memory hole

One Too Many

2005-11-10T09:01:00.000-08:00

(Note from chiseven: I recieved this essay in a blood-stained envelope stuffed with childish cut-outs of all parties mentioned below along with some naked pictures of Bea Arthur for good measure. And there was this letter which I have taken the liberty of transcribing as best as I could decipher the scrawled manic prose of my comrade Grand Marquis. His suffering should be a lesson to us all...)

You may find this hard to believe, but I am through with politics.
Recently, I gorged myself at the trough of liberal websites, forums,
manifestos and blogged conspiracy theories until I was blue in the face. I
shoveled the sweet hope into my mind that revolution was afoot. I absorbed
all that cobalt electricity around the Scooter Libby / Carl Rove / Dick
Cheney investigation reveling in the Tom Delay arrest, excited from the
Harriet Miers flop. Like a capacitor in a camera before the flash, my whole
essence carried with it a barely audible high-pitched whine as the tension
grew.

In the closing days of October, I salivated for the political tide to turn
like the Aspens in Libby's not-so-cryptic note to his dear Judith. That
wonkish stupor took hold of me deeply...primally. I wanted the literal
skeletons in this "Administration's" closet to be outed like their symbolic
Halloween counterparts, emerging from the attics and dusty boxes for the
country's annual celebration of death.

Reality turned to delusion and Fitzgerald transmogrified from a special
investigator into a scythe carrying harbinger of the inevitable. "Reap,
reap, reap" I chanted. Things were getting out of hand. I had trouble
staying on task at work; my home life became a blue wasteland of
anti-administration hate mongering. Utterly obsessed even my dreams were
permeated by that icy rage. This was going to be the big one. I prayed for
those animals to be subjected to the ravages of a hurricane or three, an
insurgent uprising, manipulated intelligence, terrible flood, bankruptcy,
tornado, earthquake, etc. etc. etc. I became that which I so desperately
hate: a fanatic and I didn't give a damn. Bring 'em down from their ivory
tower so the masses can rip them apart and then leave the mangled bodies
propped up against the white house fence, limbs akimbo and leaking as a
brutal message to the next resident to always remember who they serve. I
was a vicious creature ready to slash, burn, kill and maim and when the
great moment came...
I blacked out.

Mrs. Marquis found me a few days later bloody knuckled and wondering in the streets
covered in blue paint, clothes ripped like Bruce Banner's after an
"episode". She scooped me up, took me home, unplugged all the TV's, and
computers, hid the cell phones, cancelled the newspaper delivery and kept me
locked in the bedroom while I fought the good fight against my addiction.

The hell that ensued took my mind to the precipice of madness.

In the aftermath of that event I regained my perspective and acknowledged my
mistakes. Though I still wish Bush & Co. to be annihilated alpha and omega
style, to hope for this to happen via the nuclear option is lunacy, or even
worse "republican". I hate these bastards, but my fantasy cure might be
worse than the disease. America is a resilient host to the cancer in
Washington, but above all costs I do not wish to see the nation weakened any
more. The good news is that it seems that perhaps the disease has reached
its zenith and that a slow recovery might ensue. My fever has broken but it
has cost me politics. I cannot and will not become that beast again.

So I hereby retire from politics.

I will still chat around the water cooler, grouse under my breath, and vote for the lesser of evils, but I will not become fanatical again. It's funny, but I think that this is what Dub
must have felt like as he accomplished the only real success of his life, the abandonment of alcohol. You're mad at yourself for letting things get out of hand and acquiesce to the solution, but you’re still fucking pissed you can't go back.
Dub's a dry drunk and now I'm a wet wonk.

And Now For Something Completely Different

2005-09-20T13:58:00.000-07:00

Having given in to William's not so subtle advances, Francis Bacon found himself swept away on an amorous wave of man on man Victorian action. Little did he know that his new lover and bard o' the ages was at work on yet another art imitation of life, imitation of art, type-o-thing.

Under the open roof the Globe, terrible passions of the scribe and scrub were exchanged. Haley’s comet eyed this encounter on its 76 year close encounter with the earth and sun. Her vaporous robe pressed close to those snowy bosoms on that fateful night in 1607. William caught sight of this cosmic interloper as Francis finally slaked his wretched thirst.

"Me thinks we've been discovered" gasped Billy.

"Oh dear, what will 'Lizabeth make of this unnatural union?"

Billy S. turned to his latest conquest and reminded him of the queen’s fatal insomnia a few years back, and habit of fornicating with stallions of all breeds. Francis let out a long sigh in reverie of his late bull dike queen, with whom he had begun his sexual plunder many years ago.

A long and awkward silence descended upon the two, both thinking back on mistakes of their past, and both realizing that this was perhaps the worst of them all. William Shakespeare was 46 years old, Francis Bacon was 45, their patron queen dead for 4 years now, their lives both in decline.

An exchange of weary looks between the two said it all. This tryst would have to be forgotten by both. Only the comet would know their secret, and she wasn't due back for some time. The grim realization of their mortality and the evident decay of the Elizabethan era hit them like the death of disco hit Steve Rubell and Ian Schrager. Their lives were never to be the same their Studio 54 was over.

Billy, never saw Francis again after that night. He produced his last truly autonomous play, The Tempest, and then fell to the lecherous hands of ghost writers and co writers as his late career withered.

Francis went on to devote himself wholly to advancing the work of the freemasons, but never again found happiness.

In 1986 Haley's Comet returned to Earth. I was six. Having never heard of William S. or Francis B. her long and meaningless diatribe meant nothing to me at the time. My mother thought it strange that a child would pretend to talk to a comet, but again I was not a normal child. It seems that the comet likes to pry in on the "down low" lives of histories important characters. She is after all the gossip queen of the ort cloud, you know. Can't be sure why she divulged her historical voyeurism to a six year old, maybe she thought I'd forget, I did….most of it any how.

I only recently remembered that tell all story about WS and FB. The juicy details of Ronald Reagan and Saddam Hussein are more vivid, but that's another story.

Yo Joe!!!!

2005-06-02T12:59:00.000-07:00

Last night I proceeded to get massively drunk and talk about the origins of life in the universe as well as on Earth with a couple of buddies and a total stranger. I've got to stop doing this. Talk of panspermia, humanity's lonely existence, and inevitable shifting of the solar "green zone" grew louder and more obnoxious, as most of these types of drunken debates do. At about 1:30 am I had decided that our summit on life in the universe had reached loggerhead. We were no closer to finding an answer to these great questions than when we started. I casually excused myself and collapsed in an alcoholic heap in the bed.

Perhaps I was visited by our cosmic progenitors in my sleep because I awoke this morning with a real sense of perspective on our global predicament and a true understanding of why I am never going to drink Budweiser again. While driving to work, medicinal tomato juice in hand, the knowledge of that alien master race awoke in my bleary mind. The radio mentioned something about Iraq or the terrorist threat and I began to get sentimental.

Why sentimental? I think that I was still a little punchy from last night’s bender or something because I kept thinking about GI Joe. Duke, Shipwreck, Lady Jay, Snake Eyes, Cobra Commander, Serpentor, Destro all went swirling around in the old melon, mixing with the alien intelligence and the radio's warbling account of atrocities in the sandbox. I got to work and this mélange of bizarre thoughts began to congeal, like the jelly on outside of a block of Spam.

Just as I was about to make sense of all these idiotic elements the Budweiser made its move. I think that maybe the beer was the alien life form that attacked my in my sleep that night, and now having run its course, it was time for it to leave. I soon found myself doubled over, choking on noxious gases as the demons were expelled, so to speak. I'll spare you the details, but this momentary distraction gave the gelatinous idea time to set and finally I understood why I felt nostalgic or sentimental this morning whilst listening to descriptions of carnage and death.

Modern political thought has really taken the wrong approach to understanding why we are embroiled with the terrorists. Contemplating why it this type of shit happens if worthless. Understanding what terrorism is, is really powerful. The beauty of the situation is that is has already been fully explored by 80's children cartoon shows. What we have today is a thinly veiled rehashing of the basic premise of GI Joe. It goes something like this:

GI Joes are the "good guys", they shoot red bullets. Cobra is a well-funded, organized army of terrorists lead by a charismatic leader with questionable morals. Cobra's minions shoot blue bullets therefore making them the "bad guys". These two opposing forces battle, but nothing ever finds resolution. The series just goes on, until the kiddies get tired, the ratings drop, or Thundercats comes on which ever comes first.

The point is since we have outfitted these terrorists with their training (thanks, Don Rumsfeld), weapons (blue bullets), and cause (kill whitey) we should take the final step and outfit them with blue uniforms and close the loop. Al Queda is sort of a catchy name, but COBRA is much better. Maybe they could spell it AL KOBRA, K for Koran, but I digress. They can build a base in a swamp or something and finally have a center, like boystown or the YMCA; a place to get together and act out all their homoerotic fantasies. They used to have Abu Gharib (sp), oh wait those were OUR fantasies, my bad.

What I'm getting at is that Dub needs to do the "hard work" and get these hooligans on board. Once they are all in uniform, Osama is sporting a shiny new reflective face shield, and they have their swamp base the whole situation improves, the ratings go up. The GI Joes will then know who to shoot and a fair fight can commence. I envision television drones filming the highly stylized battles and broadcasting the whole affair around the globe. Instant media bonanza, America can re-coop some cost of the war and a generation of children can watch GI Joe again.

We are so close to achieving this goal and I know Americans can get behind this thing, it's like the space program: expensive, frivolous, exciting, and damn entertaining. I think the whole dry reporting of the war is gonna go the way of the dodo pretty soon, it just doesn't sell enough fruit roll-ups and British Knights during the commercial breaks, but GI Joe II will.

Anyhoo, I just thought you intrepid thinkers might want to review this revolutionary idea before I present it at the UN this afternoon. I'm very optimistic that it will be accepted, and if its not then fuck the UN. America can go it alone, we've done it before.

By the way, do you guys remember the magical growing sword used by the leader of the Thundercats? Was that phallic or what! Where's the FCC when you need them?

Jinn and Tonic

2005-05-06T12:18:00.000-07:00

Not to bore you with more dream imagery, but I had another strange image push itself up from the jinn the other night. I cannot remember details or plot of the dream but I have a distinct memory of wearing a suit of armor that began to rust before my eyes. Like the tin man, I rusted into position. I remember desiring oil.

I'm not sure why, but lately I have been intrigued by these bizarre images, fascinated by where my mind is gathering them from, and always perplexed at the combinations of seemingly dissonant themes. One night the dreams are soothing, the next they are troubling. Some are memorable while others leave only an emotional after glow, like the green phantoms in your eyes after a flash bulb fires....there, but not there.

I plugged the core images into several "dream dictionaries" on the Internet to find common descriptions. My search for armor yielded this:

"To dream that you are wearing an armor, symbolizes your defense mechanisms and your ways of shielding yourself from things that may hurt you."

I also searched for metal, because the material seemed more pertinent than the purpose in the dream, and I got this:

"To see metal in your dream, signifies strength and character. It may also symbolize the inhumane side of society."

For rust I was returned:

"To see rust forming on iron or tin, signifies neglect or old age. It is also indicative of depressing surroundings, characterized by a decline in fortune and false friends."

and for oil:

"To see oil in your dream, suggests a need to have thing run more smoothly. You may need to show more love and compassion in your life."

Now, these online dream dictionaries are probably not compiled from vast tomes of psychological data, but a symbol is a symbol none the less. In this little exercise I can select several key ideas that have been percolating in my mind lately. Most are concerned with the direction of our little world, and even more specifically, our little nation. Armor=defense / protection, Metal= strength and inhumanity, Rust= decline and neglect, Oil= a desire for compassion and love.

As an American, albeit a young one, I have become increasingly worried about a deep backsliding in our attitudes. Religious fundamentalism is wringing God right out of the religions, be they Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, or Jane. Nationalism is bleeding its volatile fractions into this misguided religious fervor working to undo secular governance, no thanks to opportunist power grabbers at home and the world around. The result seems to me, is a world that is increasingly devoid of subtlety, and charm. Foot stomping and fist pounding seem to be the rule of the day, black and white, right and wrong. I'm no academic, but it seems to me that life is rarely this or that, but rather an interesting blending of several factors that make up reality.

Perhaps it was my realization of these conspiring -isms that persuaded my to don the armor of my dream, to protect my soft existence from the brutality looming in the distance. By sheathing my body in metal, or as the dream dictionary distills it strength and inhumanity, I am protected from the growing danger of a polarized /compassionless world, but made susceptible to rust which threatens to entomb me in the armor. I find it ironic that my desire for salvation manifested as oil, undeniably an integral player in the building global tension.

In reflection I view the armor as a crutch, a sign of moral weakness or uncertainty, which subsequently doomed me to a tiny world comprised only of myself. I will try in the future to manipulate my dreams in manner that portrays a braver reality; shuck the armor for something classier, a fine suit possibly. I believe that the world is loosing its dignity by making prejudice politically savvy. Dignity is important to our existence as a species that is more that animal. I hope America realizes this before we "concentrate" the gays for their sexuality, bludgeon the Muslims with democracy, pander away our environment to the almighty dollar, and in general self destruct again under a world of heavy handed dictators.

Another distinct possibility is that I am ignorant of most of human history and that these episodes of mutual destruction and human suffering are unchangeable traits that cannot be mitigated. To me, this is a sad and frankly cowardly way to address the situations at hand, but may be the way things really are. So for now I'll continue to float along in my powerless bubble of dissatisfaction with the direction our little globe is moving and hope that we can come to our senses.

#2

2005-04-07T12:42:00.000-07:00

At the request of Chi-Seven I will attempt to revive the long dormant and decaying Memory Hole with a series of E-mail messages I have produced. Although, I'm not sure why it matters because as far as I know not a single other living soul has visited this site. Well enough said, Enjoy.

So I am at work this morning shuffling papers acting like I know whatI'm doing and surprisingly getting some work done when I decided to get acup of coffee to perk the ol' grand marquis up.

I got up and made a pot of coffee poured myself a cup and resumed mydaily toil. I entered into a zen-like state of productivity hammering out alot of crap that I had set aside for a crucial hyperproductive morning, like today. I finished my coffee in the course of an hour or so. Sipping andslurping watching my mind and body complete these items I had procrastinated overfor several days. It was glorious.

As I tied up the final loose end in my collection of the "forgotten" I simultaneouly acknowledged the call of nature. Maybe I'm alone here,but coffee has a colonic purging effect on me. So I finished up and waltzed towards the men's room for the daily constitutional. A grin began to form on my face as I passed the offices of my co-workers, little did theyknow what pain I was about to unleash into the world. At any rate, I soon found myself seated and reading the news paper, paroosing the incidents reports when my eyes momentarily lost focus and a great shifting of hidden pressures within my internal organs produced a garbled moan deep within the core of my being.

At that specific moment a singular thought flashed in my mind "I'm Getting Paid For This!"

Time and space distorted around me as I temporarily transmogrified into a cosmic ass cannon. The shock wave flexed the walls, the lights flickerd as I released putrid electromagnetic energies previously unknown to science. Seismometers in Berkley sent their needles skittering off the page as these terrible forces were sent through the porcelin deep into the mantle ofthe Earth. As sound is rather slow compared to these other types of energyI braced myself calmly for the impending thunderclap of pneumatic pressure and ass cheeks.

In my youth, a group of Babtist fundamentalists got a hold of my pliable young mind and hammered into it stories of the second comming of christ. Among other nightmares they clearly described that the moment God will whisk up the pious and saved he will blow on a great horn that could be heard by every soul on the planet be they good or evil. This is the only context in which I can properly explain the sound that was produced in the culmination of this fecal journey.

In the aftermath remained seated like buddah, eyes open as only slits, all knowing grin plastered on my dome listening to the remnants of that collosal sound reverberate through the mountain canyons to the east. After amoment of total consciousness and inner peace I tidied up, opened up the bathroom door which subsequently fell off its hinges and resumed my daily routine.

Co-workers eventually picked their jaws up off the ground. I calmly explained to them the I was in fact a mortal man and that I could not cure leoprocy or turn water to wine. They took it pretty hard, but all remembered their place in the world after a few hours.

I just thought I'd share that little moment with you all.

Pantera and the Preternatural

2005-02-02T11:35:00.000-08:00

I must admit that the frequency of my listening to speedmetal has dwindled to a pathetic pace. Its almost as bad as my postings on this much neglected message board. This being said, I recieved a stern reminder of my youthful rage in a dream the other night.

To set the stage, imagine me in whatever fashion you wish. I'll give you a minute to conjure a godlike physique, long flowing main of golden hair, toga, throne upon a high mountain and the sort. Now imagine that I am sleeping peacefully in the bed of an average mortal. You should now have a mundane image of a man snoring lightly in his bed. Got it, OK. Now I want you to move in close to his head and listen carefully.........You should now be able to detect the faint thump of kick drums and the screech of 10,000 watts of amplified guitar solos radiating from my resting dome piece.

Now enter into my dream. It's me and Chi-seven, a long time knower of all things metal, and we are cruising around the pavillion of an outdoor ampitheater, not unlike one north of Indianapolis. Excitement exudes from our every pore as none other than Pantera is headlining this venue. We mingle through the black leather and nose rings of the crowd assuming a terrific position at the front of a barrier which holds the crowd back from a moat that seperates the masses from the stage. A cigarette is flicked by some unknown concert-goer which ignites the surface of the water. A flaming most spewing acrid black smoke now boils in front of us, the crowd explodes with cries of ultimate satisfaction.

Cue the lights, feel the thump of a double kick drum, know the sound of Dimebag's idle strings throbbing, waiting for the first note. Chi and I throw up a mandatory sign-of-the-beast hand gesture and it begins.

Here is where things get wierd. Pantera kicks out a song that begins "In the time of Dragons, we were kings". The lyrics are not as they should be, the speed metal take no prisoners kill or be killed, vibe is replaced by a 80's hair band screamer sound. Chi and I give each other a puzzled look. This is not what we came to see. This is farce. We crane our necks searching for others who have spotted this egregious breech of contract between fans and rock stars. No one cares. Nobody gives a shit.

We grow disillusioned with this musical forgery and receed into the shadows to consult some green provisions and reappraise the situation. After several more minutes of this terrible sound we have made no headway on why this situation is so off. Cut to the stage, the band is now aboard a huge pirate ship sailing on the burning moat, but still belting out generic 80's screamer rock.

Having reached loggerhead Chi and I decide to cut our losses and leave these turkeys to their tripe. As we head toward the exit Chi darts behind a tee shirt booth and is not seen again. Like a evil minion or witch of the neither world he has melded with the shadows to strike down those who brought this production to the light of day, no doubt. He always was a sucker for vengance, especially when duped out of precious concert monies. I exit through the gates and walk alone down a deserted road searching for the metal of my past. Jaded and inconsolable a great rage builds within.

The I wake, no longer a teenage puke in search of screeching metal licks, but retain the feeling of dissapointment all the same. Perhaps, Frued would have something to say, but he's dead.

New Beck Video

2005-01-29T16:34:00.000-08:00

The memory-hole has been cold lately.
Let's heat it back up with the latest Beck video.
Hell Yes.
Turn up your speakers at work so your boss can hear.
*out*

Holidaze

2004-12-22T08:08:00.000-08:00

It appears that the holidays are upon us whether we like it or not. In the case of this little girl, she does not. So I should probably wish people around the globe a happy holiday and shit like that, but instead I have decided to analyze the specific terror captured in the face of this little girl.

I came across this pic whilst dicking off at work paroozing the insites and discoveries of Boing-Boing. It truly is a directory of wonderful things. I linked this page from southflorida.com that had about 50 pics of children shitting themselves with fear while on the lap of some hapless santa. Two things occured to me while I rolled in laughter at childhood terror from years gone by. One, I don't think that the mass population draggs their children to the local santa "North Pole and Elfatorium" any more, to immortalize the year with a hokey picture of little Johnny or Sally squirming on the lap of a grown man in a red fat suit and preposterous beard. Two, I think that the core of the childrens' fear is at its heart the same horrific terror that wells in their little minds when confronted by clowns, carnies, anamatronic guitar playing gorillas and the like.

This primal fear of grown men masquerading as fantastical characters upsets them so, primarily because the situation forces them to understand the truth. Truth being that there is no santa, there are only strange men in fat suits at the mall. They recoil as their dreams and idyllic notions of sugar plums wither on the vine of cold, flourescent reality.

"Sorry, little tommy, life's a bitch... get used to it." Is what santa really imparts to the children as they sit on his public lap. This realization for a child can be quite a shock, as they are primed and running at full bore cracked out on candy canes and egg-nog, little minds racing a mile a minute hoping and lusting for whatever toy or game has manifested itself as their deepest wish. They cannot be ready for the shock that hits them as a rum drunk fat man bellows holiday phrases into their tiny ears. This intense situation inevitably becomes too much for the child, hence the almost mandatory "freak out".

To some this may be a sad and coldly scientific approach to understanding the "True Meaning of Chirstmas", but fuck those who hold fast to the tattered image of winter wonderland and elfin handy work, rather Butt Fuck them. Why am I so, jaded you say? The fact is that I am not jaded, I simply think that people are missing the point. In fact I think the whole phenomenon is a wonderfully rare situation, because it presents a situation where the exact moment when child if brought face to rosy cheeked face with the mortal truth can be immortalized and preserved for our enjoyment.

How many times can you be photographed as a revelation sets in? The whole scenario is perfectly suited to produce the "face of true understanding" as I like to call it. Just stare at the horror and panic in this child. Truly a magnificent sight, and ultimately hilarious.

I guess the true meaning of christmas is that kids really are funny little bastards.

Save The Music

2004-12-17T07:54:00.000-08:00

Head on over to mystuntedgrowth where you will find a link to a petition to ban Kanye West from the Grammies. Sign it and join the hundreds of others who have stood up to say "we will not reward a douchebag for purchasing lyrics and then claiming co-author status." Your vote will help usher in a new era of accountability in the hip-hop game. Also, go visit bol and thank him for his attempts to get the truth out to those who do not read his blog or mine. Remember, you can either be a part of history or become it.
-chiseven

So It Goes

2004-12-07T08:16:00.000-08:00

I woke from a dream last night wiping the gin from the jinn and heard a legion of voices crying for more. "More what?" I mumbled as green phantoms trailed in the murk. "More" they replied in unison, a single voice from a thousand mouths. "Jesus, it's 4:22 am, what can I do for you at this dismal hour?"

I decided that this auditory hallucination was perhaps, more than a residual drug experience when the floor fell from under my feet suspending me in the darkness. Couldn't tell if I was falling or floating, didn't really care. I have found that when the floor mysteriously disappears it's best to just go with it, and so I let the wierd winds blow me from the place I know towards the source of these nocturnal voices. As with any type of travel, you never arrive as fast as you think you should, even when dealing with the ferrymen of the preternatural. So I rached deep into the pocket of my wrinkled trousers and extracted a tortured joint, bent but not broken like the reeds of Dune. When I flicked the lighter to ease my mind the spark danced across the glassy eyes of countless faces, pale from lack of sunlight. Though my spark lasted only a fraction of a second I was struck most by the way their wide black pupils each held the image of my lighters flame.

Angels or Demons?, I thought.

After a few moments of silence broken only by my puffing I began to grow bored and restless. "Hey, uh do you guys smoke?" I said expecting no reply, which was why I was so surprised when I recived the reply, "Sheeeet Dog, You know how we go!" A large, white, long-fingered hand reached out and took up the J. My eyes followed the cherry into the darkenss, my ears heard that strange unison of a thousand, though this time puffing. Well at least these guys are down, I thought.

We continued passing the J between man and immortal, chuckling from time to time at the absurdity of the whole scenario. My favorite part was when the mass of unknown souls began to rag on liza minelli, whom they had taken for a similar trip the night before. They said she was a total nut bag. "You guys don't get out much, huh?" was my reply. "No....we really don't" was theirs.

A few more minutes passed and I asked our ETA to where ever we were going. "Hard to tell, should have been there an hour ago." said the voices. "Well, was this meeting important or just a formality, I mean if Liza and I are in the same eschelon of honor then this can't be that great, right? A bit of whispering amongst the darkness wafted about. "O.K. we'll level with you, everybody gets one of these "meet your maker" experiences. It's where you find out what you should be doing with your life and all that, but really the big guy is so fucking tired of his job that he just says the first thing that comes to his head. There are just too many of you little bastards."

I shook my head in agreement "Heard that, I'd probably fuck off too if I had to service 6 billion clients." I paused in reflection for a moment "So what do you think he was gonna tell me?"

"You gotta lay off the herb, man. We told you from the beginning, remember."

"All I remember is your voices saying, more....more what?"

"Fuck if we know, that's all the big fella tells us. We go get you little ones, and he asks for more that's the deal.

"No shit, well all I got more of is the weed, interested!" I knew the answer of course and continued to probe the stoned mind of evermore until the weed sack was as empty as their answers. "Hey, I gotta go to work tomorrow so you think you could drop me off until the weekend?" "Yeah sure, maybe we'll remember how to get to the destination by then."

So we made a left on the cosmic turnpike and hammered on towards my house in the valley of the mortal. I stepped from the darkness, bid my mysterious courriers ado and moved slow and stoned back to my bed, already dreading the comming workday. It occured to me that this sentiment of impending work was the common link between man and eternity. All we have to do is more.

Behind Your Walls

2004-11-22T14:51:00.000-08:00

I hope this link works, its my 1s't attempt at links and pictures etc.

In the midst of mindless destruction I came upon an image from my past. The sledge hammer crunched it's heft through the concrete and chickenwire into the cavity behind the shower wall. It's woefull mass penetrated the dark dank world behind. When I called off the dogs of destruction I took a knee and peered into the dark hole wondering what lay hidden away from my curious eyes.

A glimmer and a groan came billowing from the hole like the breath of a long dormant mummy jostled from its crypt. Try as I might to discern the vague forms within, the meagre hole was not large enough to slake my thirst for knowledge. Before I could tell them otherwise my arms had readied the sledge for smashing speed, and so I let them to their sinful work. Clouds of decades old plaster and iron mesh rained down into the basin of the bathtub, which screamed as I defiled it's long time confidant and lover, the shower wall. Great heaving blows shook the whole of the home to its footings and then into the bowels of the earth. I was John Henry, the wall was my mountain, and curiosity the machine which I was racing.

What lay behind my dying shower? Who was the last mortal to witness the inner space of watery conduit and perplexing knobs? Those who encased this mystery are lost in the vastness of time awash in the oceans of souls whose secrets are yet to be discovered. Their visages lunged towards me using the dust to grasp my throat, but I was stronger than their whispy rage.

Squinting through the haze I began to understand what I had unleashed. There before me for all the world to look upon was the prize. His legs were bound to the metal skeleton of the old pipes and time had corroded his joints with mounds of rust. Never the less there was strength in him still, I knew this from the banging of his water hammer against the lath and plaster when he was pressured to work. He and I stared into each other deeply. I recognized his form from a long lost album cover. He recognized mine from the ancient memories of his imprisonment.

There we stood a man and his shower assembly roles reversed, he undressed and I covered, both leaking blood and water in little drops below. I knew this moment would come from the moment I first heard this knocking on my walls. Again the arms knew their buisness before I did. I looked down and they were working the hacksaw through his limbs, working for extraction and replacement.

It was over in a minute and we both were better for it. I laid my old discovery against the wall of the shed letting him bleed his last blood on the cold concrete and enjoy the sun for a moment before I laid his corpse upon the heap of his companions and shoved them off to the land fill where they will be entombed once again.

The Blinding Light of Hope

2004-11-18T11:18:00.000-08:00

I thought that I'd break from my usual festering on geo-political catastrophies and reciprocate, or rather sing the praises of a bit of good fortune that swung my way. About a month ago I bought a house. This was a big decision, but all and all, a sound one. The problem with buying a house in my neck of the woods is that even the most modest of abodes is horrendously overpriced from my middle class midwestern perspective. This being so coupled with the fact that while I'm not hard up for cash I 'm also no tycoon, precipitated the purchase a home in a good location in the city I have grown to love that, that needs a tremendous amount of work.

Over the years I have been employed in many, many positions that utilized my back and shunned the mind. I took on their physicality as a challenge, attempting to educate the bluecollars that not all "college boys" are limp wristed nancy boys. I have cut down trees, washed many a dish, moved countless boxes brimming with all objects known to man, painted more houses than I care to remember, and even spent a summer as a municipal garbage man. In the end I was always offered a fulltime position and appreciated for my effort and ethic. I bid ado to these temporary employments in as courteous an manner as possible. It's hard to tell you co-workers that under no circumstances would I ever consider this a practical option for my future. The reason for this seeming break of continuity is that for all the teduim and toil of my laborious past I never landed a construction gig, aside from a kitchen remodel I assisted an uncle with many moons ago. Like most people I have to do things to learn them. I have to jump in the trenches and make mistakes before I can achieve the intended goal. This is all to explain that I have no experience or residual knowledge of home restoration, and now had set couse on a rather extensive remodel.

When the transaction was complete I was the proud owner of a very expensive dilapidated piece of shit. Perhaps, I should note here that most of the drive to procure said home came from my sunny and optomistic girlfriend who has been lusting for a home of her own since the day we met. She ustilized her female wyles to convince me that this hopeless dump was a diamond in the rough. Alas I didn't see it that way but she is very hard to resist.

My wonderful "new" old home was lacking a functional septic system, working bathroom, sound roof, modern electrical system, and had suffered from general lack of up keep and sanitation. But these were the very reasons I was ever able to make the leap to home ownership. So I ordered a debris box grabbed a sledge hammer and began venting my all my rage on a rotting bathroom.

After several days of wanton destruction I had killed the bathroom. It at times caught me by surprise, like when I ripped down the celing and discovered the joy of bathing in insulation. Or when I discoverd the nest and secret stash of a long since dead varmant that had made its nest behind the tub. But in the end I was victorious and also at a crossroads. Now that I had done what I naturally excell at (destruction) I needed to "con-struct".

I called several contractors who offered outrageous bids to remedy the situation and was left hoping to find a soultion at the bottom of a bottle. I had no hope of pulling this thing off in my specific time frame and monetary situation.

I swear to you I don't believe in miracles but I bore witness to one, as my brilliant girlfriend placed a call to her parents (whom are experienced remodelers) and scammed them into comming out here to save my impending disaster. Like white knights of gracious humanity they accepted the challenge and arrived a few days later ready for battle. They stayed for four days durring which they refinished my floors, knocked down unwanted walls and errected desired ones, produced a floor in my beleagured bathroom and imparted a lifetimes worth of techniques and tips to me. It was like the vulcan mind meld they placed their hands on my temple and showed me the way. It was true deus-ex-machina type of shit.

So now I am back on track and actually managed to learn and avoid making costly or foolish mistakes. I cannot stress enough the fact that aside from my parents raising me, nobody has done such a selfless and extended good deed for me as they. Hats off you gods amongst men may fortune shine bright on your old kentucky home as you have done me the greatest favor.

Four More Beers

2004-11-03T09:31:00.000-08:00

The American public has let me down yet again with its unending numbers of morons. This whole election just goes to show how fear mongering, no matter how contrived, will always defeat common sense and intelligent action. Now we can all feel safe as Dub wraps the blanket of death and destruction he has been knitting for the past three years aroud the collective idiocy of america. Fuck us, we deserve this piece of shit president. Let him continue unravel all the progress of the past twenty years and force Reagan's agenda down our throats. Star wars = missle defense, Iran contra = current fucked situation in the sandbox, reganomics = greedheaded taxcuts for the fabulously wealthy, repealed environmental regulation = industry's full scale raping of the earth, the list goes on but essentially the republicans have killed the democrats and now are feasting like hyenas on the carcass of american virtue.

I can hear libery screaming as they penetrate her last hope for the future. Vast legions of simple minded "common folk" are cheering for the eventual destruction of their way of life. I hope they will be satisfied when their sons come back from Iraq in a box. You fucking bastards are forcing your children into another vietnam = bullshit war started by the politicans fought by the poor and under educated. Line up boys the country needs more cannon fodder, you weren't really doing anything with you life anyway, right. Don't pay attention to the fact that your beloved Bushie killed about 2 million of your jobs, paid off the oil companies so that you fork over 2.50 a gallon to push that SUV down the rotting highway, and has cuddled up with the pharmicutical industry so that no one can afford to get sick, just in time for flu season. Good thing I got my flu shot....oh yeah, I forgot.

For the life of me I cannot understand how the "common folk" republican voters can support a poser rich kid who shoveled cocaine up his nostrils while crusing through yale on his family ties. How can they support a guy who faked national gard service during vietnam and got away with it because of his daddy? How can they overlook the fact that he isn'y from texas, he isn't a pulled up by the bootstraps type of guy, he isn't even charismatic. Face the facts people, Bush is the biggest facade in the history this nation.

Four more years...christ almighty. Hold on liver, it's gonna take alot of alcohol to get me though this bullshit.

In closing I'll continue my tendency to summarize the rantings of the day:

1. Fuck You America, you let the fox in the henhouse for the second time.

2. Fuck you bush, there is a special corner of hell for monsters of your caliber.

Of mounties, men, and Ass-lee Simpson

2004-10-25T07:56:00.000-07:00

So I just downloaded the shocking video of pop automaton Ass-lee Simpson doing the hokie pokie as her paper thin career goes up in flames. The real tragedy of this is that I partially bore witness to the event last satruday night, as I was technically in front of the television when the aforementioned blunder took place. Sadly, the booze had gotten the better of me by that time and the joyfull event passed over my glazed, half-shut lids without recognition.

Note: for those worried about the very real possibility that I would have suffered a painful and debilitating "crick" in either my neck or back from slumping grotesquely on the couch in an alcoholic haze, do not fret. I happily awoke at the cheery hour of 4 am and found my way to a proper bed sans "crick". Thanks for your thought's and prayers.

I believe that people get what they deserve...sometimes... er...sort of. You see Ass-lee Simpson no more deserves to step aboard the fame machine than her hack sister did, but barbie still has a place in America's heart, and apparently so does her kid sister. Let's look past the millions of dollars that are A.) being spent on creating the appearance of Ass-lee's talent B.) actually being paid to said "performer" for going through the motions, and C.) the pathetic pandering of media and music resources to shove this shit down the collective throats of American teenage girls. What we have here is God exercising his wrath. He has allowed the minions of Satan to build up another false Idol so that He could bitch slap this pagan whore to the cold concrete curb of reality. That reality being that she is a fraud, plain and simple. The real tragedy here is that there are millions of morons out there that actually believed that little sis had any type of tallent in the first place.

This is why I love to see hangers-on be destroyed by the game they so desperately want to play. Ozzie's children are the same way. Meerly famous by association and bloodlines. I am waiting for Kelly Osborn to get knocked up by her brother, so that I can toodle my fingers as ozzie chews the head off his illgotten grandchild. I will sit back and say "see the system does work!" The evil are punished and the righteous (like myself) are there to point our long slender fingers in a disapproving manner. Perhaps, I'm a enjoying this bit of career destruction a little too much.

On unrelated manners It seems that a good friend of mine has been assaulted by the mounties of Windsor, Canada. False accusations, american hate mongering, wrongful arrest, personal assault, and references to G-dub are the players in this tragedy. The story is a classic wrong place wrong time, minorities (this time americans in Canada) and cock-sure asshole cops (or rather mounties) style fiasco. I have to hang my head at the fact that the whole situation transpired in the first place. But then I have to clench my fist and shake in a northernly direction. Fuck you Canada! No body kicks my friends asses except me! Because of this great transgression, a slap in the face of america, I suggest that we as nation embrace another "Fuck the French" style hate campaign. No more Dave Coolier, canadian bacon, canada dry, or Expo's. I will make sure that the streets run sticky in the syrup of our northern neighbor. Retribution will be ours, Canada. So watch your back.

I love hatching manical plans that incorperate national campaigns of revenge. They always seem to cath on, like slap braclets and WWJD. I have to do some investigation as to how one posts links, pictures, and propaganda to kind of spice up the blog. Probably a smarter move would be to actually think before I write this trash, but that is precisely the type of shit canada wants me to do. I'd be playing right into their plans.

I'll recap the rantings of recent in case you have forgotten why you read this rubbish.

1) Fuck you Ass-lee. You deserve much, much worse.
2) Fuck you canadian mounties, you'll get yours.

Peace.

Just Another FNG

2004-10-22T13:01:00.000-07:00

So I accidentally became blogger just so I could bust Chisevens balls. For some time know I have been reading the deranged rantings of this rather cryptic and elusive character who interprets the world in a uniquely scathing manner. Hats off, dear friend for your unwavering ability to spot hilarious links that provide me endless distractions whilst toiling away at this damn console all workday long. It was the picture of G-Dub with a couple of hairless and handless cretins at his side that drove me to this luncay you call "blogging".

I am of the opinion that the "Bushies" are currently creating an unholy alliance of malcontents and hilariously evil caricatures of superheros bent on the total destruction of all that is right and good in this world. Even the names these people are astonishingly tactless. Jay J. Armes is the name of the rather brusk looking little man with no arms to Dub's right. These are rich fields my friends...shall we frollic.

Jay J. Armes would love to be the Prez's right hand man, if only he could get a hand up.

I'd hate to be beat down by big J, I hear he has a mean left hook.

He's has been known for fingering many a bad guy a police line up.

It only gets worse, so I'll stop. But it is time america steps back from the pulpet of presidential idolatry and fully experiences the utterly surreal world our current President has surrounded himself with. Jay J is just a random example of Dub's wacky world.

It's all o.k. though, because on the night of Nov. 2, when cheney pulls his hand out of W's ass and tucks his little hollow headed puppet in for a hard earned night's sleep, Laura Bush will read a chapter from the latest "Left Behind" series paperback to sedate her special little guy; which she purchased from Wall-Mart who procured these dastardly books from the broken backs of a thousand chinese children who have really been left behind. All the while the American veteran who's job was outsourced to that great red beast of the east casts his vote for our fearless leader and then is forced to get into the imported sedan of a discrete and high ranking republican politician to be ass fucked for the 50 bucks he needs to fork over to the pharmacutical industry to get pain killers to cope with the melted legs he recieved from an Iraqi roadside bomb.

How's that for synicism and conspiracy theory! Anyhoo, I'm still looking foward to seeing which beast will slouch towards Bethesda to be born once more.

Have a great day.