Thursday, March 31, 2011
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.
Monday, March 21, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Sunday, March 13, 2011
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.
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.
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