http://www.usdebtclock.org/
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Thursday, May 21, 2009
Over/Under
UNDERRATED
CD's - in the day of iTunes and the Internet, it's easy to overlook the pleasure of holding an actual CD with album art, and liner notes that will sit on your desk and serve as a coaster/reminder to listen to this awesome CD that you got when you're holding a bottle of sleeping pills in your hand, contemplating suicide. Ya'see - that CD just saved your life.
RADIO - network TV offers The Bachelor, Survivor, FOX news and other sundry iterations of the A/V equivalent of dogshit. Any good shortwave RADIO gives you everything from talk shows about Reformation era politics, discussions on empiricism, to bluegrass shows being broadcast from a pick-up truck in Appalachia.
POSTERS - not the big ones that you get from the back of SAM GOODY, if that store even exists. But classic concert posters - the little 5x12 ones from when the Doors first played the Whiskey a Go-Go, or when G'N'R was first touring (see the G'N'R live album)
PAPER AIRPLANES - seriously, next time you're whacking brews, bang a couple out.
FLASKS - it was totally and completely socially acceptable to carry a flask. You're at a cold football game, it's 5:00 p.m. and you just caught your train, you can't sleep on a plane, take a little nip. We should bring this back.
ELMORE LEONARD BOOKS - Hollywood has mined his work for years. Try fucking reading them. It's like a great detective comic without pictures. And the guy can really turn a phrase.
OVERRATED
THRIFT STORES - Clothing and furniture that people have THROWN away, is not hip,cool or ironic. Once in while you might find a choice item, but I hate the hipsters that treat the salvation army like an actual store when they're probably wearing a superman-T that was some guy from benson-hurst's git-rag since the bi-centennial.
BUFFET TABLES - Umberto Eco said "Americans have a fear of absence, so they fill it with superabundance" Put the fork down fatty. "All you can eat" is a "caveat emptor" not a goddamn selling point.
VINYL - the quintessential prop for every douche/fuckhead. The funny thing is, they're coveted by people who grew up long after Vinyl records WERE ALREADY AN OBSOLETE TECHNOLOGY. Do they really sound better? Do they? Really? Do you even own a record player?
FAMILY - How many times have you heard some nitwit talk about the importance of family. I don't know about you, but i don't know a group of people that have insulted, embarrassed, humiliated and consistently sought to intentionally undermine and hurt me more (preferably publicly),
TALKING - what a fucking effeminate culture. Let's fucking not talk. Ever think silence and time to fucking deal with shit is a way to handle things Dr. Phil?
DIVERSITY - God made us all different colors, shapes and sizes. And as much as I like going to a Turkish Restaurant and smoking some Apple Tobacco from a hookah, there are very good reasons to think that all of this happyhappy horseshit multiculturalism is a strained, and sad patina of United Colors of Benetton bullshit variety. Let's all be together, but let's all be different, together - I shouldn't have to pretend to like Daddy Yankee, and you shouldn't have to play Billy Joel in a Mexican Food place.
BABY-BOOMER BULLSHIT - "Hey look, I was born right after World War II - I think I'll drench my brain in acid, smoke a barrel of weed and then fuck like a pig in the mud at Woodstock then I'll legalize abortion and outsource all of the jobs, and bitch about how these good for nothing Gen-X'rs are ruining this country. Hand me some more Viagra and Glenfidditch. What year is it? 2009? Yeah I think best new album should go to Eric Clapton again. What the fuck is a demographic winter?" Don't be fooled if there is 10 of them and 1 of you in a room. They're gonna be louder. Doesn't make'em right. Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen et al. suck. They may have had a hit 40 years ago. But guess what?: "The Dead" are dead. Go to the grocery store hippy, buy some soap.
CD's - in the day of iTunes and the Internet, it's easy to overlook the pleasure of holding an actual CD with album art, and liner notes that will sit on your desk and serve as a coaster/reminder to listen to this awesome CD that you got when you're holding a bottle of sleeping pills in your hand, contemplating suicide. Ya'see - that CD just saved your life.
RADIO - network TV offers The Bachelor, Survivor, FOX news and other sundry iterations of the A/V equivalent of dogshit. Any good shortwave RADIO gives you everything from talk shows about Reformation era politics, discussions on empiricism, to bluegrass shows being broadcast from a pick-up truck in Appalachia.
POSTERS - not the big ones that you get from the back of SAM GOODY, if that store even exists. But classic concert posters - the little 5x12 ones from when the Doors first played the Whiskey a Go-Go, or when G'N'R was first touring (see the G'N'R live album)
PAPER AIRPLANES - seriously, next time you're whacking brews, bang a couple out.
FLASKS - it was totally and completely socially acceptable to carry a flask. You're at a cold football game, it's 5:00 p.m. and you just caught your train, you can't sleep on a plane, take a little nip. We should bring this back.
ELMORE LEONARD BOOKS - Hollywood has mined his work for years. Try fucking reading them. It's like a great detective comic without pictures. And the guy can really turn a phrase.
OVERRATED
THRIFT STORES - Clothing and furniture that people have THROWN away, is not hip,cool or ironic. Once in while you might find a choice item, but I hate the hipsters that treat the salvation army like an actual store when they're probably wearing a superman-T that was some guy from benson-hurst's git-rag since the bi-centennial.
BUFFET TABLES - Umberto Eco said "Americans have a fear of absence, so they fill it with superabundance" Put the fork down fatty. "All you can eat" is a "caveat emptor" not a goddamn selling point.
VINYL - the quintessential prop for every douche/fuckhead. The funny thing is, they're coveted by people who grew up long after Vinyl records WERE ALREADY AN OBSOLETE TECHNOLOGY. Do they really sound better? Do they? Really? Do you even own a record player?
FAMILY - How many times have you heard some nitwit talk about the importance of family. I don't know about you, but i don't know a group of people that have insulted, embarrassed, humiliated and consistently sought to intentionally undermine and hurt me more (preferably publicly),
TALKING - what a fucking effeminate culture. Let's fucking not talk. Ever think silence and time to fucking deal with shit is a way to handle things Dr. Phil?
DIVERSITY - God made us all different colors, shapes and sizes. And as much as I like going to a Turkish Restaurant and smoking some Apple Tobacco from a hookah, there are very good reasons to think that all of this happyhappy horseshit multiculturalism is a strained, and sad patina of United Colors of Benetton bullshit variety. Let's all be together, but let's all be different, together - I shouldn't have to pretend to like Daddy Yankee, and you shouldn't have to play Billy Joel in a Mexican Food place.
BABY-BOOMER BULLSHIT - "Hey look, I was born right after World War II - I think I'll drench my brain in acid, smoke a barrel of weed and then fuck like a pig in the mud at Woodstock then I'll legalize abortion and outsource all of the jobs, and bitch about how these good for nothing Gen-X'rs are ruining this country. Hand me some more Viagra and Glenfidditch. What year is it? 2009? Yeah I think best new album should go to Eric Clapton again. What the fuck is a demographic winter?" Don't be fooled if there is 10 of them and 1 of you in a room. They're gonna be louder. Doesn't make'em right. Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen et al. suck. They may have had a hit 40 years ago. But guess what?: "The Dead" are dead. Go to the grocery store hippy, buy some soap.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Hill Aspecting No.5
"Hey Doc...listen, if you want to reach me from now on just, you know, call my cell phone for God's sake."
The Blue Ridge Mountains, Sir Sugar Frosting, are the boobs of Appalachia. Redneck Valhalla, closer to the 18th century than the 21st, which - you know this isn't exactly Christian Europe of the stained glass cathedral time-period that we're talking about here, ha ha. This is 18th century North America. Vast, overwhelming forests and lusty, cords of billowing river - a continent of harrowing wild/dark, an electric, furious promise of unlimited rough-hewn possibility and a pleasant vinyl-hum of your own desire, first person singular, for the soundtrack.
"I'd like to discuss this some more with you but right now I'm at work which means I'm sitting in a high school in North Philly with my head buried in fucking book trying my best to ignore a verbal smattering of any of the three insults these teenagers know, for example 'Cracker' 'Faggot' 'Corny' or any combination of these three. You want to talk about hills and headfences, these kids have three rooms in their heads, the first one is anger, the second one is sex, and the third one is anger and sex. They walk back and forth among the three rooms all day. In the darkness of their own little hills. That's downhill creep, right Doc?"
Yes.
"So I feel like...like..."
You feel a little bit like Frodo and Sam, after they leave the fellowship and they got lost in the hostile, barren, pock-marked hell of the Emyn Muil. And there you are, absurd, and ridiculous in the face of nothingness and horror, addictions, afflictions, grievances and regrets hung like a ring around your neck. Weary and incapable of moving forwards, you fall asleep and what do you wake up to? Smeagol trying to wrest a circle of cold psychic torment from you? No, you wake up to find out that the ring built a world around you, and now you're 27 going on 28 -oh yeah it's your birthday next month-happy birthday man- living at home and feeling like the biggest fucking loser ever to walk the earth.
"Yeah that sounds about right"
Get over that next hill trooper, we don't take place down here.
The Blue Ridge Mountains, Sir Sugar Frosting, are the boobs of Appalachia. Redneck Valhalla, closer to the 18th century than the 21st, which - you know this isn't exactly Christian Europe of the stained glass cathedral time-period that we're talking about here, ha ha. This is 18th century North America. Vast, overwhelming forests and lusty, cords of billowing river - a continent of harrowing wild/dark, an electric, furious promise of unlimited rough-hewn possibility and a pleasant vinyl-hum of your own desire, first person singular, for the soundtrack.
"I'd like to discuss this some more with you but right now I'm at work which means I'm sitting in a high school in North Philly with my head buried in fucking book trying my best to ignore a verbal smattering of any of the three insults these teenagers know, for example 'Cracker' 'Faggot' 'Corny' or any combination of these three. You want to talk about hills and headfences, these kids have three rooms in their heads, the first one is anger, the second one is sex, and the third one is anger and sex. They walk back and forth among the three rooms all day. In the darkness of their own little hills. That's downhill creep, right Doc?"
Yes.
"So I feel like...like..."
You feel a little bit like Frodo and Sam, after they leave the fellowship and they got lost in the hostile, barren, pock-marked hell of the Emyn Muil. And there you are, absurd, and ridiculous in the face of nothingness and horror, addictions, afflictions, grievances and regrets hung like a ring around your neck. Weary and incapable of moving forwards, you fall asleep and what do you wake up to? Smeagol trying to wrest a circle of cold psychic torment from you? No, you wake up to find out that the ring built a world around you, and now you're 27 going on 28 -oh yeah it's your birthday next month-happy birthday man- living at home and feeling like the biggest fucking loser ever to walk the earth.
"Yeah that sounds about right"
Get over that next hill trooper, we don't take place down here.
Tuesday, May 19, 2009
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
Hill Aspecting No.4
"Let's have a talk now."
"Ok."
I hate this shit, every time we have to 'have a talk' I feel all of the energy drain out of me.
Imagine your hands hanging at your sides. Your head is nodded, and you're bent at the waist, leaning forward ever so slightly. A leaden, and heavy mild torment sits in your chest, it drums a tattoo (military and dirge-like) with a slow hungarian 6/8 time signature. Now think of your hands as wine-skins, or if you need help with the image, remember back to the time at your uncle's dentist office - you could take a surgical glove (I'm not sure if they were latex or nitrile, in any case, it doesn't really matter) and blow it up like a balloon.
The fingers looked like udders.
These are your hands at your sides, the fingers are little wine bottles, corked at the tips. She wants to have a talk and the corks on strings (all 10) are yanked (with a decachorus POP) and your willingness, your humour, your patience, yes, even a little bit of your humanity spills out like ten little warm streams of urine around your feet.
You think for a moment, why am I even saying you, ME, I think for a moment of doing a Les Mis/lap it up like wine on the street because the casks broke but this isn't wine, and I'm not a rough and ready rustic member of robust french peasantry - I've been sprayed with too many chemtrails and I've been drinking too much fluoride my whole life.
"Did you have fun?"
my eyes flash to the photo or print of Christina's world. It's enough. She gets the picture, I can't even pretend to lie now.
Shit.
"Your best friend is a divorced, middle-aged loser and you actually covet his freedom. It's sick"
"You tell me then, - your definition of 'normal' is so perverse, screwed up and narrow, that there is actually no room in it for a person.
What exactly is it that you need me to do that I'm not doing? Do you want me to play golf? Do Fantasy Football? What?"
"You know - " before she can finish, the phone rings. I make sure not to look away first, but we both know who it is.
He's going to leave a message. Fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck-fuck.
"Hey Buddy, Dr. Ivanhoe here! - I was just walking Pebble and thought about the time on our little trip when you took 8 grand from your savings account so you could buy a full page ad in that local paper. Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha.....How many people went to the E.R. that night?"
Shit.
"Ok."
I hate this shit, every time we have to 'have a talk' I feel all of the energy drain out of me.
Imagine your hands hanging at your sides. Your head is nodded, and you're bent at the waist, leaning forward ever so slightly. A leaden, and heavy mild torment sits in your chest, it drums a tattoo (military and dirge-like) with a slow hungarian 6/8 time signature. Now think of your hands as wine-skins, or if you need help with the image, remember back to the time at your uncle's dentist office - you could take a surgical glove (I'm not sure if they were latex or nitrile, in any case, it doesn't really matter) and blow it up like a balloon.
The fingers looked like udders.
These are your hands at your sides, the fingers are little wine bottles, corked at the tips. She wants to have a talk and the corks on strings (all 10) are yanked (with a decachorus POP) and your willingness, your humour, your patience, yes, even a little bit of your humanity spills out like ten little warm streams of urine around your feet.
You think for a moment, why am I even saying you, ME, I think for a moment of doing a Les Mis/lap it up like wine on the street because the casks broke but this isn't wine, and I'm not a rough and ready rustic member of robust french peasantry - I've been sprayed with too many chemtrails and I've been drinking too much fluoride my whole life.
"Did you have fun?"
my eyes flash to the photo or print of Christina's world. It's enough. She gets the picture, I can't even pretend to lie now.
Shit.
"Your best friend is a divorced, middle-aged loser and you actually covet his freedom. It's sick"
"You tell me then, - your definition of 'normal' is so perverse, screwed up and narrow, that there is actually no room in it for a person.
What exactly is it that you need me to do that I'm not doing? Do you want me to play golf? Do Fantasy Football? What?"
"You know - " before she can finish, the phone rings. I make sure not to look away first, but we both know who it is.
He's going to leave a message. Fuck,fuck,fuck,fuck-fuck.
"Hey Buddy, Dr. Ivanhoe here! - I was just walking Pebble and thought about the time on our little trip when you took 8 grand from your savings account so you could buy a full page ad in that local paper. Ha Ha Ha Ha Ha.....How many people went to the E.R. that night?"
Shit.
Sunday, May 3, 2009
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