Check this out, yo.



Word.

Nothing. Go away.

Sometimes, making a promise to yourself doesn't count unless you say it out loud. If you don't you'll start negotiating with yourself. "Well, ok, not every day. How about every day that you aren't hung over?" Or, "I already do something kind of similar to that every day, so I only need to do this 3 times a week." Whatever. All I know is that my subconscious mind must have learned how to negotiate from one of those tough money hungry business men with whom I've been working for that last 6 years, 'cause I drive a hard bargain with myself. I don't have a problem exploiting myself either. If I see myself getting some resolve, I'll fuckin' cut myself down to drown my own ambition and keep myself under my thumb. I don't care. Jesus, I'm a dick to me.

Anyway I have this idea to take notes on everything. As if I'm trying to learn about my own life. I want to carry a small notebook everywhere. Every good Idea I get, write it down. Every time something funny happens, write it down. Every time I get inspired, write it down. It doesn't have to be detailed, just enough to stir the ol' memory. And it can be about anything.

I'll also have a bigger notebook that lives right by my bed. I'll set my alarm for a half an hour earlier every mornin'. When Warren Alney starts to blather on about the happenings of the world on "Morning Edition", I'll reach over and pick up the little notebook that comes with me everywhere I go, and the big notebook that lives beside my bed. Then I'll write up a report summarizing all the notes I took for the previous day. It won't have to be good. It won't even have to make sense. What it will be though is a notebook full of ideas. Ones that I thought, at some point miht turn out good. Sure, it'll take some work, and most of the things that I write down will be in fact, stupid ideas, but at least they'll be there.

The thing I'll have to keep in mind is that starting out, I'm going to suck at this. It's a good thing I'm a mean self boss and a wimpering, spineless self-employee. Other wise I might quit my pretend shitty job as a self absorbed writer.

Anyway I'm not only saying it out loud, I'm writing it down and making it accessible to anyone with an internet connection. That way, it'll be easy for all y'all haters to produce evidence that corroborates the claim, "Kory's a douche." And the subsequent conclusion, "Let's all make fun of him." Just to let you know I'm serious about this shit. And also to warn anyone I might interact with on a daily basis: I'll be writing a lot of things down in the next couple months. Most of the things I write down will be making fun of you. Keep that in mind. No, you can't read it. Hope that hater-ade is going down nice and smooth.

I know this is pretty shameless self promotion, but that's ok. I have some footage of some other really good poets from the festival, but one never knows how an artist will react to having their work plastered all over the internet by some douche who can't seem to compress a video file well enough to get a clear picture on to youtube.

That being said, check this out:

Yes, it’s been quite a long time. I know, I’m a douche.

In the time I've been away, I got shit canned from a totally sweet sales job and was put in the position of having to take a “real” job which is probably twice the work and half the pay. And just so you know, (I feel obligated to defend myself here), it wasn’t my performance that got me shit canned from my awesome sales job at Argus. It was the job itself that was eliminated. I in fact, produced more than the desired results but the thing of it is, the deals I put on the table weren’t closing. So I ended up giving them a lot of work which they didn’t make any money on. That thar 's jist bad bidness, so the axe done fell. Fuck.

In other news, I came across this on the internet a couple of days ago:

N = C + {fb(cm) . fb(tc)} + fb(Ts) + fc . ta

You guessed it! It’s a scientific formula for the perfect bacon sandwich! Don't believe me? You can read about it here Just what cutting edge science out to be doing, right? And to think, all this time I thought scientists were supposed to be researching how to cure horrible diseases and other ways to benefit all mankind. Go figure.

It’s not that I don’t appreciate the idea of a scientifically calculated bacon sandwich, (sounds delicious!), it’s just that it seems a little foolish to have launched that kind of a study when there are little things like Malaria running amok all over the world. Also, it’s still true that there is no known cure for the common cold. Believe it or not, there are one or two deathly diseases I’m leaving out too... or so I hear.

Justin Bobo has clamitia.

Finally, I should probably advise people visiting Hollywood not to go to jail, if they can help it. I know it sounds like fun, but it's not. Seriously. Last night I spent the night there, on an all expense paid (by my brother bailing me out) trip. Hey, it only cost $2700 for a seemingly endless night of pure misery, complete with other patrons introducing themselves with a Gang name, followed by a set the way whitey often introduces himself with a Christian name, followed by a company. Oh, and it's really cool that the tiolets are just bolted to the wall next to the bunks, right in front of the window. That way, when Juan Deez, (South Side) wants to carry on a conversation whilst taking a dump, it's way less awkward.

Melly Bobo still pees her pants sometimes.

Going out of town tomorrow. Taking the train to the mountains. The continental divide.

24 hours on a steel rail oughtta be enough of a spiritual massage to work out the knots of tension in my soul. Maybe.

I'll go to the top of the mountain, read some poems, and then come back to Hollywood to start working for about half of what I'm worth (as far as a reg'ler paycheck is concerned). Upward mobility not withstanding.

Mystery train. Take me away.

Hopefully I'll come back with a good story and some decent footage. We'll see.

Until then, Walk the Beauty Way.

Video Blog.

lease be patient. They'll get better.

Every Friday? I hope so, kids. I truly do.

Master Gardener, Master Geek.

Back in the day, Riz and I used to watch "Jerry Baker, America's Master Gardener" on PBS. Now, you may be wondering what a couple of high school kids were doing watching a show about gardening while taking bong rips from a home made 6 foot bong, but what you fail to realize is just how hilarious this guy actually is. One need only browse through an article like this, to get a chuckle at how serious people are taking gardening geek.

For those of you who find that article too boring to endure (it is), let me just point out a few highlights. It starts off with this: "Baker, the star of gardening videos and the Public Broadcasting System, advises people to douse their yards with special 'tonics' made from chewing tobacco, human urine, birth control pills, mouthwash, molasses, detergent and beer. 'Everything you need is in your kitchen and medicine cabinet,' declares Baker, who calls himself 'America's Master Gardener.'"

Ha ha! Really? Everybody keeps human urine in their medicine cabinet? When you watch the show though, it gets even weirder. Seriously. At one point, Riz and I called our local PBS affiliate while watching Jerry Baker and threatened to sue them, because he was stealing and broadcasting our secret recipe for LSD; as evidenced by his professional history. Even this article tells us, "Jerry Baker, 68, began his career in the late 1950s as a Detroit undercover cop, investigating heroin and marijuana rings." Wow... so that's where he's getting these recipes!

The other hilarious thing is that there are geeks who are not only upset about Jerry's ridiculous concoctions, but they're upset about the name he trademarked, "America's Master Gardener". The above referenced article says, "In addition, state and federal agricultural agents are angry that he trademarked the term "America's Master Gardener" in 1994, causing widespread confusion with the U.S. Agriculture Department's own master gardener program, which has provided rigorous scientific training to more than 100,000 lay people since 1971."

What? First of all, this has the makings of one sweet ass "Nerd-Fight"! Secondly, just how in the hell could Jerry Baker, the douche cause "widespread confusion" amongst the more legitimate "Master Gardeners" of the world? That's like saying, "Dr. Dre is causing widespread confusion amongst the country's legitimate medical professionals". Jeeze.

Ah... the joys of watching nerds. It is programs like this, along side of truly excellent and prestigious scientific programming which PBS is known for that make it irresistible. It truly is the best in television, as far as I'm concerned. You can learn something and laugh at the same time. Who'd a thunk?

Anyway, sorry I couldn't find any videos of him. I couldn't find any good ones of Huell Howser either. He's another one of my favorite PBS personalities, and he's too fucking hysterical to pass up. I gotta learn how to snag clips from TV and upload them to youtube. Word.

Good Ship Hollywood

Sometimes, when you're with someone for a long time, the relationship starts to feel boring. That first couple of months is fun. You get to know the person more and more. They are still all shiny and new. But after a while, both parties become complacent. If nothing interesting happens in a day, you'll not have much to talk about beyond what to eat for dinner or what's on tv. It becomes the responsibility of both people in the relationship to do something interesting together. Ya know, these things aren't going to happen on their own, you have to seek them out.

That being said, Lexi and I take on lots of creative projects together. We've built furniture, painted things, we do writing exercises, occasionally work out together etc. One of the things we did a little more than a year ago was to go out waliking with the ol' video camera and stick it in the faces of the people we met. When we started this project, there was no clear objective. We were just collecting footage. There wasn't even a general idea of what we wanted to do besides point and shoot and have a good time. Anyway, when we got done I edited some of the crap together and tried to give the project some direction.

I know this isn't great. The sound is off, the pictures aren't the best, and every time I open my mouth, I sound like a jackass. Besides that though, there are some funny bum comments, one famous rapper who decides I needed to hear his dissertation on poverty in America (while he wears $28,000 worth of bling around his neck), and Lexi talks about balls.

So here it is... a video only a select few have seen, and I'm a little embarrassed to put up, but I think (my fragile ego aside) it's entertaining enough to post. Enjoy.



The basic idea is this: Everyone in Hollywood is waiting for their ship to come in. Even the bums have dreams of the silver screen, but this ain't no playground. No sir.

Party like a President. Buy a mattress.

Happy President's Day, everyone! Woo-hoo! The holiday to beat all holidays!

Yeah, we, like most Americans will be celebrating big today. We've got a party planned, and everyone going will be dressed like a president or a First Lady. I'm gonna be Grant so I can drink a fifth of whiskey by noon and people will just think I'm getting into character, though usually I'm Ford because of my namesake. The coke dealer will be George W. Bush, of course, while the reefer man/pimp will be Clinton.

Although the Superbowl is said to have the most commercials, we that celebrate President's Day as it should be celebrated know that the best commercials are this week. I mean, what other time of year can you see ads for these prices on mattresses, cars, home appliances or satellite TV? Wow... I'm getting worked up just thinking about it! We will be playing "Blow-out Bingo". The bingo cards have different products on them, and whenever a commercial selling one of the products refers to their sale as a "Blow Out", you get that square. The prize is the money you'll save if you go to the store and buy one of the products at the blow out sale. And you can have an extra can of red, white or blue silly string from left over gift baskets at the end of the night.

Anyway, too bad it's raining. Here in sunny Los Angeles, we usually hold a "First Lady Wet T-shirt Contest"... weather permitting. Oh well. I think Nixon has rented the mud wrestling pit, so Jackie O and Hillary can get it on any way. Judging the event will be Honest Abe, Reagan and Jefferson. Jefferson is of course partial to black chicks, but since everyone has to dress up like a different President or First Lady, none of my black friends ever show up, so I don't wanna hear anything about his unfair judging. Goddamn honkeys.

Come to think of it, This year, we're letting the "'08 hopefuls" in. That way Gun can be Giuliani and Riz can be Kucinich. If any of my black friends do want to come, you can all be Obama. Oh.. there's just one catch, opposing hopefuls have to mud wrestle in their speedos when the First Ladies are finished. That being said, yes, J-Bo, you can be McCain. And yes, that means you get to mud wrestle everyone. No post-match spooning though.

The last thing to mention about the President's Day party is that we are reserving a spot for two foreign presidents this year. Those are Putin and Ahmadinijad. Yeah!

So come on over this evening. Monday night is the best night to party like a President! There will be lemonade and Chex mix. BYOB.

Really dude... Video games in the break room!

What's been going on in my personal life? I'm glad you asked - wait... no I'm not. Stay out of my business, asswipe. No... that's wrong. I'm in my own business, right? Hello? Just where in the hell am I anyway? (do-de-doo-doo, do-de-doo-doo).

Today I had another job interview. It was the first interview I've ever been to in which I was at least 5 years older than the guy interviewing me. He was a cool kid though, and probably made twice the money I make now.

The interview was held in a break room which consisted of three odd, circular chairs that looked like mini trampolines, two bright orange inflatable chairs, a Foosball table, at least three different video game systems (including a Wii) and 4 or 5 remote control cars. The decorations on the wall were a giant rhinoceros head with 2 hoola-hoops around it's neck and a silly hat on it's front horn, a "Back to the Future" poster, and a "Dirty Dancing" poster (both unframed). Needless to say, I think this is the place for me. I didn't get to look around the office much after that, but my guess is that the cubicles resemble the loft apartment of Tom Hanks' character in that movie "Big". "...I read it, I said it, I stole my mama's credit!"

Anyway, I do believe I'll be in the runnings for this entry level position, which is essentially errand boy, but hell, who cares? Dude... there's a fake rhino head on the wall wearing hoola-hoop necklaces. What more can a guy ask for in a corporate office?

Valentine Schmalentine?

Should I say something about Valentine's Day? OK, but I warn you... it may not be all kisses and roses.

The History of this Holiday has something in common with Halloween and Christmas in that it was a pagan Holiday that the Christian Church decided was too decadent, but couldn't be prevented, so they did what they'd always done before; paint it with a sloppy coat of Christianity and pretend they invented it.

The month of February was always a sexy month. Roman Pagans had a ritual during this time in which they'd place the names of all the eligible young ladies into a giant bowl. Their eligible young male counterparts would then draw a name from the dish, and that young lady would be assigned as his "plaything" of sorts for the rest of the year. Freaky naughty.

As the Christian church came into power, they obviously wanted to put the kibosh on this celebration (I know, using a Yiddish word to describe Christian actions... what's next?!) as it was much too sexy to be allowed. So they came up with a story that is probably only partially true, and substituted that as the reason for a celebration. One that was much more wholesome.

As the Church's story goes, Emperor Claudius II, a Roman douche bag of the third century decided that unmarried men made for better soldiers. He then literally outlawed marriage in his Kingdom. Valentine, a Catholic Priest, defied Claudius and performed marriages for young lovers in secret. Then some other douche bag told on him. He was locked up and sentenced to death. During his time in prison, he was tended to by the jailer's blind daughter, who Valentine is said to have fallen in love with. On the morning of his death, he wrote her a letter (I know, how can a blind person read a letter, right?), and signed it, "Your Valentine".

It wasn't until 300 years after Valentine's death that he was sainted and martyred. They sainted him so that the Holiday would seem like a good ol' Jesus lovin', God fearin', sex free ho-down of mushy emotions. This went on for quite a while.

Then along came a capitalist swine who turned the holiday into the same old free-for-all of blind consumerism that it is today with the inception of sending cards and candy. Yay for capitalism! See? It's true we'll buy anything for a couple of bucks, even shitty poetry and pictures of strangers on greeting cards.

That's not to say that I hate the idea of Valentine's Day. It is, at it's source, quite romantic. I just get my panties in a bunch over it because a) it's cheap and b) I don't need society reminding me that I should love my girlfriend, and certainly not by giving her food that will make her fat, corny ass cards, or flowers that will die in a week and then be thrown out. I'm all for celebrating love, but I don't need to be reminded every five seconds, everywhere I look. I also don't like advertisers trying to make me feel guilty, or insinuating that girls only love you if you give them diamonds or other lavish gifts that represent a made up story of wholesome love. Besides that, we should be doing special things for the people we love all the time. Who needs a holiday reminding them to do it only once a year?

Say what you may about my being a cynic, but I'll tell you this much, if we celebrated differently, Valentines Day would be among my favorite Holidays. If it was more about love and sex than about diamonds and chocolate, I'd be all over it. If we could celebrate love and affection, guilt free in all it's confusing forms, I'd be in hog heaven. Instead it's just another day in which people feel bad about being broke, single, or married and not getting laid.

Love is the greatest and most powerful of all emotions, but that doesn't mean it makes sense. It can't be confined to one day in February, and there is absolutely nothing Hallmark can do to help anyone understand it. It should be celebrated in it's purest form. So I say to you, if you want to do something special for your lover today, look deep within yourself, allow yourself to be creative and free, and then let your lover know how you love them and why. By yourself. It's not that hard. Just do it. Other than that, I hope you all get lucky today. And by that I mean, I hope you all have sweet, rowdy, uninhibited sex with the person you love and lust after.

High Five!

There are a lot of people who wake up each morning with a mind to make every single person they come in contact with as miserable as they are. These are the worst kind of people that exist on Earth. They seek out and exploit easy targets, and dedicate entire weeks, sometimes months to reigning misery on the life of another. These are the type of worthless scum who try to get the coffee guy fired when he makes a mistake on their drink. They constantly threaten to (and sometimes do) sue their coworkers, neighbors and bosses. They create drama and try to suck everyone into it like an idiotic tornado of self loathing and anguish. You know the type. There are probably one or two of them within eye shot of you at this very moment. Take them DOWN!

There are times when I still have to take deep breaths and remind myself that sinking a bare knuckled lead right hand into their soft, over privileged and empty noodle heads is not the answer. While there are few things in the realm of the limitless human imagination that would feel better, breaking both of my fists on their faces will only be self indulgent and self destructive. In fact, they want the abuse. They invite it, both physically and emotionally, but if one were to go down the seemingly blissful road of pummeling them into ground beef, one would drop a level below said assholes. What's worse is that they'd also use that abuse against you later, and the last thing people like that need is legitimate ammunition.

So although it sounds nice, violence is not the answer. What then? Must we constantly point out these people's misery when they are forcing it upon innocent bystanders? Point out the glaring insecurities that are often the motive for such jackassery? When they begin to ruin the day of a grocery bagger, gas station attendant, coffee pourer, waiter, or calm pedestrian, must we butt in and loudly call out their folly; and ridicule them for their words and actions? Should we stand tall and get others to join in, making an example of them, by using the same words or phrases they used on their innocent victim? Then laugh? Laugh and laugh and don't stop laughing at them? Will this help all the people enjoy the moral victory of preventing some socially undeveloped, aggressive waste of oxygen from taking another undeserving person down with them?

Nope... that's not the answer either. The only answer is to not be that way yourself. The only answer is to monitor - if not your internal thought - at least your behaviour. You cannot force another person into NOT being an asshole or useless pile of donkey shit, but you can prevent yourself from being that. Then when someone who (consciously or unconsciously) devotes all their days and ways to spreading hate and unhappiness to everyone around them, you can duck those blows like Ali done Sonny Liston when he was still Cassius Clay. Let them swing as hard as they want, but keeping your own thoughts and subsequent actions in check, they find nothing to hit. It a sort of mental bobbing and weaving we must learn, and just like real boxers, it'll take heart, determination and lots of time in the gym to get to that level, but it'll be worth it.

In the mean time I guess it's OK to spit in their food when they aren't looking, or release and angry hornet in their car, or write obscenities on their yard and/or front door with something either permanently damaging or otherwise disgusting. I don't know. Get creative.

"It's been a long time, I shouldn't have left you without a dope rhyme to step to..."

It's just that I've been looking for a new job while still trying to do both of the jobs I currently have. Time management is not one of my strong points, I'm afraid, but job interviews are. I'd be rich if I were a professional interviewee. Is that a word? It is now.

So far I've been offered the position of errand boy for a advertising exec, a personal/admin assistant for a production company and it's owner, a jack of all trades for a design firm and a door-to-door solicitor, selling framed art at wholesale from the back of my car. Hmmm... I couldn't stop thinking about "Death of a Salesman" that day.

The problem is that none of these jobs offer the compensation necessary for acquiring worldly riches. Not that worldly riches are my main objective, but I'd like to step up the ol' salary, if ya know what I mean. Of course, if I do well at any of the above mentioned opportunities, the door to financial success may open just enough for me to wedge my foot into it. Who knows?

Ch-ch-changes. I'm not sure I like the process... or rather, the anticipation of the event. That's the worst part of everything. Waiting for it to happen. Once the rising waves of change crest and crash, one usually finds themselves all wet and thinking, "Is this it? This is what I was so afraid of?"

Oh well. Guess I'm off to the races. I'm not a gamblin' man though. I don't haven't even looked at the odds. Fuck it. I can take a punch.

lookin' for words

Skinny Red's
lookin' for a word.
Lookin' for one that's
just right.
Her shirt is too small,
her pants are too short
and she knows I'm watching her,
still searching.

I feel like leaning
way into the evening
and saturating it with whiskey.
I'd like to lean waaaaay in
with my arms wide open,
but there's always something.
A telephone ringing,
a record skipping,
a tray of ice cubes that
aren't quite frozen yet.

Maybe nothing is happening
right now,
and that's really something...
or maybe it's just me
wanting to hurl myself
into tonight
like a cannon ball
but instead I sit here
almost alone
watching skinny Red
search for the right word
out of the six hundred sixteen thousand five hundred or so
words in the English language
while my freezer tries hard to
solidify those cubes of Hollywood tap water
to eventually melt
three at a time in a glass of single malt Scotch.

It's somethin' or it's nothin',
but my money's on somethin'.

Maybe I get dizzy
to forget about you,
Bitch.

No.

I'm not that man...
or that one
or the other,
and here's a middle finger
to you and
your pigeon hole.

By the way,
how's that new Coldplay CD?

Ode to Hank Williams

The tangy twang
of Hank's
skinny notes
cut me like
a rusty old table saw.

Spiritual Sprin Cleanin'

I reckon there's a time
for Spiritual Spring Cleanin' -
a little soul searchin' clarity,
maybe a few days in the desert
findin' out if there's a God (or many Gods)
maybe a magnetic energy vortex or
a Gypsy gonna clean my filthy aura
for a hundred and fifty dollars American.

I s'pose ya git what ya deserve -
the punishment of running
fast and forever
on an emotional treadmill in front of
a big picture window looking out
on to a busy boulevard.
A Mexican dude walks by
with a leaf blower
blasting clouds of dust, leaves and napkins
briefly skyward, then into the gutter
to be swept up each Tuesday
between 8 and 10.
And it'll cost ya fifty-five bucks
at least three times before ya learn
not to park there -
even for a snap, jiffy, tick, wink
or other indeterminable unit
of measuring time.

Anyway, it's all the same
wherever you go,
except that I think Hollywood
is just as tough as Brooklyn
or Chicago or Philly
or any of those other places,
and further out too.
And I think it'll cost me
fifty-five dollars in parking tickets
at least three times
and a hundred and fifty dollars American
before I realize that I really am
in love with her,
even if she don't love me the same.

Nights for nothin'

I've spent nothin' on nights,
and nothin' seems to happen.
Sometimes there's
a little freaky-naughty,
legs in the air
this er that,
but it still seems
a little like nothin'.

"Jack Daniels for president!"
some nights,
with talk of music and literature
Or Buddha, Christ
and Mohammad with a Jihad Pinata
bustin' open with faith filled candies -
or nothin'.

Sad nights of silver
shimmering stars
sometimes,
breathing in old and
almost forgotten love
and exhaling in steam
and smoke...
Nights spent sometimes
fucking or fighting
or talking or remembering
but mostly all for nothin'

and that's plenty
if you're a tree,
but if you're hearing this
right now,
you're probably not a tree.

Thumb Sucker

I recently realized that I'm still a thumb sucker. I know, what the fuck, right? It's not that I still actually suck my thumb, but I often have a subconscious impulse that positions my hand in a relaxed fist, the curled fingers resting beneath my nose. My thumb extended and resting either beneath the embedded golf ball on the bottom of my face that I like to call my chin, or sometimes on the jaw line. I do this with both hands, but more often with the left. It's not an awkward position, necessarily. I just look like a guy resting his face on his hand, but I'm sure it comes from a subconscious compulsion to suck my thumb. It looks like this:




Why am I telling you this? Because I'm a douche. A douche who has realized that a large part of our behavioural traits are in tact from the moment we are born. Mannerisms are hard wired into our human brain, and will probably never go away - so don't feel bad about them. Sure, people change. They learn. They grow. But really, you've been the same person from day one, and so has everyone else.

My suggestion is to run with it. I mean, there's little to nothing you can do to change it. Your efforts will be in vain. Not only that, but trying to change your subtle mannerisms might actually make you more of an asshole. For some reason, my mind comforts and calms itself through thumb sucking (or thumb sucking like gestures). If I take that away, there'll be one less way for me to comfort myself, and I'll be a dick about it. If you tried to change your subconscious methods of relaxation or peace of mind, you'd be a dick too, so don't. You're probably already enough of an ass face for our liking anyway. No need to amplify it. Besides, someone, somewhere likes you for it. You're a better person when you're just being yourself, so get comfortable in your own skin. You owe it to the world. Douche.

Wheatgrass and 151

The other day I told my friend J-Bo that a shot of wheat grass was a good hangover cure. Then we got to talkin' about wheat grass and it's health properties. He was saying that at first, he didn't like it, then he was like, "Hell man, I'll do shots of 151 all night long and that shit tastes vile. But I do it because it makes me feel good. I just apply the same principle to wheat grass, and it's not bad at all, in fact, it's kinda good."

More people should apply the 151/wheat grass principle to their daily lives. You all know sex feels good, but so does love. We know naps feel good, but a little elbow grease makes for a clean house, and clean houses also feel good. TV can be cool, but books also rule.

I suppose it's about balance and moderation. It's fine to indulge yourself from time to time, but one should also make the effort to clean up afterwards. It makes life easier, and it's really no different. Just gotta change your point of view.

Now, who wants to come over and vacuum my house? Yeah! It'll be fun, and you'll feel good about being so nice and unselfish. Oh, and don't worry, if someones already vacuuming for me when you come over, you can do my dishes. Or laundry. Oh, and feel free to dust the ceiling fan in the computer room too. In fact, go ahead and fix that fan. Some shit hit it, and now it doesn't work.

I want to post an email I sent to one of my best friends, and then her response. She is an awesome person, and her writing is both smart and funny. Besides, there's a little boob-talk in it, and as we know, boobs do rule, even if their place in pop culture is a little exaggerated (as you'll see from the emails).

Here's part of what I wrote to her, in reference to this poem:

It's rather cynical, but I think someone oughtta say it. It is the fact that so many young women (especially here in LA) base their entire existence on being "hot". Their whole sense of self worth and personal identity revolves around their youthful sexuality, and when that begins to fade (usually in their 30's), their whole world subsequently falls to pieces. It's tragic. Now, don't get me wrong, I appreciate a nice rack as much as the next imbecile, and am therefore probably the last person in the world who should be saying anything about it, but I think the young women of today need to understand that there is more to life than a running tally of how much attention one can generate through cleavage and coin slots. I also know that (at least in this country) a sexy woman can build an entire empire for herself on the merits of her face and tits alone, so this frame of mind is not the fault of the individual woman. I just feel bad for the ones who obviously thought their physical beauty would never fade. I don't know that I've ever seen anything sadder than the look of despair on a woman's face when she discovers grey hairs, wrinkles and the newly acquired necessity of a bra to keep her boobs out of her food while she eats.

Oops. I've probably said too much. I thought you might understand my sympathetic feelings though, as you're one of the few women I know who have found a balance between being young and sexy as well as a well rounded and spiritually refined individual. Too many women fall victim to the American ideal, which doesn't extend far from plump lips and stiff nipples. It's too bad... especially since Sean Connery can get laid while his adult diapers are still full.

And here's her delightful, insightful response:

Speakin' of American...women...ah women. It's true that any identity crushing crisis is tragic, especially since it's so hard to find that identity in the first place. I guess I'm coming from a biased position as I've never been able to go bra-less ( I hate it when my boobs touch that little mini-roll that forms right below them when I sit down). Nor have I ever been able to construct an empire with only the use of my lips and tits (no-hands---HEY I SAID NO HANDS!!!) Nor have i ever seen the queen in her damned undies, as the say.

No but seriously, I do empathize with anyone who suddenly finds themselves no longer able to depend on those parts of them which make them who they are--whether it's their beauty, their job, their family, or their health... whatever. The tragedy where beauty is concerned, I think lies in the the cultural construct, as you pointed out, that being beautiful is absolutely the most important measurement of worth for women in this country. The more tragic thing is that convincing women and then re-enforcing it by convincing the rest of the american society of this fact translates into something like a 38 billion dollar profit each year for corporations associated with it. Speaking of American...capitalism..ah capitalism.

Now beauty itself as a measurement of worth is no new thing. Beautiful women have been honored for centuries---I mean wasn't it Helen and her eyes that started all the ruckus with those Greek dudes. And it makes sense that no matter how your culture defines beauty, the closer you are to meeting that standard, male or female, the better chances you have of pro-creating, thus proliferating the species..blah blah bla.

The problem I think lies in the sort of Pop-culturalization (and peoples addiction to it) of beauty in America (and yes other places too) which stream-lines the multifarious concept of beauty into a one-size-fits all abstraction which is then unleashed upon the public in a sort of invisible demon snake monster that creeps into the bedrooms of little children every where and gobbles them up before they can barely walk. Did we mention capitalism. You're right though, you can't blame the individual woman or women as a whole for that matter for being a product of their environment.

So I say, the next time you see Babylon crumbling to the ground in the newly wrinkled face of a bombshell-has-been tell her that fat chicks in cultures in africa get the super-schwing from gawking males passing by in the markets; the ankles are the sexiest part of a women to Hopi males...sagging boobs for god's sake are sexy somewhere I promise. If she can't let go of sexy, she can move there.

The point is just this, the definition of beauty as they believe it to be is illusory. It is as impermanent as their taut young skin and stiff nipples ( they don't always stay that way do they? or do they? are they implants...mine don't do that). I just think that the sooner one can convince oneself to accept things as they are the sooner they will be able to see and accept the rest of the life that exists around them. As you said there is more to life...there is more to life...

.... plus I don't need any corporate suit fucks telling me how to feel about myself anyway. I won't lie I go through all this shit just the same as the next lady...how can I not for fuck's sake. I'd have to gouge out my eyes, pour cement in my ear drums and lock myself in a quadruple paneled steel box placed at the core of the earth to escape all the dogma about "How to be Beautiful" in this damn place. I mean when self-esteem is found on the same isle as diet pills and electric ab-shockers (spill on isle 9 we've got some liposuctioned fat on the floor, careful shoppers fat is really slippery) one has got to come up with some alternative methods. Will you be defined or will you do the defining. It's a mind set. You can go on bitchin' and moanin' about what was or you can get on with what is.

Now keep in mind, I'm not in my thrities yet, so all this rant will probably seem like utter horse shit to me in the next 7 or 8 years. However, I try to prepare myself for what will come as best I can...and then I can only hope for the best.

Rawk rawk rawk!

PS: She also taught me about "zogging" and orange, but that's a conversation for a different day.

Aparently there was a football game on yesterday afternoon... did you hear about this? I guess it was between some bears and some baby horses... and the baby horses won! They must have had one heck of a trainer, because I've never seen a baby horse that could take out a bear... unless it was a tiny Koala bear or something.

Well, good for Peyton Manning and Tony Dungee.

So I got stuck in a pretty bad traffic jam on Friday. My timing couldn't have been worse; curising Northbound on the 405 just minuets before a giant crane fell on the highway. I was stuck on the freeway for more than 3 hours. What a treat! Here is a picture I took of myself standing in the midde of the 405 around 4pm on Friday afternoon. I thought the occasion warranted a photo, because a regular person's chance of doing just that in this lifetime are pretty slim.



Booyakashot.

I know you can't really tell I'm in the middle of one of LA's busiest highways, and about one mile from one of the country's busiest intersections (the 405 and the 101), but oh well. This is about the only evidence I have of it, so it'll have to do.

Carry on.

Enrich your professional life through YouTube

If any of you have an office job which occasionally affords you the luxuory of surfing the net, there is no reason you should NOT be on youtube, treating yourself to such cultural hilarities as this:



Those were some sweet moves. You can always count on Baliwood for an appropriately over the top show-stopping dance number.

Here's another youtube clip I found hysterical. It's a Japanese show that teaches English phrases. I don't know about you, but every time I'm doing a silly aerobic workout in a hilarious loetard, I wish I could be learning the key phrases of a ridiculously jevenile argument in a foreign language. I'm glad to know someone has filled that undoubtedly lucrative market niche in television programming.



All I'm saying is that if you're not surfing youtube for the unintentionally hilarious videos of the world, then you're not being a good American. That being said, I leave you with this stunning performance, which upon seeing, I was moved to tears (of laughter):

For me, writing poetry is like taking a shit. I do it because I have to. I take in the world through my own experience, process it, decide what to use and what to throw away, then I take a dump, or in this case, write a poem. Some things in life might give certain poets a kind of literary diarrhea. Those plates of metaphorical Indian food sometimes carry the label of "muse". Hollywood is one of mine.

Since my poems are so much like poop, once I write them, I usually want little or nothing to do with them. Also applicable to this analogy (heh heh, anal-ogy) is the fact that most people are less bothered by their own stank, than the stink stank of others. That being said, I'm not going to pretend to be the best judge of my own work.

Yes, this is going somewhere. In anticipation of the up coming poetry event "Sparrows", at which I have 9 minutes on stage, I have started to comb through old poems in an effort to decide which (if any) to use during my set. I'm also involved in a program called "Troubadours" in which myself and other performers will go around to specified restaurants in Salida doing readings for individual tables etc. (kinda like the Mariachis at El Compadre), so not all of these will be read on the stage. Besides that, I hope to have a fair amount of new material to read as well.

In any case, I posted a bunch of poems I'm considering on a new blog you'll find on my profile page called "Poems". I know, that is one creative name, right? Or, if you're as lazy as I am, you can just click this. I am asking anyone reading this to please take the time to browse the poems there, and let me know which ones you like and/or dislike. If you're not really into poetry, it doesn't matter. I still value and want to know your opinion. After all, most people think poetry is something for geeks and art fags only, but they'd be wrong. Poetry is for everyone, and I hope there are no pretensions or stigmatisms like that attached to the poems I write. Like I said, to me, they aren't that far from steaming piles of shit. Now I'm asking you to smell the piles, and let me know which of them stink the least. If you're not one for posting comments, don't feel obligated, but do feel free to send me an email here: camel_disk_jockey@yahoo.com.


Wow... that was motivating, eh? Asking you to smell piles of shit? Yeah... some people call it a knack; I like to think of it as a calling. I have an innate ability to ruin any potentially nice idea with gross analogies and repulsive imagery.

Thanks for your help, and keep on rawking.

Kory

I think I've heard this before

Haven’t you seen them
Galumphing down Sunset,
Fumbling their way
In and out of our lives,
Collecting like bags of trash
At Starbucks or Coffee Bean?

Haven’t you seen
Long jeweled fingers
Snubbing out cigarettes
Like failed endeavors?
Flicking away the butts
And reading the fortunes
From cookies at Hoy’s Wok?

I haven’t quite known them all,
But I’ve heard jabbering pie holes
In empty apartments,
Flapping gums
On restaurant patios,
Blathering blow-hards bloviating
Over a latte
At Starbucks or Coffee Bean.
All talking about something
Someone else was
just talking about.

Cherry Pies

The land is still the land
even while
giant corporations
build towers and cars and streets
and stomp out
hunnysuckle plants
and cherry pie peace
with dollar sign combat boots and
Jesus Saves! parachutes.
Now the land
where I stand is blood-red
and bland.

Ancient Americans
have heard my footsteps
on the desert sand.
The angry sun
has stared me down
and burned my neck
with its hurtful gaze
whose colors fade
from red to brown.
The crows have laughed
and mocked my
clumsy earth dance
and the land
beneath my feet
is telling jokes
that taste like canned beets.

More towers rise
like male insecurities
into the darkening skies
and beneath the grass
beneath the roots
and the soil and clay and sand
there is still
this land.
This America
who's people
present and past
are shouting at me
in a language
Silly and unfamiliar.
Finances and Catfish.
Boring, soaring
Red Tails and interest rates
into a horizon
peppered with
towers of money, made
to look like morning boners,
as if we are supposed to be afraid.

My feet,
in a liars soft shoes
sink into the ground.
beneath the stones
and the water
and the sound
of a lone tree falling
when no one's around.
Only to find the land
is still the land,
and all this confusion
is just acne
on the youthful face
of another bloodthirsty empire
come again
and one day
just gone.

growing old

Would she see me
If I came back
in a jacket and tie?
Would she know why
I said what I did?
That she was
a white lilly
floating down a dark black river,
winding through
heavy springtime woods?

I walk through Hollywood
most nights,
and watch so many
big blue-green eyes turn up,
then look away.
So many plump, parted lips
talking into the nighttime sky
and none of them are hers.

They are all incredibly sad,
sparkling now
with youthful ignorance,
but I can see them
fading away into nothingness,
without so much as
a flicker of light or fight,
like a drugstore camera that didn't flash.

So incredibly sad!
A sprawling white lilly
floating down a dark black river
and fading away
behind heavy clouds
falling under the weight
of their own loneliness
closer and closer to the ground.

Brand new days tumble away like losing dice

It's a little like a gamble,
going to bed early and
hoping for some kind of dream vision...
Some Carlos Castenada,
little smoke experience
hoping to wake up in a new day,
when the Girl from Ipanema
will finally turn your way
as she sways so gently
to the rolling sea.

Maybe today is the day?
The proverbial quarter
that drops into a slot machine
and moments later
has them spewing coins
like a bulimic model
puking up her bagel and locks
behind the open door of a silver Beamer
into a Los Angeles parking lot
at dawn...
Which begs the question,
"What the fuck am I supposed to do
with all these quarters?"

It's a bit like a gamble
hoping to peel away
a thin veil of sleep into a new day
that explodes like a
fire cracker in a suburban mailbox.
That explodes like all four tires
on a lifted pick up
as you pound your
buck knife hard into the
hard rubber surface.
Explodes like the soda can
those trust fund honkeys
in the back
threw at you
on that lonely afternoon,
while the heavy snow drifted down
and street sludge splashed
your cheap plaid thrift store coat.

It's a little like a gamble,
pumping dollars into
scratch tickets
and hoping,
morning after morning
that the day is new,
and yesterday's karma
has gone as stale
as a day old bagel
some bulimic model
left out
and couldn't finish.

laugh, love, fuck and drink whiskey

The newspapers used to be
A source of amusement.
Hilarious unadulterated headlines…
“Mr. T states that he is ‘Qualified to Beat People Up’.”

Anymore I just feel bad.
I feel bad that they think we’re idiots.
I feel bad that maybe we are.
I feel bad after sopping up fear
And depression
Like a dry sponge
In the middle of a toxic puddle
Of advertising
And media frenzy.
I feel like puking.

We’re all gonna die,
And I don’t want to be afraid of it.
I’m just gonna drink my whiskey
And smoke
In the process.
Then I’m gonna fight.
Find my rhythm.
Maybe make a song or two.
Dance, fuck, write, laugh, love.

I'll tell ya this though,
I’m not going to listen
To these ass holes anymore.

Spare some change?

people are always using
a language
they pretend not to understand.
Wringing their hands,
putting their weight
on their left hip
when they stand.
Their eyes wander,
looking up and left to remember
or down and right to escape.
They look right at you
to try and make you believe
a ridiculous lie.
They stand too close, sometimes
and fill their awkwardly transitioned
sentences with "ums" and "ah's",
building a verbal wall
so you don't jump in just yet.
They smile and smirk
and they weave tales
rich with accidental metaphors
and in between their words
and hand gestures
and shifting weight
lies the real meat and potatoes.

Here's what they're mostly trying to say:
"I'm a human being, and I love you.
We are all poets and
musicians, and we are all poor.
Hey... Spare some change?"

Soggy cities with smoke blue trains

soggy cities with
smoke blue trains
pumping like veins
between sagging streets
and between drum beats
I haven't heard since I was seventeen.
I haven't seen puddles reflecting
snow heavy evergreens
since I was seventeen.
I used to rock Frank Sinatra
but mine wasn't a very good year.
I stood here
feeling 33 in Hollywood years
thinkin about how to get the fuck out of
those soggy cities
with smoke blue trains.
Where the people are strange
and constantly misbehave
drinking cheap American beer
and they never shave.

Rain drips in
along the window pane
into and old iron pail.
And the strange people here
never cut their fingernails.
They climb aboard
the smoke blue night time trains,
riding the rails through
rain soaked cities
where black mascara tears
run down the faces of all the dames
and their whiskey comes all aflame.
It burns going in
and it burns going down
and it burns when you inevitably
puke your guts out.

Wide eyed and innocent

I see them all
wide eyed and innocent,
gaping mouths open
in their rock and roll clothes
and their rock and roll hair cuts.
Fumbling down Sunset
like misplaced cattle,
they smell Autumn
beneath the smog
and sweat and sewage.
They awe at the sight of
teenie bopper blonds
in heavy make up,
cleavage aglow in glitter lotion.
In awe of a legendary location,
romanticized in pop culture.
To them, this is Oz.

What they don't know is that
one block south,
the houses sell for 2.5 million on average,
and signs on every corner read,
"No turns after 10PM".
Not to protect the quiet enjoyment
of the wealthy residents,
but to curb the rampant prostitution.
They don't know that
the drunk dude they're snickering at
always carries that huge
stuffed alligator, (it's probably his bed)
or that the teenage boys
selling star maps will also
gladly sell them cocaine.

Those wide eyed and innocent
aspiring song writers
and busty would-be starlets
have left the farm,
and they won't be the same
when they inevitably go back,
chewed up and spit out
by Hollywood.
The Sleeping Beauty.
The Land of the Free.

"assisted living"?

What’s in the news today?
Did we find a saviour?
Did the shepherd come off
his metaphysical hammock,
put his beer on ice
and make a phone call
to his earthly children?

Must be nice up there
in that cosmic nursing home,
angels changing bedpans
that probably smell like
Patchouli and lilacs.
Young Audrey Hepburns
and Grace Kellys
pushing lazy boy wheelchairs
and taking naps in the arms
Of saints and prophets.

I bet you can play bones
With Martin Luther King
And smoke cigars
With Mark Twain
While Hank Sr
Plays a string box
And sings sad songs.
I bet you can drink and joke
with Woody Guthrie
and Jack Kerouac,
chase skirts with Buddy Holly
and lay on your back
watching the sky turn colors
with Rumi and Ghandi,
play shuffleboard with John Lennon
and just philosophize with Ben Franklin.

What’s in the news today?
More greedy wars?
More global suffering?

Come lay on this hammock
with Audrey and me.
We’re just drinking lemonade
and watching the clouds roll on by.

Future Shock

The future. What will it be like? Why is it on everyone's mind? Is it really going to be as bleak as some people make it seem, or will it be a spiritually evolved utopia and constant telekinetic hug-fest?

The pessimistic view is that of a polluted, post apocalyptic ghetto where the last surviving humans fight against newly evolved, hyper intelligent cockroaches and revived dinosaurs for what little resources are left amongst the rubble of once proud cities. Or sometimes it's more of a totalitarian state, wherein "Big Brother" controls the people through technologically advanced mind control devices and computer generated fear mongering.

Less pessimistic, but still naive is the vision of the "Jetsons" future, where dad goes to work in a personal, compact spaceship, and there are robots built to do all the things that human moms used to do. The robots will do laundry the same way we used to, but the washing machines won't change much. It's the idea that everything will just get bigger and better, but society and culture will remain much the same.

Then there's the hippie, new-age vision. This is one in which the people become spiritually advanced and enlightened as a whole. People learn to live in nature without exploiting it, and everyone loves one another. With hardly a care in the world, we all go around talking to each other with our minds and getting our nourishment through photosynthesis, producing no waste.

I don't know what the future will be like, but I imagine if one were to take certain elements of all the popular views listed above, one might be more in line with a practical guess. I sometimes imagine a future where in big brother does gain ground, and the gap between the "Haves" and the "Have Nots" grows exponentially through rampant capitalism. That's not to say the world will be a police state while the people are kept in check through mind control and brutality, but that the rich getting richer and the poor getting poorer will create a similar, though much less dramatic culture and system of government.

I also think that people will continue to evolve socially and spiritually. While I doubt there will be a utopia of love and universal respect, I think that people will start to get over some of the idiotic bone of contention we now make into huge social issues. Like gay marriage, for instance.... or racism, or any other silly issue people currently use to breed blind hatred. People will have to think of new things to hate about one another, as culture and skin color will not be considered legitimate excuses.

I also see technology moving foreword, and people becoming more environmentally aware. I do don't think this will be a peaceful, enlightened path wither, though. I think it will come out of necessity once enough people die for and use up natural resources like oil. The climate will change, the ozone will change, the Earth's natural resources will become depleted, but humans will think of different energy sources and other solutions to these problems. It will not be an easy realization, though.

Finally I'd like to go on the record as saying that when we reach the future, flying cars or no; hippie utopia or police state, one thing is certain. We will look back on the work of Dr. Dre in awe and wonder. We'll realize that he was one of the greatest producers of music in the late 20th and early 21st centuries. He will be compared to the likes of Quincy Jones and Duke Ellington, and it will be said that no one had similarily commanded and controlled popular music from the Western US before or since. And even old white people will listen to "The Chronic" and "Straight Outta Compton", wishing they were around to hear it when it was brand new.

Over and out.

SADD kicking in again

My step mom Ellen is really a cool person. She's one of those people who are good at everything, and if she's not naturally inclined toward a certain skill or project, she works harder than everyone else to become good. It's remarkable. That being said, Ellen is easily the best orange peeler ever born. Her only competition would be Rasmus, the Norwegian singer who pretends to be an Italian singer named "Cream Puff", who happens to be her cousin (and is really no competition at all, except that he can also consistently peel an orange in one piece). When she peels an orange, it's as if the peel is denying it's inherent physical traits, and gently tearing itself along a spiraling, precisely perforated edge. Her peels leave nothing behind, and always come off in one piece. They are little Still Life works of art after the fact, as they stand alone, looking like the fruit is still inside the peel, and a skilled artist has painstakingly drawn a mathematically perfect spiral pinstripe with a fine black marker on the outside. I'm not exaggerating, either.

I'm no physicist, nor am I a mathematician, but I have heard of the Fibonacci Code. I understand this basic principal and pattern of adding the digits, and how they are applied to Ellen's orange peeling. Understanding it and actually applying it in the physical sense though, are two different things.

Ever since I first witnessed this (one of many) uncanny ability of my step mom's, I have tried in vain to duplicate it. Today at lunch though, I purchased an orange, and got as close as I'll probably ever come. See?:



Now, this is no doubt a sloppy peel in comparison, still I'm proud of myself for having removed an entire orange peel in only two pieces (the larger of which is shown here). This ain't no tangerine, baby.

Hey, button your lip, you. I can't be the only one who gets excited by achievements as trivial as this, am I? Am I?? Hello? Hello?! Great... I lost 'em.

A quick side note. While surfing the web last night, I came across an article about the scariest research in science. It is a little bit janky, I'll admit, but one has to admit that it does sound an awful lot like the stuff of Hollywood Blockbusters. after reading this article, I felt like I could predict the next roles for Tome Cruise, Ewan MacGregor and Christian Bale. Leo's probably under Scorsese's thumb for '07 already. Besides, he never doesn't really do action or sci-fi, does he?

Anyway, you too can read the article here:

http://www.popsci.com/popsci/science/b142d534cba30110vgnvcm1000004eecbccdrcrd.html

Now you tell me that article couldn't pass as 7 screen play ideas instead of seven of science's scariest projects.

Right.

Carry on.

My SADD Story, and how I got through it

Ever since I was a wee lad, large crowds would make me physically ill. In fact, I still have a bit of trouble with them, though they never make me puke anymore. Unfortunately for me, as a youngster, I did a bit of growing up amongst my mom's family, she being the eldest of 10 children born to my own gradny-paw. A big crowd of people, even when they're family, is still a big crowd of people, so I did my share of barfing as a kid.

Some time in my teenage years, I misdiagnosed the problem as some kind of social anxiety (an angsty, 13 year old hobbledehoy, I would at times seriously consider the idea that I was perhaps retarded, but no one had ever bothered to tell me, like the grocery bagger with down syndrome at the supermarket). At this point though, it didn't fuckin' matter, because I had also discovered girls, and girls did not, by any means, consort with any boys who might be called "Socially Awkward".

I immediately abandoned Weird Al for NWA. I traded my Chemistry set for some Z. Cavericcis. Instead of taking extra classes at school, I tried my hand at a fistfight or two, and skipping school entirely. I wasn't sure why, but somehow my discovering girls - and girls discovering the omnipotent powers of their own two breasts - directly coincided with an unforeseen, insurmountable necessity in my world to... well... be, uh... cool?

What the hell is cool?! There was no way to know. I had to look around. See what other kids were doing. How were they getting along? Was being "cool" about being smart? About clothes? Music? Boobs? Sports? I never did find out what cool was, despite a solid ten years of searching. I did learn something in my valiant, hard fought efforts to fit in though. I learned that one can get a big crowd of people to say, do or believe just about anything they want. I learned how to be a part of a crowd. How to appreciate it, how to get drunk and laid in it, and how to like it like that (you like it like that?). But even so, my inner outcast was always there. Along with nerd in the closet, the artist under the rug, and the drunkard beneath the bed. I felt like my life was spiraling out of control and into "a true story of seven strangers picked to live in a house, work together and have their lives taped, to find out what happens, when people stopped being polite, and started getting real." I had hit rock bottom, but that's when everything changed.

I suppose these days I'm more "open" about my SADD - or Socially Awkward Dork/Dickwad/Douche/Dritsac Disorder. That's right SADD. It's caused by a chemical imbalance in the brain triggering fits of terribly nerdiness, followed by deep self loathing and the subsequent feeling of urgency to be cool about it. I know that now, thanks to the work of Dr. Whogives Afhatshit PhD, and his new book entitled, "Quit being a douche you SADD mother fucker". In it he discusses techniques on everything from not giving a hot whiskey piss about what other people think; to liking and disliking concepts and ideas strictly on one's own accord. Finally, Dr. Afhatshit reveals the path to thinking (that's right, thinking) all by one's self in an eight... uh, eighty, no, sorry - eighty eight step, easy to use program.

Folks, I'm a real live success story. I can now walk around without worrying about having SADD outbreak, because I give neither fat nor flying fucks about certain social norms. Good thing I've learned how to like and/or dislike something, then use the eighty eight, easy to remember steps to thinking it over. I know for instance that when walking down the street, a proper distance at which to acknowledge the presence of someone you recognize is approximately eight feet. Any longer, and your waving hands, goonish smile and "hello there" noises become nothing but plain buffoonery. Not giving the afore mentioned pisses, shits, or fucks is what allows me to react loudly at distances of up to twenty feet, at which point an individual is hardly recognizable. Most of the time, it's not even the person I thought it was. Man that's funny!

I guess I was kind of a douche for all those years, but now I realize that there's more to it than that. While I did consistently act like a complete dickwad, I know now that the real me was here all along, and the real you is right there too. Right now. The fear of being our true selves is the real douche, not you and I.

The power to get over having SADD is in you, little dingleberry, so call today. I can still hear Dr. Afhatshit saying, in a thick, mad-scientist accent, "Besht karate still unt ze inshide!" while standing with his arm around a life size cut-out of Mr. Miyagi. I don't know why he said that, but he was probably right.

Right now, I'm going to set itunes to random and list the ten arbitrary selections. I promise not to cheat. OK, go.

1) Vivaldi - "4 Seasons" (Spring Concerto). Duh. Ben likes it.
2) Clarence Clearwater - "Slip Away". Because it rawks, yo.
3) John Lennon - "It's Real". Weird. Lennon whistles a happy song and plucks a guit-box for just longer than one minute. Yoko recently released this acoustic version (2005?).
4) Gilberto - "Girl From Ipanema". I know, I rule.
5) Unknown Artist(s) from something I got on Lime Wire called "Irish Drinking Songs". It's called "Fuck You, I'm Drunk". And while I always appreciate a hilarious racial stereo type (drunken Irishmen... though sadly, the song says nothing of potatoes); I also appreciate hundred year old Sea Shanties with verse as profound as, "I'm going to stay drunk / 'till the next time I'm drunk!"
6) Calexico - "The Ride Part II". It has it's artistic merits, but it's inescapably hipster crap. Aury and Thomas (Or "The Frenchies" as they're sometimes called) gave it to me. I burned 'em a shitload of Jimmie Rogers in return. Welcome to America, fellas - De-yo-deh-leigh-he-he!
7) Johnny Cash - "Personal Jesus". Yup. And it's great, too (in case you don't already know). J.R. made a whole CD steeped in his own pending demise. He could see the end of the line as soon as June passed, and thought he'd say "So long" to all o' us fans. Thanks John.
8) Pearl Bailey with Cootie Williams and his Orchestra - "Tess's Torch Song". It's dope, dude. But then again, if your name is "Cootie", you're automatically knighted in the League of Awesomeness.
9) Otis Redding - "Dreams to Remember". I know, I know. It was on some shitty, 80's, coming-of-age-teeny-bopper dung heap of a movie, but Otis is the man, and the song is great.
10) Bill Monroe - "Going Down the Road Feeling Bad". Just an old bluergrass hillbilly who once had his mandolin smashed to bits, painstakingly repaired and recently purchased for well over a million clams. He's that good.

So here's the deal. If you've read this far, you must now post ten random selections from your itunes library. Where should you post it? Hmmm... the comments section of this very entry seems as good a spot as any. Don't cheat and skip a song just because you don't like it, or it's something your douche bag ex roommate downloaded. You don't have to feel obligated to explain, but if the need strikes you, please elaborate.

Over.

Sparrows is coming up. It's a poetry festival in Salida, Co (which, if I understand correctly, is in the mountains West of Colorado Springs?). They have a good variety of poets this year, young and old, and of all walks of life. I've got 9 minuets on Saturday night, March 3rd. Rawk. I've also been invited to join a travelling band of poets to do some freestyle readings around town before the festival, but I'm not sure of the details of that yet.

The theme this year is "Wage Poetry". Kinda like make love, not war, you know? The cool thing is though, they sent out a news letter to those performing saying that a lot of the submissions they were getting were dark and cynical, and they were looking for more upbeat and funny stuff. They don't want to focus on the negative. Now, say what you may about poets, but I thought that was pretty cool. Discourage the "Oh Woe is Me" aspect of poetry, and let's rock the house with some real shit. Besides that, I believe that for most literary folks, positively themed poems are harder to write, especially when dealing with a heavy subject like war.

Me... I can't write about the current conflict (or any war, really) without getting a little worked up, so my submission for the "Wage Poetry" theme had a different twist. I put together a performance piece about a serpentine LA lawyer ordering David Beckham for $250 million at a cafe, then swallowing him whole with a side of fries and leaving without tipping. It's called "Minimum Wage Poetry". I won't put it up here though, 'cause I want it to premier at the festival. Word up, yo. I'm hardcore like that son! I got jokes.

If'n y'all know anyone who might be able to make it out to Salida on or around March 1st through the 3rd, make sure you tell 'em about the festival. Don't worry, it's not going to be a bunch of squares reciting shitty limericks about butterflies drinking the tears of sleeping birds (which is true, by the way; entomologists recently observed a species displaying this behaviour). There should be plenty of debauchery, as the guys and gals who put this together are a good lot of old hippies, some of whom have been around long enough to have hung out with Kerouac, Cassidy, Ginsberg and the like. So it should be cool. Anyway, for more info, you can go here: www.sparrowspoetry.com. There's also a blog link in my side bar, but it doesn't go to the home site.

'Bout it, I guess. Sorry for being boring today. I'm gonna go punch myself.

Mister Misanthrope

All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players. In my experience, I have known this to be true. That being said, I hate bad actors. The overly calculated, meticulously sculpted messy hair and over-priced ripped or "vintage" pants are indicative of the amount of time you spent calculating a careless, "thrown together" look. It is a direct contradiction to the character you're trying too hard to portray, douche. Neither do we believe the political rhetoric you're regurgitating from your preferred talking head. Yes, we know your ideas are painfully unoriginal, and your jokes are worse than that of greatest douche of all, Dane Cook. I'm sure you're a fan.

Yes, everyone knows you're a total douche, as is the self-loathing whore with obvious daddy issues sitting at your table. Isn't the tramp stamp rising from her exposed coin slot pretty? Never seen anything like it. Neither have I come across an attention starved narcissist pounding wimpy cocktails and strategically placing her cleavage beneath the eyes of self indulgent liars. "I'm a record producer." Yes, we could tell, shitweasel. We'd never doubt you.

None of you are fooling anyone. It only seems that way because you're all so incredibly self involved. There is no conversation to be had with you, as it's plain you lack the capacity to listen, let alone comprehend. Thus, an awkward conversation with you is a series of intervals in which you're anxiously awaiting your turn to speak, as if you're gracing us with the melodic sound of your own voice. The thing of it is, your voice does not sound like bells on the ankles of angels the way you think it does. No, it's more like an irritating murmur that gently grinds the human soul into a fine, useless powder, unfit even for pig slop.

Tattoos, piercings, shopping mall fashion. You couldn't make up your own mind about anything, even if your life depended on it as evidenced by your utterance of idiocies like:"I like every kind of music except (blank)". Fuck you, dirt bag, and your little dog too. The one your girlfriend carries around in her purse, sometimes pretending it's a baby. One that eats it's on feces.

What's that? Oh no, you must be mistaken. I'm in a fine mood. Just fine.

There's a scientist who studies endophytes, which are tiny micro-organisms that live in the spaces between plant cells. The plant offers them food and shelter (neither of which harm the plant) and in turn, the endophytes produce chemical compounds hither to unknown to science, which fight off specific diseases. Malaria, for instance. The scientist leading the way in the study of endophytes (Gary Strobel, Montana State University) travels the globe speaking to traditional healers and shamans to discover which plants they use medicinally. He then collects the plants, and searches for endophytes.

He's basically saying that indigenous peoples were right, or, at least they were on to something. And it's only taken science 2000+ years to catch on. Sure, many shamans chalk up the healing power of medicinal herbs to spirits, gods, or other metaphysical concepts, but they were still right... according to science. My question is this: Does it matter weather people call it God, Nature, Biology, Endophytes, or the great Googaly Moogaly? Nope. It'll take science and modern medicine to make believers out of us Westerners, but as far as I'm concerned, you can call it whatever you want, it still doesn't change the bottom line.

Science and modern medicine have a long history of being wrong. There's a simple explanation for it that people generally don't want to accept. That explanation is that there are things in this world, forces at work, if you will, that are still so far out of the realm of human comprehension, that we can't hope to understand them scientifically. At least, not in the foreseeable future. That being said, when will it be ok to relax and take things at face value? When will it be ok to enjoy life without having to search for an explanation of why?

It's a proven fact that contracting the muscles of your face into a smile will prompt cells in your body to fire signals into your brain telling it that you're happy. That means, if you're in a shitty mood, smile. Science has proven that this will put you in a better mood almost immediately. Strangely enough, this scientific realization is relatively new. Ironically, everyone who has ever been born has known that fact to be true. Maybe they don't (and didn't) know the inner workings of cells, neurons, electrons, endorphins and the like, but who cares? Isn't it enough to know from personal experience that smiling and laughing make you happy?

I wonder how science would explain my having to take a giant dump right now. Surely it has something to do with the food I've consumed, the nutrients my body has absorbed, the energy I've used, and the resulting waste needing to be expelled. But how do I know that this particular dump is going to be monstrous and vile? Why is it that I can already anticipate the horrible and very specific smell, and preemptively empathize with the gag reflex any unsuspecting bathroom visitor will experience during, or soon after the taking of said dump? Does the ability to scientifically explain such phenomena make the result less funny? I think not.