FAT TUESDAY

Well, fat everyday really, and so far wishing it away doesn't work. So today is the actual holliday of Mardi Gras...or Fat Tuesday. This is actually an official holliday in New Orleans. Registered in the books and all that jazz. The tuesday before Ash Wednesday is called Fat Tuesday. So named because people would usually stuff themselves completely fat before a day of fasting. Ash Wednesday also is the first day of Lent. Lent is the full 40 days and 40 nights leading up to good friday. Good Friday is the Friday before Easter. Fat Tuesday has become much more than just preparing for a fast. It is now generally considered the day that sins don't really count against you because you will spend the next month+ fasting and repenting. The end of which of course your sins will be forgiven. All I know...I probably won't be seeing any boobs for beads tonight. And I'll still be fat on Wednesday.

Hangin around

You know you won’t remember when you get a chance…but you try. Listening to that tin can sound of piped in pop music that the kids will know, but won’t offend the geriatrics. Old ladies alternating ice cream and margaritas while giving hand-jobs to flashing machines. Cigar smoke. Neon. This is your home, and it infests you.

You sit there. Watching. Thirty years old with no kids, no savings, and no real direction. Working a job that has nothing to do with what you went to college for. This is your one ride on this floating rock.

You’re three years old. You watch your finger reaching out. The dead creature in the windowsill is soft and fuzzy. And beautiful. You touch it and scream. Something soft and fuzzy should not have a stinger. But it does, and it hurts. Pain is your first memory, and it never leaves you. Twenty-five years later when you are asked about your first memory, this is what you say.

You marvel at the conundrum of feeling. You’re numb. You eat when you’re hungry. You medicate when you’re tired, or not tired, or sad, or in pain. You see movies, or television, or sit in front of any number of devices created for the sole purpose of entertainment. A complete resistance has been built to creativity. If there is a feeling that can be experienced there has been an antidote created for it. No wonder you’re numb. You say you can’t feel anything, because you murder the feelings you have. So you search for more stimulation, and it’s antidote. You say, “How far can I go and still not feel, and will that make me feel?” Twisted a bit.

beautiful dreamers

It wasn’t the gunshot that woke me up that morning but rather all the screaming that led up to it. I was living in Stockton California, late December 1993. I was living with three other guys in a two-bedroom apartment. It was very cold. Our heater had gone out and Stockton is actually a very humid town. We literally could see our breath inside our apartment. I was wearing just about everything I owned sleeping under 500 blankets. It’s a miracle I didn’t suffocate. I couldn’t let my head out into the cold air. About 4:30 in the morning is when I woke up to it. I don’t know how long before that it had been going on, but by the time I heard it, things were really heated up. A man and a woman. Screaming. I could hear the pots banging around. Items being thrown and landing hard against walls, the floor, even other people now and then I think. I remember having mixed feelings at the time. I was a little concerned for the people involved. I’ve always, as long as I can remember, wished that there was more love, and more love used in approaches to disagreements. I also laughed a little. I don’t know why, but it’s true…I always find domestic squabbles a bit capricious. Even my own, looking back on them. The name-calling is my favorite part. I also enjoy the swearing. I shouldn’t I know. This seems to directly contradict my feelings earlier stated on finding loving solutions to problems…but I think I’m evil as well. Mostly I was a bit annoyed for having been woken up. Being awake reminded me how cold it was, and well also it was being awake at 4:30 in the morning. I’ve never been too fond of that. Then came the sound of a gunshot. From that point on there was no more yelling. No pots flying. No sound at all. I didn’t even hear a scream, or crying. Nothing. I felt something that I’ve still yet to identify. Not fear. I was safe in my own bed. Not sympathy…I didn’t know who got it. I wanted to have not heard it. I wanted to have no knowledge of anything. So I rolled over, and tried to go to sleep. Amazingly…that was very easy. Something else happened as well. A spark of a thought. One I put away for a long time.
The next morning leaving the apartment I saw the results. Sort of. There were a couple of police cars at the adjoining apartment complex. No lights flashing. No police tape. Just a couple of cars and some people walking around. Ultimately I guess…I don’t know what happened. I don’t know if someone died. If someone was injured. I don’t know what happened. Which is part of the reason I don’t tell that story often. It has no climax. People wait to see how it ends, and well that’s it. No real follow through. But that’s only part of the reason I don’t tell that story.
I don’t think about it much. It seems so insignificant really to my real life. I might have heard a murder. But it’s just as likely probably not. It was brought back to the surface last night…when outside our apartment complex the yelling started. About 4:30 in the morning. Loud yelling. Someone outside screaming about “YOU FUCKED MY WIFE”. He was yelling at some dude named Michael I think. I couldn’t catch much of it. It sounded like he might have been drunk, but I think it’s more likely that he was just very angry. And he was angry. His was the only voice. The only yelling. He really wanted someone, but he couldn’t just go into a locked apartment and pull them out. So he stayed outside and yelled. He said fuck a lot. Then the pop. It wasn’t a gunshot. If it was…it was like a cap gun…but it was definitely something. He said the next one would be real. He kept yelling, but it started fading. Walking away and yelling at the same time. This one didn’t have such a dismal ending, but again the single thought came and solidified itself in my mind. As E and I left the house this morning, we noticed a car. Last night it was in the same place, but this morning something very different about it. A large gaping hole in the back window. Glass shattered but still intact all around the hole. A rock…or perhaps a fist went through that window recently. The license plate read Connecticut. Considering all the elements of the yelling last night I can gather that neither party is from Connecticut…I could be wrong, but I’m pretty sure that Mr. Connecticut is an innocent victim in this little personal war. I bet he’s pissed. Again a great story with an “eh” ending. Who knows how it ended…or if it ended. But again that thought. I have begun to realize the power and importance of fantasy.
I am beginning to believe that fantasy is a major part of our individual realities. It’s the part of reality that can be changed…or destroyed. For example the reality is…I am married to Erica. That statement is factual and not a point of contention. The fantasy is that I will still be married to Erica tomorrow. That fantasy is solidly grounded in probability…but the longer the time-line…the greater the fantasy. I also hope to still be married to Erica in forty years. This is also grounded in reality…but a weaker one where variables of every imaginable sort can interfere with that fantasy. I have also staked a claim on this fantasy. Legally I’m allowed this fantasy. That’s fine, but it’s still fantasy, and neither legality nor fantasy can stop the train of reality. If at any point either one of us choose to end the fantasy there is nothing the other can do about it. That is the constant risk.
One can make any sort of concession to allow the fantasy to continue. Depending on how important it is. This is fine. Go with it. We need it. Last night, screaming yelling guy came to the realization that his fantasy had been broken. Broken beyond a point of concession. He was not personally willing to allow for the variable of another person to share in his fantasy…no matter how briefly the other guy may have been there…or the level of importance he played in his wife/girlfriends fantasy. Reality came crashing down, and he couldn’t handle it.
We all have fantasy. And we should. It’s what colors the reality around us and makes it bearable. Some we can achieve…some we can’t. Both are important. I fantasize that I’m the best stage director known to man. This is purely fantasy and I realize that…but it’s one that can potentially be achieved, therefore every time I direct a play…I attempt a new approach. I learn something. I teach myself styles and techniques, and I do good work. I make mistakes, and I learn from them. I also fantasize that I have x-ray vision. This will never happen, but it got me off a lot those late nights not sleeping in high school.
It can sometimes be detrimental though I think. When the fantasy can no longer be recognized as such. When people are no longer able to recognize the reality that surrounds them. (I had a name here…but I figured I’d better erase it. I went to college with him though, and I never see or hear from him anymore.) comes to mind…among others.
I feel that I’ve barely scratched the surface of this thought. It just really started forming itself in a way I could grasp it today. But I do know that it’s something I’ll be thinking about a lot over the next few days. At least until something more interesting comes along to think about.
Keep Dreamin all you young beautiful young things…

Almost there...

I've been busy. I'm coming up on some blogging time though...so watch out.

CONFESSION

Okay, I’ve got a filthy confession to make. The pain of it is completely tearing me up inside. I don’t know how I’ve gone on living this lie for so long, but it’s about to make me explode. So okay…here goes…

I totally dig Goth chicks.

It’s true. I can’t help it. I don’t know what it is. I can’t put my finger on it at all, but Goth chicks really turn me on.

I went to a photo show last night at KGPA and there was this picture of this Goth girl…and I fell in love. Not really…I just really really wanted to bang her. Whoever she was. Good picture.

When I’m a dirty old man instead of hanging out at parks and bus stops it’s going to be Hot Topic for me. Watching these Sylvia Plath/Edgar Allan Poe reading-hair dyed-tongue pierced-bad ass girls walking around looking at Emily underwear buying patchouli incense and flipping their collective nose at authority. Man that’s hot.

Now I know Las Vegas isn’t really a Goth haven. We don’t have the real thing like the Seattle or San Fran underground Goth scene. Even SLC probably has better Goth girls than here. I mean for God’s sake, the sun shines here. Can’t really get that pale Dracula glow in Las Vegas. Nowhere has hot Goth chicks like Seattle. Men in dresses-girls with black fingernails smoking cloves drinking a 20oz starbucks latte hating life and being all sexy doing it. Shit, I’m turning myself on just thinking of it.

I imagine New York has a glorious Goth scene. They’re probably even more pseudo-psycho-literary on the east coast. They actually have books and shit out there. Culture. They probably go beyond quoting Poe and delving into the realms of Shelly and Byron.

You know what would be cool. An east coast/west coast Goth war. Raven666 from Seattle and Morpheo Vampiricus from New York can meet in some real Goth haven like New Orleans Ann Rice home for the undead and cast spells on each other. Calling each other terrible things like poseur and Sunshine. Then call down demons to eat each other’s souls and condemn them to work at Banana Republic for time and all eternity.

I bet a blowjob from a pierced Goth chick who wants nothing more than the complete annihilation of all mankind has got to be one of the top three things in the world.

Kill 'em all...let God sort 'em out

Polaroid’s are magic, ergo anyone who uses one should be burned at the stake.
I’m going back to my puritan roots.
Why not…the rest of the country seems to be.

It was pointed out to me once that countries really do have a genetic history. Ours truly is based in Puritanism. We’ve never really left that behind.

MTV2 was invented to become what MTV was supposed to be. All music all the time. Now MTV2 is what MTV is. Some music with a bunch of shitty shows on in between. It’s true. It’s not all music all the time anymore. And MTV is no music anytime. Oh well. Music videos are really not that great anymore anyway. Although the new Britney one with her in that see through thing…yeah…she’s hot.

hhhmmm

strangely...it didn't work. I had written a blog at work and saved it to a disk...then when I transferred it...nothing there. Oh well. It was pretty damn funny though. Too bad you didn't get to see it.

I THINK...

...that before summer is over we should all go skinny-dipping. Yep. That's what I think.

So There...

It’s called getting stupid for a reason. Oh well…another seemingly good idea gone to pot. Why can’t the things that really work for other people…really work for me? Guess I’ll never know, but I do know this…I need a good vice. I mean a really good one. One that will stick. One that’s pretty cool, but mostly harmless. Masturbation is fine, but so passé really. That doesn’t mean I’ll ever stop doing it…

When you go to the movies…the film rolls at 24 frames per second. Each frame is essentially a still photograph. At 24 frames per second, this exactly reproduces the speed at which your brain processes the images you absorb through visual perception. Broken down to it’s fines point scientists still aren’t sure how this happens…but it does.

Zalman King is a filmmaker that you may or most likely may not have heard of. He directed what is commonly known as the best female friendly soft porn ever put on celluloid. It’s not really porn. At least by porn industry standards…but it sure the fuck is sexy. It’s called Delta of Venus. A fictional story of a factual person named Anais Nin. Anais is played by Audie England in the film. She’s pretty, but not glamorous. She does the job well. Anais Nin was famous in her day for writing erotica. The most famous was called…Delta of Venus. She was a contemporary of Henry Miller. Henry Miller was famous at the time for writing erotica. The most famous of his works is called Tropic of Cancer. A more biographical story of Henry and Anais can be found in the movie Henry and June. None of this is important.

Zalman King also wrote and directed a series of short films for Showtime called “The Red Shoes Diaries” Very sexy and beautiful sex vignettes. He now writes and directs for showtime a series called Chromium Blue. They are like nonsensical music videos with boobs. They piss me off, because there is no substance to them whatsoever and based on that…I could entirely ignore them…but…THEY ARE CINEMATIC MASTERPIECES. Every single frame that passes my eyes at 24 per second is gorgeous. I have never seen photographs the equal. These completely empty stories will pass into obscurity forever, and the pictures will be forgotten…if they were ever known to begin with…because there is no substance. But my God is there style. Every Zalman King frame is a single masterpiece. A cinematic Botticelli. Of course that’s just my opinion.

All of physics can be wrapped up in two foundational principals. It’s true. I’m probably saying this all wrong because I lack the proper vocabulary…but yes…two foundational principals. First is Einstein’s General theory of relativity…which explains the Universe. Planets. Orbits. Gravity. Speed of light. Space/Time. All that cool jazz. The second is Quantum mechanics which explains the atom. Molecular structure. All the shit we can’t see. All that cool jazz. Each theory, relativity, and quantum mechanics have been practically proven true through mathematics…scientific experiments…what have you. Yes it’s true…they have been proven. The problem presents itself in that…they both can’t be. I don’t understand all of this. Stephen Hawking (you know, that wheelchair guy) explains it much better in his book “A brief History of Time”. The theories cancel each other out…but yet…they don’t because they both exist. But they both can’t exist. But they do. It’s weird. Mr. Hawking’s life goal is to come up with what he calls “The Unified theory of Physics”. He hasn’t done it yet. He’s the smartest man alive. Or so they say. Go Science.

Looking at the stars in Las Vegas is like looking at The Mona Lisa in a magazine.

If you made it this far you’re probably thinking…yeah? So? So I’ll tell you.

We live in a Universe that Science has proven can’t exist. Some of today’s best art is lost before it will ever gain notoriety…and this is as it’s always been. Janet Jackson’s boob is more news worthy than the fact that American Soldiers are both killing and dying for no good reason. Our current President is about to make same sex marriage UNCONSTITUTIONAL, and no one really knows that. And yet through it all…through all the shit, and bullshit, and light pollution…beauty prevails. And it does. It’s everywhere. And I think we have a responsibility toward it. To find it. To let it go. To surround ourselves with it. To write about it, and sing about it, and make love with it. The most beautiful thing in the universe is the invisible connections between human beings. When those strings that bind us, draw us together. When we look into the eyes of each other and discover a sum greater than the separate parts. When nothing matters…and nothing does…because there is beauty. In words. In actions. In thoughts.
I love all of you.

WHAT'S THE BIG FUCKIN DEAL????

SO THE FUCK WHAT? Janet Jackson popped a tit at the superbowl and the whole goddamn world is in an uproar. The FCC is launching an investigation. Everyone involved is having to apologize...even if they weren't technically involved. WHY? Because apparently breasts are offensive. Yes that's right. And all of you women with them should be embarrassed and ashamed of them. They make small children cry. They make other women uncomfortable. It's bad enough that they have to deal with their own...let alone someone elses. Boobs are bad. So bad that even National leaders had to comment on the issue. I think we should very quickly get back to the necessary killing of innocents in other countries and forget as soon as possible the atrocity of the Half time show at the Superbowl.

WHICH BY THE WAY I MISSED.

In related, but other news: The Grammy's will be played this year on Time Delay...in the event that other outrageous events that are far to obscene for our eyes or ears may occur. This will allow big brother to remove said incidents before they can air. The FCC is cracking down hard on the entire entertainment establishment. It's high time we clean up this country. We are fast approaching a system similar to the Hayes Code of the 1940's. We must return to our puritan roots.
vote george bush.

The only good thing to report on the whole thing...is that Joseph Leiberman dropped out of the presidential race. I know that may seem unrelated, but believe me...it isn't.

I think if we are going to make ridiculous laws restricting rights...it should be...no one under 21 gets a cell phone. EVER. That's a pretty good place to start.

Oh yeah...T.J. doesn't get a cell phone either.

Or Don for that matter.

People should kiss more.

Not ugly people though...

Really hot celebrities should videotape themselves having sex more often...and lose them in strange situations to people who own and operate web sites.

I think random games of strip poker are more likely to occur in the event of someone actually carrying a deck of cards. I used to. I don't anymore. Random games of strip poker weren't breaking out. Although the chances of them would increase if I started carrying cards again.

Okay...probably not.

We are conditioned.
We are programmed.
Yes you are.
Deal with it.

I love all of you.

There is something...

...to be said for subtlety. And decorum. Some things really make me smile. A lot. Oh well. Live and learn I guess. As for you Bruce??? You're still gorgeous...and I'd still fuck ya. You rock man. But I definitely feel your pain.