Happy Hour Monday

Spent the past hour and a half posting rehash movie quotes with my son instead of laying down some words worth interest, yet with all that aside what does it matter in a reality where all things are super consumable void of circumstance, so listening to Slint right now in order to push the words in the small amount of time left to write such illiterate logic, can't believe I such phrases come out plainly, the spellcheck has been turned off, time to go freestyle. All these mondays spent at Vegas happy hour bars watching small portion everyday 9 to 5 ers who are just a mere fragment in the clockwork which propels this city into its illustrious decadent cinema style legend has become pop fodder worthy of an X Factor season starring Brittney, OJ, and possibly Seth McFarlane, entertainment indeed.

Wanted to talk about a few cultural phenomenon that I got experience this weekend, a wedding and graduation ceremony but not enough time, tis the season or renewing so coordinated such things as above to confuse human beings into believing that the tried and true passages in life remain quite believable and passionate, but why spoil the fun for the human race it is much better to just let such events continue onto the next century. It is much better to watch white collar workers throw down their best moves on the female co- workers who sit and endure various lame come ons from men in various states of balding. Shit, why not, I am entertained as these guys go through the motions only to end up walking away alone on their way to the nearest fast food take out. Either way it is time to go and can only muster up a brief yet semi-inspired piece for your viewing. Let's See who else has been on the audio radar lately, Tame Impala, the new Deerhunter and of course Kendrick Lamar, Later.

This Is Fcukin Awesome

It is weird when you get so old to the point that ignoring the fundamental truths which have brought one along so far in life no longer feels so wrong, maybe a little bit, yet here I stand in the middle another twenty something pop-fest with screwed on smile disguising a somewhat disconnected and uninterested attention span that would make even the most ADD ridden person seem hyper focused. Hell, it's not time to give up or attempt a peace offering with forces I have continuously been at odds with for the past 25 years, seeing that things like weird music, art, and culture invasively intertwined themselves into my DNA; it is hard to accept mediocrity as the absolute answer, even though for much of my life this has been the case. Had to put on Aphex Twin Selected Ambient Works II in order to generate a proper mood for writing this, no long driving voids into opaques galaxies of reasoning, it never resonates with all these people I passed by today talking about bargain diapers at Wal Mart, or half hearted pleas to obey corporate rules from indentured servants as their masters walk the never ending halls of madness seeking to make their existence just a bit more bleak.

Nothing better to do today than watch another internet sensation muse of the social injustices plied against homosexuals, the culturally unattractive, and those who want no part with mainstream artifacts.
These are worthwhile causes to remind our lovely little Facebook generation about so they can click on a bunch of likes/thumbs ups in order to bring about change. Yet there was something about the crowd who had been waiting for the past three hours to take part in the music video dressed in attire you might see in some hollywood prom night movie scene. Their eyes gave off a sickened stare, catatonic, lost in a wasteland constructed by upper middle class profiteers who had convinced themselves that their contribution to promoting socially conscious good times actually was benefitting society at large. Today was merely another distraction, though slightly more glamourous, in a series of daily detours which have paralyzed our youth into throwing away their lives in the quest for light beer, club music, and the occasional STD. As the audience was corralled into their proper positions, I took a bit of time to chat with a few of the people, if nothing else to get further intel on what brought them to this event in the first place, yet all people wanted to know was how to get into my industry. Admittedly, my job is somewhat of grand illusion that appears to be a brass ring to those who work for minimum wage in the service sector, still I take just as much shit as the next stiff, but today was easy and the conversation provided a few laughs in each direction.

The band came out on stage so it was time to get into character, screw the fake smile back on as a sea of eyes gave me the periodic glance, then refocused their attention back on the band parading about the stage with MC antics so throughly worn out that these guys should be sending royalty checks to MC Shan, Rakim, and Kurtis Blow. Time to go translucent as to not instill the cool factor too heavily into the audience who can become shellshocked hipster vibes like young fresh innocent deer at the crackling fire from a hunter's gun. After kneeling to the ground in a ceremonial like pose to make Tebow proud, the teens around me began to go into full on 1980's era Tijuana party mode, luckily or maybe not so, alcohol was not served during this performance in a club environment which may have tipped the party into high gear Roman era frivolity not seen since late 90's Vegas strip club after hours era.

Everyone knew the song and were more than obligating in their rendition of the tune throughout the many times it was replayed, no sense of half assing it. A collective recollection culled from the most sexually charged 80's heavy metal and 90's booty music videos began to flow through the audience in fragrant pungent candy cane waves. It's a T&A show now the other guys who came with the girlfriends pretending to be into this who charade spent most of their time staring at ass while waving make believe  20 dollar bills. The luster of fame, no matter how it is shared pulls in those who have little left in their lives to dream about than singing away all your problems to an audience of others that really want nothing else than to do the same thing, so there is a connection, not the only one, but a bond which has propelled unknowns into the spotlight as a mean of low rent exorcism. That is enough for now went way to long on this one, could been longer, merely a sneak peek into what runs around this brain of mine and the need to get it out as soon possible.

Pump Down the Volume

Well hell, it's two years later and the only things matured at this point in my life have been the fat on my body and permanent caustic etched fatigue lines upon the skin. Freshly delivered truths descend from heaven's gate in bountiful baskets call complacency, denial, and fiction, not the kind of tales found in literature and film but the ones which allow people such as myself to rise out of bed in the morning without a cocktail of alcohol, pills, and various other reality masking substances. It is just not me, but everyone within an earshot; co- workers, friends, and complete strangers who seek an exit to sleep through one more afternoon of what ever various problems saddle them like a broken horse close to starvation. There does not seem to much of an escape route anymore that is not covered in the metallic barbs of internal self centered bitching or griping to a somewhat international online audience where a camaraderie of pain, boredom, and need for attention have superseded any real desire to resolve the generational social stratification and inequality amongst quarreling beings lined up alongside opposite sides of the same active volcanic rim.

Why has it become so much easier to give up? Living in the land of distraction has transformed me into a resident of streaming internet television, lazy dinners, and weekends down at the local pub. This all feels really safe, encouraged telepathically by invisible sources who seek to make me tread aimlessly in middle age routines. The best I can do now is sit at a bar and watch local patrons spend their money, get drunk, while jamming dollars into the hipster jukebox machine in the ultimate contest of punk chic indie cool. Lately, the curtain has risen on the next episode in this great lingering hoax. A new brood of decadent, drug taking, and disenchanted youth headed toward the same pitfalls that converted me into an anti-authority, unique culture seeking, and heavy handed detractor of all things obvious, fake, and status seeking has converged upon this uninitiated breed. It is such a grand set up which has delivered a pilgrimage toward the fringe flavors of the late 80's'/early 90's alternative culture, so come forth the reunion tours, cult films, and icons of the past that are being paraded down Pennslyvania Avenue like the Soviet military procession back during the cold war era.

Time for bed, there is an entire society of people who depend on my workplace contribution, even after being given the green light to wheel and deal in whatever manner seen fit throughout the night, just to file into the job like a military test subject injected with top secret psychotropic chemicals. You get through the day almost insect like, quiet, calm, and polite while on the inside it becomes a battle to fend off the fear which comes with detoxification and the yearning to continue the cycle as soon as the clock says its time to go. This is the beast which has a hold on me, one who seeks unlimited fun and no price to be paid who punishes its captor like an abducted child, love through pain and relief through regret, yet such illusions are best left for the mute expressions on the faces of those under the command of internal demons that come on in schizophrenic waves of panic because as the spirit of addiction intensifies the fearful eyes held captive by neural impulses seeking relief slowly die.

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.