okay, let's have the draft. how much do we have? two eighths. shrooms so good they'll make you feel like you're pissing your pants for the next four hours and the hours will feel like whole days. so, four full days of incontinence? whatever, you ready?
who's first? well i picked 'em up, i'll go, then you get the next two. fair - there are some boomers here. blue and purple...nicely grown. agreed, hit some switches on the stereo, it's not loud enough - and does it always have to be this 80's shit? hey, you want to hang out here? yeah, shut up. then it's going to be my choice for music until we start tripping - then we'll go one for one on the songs - and you can play your Simon and Garfunkel shit, every living boy in new york, and you can tell me all about how Simon switches to the minor chords at the end of america. only - only living boy, pick!
'Take my Breath Away'
ah Berlin (rummaging through the sandwich bag of mushrooms), reminds me of that time we ended up eating your step-brother's zwiebacks after getting baked. haha, i forgot about that - my mom was a bit irate. i'm telling you kid you're not going to be yourself tomorrow, after these. shut up, who's here? Schmitty and the Plumber - no, i'm serious, don't you have an interview in the morning? what are you, the police?
Schmitty still wore this shirt that read:
Pete Smith
5'10" - 175 lbs
145 IQ - 1340 SATs
BS Philosophy - Unemployed
Likes: Radiohead, Blind Melon
he had been wearing it since graduating - 14 months ago. kid was smart but filthy. the Plumber was wearing another concert t-shirt under his unzipped zip-up hoodie. navy blue with black thermal lining, the hoodie. he buys one, a concert T, at every show, for every band, on every tour - he has seven my morning jacket tees...the pirate ship one, probably being the sickest.
i fucking hate this song...Schmitty, about the Berlin.
12 June 2010
luxury complaints
yeah, we get it. you like the toadies.
what?
say it again, huh? say that you like them again. it's just geting tedious. 'oh, half a dozen times a week' and 'oh, oh, Away vs. Tyler, which is better - but not actually talking like that with friends...' who gives a fuck?
.
not to mention the brooding. on and on. everyone has problems and has to make decisions and has trouble identifying. and frankly mr upper middle class - with your subtle grey house and your shutters and your job and your new grill and polished bostonian size 9's and leather carryall soft briefcase and your polos as t-shirts on the weekend and your high metabolism and soft hands and your decent looks and good genes and loving, alive family and US citizenship - you don't have a lot to brood about.
fair enough
i mean i gotta friend that was born without nostrils. still has a nose though. just a solid cartilagey functionless protrusion in the middle of the face below the eyes. looks like a nose out of a horror film. always breathes through the mouth. nasally and shit, like a constant, subtle snore. no one wants to see a person's tongue like that all the time and the face all lazy-looking and sometimes drooling...but the guy has no nostrils! friends call him C.Tony - short for catatonia. tried for a while to keep his teeth closed - his teacher had told him that it was unbecoming to always have the mouth open. but then he had to floss like five times a day. and he looked just angry-mad, breathing through the teeth like that. smells by placing the item in the mouth to the back of the throat, and sort of snorts the sinus cavity. choked on a yankee candle tealight last week.
okay, okay.
enough with the soft life and luxury complaints then.
what?
say it again, huh? say that you like them again. it's just geting tedious. 'oh, half a dozen times a week' and 'oh, oh, Away vs. Tyler, which is better - but not actually talking like that with friends...' who gives a fuck?
.
not to mention the brooding. on and on. everyone has problems and has to make decisions and has trouble identifying. and frankly mr upper middle class - with your subtle grey house and your shutters and your job and your new grill and polished bostonian size 9's and leather carryall soft briefcase and your polos as t-shirts on the weekend and your high metabolism and soft hands and your decent looks and good genes and loving, alive family and US citizenship - you don't have a lot to brood about.
fair enough
i mean i gotta friend that was born without nostrils. still has a nose though. just a solid cartilagey functionless protrusion in the middle of the face below the eyes. looks like a nose out of a horror film. always breathes through the mouth. nasally and shit, like a constant, subtle snore. no one wants to see a person's tongue like that all the time and the face all lazy-looking and sometimes drooling...but the guy has no nostrils! friends call him C.Tony - short for catatonia. tried for a while to keep his teeth closed - his teacher had told him that it was unbecoming to always have the mouth open. but then he had to floss like five times a day. and he looked just angry-mad, breathing through the teeth like that. smells by placing the item in the mouth to the back of the throat, and sort of snorts the sinus cavity. choked on a yankee candle tealight last week.
okay, okay.
enough with the soft life and luxury complaints then.
06 June 2010
he kept a couple journals, had done so for some time now. this small vertical-rectangular shaped one that could fit in his back pocket. his wife had given it to him when he travelled to asia-pac. this one for immediate codification of small thoughts. like "operational definition of intelligence used by Binet in creating the IQ test...further thought required". and always a larger 80 - 100 sheet composition book. the current, 9 3/4" x 7 1/2", college ruled, and made of recycled waste. the pen slid on the pages a bit - them, the pages, being recycled waste and all. this second one for page- or two-page-long compositions, essays, and other such philosophical musings that he couldn't possibly explain through his "uhm's" and "ah's" in real spoken word. like, the one entitled 'on happiness' comprised of an argument (to himself) that even the selfish seeker of little more than his own happiness (himself included, in this 'selfish seeker' group) benefits from a utilitarianism (greatest for greatest) societal approach to life because 1. reciprocation exists and has spanned evolution and 2. the selfish seeker's own happiness (his portion of the happiness pie) grows with a growing overall pie. if one can envision such a pie.
also, he always did that, started their titles with "on". he read that einstein or some other hero also entitled his/her own ruminations that way.
not sure when this started, the journaling, probably in college when he realized that life inside his head was superior to that outside. plus, he wanted to be an observant songwriter and his memory was a stress-ridden disaster. an overgrown wasteland of misplanted worryings and other weed-like saplings of anxiety. much needless use of the brain's RAM. but just as in adopted garden for the ignorant green-thumb - much confusion between weed and flower, until bloom.
he was doing Rubberneck again, The Toadies. it's 2010. nowadays, it's a half a dozen times a week for this album - strongly concentrated in the friday to sunday timeframe. Music! something about the way it tickled his nervous system.
"confusion of the difference between time and space in the statement 'it started raining' when weather systems generally move across the atmosphere...further thought required."
also, he always did that, started their titles with "on". he read that einstein or some other hero also entitled his/her own ruminations that way.
not sure when this started, the journaling, probably in college when he realized that life inside his head was superior to that outside. plus, he wanted to be an observant songwriter and his memory was a stress-ridden disaster. an overgrown wasteland of misplanted worryings and other weed-like saplings of anxiety. much needless use of the brain's RAM. but just as in adopted garden for the ignorant green-thumb - much confusion between weed and flower, until bloom.
he was doing Rubberneck again, The Toadies. it's 2010. nowadays, it's a half a dozen times a week for this album - strongly concentrated in the friday to sunday timeframe. Music! something about the way it tickled his nervous system.
"confusion of the difference between time and space in the statement 'it started raining' when weather systems generally move across the atmosphere...further thought required."
04 June 2010
the face
staring at the mirror staring back at the face. the cheeks used to be fresh Jello molds. the face, you know? so valuable. the brain is cool too, i guess. a second tier kind of cool. but the face. in this society? oh gawd. the man of status is not the man of strong intellect. not yet. and holy christ do we need status. social comparing and ensuring one can point to at least one thing, one trait or possession, that is better on/for/with you than on/for/with all of your acquaintances. doesn't have to be the same thing for all acquaintances but there has to be something for each of them. winning every conversation. and "owning" people. and saying 'fuck that guy, he sucks and makes me uncomfortable' if there is nothing you found that actually sucks about him.
freaks.
our progenies though. our progeny. ha! will they laugh. they will have such gigantic heads, teeming full of cerebral folds and massive prefontal cortices. won't even be able to refer to them as 'heads', the houses for their brains. the term 'head' will be a joke. reserved for someone of feeble constitution. foreheads like GD elephant men. no?
his boy called:
'you want to do some Marley tonight?'
'i'm already on the Toadies with a head full of triumph, can't stop now, knowwhatahmeen?'
they debated a bit, just whether 'Tyler' or 'Away' is the better Toadies song:
'at any rate, and I think we can both agree with this, it doesn't get any better than the way he sings;
"...and if I'm asleep, make sure my blanket covers me, yeah...when i'm away..."
regardless of meaning. he puts his whole life into that effing lyric.' but they didn't actually talk like that with each other.
saw the boys play a few nights back. the boys from brooklyn and cincinnati. something about meloncholy made to sound so sweet and triumphant that actually makes me happy. some fairweathers from i don't know where or how that took off early anyway. some diehards from Sad Songs, or Alligator more likely, describing the band and it's wino frontman to friends they wanted to impress. some college kids dancing like flopheads with no neck muscles. some girls screaming like "i can fix you, Matt. i can." and other such moist longings. some supercilious prick that actually took his balls out and rested them on the chairback in front of him. just left it there all night, the sac.
freaks.
our progenies though. our progeny. ha! will they laugh. they will have such gigantic heads, teeming full of cerebral folds and massive prefontal cortices. won't even be able to refer to them as 'heads', the houses for their brains. the term 'head' will be a joke. reserved for someone of feeble constitution. foreheads like GD elephant men. no?
his boy called:
'you want to do some Marley tonight?'
'i'm already on the Toadies with a head full of triumph, can't stop now, knowwhatahmeen?'
they debated a bit, just whether 'Tyler' or 'Away' is the better Toadies song:
'at any rate, and I think we can both agree with this, it doesn't get any better than the way he sings;
"...and if I'm asleep, make sure my blanket covers me, yeah...when i'm away..."
regardless of meaning. he puts his whole life into that effing lyric.' but they didn't actually talk like that with each other.
saw the boys play a few nights back. the boys from brooklyn and cincinnati. something about meloncholy made to sound so sweet and triumphant that actually makes me happy. some fairweathers from i don't know where or how that took off early anyway. some diehards from Sad Songs, or Alligator more likely, describing the band and it's wino frontman to friends they wanted to impress. some college kids dancing like flopheads with no neck muscles. some girls screaming like "i can fix you, Matt. i can." and other such moist longings. some supercilious prick that actually took his balls out and rested them on the chairback in front of him. just left it there all night, the sac.
27 May 2010
memes?
he wanted his map plastered all over the place. people to know of him. his likeness on billboards like those real estate agents buidling relationships with smiling square depictions of their strong jawlines. his name broadcast on the radio for all the radio-wave-capable universe to hear. his hand shaking the president's. his arm outstretched above his head and his index finger extended in a #1 sign on WCVB as the 6 o'clock news fades out to commercial...like Larry after hitting playoff three or something. people to enjoy his written word to a certain extent. his portrait across the evening sky. no really, "project my smiling face from a satellite onto the atmosphere above the northern hemisphere for one year after I pass." he told NASA over the phone.
no that would never happen, the phone call. he was from boston. so. he lived in this self-imposed middle. this range of geniune comfort. it was unacceptable to exit this range. one could lose friends and suffer utter alienation the instant one exhibited an emotion or excitement one iota outside - save of course at the TV during a Sox, C's, or B's game. what one did instead, when meeting up with one's boys for example, was like make one's eyelids a bit lazy and bring one's head back slowly to a slightly raised position ending with a brief jerk of the chin. and make fun of something someone is wearing right away. the first guy to not be wearing all white sneakers, say.
do not shake hands with one's boys. do not talk seriously about anything with them. be emotionless. be malleable. don't take a stand on anything. ensure that someone else likes something prior to you liking it. don't have dreams. or if you do, don't you dare express them. and exhibit the exact same indifferrence in the following three scenarios 1. dream acheived, 2. dream still oustanding, 3. dream fallen short of. enter a room and be present at certain events but go unnoticed. disappear to the corner of the room but appear intelligent by being reserved and carrying a concentrated look. generally, be a coward but pound the bridge of the nose and soft eye-socket bones of the first guy that points out that you are such. punch with your pinky finger not fully engaged in the fist, like rich executives drink their diet cokes, because it looks cooler in the mirror when you practice at home. call "the family" if you ever run into trouble above one's head. do well in school but play it off. love the story of will hunting. go and see about a girl.
he was a quiet and reserved boy with the humility of christ. in fact his friends called him that, jesus. but they also were from Boston and resided in the same mediocrity. so. they placed no emphasis on either syllable. a monotone...je-sus. lovers of the middle, so to speak. these men are loyal men and are men that will raise families of equally loyal boys and foul-mouthed but beautiful boston girls. but these men, like he, leave no non-genetic legacy, sadly, of themselves to be remembered.
no that would never happen, the phone call. he was from boston. so. he lived in this self-imposed middle. this range of geniune comfort. it was unacceptable to exit this range. one could lose friends and suffer utter alienation the instant one exhibited an emotion or excitement one iota outside - save of course at the TV during a Sox, C's, or B's game. what one did instead, when meeting up with one's boys for example, was like make one's eyelids a bit lazy and bring one's head back slowly to a slightly raised position ending with a brief jerk of the chin. and make fun of something someone is wearing right away. the first guy to not be wearing all white sneakers, say.
do not shake hands with one's boys. do not talk seriously about anything with them. be emotionless. be malleable. don't take a stand on anything. ensure that someone else likes something prior to you liking it. don't have dreams. or if you do, don't you dare express them. and exhibit the exact same indifferrence in the following three scenarios 1. dream acheived, 2. dream still oustanding, 3. dream fallen short of. enter a room and be present at certain events but go unnoticed. disappear to the corner of the room but appear intelligent by being reserved and carrying a concentrated look. generally, be a coward but pound the bridge of the nose and soft eye-socket bones of the first guy that points out that you are such. punch with your pinky finger not fully engaged in the fist, like rich executives drink their diet cokes, because it looks cooler in the mirror when you practice at home. call "the family" if you ever run into trouble above one's head. do well in school but play it off. love the story of will hunting. go and see about a girl.
he was a quiet and reserved boy with the humility of christ. in fact his friends called him that, jesus. but they also were from Boston and resided in the same mediocrity. so. they placed no emphasis on either syllable. a monotone...je-sus. lovers of the middle, so to speak. these men are loyal men and are men that will raise families of equally loyal boys and foul-mouthed but beautiful boston girls. but these men, like he, leave no non-genetic legacy, sadly, of themselves to be remembered.
25 May 2010
who's driving?
and so but now he had this thing where he shut his eyes while driving. each time longer and longer - 'just to the next telephone pole' and then 'for the next two telephone poles' and then 'just to the next mile marker'. but always on the highway, so with fewer turns and no intersections.
this nerve in his brachial plexus had been ravaged by an office chair. the dull pain in his armpit and shoulder dampened his mood a bit.
what did he do? what did he do? what did he do next? and so then he walked around his house. aimless. in a stifling heat. he sat there with his shirt off - his torso skin is fucking nasty, for the record, and he is starting to get chest hair, not the manly kind but more the one-here-one-here-a-little-patch-over-there kind - and he sat at his computer desk (three pieces of particle board held together by hidden screws from ikea) with the skin of his, not fat or overweight but, extra-massed stomach physically sitting on the edge of the desk (you know, with chair pulled in really and almost too close to the desk) and punched away at his laptop, experimenting with commas and details and one-word sentences.
his left eyelid acquired a twitch recently. a rapid movement that absolutely could not be voluntary. it happened mostly when he discussed serious things and made decisions. he knows when it's coming and can feel it happen, of course, but he wonders if others can see it. is it dramatic enough for someone else to observe - that's a whole nothah question. tough to tell if from stress or not, the twitching.
he longed for a simple life of frankly just survival. he owned all these things...all these fucking things. and all these fucking clothes and he really just wanted to wear this grey sweater over a blue button down shirt and olive green pants everyday...he'll probably wear a suit tomorrow. sometimes it's not so funny to see all your dreams as reality.
he drove like a GD douchebag. the eyelid was twitching and the extra stomach mass was greasing up the desk. he felt it was a waste of time, the driving, so he tried as hard as possible to get to the desination as fast as possible. this caused problems for his passengers, if any, and for basically every other car on the road.
so fragile, really. and delicate. he was beginning to notice this. all these things he observed of himself, and probably nearly everything else, held together by these feeble ties...like, barely actually connected and more just 'next to each other' in flight and plummeting to the earth. sprinting at breakneck speed in the absolute black and actually doing okay and not tripping or being destroyed or destroying anyone else and really actually making it for a while but being able to disunite and recognize that it can't possibly last for that much longer, can it?
this nerve in his brachial plexus had been ravaged by an office chair. the dull pain in his armpit and shoulder dampened his mood a bit.
what did he do? what did he do? what did he do next? and so then he walked around his house. aimless. in a stifling heat. he sat there with his shirt off - his torso skin is fucking nasty, for the record, and he is starting to get chest hair, not the manly kind but more the one-here-one-here-a-little-patch-over-there kind - and he sat at his computer desk (three pieces of particle board held together by hidden screws from ikea) with the skin of his, not fat or overweight but, extra-massed stomach physically sitting on the edge of the desk (you know, with chair pulled in really and almost too close to the desk) and punched away at his laptop, experimenting with commas and details and one-word sentences.
his left eyelid acquired a twitch recently. a rapid movement that absolutely could not be voluntary. it happened mostly when he discussed serious things and made decisions. he knows when it's coming and can feel it happen, of course, but he wonders if others can see it. is it dramatic enough for someone else to observe - that's a whole nothah question. tough to tell if from stress or not, the twitching.
he longed for a simple life of frankly just survival. he owned all these things...all these fucking things. and all these fucking clothes and he really just wanted to wear this grey sweater over a blue button down shirt and olive green pants everyday...he'll probably wear a suit tomorrow. sometimes it's not so funny to see all your dreams as reality.
he drove like a GD douchebag. the eyelid was twitching and the extra stomach mass was greasing up the desk. he felt it was a waste of time, the driving, so he tried as hard as possible to get to the desination as fast as possible. this caused problems for his passengers, if any, and for basically every other car on the road.
so fragile, really. and delicate. he was beginning to notice this. all these things he observed of himself, and probably nearly everything else, held together by these feeble ties...like, barely actually connected and more just 'next to each other' in flight and plummeting to the earth. sprinting at breakneck speed in the absolute black and actually doing okay and not tripping or being destroyed or destroying anyone else and really actually making it for a while but being able to disunite and recognize that it can't possibly last for that much longer, can it?
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