statue of The Thinker, lost in a real deep state of mediation hopeful whatever mystical bit of wisdom swirling around the store right now shall find its way into ultimate asessment of the cold remedy products in front of him. All I can muster is a bit of cheap humor for the cashier, nothing special, already too busy watching the women in front of me rack up a 400 dollar bill on similac, paid by the state of Nevada, must really have some hungry children at home or could be just one more angle on the welfare system scam, who knows. Just happy enough today getting by with four hours of sleep and a mind full of artistic achievements yet to be conceived, so back to the word processing escaping the all encompassiong power of The National Enquirer for one more evening.

Breeding and Cliques

Feel like I am at some weekend high school party in this bar tonight. Can anyone in here outside of the bartender, myself, and a friend actually be over the age of twenty one, does this really matter as small pockets of younger girls gather together with pool cue sticks leaning over well worn blue felt billard tables, slightly attentive, yet more preoccupied with how the latest fashion from the urban hipster clothing company at the nearby mall makes them appear. The high school down the street has emptied all their problem children into the place tonight, as the sounds of pop music and trendy rock music echo through the establishment like acid induced underwater echoes being beamed from submarine ocean depths. Most of the guys around me are developing plans to supplant themselves right into the center of this teenage death wet dream in the slight chance that after buying these women a few more rounds of low grade vodka and tequila shots, an opportunity to exploit any of the ladies gathered around close to the pool table shall develop from girls overwhelming interest in the outlandish tales and sinisterly exaggered adventures of self indulgence making the five or six guys sitting and standing the women more hot in that dreamy idealistic poster boy body of sexuality and sensitivity sort of way.

Who knows maybe everyone here right now has no motiviation than to pass another early Sunday morning in some anonymous local dive until the work whistle blows on Monday or as for many people at any given moment throughout the week. Not really in the mood to talk to anyone right now, just trying to relax, sort of figure out how I ended up at such oasis of mundane behavior, with my head on a swivel, absorbing all the light beers, small talk, and spontaneous application of facial makeup. The company appears to be well familiar with each other as my friend and a few other guys collaborate on a semi hatched out scheme to bring a few of the female youngsters over to our side of the bar. Right now, it is only the cook, some railway skank, and a few other non speaking role actors reaffirming the fact that the chef does not have a license to serve me any alcohol, since my drink of choice does not come in a test tube, paper cup, or plastic memorabilia keep sake; the bartender has very little time for my prescene, getting a drink at this point almost seems out of the question.

Well, have to get rude and start hounding him like a welfare drunk who just got paid on a Friday night in search any sort of chemicals to mellow out the humming sounds in his brain. Guess I am the only one who cares right now. just can't get myself over into the mix with these twenty somethings, not that being funny, fake, and illusive is out of my acting vocabulary, but this venue caught me a bit off guard. Walking in the notion of old worn down video poker addicts and insomniacs danced through my head, so to observe a 21st century version of the American soda fountain experience intrigued me yet at the same time only drove me to the bottle a lot faster than usual, no amount of distance in length of the bar inside the tavern could maintain a strong enough invisible barrier to the realization that eventually interaction with some or all of the patrons in this place would be unavoidable. While dwelling in my paralysis, I attempted to say a few smirky half condesending, half intelligent comments to a short girl who could not have been more than 18, if even that, what did it matter anyway. My effort to communicate in my natural form did not even register with this group; this generation has created a social filter for weirdos like myself whose obtuse stabs of amatuer stand up comedy only felt uncomfortable capped by a response of bewilderment from children who could not bridge the generation gap with anything more than insect stares and subconscious edicts for my immediate execution.

Probably would have thought a bomb went off or a horribly smelling bodily function had made windfall across the front half of the bar sending the various sub-sections of ladies back to their alcoves along the length of the bar after the brief attempt at social interatction, so why not just head back down to the end of the bar with the rest of the misfits who always want to pull me into their tractor beams of conversation on topics ranging from proper means distilling illegal drugs to knife wielding couples in love who can't be bothered with such conventions as Valentine's gifts and anniversary trips to the Bahamas. There really is nothing more than cocktail after cocktail, insult after insult with the ocassional trip to the mens bathroom for a quick blowjob or fix on low grade synthetic drug swirling around me at the moment. My friend is well dug into one of the pockets of young women who look over at me once in a while, I am macabe hunchback trying to ignore all the LCD screens with fifteen channels of sports and the random late night epidose of Law and Order. Wouldn't it be easier just watch it at home, instead of here right now, holding a dangling unashed cigarette and slightly warm 7 and 7 while contemplating a future void of unemployment checks and inspiration.

Week in week out, this bar exists in a plane for those who really have nowhere to run, hide, or exist in which they can convince themselves that they are halfway normal, somewhat sociable, and not entire fixated on spending six hours a night in bed or on a couch flipping through 800 channels of premium cable television. For some, this might be considered a reward, the final chapter in the evolutionary process of the 9 to 5 worker who is driven by an appartion that puts them behind the wheel at 3am in search of a location to dance around the biovauc like the rest of the other drones filling in tiny honeycombs to nuture the next generation of grubs to perform the same tired acts that I am witnessing in front of me tonight. Already half way over the bar helping myself to a few beers before the bartender bothers to head back down to our side of the place. No..... pass on the jello shots and the low grade margaritas..... sure you don't want a couple shots, two for one special right now.... as the guy fills up a couple paper cups with booze so vile that it instantly starts to eat through the paper container on impact. No thanks, just two beers, make it four, service around here is a bit slow...... this comment goes right over his head....not even a up yours look.... just that wide eyed empty soul-less facade masquarading in human form. Welcome to the wasteland, the holding station for semi mature sperm and eggs who have become the next link on the chain with nothing to offer except paychecks, vomit in the toilet stalls, and a few future single mothers and runaway fathers fixated with the genetic impulse of the idealistic ritual of finding the perfect person to breed with on a late, late Saturday night.

Global Events

Living life through the telepresence media extension of the internet and social media has made me a shotgun sidekick in the battlefronts raging throughout the Arab world as well as the recent apocolyptic footage of the natural disasters destroying northern Japan. What really feels important anymore? Personal selfishness, material obsession, and the futile climb up throughout the corporate structure has been nuetral in just the first 3 months of 2011. Watching hundreds of thousands of people take to the streets in protest to a systematic state of political affairs has been uplifting and yet at the same time surreal in nature. The domino effect US adminstrations of the 1950's had so heavily promoted that was suppose to take place throughout South East Asia in an idological embrace of communism never materialize but found tread throughout all of Northern Africa from Morocco to Egypt citizen are fed up with being ingored, discounted, and marginalized. All the propaganda, the wars, and smoke screen foriegn policy of the last 50 years has become a black hole on the conscious of the human mind. A lobotomy of the frontal lobe the net result to desensitize the western world to care about anything outside of what the fantasy playland of the well off can shove down the throats of its citizens and buy it we did.

My entire lifetime has transcended from Walter Kronkite to CNN and now to Twitter as the rush toward instantenous information moves from the fast lane to the interstellar corridor. Maybe it has become slightly addictive as the means of obtaining details ranging from global chaos to posting regarding people's pets inflitrate the web, the mind, and the everpresent need to distract ourselves from the trappings of the daily workplace. I am no longer sure if compassion or need drives me to focus undivided attention on the latest explosion in a nuclear facility in northern Japan or view Youtube videos of police in the nation of Yemen appearing to be firing live ammunition into throngs of protestors. This epidemic of high speed voyuerism feels like it is starting to spin out of control. Tsunami waves washing over farming communities, sweeping away cities in matters of minutes starts to take on pornographic qualities. The sheer idea of watching the live broadcast of the wave moving toward the coast a few days ago felt more like a Hollywood film than a actual tragedy. Of course there were emotions, disbelief, and a heighten sense of personal mortality which induced a state of nasuea in an attempt to process the loss of human life taking place on the television screen that night.

All nightmares pass, right? The illusion shall move on like a storm front onto the next village. It was not too surprising that many people around me at the time seemed more consume by the video poker machines at the bar then the earthquake, yet with alcohol to dull the mind what did anything these people thought or cared about really matter. These types had no interest in others, only in trying to find ways to beat the system and when those opportunities dried up, revert back to the reliable standby of self medication with a strong chaser of misdirection. Time took a vacation in this establishment, no one around me could either live or die anymore, just merely bid their time working for paper checks with black ink that offered them temporary relief from the pain of being born into a world of 6 billion people who all have to fight like rival clans of ants for a bit part in the theater production of reality. It might be easier to sit on half built cinder block fences drunk out of one senses at 4 in the afternoon waiting for the role of a lifetime to materialize or punch the glass screens of video poker machines after losing 3 thousand dollars of their bosses money, but I prefer to walk through the crowds, talk to dangerous strangers, and mad angelical geniuses hiding in the work force to hide the emotion, the pain, and the fury of living substandard dreams while selling our souls in the process.

Miller's Midnight Runners

Sometimes nights like this happen, no scheduled plans or real desire to embark any particular methods of insanity, yet in the undercurrent hidden amongst the dark streams of decadent Vegas arises a magnetic energy that begins sending out telepathic orders to drop whatever I am doing at the moment and head toward the epicenter of one more escapade involving the recreational attributes of substance abuse alongside the sleepless, head to work the next morning still out of your mind while fighting through the bewilderment challenge, a contest that becomes ever more painfully difficult to win. Probably about 12:30am have already hooked up with a couple from Montreal, one of them Canadian, the other from the UK, one of the local female booze hounds who has a bottomless taste for anything mentally immobilizing, and some 50 year crusty from Colorado named Diamond Dave. Why grab a drink at one of the local pubs after midnight, especially when I have to be at work in a little more than 8 hrs, what is the hurt, have a few, then head home to get a bit of rest. Fast forward to 2:30am, all these people are piling into my van with pints full of beer, the UK bloke follows behind like a good chase car does, putting distance between myself and the neighborhood authorities. By 3:30am now, I got Diamond Dave super high on some mega chronic weed, so he has taken up residence in my bathroom, laying down on the floor using one of my bath towels for a pillow, so after a bit longer someone finally informs me of his condition. Time to grab some blankets to help comfort his hallucinatory state; he is done for the duration of this adventure, off dreaming on the back of his eyelids watching some personal animated mind movie that randomly selects image content from the vast libraries of the mind, it makes no sense, yet the pictures keep on coming.

Meanwhile, the rest of the gang has dived into the unopen bottle of Tequila, liberally pouring drinks into shot glasses. I gave up attempting to direct this party long ago, not much else to do but break out all the arsenal of fiesta materials, mixed them all together then observe the results. Damn place smells like a ashtray, small butts, ashes, and smoke, clouds of weed in the air, as well as fresh carved rails of some chemical combo consisting of coke, MDMA, valium, and xanax, what has possessed me to formulate such a brain cell killing combination, probably just a bit of daring, experimentation, and a healthy curosity to see if these fools would actually ingest such a caustic fusion. It's 5:30am, dance music is vibrating the walls of the place, luckily the neighbors are out of town, still find it hard to believe no one can hear this afterhours club raging toward the streets of the Las Vegas Strip. Diamond Dave has arisen from the dead, he is going through a collection of my travel photos, amused, intrigued, and channeling their worldly energy into his own state of existence. The woman from Montreal has been talking constantly for the past 3 hours, the guy from Montreal is attempting to get his girl and the local booze hound friend of mine together; he keeps asking me if I mind, as he grabs one of my video cameras while giving the ol thumbs up, pointing the lens in their direction. Sure, why not, always up for a good show is my feeling, if they are willing, I am, willing to watch, possibly even participate, but for now, the idea is more fantasy than anything else.

These people are nothing more than club casualities now; it is already 7am, work is in a few hours, damn it, I need some form of sleep, my age has taken all the will out of me to grind it out for a little while longer, furthermore, this crowd is nothing new, a bit novel, the stories of the couple from Montreal who have been traveling around the states for almost a year kept me going for a bit, as well as Diamond Dave's antics, yet, enough, time to pack it in and with no goodbyes head into my room, lock the door, and set the alarm. In the echoes of my mind, the music is still playing, the voices laughing without faces, the snorts, the puffs, and the swigs of alcohol consuming every last of bit of party material left in the house. Slowly all this carnage, all this white noise, all this useless liveliness erodes into an opaque tunnel of zen, where no thoughts, dreams, or contact with the dead exist, a blank time warp shattered by the sound of a phone alarm, time to get up in the clothes I fell asleep in, cutting it close so no time for a shower, walk out of my room, nothing but silence, some invisible entity has forcefully ejected all those cretins from my nightmares, I can only hope that work today shall be a bit forgiving and offer me a slight repreive from the events of last night/this morning. Luckily, after a bit of equipment setup, the gods allow me two hours to sleep in my van and afterwards while reassembling a small supply of sanity; finish the afternoon half rationale, yet quite enough for the job, just have to keep breathing, hold the mind together, and then exhale when the shift is over, back in the automobile to grab a bite to eat for the first time in the last 24 hours.

John Mellancamp

It is not often that the world of corporate media offers anything up more than a week long series of talking heads and shiny happy people videos, but even the button up suit and tie crowd need to let loose of all that number crunching, online conferencing, and annual sales goals life in the business world can bring, so with all the resources of any billion dollar company why not go out and hire a world class music act to perform in the wonderful confines of an open bar convention ballroom in some mega Las Vegas strip hotel as the patrons wander amongst Gold Circle sales achievers and the eventual slippage of formerly discreet office romances that binging on a week of the "What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas" mentality can facilitate. I must admit being able to work around rock and roll musicans has always been a soft spot, sort of an attempt to live that on stage lifestyle such types perform on a nightly basis. Music really seems to transcend all boundaries on whatever level one can imagine and even a fringe hack like myself can't resist getting all emotional when Mellancamp comes out on stage and kicks right off into "Check It Out", just being able to shoot camera gives me the chance to be a few feet from the band with no one around me dropping beers on my shirt or singing fucked up lyrics like a banshee on acid while wasted on Southern Comfort in a desperate effort to create some sort of the eternal bond as they put their arm around me to join them in a chorus of "Rock You Like a Hurricane".

The only other real annoyances while shooting bands of this stature can be the post beer brawl aftermath littered along the floor of a ballroom upon which I have found at times will cause me to go flying in a myraid of directions with gravity at the controls, the audiences tends to finds this humorous but can only offer me a sense of hostily and embarassment, speaking of such, the camera groupies are always a fun bunch. They tend to be late 30's to early 50's mostly female, but not always; I am merely a conduit in their eyes for them to get closer to the band. I remember shooting a Huey Lewis concert brimming with camera groupies who felt compelled to grab at me every chance they could, the type of shit guys pull on strippers, I have been reduced to nothing more than a neon thong wearing piece of meat by a bunch of middle aged horn dogs, thankfully Huey and his band members were all too willing to take them off my hands and back to his suite up in the Playboy Towers at the Palms Casino and Hotel.

Conventioneers always seem to be facinated on how someone like myself lucked into such a great lifestyle and can make a living from it. I just usually thank them for the complements but sometimes admirers have the need to offer me business cards with links for their own web based You Tube like video drivel to critique, well fine, give me the card, anything, another beer would be great as well. No one seems to have a problem with the crew getting loose during the performance either, the first few times I thought it was a setup, the fact the client insists on me partying was surprizing but after a few shows of the same manner, walking over to the open bar to request an unopened bottle of wine for the "client" wink, wink, feels no different than bumming drinks at the local bar, just something you develop like any other craft, the bar staff doesn't care, with case after case of booze, already paid for, putting it into play is like dealing cards at a poker table.

Caught awash in the hour long set of John Mellancamp remembering I actually have to be involved in the production of this live event and not become an entranced spectator, luckily being able to visually tell a story with a camera offers me a way to get further into the music as well as the event while performing, all those years of watching MTV rock concerts and other more well season camera operators than myself have given me an arsenal or visual pallete in which to draw from like a well, an artistic resevoir that can even have me shaking my head at times on how I pull off some shots. This camera eye, zooming into identities, facial expressions, and bad ass guitar solos has become some what of a voyuer which in a few respects defines my job in various capacities, when the crowd is paying more attention to the screens than the artists themselves, then maybe the crew has done too good of a job, but overall there is very little that can compare to the face to face interaction with a musician you respect or admire, fine enough to leave it at that, keep the fourth wall up. Mellancamp looked please to take that 6 figure payday to play for a crowd of pharmasudical sales people during the next hour, as he stood up there in his best motown, blues, and rock pose to give the crowd what they needed, an outlet from everyday life, still Mellancamp felt a bit mailed in, from the white ceramic Jesus statue sitting a guitar amp to unforeseen acoustic mini set placed abruptedly in the middle of a preceeding rocking twenty minutes of music. The schmaltz was out, get folky and a bit reminicant of the good old days, then take the check to the bank. The conventioneers were feeling it, mixed with some drinking and possibly a joint, everyone looked to be having fun, myself included a smile fixed upon my face, the guitarist started to laugh at my naive nature, like a kid at a concert, overwhelmed with the rock star fixation, the dream to be larger than life, cooler than everyone else, and fulfilling some poetic itch, all the literary text books in school failed to achieve. Soon enough though, Mellancamp was out of there, take the money and run, of course the band could have played longer, someone of his accomplishments, had another couple hours of material, yet he could smell the corporate rat and had endured as much of it as possible without breaking into some personal tirade against global business model, yet not everyone had the priviledge of existing their own personal fantasy, so those in the crowd who could not, shouted for an encore, but after 5 minutes went back to the bars for last call and more receptive pleasure seekers of the Las Vegas night.

SHOT Show

Guns, guns, guns, battle repetition awaiting orders in this stronghold of personal saviour should anyone in the next five days decide to embark on personal crusade against the soverign nation of the United States. Childhood feelings of waging war against friends in neighborhood canyons with no more than low grade BB guns could not compare to holding a semi automatic rifle in my hands. The only drawback was the lack of shooting ranges within the convention center itself in which to give some of these weapons a test drive, so I had to be satisfied in sodomizing my brain with high energy, violence, and explosion movie trailers of the mind starring myself with a stockade of guns assemble from the show floor. NRA banners, advertisements, and stickers adorned many of the booths through the expo, amendment rights, hobbyists, and backers of a lifestyle some might argue is intertwined into the very fabric of what it means to be an American in the first place. Granted, I am not what one would term as an outdoorsman or collector of firearms; thoughts of turning a gun on myself occasionally when depressed or on someone else when pissed off are often too common themes posing as solutions when the debt collector comes knocking or some asshole cuts me off on the freeway, otherwise there are not too many things more adrenaline fueled than emptying a clip from a machine gun; it invokes private thoughts of primitive kill lust described throughout the ages in various dramatic forms, thankfully most people can resist that impulse one can feel when pulling that trigger, however some people cannot, which does not mean an entire subgroup of enthusiasts should have to bare the weight of those containing questionable rationale integrity. Those with the disturbed sense of sociopathological nature could just as easy use a large vehicle, homemade explosives, or bare hands to accomplish their own self absorbed manical goals.

Right away, I can tell the outdoor trade is not an everyman type of endeavor even though on the surface it appears to advertise to the so called common man, if that kind of person really exists anymore. The over abundant amount of new technical equipment ranging from laser guided sight scopes to wireless high defenition video cameras smells of a hobby that has been compartmentalized to extract as much money out of its loyalist as possible. It is not enough to buy a high powered rifle that can hit a dime at a thousand yards but the assortment of a la carte items suggested by the wide collection of vendors who are hawking hand carved bird callers, sex animal scent, blow up doll deers that make life like noise, and blinds which are camoflauge hideouts to pass time while waiting for the bird migrations or unsuspecting game seems a bit self indulgent.

What is the point, thought it was to go out like De Niro in the Deer Hunter and pit the skills of man against nature, minus all these hi tech gadgets with GPS tracking systems, military grade night vision, and noise cancelling camouflage paddleboats. I understand there is a need by the sellers to offer the people what they want and some folks are completely content with having all the high end gear available at their disposal, but doesn't going after a buck with the arsenal and computing capacity of an aircraft carrier seem a bit overkill, maybe in a fantasy sort of way tracking game with a laptop, cameras, and laser guided telescopes supplants a need to live as if in a military war like setting, except the enemy can at best possibly gore you with its horns.

Talked with a bow hunter for a few minutes and right away could appreciate the stripped down nature of his experiences in tracking game which had a more organic feel consisting of such elements as analyizing footprints, trails, and developing a knowledge of the surrounding enviroment, watering holes, grazing meadows, and migration patterns. The amount of stealth, patience, and mental conviction necessary to bring forth all the appropriate conditions to even get close to a wild animal intrigued me. Tons of control, breath, body movement, and the bow itself really felt like something I could get into, a real challenge without having to blow some animal away with a bullet or buckshot that turns the meat into hamburger, either way people have their preferences, but the Indians couldn't win the wars with the bow so any discussions of what rules the day and personal choice can be acquired with the proper hunting permit.

Throughout the day of interview showfloor sellers, one of the producers on the show I was working for asked me if all this gun stuff made me uncomfortable, basically was I some lefty looney liberal who liked to bang the gong for human rights and gun control. What did it matter, I told him if I had guns, putting animals out of their misery would be low on my list, there are enough animals in the streets, in political offices, and the streets of Beverly Hills who need to be given the Island of Dr. Mareau treatment. Think the literary reference threw him off and the semi radical attitude of my answer may have brought out personal judgements as being another whack job like the gunman who took out all those people in Arizona, yet that character as much as an outcast in which he is being portrayed in the media just happen to murder children, middle class folk, and nearly a politican that kind routine will get you prime news coverage everytime, but gang bangers, transient hookers, and the random street harden runaway might lead to a legacy of unsolved murders at the hands of a serial killer, funny how things work in this society, but it is the one we have inherited and on good days does a pretty fine job, but on the bad ones, you get the Arizona mall massacre, just the kind of ammunition anti-gun groups cream their pants over.

St. Louis Plaza Security Detail

A security guard slowly trails a man wrapped in dirty bandages. Another potential confrontation with a street creature who is looking to make one of the hidden alcoves around the strip mall complex into his on the strip condo or high end outhouse, which around these cross streets directly across from the Stratosphere hotel can probably be considered an easy night, especially in a neighborhood known for its high concentration of hookers, dope dealers, and the predators who prey upon those people. On the other side of the plaza, two cop cars have small line of people handcuffed sitting on top of a small curb while looking for more charges to add to the ones that already have them in restraints in the first place, who knows could be gang related, turf related, money, hoes, drugs, or whatever. In either direction lies an array of wedding chappels and hourly motels. The north end of the strip is slow tonight, even for a friday, weather is too cold for most ladies to hit the street for any good reason, unless the rent is due and the few I have seen lately are all dolled up in fake furs, knee high leather boots and skin tight designer blue jeans. Affectionly known as the dawn patrol, these women roam the blocks near my condo with the only thing seperating us being a twelve foot high brick wall with sharp pointed metal arrows along the perimeter of the estates. Working the business schedule has me up at 6am where a few of the ladies are still milling about all too aware of the pending shift changes this time of morning; either going home or off to work who does not need a quick hummer to get the day off to a great start or proper closing.

Dressed in that store bought almost movie prop like clothing of black bomber jacket, polyester slacks, and a dark cap that says security, the light blue shirt, and navy blue tie, as the street lamps reflect off the semi polished surface of the security guard's black dress shoes. The man tails the bandaged urine bandit along the sidewalk until the semi conscious, unshaven, and weather beaten transient wanders off into the stealth sharpened teeth of a mouth that has devoured everyone who has every passed inside. The killers live on this street, no lights, the random patrol car, silhouetted shapes shift, moving between duplex housing and the few remaining trees that have not been given the ax. Teenage youth are going down to Clark County tonight, flashing lights, red and blue that set off a certain feelings inside my gut, evading the long arm of law, not too fortunate this time yet no sooner than the paddie wagon pulls out of the strip mall plaza, a fresh reinforcement of recruits make their way back onto the block, yo what's for sale, the grind is back on and soon enough with the warmer weather the ladies will return like the migrating birds from the south.

Ft. Hood

Teenagers with machine guns in their arms, stop cars at a checkpoint with a calm nature that indicates a well trained condition, as if running through a series of mental prerequistes in order to evaluate the purpose of each automobile seeking permission to pass into the Army base at Ft. Hood. The armament is real, present, and potentially deadly, while the soliders addresses us after we show them our credentials as one would while sitting down with friends for beers. The excitement of a mixed martial arts show has obviously made the rounds throughout the base and anyone involved with the event has been given a temporary elevated status of cool that makes these soliders as overwhelmed with anticipation as the legions of loyal followers I have seen throughout the 10 years of working on this show. If there had not been an airfield nearby with a collection of military copters upon it, the base would have pretty much looked deserted, could have been due to the expansive nature of the military depot which is apparently the largest in the US, right smack in the middle of the country, quite a proper location to keep the big guns of world warfare at bay.

Maybe the rabbits or random coyote rules these small surrounding hills as the mile plus long landing strip appeared to be the only real kind of construction while small luxury jets ran in and out of the airbase with a casual nature of government business being conduct with the upmost discreet nature. As for the troops themselves, there was not too much interaction outside of the security team that had been placed around the hanger in which the event was to take place. It was only natural to strike up a conversation in the cold windy afternoon during lulls in downtime while they gave us the once over for proper credentials, life amongst the civilian crowd, things were casual, none of the color coded threat levels one might have expected according the various media outlets, just use your head and don't go out onto the airstrip unless you have a yearning to do some jail time.

The day of the show, the bus hauled in a thousand or so soliders who like kids at an amusement park took the time to search out various friends to play amongst the military choppers and tanks that had been assembled the previous night in order to sell the television on audience on the awe of multi-million dollar war machines. The production crew I work with took some of the afternoon to climb inside the tanks, take pictures in front of the helicopters and generally fall in line with the prevaling youthful nature permeating around the assualt vehicles. The tank gun continously gave me an errie sense of endangerment, the visualization of having one of these killing machines heading toward me felt like an expressway to death, just BOOM, then incineration, nothing, evaporated into fine dust. The production heads decided today would be the appropriate time to give away our so called Christmas present, which tends to be a jacket, sweat shirt, or other form of memorbilia personalize for the crew that did not bother me, up to the point where I really did not care for the token gratitude in the first place, why not just give me a raise instead.

The real problem arose when the production assistants began handing out the jackets in front of the troops, so now there three hundred soliders hitting me up for the jacket which really did not bother me because I planned on giving it away to one of them anyway, yet the atomsphere started to develop into a free for all mentality of personal selfishness. The constant requests continued throughout the three hour show and the only thing that would have been more intolerable might have been the 299 soliders who I couldn't offer a jacket hassling me the rest of the event about handing one out in the first place, so now no one is getting a jacket, sort of bummed me out, there had to be one or two of those people who wouls truly enjoy such a piece of memento from the fights, yet I could only imagine the battles that could break out from the one individual who would have to wear his or her uniform coat over the jacket in order to get it back somewhere secure. Soon enough though the show ended and the teenage battlions filed out in an orderly manner finishing off the remainder of their beers talking amongst each other.

Forgot about the bloodlust amongst the audience anytime one of the fighters took a beating, a sonic force of battle rage cutting through the hanger like a swift moving ax blade; there was a connection of one on one combat, beating ones way through life and death situations, as if just watching the contest themselves amounted to a form of therapy from the daily going ons around the base or even possibly out in the field in some far away land. Still, I could sense an empathy from the soliders with both fighters whether winner or loser, just the fact they got in there to test their skills in the first place was rewarded by an intense adrenaline fueled thunderous applause that truly only lulled during the intermissions between fights.

Time to pull the stakes up, fold up the tent, and get the performers off to the next event; it is the receding tide in the early morning from a chaotic night of cold weather winter stormy seas battering impassable towering rocky jagged cliffs. A hanger floor littered with thousands of empty plastic bottles, popcorn cups, and various advertisements, the residue, what it takes to get the job done, small piles of bloody towels, rubber surgerical gloves, obvious biohazards, no one cares, it all goes into the broom and eventually the trash. Looks like I am going to be here all night putting various techincal gear back in their proper locations, while occasionally staring off out toward the landing strip's flashing blue lights and the empty void of darkness off toward the horizon, the cold begins to creep into my body, have to keep moving, the jacket/gift did come in handy otherwise I might have really froze my ass off, a few hours of sleep then onto a series of flights in order to get back home in time for football which is the real priority.

Periodic Growth

I seem to undergo various cycles of involvement and removal, either complete dedication to self indulgence or generating as much distance from the mechanism that faciliate the simplicity within which to find myself on the back end of 3 day fiestas. Shades of Charlie Sheen come to mind minus the bank account; a retraction into an otherwise state of absolute sobriety can make me a bit edgy especially when others around me are going head over heels in getting wasted. Am I that much of a drunk, a junkie, and freak that I have to battle myself when the thought of getting off work at 3am must be capped off with a binge drinking escapde down at one of the local bars. Do alcholics think this way, while caught in a strong parasitic undertow to create favorable conditions, made up stories, and irrational logic to get me in the car and off on some rollercoaster time warp bungee jump acid trip, it feels that way sometimes after a couple of weeks of such behavior and even more so at the moment while being sans the devil's elixer, dandruff, and agents of exessiveness who bend wills like magicians bend spoons. The adventures help the writing to some degree, whether as a puncuation mark on an assortment of spontaneous tricks conducted with very little consciousness and a waterfall of extravagant deviant demeanor or as a diving board into the afterlife; those times where the second by second, breath by breath, near mental collapse walk along the wire above the flames of hell have served to transform me into a mechanical beast on a personal odyessy through the strange times of living in the digital age.

Not sure how long this current phase shall last, the extra sleep, clarity, and focus start the mind moving in all sorts of directions in regards to getting the things accomplished that all the partying took precedence over in the first place. The definitve distraction as I like to call everything which keeps me from doing such tasks as writing this blog. Either drink or sleep, these two pillars of existence stand by my sides, avoid, why put anything down anymore, give up, stand aside, leave the real heavy thinking to people who are halfway to the grave from meth overkill and wikipedia media burden. Sitting in this chair at the moment feels like being in restraints, barstools are calling, anonymous women, and street grade narcotics, come on, get back in the game, don't fight your place amongst the washouts of the universe, join the 21st artists, immerse into tomorrow land, popcorn, cotton candy, and death defying exploration at every turn. Only chance is to remain stone cold in this unheated room, awiating a chance brought forth by facing a series of tasks to help define the romantic notions floating around in my brain for the last twenty years, sometimes the bullet makes sense, other times,the bottle and occasionally the word, enjoy.

Discarding the Future

Listening on a communications headset during the rehearsal of some corporate meeting within the metallic confines a mega complex of hotels along the Las Vegas Strip. After enduring a 15 minute discussion on the current state of the global warming, the two people striking up the conversation had come to a bit of a stalement in their attempts to convince the other person that their view was the more valid choice. By this point, I had already tuned out the conversation if for no other reason than I could just as easily entertain myself by checking in to the global social networking scene via my smartphone, no better way to whittle away the afternoon than scrolling through the hundred or so phrase like statements of various promotions, pet problems, and personal self esteem issues. The virtual psychatrist is in, sit down on the couch, let the session commence, while the digital masses proceed to unload all their issues on an otherwise sunny day in Las Vegas.

As I immerse a large amount of my lazy consciousness into the rants of the moment, the conversation on the headset takes a turn into the realm of one person stating how he is not really too concerned about what is going to happen in the next fifty years, because by that time he will be dead, as if to say why bother with a solution, just pull the trigger and let the next fool bare the weight. Such a mentality has put the planet in such the current situation of stagnation. People who throughout their lives had decidely continued to exist with their heads in the sand, stepping up to distraction after distraction, turning away from the people in foriegn lands protesting in the street because they cannot get enough bread to eat. Granted, it is a whole lot easier to live in the States, guarded by might, will, and two oceans, to not give a shit but rather chain ourselves down with a lot of useless goods, services, relationships, and store bought ideologies that in the long run neither serve our global interest or foster any desire to participate in political events throughout the global, isn't that why we have elected officials in the first place, to mediate all that political handwringing and so called goodwill, I just want to sit back and fade away on network cable tele-dramas, what's with all the negativity.

The post death state of mind is nothing new, yet as I get older, the opportunity to adopt such views becomes much more inticing, complacent attitudes are like familiar dance partners, the feet are on autopilot and with such an overwhelming menu of activities to divert one's mind from undertaking any particular interest in anything outside your front door; the willingness to keep abreast of things going on in Vegas, Nevada, the US, and the World can feel like trying to take a lawyer bar exam without ever taking any courses in the subject of law, some people can make that jump, very few, and from what I have seen, these types do not come to the forefront for either fear of personal safety or interest in the actions of rule by government institution. Either way, generations have been given soft cushion to exist than with no more requirements than to go to work, consume goods, and maintain a bubble of apathy in which to place oneself within, with these ideals achieved the order of fast food, pop culture, and internalize dream states shall be left undisturbed, so I will go back to my smartphone in order to text some junior high like punch lines to others who relish the prospect of pissing away another fifteen minutes, minus the fame.

Middle Life Crisis

Haven't meant too many people who really like sitting in the middle seat during a four flight, but with a sense of understanding as well as a bit of kindness everyone in the row tries to make the best of the situation, yet ocassionally there has to be a person striving towards becoming a cog in their corporation who is in the midst of an excessive string of motivational speaker readings who has gone on a total bender in the asserting of a private power dynamic. The description: semi balding, male, of medium height, who dresses in that bland nuetral tan slacks and light colored shirt, married, but to give the guy credit he had a goatee for that added creative streak. When I encounter people with such passion to make every little movement for space into a battle, sleep is the first counter on my part, rather just lean over on the guy with all my dead weight, what do I care at that point, good for a couple of hours, don't have to bother with being edged out off an arm rest which is usually relinquished with no problems, it does suck to sit in the middle seat, cramped between two other people, especially when they are the size of NFL starting offensive linemen, which happened to me some years back. The trio of us could have blocked for Manning, Brady, or whoever, I was expecting the plane to flip over while the effects of weekend of work/partying drove through my mind like slow forming cement in my viens. There was really no sitting, sort of just wedging inbetween a pair of enormous shoulder blades, but a mutual understanding had been achieved, the three of us laughed about it throughout the trip while sharing a few drinks, nothing a bit of conversation can't help, it really melts away the reality of being couped up in a metal tube for an extended period of time.

Still, no comraderie today, only a middle management flesh bot who was plagarizing Vince Lombardi quotes and Tony Robbins motifs for some future powerpoint presentation to his underlinks back in Illinois somewhere. Granted I slept through about half the flight, but for the other two hours this guy kept trying to wedge my arm further and further into my ribs, then the periodical standing up every fifteen minutes began, whether to grab materials for the overhead storage bins to frequent bathroom trips, this person was attempting to give me the ol stare down routine, which amounted to nothing more than watching a confused animal go through their series of physical routines to establish some sort of primitive territorial pissing which he himself could only make sense out of inside the airplane. All I could do was watch while hoping to gain a bit of humor from his antics. Mr. Middle Management did not let me down, in fact everytime the man walked out into the aisle his brain must have been processing other things, cause he would rise just as another passenger or stewardess would pass, creating a bottleneck in the aisle walkway, of course Mr. Middle stood their working on two levels of thought, one, dominance, two common courtesy, in the end number one, seized the day, only making the impass more drawn out than necessary.

Why not, humanity is here for my amusement, this has already been well established and over documented, today would be no different, this is compelling, exciting, and fun, watching Mr. Middle move through the steps of metamorphsis from the weak little catapiller to the empowered butterfly, where he happen to be stage wise at the time took a bit more observation to establish. After everyone returned to their seats, the battle of the arm rests continued, only to be nuetralized by the old leg touching leg tactic, skillfully employed but yours truly. If all else fails go for the homophobic angle, you might get in a fight, but most of the time, types like Mr. Middle will go into full retreat, his personal space had finally been violated, so I kept up the attack, just to let him know who is in control here, what did I care, this goof is nothing but a low grade psychological experiment, sleep would have been preferrable or writing, but watching this guy type up 20th century self empowerment phrases into powerpoint slides wants to make me see what he is really made of in the mind. But even this runs its course, just land the plane, there are more important things going down, like having a beer or watching sports or interacting with the general public. Finally, the plane lands and during the frey that exists inbetween deplaning Mr. Middle made a final move in the search for dominance asking me to get his bag from the overhead storage bin. I told him, "Get out of here." Some people have to go down with the ship, Mr. Middle was no different, just uncomfortable with his lot in life, like most people, but with very little talent, drive, and or character to change it.

Cell Drain

Looked up for the first time in ten minutes while busily tapping away on the touch screen of my cellphone only to notice everyone else in the room inside their personal cocoon of auto erotic digital pleasure. Completely zoned from the rest of the world as they burrowed their way through vast amounts of information like crack fiends seeking the ultimate score. The era of the portable computer has finally made an identation into our already limited attention span, might as well forget it, no need for cigarettes, just get into Facebook, texting, or sending cult hero photos with whitty captions to other brain starved amigos on the other side of the country. Conversation can be quite an achievement for the general public due to our new found facination with social media and the ever presence desire to broadcasat the most minute half formulated ideas in search of the holy grail of peer approval. It has come to the point where I have to place my phone inside a jacket zipper, just let go of the urge for the time being to further bland the minds of mutually distracted public who can no longer achieve the loft rock star goals of their dreams, but now must be quite content to render themselves into a satellite status of semi anonymous huma-droids constructing billions of little sheltered biovaucs in a grand scheme to give spontaneous birth to the next hip meta-cast web portal with illegal downshare links, hologram self portraits of nearby cities, and alternate universes filled with unique species of alien nature that would give even the most unexplainable science fiction character a strong case of xenophobia.

I feel like such a loser for being such a willing participant in the process, but now must settle back in the role of casual observer as the world heads into an era where business and the technological tools the masses have begin to wield, collide into an all out assualt to fuse silicon with carbon, the new big bang into a epoch where the means of communication will supercede the content being offered. Don't doubt when my Facebook feed is filled with nothing but advertisements and a strong helping of irrelevant drivel that constitutes nothing more a widespread epidemic of public urination or indecent exposure we are well on our way. Distraction is my best friend and those around me at the moment. Does anyone care what is going on around them or have we all decided to feed a life that must be pimped by the architects of 21 century dream machines? Maybe I should be concerned or scared for the direction of society, personally it will not be boring by a long shot, the actions of people never fail to dissapoint, so go back to watching the television shows, surfing the net, or doing the social media swing, tune in. turn on, tune out.

Release Date

Pretty close to getting out of this fortress, so much time has past can no longer retain any real measurement of time. Life freezes when all options have been removed, while grasping on to a shallow anticipation that I may resuface from an extended period of hibernation. Been shuffled through a web of holding compartments, no explanations or information of when this journey amongst the casade of three dimensional cubic tiles will come to an end. Flesh beasts surround me on each side, my steps feel heavy, yet unstable as if gravity has started to fluctuate intensity, walking on gelatinous mass surface, one foot falls into the floor another bounces the other foot toward the ceiling. Lost little Alice in Wonderland, escape hyper spell stretch, mind now new age sewer, guru for the plastic creatures dining on silicon wafers and liquid nitrogen chalices, feeds post god nectar for the new era of popularity queen and digital king.

Haven't had many problems with the other inmates till today, got thrown in a cell with a couple of teenagers and someone about my age. At first, the two youth began to size me up, which was a bit of grounds for concern, so damn close to finally getting out of this holding pen and now these arrogant, intense, and ultraviolent mutants wanted to bait me into a fight. One of the baton wielding goons who brought me into this limbo void mumbled something about being let free. Great, we are all of the same cause, except for one skinny white trash piece of shit who spent he free time scoring meth in dark lab rats of the mind. The sleepless caustic endangered scared animal trapped in a corner look was stretched over his face taut like a snare drum wound up to the point of tearing in two. My first instinct when someone wants to stare down is get right in their face, call them out, and see what the problem might be, yet this kid has spent the past hour whining about how once he is free from our current labor camp, authorities from a business corporation have bought the rights to his freedom in exchange a service contract extending any number of years, where he shall play the puppet to the whims of others more sadistic than himself.

People in this position, obtained by the system, become nothing more than meanacing news reels used to instill fear in the general public who do want to deal with any sort of hard customers that may be inclined by some genetic or environment stimlus to go on a killing spree in anytown America. Happens all the time, a gear turns, a belief is internalized, while the medics, fire department, and police arrive to clean up the mess. None of this does anything to quell my current decision to either fight or leave it alone. Luckily, there happens to be another person in with us who is more upbeat, optimistic, and excited as myself to get the hell out of here. The second youth, a real tall, wide, and aloof type lumbers back to one of the few wooden benches in the room, neither concerned or captivated with my arrival. This diffuses some of the tension, but by now I can't look at him, he knows the deal, bait me to brawl, then in come the meatheads to kick the shit out us, then toss me back into confinement for another month, who wants that, I only seek to walk the damn streets a free man again and figure out how to get back on my feet.

Just shut out this small quarter with walls littered in third grade scrawl gang affiliations, tags, and the arbitary expletive, a few people must have spent quite a stretch in this room as most of the painted floor had been scratched away possibly by fingernail, but after asking the older cool captive how the letters were created; he rather casually broke off a small piece of concrete from an existing crumbling pillar then used the rock to carve away the layers of flat grey paint from the floor. No one wants to our talk about our release dates especially now that the one kid has played his hand; he has nothing to lose except a commitment to an invisible entity who shows no sympathy, tolerance, or love, but rations out enough sustanance to keep him alive like welfare children, cashing in on their existence, yet offering no help to pull themselves away of their reckless, impulsive, and often fatal decisions. Things are quiet for a while, as the older inmate pleades for someone to rescue him from this detention, still no one arrives for him, soon enough I am dragged out by my heels with the tall quiet kid, just the luck of the draw. We are cut loose, back into the streets of the world, I give quiet kid five bucks for a pack of smokes and he disappears back into the chaos that delivered here in the first place.

Street Lamp Fallout

One light on this alley, must run at least 300 yards, looks like it fades off toward the end of the universe in the direction of an ultimate fear few dare to face, except the insane, desperate, or destitute who make such a location their permanent residence. The dark forces are a beacon for misery, failure, and compulsion to self destruct, like a shotgun in the mouth, then pull the trigger, danger is nothing to be avoided here, can't be done, impossible, it comes with every breath, every shower, and every carefully measured footstep down this corridor of misfortune. A woman walks into the void, clay like, animated, a chew toy for eternal forces who need to be appeased with token sacrifices in order to prevent something more universally catastrophic. There are plenty more snacks wandering these nearby avenues who have no other purpose than to serve as fast food for the purely evil nature that nests at the other end of the alley, like a spider, alert but motionless, patient yet quick to strike, the moment between inaction and mortality is razor thin, no decision, merely detection then consumption. Screams of terror fade into bottomless wells, victim after victim, the people around here once tried to burn the apartments around the alley to the ground only to find more and more rows of abandoned housing fortifying the passage drawing more unsuspecting victims into its insastiable stomach. As the gap between the rich and the poor widens this meat grinder for the havenots shall only grow larger to keep up with the ever increasing influx of more people, shredding humans into fodder for government agencies to further personal agendas while lining their budgets with programs that only serve to maintain, refine, and improve on the process of making citizens of the United States into either criminals or cannibals, the guts are eroding, I can smell it on the sidewalk, see it in the eyes of every third person I meet, and watch blank eyed children dream of malnourishing the minds of the future with useless gadgets and information that do nothing but drive people to drugs, obiesity, or a first class seat into cyberspace, billons of children need something to do, not all of them can rule the world, but this rate, none of them will.