Thursday, December 26, 2019

idea for a film: Mon'america Labeninsis

One would think our best has yet come and gone, and we were too busy to realize it, but some, like those Dixie boys, say "we gonna do it again".  Or like Meatwad, "oh crap, I done did it again."

 Watching Trump hump the furniture legs while the clock counted-off our "wonder years".

You never would'a thought, we'd'a got it together again.  CDB.  Gooks cussin' at the GI from across the way.  "Who's in charge here?"  "You."  "That explains this entire mess!"  Drop a payload of ordinance on the whole delta quadrant, then let the brass sit back and watch the mushroom on sat-com.

America, you cheap bitch.

Roll over one more time, love.

Orange furbaby scraping at the kickplate, trying to will the door open.  I ain't no shellshocked!  The tableaux with the scented candles and the liquor-store burglar "natural shade" nylons.  An empty aluminum beer can dug into one ass cheek, and a cheese puff in the other, one that Mil picks off and eats, nevermind the sweat, the acne craters.

Its like butter on bread after all, her musk.

Arise, Mil Nombres: Amerikansas needeth you!

Tuesday, December 24, 2019

Score so far: Terri likes jazz, I like some jazz, Oreilly doesn't like jazz, and George can play jazz.

I used to do "jazz for or from Clint Eastwood" posts, just like Clint's first directorial effort(Play Misty For Me).  Could you say that carefully cultivated tough guy image just getting trounced when Clint himself took the helm.

So it must be true that man can not eat gravel alone, but must have some different fare now and then.

"I'm walking, yes indeed.
I'm talking, yes indeed."

Before Hoho does his pagan gift-giving magic, I thought I would impart something to ruin the holiday, then do a "mic-drop".  Just kidding.  Having a fine holiday here.

Trying to choke-out the girl in the pic using only my mind powers.  :)  Just kidding again.

One could light a Christmas Tree on fire and have a Burning Man tableaux, like a Druid crazy "seeing the future" thing.  Excising the demon of commercialism and all the crazy stuff from before, like the fertility of the tree, the Father Totem and all that.  Just watch it all go to sh*t, man.

But that's experimental stuff, and I don't really feel experimental so instead I'm sitting here having carrot cake and all the other mainstays, just having a day of it.  And talking with the family.

We bring our A game, what's left of it.

I admitted that I felt bad for Trump after the House Impeachment verdict came through, but you have to admit, that whether guilty or innocent, its his words that caused all of this.  Otherwise Dems would have been content with just blocking legislation like the Repubs did to Obama, but Trump and his darn Twitter account and his rallies.

I never quite forgave that bit about Trump being "the Second Coming".  I'm not committing sacrilege to get a few social media Likes.  But old Trump playing "fast and loose" with the language, like the human germs at WBTV, such that I can't look at them without having a dark moment, as if losing my faith in humanity.  For my own part, that one lady with the particularly sharp laugh seemed to do me a bit of emotional harm, like something I would talk about in therapy if I had therapy sessions.

But no, we have to play stupid and act like that isn't mean.  Like on Deadwood, "guess we'll just die stupid."  Or as Al said, "take an ass-f*cking from the provisional government in Yankton."  I don't subscribe to such failing mindsets, and if I ever get to that point, I get my tail out of there.  Or as the one guy said, "I want to be the Alcibiedes to your Socrates", and the response off that is "you mean you want me to f*ck you up the a$$?"

And I'm thinking, the bigger point is that he wants your money.  Like whatever would get that deal done.

Anyway, that moment of sympathy for Trump, thinking he didn't know what he had brought on himself, like feeling bad for someone having hurt himself, that moment didn't last long.

I just wished old Mark Sanford had built a groundswell to challenge in the Repub primary, and in Charlotte, NC, with the sharp-laughing lady on the CBS affiliate.  Action and reaction, like I think I know what caused the laugh that bothered me and I never get to do a sufficient reaction, or at least, nothing as proportional.

You might say "I put that one in my book."  Something in my hip pocket, and after saying, "I don't rise to the level of vengeance".  But in the end its not vengeance at all, nor particularly a "jab" or an insult, but a teaching moment.  Cause and effect.  Straight cause and effect.

The always told me "you know, everybody ain't your friend".  I'm like, "yeah, I was Rockingham 18 months, so I kinda know that."

Saturday, December 21, 2019

Oh, so you want some Shaolin Dolemike?

"Skawren!"  "Skawren Oshaughnessy?"  screams Dolemike as the doors roll open.  He sees men packing up stolen merchandise for shipment and sale.

"Who are these motherf**kers?" says Dolemike to himself, walking forward.  The hoodlums begin to form a circle around him.

But, as advertised, Dolemike had just returned from Mother Africa, where he had learned some new tricks.

Force lightning.  Locust style kung-fu, as was banned by the govt because it tends to encourage revolution.  The act of breathing in and out at the same time.

With the hoodlums laid-out hurting, Dolemike says, "looks like my bagman done gave me the wrong address again."  

Thursday, December 19, 2019

now I must hurt you. slap at you with your own hands.

Each life a bit different, but still, the more things change....   Stanislav in one of his middling incarnations was sort of an "entry-level" kind of guy, delivering newspapers, then later in the same incarnation working as a jailer, carrying around a lot of styrofoam fold-over plates filled with stewed beef.  

Public service.  He was ambivalent about the whole thing.  See the memory is scrambled between incarnations, but certain like "mind-maps" or emotional states do carry over between iterations.

See, you have to be able to sing in order to get some pussy.

Towards the edges of perception, some things carry over.  A certain proclivity, or a predisposition towards a given hairstyle.  Its really a chain that only Stanislav can break, though his attitude is to indulge the matter.  Anyway, just another case of the prisoner being the only one who can free himself.

Every dog has its day, as is said.

In the final analysis, there is the set a/set b theory in which the now, the present, is considered unreal because it cannot be referenced but in its own tense, and reality then is handily dispensed for the sake of clumsy grammar and lazy logic.  "Time is transitive" says one.  I wot time is also sequential, also a diorama of memory access.  So the set A/set B there is only a schism of grammar, and the two co-equal parts of set B, being past and present, are in tension with each other, and also only accessible through reference to set A, which the geniuses say.  Is not real.

Not real.

Monday, December 16, 2019

where do song writers get their ideas? Semiotic zero and real life, is where.

in this edition,
gots mine's own nuclear fission
throwing bricks 
at the neighborhood kids,
still got a voice for preaching
after raising up 
to the high speech
in this edition,
I teach!

a lecture on the elusive f*ckery of the world
from beyond the orbit
a lecture, girl,
on the truth from where I sit
crackled elephant food
dirt-flavor shells I spit
and watch it writhe and bubble
in the good old earth

Sunday, December 15, 2019

Their own truth and their own channel, I reckon. Probably even eating in their own sections at restaurants and not sharing water fountains.

So.  There's a new Fox News Poll that shows 53 percent of registered voters think Trump abused power, and some 48 percent think Trump obstructed congress. 

I'm one of those 48%, having heard time and time again that the White House refused to turn over documents or allow personnel to testify before congress.

So there is Fox News in the "no man's land" between Trump and the general public.  Risking Trump's twitter ire, but trying to also maintain some shred of authenticity.  They'll tell you the "opinion side" hits at either 7 or 8 pm, but really, people like Miss 1 pm and Mr 4 pm, and even the new Mr 3 pm exhibit clear leanings.  The "debate format" has been interesting because, well, as they say themselves, "its train wreck tv", but pitting left and right against one another with a Bill Hemmer or a Harris Faulkner intervening on the side of the conservative isn't a good debate format.  It certainly enforces a certain given worldview, every time.

And the hourly reports about the border crisis.  80 miles of wall solve that?  What happened to the reports, the concern?

As Laura Ingram would say, its "your truth" and not "the truth".  As it was expressed to me recently, relativism or the division and pluralizing of the truth could be called "antirealism".  I have heard the chimes at 9 pm.

And then in the Impeachment "Saga", one side wanting a chance to "tell their story".  A litany of incoherent arguments on both sides, with none seeming capable of firing that silver bullet that makes the case either way, and they are happy with it.

And like any other castles made of sand, election time will wash it all away, as if it were just some kind of strange dream.

Joe Biden's son bought crack?  They said Joe Biden's son smoked crack, though it seems all they have heard about is that he BOUGHT CRACK.  And they want to investigate.  Which has nothing to do with Trump's alleged criminal activity, though nevertheless GOP hedgehogs want to interview Hunter Biden.

Not seeing that its a separate matter, but still insisting for the opportunity to "tell their story".  Hell, "gather 'round y'all".

Their truth.

And the President claimed his "numbers" were way up.  Still under 50%, though, so I suppose Trump's idea of huge is like, what, four points?

So he has his own truth.

And Hunter has his own crack.

But for the procurement, was this of his own issue, for his own private recreation, or disbursement among unsavory counterparts?  Is he trying to overcome some kind of "malaise existentiale"?  Hating his life?  Question in the over-arch brooks that to hate life and indulge in escapism, Duddy Dearest on the campaign trail, what do you think that its the instrument which sticks in his craw that is most chief to him.

As I see it.

Has Rudy talked to a Ukrainian crack dealer?  Maybe even kicked in some doors and marched bravely through drug dens, scouring for the truth?

Saturday, December 14, 2019

They kept asking, and finally I just answered the question. Trying to piss me off over and over again, baked the bread.

They were all asking, as if hearing or reading from some published report, if he had cause to anger.

Bin Origen said to himself, if you have a pebble in your shoe, continue no longer to fuss and fret and waste spirit, but instead remove the pebble forthwith in order to maintain peace with oneself.

As Epictetus and Aurelius asked themselves what was natural and what was under one's own control, they assert that it is patently-obvious, easy as if instantaneous, by instinct, to identify such matters as being part of nature or being under one's own control.

Still.  From the peanut gallery: Cause to anger, sir?

So much had come to pass, logs washed up under the bridge supports, ideas, the parabellum of the unending pile of stuff, and the "gut busting funnies" those people told one another.

I "had eyes to get out", felt "hung-up on this job" and so forth.

"You've been re-assigned."

"They're doing this to embarrass me, Martinez."

 So this was all.  An air kiss given on the afternoon breeze.

A surveillance state in which one can only escape into his own mind, and in that since the province is limited only by the imagination.  I should have sued already, but there was a hiccup about me producing a kind of record of the whole matter.  That was another hurdle, in itself.

Imaging composing a document that explains the world, composed in full view of the public, the media, and politicians.  And then I'm posting this comment on a blog no one reads, according to Google metrics.  That's three levels of absurdity before I even take the chair to write the thing.

And the people, monsters all, had this guy come in to be like an icon, a spirit animal or a mascot, and they loved him.  He had a high opinion of himself, meanwhile I was being told I could be fired or disciplined at any time.  That guy was living the message forward, while I was writing it out in reverse, back in the day.  Then he quit about four hours after I blogged an embedded Dolemite video.  

Dolemite was saying he had "learned some new tricks from Mother Africa".

I laughed and laughed, and then a couple of those turds wanted a comment from me about what had happened with the dude, why he quit his job.  I'd like to have thought that "I broke him" but that puts me in the center of the universe.  I try not to go there, but you know, we have existentialism, as they say in politics, "perception is reality" and all that jazz, with the bottom line being you only know what you see or hear around you everyday.

I should sue them for lost wages.  Even after posting a thing about being depressed in high school, they were talking about me being bi-polar.  Or angry.  Which I wasn't, in particular.  But still one could wonder was there some element trying to make that happen?  Trying to make some kind of cause?  Anyway.  Back then, I was focused on getting out into the world and starting a life, building a life for myself(whatever that means, you know?).  But on the eve of a lifetime milestone for me, I tell you I changed those plans.

Wednesday, December 11, 2019

J Edgar, Lil Grandma, the only have a name for that in French

"Bro, it was like, J Edgar Hoover came back to life."

The rats were sitting there looking at the lace of the bedspread, now yellowed and covered with dust, keeping their own little solemn vigil.  And I could go on and on about the Epicureans and the life well lived, like with fresh tomatoes and gourmet cheeses, but dammit, its harvest.

Parnassus loomed, casting a shadow over Ithaca, while the Seer sat silent with a bowl of worms as a snack.  Sitting silent and seeing the future coming, knowing the sweet and sour of what was coming, between nibbles of rubbery wormflesh and gritty wormshit.

Violet is like so many other people out there, thinking at some stray news report that maybe somewhere in the subtext, Abaddon1215 had died, and the newspeople were hesitant to report it outright.  No instead they go in circles and encode it and in the subtext, she's hanging her head, walking around the house with a mist in her eyes.

And she, like the popular fictions, does not want to give it a name.

"Do you even womens' death camp, bro?"  Straight double-standard economics.  Social justice.  Occupy Middenorf.  Clio Opera House.  Man, we hear it all.

Mouthful of ashes, tee shirt with ashes on it, buggered by a passion for life that drives ever onward, upward, around, under and through.  How do you portray the experience, the circular activity, the experience of portraying the experience, the joy of joy's own sake and the equity of one's own independent thinkgood.

But wait: now this is overtime, Bonus Futnuckery.

"I'm reading murder books;
tryin' to stay hip.
I'm thinkin' of you,
and you're out there,
so say your prayers."

Monday, December 9, 2019

getting one's just deserts.

The waiter at that place was telling me about Sartre and some other stuff, and I was sitting there, belly roundly full, pants unbuttoned, sluggard breath and all that, just stuffed to the gills.  And I had to stay awake, after having elevated my blood sugar to a dangerous level, had to stay awake for a car trip, because I was the biographer-of-choice and of record for Mil Lesions.  I eventually hobbled towards my car, with the people saying that dessert was almost ready, and I don't even look back, but yell, "I'll be back before you get the whipped cream onto the pie".  I imagined they would either broil the poor misbegotten pie, or use a gas torch on it to toast the top of it.

Which I always think tastes like death must taste like, not that I've tasted death.  But still, there are people that think I just keep dying over and over again, because of how the media does the news.  People would hear that and try to smoosh it into their own little wheelhouse of familiars, and they keep thinking that I just died.

Nope.  Just busy writing for the dirt sheets.

from Cali to Utah before lunch: stopping for gas and grub at the Last Report Gas Farm and Fish Bait

When you see that slink along the way, why, you stand at attention and say "God Bless America!"

And it was built in Canada, but that's just details.  And that seemed to be a quality build, too, incidentally.

The underlying platform had gone through a lot of changes through the decades, beginning with the 1965 LTD, going through the later variation called the Panther platform that went defunct while I worked at the discount store.  NASCAR even tried to hold onto the platform, too, for a long time.

As we say in the final analysis, the heart wants what it wants, and lacks the wisdom to defend its choices.

Gather up ye handfuls while ye may, with seating space measured in an SI unit called a "Natalie Portman", which is proportional to lap space, a unit of measurement defined by Swedish nerds.

The spring is deep; drink your fill.

Wednesday, December 4, 2019

on the skedaddling and the filled eggy-weg

What were you thinking?  
Daring, condescending, making elusive movements among the checkerboard squares.
He that is most lost is he that helps himself.  The truly wise only know that he or she knows nothing.  But to ask for help, to be guided by another?
 Would you have my drink city tap water, too?

Is this how far we have fallen?
U did dis.

Pigwhisker still haven't not even curled-up again.

"Ass end is too big on her, too big for her body."

Lost in time.  Lost in meaning.  And purpose.

Did you never have a thought that did not pass across your lips?


how the mighty have

Tuesday, December 3, 2019

a shivering flex of the super-structure, and normalcy is once again observed.

Walking along the street, I see a billboard on a bus with a sign reading in bold letters,

"I am not crazy.  Maybe crazy like a fox."

"Crazy like, perhaps, pushing you around crazy."

"And enjoying it."

Nevertheless, incipient snows, beautiful, languid, so silently falling like a little breath against a cool pane of glass, a little puff of breath.  Peaceful snows against the hatred the shows, nature sitting back like that MemeCat at his plate of veg, while the rest of the world tears at itself, sackcloth and ashes.  Uriah gone and the bathing girl conquered, but him unable to square his own sin among honest men.  And surely, Ithaca, Parnassus, the Oracle dining on a bowl of worms, offering it to the long-traveled king, and the king relenting, putting up a hand to say no thank you, but getting elbows to the ribs advising him to take of the dull offering.

Only at the foot of the mountain do they notice that all the goats up the slope stood even, so their legs had to be of varying lengths to allow for that.

Mental knitting and weekend of loafing. "Into our lives, a litte rain..."

It's like, I was stuck in a music video, George Harrison's What Is Life, as I started the weekend on a somewhat dubious note, at an ...