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.

We Wear Fad

Crossing empty streets under the shadow of billion dollar corporations. Youth bastard children of free market will, nothing more than banner ads in the three dimensional reality of life, walking, talking advertisements who subscribe to the pay to play system of living, where putting money in the end user concept such as fashion has made generations nothing more than stand ins for B rate actors on television shows twenty years deep into rerun status. Only the original models ever laugh to the bank, all the rest must live with the shortcoming of being nothing more than a plastic cloroform mold, synthetic to the touch, manniquins seem more life like. all possesions in tow, stuff into the latest hip hand bags, given light by anonymous bloggers from unknown corners of the globe. Photoshop images, Final Cut videos, and Pro Tools music tracks have become the dialouge of the 21st century, no need to talk to anyone, just post your personal voice onto the internet, create a new life, solidify through the use of technology and the general publics' overt willingness to embrace anything from cyberspace as accurate. Awash in the new land of tall tales where even the most boring night walking in front of the Hard Rock Hotel in Las Vegas can seem like an escapade of events, where cops arrest jay walkers with outstanding warrents who nothing are more than small game hunting practice for when the real criminals come to town; the ones calling the shots in this city, untouchable with a stack full of favors from every big player in the area, true protection and the ability to dictate cool kids on the streets, bandanas, sunglasses, and tight pants, a bit over weight with a heavy junk fix on hipness, never satisfied, roaming the town looking for people to hustle or kill. Anything for the next phase of spring clothing lines to finish out the final years of high school. Rock music, rock music, pop music, hip hop all take control, murder the minds of the masses, take from everyone, right on this shirt, says I have the right to want it all. We want the world and we want it now.

Jack Tripper

Wanders the grocery store pushing a cart full of groceries with no intention of paying. Yelling at the top of his lungs how he has just tipped over a section a canned goods near the dairy section. His small band of fellow panksters laugh at his high speed challenges with other shoppers who quickly drive off into the nearest opening to avoid demolition. Part demon, part child, no boundaries or worries as the local rent a cops chase him throughout the place. Everyone around me pretends nothing is happening, like when a child is crying on an airplane hour after hour. No one wants to hear it, but most have been trained to just endure, don't rock the boat or cause any commotion, so Jack Tripper carries on tossing oranges, beef jerky, and spam, a modern day Cat in the Hat whose own personal brand of foolery is only meant with the best intention of amusement, his amusement unfortunately. No sooner Jack Tripper is escorted out by black nylon jacket wearing guards each holding an arm twisted up and turned into Jack Tripper's back. Into the night Jack roams donned in avaitor shades, black Dickies, and a windbreaker dancing to the melodies inside his mind, the jovial joker, unaware of the meaning of malice, ill will, or contempt, jumping up in the air kicking the back of his heels together; he heads off into one of the roughest parts of town unconcerned for his well being, satisfied with the pleasure of a leading a life without boundaries dodging the authorities and all those who only seeking to exploit his flow of infinite happiness at least until the drugs wear off.

The Wait

Half comatose, an old woman sits under the light brown glow of a single light blub. The blinds are drawn with no signs to television signals bouncing reflective images off of living room walls. Her head hangs low as if asleep or in some serious state of deep concentration, while turning herself into a gallery exhibit I occasionally observe on way home from work. Life has been lived, the only thing left to do is standy by until the time to die arrives. The doors are open, the windows unlatched as if she might be tempting death to arrive at a faster pace or a would be killer deranged enough to turn the woman into an evening news story. But after living in this neighborhood for the past year, no human or spirit has bothered to fulfill the wish. So each day the vigil continues slowly turning the old lady into a marble statue, awake yet frozen, withdrawing to a dreamland of past triumphs as well as failures, a personal movie theater with all the greatest hits of her generation, while over time the array of prescription drugs ingested sustain existence begin to warp the movies in a barrage paranoid delusional subplots where all the surroundings have become completely unfamiliar. No delivery into the safe haven of the afterlife, no the train is coming to a slow halt and the final stop, no different than the first one, so back on, stop after stop, auto repeat, flat land two dimensional imagery which is neither inhabitable or any sort of refuge, only a luxurious facade hiding an impentrable truth of eroding on a time line that offers no joy or pain, merely a hollow, untextured exoskeleton that stares back in the bathroom mirror. Back to the chair once more with head held low, exhuasted, frustrated, and ultimately praying the entropy of her physical presence collapses one final time.

Kiling Floor

Urine, urine, nothing but the smell of it rising into my nostrils as I lay on the cold hard floor in some small six by six room, four othes sleep on well worn laquered benches, damn symphony of snoring echoing through my skull. No idea what has happened in the past twelve hours, abducted, tossed into some black sedan with tinted windows, no explanation, reason, or apparent motive, drugged, moving in and out of consciousness like some indie art snuff film, complete paralysis, immobilization, and enclosure. Shadowy figures in front of flourencent lights have been yelling at me for some indeterminable amount of time, hours, days, or years. Time has stopped altogether. No possessions, no cellphone, identification or shoes, they keep on pumping the A/C into this metal cage, some sort of security building with sliding metal doors that open and close electronically. Really tired, but too overwhelmed by whatever chemicals have been shot into my system, not strong enough to fight off the effects, but at least I can sleep, finally, but what circumstances, so much for work today, not that it matters anymore, freedom has been thrown out the door, meaning ideals such as showing up to work, paying the bills, and behaving in a civilized manner have lost all their importance.

Great, might as well lay my head back down on this urine stained surface, close my eyes and hope for a better beginning. Fading in and out as more bodies are congregating into whatever available space is left in this miniture cell, everyone has gone fetal, either out of fear, subconscious, or the frosty breeze forming icicles on the opaque glass window of the security door. Men in dark green uniforms are kicking at my sides to awaken, automatic response, a capture victim with no alternatives, obidence became a wish, a hope, a path of potential escape in a labyrinth of flourencent hospital sanitized passageways. No sympathy, flesh based robots who act via a series of commands with no deviation, ever, they are just as trapped as myself, voluntary captives who have only succeeded in making a career of relinquishing their personal freedom to babysit others, deemed by some great invisible moralistic wisdom of superhuman nature to display the detainees like freaks in a circus act. Compassion, sympathy, and humanity have no place in this metallic box of doom. All of us in this room at whatever moment are living on a timeline in which we have no control over.

Chained up at the hips, walking like penguins, orders shouted, "Turn to the left", " Place your right shoulder against the wall." "Don't look around at anyone else." Dehumanize is the key here, remove all positive nature, grind the boots a bit harder, mash the spiked hammer harder, squeeze, intimidate, and instill fear. Not much left to do but laugh at my current state, but this does not please the blurred out faces of the guards, they have no features, only hostile mass, powered by anger, hate, an all out desire to control, dictate, as well as kill those who shall not bow down to their destructive agenda. Everyone is being divided up in groups, more holding cells, plastic trays of something resembling food are shoved into the new confined space, who wants to eat this green bolonga topped with homemade glue. One man in the room does not care, he has been starved down to a malnourished thin rail. Still, all I can do is marvel in amazement as the being or what use to be a being, devours a trays of reprocessed garbage. This is how they get you, overtake the senses, after smashing all needs and desire down to pure survival, consuming the worst of the worst of everything feels like a vacation, a reward, a victory against the elements of nature, but the only thing to be worried about here are the elements of human nature and how some will wield power to break people down like this organism huddled up in the middle of this compartment force feeding himself every last bit of morsel he can get inside himself. This person is our future, a premonition, or preview at the complete destruction of the human character, what I cannot see yet, is the journey leading to the abused, molested, and violated half living corpse ingesting conformity after all the will to rebel has been beaten out of him, maybe he was just a hard case, but now it no longer matters anymore. This indivdual no longer exists, an outcast, voided from the journals of society, no burial or ceremony, just a low grade subserviant pension as an experimental lab rat for unseen psychological and sociological scientists, when they are done, right out into the garbage heap with the other used up, discarded cartons of filth. I can begin to understand a little, very little of the plights of freedom seekers, waiting and waiting with nothing else, but the conviction to keep themselves from going crazy, knowing that belief could set them free, the toughest thing in this room right now is wondering if I am ever going to get out, the guards don't speak, none of the others in the space seem to have any idea what is going on or how they ended up here in the first place. Fear wants to take over, break me down into a small crying child, but what good would it do, everyone in here right now is freaking out on the inside to some degree, uncertain of their futures, except that they may be living the rest of it in lockdown inside a building, underground, or Carribean island prison camp. The drugs seem to be wearing off, a few people begin to talk, small talk, nothing like the overwhelming inability to formulate a timeline of how we all came to end up in the same location. People in blood stained shirts walk past the window of our cell, bags over their heads, predators who kill whatever is put in front of them. All I can hope is they don't put those killing machines amongst us because no one in here would ever see the light of day again.