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neg on the crust

April 17th, 2007 · No Comments

Digg is the amway of the internet. The “blogosphere” is a network marketing con game inundated with the same manipulations, code of ethics, and exclusive hierarchy of any similar multi level marketing scheme.
Tech Crunch? Who the fuck is Michael Arrington? I’ve been a blog lurker since 1998 and I don’t know what makes some of these sites important or relevant. I do notice the me-tooisms that seem to guide everyones cheerleader gene into social me-too-dot-ooh hysterical rah-rah frothy mouthed excitability.

The new social web is democratizing information and technology, making everything open and available to anybody (if you are educated, american and speak english (and you had a dot bomb startup that flailed like a anthrax monkey (bonus points for being white, male, cocky and ignorant to your moral and social short comings ))). Someone needs to make things so those others can generate their adwords revenue by doing something equivalent to banging pots and pans together on their branded and networked slice of the web. Being the loudest voice in the room seems to be more relevant than actually creating something.

I went into a homeless shelter to retrieve the remainder of my aunts possessions which fit into 2 black heafty bags, and not one person in that building could give a fuck what web service api was the best for whatever anal glam fest interbreed info microcosms those with the least amount of self-conscience decide to rediscover/rehash/reinvent/rebrand/retread next.

But it’s where I make my money – so you guys keep it up! Even though I find very little value in any of it as a whole to be a motivational source, solving the specific problems inside of the meaninglessness is a consistent and dependable source of distraction for my highly unstable attention span. Just don’t ask me to redo something I’ve already done. Nothing spurs me toward thoughts of self administered permanent sleep more quickly that that. It’s all about the new puzzles – reworking the same crap is inverse to day old pizza. (Day old pizza == so awesome) && (re-polishing a turd == so not awesome)

→ No CommentsTags: flail · ruinous

past in consideration

March 14th, 2007 · No Comments

I used to do it with cardboard boxes of junk. Now its directories buried in the messy file system. Look. And feel. Spasmodically gripping emotional waves in contemplations of the past. It was photos from past sxsw’s on flickr; then psd files of the dead dog. I spend so much time in the true/false world of code lately I’m out of practice with my ample sensitivities and their dominance over my days and nights.

I know that if I spend 14 hours writing javascript class methods or hacking out the business process of a hairy model object I’ll have very little time to contemplate the futility of existence. Everyone’s in general, mine in particular. Because the code works or it doesn’t, and it could always be better/faster/more refined. It’s concrete. Finite. Measurable. Understanding strings to array here opens the window on class inheritance over there. How closures and method overloading might possibly be almost the same thing in an abstract sense but completely different as relates to the language their used in.

How everything I know today will be laughable tomorrow. All it takes is a little nostalgia.

→ No CommentsTags: erstwhile

impalement pending

November 29th, 2006 · No Comments

What is with all the scissors eating credit cards like pigeons. They’re everywhere. On the sidewalk, the street – It’s a fucking nightmare.

People are cheerly tossing credit cards pulled from their purses and wallets at the aggressive little blades, which are snapping upward at their soft unprotected fingers. They smile with glee obviously in some sort of chemical driven denial of their terrifing predicament.

One step in any direction and they’ll have impaled their foot clean through. The other scissors having witnessed this blatant aggression toward one of their own will collectively swarm and start chopping the ever loving shit out of every human in range.

The whole situation is teetering on the razors edge of horrific blood soaked chaos.

Yet they smile and congratulate each other on the action of chopping up the burden of their current credit cards in favor of the do over which is the message of this commercial. The reality is much more aptly symbolized by the aggressive and brutal manner in which your “credit” can be destroyed by the ruthless hungry blades, that the pervasive elements that can conspire to destroy you and your financial freedom are everywhere underfoot. One misstep and you are royally screwed.

The whole lot is a subversive riff on the lengths we as consumers will go to in our denial of the fragility and impermanence of our current reality. That it could all blow away. Still we dance with the absurd, and joyfully observe the glinting blades of our demise as they are anointed symbols of salvation.

Maybe tomorrow when I’m not a pessimist I’ll see the hope and freedom in being able to be so sarcastic about the whole affair, that the sense of humor about it all may not be the bleak fantasy of delusional jackass’s but a reaffirming of the eternal connectedness of every bit that ever was. Maybe.

→ No CommentsTags: consuming · dismay

flagrant propensity

October 2nd, 2003 · No Comments

My idealistic optimism and youthful exuberance have all but worn away under the steady, grinding monotony of reluctant adulthood. Without malice or purpose I have steadily slid into a series of repetitive patterns that structure and direct my daily existence. Already being mildly obsessive compulsive, the sequence of activities that make up my waking hours tend to evolve into thoughtless activities that have rhythm and purpose, but no depth. In the ultimate display of my narcissistic tendencies, I, in my head, become dissatisfied and self-conscious about the mundane and un-sexy nature of my routine.

Unfulfilled with the way my bed is made (the pillows and blankets have to form a sweeping bowl across the head of the bed, with a certain amount of sheet visible – while the pillows still poke out just the right amount) or how my shoes are arranged on the floor, angst ridden by the inconsistency of the order in which I dried my extremities after a shower.

Patterns! I develop patterns! I abhor patterns! I loathe predictability! Give me chaos! A righteous wave of motherfucking botchery. Give me Carnal knowledge of some goddamn unpredictability.

I will concede that it becomes necessary to adopt a certain amount of structure to function at a high enough level to remain autonomous, and off the radar of those who possess the thorazine filled syringes. Nothing so much kills a buzz more so than being institutionalized because your brand of entertainment is regarded as dangerous, and dare I say, slightly illegal.

This is the kind of shit where you wake up when your 40 and sex has become about as exciting and formulaic as baking a cake. Crack some eggs here, put a tongue there. If you’re not careful, both the consumption of cake and orgasms start having a similar after effect. Mildly pleased pleasure centers, sleepiness, and a desire to watch cable. Fuck that! Orgasms should be so intense that you forget how to spell your fucking name for 5 minutes. That’s the shit I’m talking about!

I must fight this devolution into boring matching socks guy. Maybe I’ll get a Mohawk, or start wearing more leather. It isn’t something external or aesthetic that’s going to stave off complacency, I know this. I’m thinking more along the lines of an outward exhibition of my inward commitment to remain on the fringe of full domestication.

I’ll still pay my bills on time and avoid credit card debt, but quiet strings of obscenities will leave my lips every time I lick the flap of an envelope to seal up a check that I’m sending of to the shackling maws of THE MAN. I’ll still check the mail religiously, but it will be after my Adonis complex ass has fully pumped in the home gym, and my very nearly naked swole-as-fuck self will linger and flex unconsciously (or so it will seem) on the front stoop in plain view of all my neighbors as I scan yet another junk mail piece from Lane Bryant (because someone thinks I’m a fat chick that likes earth tones so they keep mailing me these fucking things).

Oh yes my friends. The gig is up. The blinders are off. I’m clued in, on the ball, 100% operational. Back on track. Inanity no more. We are go for light speed, bitches.

→ No CommentsTags: consuming · dismay · ruinous

born different

July 29th, 2003 · No Comments

I’ve always known I was different than other people. I was born, or endowed with at an early age, an intuitive sense about things and people. I fundamentally understand at the core of my being certain things about people, the world, and what matters. I always have.

Being a devious, cunning, or a spiteful and angry person was never something that I could do with any modicum of success, or fully understand when someone else acted in these ways. My opinions and judgments were and are not something that I strive to impress upon others as a regular course of action. That is unless I know and have known you for a long time, and I’m certain you’re trustworthy and enlightened enough to grasp the significance of such events coming to pass.

I know what I know. I believe what I believe. No need to argue or proselytize in a bid to dominate or alienate you. I do this well enough physically. See, I’ve always known in the very deepest parts of my intellect that everyone has freedom to do and think as they will. None of you are wrong or right. No judgment should be passed on any one, we are all on our own journey, doing the best we can to love or be loved, to exert ourselves in a bid for happiness and contentment in existence as ongoing human concerns.

I still fail this enlightenment. Pride and arrogance regularly drive me to the deepest of alienation from everything I find joyful and substantive in life. These are dark times, where I feel the death of every connection I have to being alive.

In my faith one of the base ideas is that everything is connected. Death brings life. All is one. When I die I do not disappear. My body doesn’t flicker and fade away. Even then I am not my body. I will live in the hearts and minds of the people I loved and that have loved me. The material that is me has been here since the beginning, every atom that composes my physical self will become part of something else eventually.

This is how I’ve thought and felt from a very young age. This is why I’ve felt alienated from everything for most of my life. It was fear. Fear of what you would think. Fear that I wouldn’t be good enough, that I wouldn’t have what it takes to rank amongst all the rest. That these ideas I hold in my heart with the same calm certainty a parent has in their love for a child would be exposed as a weakness. To be exploited, reviled. I never had proof this would happen, I just knew when I heard you talk I didn’t get it, and I thought that that made me bad. Goddamn it hurts to write that.

This thing I used to perceive as my greatest weakness is now my greatest source of strength. I know that nothing outside myself can create happiness; it’s by embracing my innermost self that I will have something to give to the world, to you.

→ No CommentsTags: consuming · dismay · introspect


June 13th, 2003 · No Comments

I have much contempt for myself. This life I live, many toys and too much free time, while other suffer under the weight of disease and economic hardship.

I had this comedic self-absorbed paragraph talking about navel gazing. Now it’s just not funny. Something about a cheese sandwich, and how I used to have leukemia and I, like, died from it and now I live in Kansas, but now that my actual grandmother might have actual leukemia it just doesn’t seem as funny.

She’s in a hospital in Fargo. The same Fargo as the movie title, except the movie wasn’t even really shot in Fargo. Something oddly Midwestern and doomed about my grandmother going to Fargo instead of the Mayo clinic, which would be my choice between the two. If it comes to a hospital in a city that’s known for, well, nothing or a world-renowned medical Mecca, I’m going with Dr. Mayo’s legacy.

Here I am in sight of credit debt freedom, and these 42 inch T.V.’s are calling OUT my fucking name, and I’m all like “You don’t need a fucking 42 inch plasma screen TV!” and my slightly engorged techno lust says “FUCKING 42 INCHES! NASCAR THUNDER 2003 WOULD FUCKING ROCK ON THAT THING!” and then I enter this weird few minutes where it’s cut the cards up or go to Best Buy and enter into another 4 years of debt consolidation and nerve wracking financial precariousness.

So far I am winning the battles, but this means nothing. War is hell, and if they even hint at rebates or a sale I’m throwing a fucking party and were all watching life size porn with surround sound while I count out my pennies to pay the electric bill.

One would think that if working out legs results in 3-4 days of limping and moaning whenever you stand up after sitting for any significant time (that being as little as 5 minutes) one would not do things to repeat the pain purposely. Yet, here I am well into the third day of lower body discomfort. Some sick macho part of my twisted mind actually finds pleasure in the amount of discomfort produced by the mindless task of strapping iron to my back and fighting against gravity repeatedly until I want to pass out, puke, or both. Not necessarily in that order.

Heads are going to roll my friend. Loaves and fishes no more, motherfucker. It’s fucking come with you’re A game time, bitches. No cups, no net. Just be sure to sign the “I got my motherfucking ass handed to me” roster on your sorry ass limp out.

→ No CommentsTags: dismay · flail

it sinks – internal narrative

May 7th, 2003 · No Comments

Something about this stir stick stuck in my head. Or was it a spoon?  Dull gray steel flare, it leans forward from my angle. The cup steams, thinly dancing shapes only survive the surface, becoming nothing the further up they float. As I stare at it intently I see the reflections made in the dark rich surface of the liquid. Rim, rim’s reflection, and then this enormous thrusting metal pillar ascending out of the careful composition. Everything above the surface is mirrored in it, and I shake the table to agitate, upsetting the smooth retelling of a simple arrangement.

All of everything is where focus is. If I stare long enough at this one object, on this one table, in this one room, in this one building, on this one street, in the one city, in this one state, I can deny the fact that whatever the circumstances, no matter how much it doesn’t matter in the scheme of things that something in my immediate perception of reality is intolerable in some way, that beauty, order, and certainty can be gleamed from the simplicity of function right in front of my nose.

It’s these simple little self-mind fucks, the games I play with thought to trick myself into some more comforting thinking space. The decisions I make about the input from the world around me, and how it relates to anything in context and relation to any of the million other variables that have to considered, can really disjoint any faux sanity I’ve managed to muster.

Most people don’t even realize the games they play with themselves, how what they think is instinctive isn’t really instinctive at all. They have conditioned themselves out of need and choice to become who and how they are today. Saying you are “just the way I am” is a copout and you’re a pussy. A fucking panty waste pansy, get some perspective or take a header from your favorite interstate overpass. No one is just the way they are, they are the way they choose to be. You need pills to fix your fucking head? I can dig how chemical imbalances can make it tough to get your head right. Get the fucking pills, then make the decisions to change the way you think.

Funny how all this energy becomes nothing when the lights finally go out.

→ No CommentsTags: comfort · consuming · introspect


May 6th, 2003 · No Comments

It’s something about the humidity. Brushed with the gunk funk of fossil fuel byproducts, smells like burning tires and blue-collar poverty. Greasy slick concrete, it’s cheap to build so they make three lanes in both directions. I used to blame the roads for slickness, but now I know its my tires fault. Nothing in life quite like pushing the brake pedal and having it be like a game of Russian roulette. Never knowing when your not going to be able to stop in time. Throw some water into the mix for some added pleasure. Nothing like having intersections with the same mutable qualities of an excited labia minor.

All right you judgmental motherfucker, I drive the speed limit, and allow appropriate distance for braking. So fuck off with your holier than thou “just slow down, dumbshit” comments. I’m the only one that gets to pass harsh, unforgiving judgment on other people, you just get to suck it up and know you are always wrong, and most very likely late in delivering your accolades to me and my superior genius.

You have no idea how frustrating and lonely it can be living in a world saturated with such sub par specimens of human gene propagation. Some sort of twisted divine intervention had to have taken place for the parents of some of these dumb dumbs to have
A) Lived long enough to come to an age where they were physically capable of reproduction, and
B) Been able to figure out a way to undress themselves (if they even had clothes on in the first place) and copulate.
The stink of crusty, dried drool and dirty diaper must have been horrendous!

I’m glad other people care about intelligence and status and all those charming societal measurements of a persons worth as a human being. I myself settle for the proper ornamentation without all the bothersome education and corporate political scrambling. I don’t get it really, how I can have all the toys and not have bought into the system? There must be a god, and he must love me more than he loves you.

There is a license plate frame that says:
“Next time you think you’re perfect, try walking on water.”
What the fuck is this bullshit? I’m guessing it’s a bible thing, something about buddy Jesus and his wacky gang of reformed whores and miscreants. Who the fuck thinks their perfect, without fault? And what is it with people putting stickers and license plate frames on their vehicles anyway? Are they trying to communicate something about their personality to the outside world? Do they want to be perceived a certain way by people that see them driving? Is it something about the message or content of the advertisement that tells about what kind of person the person driving the car is?

Was I supposed to think she was a righteous Christian slut with a horrible perm that lived a fear based existence and comforted herself with the though that heaven awaits her as long as she testifies to the world, starting with her license plate frame?

I think it has everything to do with communicating status to others on the road. There’s also something ‘bout the ‘tude! My trucks the best! Yours gets peed on, HA! I went to this state college and have pride about spending 4 years of my life drunk! I support our troops, but not the war and I like indy rock – see how cool and hip I am?
My stomach physically turns in embarrassment for these people that are so lacking in identity that they try to create it out of sticky back transparent graphics. Thing is, they know not what they do. In some sad, misdirected way, these activities fill them with a sense of purpose. The affixed kitsch solidifies some abstract idea as a permanent part of their person. Stickers can make me a mountaineer; a world class traveler; a competitive cyclist; a bad ass motor head; a sassy ignorant teenage girl; a patriot; a heathen; a democrat; a green; a republican; an import auto racer; an intellectual; a proud graduate; a cocky parent; anything I want to be. If I affix the sticker, to anyone that sees it I become the embodiment of all that that person perceives about whatever it is I am promoting or claiming to be through my advertisement.

→ No CommentsTags: Uncategorized


May 1st, 2003 · No Comments

Got to come up with a way to counterweight this indefensible posture. Saying as the song goes, we be rockin’ or some such other pop slur quick cut upbeat tempo take. It being rave inspired, designer habitual. Drugs, lots of ‘em. Heart speeding, beat for beat behind breastbones, sweat, super saturated lungs. Hyperventilation oxygen related high, I do this same thing with heavy iron repetitions, yet I avoid the ashtray shitting in your mouth feeling that the former gives you for days afterward, or maybe my shit just wasn’t as high grade as yours, motherfucker. I tell you with every truthful vein running through my body that I would still do the shit as often and in as high a quantities as possible if it hadn’t almost killed me.

I’ve always had need. Need for what? Always something different than what I got. Some more bigger better faster stronger, the next, the new. Higher highs, deeper pockets – insatiable techno lust. Struck match set to parched earth, my desire runs as fire consuming, stinking of burn. Ready to rub these cupped clubs of rebellion – fuck you I ain’t playing along no more.

Let’s cheat, lie, and defy, but only on the inside. I got these vicious word strings taunting me to let it out, let it all loose. Not a way to make friends and influence people. So much of this life seems a lie, a facsimile of some screen written production, a cleverly crafted imperfect reality based dramatization. But the lighting sucks, and the director has no fucking idea how to frame a shot or capture a mood with subtlety. He’s a borax chugging agent of Satan, not the old devil. Nope, the newer improved 8.0 Lucifer with the twin cams and nitro oxide psi pounding pavement and were all in for 180 MPH straight to hell or something like it.

I like the fact that every single person is a deviant. That the keepers of the faith find small boys irresistible, and churches have to sell their towers to cellular companies to pay for priests kiddy pilfering. That people in power participate in perilous pants down perversions, which we can buy on DVD media.

Ain’t life grand?

→ No CommentsTags: dismay · flail · ruinous

you can buy it at the store, but its never as good as homemade

April 30th, 2003 · No Comments

Fingerless palms close, slippery entry
Noises airy incoherent expressions.
I just had to ask
“keep going?”

Eyelid nod flutter, breathing out
Some slurry soup oh-god-yes-please exhalation

Tomato colored complexion, eventually learning how to breathe again. Movement, so little can electrify every nerve, everyone knows where all the blood went. Done gone ran away with any sense of restraint, but oh boy was there a hold out. Some epic colossal battle of opposing forces that offers no motivation for victory, just some obligatory consideration of the other half of this fulfillment equation.  Timed arrival, more concerned unison, final end reached, common duality – with the socks on. At least it was the good kind of cold feet.

Too tired? What do you mean too tired? I’ll do all the work.

→ No CommentsTags: consuming · defensible · erstwhile