I once heard a joke that Iowa stands for Idiots Out Wandering Around. My personal experiences add homage to this, as I was once ridiculed by my peers for getting lost in the only new development in a town of 2,000 people. In my defense, there were a lot of houses that looked the same, and all had large 4x4 pickups and a moderately priced sedan parked in front of the two stall garages. I had never seen a dead end road before, and the cul-de-sac invention was reserved to the bigger towns that I had not yet seen in life. I used to take my complete lack of common sense or nautical judgement as a burden of birth and with a lot of shame, but then again we all have to start somewhere, and I haven't seen to many dead end roads sense I began searching the one less traveled. Perhaps I was just as the joke states, as I still have no idea as to why I was wandering around in the development in the first place or idiotically why I chose to call and ask my friend for directions on how to escape. Perhaps the joke has merit for more than me, or in the recognition of its validity I am just the biggest idiot and wanderer to ever be born in the state that carries the slogan, "A Place to Grow."
As I drink Left over wine, that was to be thrown out by a renter of the property I manage in the seeming paradise of Costa Rica, something that I have now coined a phrase for, "left over Delicacies, I remember exactly where I started, the roots of life that I have tried desperately to entangle myself from, yet seem to always implant me with the right demeanor to survive in any setting with almost anyone I have met from over 60 countries surrounding the globe. The key is sincerity of self, and the ability to make fun of yourself when yourself is taking life to seriously.
Pedals Of Love that Bite us in the Ass.
I have always been a lot more insecure then most would assume. I remember my first sexual experience being halted due to a complete lack of confidence at the ripe age of 16 when all my friends had already received the stinky pinky and I was just discovering the balls to test the waters south of the border. The somewhat unknown and promiscuous 15 year old was ripe and ready, and when the panties dropped I had a hard time exploring the land down under due to the grass on the playing field being absent. I never read a manual, but I had heard conversations of friends and knew that Jungle Bush was the fur that guided you home, when it was absent, confusion set in, to much time elapsed and the eager beaver wiggled away thinking I was just a tease. Instead of persisting at a later date, I went to my basketball game, had an off night, and broke up with the girl the next day. The things that girl could have taught me if only I had persisted. Instead I fumbled, and her reputation was known from that date on as the girl who's grass didn't grow due to a well played playground. Bless her thee, oh teenage girl ahead of her time, If I were the man I was now, i would have merely asked for a mulligan and tee'd up again instead of yelling fore and clubbing down your reputation in the process.
Inevitably I was the one that paid the price of mental torment. Insecurity got the best of me and for two more years I waited to test the sails on the canoe again. I remember some of my female classmates questioning my sexuality and reason for ignoring their pleas for high school sexscapades, i always ignored them, leaving them to wander if I truly was light in the pants or If I just thought I was to good to play around in a pool that others had dived into before.
When all is said in done I got the best end of the deal as I settled down with a girl who knew nothing of my lack of experience and was able to try again with more insight and desire to succeed. The first attempts were horrible.
As the idiot wanderer I set out to find a nice country road and a place to heat up a winter night with my new girlfriend from a rivaling school and was bound to break the vagina spell that had cursed me. Car was running, jams were lubricating our senses, and I was ready to shift things into high gear. My pants were down, so were hers and then the lights came from miles away. Paranoia is a bitch especially when you were as horny and image conscious as I was. No all American boy, wants to be found pants down with his all American boy rivals sister bumping uglies, so I quickly reached for the other stick gear and proceeded to back my car directly into the ditch that I had so cleverly defined as my place to loose all distractions and inhibitions. I jumped out of my passenger seat, pants at ankles, knee deep in icy water ditch to discover that my car literally only had two wheels resting on the ground. I was in a lot of headlines in High School and this was not one I wanted to put in the scrap book.
I left the girl there, I ran a country mile to a friends house, observed a large chain in the back of there pick up truck, ran back to my car and waited for the next lights that passed. I was actually thinking of stealing the truck itself, but opted against, and rejoined my love to wait.
The first car that stopped was two kids from Alburnett, that were in my girlfriends grade and who I had known through sports. The first thing out of there mouth was. "Holy Shit Corey Hahn, and Laurie Sabers", what the hell are you two doing out here. I through my hands up and defeat, gave him a wink and asked for mercy. He complied and we were out, yet I still had not broke free as the mood was finished, and my first time would have to wait for better circumstances.
I thought I had found these circumstances a month or so later when I had discovered a campground that was off the beaten path that classmates commonly used to throw keggers that I had seldom attended. A shame, but to be discussed in a different segment. Sex was discussed, I was in love, and I was ready to explode. Approaching sunset night, Laurie and I headed out to the spot and things were sure to undress into my first love making experience. We parked the car, headed outside, and were instantly engaged in what was supposed to be the lost of innocence. Half way into the process of seduction, we were ready to become one as she was beautifully laid out on the hood of my car, and my engine was running. I waited to long as there was a rapid onslaught of mosquitoes that starting attacking every bare naked inch of both of our bodies. I ran for cover, screaming and whaling my arms, trying to save myself and self alone. She didn't take the bulk of the attack, but to this day I can still remember her counting the 56 different mosquito bites that laced my ass, legs, and genital region. She laughed to the sight of her mere 12 war wounds which failed to appease me, but her whispering "all good things come to those who wait", certainly did.
And they did, and with great irony. I remember in little league when I was around ten and my grandfather figure coach pulled us away from a triple header tournament, right before the championship game. He went into a long winded speech on the birds and the bees, yet the point was simple. Respect women, above all else, and never belittle them to the point of taking there virginity in the back seat of your car. Perhaps his timing was off, as we were only ten, and too much time and too many hormones had built up to prevent the attempts. In contemplation of this many years later, I now understand that all things happen when they are supposed to and not when you want or believe you need them too.
The night Finally came, the parents were out of town, the girl was unexpecting and the mood was set. Jewel playing in the background, flowers on the table, and Her favorite meal of fettuccine Alfredo in a package, over top of deep fat fried chicken patties prepared for her upon arrival. These details unlike the rest, our sacred to me, and I will never forget the women, the time, and the place when I was in love with a girl, she was in love with me, and I made love for the right reasons in the right setting with out the pressure to conquer, only the conquering pressure of timing.
So much time has elapsed and many expereinces can be remembered. I wish I could say that my early attempts and failures at love making and the perfect scenario that innocence was lost in have always been added to with a sense of luck and maturity but I have often times regressed along the way. I lost a bit of myself when I was alone and desperate and got involved in the import, export business of beautiful women from states far away from home. I have dabbled in one night affairs and resolve to exist in the affairs of one night that have almost lasted forever each time I existed in them. I am not afraid or fearful of loving in the moment, or waiting an eternity to love the illusion as defined in my heart. I've loved women who I thought loved me back. When they hurt me, I slept with there roommate. Time heals when you begin to understand that we are all in the spider web of learning how we want to be loved and the silky strings that attach these lessons are sometimes broken along the way to returning the favor. I manipulated my way into escape from women who have truly taken on the difficult chore of loving me only to be alone even further away and in search of the the type of love that will never give me the chance to push it away. I've watched my mother struggle with the same type of men, and their ignorance in old age to push away the greatest lover I have ever known. I have been in love when I wasn't supposed to be. I've fathered a child with a young girl who doesn't speak my language, and despite my willingness to love, and wait, the flower has refused to open, or the water I can provide her doesn't quench the thirst she needs to blossom. But I must remember that I am constantly growing, and perhaps the failures that we blame ourselves for, our not ours alone, just pedals to be plucked from the dandelions of our youth and beyond. She loves me, She loves me not, I love me, I love me not, This Time loves me, This Time loves me not, yet but always.
TO BE CONTINUED....
Monday, February 16, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
"Machismo so Horney"
I am waiting for a headline in the local beat, stating
"Death to Nicaraguan Construction Worker by internal Sperm explosion.” It hasn’t come yet, but without offering help to the Machismo Society I am Living in, it is bound to.
As a recently single man burrowing into the boredom of summer solitude in Central American Paradise, I have become a little more aware of the sexual energy in the air and the many different approaches waged upon the beautiful, and even not so, women in the small boom surf town I call home, Tamarindo. I thought it would be an opportune time to dive into the bush and come out swinging with opinions about the male prowess in hopes of finding my own truths as well as shedding some advice and understanding for those who just can't seem to help their own cause no matter how honest and deserving they may be. This one is for you my Latin sex charged compadres, and for all the people that are helpless yet hopeful with good honest and passionate intent.It's no secret that Latin Male Culture Prides itself on it's Machismo strut, and despite it always being in the face of expats and tourists, especially the one's with blonde hair and boobies, It may have merit in existence.
Machismo, simply defined, according to dictionary.com is: the strong or exaggerated sense of manliness; an assumptive attitude that virility, courage, strength, and entitlement to dominate are attributes or concomitants of masculinity.
On definition alone, this state of being can probably be used to describe 90% of the male population in any given bar in any give town in and given part of the world past designated happy hour time slots. But in Latin America Culture, it has only been widely used since the 1990's when feminist groups were trying to label the reasoning for Latino's having an inherent attraction to grabbing there crotches and cat calling every single women that passes there glance. In my experience, this seems to be a more vulgar sentiment depending on man's decreased economial postion, and social status. Or rather, the poorer the man, the more handful of his own juevos he receives on a daily basis, and rightly so. Most of my time in Costa Rica has been spent living similar to a Tico, a commonly used phrased for males born in the country of Costa Rica. Having a Latin extended family, I've gotten first hand experience living inside the family unit of young Latin Males.Through these experiences I have gained insight, and opinion as to why Latin Men are so sex charged and proud to be Men.
Reason number one, is simple, a lack of a adult male presence for young males. If Prick with a Dick was there to be a Father, perhaps he would be able to shed some insight on exactly where being proud and vulgar gets you, married, children, divorced, child support, girlfriend, more children, more child support, poor and confused at Christmas due to not knowing which family unit to be with, and not being able to remember your children’s name.
Secondly, privacy in youth. I remember being 13 once, and having a plethora of tools at my disposal for my two time a day spank bank session with Maestra Robinson, or senior cheerleader Suzy. There were gels, household items, napkins and Central Air, but most of importantly my own room. There was never five year old sister Maria snoring next to me, or Grandma Rosa rocking in the chair reading the bible while rinsing her underwear in the sink next to her, and conincidentally whoever else is in the room. Can you imagine going through your whole adolescent life without the opportunity to close your eyes and go to work in peace and privacy. Eight immediate family member sharing the same hot room, doesn't create the type of ambience most of us gringos were afforded in our "in heat" puberty rich youth. So the vicious cycle is formed. Uneducated Sex is Had, Poverty is regurgitated, and Pride of what you own, is all you live for which is the six babies you created.
I do not condone the social aspects of the Machismo philosophy that cripples good common principal such as, adultery, avoiding responsibility, and overall disregard to feminie beings, however I must give kudos for having the resiliency to be continually kicked in the balls, straighten back up, and persistently ask..."Gracias Senor, Otra vez."
The Scenario is simple: Eighteen year old Jose is out of the house for the first time, working hard as slave labor for some Wet Dream Developer in Paradise, where he is provided two square meals a day, a cement seven story construction zone Jail cell, and then often room and board where 250 other young men just like him are tiredly falling a sleep to the thoughts of blue eyed Betty who passed the dusty road below there concrete tour with a thong bikini and dripping blonde hair. The variety in women in any paradise tourist town would make most sane men drop there hammer, and reach for the power tool. I look, 80% of the time, why the hell wouldn't they scream out at the top of their lungs...."OH Mamasita." Seriously!! However, I choose Discrete Methods; they have no realistic reason for. So the night comes when they get a day off and a bottle of Cacique in there brain, and they hit the village looking for anything with a pulse to conquer, because the world all around them is oblique, somber and definitely conquering them. Every man deserves opportunity to let a screw loose. Oversimplified, of course, but throw in extreme poverty, no way of improving your social status, the need to belong and feel powerful in a world that has forgoten you and in a country that is no longer theirs and we have a small glimpse of the mentality we are dealing with.
Perhaps empathy is warranted, but empathy doesn’t resolve the problematic process. And nobody get’s laid without a little effort. The story for most decent men is the same. With social entertainment cost pricing most out of a decent opportunity to interact with members of the opposite gender, and the opposite gender seemingly always having upscale expectations, sexual endeavors are at best, random luck. Your not maricon for choosing to avoid a battle that isn’t stacked in your favor. Of course Sexual Life would be simpler for all men afforded the right to His and Her Surfboards and a motorcycle ride for two to the land of uninhibited intercourse. Godless the “Pura Vida” tico's and there wealth of foreign love making experience, without you, the rest of us misplaced romantics would truly not be able to envy anyone. Of course the art of seduction is more free when you can afford countless attempts at highly inflated entertainment settings. But nothing in life is free, and you always get what you pay for.
Standards need to be set and I personally prefer the solitude and sanity of being single far more than the random night of debauchery and passion with a stranger that I either pity or even worse, it's reciprocal. I still have the non-costly chance of meeting Mr.’s "right now" while watching a sunset with my son, or combing through the bare super market aisles bargain shopping for beans and rice, while my hard working sex deprived peers do not. I know, It's hard being poor, single, and horrifyingly honest about desire.
To the credit of most Latin men, atleast they don't discriminate, by shape, age, or bank roll. The Richer and charming are not always this kind and sincere with there methods of approach.
The only incouraging sign for women is this type of non-discrete, mating call madness, is not contagious. I don't expect to be sitting at my favorite modern, third story sushi lounge, with a group of decent men and standing at full attention with drink and member in hand at every women that walks into the open air ambience, no matter how long the dry spell continues. But I am uncommon gringo, Your safe from me. However not the overabundant well-to-do the suave guy that says he will buy you a drink, even though it's Thursday night and the Ladies night Rum Punches are free, as he eye humps the far more attractive girl in the sun dress across the room. These men occupy the scene and are just as inherently machismo as Juan the Gardner that drools approval every time you’re out walking your pooch. Be cautious ladies, Vulgar is Preconceived, not always Pronounced.
Maybe I have changed to many diapers, or become too sympathetic to those who have little hope. Perhaps my domesticated scent in the social scene is equivalent to that of my desperate dark horse construction worker brothers, and our chances for long moonlit walks on pristine beaches with the women we desire are minimal. But my philosophy is simple and peacefully pacifies my existence through dehydrating droughts and effortless rejection; If everyone else is DOING it, is it really going to help me evolve in any form towards achievement of what I truly desire.
This philosophy quite remarkably, should be turned into a question that my machismo many should ask themselves as well from the moment they become armed and dangerous. If everyone else is going garbage grabbing, and shouting indigenous insult at every woman that passes, and still wakes up cocked and ready to explode, is the approach working.
Safe, boringly common, and expected leads you on the path to meeting social, economical, and predesigned expectations not surpassing them. How do you win the war on women instead of being the victim? Ignore them! When your really desperate ignore them and improve yourself. When your ready, and almost at the point of becoming the martyr in the pre mentioned headline, Attack in subtlety, and sincerity. No one wins a war they don’t believe is worth dying for.
Be Creative. Be Educated not Obvious! And always be, but never play it safe.
"Death to Nicaraguan Construction Worker by internal Sperm explosion.” It hasn’t come yet, but without offering help to the Machismo Society I am Living in, it is bound to.
As a recently single man burrowing into the boredom of summer solitude in Central American Paradise, I have become a little more aware of the sexual energy in the air and the many different approaches waged upon the beautiful, and even not so, women in the small boom surf town I call home, Tamarindo. I thought it would be an opportune time to dive into the bush and come out swinging with opinions about the male prowess in hopes of finding my own truths as well as shedding some advice and understanding for those who just can't seem to help their own cause no matter how honest and deserving they may be. This one is for you my Latin sex charged compadres, and for all the people that are helpless yet hopeful with good honest and passionate intent.It's no secret that Latin Male Culture Prides itself on it's Machismo strut, and despite it always being in the face of expats and tourists, especially the one's with blonde hair and boobies, It may have merit in existence.
Machismo, simply defined, according to dictionary.com is: the strong or exaggerated sense of manliness; an assumptive attitude that virility, courage, strength, and entitlement to dominate are attributes or concomitants of masculinity.
On definition alone, this state of being can probably be used to describe 90% of the male population in any given bar in any give town in and given part of the world past designated happy hour time slots. But in Latin America Culture, it has only been widely used since the 1990's when feminist groups were trying to label the reasoning for Latino's having an inherent attraction to grabbing there crotches and cat calling every single women that passes there glance. In my experience, this seems to be a more vulgar sentiment depending on man's decreased economial postion, and social status. Or rather, the poorer the man, the more handful of his own juevos he receives on a daily basis, and rightly so. Most of my time in Costa Rica has been spent living similar to a Tico, a commonly used phrased for males born in the country of Costa Rica. Having a Latin extended family, I've gotten first hand experience living inside the family unit of young Latin Males.Through these experiences I have gained insight, and opinion as to why Latin Men are so sex charged and proud to be Men.
Reason number one, is simple, a lack of a adult male presence for young males. If Prick with a Dick was there to be a Father, perhaps he would be able to shed some insight on exactly where being proud and vulgar gets you, married, children, divorced, child support, girlfriend, more children, more child support, poor and confused at Christmas due to not knowing which family unit to be with, and not being able to remember your children’s name.
Secondly, privacy in youth. I remember being 13 once, and having a plethora of tools at my disposal for my two time a day spank bank session with Maestra Robinson, or senior cheerleader Suzy. There were gels, household items, napkins and Central Air, but most of importantly my own room. There was never five year old sister Maria snoring next to me, or Grandma Rosa rocking in the chair reading the bible while rinsing her underwear in the sink next to her, and conincidentally whoever else is in the room. Can you imagine going through your whole adolescent life without the opportunity to close your eyes and go to work in peace and privacy. Eight immediate family member sharing the same hot room, doesn't create the type of ambience most of us gringos were afforded in our "in heat" puberty rich youth. So the vicious cycle is formed. Uneducated Sex is Had, Poverty is regurgitated, and Pride of what you own, is all you live for which is the six babies you created.
I do not condone the social aspects of the Machismo philosophy that cripples good common principal such as, adultery, avoiding responsibility, and overall disregard to feminie beings, however I must give kudos for having the resiliency to be continually kicked in the balls, straighten back up, and persistently ask..."Gracias Senor, Otra vez."
The Scenario is simple: Eighteen year old Jose is out of the house for the first time, working hard as slave labor for some Wet Dream Developer in Paradise, where he is provided two square meals a day, a cement seven story construction zone Jail cell, and then often room and board where 250 other young men just like him are tiredly falling a sleep to the thoughts of blue eyed Betty who passed the dusty road below there concrete tour with a thong bikini and dripping blonde hair. The variety in women in any paradise tourist town would make most sane men drop there hammer, and reach for the power tool. I look, 80% of the time, why the hell wouldn't they scream out at the top of their lungs...."OH Mamasita." Seriously!! However, I choose Discrete Methods; they have no realistic reason for. So the night comes when they get a day off and a bottle of Cacique in there brain, and they hit the village looking for anything with a pulse to conquer, because the world all around them is oblique, somber and definitely conquering them. Every man deserves opportunity to let a screw loose. Oversimplified, of course, but throw in extreme poverty, no way of improving your social status, the need to belong and feel powerful in a world that has forgoten you and in a country that is no longer theirs and we have a small glimpse of the mentality we are dealing with.
Perhaps empathy is warranted, but empathy doesn’t resolve the problematic process. And nobody get’s laid without a little effort. The story for most decent men is the same. With social entertainment cost pricing most out of a decent opportunity to interact with members of the opposite gender, and the opposite gender seemingly always having upscale expectations, sexual endeavors are at best, random luck. Your not maricon for choosing to avoid a battle that isn’t stacked in your favor. Of course Sexual Life would be simpler for all men afforded the right to His and Her Surfboards and a motorcycle ride for two to the land of uninhibited intercourse. Godless the “Pura Vida” tico's and there wealth of foreign love making experience, without you, the rest of us misplaced romantics would truly not be able to envy anyone. Of course the art of seduction is more free when you can afford countless attempts at highly inflated entertainment settings. But nothing in life is free, and you always get what you pay for.
Standards need to be set and I personally prefer the solitude and sanity of being single far more than the random night of debauchery and passion with a stranger that I either pity or even worse, it's reciprocal. I still have the non-costly chance of meeting Mr.’s "right now" while watching a sunset with my son, or combing through the bare super market aisles bargain shopping for beans and rice, while my hard working sex deprived peers do not. I know, It's hard being poor, single, and horrifyingly honest about desire.
To the credit of most Latin men, atleast they don't discriminate, by shape, age, or bank roll. The Richer and charming are not always this kind and sincere with there methods of approach.
The only incouraging sign for women is this type of non-discrete, mating call madness, is not contagious. I don't expect to be sitting at my favorite modern, third story sushi lounge, with a group of decent men and standing at full attention with drink and member in hand at every women that walks into the open air ambience, no matter how long the dry spell continues. But I am uncommon gringo, Your safe from me. However not the overabundant well-to-do the suave guy that says he will buy you a drink, even though it's Thursday night and the Ladies night Rum Punches are free, as he eye humps the far more attractive girl in the sun dress across the room. These men occupy the scene and are just as inherently machismo as Juan the Gardner that drools approval every time you’re out walking your pooch. Be cautious ladies, Vulgar is Preconceived, not always Pronounced.
Maybe I have changed to many diapers, or become too sympathetic to those who have little hope. Perhaps my domesticated scent in the social scene is equivalent to that of my desperate dark horse construction worker brothers, and our chances for long moonlit walks on pristine beaches with the women we desire are minimal. But my philosophy is simple and peacefully pacifies my existence through dehydrating droughts and effortless rejection; If everyone else is DOING it, is it really going to help me evolve in any form towards achievement of what I truly desire.
This philosophy quite remarkably, should be turned into a question that my machismo many should ask themselves as well from the moment they become armed and dangerous. If everyone else is going garbage grabbing, and shouting indigenous insult at every woman that passes, and still wakes up cocked and ready to explode, is the approach working.
Safe, boringly common, and expected leads you on the path to meeting social, economical, and predesigned expectations not surpassing them. How do you win the war on women instead of being the victim? Ignore them! When your really desperate ignore them and improve yourself. When your ready, and almost at the point of becoming the martyr in the pre mentioned headline, Attack in subtlety, and sincerity. No one wins a war they don’t believe is worth dying for.
Be Creative. Be Educated not Obvious! And always be, but never play it safe.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
IN YOUR FACE book
After Posting a simple status message on Facebook I received un precedented amounts of replies. The message was simple, honest, and apparently quite commonly agreed upon by most members of the voyeristic, social networking phenomenon.
"they should add a sub category on Facebook entitled Aquaintance Request, or People I barely know that I plan on never talking to..."
I had only a small amount of space to vocalize my true opinion, so I thought I would take the time to explain myself further and potentially get someone to throw a beer at me, take away a hug, or just flat out refuse to be my friend cyber style. Let there be no mistake, I am not bitter, abrasively cynical and only moderately arrogant. To be honest with you quite i'm flattered that people even take the two seconds to click on a button and tune into my correspondence with the people I have met in life , however, I am slightly confused and my life is not at peoples disposal.
Questions.
Are there secret levels to be obtained on facebook based off some sort of point system or how many friends you have.
Do you receive special inviations to facebook elite parties, or get special services when you trigger these levels.
This would make sense as most people have believed their entire lives that accumulation of admiration is what creates acceptance, why would cyberspace be any different. In my fruitful opinion, I don't understand why you would ever want 1,672 friends spanning 4 continents.
If your less than thirty years of age that means you have added and average of 55 friends per year since you were a sperm and egg reunited. Props to you, and your plentiful friendships...but highly consider setting up a fan page and capitalizing on what makes you so damn special. If i were your friend I would probably be feeling a bit undervalued.
If your over thirty then your missing out on something partner, consider getting out a bit more and finding a little substance in reality. I assure you there is more to be gained by one hug after a cold beer with a brazilian in the flesh then there is by sending one through computer code to 65 aquaintances on TGIF's.
To add a friend signifies value being created. Value is not having a list of people available to chat with, seeing the list and clicking on the big red x postioned in the top right corener...to try again another day. Value is not seeing being looped into someone elses photo albums out of boredom, and realizing you don't even know who the person is married too or what there childs name iso r where they curently live. IF you were a friend, I would know this already. Value is not in numbers but in scarcity. Thats the point you say...to reconnect..to find lost friends...Ask yourself this before you get your hopes up an add a lost mate....why the hell were they lost in the first place...Probably because you didn't have enough time for there sorry ass...do you now.
But what really chaps my ass is the guilt factor associated with receving a friend request from a person, and then having to decide within fifteen seconds if I should add them as a friend and know what their daily state of emotion is, or clicking no and then being self chastized for it because I wouldn't dare want to be labled egotistical or to cool for school again by people that never took the time to get to know me when we actually had the opportunity. And you know what screw you for making that a decision I have to face on a tri-weekly basis. My simple response, is I appease no more. I apologize stranger posed as false curiosity friend, you don't get an add inless you pass the test. What s the test....Allow me to expand. It is the RED ROPE CLUB from here on out, and you don't get in inless you pay off the bouncer, or bring something special to the ambiance of my life...And screw you for doing this to me...I hate being an elitist. However it is quite a bitmore refreshing then adding friends and being a deletist on the sly.
MAIMUM CAPACITY 100
VIP ACCESS
1* Immediate blood relatives...I don't want any bad blood....Just don't make me regret it by geting to drunk and divulging all my childhood secrets with someone else I care about. You will be removed, and placed on temporary probation
2* Friends that I have spoken to in the last three months or have visited me by airplane in the last five years. You've proven your value, you are a friend, and I am greatful for ever. Keep it up shining star, maybe will take the private jet after the party and go gambling in vegas.
3* Anyone that I am currently romantically involved with, or could be in the future. Just don't get to clingy, give me some space, and I'll make you feel special I promise. If not, My true friends are more stable and good gents..You may meet your soulmate through me...I'm a giver.
4* Anyone that can speak 3 or more languages fluently...I'm sure we can find something interesting to talk about. Hell, I wouldn't be allowed in to my own club...shit. No wait, I speak Bull shit rather well. Were both in.
5* Artists...not ones that shave there balls, or take six hours to get ready before they interact socially...the real ones...the open eye, self destructing type that are close to cutting there ear off but can't afford the knife. Continually create and you will always occupy the space.
Main Lounge
1* If you are a distant relative, no matter how degenerate you get a courteousy pass....You have a right to be curious with what is going on in my life...If you figure it out...let me know.
2* If I slept with you, and i do mean intercourse, you pass. I may get lonely again someday, and there are liability issues involved. However, if you complained afterwards or weren't all that rememberable...you get the stiff arm delay and pushed to a different line for possible addmitance later. I may get very lonely someday.
3* If you give me an estalgic feeling, and I instantly want to respond to you through the wall..starting the post like this..."Do you remember the time...." Or "I want to spend time talking to you in a private room for an undisclosed amount of time....code word...you belong. Just don't abuse yourpriveleges or expect to much...i am moody and distant at times.
4*A surprise guest....be intriguing, genuine and persistent. You may have delayed entrance but if you truly want in, you'll be granted access.
If your already in...I can't kick you out...I have Principles and a heart. Besides, it was my damn fault for not setting the standards up front...Maybe we have something to share afterall. I will say you have to continually bring something to the ongoing event, if things get crowded you may receive a boot to open up space for a VIP guest access whom is apparently fashionably late.
If your not, wait for the fan page that may or may not come. Besides, Life doesn't change us all much...sure we grow up and become less petty, but if we didn't have much to say then, or you had preconceived asssumptions of me that limited us before....you were probably right, and I was wrong.....apologies waged. I assure you the following sums me up, so no need to be curious and risk the result that will inevitably occur....nothing...that will only devalue the word friendship further..
I lived, I loved, I've lost and Found,
I am nothing more than a soldier searching for his sword, the journey profund.
My life, yours...different but nothing new.
Ups, Downs, The now, collecting of time and things I search for to be true.
Paradise Sands, and characters placed upon scenes.
strength in the roots, resolving, evolving the ego to shine clean.
Happiness in the son, simplicity so intense its confused.
Just me being me, connected, but never in falsity with or without you.
"they should add a sub category on Facebook entitled Aquaintance Request, or People I barely know that I plan on never talking to..."
I had only a small amount of space to vocalize my true opinion, so I thought I would take the time to explain myself further and potentially get someone to throw a beer at me, take away a hug, or just flat out refuse to be my friend cyber style. Let there be no mistake, I am not bitter, abrasively cynical and only moderately arrogant. To be honest with you quite i'm flattered that people even take the two seconds to click on a button and tune into my correspondence with the people I have met in life , however, I am slightly confused and my life is not at peoples disposal.
Questions.
Are there secret levels to be obtained on facebook based off some sort of point system or how many friends you have.
Do you receive special inviations to facebook elite parties, or get special services when you trigger these levels.
This would make sense as most people have believed their entire lives that accumulation of admiration is what creates acceptance, why would cyberspace be any different. In my fruitful opinion, I don't understand why you would ever want 1,672 friends spanning 4 continents.
If your less than thirty years of age that means you have added and average of 55 friends per year since you were a sperm and egg reunited. Props to you, and your plentiful friendships...but highly consider setting up a fan page and capitalizing on what makes you so damn special. If i were your friend I would probably be feeling a bit undervalued.
If your over thirty then your missing out on something partner, consider getting out a bit more and finding a little substance in reality. I assure you there is more to be gained by one hug after a cold beer with a brazilian in the flesh then there is by sending one through computer code to 65 aquaintances on TGIF's.
To add a friend signifies value being created. Value is not having a list of people available to chat with, seeing the list and clicking on the big red x postioned in the top right corener...to try again another day. Value is not seeing being looped into someone elses photo albums out of boredom, and realizing you don't even know who the person is married too or what there childs name iso r where they curently live. IF you were a friend, I would know this already. Value is not in numbers but in scarcity. Thats the point you say...to reconnect..to find lost friends...Ask yourself this before you get your hopes up an add a lost mate....why the hell were they lost in the first place...Probably because you didn't have enough time for there sorry ass...do you now.
But what really chaps my ass is the guilt factor associated with receving a friend request from a person, and then having to decide within fifteen seconds if I should add them as a friend and know what their daily state of emotion is, or clicking no and then being self chastized for it because I wouldn't dare want to be labled egotistical or to cool for school again by people that never took the time to get to know me when we actually had the opportunity. And you know what screw you for making that a decision I have to face on a tri-weekly basis. My simple response, is I appease no more. I apologize stranger posed as false curiosity friend, you don't get an add inless you pass the test. What s the test....Allow me to expand. It is the RED ROPE CLUB from here on out, and you don't get in inless you pay off the bouncer, or bring something special to the ambiance of my life...And screw you for doing this to me...I hate being an elitist. However it is quite a bitmore refreshing then adding friends and being a deletist on the sly.
MAIMUM CAPACITY 100
VIP ACCESS
1* Immediate blood relatives...I don't want any bad blood....Just don't make me regret it by geting to drunk and divulging all my childhood secrets with someone else I care about. You will be removed, and placed on temporary probation
2* Friends that I have spoken to in the last three months or have visited me by airplane in the last five years. You've proven your value, you are a friend, and I am greatful for ever. Keep it up shining star, maybe will take the private jet after the party and go gambling in vegas.
3* Anyone that I am currently romantically involved with, or could be in the future. Just don't get to clingy, give me some space, and I'll make you feel special I promise. If not, My true friends are more stable and good gents..You may meet your soulmate through me...I'm a giver.
4* Anyone that can speak 3 or more languages fluently...I'm sure we can find something interesting to talk about. Hell, I wouldn't be allowed in to my own club...shit. No wait, I speak Bull shit rather well. Were both in.
5* Artists...not ones that shave there balls, or take six hours to get ready before they interact socially...the real ones...the open eye, self destructing type that are close to cutting there ear off but can't afford the knife. Continually create and you will always occupy the space.
Main Lounge
1* If you are a distant relative, no matter how degenerate you get a courteousy pass....You have a right to be curious with what is going on in my life...If you figure it out...let me know.
2* If I slept with you, and i do mean intercourse, you pass. I may get lonely again someday, and there are liability issues involved. However, if you complained afterwards or weren't all that rememberable...you get the stiff arm delay and pushed to a different line for possible addmitance later. I may get very lonely someday.
3* If you give me an estalgic feeling, and I instantly want to respond to you through the wall..starting the post like this..."Do you remember the time...." Or "I want to spend time talking to you in a private room for an undisclosed amount of time....code word...you belong. Just don't abuse yourpriveleges or expect to much...i am moody and distant at times.
4*A surprise guest....be intriguing, genuine and persistent. You may have delayed entrance but if you truly want in, you'll be granted access.
If your already in...I can't kick you out...I have Principles and a heart. Besides, it was my damn fault for not setting the standards up front...Maybe we have something to share afterall. I will say you have to continually bring something to the ongoing event, if things get crowded you may receive a boot to open up space for a VIP guest access whom is apparently fashionably late.
If your not, wait for the fan page that may or may not come. Besides, Life doesn't change us all much...sure we grow up and become less petty, but if we didn't have much to say then, or you had preconceived asssumptions of me that limited us before....you were probably right, and I was wrong.....apologies waged. I assure you the following sums me up, so no need to be curious and risk the result that will inevitably occur....nothing...that will only devalue the word friendship further..
I lived, I loved, I've lost and Found,
I am nothing more than a soldier searching for his sword, the journey profund.
My life, yours...different but nothing new.
Ups, Downs, The now, collecting of time and things I search for to be true.
Paradise Sands, and characters placed upon scenes.
strength in the roots, resolving, evolving the ego to shine clean.
Happiness in the son, simplicity so intense its confused.
Just me being me, connected, but never in falsity with or without you.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
Continuance
Kitchen Floors, conversation,Desperation, Isolation leading to mechanical flirtation,
Far away, having the choice to stay, opted out of certainty for creation...
A child, Waiting, Waiting, Waiting for his father to return
Will He must have in order to resurface and be ready...concern,
Yourself is the answer, solitude breeds keys to the question...
This space, this time, never doubt conflicted suggestion...
Wait, move on, Come Back, Push forward, Always..
My Choice, a napkin, a number, effortlessy waiting to stay...
In Reciprication
Far away, having the choice to stay, opted out of certainty for creation...
A child, Waiting, Waiting, Waiting for his father to return
Will He must have in order to resurface and be ready...concern,
Yourself is the answer, solitude breeds keys to the question...
This space, this time, never doubt conflicted suggestion...
Wait, move on, Come Back, Push forward, Always..
My Choice, a napkin, a number, effortlessy waiting to stay...
In Reciprication
Saturday, January 17, 2009
Plank Walker and Pen Talker
If only I could change the world with the words from my pen,
I could belong again in this decrepit society everyone is entangled in
From Many Different angles, perspectives, points of view,
My thoughs become my legacy with patience and virtue others observe to be true.
Constantly learning without rehearsing, accepting the risks without proper gauge,
For this is the principal behavior in defying the dripping sand in the time vase of age.
The if's and the onlies, so often transferably mis construed
Arent you missing the only answer the voice that is true inside of you.
Its your game, its your race, the clock always remains at one,
No need to delete, erase, edit or forget, the writing has begun.
So speak to an audience of cornfields, city lights and of paradise beaches,
It is your soul to be left behind, already gone, in residue it teaches.
The mind, the being, the god we search for distant approval from,
All knowing and Honest, forgotten except when will needs to be done,
Not to be wrinkled, or greyed, or defined by opinions of the behaved,
Never to be limited by the fear that cripples the souls of the enslved.
Just an option, a choice from here until the day of final rest,
To go down with the ship a lost pirate, or capture your presence, lifes treasure chest.
I could belong again in this decrepit society everyone is entangled in
From Many Different angles, perspectives, points of view,
My thoughs become my legacy with patience and virtue others observe to be true.
Constantly learning without rehearsing, accepting the risks without proper gauge,
For this is the principal behavior in defying the dripping sand in the time vase of age.
The if's and the onlies, so often transferably mis construed
Arent you missing the only answer the voice that is true inside of you.
Its your game, its your race, the clock always remains at one,
No need to delete, erase, edit or forget, the writing has begun.
So speak to an audience of cornfields, city lights and of paradise beaches,
It is your soul to be left behind, already gone, in residue it teaches.
The mind, the being, the god we search for distant approval from,
All knowing and Honest, forgotten except when will needs to be done,
Not to be wrinkled, or greyed, or defined by opinions of the behaved,
Never to be limited by the fear that cripples the souls of the enslved.
Just an option, a choice from here until the day of final rest,
To go down with the ship a lost pirate, or capture your presence, lifes treasure chest.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Taylor
Hello Every and Anyone....
My eyes were opened up recently, by a small little angel fighting for her life at the fragile age of three months. Although I haven't had the pleasure of meeting her I do have the feeling of her inside of me and lingering in my soul on a daily basis as she continues to teach through her struggle and challenges the neccessary strength needed to battle for our own existence and the receive the privelege of life with never ending courage. Little Taylor has inspired me to start this blog and chase after my dream of becoming a writer while abandoning the crippling mechanism of fear that prevents so many from truly living the life we dream. I've also realized through her, that often times our dreams and desires, correctly formed, are never ours alone, but always shared in the hearts of the people we cherrish and whom sometimes without knowing, cherish us from a distance.
It is possible that Taylor may need a heart in the future, that being said I vow to always share mine, and write not only for me but for those who can not share in my passion. I can an only hope through my resolve and willingness to evolve, I can one day affect others in a positive way and reach an audience that I never believed possible. This site will be and always is dedicated to Taylor Whitehead. Without fear, I hope to spread a message, so peacefully bestowed in me.
A writer was once asked what he was writing about by a friend. The writer responded.
"I am writing about my conversations with an angel."
The friend responded with a puzzled look on his face, "How is that possible, no one really knows what an angel would say."
The writer never looked up from his typewriter and smiled softly as he confidently said. "Well if you would just let me finish...."
Taylor...I know you are tired, as any beautfiul angel should be....Thanks for the conversation, I can't imagine how special your going to be when the day comes in which were actually able to share words.
Please help Taylor by removing some of her work load.....so she can rest a little bit before continuing on her journey...keep her in your thoughts and hearts.
My eyes were opened up recently, by a small little angel fighting for her life at the fragile age of three months. Although I haven't had the pleasure of meeting her I do have the feeling of her inside of me and lingering in my soul on a daily basis as she continues to teach through her struggle and challenges the neccessary strength needed to battle for our own existence and the receive the privelege of life with never ending courage. Little Taylor has inspired me to start this blog and chase after my dream of becoming a writer while abandoning the crippling mechanism of fear that prevents so many from truly living the life we dream. I've also realized through her, that often times our dreams and desires, correctly formed, are never ours alone, but always shared in the hearts of the people we cherrish and whom sometimes without knowing, cherish us from a distance.
It is possible that Taylor may need a heart in the future, that being said I vow to always share mine, and write not only for me but for those who can not share in my passion. I can an only hope through my resolve and willingness to evolve, I can one day affect others in a positive way and reach an audience that I never believed possible. This site will be and always is dedicated to Taylor Whitehead. Without fear, I hope to spread a message, so peacefully bestowed in me.
A writer was once asked what he was writing about by a friend. The writer responded.
"I am writing about my conversations with an angel."
The friend responded with a puzzled look on his face, "How is that possible, no one really knows what an angel would say."
The writer never looked up from his typewriter and smiled softly as he confidently said. "Well if you would just let me finish...."
Taylor...I know you are tired, as any beautfiul angel should be....Thanks for the conversation, I can't imagine how special your going to be when the day comes in which were actually able to share words.
Please help Taylor by removing some of her work load.....so she can rest a little bit before continuing on her journey...keep her in your thoughts and hearts.
Monday, January 12, 2009
God is Love but the Devil is his Mistress
Sitting at my favorite bar at my mentally reserved seat, drinking happy hour beers brings out the best in me; especially because I am alone and well on my way to intoxication. Vesuvios in San Francisco, due to its Beat-Nick history, helps to inspire a person who needs his spirit filled up with the souls of the past like a fuel station tank that doesn't deny any searching automobile it's gas. I feel as if I should have my own place, my own bar to create a new history, however, in contradiction I don't feel any place should stand still in reservation for fifty years solely for remembrance. For now I siphon the ghosts of Kerouac and Burroughs with every stroke of my pen.
My goal, to be timeless: Capture eternity in mind and soul through infinite artistic expression. Here's a story I need to get out of my head before I explode in frustration and fear of failure.
Living in the basement of a San Francisco liquor store is not exactly a cohesive environment for a corporate businessman, alcoholic in training, who takes daily dosages of anti-depressant happy pills, but is exactly where I found myself wanting to be in the depths of my depression. In life we always find our brothers when we least expect it. The forty-three year old French Vietnamese ex-under cover agent, who spent three years of his life infiltrating the Vietnamese mafia in Los Angeles, is one such brother I have found. The first time I walked into the store to buy a bottle of Jack and a pack of cigarettes he told me he could sense my suffering. Was it that apparent? We headed outside for a smoke. I hadn't had a good conversation with anyone in months and despite being a smidge fucked up already and barely understanding his accent, he provided a spark I definitely needed. After two hours of smoking, sneaking back into the store for a pull off the bottle and serving the local yuppies their weekday doses of convenience items, I found myself listening to him a lot and finishing his sentences often. That's how it went for weeks. Slipping down to my new haven on the corner, drinking, smoking and filling my self up with life after a boring days work or solitude. Many times the conversations would last deep into the night after the store was closed to the public and we retreated to the dark deciles basement in order to keep the night and each other alive through mental stimulation. There were other interesting characters as well. Milosh, a writer from Czechoslovakia whom I was both intrigued by and hated for his ignorant views on anti-semantics' and overall dislike for everyone except those who kept his penguin like figure filled with expensive beers and cigarettes. Most of the time I think he even disliked himself, which allowed some of his demeanor to be overlooked. Kozel also from Czechoslovakia, lived with Milosh and was a fifty-year-old, hippie sporting dreadlocks and worked as a pipe and glass street artist on the Embarcadero. He usually was just there to drink beer, and occasionally mention his hatred for America, despite constantly contradicting his views by repeating he never wished to leave. These were the friends I had made and one night at the liquor store, friends who watched me have a gun held to my head awaiting the verdict of life or death.
As the Stella Artois flows through me now, I remember the decisive words the roach said that brought me from innocent bystander to a Pit bull searching for the jugular. The crowd grows at Vesuvios, as the blood in my veins did the night when I faced a confrontation that lives with me till this day.
"I believe all people from the Midwest should be carpet bombed", the roach said loudly while making wild hand motions.
I ejaculated from my distant seat inside of the store and walked out to the entrance to listen intently. Sometimes I'm a rather impatient listener.
"You ignorant fuck, I'm from the Midwest and your including my entire family in your opinion", I countered.
"Yeah I am, what the fuck are you going to do about it!" He spouted while pushing me and moving me slightly from my stance.
Crack! There goes his nose and his opinion.
Life changes in moments. As I fumed in anger hovering over my bloody victim I felt both rage and compassion. After a devastating crack to his nose he was broken and helpless beneath the neon lights that flashed liquor and I attacked my prey in a moment of sub-conscious hypnotism brought about by mild drunkenness and the love for where I come from. I'm not a racist, but a realist and if there are niggers, white trash, poseurs or cockroaches in this world, this childish fuck wore a demeanor that represented the accumulation of all things fucked up. I had seen him before, his stripping girlfriend was a woman I had conversations with often. Neither the owner or I wanted anything from her, however, she was a neighbor and as lost in this world as anyone whom sought to be apart of weird conversations in front of a liquor store. The first time I met the roach it was cordial but this time was different because chemicals had crawled up his nose and grabbed hold of his already unbalanced system. He was white, but believed he was black, petite but believed he was a giant, opinionated but ignorant and his mouth got the best of my temper.
All Depression has its roots in self-pity, and all self-pity is rooted in people taking themselves to seriously. -Tom Robbins- Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates
The world is a war of spirits and only the chosen survive to reach its serenity and have their souls spread through the battlefield and into eternity. We reach moments of despair, isolation as our minds reach into the till of our existence for our last dollars of hope, yet the faith in our sense and our compassion for life is all we need for this time of passing through. I remember this as I heighten my buzz to a stiff drink from my favorite companions Jack and Coke and thin; Its love and fear that drive me to drinking, when we'll I ever have the means of thanking them.
I attacked him again as he lay in his bloody daze on the corner of Pine and Webster and choked him nearly out of breath, at which point my compassion for life, even in it's ugliest of forms, overcame my rage. I loosened my rear naked choke, kicked him in the ass to the curb and returned to my familiar milk-crate seat to light a cigarette.
At that point in any engagement you have a choice whether to relinquish or pursue, to put out the fire or allow it to suck in air and grow, to live with destruction or die due to compassion. I should have killed the roach, but I allowed him to gain strength and suffer again. A decision I do not regret but something I will remember as a valuable lesson in the future.
One experience leads to the next. I am completely loaded right now, and have thirty-five cents in my pocket yet I've gained a gig as a photographer at Vesuvios for a promotional night in the spirit of Brazil's independence day. There is no pay but I'll receive a free dinner and a few drinks keeping me going well into the night. Oh the life of a free mans spirit.
When the roach crawled at me again, he was embarrassed and confused. His girlfriend stared at him with disgust in her eyes and a flame between her legs, and I'm sure it fueled his insecurities.
"Mother Fucker you just dug yourself a grave", he whimpered with blood dripping from his nose.
"It doesn't appear to be that way to me", I retorted from my milk crate as I blew a stream of smoke into his face. Most people say that is an invitation for sex but I solely wanted his heart on an urban street platter.
The Roach walked away as he flipped open his phone and called in reinforcements. None of my so-called friends had moved an inch from their stunned stadium seat safe distances. I laughed in confusion as the roach formulated his plan to gain back his respect.
"Mother fucker, send Martha to Pine and Webster, I have someone that needs taken care of. Don't ask why, just send him this boy needs to be buried." He looked at me and continued his rant. "Your going to die tonight fucker, you don't know who you just fucked with!"
"Eminem on Crack?" I questioned.
"You think your tough because you chill at a liquor store, smoke cigarettes in your pink shoes, well you need a lesson, and your going to die tonight" He stated as he went to the stripper.
I just stepped outside for a smoke and a bum asked me for a cig. I just watched the guy in front of me turn him down. "It's my last one," he said. Why do people need to lie? Why doesn't anyone have the balls to say no? Do they have no compassion or do they find guilt in telling the truth? People are so lost but feel they are so found. Is it the promise of security that drives good people to the insanity that is comfort?
Minutes passed as the roach paced back and forth in front of the store, staring at me as he dabbed at his gushing nose with a rag that he received from the stripper. I didn't know what was coming but I had a feeling it wasn't going to be all shits and giggles. The owner of the store had disappeared and Milosh and Kozel were huddled far away from my one-man island.
They appeared across the street. Two white dirt bags in loosely fit clothing and evil looks in their eyes. But did they know how crazy I could be when faced with conformity?
"Alright fucker, you're going for a walk with us", said the roach. I guessed my new name was fucker.
After a long drag that seemed to suck my nuts into my throat, I said, "Are we going to go grab a drink? I'm thirsty and you can buy."
The thugs huddled around me as the roach explained his bloody nose. I started to stand up and said, "Listen fellas you look like reasonable guys."
"Sit the fuck down," thug number one said while he lifted up his waste band revealing a gun of the Berretta variety.
"Alright buddy how about we make a deal. I'll get down on my knees with my hands behind my back and you can throw a punch. Would that make you feel tough? I have no pride here, but I'm not fucking going anywhere with you!" Desperation squealed from my voice.
"That's not fucking good enough", the roach said as he looked at the other two thugs.
"Seems pretty fair to me! How about you big guy?" I questioned as I slapped him on the back with a smile on my face.
"Don't touch me," said the larger of the two enforcers.
"Come on man, one shot then I'll buy you guys a beer", I proposed as I got up again and proceeded to kneel on the curb and place my arms loosely behind my back. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the pistol packer pull his gun and aim it at my head. Where were my friends now, my brothers I had met in destiny? Where was all their talk of hatred and their pushes for revolt against the cockroaches that run our society? Why did I have to be here alone, afraid, isolated against a world that was darker then my spirit tolerated? They went to find comfort. They sought the asylum of freedoms one by greater men. Our friendships would never be the same, or perhaps never existed.
The punch came before I could react and the blood began to gush down my face due to a rather large ring that was being worn by the roach. The blood made me crazy.
Conformity is not a choice made by man, rather ones soul weakening, secreting from the inner core of his intellect and being. Escaping to the bliss of the masses and the demise of the uncommon man. The moment a man leaves on a journey, whether it be to "search for his soul", or allow his soul search for him, his skin slowly peels back with each step he walks from his comfort zone. Comfort and originality never have and never will meet in lust, but in constant confliction for the affection of a man's heart. I say to the devil that reverts to comfortable surroundings and easy answers continue walking that jagged narrowing path that only lightens when it can become no darker. This is when your soul can put the fear of God into the all-abiding conforming man and turn your skin into an armor of leather. I need my unmarked destiny to feel alive, like the sun to a sprouting flower. I believe this as I stare at a Brazilian beauty dancing provocatively in all white. She wants to fuck me, I'm sure of it. But what will her boyfriend who plays lead guitar in the band sing about that. I should just drink my drink and keep her fuck me eyes as a remembrance of appreciation.
They all froze and I rushed the roach with all my soul, grabbing him by his throat and knocked him to the ground. No shots rang out, no words were spoken, only the sound of souls squaring off in the spirit of survival. Then I ran, ran into the store as the thugs picked up their defused time bomb of a friend and left the liquor store forever. The stripper stayed. What made them flinch? Were they the poseurs, the beings that needed ammunition in reality to make their blank lives feel real, that I have often seen. Perhaps some people in life represent craziness in their actions when they know they have more to live for then fear! I pretend now to want more, but am glad to have lived through less.
I went to the back of the liquor store treated myself to a beer from the fridge, lit a cigarette, and cried like a baby.
God is Love, but the devil is his mistress and it is obscure at this point that I relate with more. I am completely aware of self and that the devil roams inside of me; but in the tug-of-war for my spirituality, God always prevails. I am depressed and mad; insecure about my passions in my life, yet I believe this only prevents me from an existence of normality, not happiness. I believe heaven is a choice of dream over convenience, perhaps a few special moments in life can be found to justify the choice of one over the other. Eternity however, is rewarded to those that can live in hell with the devil solely as his mistress and create something beautiful for the non-willing sacrifices to feast upon.
The future son sleeps, he's breathing quietly as he grows. The soon to be spouse prays as she waits, and I the father and fiancée search for the success to satisfy all fears. The tears tell me it's time to become a writer or perhaps face the fear of failing as one. I request another drink from the homely waitress and put my pen to rest with the spirits of the past.
Sitting at my favorite bar at my mentally reserved seat, drinking happy hour beers brings out the best in me; especially because I am alone and well on my way to intoxication. Vesuvios in San Francisco, due to its Beat-Nick history, helps to inspire a person who needs his spirit filled up with the souls of the past like a fuel station tank that doesn't deny any searching automobile it's gas. I feel as if I should have my own place, my own bar to create a new history, however, in contradiction I don't feel any place should stand still in reservation for fifty years solely for remembrance. For now I siphon the ghosts of Kerouac and Burroughs with every stroke of my pen.
My goal, to be timeless: Capture eternity in mind and soul through infinite artistic expression. Here's a story I need to get out of my head before I explode in frustration and fear of failure.
Living in the basement of a San Francisco liquor store is not exactly a cohesive environment for a corporate businessman, alcoholic in training, who takes daily dosages of anti-depressant happy pills, but is exactly where I found myself wanting to be in the depths of my depression. In life we always find our brothers when we least expect it. The forty-three year old French Vietnamese ex-under cover agent, who spent three years of his life infiltrating the Vietnamese mafia in Los Angeles, is one such brother I have found. The first time I walked into the store to buy a bottle of Jack and a pack of cigarettes he told me he could sense my suffering. Was it that apparent? We headed outside for a smoke. I hadn't had a good conversation with anyone in months and despite being a smidge fucked up already and barely understanding his accent, he provided a spark I definitely needed. After two hours of smoking, sneaking back into the store for a pull off the bottle and serving the local yuppies their weekday doses of convenience items, I found myself listening to him a lot and finishing his sentences often. That's how it went for weeks. Slipping down to my new haven on the corner, drinking, smoking and filling my self up with life after a boring days work or solitude. Many times the conversations would last deep into the night after the store was closed to the public and we retreated to the dark deciles basement in order to keep the night and each other alive through mental stimulation. There were other interesting characters as well. Milosh, a writer from Czechoslovakia whom I was both intrigued by and hated for his ignorant views on anti-semantics' and overall dislike for everyone except those who kept his penguin like figure filled with expensive beers and cigarettes. Most of the time I think he even disliked himself, which allowed some of his demeanor to be overlooked. Kozel also from Czechoslovakia, lived with Milosh and was a fifty-year-old, hippie sporting dreadlocks and worked as a pipe and glass street artist on the Embarcadero. He usually was just there to drink beer, and occasionally mention his hatred for America, despite constantly contradicting his views by repeating he never wished to leave. These were the friends I had made and one night at the liquor store, friends who watched me have a gun held to my head awaiting the verdict of life or death.
As the Stella Artois flows through me now, I remember the decisive words the roach said that brought me from innocent bystander to a Pit bull searching for the jugular. The crowd grows at Vesuvios, as the blood in my veins did the night when I faced a confrontation that lives with me till this day.
"I believe all people from the Midwest should be carpet bombed", the roach said loudly while making wild hand motions.
I ejaculated from my distant seat inside of the store and walked out to the entrance to listen intently. Sometimes I'm a rather impatient listener.
"You ignorant fuck, I'm from the Midwest and your including my entire family in your opinion", I countered.
"Yeah I am, what the fuck are you going to do about it!" He spouted while pushing me and moving me slightly from my stance.
Crack! There goes his nose and his opinion.
Life changes in moments. As I fumed in anger hovering over my bloody victim I felt both rage and compassion. After a devastating crack to his nose he was broken and helpless beneath the neon lights that flashed liquor and I attacked my prey in a moment of sub-conscious hypnotism brought about by mild drunkenness and the love for where I come from. I'm not a racist, but a realist and if there are niggers, white trash, poseurs or cockroaches in this world, this childish fuck wore a demeanor that represented the accumulation of all things fucked up. I had seen him before, his stripping girlfriend was a woman I had conversations with often. Neither the owner or I wanted anything from her, however, she was a neighbor and as lost in this world as anyone whom sought to be apart of weird conversations in front of a liquor store. The first time I met the roach it was cordial but this time was different because chemicals had crawled up his nose and grabbed hold of his already unbalanced system. He was white, but believed he was black, petite but believed he was a giant, opinionated but ignorant and his mouth got the best of my temper.
All Depression has its roots in self-pity, and all self-pity is rooted in people taking themselves to seriously. -Tom Robbins- Fierce Invalids Home From Hot Climates
The world is a war of spirits and only the chosen survive to reach its serenity and have their souls spread through the battlefield and into eternity. We reach moments of despair, isolation as our minds reach into the till of our existence for our last dollars of hope, yet the faith in our sense and our compassion for life is all we need for this time of passing through. I remember this as I heighten my buzz to a stiff drink from my favorite companions Jack and Coke and thin; Its love and fear that drive me to drinking, when we'll I ever have the means of thanking them.
I attacked him again as he lay in his bloody daze on the corner of Pine and Webster and choked him nearly out of breath, at which point my compassion for life, even in it's ugliest of forms, overcame my rage. I loosened my rear naked choke, kicked him in the ass to the curb and returned to my familiar milk-crate seat to light a cigarette.
At that point in any engagement you have a choice whether to relinquish or pursue, to put out the fire or allow it to suck in air and grow, to live with destruction or die due to compassion. I should have killed the roach, but I allowed him to gain strength and suffer again. A decision I do not regret but something I will remember as a valuable lesson in the future.
One experience leads to the next. I am completely loaded right now, and have thirty-five cents in my pocket yet I've gained a gig as a photographer at Vesuvios for a promotional night in the spirit of Brazil's independence day. There is no pay but I'll receive a free dinner and a few drinks keeping me going well into the night. Oh the life of a free mans spirit.
When the roach crawled at me again, he was embarrassed and confused. His girlfriend stared at him with disgust in her eyes and a flame between her legs, and I'm sure it fueled his insecurities.
"Mother Fucker you just dug yourself a grave", he whimpered with blood dripping from his nose.
"It doesn't appear to be that way to me", I retorted from my milk crate as I blew a stream of smoke into his face. Most people say that is an invitation for sex but I solely wanted his heart on an urban street platter.
The Roach walked away as he flipped open his phone and called in reinforcements. None of my so-called friends had moved an inch from their stunned stadium seat safe distances. I laughed in confusion as the roach formulated his plan to gain back his respect.
"Mother fucker, send Martha to Pine and Webster, I have someone that needs taken care of. Don't ask why, just send him this boy needs to be buried." He looked at me and continued his rant. "Your going to die tonight fucker, you don't know who you just fucked with!"
"Eminem on Crack?" I questioned.
"You think your tough because you chill at a liquor store, smoke cigarettes in your pink shoes, well you need a lesson, and your going to die tonight" He stated as he went to the stripper.
I just stepped outside for a smoke and a bum asked me for a cig. I just watched the guy in front of me turn him down. "It's my last one," he said. Why do people need to lie? Why doesn't anyone have the balls to say no? Do they have no compassion or do they find guilt in telling the truth? People are so lost but feel they are so found. Is it the promise of security that drives good people to the insanity that is comfort?
Minutes passed as the roach paced back and forth in front of the store, staring at me as he dabbed at his gushing nose with a rag that he received from the stripper. I didn't know what was coming but I had a feeling it wasn't going to be all shits and giggles. The owner of the store had disappeared and Milosh and Kozel were huddled far away from my one-man island.
They appeared across the street. Two white dirt bags in loosely fit clothing and evil looks in their eyes. But did they know how crazy I could be when faced with conformity?
"Alright fucker, you're going for a walk with us", said the roach. I guessed my new name was fucker.
After a long drag that seemed to suck my nuts into my throat, I said, "Are we going to go grab a drink? I'm thirsty and you can buy."
The thugs huddled around me as the roach explained his bloody nose. I started to stand up and said, "Listen fellas you look like reasonable guys."
"Sit the fuck down," thug number one said while he lifted up his waste band revealing a gun of the Berretta variety.
"Alright buddy how about we make a deal. I'll get down on my knees with my hands behind my back and you can throw a punch. Would that make you feel tough? I have no pride here, but I'm not fucking going anywhere with you!" Desperation squealed from my voice.
"That's not fucking good enough", the roach said as he looked at the other two thugs.
"Seems pretty fair to me! How about you big guy?" I questioned as I slapped him on the back with a smile on my face.
"Don't touch me," said the larger of the two enforcers.
"Come on man, one shot then I'll buy you guys a beer", I proposed as I got up again and proceeded to kneel on the curb and place my arms loosely behind my back. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the pistol packer pull his gun and aim it at my head. Where were my friends now, my brothers I had met in destiny? Where was all their talk of hatred and their pushes for revolt against the cockroaches that run our society? Why did I have to be here alone, afraid, isolated against a world that was darker then my spirit tolerated? They went to find comfort. They sought the asylum of freedoms one by greater men. Our friendships would never be the same, or perhaps never existed.
The punch came before I could react and the blood began to gush down my face due to a rather large ring that was being worn by the roach. The blood made me crazy.
Conformity is not a choice made by man, rather ones soul weakening, secreting from the inner core of his intellect and being. Escaping to the bliss of the masses and the demise of the uncommon man. The moment a man leaves on a journey, whether it be to "search for his soul", or allow his soul search for him, his skin slowly peels back with each step he walks from his comfort zone. Comfort and originality never have and never will meet in lust, but in constant confliction for the affection of a man's heart. I say to the devil that reverts to comfortable surroundings and easy answers continue walking that jagged narrowing path that only lightens when it can become no darker. This is when your soul can put the fear of God into the all-abiding conforming man and turn your skin into an armor of leather. I need my unmarked destiny to feel alive, like the sun to a sprouting flower. I believe this as I stare at a Brazilian beauty dancing provocatively in all white. She wants to fuck me, I'm sure of it. But what will her boyfriend who plays lead guitar in the band sing about that. I should just drink my drink and keep her fuck me eyes as a remembrance of appreciation.
They all froze and I rushed the roach with all my soul, grabbing him by his throat and knocked him to the ground. No shots rang out, no words were spoken, only the sound of souls squaring off in the spirit of survival. Then I ran, ran into the store as the thugs picked up their defused time bomb of a friend and left the liquor store forever. The stripper stayed. What made them flinch? Were they the poseurs, the beings that needed ammunition in reality to make their blank lives feel real, that I have often seen. Perhaps some people in life represent craziness in their actions when they know they have more to live for then fear! I pretend now to want more, but am glad to have lived through less.
I went to the back of the liquor store treated myself to a beer from the fridge, lit a cigarette, and cried like a baby.
God is Love, but the devil is his mistress and it is obscure at this point that I relate with more. I am completely aware of self and that the devil roams inside of me; but in the tug-of-war for my spirituality, God always prevails. I am depressed and mad; insecure about my passions in my life, yet I believe this only prevents me from an existence of normality, not happiness. I believe heaven is a choice of dream over convenience, perhaps a few special moments in life can be found to justify the choice of one over the other. Eternity however, is rewarded to those that can live in hell with the devil solely as his mistress and create something beautiful for the non-willing sacrifices to feast upon.
The future son sleeps, he's breathing quietly as he grows. The soon to be spouse prays as she waits, and I the father and fiancée search for the success to satisfy all fears. The tears tell me it's time to become a writer or perhaps face the fear of failing as one. I request another drink from the homely waitress and put my pen to rest with the spirits of the past.
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