Saturday, December 31, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Alienation Network
I think I got a digitized 'you was eye-balling alert' on facebook. Actually, it was, "Boy, you been sending freind requests to people you don't know." So much for the Will Rogers/Dale Carnegie thing. I'm regressing. Invertebrate.
While I'm cooling off under the half ton of granite, there will be the self-appaisal and self-bashing, the kind of both that are exhillarating on days you don't get hit with the great acre-wide fly swatter in the sky. Electric reproach. People I never met feel I have intruded on the their climate controlled Christmas. Like I was playing jump rope in their walk-in closet.
Sending the request is like the Manson Family creepy crawling in people's delux ranch house with security system and professional support system all switched to pick up body heat and call the cops.
If it isn't some evil Freudian analyst getting the goods on you and making you a slave to your own admissions of inadequacy, it's Facebook, Google and all the tech companies you depend on to socialize, now that people are allergic to strangers. The alert I got sounded like someone ratted me out for sending them a friend request, when Facebook streams names and faces of supposed mutual friends. Granted, it's titled 'People you may know,' but it's also one in an infinity of corporate Rollodexes wired with alarms and traps. It's a Montessori school caged in razor wire.
This should be where crone maturity helps, and it does. A little. And then it comes back to hurt again. I was made to see the old crones who have to sell insurance or what ever till they croak, eating all the rejection and taking affirmations in having learned to take it as part of a job, and not an indication of personal scabies. All the while, the individual looks old, seedy and frozen in a tundra of lost essence. All things are essence. Such as the feeling of being a poisoned rat. I feel vitiated. Like I'm exiled to a store front office where people reject my sales pitch. While trying to be social and happy.
While I'm cooling off under the half ton of granite, there will be the self-appaisal and self-bashing, the kind of both that are exhillarating on days you don't get hit with the great acre-wide fly swatter in the sky. Electric reproach. People I never met feel I have intruded on the their climate controlled Christmas. Like I was playing jump rope in their walk-in closet.
Sending the request is like the Manson Family creepy crawling in people's delux ranch house with security system and professional support system all switched to pick up body heat and call the cops.
If it isn't some evil Freudian analyst getting the goods on you and making you a slave to your own admissions of inadequacy, it's Facebook, Google and all the tech companies you depend on to socialize, now that people are allergic to strangers. The alert I got sounded like someone ratted me out for sending them a friend request, when Facebook streams names and faces of supposed mutual friends. Granted, it's titled 'People you may know,' but it's also one in an infinity of corporate Rollodexes wired with alarms and traps. It's a Montessori school caged in razor wire.
This should be where crone maturity helps, and it does. A little. And then it comes back to hurt again. I was made to see the old crones who have to sell insurance or what ever till they croak, eating all the rejection and taking affirmations in having learned to take it as part of a job, and not an indication of personal scabies. All the while, the individual looks old, seedy and frozen in a tundra of lost essence. All things are essence. Such as the feeling of being a poisoned rat. I feel vitiated. Like I'm exiled to a store front office where people reject my sales pitch. While trying to be social and happy.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Being Nowhere
Hole. Sphyncter. Rictus. Pick any word, dear readers, there is a town named Albion, Pennsylvania, and per act of dark sentiment, an idyl, I once drove onto that burg's main street in the hatchback. This town looks innocent, store fronts, all six of them, painted fresh and white as the Klan.
There's a branch office of the First National Bank, so puny and frail, like it had little to lose. There were scatterings of farm and cottages, last time I looked, also cows and horses a quarter mile from a park in the center of town, and there was a six story commercial building that used to be a bank and now processes billions of welfare claims.
But that can be written off as a by-product of social progress, like bologna or liverworst. There are about six streets in Albion wide enough to let three horse-drawn buggies block traffic on. That's a total of 666. Well, no. I added incorrectly. Still 666 popped up on my inner adding machine. I fudged the numbers. But it's still an indication that Satan may pop up in smoke.
It's a frightening and legendary number. I get this shit from my crystal ball. There's evil in this green United States town called Albion. Nothing to be concerned about. An ordinary mark of the beast. Like certain cows. Certain oxen, too.
Oxen have power. Drinking establishments have power, too. There are cerain rocks and heaps that exude fragrant unique charisma.
I went into a bar and got a beer.I remember all too much, but that was the last thing that made sense for the next few minutes. Then trancendental heightened resolution.
Glancing back at a small and cheery bucolic outlay of small town personage there, I couldn't claim total inner unity with this cornpone. Hush my mouth. There was an unused coin operated pool table in the back of the corner bar. Having zero entre with the Appalacians, slingshots in the back pockets of bib over-alls, I decided to play a rack of pool, kill the beer, and leave before I'm made to feel less like a resident of Albion, Pennsylvania.
I put a quarter in the stainless steel slot and pushed in the metal sliding quarter snatch, eager to ease the nerves with gentle sport. The mechanism jammed.
I heard the balls, all mocking sixteen of them, dislodge from their pool ball residence inside the table. And they stopped, neglecting, as normal, to roll and clatter into the rear portal, like the pool table's wide wooden asshole. Indulge the histrionics. I'm fast. The balls failed to reach their destination, and I was unable to play pool.
Notice a stranger in a jerkwater town. Self-consciousness. Something the romantics rant about. "What are the customs here?" I asked myself, as told to do by my great big social science prof at college. I did poorly there. No good answer was arrived at.
At last moved to action, I walked to the bar and waited for the wan, drawn bar maid. She drifted my way, and I said, as carefully as possible, "I put a quarter in the pool table, and the balls are stuck inside the machine....."
I use the elipsis because, in soft nasal twang, she stopped me from explaining further. "You gotta kick it," she said, free of guile. College boy on this side of the bar, I gleaned, verbatim, I should walk back to the pool table and kick it.
This made sense. A blow to the table could dislodge the balls. If I kick the table, the pool balls will be jarred into cooperation and come rumbling home to papa. Note the point of origin at which views less explored come out to play in the rural sunshine. And in a honky tonk.
I kicked the table lightly, once, just to get a sense of how the tootsie might adjust to getting slammed into hard wood. Mr. Foot said back, "Don't get carried away, Hoss." I kicked the table three or four more times, but the balls stayed stuck. And because of nervousness, I may have seemed clumsy. I'm not.
Next try I kicked the table in a different location on it's dysfunctiional green felt form. I didn't notice just then that I was drawing attention. Just as I kicked from yet another position, this time winding up, I was paralyzed with the report of loud inquisition.
With a bass southern drawl, a tall hay seed hollered, "WHAT IS THAT ASSHOLE DOING?"
While still paralyzed, the girl-wheat-shaft behind the bar said, in her plaintive voice "The pool balls is stuck. He's kicking it." Then came, instantly, the idyl flash of comprehension. Animosity flutters off.
The rubes now knew why I was kicking the pool table. They misundertood, at first, my behavior, because they kick things all the time, and it never looks as dippy as my little performance. There people are called, "shit kickers." Now their emotions changed from fear to enlightening. "Kick it, kick it," they chanted, in a warm, spontaneous and unassuming fervor. Set free from paralysis by the outpouring, I gave the table a more socially acceptable style of kick. It was sort of like a drop kick. But with added finesse, for the on-lookers. It was like I was responsible for their fragile sense of closure. The balls cut free and rolled, sonorously, to the table's buttocks. There was cheering.
It took my usual of about nine minutes to shoot fifteen balls into holes in the sides and corners. On the way out, the fast nod to the town folk was practiced from years dealing with this type of social immediacy. I'm glad to have shared the confusion and pleasure. Any kind of realization might be a good one. I hope that room full of hicks remembers the experience with the same kind of love as do I. The family of man is a trip.
There's a branch office of the First National Bank, so puny and frail, like it had little to lose. There were scatterings of farm and cottages, last time I looked, also cows and horses a quarter mile from a park in the center of town, and there was a six story commercial building that used to be a bank and now processes billions of welfare claims.
But that can be written off as a by-product of social progress, like bologna or liverworst. There are about six streets in Albion wide enough to let three horse-drawn buggies block traffic on. That's a total of 666. Well, no. I added incorrectly. Still 666 popped up on my inner adding machine. I fudged the numbers. But it's still an indication that Satan may pop up in smoke.
It's a frightening and legendary number. I get this shit from my crystal ball. There's evil in this green United States town called Albion. Nothing to be concerned about. An ordinary mark of the beast. Like certain cows. Certain oxen, too.
Oxen have power. Drinking establishments have power, too. There are cerain rocks and heaps that exude fragrant unique charisma.
I went into a bar and got a beer.I remember all too much, but that was the last thing that made sense for the next few minutes. Then trancendental heightened resolution.
Glancing back at a small and cheery bucolic outlay of small town personage there, I couldn't claim total inner unity with this cornpone. Hush my mouth. There was an unused coin operated pool table in the back of the corner bar. Having zero entre with the Appalacians, slingshots in the back pockets of bib over-alls, I decided to play a rack of pool, kill the beer, and leave before I'm made to feel less like a resident of Albion, Pennsylvania.
I put a quarter in the stainless steel slot and pushed in the metal sliding quarter snatch, eager to ease the nerves with gentle sport. The mechanism jammed.
I heard the balls, all mocking sixteen of them, dislodge from their pool ball residence inside the table. And they stopped, neglecting, as normal, to roll and clatter into the rear portal, like the pool table's wide wooden asshole. Indulge the histrionics. I'm fast. The balls failed to reach their destination, and I was unable to play pool.
Notice a stranger in a jerkwater town. Self-consciousness. Something the romantics rant about. "What are the customs here?" I asked myself, as told to do by my great big social science prof at college. I did poorly there. No good answer was arrived at.
At last moved to action, I walked to the bar and waited for the wan, drawn bar maid. She drifted my way, and I said, as carefully as possible, "I put a quarter in the pool table, and the balls are stuck inside the machine....."
I use the elipsis because, in soft nasal twang, she stopped me from explaining further. "You gotta kick it," she said, free of guile. College boy on this side of the bar, I gleaned, verbatim, I should walk back to the pool table and kick it.
This made sense. A blow to the table could dislodge the balls. If I kick the table, the pool balls will be jarred into cooperation and come rumbling home to papa. Note the point of origin at which views less explored come out to play in the rural sunshine. And in a honky tonk.
I kicked the table lightly, once, just to get a sense of how the tootsie might adjust to getting slammed into hard wood. Mr. Foot said back, "Don't get carried away, Hoss." I kicked the table three or four more times, but the balls stayed stuck. And because of nervousness, I may have seemed clumsy. I'm not.
Next try I kicked the table in a different location on it's dysfunctiional green felt form. I didn't notice just then that I was drawing attention. Just as I kicked from yet another position, this time winding up, I was paralyzed with the report of loud inquisition.
With a bass southern drawl, a tall hay seed hollered, "WHAT IS THAT ASSHOLE DOING?"
While still paralyzed, the girl-wheat-shaft behind the bar said, in her plaintive voice "The pool balls is stuck. He's kicking it." Then came, instantly, the idyl flash of comprehension. Animosity flutters off.
The rubes now knew why I was kicking the pool table. They misundertood, at first, my behavior, because they kick things all the time, and it never looks as dippy as my little performance. There people are called, "shit kickers." Now their emotions changed from fear to enlightening. "Kick it, kick it," they chanted, in a warm, spontaneous and unassuming fervor. Set free from paralysis by the outpouring, I gave the table a more socially acceptable style of kick. It was sort of like a drop kick. But with added finesse, for the on-lookers. It was like I was responsible for their fragile sense of closure. The balls cut free and rolled, sonorously, to the table's buttocks. There was cheering.
It took my usual of about nine minutes to shoot fifteen balls into holes in the sides and corners. On the way out, the fast nod to the town folk was practiced from years dealing with this type of social immediacy. I'm glad to have shared the confusion and pleasure. Any kind of realization might be a good one. I hope that room full of hicks remembers the experience with the same kind of love as do I. The family of man is a trip.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Tossing A Life Line
The computer is defragmenting, with the moving picture on the screen of molecules gadding whimsically between a pair of test tubes. When it's done, like it's time to wipe it's ass, a digital drain spout appears, vortex circling into the cyber-shit I dive into first thing every morning. Habits are always degrading.
There's no such thing as cyberspace. I'm still annoyed at the culture that grew from our failed dot com craze of 1990s. Great at holding a grudge, everyone was thrilled and smug about the new language, and the new Silly String jet of fresh perception. 'Cyberspace' was believed to be something so brilliant and accessible and intangible that it had to do a better job than God or Jesus at making them better off. And better than people who don't dig computers. I was still a pink ludite in the 1980s, and my ass is still stinging from the alienation that resulted.
I won't be mistaken for Noah. Last time I got a directive from on high, I was tripping. It was, like, take the things that made you an asshole, and place them in the forge. Then do an Aldous Huxley on the way people drink you in. Sell something. Wear a decent suit. Talk like a powerhouse.
You have to take your own turd-in-the-punchbowl dysfunctionalities and build an arc from the goofy timbers. The new salvation is in jettisoning from the boat the giraffes and zebras who might steal your job or default on the rent. Like Satan, a rhesis monkey is a liar. But you needn't sail alone. You will be needing an entourage when the raft of drift wood beaches. After the deluge, it's gonna be a gas.
There's no such thing as cyberspace. I'm still annoyed at the culture that grew from our failed dot com craze of 1990s. Great at holding a grudge, everyone was thrilled and smug about the new language, and the new Silly String jet of fresh perception. 'Cyberspace' was believed to be something so brilliant and accessible and intangible that it had to do a better job than God or Jesus at making them better off. And better than people who don't dig computers. I was still a pink ludite in the 1980s, and my ass is still stinging from the alienation that resulted.
I won't be mistaken for Noah. Last time I got a directive from on high, I was tripping. It was, like, take the things that made you an asshole, and place them in the forge. Then do an Aldous Huxley on the way people drink you in. Sell something. Wear a decent suit. Talk like a powerhouse.
You have to take your own turd-in-the-punchbowl dysfunctionalities and build an arc from the goofy timbers. The new salvation is in jettisoning from the boat the giraffes and zebras who might steal your job or default on the rent. Like Satan, a rhesis monkey is a liar. But you needn't sail alone. You will be needing an entourage when the raft of drift wood beaches. After the deluge, it's gonna be a gas.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Dickhead's Fables
#1
I was watching a rerun of The Untouchables, the black and white cop show from the wholesome 1960s, and there's a scene where a gangster pulls out a huge folding knife, pushes the blade through the back of an apolstered chair, and says, "See, with an eight inch blade you can kill a guy, like this."
Looked like a good idea. Better than trying it from the front, with an oyster shucker. Immediately, I went online to my favorite knife seller, a web site convenient as all get out, and like Jimmy Stewart stuttering, they had in stock an eighteen inch stilleto lock back knife with an eight inch blade, for ten bucks. I placed an order. It's a babe. Of all things, the quality of cheap tool steel has been improving wonderfully. The US is a debtor nation, and any four year old with a paypal account can cop a blade you can X people through a lounge chair with. You don't get blood on you jammies.
#2
Deer round these parts grew lazy and trusting. Now don't y'all call PETA or the game warden, because this is all a kid's game of pretend, the buck behind the house is real as black plague.
The stiletto is in the inside secret weapons pocket of my Gap knock off of a Levy jacket. The knife is a cheap knock off of something Guido's utilize in film. The shoes are mail order from Wallmart, special for walking on modern synthetic office building floor. I'd like you to be fair enough to see how changing times are reflected in a different-from-last year fashion statement. It's punk.
I won't really try this at home. I just have to visualize charging into a large deer, doing a job on it before it realizes how serious things are. First I'd just stand still, looking calmly at the herd, like ususal.
#3
Everywhere you looked, downtown was convivial as a barnload of white people doing the Hokey Pokey. We're a barn dance. Farmers. Farmers that drifed here thanks to the industrial revolution and failing family farms. I love it here. We have major league sports.
The dot com craze of the mid nineteen nineties made this town perfect because you can have anything cheap, and be anything cheap. That latter grace is because people are too inchoate to challenge each other's posturing. Why in Boston, people like me get picked apart. You can be anything you want here, because all folk are comparably delusional, made equal by mercury in the fish sandwich.
I'm optimistic about the whole crock of shit because. I'm armed with a brand new trademark weapon. I have my costume selected. My suit of lights. I believe I am a type of torreador. An unrecognized torreador. A bullfighter is quest of understanding. Toro. Toro.
#4
None of this is real. It's about what can happen. I'm singing loud, deep, sonorous. The power ditty spiritual number I'm gutting off fills the passenger compartment of the paddy wagon. They picked me up like a blue plastic sack of empty beer cans on trash day. Using a long, cruel twist tie, like they close trash bags with, I can't use my hands for anything but finger snapping, and it's a pitiful rythme section to such an inspired type of song. I'm making it up, trying to drown out the siren, people in the wagon are squirming and bitching. We're like a a string of charms on a bracelet, linked together in this paddy wagon, going bumpety down the pot holes.
I was watching a rerun of The Untouchables, the black and white cop show from the wholesome 1960s, and there's a scene where a gangster pulls out a huge folding knife, pushes the blade through the back of an apolstered chair, and says, "See, with an eight inch blade you can kill a guy, like this."
Looked like a good idea. Better than trying it from the front, with an oyster shucker. Immediately, I went online to my favorite knife seller, a web site convenient as all get out, and like Jimmy Stewart stuttering, they had in stock an eighteen inch stilleto lock back knife with an eight inch blade, for ten bucks. I placed an order. It's a babe. Of all things, the quality of cheap tool steel has been improving wonderfully. The US is a debtor nation, and any four year old with a paypal account can cop a blade you can X people through a lounge chair with. You don't get blood on you jammies.
#2
Deer round these parts grew lazy and trusting. Now don't y'all call PETA or the game warden, because this is all a kid's game of pretend, the buck behind the house is real as black plague.
The stiletto is in the inside secret weapons pocket of my Gap knock off of a Levy jacket. The knife is a cheap knock off of something Guido's utilize in film. The shoes are mail order from Wallmart, special for walking on modern synthetic office building floor. I'd like you to be fair enough to see how changing times are reflected in a different-from-last year fashion statement. It's punk.
I won't really try this at home. I just have to visualize charging into a large deer, doing a job on it before it realizes how serious things are. First I'd just stand still, looking calmly at the herd, like ususal.
#3
Everywhere you looked, downtown was convivial as a barnload of white people doing the Hokey Pokey. We're a barn dance. Farmers. Farmers that drifed here thanks to the industrial revolution and failing family farms. I love it here. We have major league sports.
The dot com craze of the mid nineteen nineties made this town perfect because you can have anything cheap, and be anything cheap. That latter grace is because people are too inchoate to challenge each other's posturing. Why in Boston, people like me get picked apart. You can be anything you want here, because all folk are comparably delusional, made equal by mercury in the fish sandwich.
I'm optimistic about the whole crock of shit because. I'm armed with a brand new trademark weapon. I have my costume selected. My suit of lights. I believe I am a type of torreador. An unrecognized torreador. A bullfighter is quest of understanding. Toro. Toro.
#4
None of this is real. It's about what can happen. I'm singing loud, deep, sonorous. The power ditty spiritual number I'm gutting off fills the passenger compartment of the paddy wagon. They picked me up like a blue plastic sack of empty beer cans on trash day. Using a long, cruel twist tie, like they close trash bags with, I can't use my hands for anything but finger snapping, and it's a pitiful rythme section to such an inspired type of song. I'm making it up, trying to drown out the siren, people in the wagon are squirming and bitching. We're like a a string of charms on a bracelet, linked together in this paddy wagon, going bumpety down the pot holes.
Monday, October 31, 2011
Power Futz
My premise is that too few Americans are in the strong and sane social economic models of yesteryear. The 'new you' could be more strapped and less represented in Washington. You may be a direct victim of formalized, duplicitous, aggressiove dissempowerment. But that's a little ham-throated, and I mean to make sense.
In range of most memories, there once existed organized consumerism. Middle class interest groups grew an A cup in their training brassiere on a plan to buy merchandise only from suppliers that comply with the consumer's political agendas. Ralf Nader convinced short dimply people they were entitled to product safety. Sweating over-forty types in warm-up suits and station wagons were encouraged to speak out, to drop a monkey wrench in commercial cogs, free of retaliation, because faceless powder puffs are entitled to be heard. I'm rebelling. I'm rebelling aganst the soft machine, and hard one as well, our stupid middle class and our fascist, mind controlling government/industrial complex. I don't know why I keep saying, 'our.' I feel alone with a strategem.
Bad Mamma Walmart beat that hope of consumerist empowerment to submission with her rolling pin, fresh imported flour smoking off her hygienic full body apron. There is no power left in consumerism. Not cried over above, joe smith in lower case letters can no longer make money in the stock markets, money markets, day trading pop stands, internet instant coffee mug magnate, you-have-an-order while the fat boy in a bathrobe drinks coffee type money earning ventures. You can't earn shet-tzu dung by working the resourses avalable to you. Whether by design or default, the dude in the Lazy Boy recliner is going weak. Here's my cutesy-pootsy unifying theory to go with this crap state of affairs.
I futz with things. No certainties. No captial investment. The freebies, the blog, youtube, craigslist, and a print on demand sevice that allows you to upload your compositions online, and thus offer a book for sale to the public. I futz with plans to design lines of merchandise, attempting to get a main stream manufacturing concern to run and sell said merchandise. The lost continent of free thinking is being futzed, by yours truly, on nearly all free internet publishing venues. A house philosophy based on Milton Friedman's economics is being applied here, in my ever whimsical bumbling unspectacular way. Results are obtained. More and faster than the fat cats. The way to recover economic vitality is to futz till something pays.
In range of most memories, there once existed organized consumerism. Middle class interest groups grew an A cup in their training brassiere on a plan to buy merchandise only from suppliers that comply with the consumer's political agendas. Ralf Nader convinced short dimply people they were entitled to product safety. Sweating over-forty types in warm-up suits and station wagons were encouraged to speak out, to drop a monkey wrench in commercial cogs, free of retaliation, because faceless powder puffs are entitled to be heard. I'm rebelling. I'm rebelling aganst the soft machine, and hard one as well, our stupid middle class and our fascist, mind controlling government/industrial complex. I don't know why I keep saying, 'our.' I feel alone with a strategem.
Bad Mamma Walmart beat that hope of consumerist empowerment to submission with her rolling pin, fresh imported flour smoking off her hygienic full body apron. There is no power left in consumerism. Not cried over above, joe smith in lower case letters can no longer make money in the stock markets, money markets, day trading pop stands, internet instant coffee mug magnate, you-have-an-order while the fat boy in a bathrobe drinks coffee type money earning ventures. You can't earn shet-tzu dung by working the resourses avalable to you. Whether by design or default, the dude in the Lazy Boy recliner is going weak. Here's my cutesy-pootsy unifying theory to go with this crap state of affairs.
I futz with things. No certainties. No captial investment. The freebies, the blog, youtube, craigslist, and a print on demand sevice that allows you to upload your compositions online, and thus offer a book for sale to the public. I futz with plans to design lines of merchandise, attempting to get a main stream manufacturing concern to run and sell said merchandise. The lost continent of free thinking is being futzed, by yours truly, on nearly all free internet publishing venues. A house philosophy based on Milton Friedman's economics is being applied here, in my ever whimsical bumbling unspectacular way. Results are obtained. More and faster than the fat cats. The way to recover economic vitality is to futz till something pays.
Monday, October 24, 2011
Much Like Bosnia
Relations with the deer are getting worse. I was riding my electric bicycle on the trails along Riverview Park. Rounding a hairpin curve, I was caused to stop at the sight of a score or so of them. All but a few were fashionably prone, very Christian Dior, evenly and angularly spaced, as if Buckminster Fuller had composed the grouping. It was an arresting sight.
A tall standing doe gave me that can't-you-please look that these snobs seem to practice in the mirror. Then she turned to the fauns and said, "Call one of us if Abe Lincoln starts talking to you." A twelve point buck lowered it's rack at me, more dissappointed than hostle, and said, "We're resting."
As I buzzed away, a scrawny punk six pointer jeered, "Hack. Third string Marlon Perkins investigator!"
A tall standing doe gave me that can't-you-please look that these snobs seem to practice in the mirror. Then she turned to the fauns and said, "Call one of us if Abe Lincoln starts talking to you." A twelve point buck lowered it's rack at me, more dissappointed than hostle, and said, "We're resting."
As I buzzed away, a scrawny punk six pointer jeered, "Hack. Third string Marlon Perkins investigator!"
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