"Some people never go crazy. What truly horrible lives they must lead."

carnival

Right, it's gone... I can deal with it, I had a good night.
There was candyfloss, popcorn, a cola flavoured drink-thing, we had some laughs, and we also had tears (on the real fast rides cause of watery eyes..mainly her and Aly though...mascara. everywhere). A distinct smell of puke wafted through the air like a breeze through your loosely fitted hoodies and skirts in late Spring, a reminder of our days past in the bar code... We did them all, the Superbowl, the ghost train, the waltzers.. we floated on the carousel like we were the stars in a Mary Poppins ballet... We sang and we danced, all to the beautiful sounds of "King of my Castle" and the hypnotising melodies of The Streets. She giggled in my ear and for the first time in a long time there's not an ounce of doubt in her shiny brown eyes... We truly were Kings among carnies. The walk to the car was reminiscent of a walk through Fairview park on a Swivens Day morn... holding hands and whispering plans to do it again next week, if the weather holds up.. We arrived at the car holding on to each other tightly as if still riding the ferris wheel, gloomily yet eager at the prospect of cheese fries lining the walls of our veins in twenty to twenty-five..To our horror we discovered this would be but a distant dream....

odyssey of destruction. part 1: reflection

She sat cross-legged on the pavement,

Surrounded by intoxicated mimes.

Her hair lay faint on her stubborn shoulders,

Frayed and pathetic.

Her eyes retreated;

the big brother of the mind.

I'm not sure if she smiled when she saw me.

Her muddied expression flickered in a confetti of innate wonder and distant familiarity,

She was like the tattered journal I hid for years under my mattress,

An epiphany that stabbed my mind

Until I bled dry.

She was cobblestones and cigarettes,

The Eiffel Tower and the Anna Livia,

She was Mona Lisa's smile and the shatterproof glass that encased it.

She left me exhausted and stimulated,

In desperate optimism.

Beautiful and free,

Grounded and high,

Once touched,

Once kissed,

Vainly regrettable,

Hopelessly missed.

~

*Edit

Bashed my knee on some corral and swallowed more sea water than is bodily acceptable when surfing at Point Loma this morning. Primary thought running through my head as I lay gasping for breath; bleeding and tattered on the beach : Nothing like getting the living hell beat ouf of you by nature to put things in perspective.

sun comes up and we start again..

Have you ever been frightened by the amount of alcohol you realized you consumed the day after, when you wake up surprisingly not hungover enough to compensate for the empty bottles that surround you on the floor?

You wake in your girlfriend's bed to find her in the same crinkled ball, hood up, hair in face, trying her best, like you, to keep the sun out of your eyes and your brain asleep. Your trembling hands ransack the apartment and then the car looking for spare Advil that will squelch the last remnants of the night before. You joke about the "best water ever" and say you're gonna bottle it from the bath tub and sell it as a hangover remedy to the old hipsters you blatantly made fun of the night before. You scan the apartment and relish that despite making love against anything and everything, NOTHING is broken and for the most part clean. You laugh because there is no other way to deal with it.

The two of you enter the kitchen to see the lineup of empty bottles... A bottle of 100 proof.. gone. A bottle of 70 proof.. gone. And the back of flasks of 70 proof from the week before... gone. We pick through the bottles and laugh at the fact we remember the entire night before, we weren't that teetery, loud, obnoxious or even noticeably drunk.

We laugh because we feel hardcore and deep down somewhat ashamed, although even as lovers, we will never admit that. Then the thought arises inside you...HOW? How did we do it? How will we do it again? That is a ton of alcohol and we just laugh. We laugh because we love each other, we love The Clash (This is Radio Clash calms my panic attack) because we cant think of any other way to live, and mostly because no matter what, it is fun... it is a happy we haven't felt in too long. Together we can conquer anything... even if it is only some liquor and shitty food now, someday, it will be so much more..

It's strange how suddenly you can look at someone you've known for a while and cant help but think how amazing they are. Can't help but want to know everything about them, everything they have to offer, everything they once were and everything they'll become. How emo and obsessive, but hey, I've been listening to The Cure alot. In fact, I even had a dream last night that Robert Smith came to one my classes and sang Pictures of You. It was strangely homo-erotic.

party is over

Scene: Joey sitting at a bar, waiter behind bar with back turned.

Three overturned candleholders line the bar in front of Joey. Wax spills over the edge.

"excuse me?" Joey coughs
"yes....?" the waiter turns
"will ye pass me that candle? These ones went out…"
"what, what's this? Did you turn these candles over?!" the waiter bellows
"no sir," Joey shakes his head with certainty
"it was a guy, I saw him, he came over and turned over the candles"
"but just the ones in front of you?"
"yes'um…." Joey's shifty eyes do that shifty thing
"did you turn these candles over?" the waiter stares
"no, I think it's terrible, it was the guy……
……..Mister?"
"what?" the waiter scores
"will ye pass me that candle?"

A bouncer turned up about fifteen minutes later and politely asked me to leave.

I never got the other candle.

~

Scene: Bus

Time: bout 2 bells in the day

State: Hung over (obviously), eyes closed, headin to snoozeville

Hobo boards bus, sits on front of me and turns round

Hobo: Hi

Me: Ehh...hi?

Hobo: Again...ha ha

Me: (to self) wtf?

Hobo: Rough night yea?

Me: Yea (cunt)

Hobo: Yea ye were goin' mad in temple bar last night

*silence*

Hobo gets off bus

Joey has word with self.

i am a pirate you are a princess

I think we could very well hear poets
filling their drinks and spilling some knowledge
tearing apart and scribbling down
about half more than supposed to.
In chic prada glasses and chloe ballet flats,
and dollface, my dear you never say can't,
so me, me i'm up in the air and my clothing seems bland.

You forget my dark darling, my coquette

my polite sex kitten

my night time demitasse of well-rehearsed eros,
you are not only the seducer but also the seduced

"let's dance in the streetlights!",

you said to me before the falling out and crawling out,
and singing began in seperate bars
and I still don't know how to hail a cab, cause darling
we always forget where they've parked

If I could blush I would till I bled or
spontaneously combusted and
if there is a God I'd take you with me

Then, as if to spurn me to my core, whispers
soft as down tell of urges and
I can taste your mouth just from your breath
and I fell partially in love
and then shudder and then never wanna call her again

You see, sex was our Vegas baby and
you were a one armed bandit gone cold and
lemons stopped paying out

oh dear, my dear, lets get some more beers

and we'll drink like college, poised and finished,
until the bar lights shine

and everybody starts to clear and sour.

and we'll swim through the city
styled pretty and then make our way back to 5th.
and i don't know if i'll ever see you around,
but, pretty darling, i always say arggghhhh
with a patch on my eye and a plank in my chest,
and many have walked it and plunged in a ditch,
so there isn't much hope in a heart
labeled a quest,
but you are a princess
who has not one pink dress, just a tiara for trading
and a pirate who's a mess

man whore

Noun
Singular -manwhore
Plural manwhores
A guy who loves girls and wants to get with every girl he sees. A sexually active, promiscuous, younger man who often wears alot of flashy jewelery, has greased down or spiked hair and keeps a 'chicktionary'. He is well known at most health clinics and may have an STD named after him in his honour. He knows many girls but will often mix it up or forget their names. He will commonly have one or more illegitimate children (though not always, especially in the amateur stage) and his relations with other men is often strained due to past encounters with girlfriends or wives.

Thanks, Wiktionary. One of the most misconstrued outside perspective of me is of being one such man whore. Although I can't deny that pretty girls make me weak (goddamn they smell good), I take great offense to being labeled. To me, a 'man whore', much like defined above, is a guy who's undying thirst for affection can only be quenched by "bumpin uglies". Not making love, such an act would require an emotional connection of some sort, but just straight up fucking without an ounce of intimacy or even a name. Maybe they weren't held enough as babies. Or they're just afraid to get hurt, thinking that all girls are manipulative bitches so they act on an "I'll fuck you before you fuck me" basis. This P.I.M.P attitude may all just be an act, they might really care about and respect girls, they just dont want to seem like they do, in fear that they might seem soft to their fellow man hoes. All these guys should just sit in a circle and have a group jerk-off if thats the case.
As for me, girls are the catalysts of some my broodiest moments, and my most sincere. The girl I recently dated, as heartbreakingly beautiful as she is, I loved most her ability to make me think and just sink into every word that came out of her perfect lips. Maybe its because I am a romantic, that I have all this figured out. But in no way do I imply that I'm less fucked up than the rest. But I do know that a wonderful girl, flaws and all, has the power to change your life. If you could just get your hand out of your pants for a minute.

media whore

Saturday began like every other day -me lying in bed at 7 a.m, cursing my body clock for its stubborn refusal to allow me to sleep in. I pulled my laptop onto my chest (noting the word 'chestop' while giggling at my innate geniosity and boyish charm) and checked my mails:

From: Celina. Subject: I have Press Passes.. Media whores? Should we start tonight?

With a subject line as vague as that I knew it was going to be a smashing evening so I got out of bed and wrestled on my Sunday best.

With all the excitment of leaving my flat to join real-life insane people (or, as my ex girlfriend calls them The Others), I forgot to check what time I was meeting the boys and left three hours too early. So, like any self-respecting wannabe media whore I ventured into the gentlemen's club with Jack* to wet my whistle. The Guinness went down well but I was unimpressed with the girl from the PR company who insisted on GETTING THE LIST in order to detemine WHO SHE ACTUALLY WANTS AT THE PARTY, her boyfriend also seemed a bit peeved that she was more interested in eating her pink motorola razor-phone and not his orange moisturized razor-face.

After three or four my crew escorted me out and we made our merry way (my merry way anyways) to the shindig. We got in the door, jotted our names down on the guestbook and made a bee-line to the bath of corona in the back garden. Peter* threw me a joint I never asked for and told me about his ploy to introduce hardcore gaming into the lives of naive teens. Assuming I had just come into contact with the spawn of Satan, I went through the obvious emotions: shock, curiosity, understanding, acceptance and finally encouragement. I advised him the best way to go about it (I was young relatively recently) and went to see how the nouveaux beer-swilling fiend that is Celina Murphy was doing.
Celina was doing good.

After drinking our fair share (cause we had to be fair of course) and keeping the crowd entertained we took a bathroom break. I think it was the outter-body experience of hearing myself utter the phrase 'Celina, wait until I'm finished before you shake it' coupled with the sight of a certain daytime TV presenter chowing down a piece of half-eaten chocolate cake he found on a table that told me it was about time to go. Peter and his mate Paul* suggested we Bond in a Casino (see what I did there?). We whole-heartedly agreed. The casino was 25 bucks in. We went elsewhere.

So as to avoid the frankly outrageous concept of buying drinks, we etched around the ladies for about twenty minutes trying to find a bottle opener for the bath beer we fleeced. I got bored and decided to revert to the only way I know how to deal with problems; by smashing them off a sink.

He's definitely a cross between Vic Mackey and that dude from Crystal Maze, I thought as the bouncer bandaged my slashed up hand, although I'm not sure if he has the badass look down well enough to take on a natter of Siberian druglords, or if he could do it in a pair of fishnet holdups and a multi-coloured moc croc headpiece....

Around 5 a.m we took my bruised ego home and fed it chocolate pudding. We watched House and fell asleep. I dreamt about Barack Obama again. This time I was the girl.
(The following two days are vague and filled with beer, explicit nudity, two young blonde girls with a penchant for over staying welcomes and swan-kicking...I probably wouldn't get in to it even if I could...)

*names have been changed so as to protect the identity of Hitler's sons.

tbs

All right imaginary audience, those of you who read my blogs with any regularity realize I rarely wax auto-biographical but I'm breaking that rule this time.

I live in San Diego California. Beautiful place, if you like that kind of stuff. I've always felt that the only thing that's stopping me from packing up all my stuff, strapping my guitar to my back and catching the first bus to New York is a dose of superior common sense.

I've taken enough college courses to have realized that money can always be earned, if you're willing and able, but your reason for being, well, that's more of a matter of courage and heart... How easy would it be to empty my bank account tomorrow, and find a slum in Soho, or in the East Village where I could seclude myself for a bit, become a hermit of sorts, rugged beard and all, and finish my book, which at the rate I'm writing, should be finished sometime around the Fall of 2097. (Look out for it, it will be the shit!)

Too easy almost. I toy with the idea everyday..

Yet I digress from my main point. After all, the title of this blog is titled after Taking Back Sunday, a funny little band I was fortunate to see live a few days ago. Now I've been to tons of concerts, and seen TBS twice before but few shows have had the extraordinary vigor and imagination that this one captured.

Lead singer Adam Lazzara, in all his flailing, spastic glory, would've ripped out his heart, just to hear the roar of approval. Never missing a beat, he twirled his microphone by the cord, tossing it into the air, falling over backwards in exaggerated tortured angst, only to catch it in mid air, screaming words of love and lost. Clichéd? Perhaps. But we all knew the words, so we sang along. We laugh because we feel silly, but with 10,000 people singing along to "Make Damn Sure" the goosebumps take on a whole other meaning.

This from a rugged, concert veteran. "You can be anything you want to be! Fuck the war!" Adam screamed once between songs, to deafening madness. And afterwards, leaving the venue, looking into the starry, dazed eyes of kids, some young enough to have this been their first concert, I truly think they believed him.

You can be anything you want to be. Fuck the war.

And this one moment, this loud glorious night, tops any previous one in their young lives, for now. How nice to be that young and naive. Outside of hope and rockstars, there's a world filled with anger and regret. World War 3, Great Depression 2 and a president that answers to no "man", except for the one he hears in his head. But let's leave God out of it, shall we Mr. Bush? All of it. Your God is one with whom I am not familiar, and I'd prefer to keep it that way.

Just for a moment, I allow myself to forget it all, my eyes smile along with theirs. Maybe, just maybe.. its gonna be alright.

But then again you might ask, why title this blog after a rock band, and what the hell is my point? The simple answer? I can do what I'd like, this is my blog beeotch. Got a problem? Tell it to my AK, clack clack clack!

Seriously now, the long answer, is simple. In a world gone to pot, we should never be too jaded to be starry eyed like a kid after a concert. Everything you do, do it with passion, do it with heart, even if its seems insane, get up there and pour your blood, sweat and tears on that proverbial "stage", whatever it may be to you. And just when you think you're done, we'll scream for an encore.

~
"Here's to the Crazy Ones. The misfits. The rebels. The troublemakers. The round pegs in the square holes. The ones who see things differently. They're not fond of rules. And they have no respect for the status quo. You can quote them, disagree with them, disbelieve them, glorify or vilify them. About the only thing that you can't do, is ignore them. Because they change things. They invent. They imagine. They heal. They explore. They create. They inspire. They push the human race forward.While some may see them as the crazy ones, we see genius. Because the ones who are crazy enough to think that they can change the world, are the ones who do."

21st century love story

She was making the eyes at me and
when she did she
discovered I'd made mine a while back and
she liked it

I could tell because her teeth spoke volumes
and I've read every one of them
They only expose their pointy whiteness
when her pink lemonade lips formed
a smile that said "sex"

She doesn't turn heads
she spins them, overturns chairs, tables
shattered glass from spilled drinks sparkle
Mouths now ashtrays, gray from drought
I can smell female jealousy
like a sour musk that wafts and hovers and
gets blood to all the right areas, fast

I beam, I throb with, I exude
frenzy by way of libido
Swirling anxiety whirlwinds through me and
I grin greedily but
I don't bear it
Bearing implies a burden and
this burden I caress in veneration

For the glutinous, unyielding present
I employ seconds as punctuation
Time forks suddenly, presenting a logical dyad:

1. I can fight this
force fortitude into quivering lungs and
steel timid senses to spite my passions

2. I can tumbleweed with it
straight to hell with apprehension and
strangle my serpentine doubt

At last we escape into darkness and
there is warmth and softness
Texture in regard to a nude body:
"You are tender and
you possess a beautiful strength but
my God you are tender in ways
that utterly overwhelm me"

We are fused on a continuum
Here things undone in the past and
our many heavy lidded regrets
are thoroughly corrected
That is why we share a power
why we hold each other so tightly
Our fear of loss keeps us honest

Her eyes are ferocious as
she searches me for answers
"Why now?"
I don't understand myself as
flesh envelops flesh
an intimate inertia pushes us deeper
into each other
The only words I could muster:
"This was a long time coming"

sunshine

People are silly. Really, just watch the things they do. I've started doing this. When I get pissed, I go somewhere very public, which'll stop me from bitching, brooding, or calling someone to yell at them. After being in this public place I start to look at people. At first I'm just like "are you fucking kidding me?" then its like "wow, they're really not kidding", even if its the dumbest thing in the world. Today it was a lady making a scene at Taco Bell because her nachos weren't "supreme" enough. So I sat there in my booth, face in hands, smiling to myself.

One of the main reasons I settle for shit mexican food at this fine establishment is for a few minutes I get to converse with a sweet kid that works there. She's around my age, but I could be completely off. The first thing that strikes you about this girl is how happy she is. I mean genuinely, absurdly happy. Her smile takes up her entire face, and her eyes shine just as bright. It's only until you talk to her that you notice, she has a mental handicap. Now I'm not an expert on intellectual disabilities, so I can't say if her handicap was from birth or from an acute condition, but its easy to see that what she lacks in social awareness and speech capabilities she makes up for in vibrancy. Everyone knows her by name and adores her, truly a courageous kid.

So as I was sitting in my booth today, observing the supreme nacho conflict, my new friend walked over to me and inquired about my ipod. I smiled and offered her the ear buds, and as she slipped them in her ears I browsed for "Sunshine" by Matt Costa and pressed play. I studied her face as she listened curiously, her smile growing brighter by the second. She's never going to have goals like we do. She doesn't want to be some big time writer. Couldn't care less about being accepted. Yet, she's happy, because she lives in the right now, the present, and in her simple capabilites she's only aware of one feeling we all take for granted, Love. Love for people, love for music, love for just being alive and getting another chance to live your path. While some of us with far greater potential make a stink of our existence, from dwelling on the past and future and disregarding what's really important, this girl already lives her life to the fullest and her happiness is proof of it. Hats off to you kid, you're sick pimpness.

It's amazing the things you can learn from just observing people.

swing

The other day I walked through the park. Coffee in one hand and the other safely in my pocket. This was the same park I played soccer at when i was little, the same park I met my friends before middle school started each day. Now I was walking alone through the canyon where fascination of the nature around me lasts only until a fly hits me in the face and brings me back to reality. I realized I dont even notice my surroundings much anymore. When was the last time I stopped to feel the wind brush against my face? I've been too absorbed in my daily routine lately to stop and appreciate life. I kinda miss the tire swing. I miss the simple happiness in falling down a slide. When did we all stop spinning around in circles, laughing at the dizzyness that takes hold? Now all thats spinning is my mind. Kids are happy running in sand or swinging. Why cant we do that anymore? Its the difference between the man sitting on the park bench reading a book and the man on his cell phone smoking a cigarette. That evening I really looked at the setting sun- the intoxicating beauty of colors as if the sky was a blank canvas and the sun was its artist. Sometimes I want to be that kid on the tire swing again. I want to be that man reading a book on a park bench. I want to be in a moment of simplicity. Maybe theres a balance in life where simplicity can meet harsh reality. We can discuss important issues on the sea saw. Maybe there we can find happiness until realily hits us in the face with a fly.

meant for you

I sat down today to write some of my most beautiful friends a song. It seemed like quite a mountain to climb because i didn't want to cheapen their wedding with a sub-par tune (it still may be that, I am legally blind in introspectives). Anyways, the song came together naturally. It was really fun to write a sappy love song, generally I write about the opposite so it was a breath of fresh air. Songs seem to work out the chaos we all endure. Sometimes they create more. The only thing clear to me is that a fifth sustains and a second decays and an honest lyric will bring us to our knees. Looking back at the lyrics I noticed that they gave off a 'praise the lord' sort of vibe but that was not my intention( definitely not my bag). I guess that their love is just that amazing. Congratulations.

meant for you

If you need some loving, you know you dont have to say.

If you have a heart ache, you know he'll take it away.

If you are in the dark, you know he'll show you the way.

And when you need arms to hold you, he's right there to keep you safe.

Nobody knows you, the way that he knows you.

So take the first step from being alone.

Nobody knows to trust with your whole heart, the way that you do.

So take the first step into the life that was meant for you.

*NOTE* This is a mushy love song, there are no religous conitations. Then again, if you like it for that reason,....GO NUTS!

midnight kiss

I was going through the numbers in my cell phone this morning, not really looking for any one in particular, just kind of intrigued with myself on how rarely I do this. If you know me fairly well you will attest that I am HORRIBLE at calling anyone. I'm blessed to have friends that check up on me regularly because if by some awesome fate I should be electrocuted by my juicer, my poor corpse would be left undiscovered for quite some time. So anywho, flipping through my numbers I was puzzled by how many nameless phone numbers I have. I counted 7 anonymous people who somehow made their way into my phonebook. The most obvious explanation for most of these is a night filled with mixed drinks and flirting, resulting in sloppy digits exchange.  If you're not aware, the common practice of phone number exchange between two drunk people is handing your own phone to the other person, dialing your digits on their phone, calling it then hanging up, thus saving each others digits in the other persons phone. It's a simple and almost intimate moment between two cheeky drunks who instantly bond after trusting each other with each others phone ("OMFG, we have the same phone only mine is bedazzled in jeweeels OMIGOD we're meant to be, dude!!")
The only problem with this practice is that when you go back later that night to check on the phone number you realize.. you have completely forgotten what this persons name is. All you have is an "unknown caller" in your ID. I know, it's terrible. It happens. After you shared such a magical moment giggling into each others phone too. Such tragic occasions have left me to resort to substituting for their name anything that remotely reminds me of this person, in case I happen to remember their real name at a later, sober time. This will explain why one mysterious number was casually saved as "OMG BOOBS". I know, how sexist and shameful of me, but worst yet that can be anyone within the local San Diego beach community. That mystery girl, who's bosoms must have been of such epic proportions to have elicited such an endearing response from me like -OMG BOOBS-, as much as it shattered my soul to do it, was promptly deleted from my phone today.
Which finally leads me to the one mystery number who I gave a split second thought to before deleting. I actually remember meeting this girl. It was this last New Years, Hollywood. She smelled of coconut and the ocean. Which at that moment had me completely and utterly intoxicated. I couldn't get enough of smelling her, of tasting her. Not that we did anything but kiss, but that was enough. We didn't talk much, I know nothing about her, we shared drinks and that's all. The clock counted down the last precious minutes of the year as she sat on my lap, laughing at my stupid jokes and as the last seconds ticked off the clock to midnight, she grabbed my face with both hands and proceeded to slobber all over my lips. Anti-climactic, I guess. She still tasted great. She was narly enough to go the trouble of actually saving her name and number in my celly phonebook afterwards, as opposed to just dialing it. But instead of entering her real name, she simply put "YOUR FUTURE WIFE". Awwww. Cute. Or psycho-ish, depending on how jaded you are. So now, FINALLY, this brings me to my main point....

The midnight kiss phenomena.

Let's imagine: A social gathering, the mood is right, perhaps even against one's better judgement one has had a flute or two too many of the bubbly stuff (By the way, when will we as Americans learn that Champagne or any sparkling wine is good everyday, not just for New Years? Why do we insist on making Europe cooler than us?) and one is feeling just a tad frisky, less aware of their previously crippling inhibitions. This could also be affected by the mood of the evening. The ending of what was and the beginning of what we hope will be the better new. Such is the psychological pre-dispostion we have with the "New Year" as a period of rebirth and I feel it is best encapsulated, best expressed, by the midnight kiss.
This event is so colored by one's own subjective take on what actually is occurring that it is laughable, if not a bit perverse to give it half as much credit as people do. All of them, sincere as they may be, are working off the basis that 1. At the moment your lips lock you'll be the only two people on the planet. 2. The fact they have been chosen to be your midnight kiss grants them a mythic proportion in your life, for such is so important a choice, it must have been given great forethought. This mistake leads to 3. The kiss will set the entire romantic tone for the rest of the year. Get a great kiss then, surely you'll be getting more later.
The reality is that a midnight kiss has far more to do with random proximity and how much one had to drink that night then they have to do with anything else. Truth be told, I am a romantic, and I'd love to believe that a midnight kiss is the metaphysical barometer of my future passions. That the kissing gesture would serve as a talisman and keep my whole year as enthused and electric and wonderful as those few seconds after the clock strikes midnight, but my inner pessimist knows better. Which brings me back to my last midnight kiss. Sweet tasting mystery girl, self proclaimed bearer of my future children. After parting ways that night, I hardly gave her more than a half seconds thought to, until the guilt of leaving what could very well be my soul mate waiting by the phone finally convinced me to call her. After a few seconds of refreshing her memory to who the hell I was, which made it tougher considering I had no idea what her name was, ("Hi, we met at Teddy's last week, its Joey!" "...Who? Who are you calling for?" "Umm.. You?" I learned that she lives in Arizona and was only in LA visiting her sister. She when on to tell me she remembered me as being super adorable (pfft) and she had never been so shitfaced in her life. After a few more awkward minutes we said our goodbyes, and I never spoke to the girl again.
Do I have a point? If so, only this. The people you choose to make privy to romantically should already wish to make you happy, and shouldn't need to take part in such a spectacular stunt to ensure the feeling lasts. In other words, why look for fireworks in the sky, when you can seem them in her eyes? Have a midnight kiss with the right person all year long.
Then get sloppy drunk.

life

Today I sat in the bookstore (you know how I do), picked out a book and sat down in an overlarged, out of place chair. To my right there was a woman looking at New York travel guides and a few Cosmos. She flipped through pages of beautiful women advertising expensive perfume and I realized we live in an exaggerated, and misrepresented world. Escape your reality, hun. It'll be here when you come back. I looked up, distracted by hearing James effin Blunt playing, and noticed a display of maps in front of me. Maps everywhere from mexico to london, from ireland to egypt. I couldnt help but feel like there was something more I could be doing. So many places to go. But what would satisfy me? Backpacking through Europe, just me and my acoustic guitar and few pairs of fresh boxer briefs? Could someone ever fully be satisfied with their life?

I looked around me. A man trying to read his own palm, two women discussing buddhism. Was this it? One of the ladies stood up and walked away, and as I heard the distant sound of her flat shoes flapping against her heel, I looked to the window, outside there was a man, a bum a homeless, if you will. He was sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette. Was he looking back at me? I couldnt tell, but intrigued, I kept looking. Whats his story? Maybe, when younger, he was a brilliant underachiever. Blew all his money and chances on booze and unrealistic dreams. He's not so different. That could very well be me, someday. A girl with a fashionably coordinated green outfit walked past him, blinding my sight of the man and I took the opportunity to look away.
I recognized a girl from my school, sitting by herself at a table with her laptop, sipping a chilled cappuccino. Incredibly adorable, smart girl wearing pink Chucks. She stared at her laptop screen intensely, her brow furrowed. She then giggled to herself. I wondered what's on that screen. She catches me looking at her and smiled shyly. I smiled back, a little embarrassed for staring, and I go back to reading.
Alittle while later, another man ( bum..must've been friends with the other one?) came and occupied the empty chair next to me. Picked up a car magazine and let out a genuinely narly fart. Not even kidding. (didnt think the story was about to end like that?) Well, hey. Life is crazy.

some people make all this worth it

I havent slept much at all in 3 days.......
:

Usually when im in this kind of bind its due to a staggering night of alcohol and friends but this time its different.

1. I'm not drunk (in fact i havent had any alcohol since i was awake yesterday at 7 am. First time in almost a month).

2. I'm not terribly inspired either. Occasionally i will stay up to the early hours because im stuck on a certain song and really want to finish it.

3. I'm not playing guitar hero or Fifa world cup on playstation.

4. I'm not having sex way past my bedtime.

This time i'm up because my heart is pounding too hard to sleep. I'm thinking too much about what the days ahead of me hold. Sometimes things can happen that show you just how fucked and crazy the world can be. Too crazy to escape for the few hours we usually have every night to dream. How do i put my racing mind into a chokehold? Probably a bottle of cough syrup or some T3s will do.

yet, some people make all this worth it.

in love and death

Damnit all if I haven't been away in awhile. Of course as you can tell merely by the intro I'll probably have nothing interesting to say short of "Whoa, I've been gone..." and "Whoa, now I'm back". And indeed you would be correct.
Or at least very nearly correct...
You see as well as planning to say something interesting in the near future, I'll do you one better and bring up the idea of something interesting, thus possibly leading to more interesting dialogue at a later date. (How many times am I bloody going to say "interesting" in this blog?)
Has anyone ever watched "Sparkhouse"? Very well done English drama, which correct me if I'm wrong, takes place in Yorkshire? And follows the lives of two young lovers, Andrew and Carol. (Carol played by the thoroughly lovely Sarah Smart.) I say well done because Sallyt Wainwright, who wrote the teleplay, really seemed to know intimately and capture the strange and rare bizzarities that love is always coupled with. And not just lusty puppy lets fuck and never speak to one another again love, but love beyond station, income, marital status, indeed anything and everything until blood stops bounding through your veins. The real thing in other words, but there begs my question, in pertaining to, big surprise, the American mindset.
In the end, Andrew, despite the fact he's married and has a child, begs Carol, just recently married herself, to run away with him. After a scuffle, he gets his ass beat and tossed off the farm. Later he is found dead after opening up his own veins. Suicide. Pfft, figures.
Albeit a rather Japanese ending, I know that most Americans see what Andrew did as a lapse into weakness. I've heard this same Barbaric, Neanderthal mentality applied to psychology. No one is ever really mentally ill, they just have flaws of character. Aren't disciplined enough. That attitude reflects itself in our love stories. It's almost always the man going to some insane lenght to get the girl of his dreams who doesn't know he exists. Occasionally the girl who really loves him is his secretary or goofy best friend.
The frightening thing to me is both scenarios are horrible Capitalistic punchlines. Sheer propaganda. If you want a girl, no matter how bizzare and unpractical it may be, just get a really good job and buy her shit until she succumbs. Sky write her name, have Michael Jordan come out of retirement and play and exhibition game in her honor. Buy her a big shiny rock that people die daily to provide the love-stricken of our country. She'll shag you sooner or later. Everybody has got a price.
Or even better. Look, you've been shit on by the system. You'll never make enough money to get that girl. Why not settle for the girl who lives in the same dump you do? Lord knows she'll be low maintenance, and she'll probably make you more happy anyway. Let the guys with cash go after the Charlize Theron's of the world. Go home and appreciate the Cate Blanchet you ended up with.
I'm not a fan of suicide. I don't think it solves much. Often I think it's a bit cowardly. But I am a fan of being sincere. Of being genuine. Andrew was controlled by his parents his whole life. He found himself making the same mistakes over and over and he was only getting more miserable. If someone could have been there for him, he probably wouldn't have killed himself, but let's not start calling the guy names. Let's not say he was weak, or crazy or undisciplined. He was in love. That brings with it its own set of circumstances.
I'd rather make fun of the guy in the Cialis commercial. He can't get it up. What a loser, what a sexless, neuter freak. What a failure as a man. How undisciplined, how weak of him not to be hard. How pathetic...oh wait, that's a medical condition you say? Not fair of me you say? Well I say depression, tragic tortured love, is just as, if not more of a legitimate condition. So lets stop all the name calling bollocks.

when i met bukowski

Sometimes as an intellectual
and I use the term loosely
you get into a habit
Whether you mean to or not
of disliking things that the herd
and God yes they earned the name
tend to like, perhaps for spite or
perhaps for a real reason but
the end result is identical

A punk with a hemp courier bag
and a shaggy ass mohawk started in
on me about the Beat poets and the
power they commanded over the spoken word
How they re-invented tonal meaning and
introduced a harmonic revolution of words
"I thought rap did that." I said
We stopped talking
Pfft, white guys...

Since then me and Beat weren't on speaking terms
and floating around in the tenement of my mind
Bukowski equaled Beat
Maybe some asshole English professor gave me
reason for this causal link or
maybe I wasn't paying attention as I
scanned the poetry section at a second-hand bookstore
Perhaps as I leaned in to the bottom shelf
trying to find Anais Nin and wishing
women like her still existed, (If they ever did...)
and I glanced over a hand-written shelf marker
BEAT
And there he was, the German bastard

In any case
I didn't read him and
like any jerk who judges that which
he does not know, I questioned the
merit of those who did
Mind you, I read Beat
Plenty of it
And if I could get that precious time back
I'd spend it drinking
It wasn't until I got a smattering of
Hank's prose shoved in my face
that I shut up
A girl from a Philosophy class
She followed me out and started
snapping photos of me walking
Now as gorgeous as I think I am
a mugging ham who prances amongst
the bulb flashes I ain't
On the other hand, I ain't no
Ludite camera-smashing Sinatra type either
Always more a Dean Martin man myself,
So I let her play at being paparazzi and
afterward had a chat
She had a volume of Hank jutting out of
her backpack, and offered me a read
I politley ordered two coffees,
handed her one and
accepted the offer

Never had I read such hard nosed wisdom
boiled down truth
revelry in self-destruction
no, self-destruction framed as a virtue
and goddamn it is sure is!
Profane irreverence
depression spoke of as a reality as
opposed to a temporary state and
the cold joy of isolation
Celebration of violence and failure
hatred of the cant, the sycophants
the hangers-on, the gutless suit and tie set
the intelligencia, the holier than thou and
the acknowledgement that love is a ghost
often best left undiscovered lest
we be haunted while we sip on our third Old-fashioned
and that life at its best are the minute moments
that on the surface mean nothing but
mean everything in our minds

After our introduction, I had another coffee
thanked the girl, and went home
I felt like a jackass at first
Having allowed my assumptions to keep
me from reading those words
But then I felt sort of like a down and out
prospector, finally having hit paydirt
I went outside, chicken salad sandwich in one hand
a coffee in the other and
a volume of Hank under my arm and
as the sunlight played amber streaks through my drink
I said out loud
"Now that is a fucking writer."

thoughts on a lovely girl

*Note: In response to a request as to the caliber of my poetic skills, currently being non-existent, I am submitting this prose to you a somewhat willing public. I make no claim to being a poet, and have no discernable attributes of a poet, save the temperment. That being said, read on.

I heard her before I saw her
A tender voice that neatly folded every sentence
At a corner where sidewalks join, we met
She acknowledged my presence with a nod and a smile
We were meeting for a lunch date
But I only hungered for her, to devour her whole
To crawl into her clothes, while she wore them, and skulk about
Doing as she does, seeing as she sees, as she likes it
She reclined her cleft chin atop clasped hands
An archway of auburn hair enclosed her alabaster face
Pink and wet, pursed lips pouted, and punctuated her point
I don't necessarily stare
But demand every minute detail from my lazy eyes
And with each gelatinous second that passes I become giddy.
My head swoons like a Manzarek organ frenzy
That rises like a missile from a hidden silo in my spine
She, oblivious of her violent affect on me
I resigned myself to embark on a noble crusade
As self proclaimed cartographer of her raw youth
Every inch, every crease, every mole, every dimple
Was recorded at length in my manifest
Then as I cradled her naked form, back melting into my chest
I found a petite scar on her neck
An incident with a chain necklace she later tells me
At last, a flaw! She is certainly human
All the more perfect in my opinion
Flesh blood and bones
Real.

nature of the party

* This topic came up (mostly in my head) at a get-together last weekend. I wish to god I was as articulate drunk as I am sober so I could've done a better job of laying out my theory to the random fellow who bought me a double shot of jagger and tipped the bartender with beads (in his defense, they were the ones that light up!!) and the cute lil' brunette who after listening to me INTENSELY, merely giggled, tugged at my collar, flashed me, then ran away, laughing like a loon. Cheers.

Parties can be great things. People gathering for the purpose of pleasure. That pleasure can come about in many ways. Loud music, dancing, random violence, (Wait, that's me, Freudian slip...) or the frenzied fumbling of hands on skin as emotions reach a zenith and reason gives way to instinct. Who could begrudge one for answering the ancient call to intimacy? Not sex necessarily mind you, just contact. Genuine human contact. A gentle touch, as simple or complex as the stroke of one's hand across a face, or a firm embrace. Lips on a neck, hot breath warming and tickling at the same time. A confident kiss which sparks a myriad of frightening, yet delightful sensations and reminds you of what it truly is to be alive. To re-affirm the belief of all romantics, (Myself included.) that love can be and is as basic a function as eating, or sleeping.
Parties can be terrible things. A lot of assholes show up to your friend's house, and none of the assholes are ones you invited. That cute girl you asked came, but brought four masturbatory male extensions of herself to boost her confidence and make her feel better about herself, and they drink all your sake. (And they don't even warm it first.) Your other friend's girlfriend starts dancing and singing along to a Lil Wayne song and the whole choir of derelectical youth chime in, a cacophony of off-key insanity.
Finally you go outside, only to find one of the many guys you don't know is admiring the steam coming off his urine as he relieves himself on your friend's porch. You resign yourself to this bog, this quagmire of stupidity, and figure you'll watch a film with plenty of gunfights which will cheer you up, only to find the biggest TV is already claimed, and the other girls are watching "She's All That". (Which is cool, you've just seen it too many times. Ah, that Rachael Leigh Cook...)
Then you meet the un-official tag along. The desperate social outcast the cool chicks brought. She isn't ugly necessarily, physically that is. What is ugly is her desperation. Her resignation to station. When her friends finally stop coddling her, introducing her to everyone and quit referencing inside jokes all in an attempt to make her feel more comfortable (Which doesn't work.) and actually start enjoying themselves, she retreats to her all too familiar downtrodden attitude. Go ahead, ask her what's up? She'll tell you everyone hates her, (Translation: Not center of her friend's attention for five seconds.) her friends are ignoring her, (Trans: Talking to other people.) and she hates herself. (Trans: She wants you to feel sorry for her.)
In my experience, someone is usually designated to seek out and isolate this girl, who usually always snaps and makes a stink, killing any genial mood regardless of how much effort is given to making her happy. These people, (Many men included I should add, only they usually just break stuff.) truly prove my theory that some people can only gauge their life in measures of pain. That makes me extremely sad, because although they seem justified in their own mind, they exile only themselves and miss so much of what is out there to receive.
As the party winds down, people are usually either getting sick, already sick, taking off, hooking up, (God, I hate that phrase, but it works.) or falling asleep. Unless you are like me and finally turn on around this time, finding yourself too curious about the bizzare species of human you find yourself watching, as though an utter non-participant. You can't avoid the obvious question, "Is this portrait a distortion of how these people are or a clarification? Do parties transform us or do they reveal us? Does this agreed upon social interaction allow us to put on masks, or take them off?
Alas, we shall never know with a scientific level of certainty. Such is the nature of the party.
Or at least, so I've been told...