Why the fuck did it take me so goddamned long to figure it out???
Well, I'm 31, so I still have a chance.
Wish me luck.
Well, I'm 31, so I still have a chance.
Wish me luck.
Inspiration
I encountered an entity today, one that has hijacked my thought processes. Hijacked for most people has some negative connotation, but in this instance, may not be the most accurate verb to choose from, but it gets the point across.
She is absolutely striking. I feel as if a bolt of lightning has reached out of the nether and enveloped me for just long enough to get my attention, and leave my ears ringing in it's absence. Altogether unique, yet I'm glad it doesn't happen every day.
In my nihilistic interpretation, my pragmatic self opines: yeah, ok, so she's hot, but you got like 0% (read 0.0000001%) chance of ever connecting with this person, and my most basest neurotic self chimes in, even if you did, even if she saw in you everything you like to delude yourself into thinking makes you special, even if it was the better for both of you than dying men being visited by angels, you'd inevitably fuck it up. Or she would.
See what I deal with every day? Usually it's not this bad, but this inspiration, from my experience of this magical creature, is the only actual tangible component of our interaction that I might benefit from. I plan on putting it to good use.
What, you may ask, am I being so excessively verbose about?
She is my muse. Through no fault of her own, without any effort on her part, and in spite of virtually every internal barometer alarm bell ringing in my ears (or is that the lingering remnants of the existential cosmic lighting that struck me earlier, it's hard to tell), she has instantaneously become a significant source of creative motivation in my life. Not the only source, but a significant source none the less.
It's hard not to get caught up in the specifics of this revelation, to not focus on her or who she is, or what it would like to be in her physical presence, the sound of her laughing uncontrollably, or what her angelically expressive face might look like in the midst of an earth shattering post coital incandescence.
Sweet Chocolate Fiddlin' Jesus and Sister Theresa GOD it's hard not to think about the utopian blissful clouds of everlasting dopaminergic overload that would construe being united with this woman; to not roll in, bask in, immerse, ingest, fortify or obsess about these conjectures- no that's the danger of the muse.
But to discard inspiration at the first (although quite reasonably absolutely horrific) inclination toward grievous personal existential jeopardy would be to "throw the baby out with the bath water", as it were. I may not care to have children of my own, but I by no means advocate ejecting them any significant distance.
Say what you like about the seemingly inevitable stride of technological civilization toward social and economic stratification (along with the destruction of our natural environment, see my desire not to have children above), I'm left with little but to make lemonade1.
1. The lemon being, in this case, that we'll never meet.
See, I already have numerous relationships which some might call dysfunctional, but I refer to lovingly as a shining examples of ethical utilitarianism. I have a certain proclivity for singers, and I have relations with some of the greatest. They anoint me with their sweet siren serenades at my convenience (as long as my battery is charged), and before any personal disillusionment can take place, they drift back into the nether, waiting to be summoned again. They never get jealous of each other, or of my desire to do other things. We never have arguments about which direction our relationship is headed. They never make me feel like I'm supposed to be doing something more or something different or something more practical. No, these women accept me as I am, unequivocally, always.
We may not be lovers, I cannot touch them, they don't keep the bed warm on cold nights, I can't go out with them on my arm and feel like a stud because they see something in me that others may not. They don't snuggle with me watching movies, or ask me to help them carry something heavy for them, but that's ok, because our relationship isn't about these things.
No, they've created their works irrespective of who I am. I accept that. But for their own reasons they were driven to do so, and I reap the benefits.
Song for all occasions, lovelorn heartache, celebratory jubilation, quiet reflection, tender loving moments, passionate desire and the occasional angst ridden diatribe. They offer up their personal sonic interpretations that can help punctuate my emotional landscape. For this, I am eternally loyal to them.
And this brings me back to my muse; for it is not who she is or what she chooses to do. Those are details that concern me not. To be sure, she is sexy, intelligent, and a little loony; a combination which for reasons which remain a mystery to me has been fairly consistent in my personal relationships with women over the years. Indeed, I would be quite enamored with her were we actually to meet. But this is of no practical purpose to me here, now, ever.
The fact is, if I were to meet this woman, I would be an insecure, blubbering neurotic idiot. If I found myself in her immediate physical presence, I would experience immediate and severe gastrointestinal distress.
Why? Because to be confronted with the reality of her would be to necessarily reflect the reality of who I am, and who I am not.
The purpose of me writing this paper, beyond the exercise itself and amongst myriad other motivations, is to illustrate the internal dynamic which will compel me to reconcile my appreciation for the absolute beauty of the universe with my existential cognitive dissonance to arrive at some deeper perspective which will allow me to continue on the path I have chosen for myself.
To put it as succinctly as I can, and to quote Jack Nicholson in the process: "you make me want to be a better man".
To persevere in the face of insurmountable odds, to persist in the untenable conditions of adversity, to pervert every paradigm insinuating that I should concede, abdicate, surrender, be more practical, get a real job, give it up, get real, grow up. To refuse "to go gentle into that good night", to "rage, rage against the dying of the light", this is what I will continue to do.
I am a good person, I am not great. You have helped to reawaken and reinforce my attempts toward greatness. For that, I am eternally in your debt.
I pray to god I never meet you*.
* But... I'm an atheist and romantic, so technically, that doesn't count for much.
I encountered an entity today, one that has hijacked my thought processes. Hijacked for most people has some negative connotation, but in this instance, may not be the most accurate verb to choose from, but it gets the point across.
She is absolutely striking. I feel as if a bolt of lightning has reached out of the nether and enveloped me for just long enough to get my attention, and leave my ears ringing in it's absence. Altogether unique, yet I'm glad it doesn't happen every day.
In my nihilistic interpretation, my pragmatic self opines: yeah, ok, so she's hot, but you got like 0% (read 0.0000001%) chance of ever connecting with this person, and my most basest neurotic self chimes in, even if you did, even if she saw in you everything you like to delude yourself into thinking makes you special, even if it was the better for both of you than dying men being visited by angels, you'd inevitably fuck it up. Or she would.
See what I deal with every day? Usually it's not this bad, but this inspiration, from my experience of this magical creature, is the only actual tangible component of our interaction that I might benefit from. I plan on putting it to good use.
What, you may ask, am I being so excessively verbose about?
She is my muse. Through no fault of her own, without any effort on her part, and in spite of virtually every internal barometer alarm bell ringing in my ears (or is that the lingering remnants of the existential cosmic lighting that struck me earlier, it's hard to tell), she has instantaneously become a significant source of creative motivation in my life. Not the only source, but a significant source none the less.
It's hard not to get caught up in the specifics of this revelation, to not focus on her or who she is, or what it would like to be in her physical presence, the sound of her laughing uncontrollably, or what her angelically expressive face might look like in the midst of an earth shattering post coital incandescence.
Sweet Chocolate Fiddlin' Jesus and Sister Theresa GOD it's hard not to think about the utopian blissful clouds of everlasting dopaminergic overload that would construe being united with this woman; to not roll in, bask in, immerse, ingest, fortify or obsess about these conjectures- no that's the danger of the muse.
But to discard inspiration at the first (although quite reasonably absolutely horrific) inclination toward grievous personal existential jeopardy would be to "throw the baby out with the bath water", as it were. I may not care to have children of my own, but I by no means advocate ejecting them any significant distance.
Say what you like about the seemingly inevitable stride of technological civilization toward social and economic stratification (along with the destruction of our natural environment, see my desire not to have children above), I'm left with little but to make lemonade1.
1. The lemon being, in this case, that we'll never meet.
See, I already have numerous relationships which some might call dysfunctional, but I refer to lovingly as a shining examples of ethical utilitarianism. I have a certain proclivity for singers, and I have relations with some of the greatest. They anoint me with their sweet siren serenades at my convenience (as long as my battery is charged), and before any personal disillusionment can take place, they drift back into the nether, waiting to be summoned again. They never get jealous of each other, or of my desire to do other things. We never have arguments about which direction our relationship is headed. They never make me feel like I'm supposed to be doing something more or something different or something more practical. No, these women accept me as I am, unequivocally, always.
We may not be lovers, I cannot touch them, they don't keep the bed warm on cold nights, I can't go out with them on my arm and feel like a stud because they see something in me that others may not. They don't snuggle with me watching movies, or ask me to help them carry something heavy for them, but that's ok, because our relationship isn't about these things.
No, they've created their works irrespective of who I am. I accept that. But for their own reasons they were driven to do so, and I reap the benefits.
Song for all occasions, lovelorn heartache, celebratory jubilation, quiet reflection, tender loving moments, passionate desire and the occasional angst ridden diatribe. They offer up their personal sonic interpretations that can help punctuate my emotional landscape. For this, I am eternally loyal to them.
And this brings me back to my muse; for it is not who she is or what she chooses to do. Those are details that concern me not. To be sure, she is sexy, intelligent, and a little loony; a combination which for reasons which remain a mystery to me has been fairly consistent in my personal relationships with women over the years. Indeed, I would be quite enamored with her were we actually to meet. But this is of no practical purpose to me here, now, ever.
The fact is, if I were to meet this woman, I would be an insecure, blubbering neurotic idiot. If I found myself in her immediate physical presence, I would experience immediate and severe gastrointestinal distress.
Why? Because to be confronted with the reality of her would be to necessarily reflect the reality of who I am, and who I am not.
The purpose of me writing this paper, beyond the exercise itself and amongst myriad other motivations, is to illustrate the internal dynamic which will compel me to reconcile my appreciation for the absolute beauty of the universe with my existential cognitive dissonance to arrive at some deeper perspective which will allow me to continue on the path I have chosen for myself.
To put it as succinctly as I can, and to quote Jack Nicholson in the process: "you make me want to be a better man".
To persevere in the face of insurmountable odds, to persist in the untenable conditions of adversity, to pervert every paradigm insinuating that I should concede, abdicate, surrender, be more practical, get a real job, give it up, get real, grow up. To refuse "to go gentle into that good night", to "rage, rage against the dying of the light", this is what I will continue to do.
I am a good person, I am not great. You have helped to reawaken and reinforce my attempts toward greatness. For that, I am eternally in your debt.
I pray to god I never meet you*.
* But... I'm an atheist and romantic, so technically, that doesn't count for much.
Ease it in.
Stop at the light. Light turns green, pull forward. Use turn signal and make the 2nd right after the light and come to a slow stop. Check traffic coming opposite way, clear. Take left into driveway, stop. Hit garage door opener. Wait. Gate's open, ease down inside. Pull into space, ease up to bumper stop. Turn off ignition.
Take stereo face, get groceries from car, walk to elevator. Push button wait.
How did I get so different from everybody else?
Elevator come, get inside. Put groceries down and hit button for 2nd floor.
Pick up groceries, think about life, oh, the elevators stopped, and here's my... Shit, this is 1, never mind.
Let old lady hobble into the elevator. I should ask which floor but I've got 40 pounds worth of groceries oh and look, she's already pressing 4. Well, no worries.
In the time between the first floor and the second:
I should have hit that button for her. I mean, she's old. She's got a scowl on her face, life obviously hasn't been superb for this woman, or at least it isn't at this exact moment. Does she have more good moments than bad?
She understands. I didn't hit the button because she can see I have 3 heavy ass double-paper grocery bags in my hands. She just stands there, waiting in uncomfortable silence for us to get to 2. Does not look at me. I get that a lot.
Does she just stare straight ahead because she's lost in her own miserable world? Is she miserable. She's not smiling. She probably doesn't speak that much english, or desire to talk to me. I'll bet she grew up in a country where carrying 3 heavy bags of groceries into your apartment would be unheard of, even if you were physically capable of doing so.
Maybe her bones ache. Maybe someone she knows just died. That happens too. Maybe she hates her husband, or she really loved him and he just died.
Or is he alive and she rues the day they met? Regrets it with each passing moment, a constant exercise in self deprivation for the sake of convenience. The exercise never ends. She looks back with great fondness to the memories of her economically disadvantaged childhood. They didn't have much in those days, but people were closer. Friends meant more. Living hadn't yet lost it's luster.
See? The most you could hope for would be someone to love you despite growing old, and even that pales in comparison to the alternative. Unless you believe in god, but you'd rather die than become some intellectually scatuous dogmatic regurgitation device, or tool, to be more specific.
Time, life can do that to one's dreams. I'll bet she had big plans moving to "America", the city of angels. Isn't that ironic? But gradually, over the years, you realize the abundance of pleasure, the never ending cascading torrents of bliss and self actualization are the end of the rainbow: you can see it, but you can never get there or touch it.
No, love does not conquer all, in the harsh reality but pleasantly mild climate of Los Angeles. This woman and I, of whom I know nothing, share a common fate. At some point, we will cease to be. I wish her well, but will learn from what I've projected onto her to reinforce my internal decree.
When I go, it will be by my own hand. Unless it's some unforseen catastrophe. I wish not to gradually corrode into disrepair and loneliness. Not for me, Jack. Is that too real?
Oh, here's the second floor.
Most people don't think about such things. We want to worry about making that next light, hooking up with that person, paying our credit card bills and rent on time, getting a raise at work.
Too much reality is counter productive. It's just uncomfortable.
We need to believe that the end is an infinite distance away. What's the use about thinking about getting sick, or being murdered, being on that plane that just missed that last bit of needed maintenance?
There is no functional purpose. But that's where I differ from most people.
I have a lifetime ahead of me. I love life. I love being in love. And in a sick way I also love being lonely, but I'm sure that's more utility than desire.
I want to do so many things, have a positive impact on people's lives, somehow get my shit together and help others get theirs too. But this is as much delusion as having to assume that the end is an unimaginable unit of time in the future, with infinite possibilities for action and experience between now and then.
I don't believe in god, in case you haven't got that yet. Naturally, that leaves a lot of questions.
I believe in getting laid.
Manifesting the activity that we've evolved for millions of years in order to experience. The orgasm with a partner of your choosing. Being alive at a time and location where another human being accepts you faults and all and asks you to do the same because they want you so much they have to.
Validation, seduction, passion, exchange, insatiable...
That's as close to any concept of god as I'll ever need to be.
I enjoy and lament the absence of those times in my past, and eagerly await the times and persons with which I will enjoy these occasions in the future. But I desire not to have children. No children, no god. What does that leave?
Simply put, cessation. When I can honestly say that no woman of my choosing would think to have me in her bed, the time of my end will be at hand. Luckily, I can get pretty old before I get to that point. Who knows, maybe I'll be 82 and some hot 75 year old will be yearning to jump my frail bones. That's a funny thought.
No, I suppose it will be sooner than that. Only time and the universe can dictate when my time will come, and neither one sees fit to bestow upon me that fantastic revelation. I suppose it's for the best. So I'll make the best with what I have. I've got things to do, places to go, and people to see.
So best of luck to you in your future endeavors, whoever you are. Here's to a better future.
Stop at the light. Light turns green, pull forward. Use turn signal and make the 2nd right after the light and come to a slow stop. Check traffic coming opposite way, clear. Take left into driveway, stop. Hit garage door opener. Wait. Gate's open, ease down inside. Pull into space, ease up to bumper stop. Turn off ignition.
Take stereo face, get groceries from car, walk to elevator. Push button wait.
How did I get so different from everybody else?
Elevator come, get inside. Put groceries down and hit button for 2nd floor.
Pick up groceries, think about life, oh, the elevators stopped, and here's my... Shit, this is 1, never mind.
Let old lady hobble into the elevator. I should ask which floor but I've got 40 pounds worth of groceries oh and look, she's already pressing 4. Well, no worries.
In the time between the first floor and the second:
I should have hit that button for her. I mean, she's old. She's got a scowl on her face, life obviously hasn't been superb for this woman, or at least it isn't at this exact moment. Does she have more good moments than bad?
She understands. I didn't hit the button because she can see I have 3 heavy ass double-paper grocery bags in my hands. She just stands there, waiting in uncomfortable silence for us to get to 2. Does not look at me. I get that a lot.
Does she just stare straight ahead because she's lost in her own miserable world? Is she miserable. She's not smiling. She probably doesn't speak that much english, or desire to talk to me. I'll bet she grew up in a country where carrying 3 heavy bags of groceries into your apartment would be unheard of, even if you were physically capable of doing so.
Maybe her bones ache. Maybe someone she knows just died. That happens too. Maybe she hates her husband, or she really loved him and he just died.
Or is he alive and she rues the day they met? Regrets it with each passing moment, a constant exercise in self deprivation for the sake of convenience. The exercise never ends. She looks back with great fondness to the memories of her economically disadvantaged childhood. They didn't have much in those days, but people were closer. Friends meant more. Living hadn't yet lost it's luster.
See? The most you could hope for would be someone to love you despite growing old, and even that pales in comparison to the alternative. Unless you believe in god, but you'd rather die than become some intellectually scatuous dogmatic regurgitation device, or tool, to be more specific.
Time, life can do that to one's dreams. I'll bet she had big plans moving to "America", the city of angels. Isn't that ironic? But gradually, over the years, you realize the abundance of pleasure, the never ending cascading torrents of bliss and self actualization are the end of the rainbow: you can see it, but you can never get there or touch it.
No, love does not conquer all, in the harsh reality but pleasantly mild climate of Los Angeles. This woman and I, of whom I know nothing, share a common fate. At some point, we will cease to be. I wish her well, but will learn from what I've projected onto her to reinforce my internal decree.
When I go, it will be by my own hand. Unless it's some unforseen catastrophe. I wish not to gradually corrode into disrepair and loneliness. Not for me, Jack. Is that too real?
Oh, here's the second floor.
Most people don't think about such things. We want to worry about making that next light, hooking up with that person, paying our credit card bills and rent on time, getting a raise at work.
Too much reality is counter productive. It's just uncomfortable.
We need to believe that the end is an infinite distance away. What's the use about thinking about getting sick, or being murdered, being on that plane that just missed that last bit of needed maintenance?
There is no functional purpose. But that's where I differ from most people.
I have a lifetime ahead of me. I love life. I love being in love. And in a sick way I also love being lonely, but I'm sure that's more utility than desire.
I want to do so many things, have a positive impact on people's lives, somehow get my shit together and help others get theirs too. But this is as much delusion as having to assume that the end is an unimaginable unit of time in the future, with infinite possibilities for action and experience between now and then.
I don't believe in god, in case you haven't got that yet. Naturally, that leaves a lot of questions.
I believe in getting laid.
Manifesting the activity that we've evolved for millions of years in order to experience. The orgasm with a partner of your choosing. Being alive at a time and location where another human being accepts you faults and all and asks you to do the same because they want you so much they have to.
Validation, seduction, passion, exchange, insatiable...
That's as close to any concept of god as I'll ever need to be.
I enjoy and lament the absence of those times in my past, and eagerly await the times and persons with which I will enjoy these occasions in the future. But I desire not to have children. No children, no god. What does that leave?
Simply put, cessation. When I can honestly say that no woman of my choosing would think to have me in her bed, the time of my end will be at hand. Luckily, I can get pretty old before I get to that point. Who knows, maybe I'll be 82 and some hot 75 year old will be yearning to jump my frail bones. That's a funny thought.
No, I suppose it will be sooner than that. Only time and the universe can dictate when my time will come, and neither one sees fit to bestow upon me that fantastic revelation. I suppose it's for the best. So I'll make the best with what I have. I've got things to do, places to go, and people to see.
So best of luck to you in your future endeavors, whoever you are. Here's to a better future.
As hard as it is to comprehend, we are all insignificant. Our lives are as meaningless as how bright that supernova was 240 million years ago that we just get to see today. Good, evil, or indifferent, none of us matters in the least in the overall scheme of the universe.
Our relationships are as petty and meaningless as well, our heartache when we lose a loved one, our mountains of joy upon finding that "special someone"... it's all for naught. One day, we will all be relegated to the ashes of the past, as unimportant as all those that have come before.
Goodbye.
I like the pretty girls, though.
-Josh
Our relationships are as petty and meaningless as well, our heartache when we lose a loved one, our mountains of joy upon finding that "special someone"... it's all for naught. One day, we will all be relegated to the ashes of the past, as unimportant as all those that have come before.
Goodbye.
I like the pretty girls, though.
-Josh
To be fair, this I wrote this in response to a thread.... but I was on a roll so I want to keep it around.
"Fuck [Joe Leiberman! Joe's] polishing the brass on the Titanic! It's all going down, man! So, fuck off with your sofa units and your string green stripe patterns."- Tyler
The America that you grew up to understand, with your 8th grade social studies view of Thomas Jefferson and the preamble and Lincoln and poor, tired, huddled masses is a fucking farce. Sure, in the trenches it may seem like we have all sorts of personal freedom to consume and pay taxes, but at the top levels our government has been perpetrating the greatest fraud in world history. Freedom at home and pillage abroad, especially since the end of WW2. I've seen "both" sides of the debate, and see that debate as a charade. Wizard of Oz shit. The Matrix.
Shining city on the Hill my fucking hairy ass, not if you lived in Nicaragua or El Salvador or Vietnam or Indonesia or Saudi Arabia or Chile or Peru or Grenada or Cambodia or Laos or Cuba or Belarus or Ethiopia or Uzbekistan or Uganda or Nigeria or South Africa or any number of other countries we've either knowingly murdered innocent people, or us dollars and arms supported dictatorial leaders who were "friendly to US buisness interests" while being ruthless traitors to their own people (i.e., willing to give the business leaders of this country whatever they happen to be looking for).
So man, fuck all this ra ra flag waving pseudo-patriotic Toby Keith loving christian zealot bullshit. Time changes everything, and what you thought our country is is dead. At one point in the past we may have been seen as the world protector by more world citizens than not, but we've turned into the world serial rapist.
We're like the aged hollywood icon who refuses to admit that they've grown old and undesirable... the one that looks in the mirror and sees what they used to be... but there are those of us that need not shrink from reality.
So, Joe Lieberman, Democrat, Republican, government... none if it matters, it's beyond salvation. Save a massive leap in human consciousness (I'm not holding my breath), it's already done. We've struck the iceberg and now it's just a matter of time. The once sleeping dragon is waking, and people are getting tired of our shit.
There, I said it. Again. For now. Until next time. Until then, enjoy the pretty girls. I sure do. Phew.
"Fuck [Joe Leiberman! Joe's] polishing the brass on the Titanic! It's all going down, man! So, fuck off with your sofa units and your string green stripe patterns."- Tyler
The America that you grew up to understand, with your 8th grade social studies view of Thomas Jefferson and the preamble and Lincoln and poor, tired, huddled masses is a fucking farce. Sure, in the trenches it may seem like we have all sorts of personal freedom to consume and pay taxes, but at the top levels our government has been perpetrating the greatest fraud in world history. Freedom at home and pillage abroad, especially since the end of WW2. I've seen "both" sides of the debate, and see that debate as a charade. Wizard of Oz shit. The Matrix.
Shining city on the Hill my fucking hairy ass, not if you lived in Nicaragua or El Salvador or Vietnam or Indonesia or Saudi Arabia or Chile or Peru or Grenada or Cambodia or Laos or Cuba or Belarus or Ethiopia or Uzbekistan or Uganda or Nigeria or South Africa or any number of other countries we've either knowingly murdered innocent people, or us dollars and arms supported dictatorial leaders who were "friendly to US buisness interests" while being ruthless traitors to their own people (i.e., willing to give the business leaders of this country whatever they happen to be looking for).
So man, fuck all this ra ra flag waving pseudo-patriotic Toby Keith loving christian zealot bullshit. Time changes everything, and what you thought our country is is dead. At one point in the past we may have been seen as the world protector by more world citizens than not, but we've turned into the world serial rapist.
We're like the aged hollywood icon who refuses to admit that they've grown old and undesirable... the one that looks in the mirror and sees what they used to be... but there are those of us that need not shrink from reality.
So, Joe Lieberman, Democrat, Republican, government... none if it matters, it's beyond salvation. Save a massive leap in human consciousness (I'm not holding my breath), it's already done. We've struck the iceberg and now it's just a matter of time. The once sleeping dragon is waking, and people are getting tired of our shit.
There, I said it. Again. For now. Until next time. Until then, enjoy the pretty girls. I sure do. Phew.
Jumped in to '07?!? WTF???!
Ok, so I don't normally think of myself as an excetionally aggressive person. In fact, I think any of my friends would testify to my pleasant personal disposition. Hell, if I'm upset, the liklihood is that I'll be depressed more than angry.
But alcohol in large amounts can do things to a person, let me tell you: I'm no stranger to that fact.
Last night was the same as most nights, although nothing can quite make you feel like an asshole like being out by yourself on new years... so I met up with some friends and hung out a little too long. Past my limit you might say. So I was kinda depressed as I walked down the boulevard (hollywood) to my apt. Not aggressive, that's the point.
Somewhere along the line, I found myself walking next to some people. The temptation is for me to say it was a black dude and 2 girls, but that's unimportant, really. Black, white, brown, whatever color he is, he's still an asshole.
Now, I believe to the core of my being that I uttered something akin to "happy new year", though the details are kinda hazy. More from alcohol that from fisticuffs.
But this dude seemed to find it necessary to posture and respond with some sort of negative comment.
In my exasperation, I turned around to address the issue... I was confused. Why would somebody go out of their way to be an dickhead to someone else?...? Oh yeah, this is LA.
I'll bet if there was a video taken of it, it would be more funny that disturbing. He was about as incompetent at dealing out an ass whipping as I am at taking one. He got a few mediocre shots in, and mind you, I was in no condition to repel the enemy's assault, using fire and close combat. But I stayed on my feet. I think the only thing that saved me was I outweighed the guy by 30-50 pounds and he didn't use a weapon. Here's to your knuckles being broken on my skull you fuckin' tard.
I came out clean for the most part. Got a small bruise on the back of my head, a little soreness too. But I could've got a fat lip, or black eye or my nose coulda got broke or worse, so all in all I'm really fucking good. What bothers me the most is that I didn't really hurt him at all. Sure, I swung my arms with vigor, but it was more to keep my balance than proposing some kind of offense. Either way, I think he learned real quick that I wasn't just gonna go down in the first 5 seconds, and that has a way of making people reconsider their strategy. I take solace in the fact if I would've connected with that kid I'd've broke his face.
But I've been doing a lot of internal spiritual work lately, trying to reconcile my dreams with my realities... and I choose to make this ultimately a positive experience.
So here it is: No more booze, no more cigarettes. Exercise. Healthy living. You've heard it before, so we'll see how much I can do in a year.
Here's to meeting you again, Mr. New Years, shall we say, same time same place next year? Yeah, and here's to the coroner scooping your brains into a plastic fucking bag when I'm through putting my hands on you.
(P.S., not really, and to all my friends, I apologize for this last part... you know I wouldn't actually do something like that- I just needed to vent. Whathe did was totally uncalled for.)
Babel
I was going to go see Borat tonight, but due to timing issues, I walked down hollywood blvd, from my house to manns chinese theater... didn't feel much in the mood for Borat (or how many people there were there), so I decided to catch a little later showing of Babel.
I watched the movie, and as the end credits came, I was one of about 40 or 50 (out of 600 or so) individuals who gave my applause. As the lights came up and I darted for the door, I heard some girl in the back say "that movie did NOT deserve clapping". My first thought was to stifle my laughter in pointing out to this lady that "good to know there's still no accounting for bad taste"- especially/even in a place that likes to take itself as seriously as Hollywood.
As I hit the street to walk back to my apt. (I walked tonight, an unfortunate rarity) I was greeted with the drama of sunset blvd on a saturday night. Totally in keeping with the film, but I was relieved to discover the mood of the film stayed with me, allowing me to see the "all singing, all dancing crap of the world" for what it is, the obnoxious people blocking traffic whilst they pile out of their beemer, or 1 of the fucking million mercedes benz's I see here (theres not even this many in germany, I'm goddam sure of it), or the stretch hummer limo's, my personal bete noire...
But the film rendered me impervious for a time, a time I shall enjoy very much... because assuredly the conundrum of this place will assuredly, once again become its own distraction. But I (and the filmmaker, if I might presume to relay my interpretation of his intentions to you) feel above this petty, babylonian gemorrah. The $5000-$7000 dollars (per tittie)... it's (they're) insignificant, when you consider the overall experience of humanity, so it's to be expected that some shallow trollop might deem a work of art on the interconnectedness of all humanity unworty of praise.
That's basically the point of the film, with some play with structure (anticipated if you've seen any of his other films), but an exquisitely rendered exploration of the common elements of the human condition; bad choices, bad situations, sadness, and how these moments can really define a persons life. This isn't really a date movie, unless you have the blessing of being with a woman who appreciates this kind of thing, or are that woman yourself.
My inner woman was grateful, grateful for the reminder that, for all it's uselessness and panoptic unoriginality, that Hollywood still faciliates gems from time to time. While I'm not aware of the specifics relating to the production and distribution of this film, at the very least I'm glad someone decided it was worthy of mainstream distribution. Somewhere along that chain of decisions I'm sure someone here in LA had some influence in that decision, so whoever you are, Thank You.
Everyone else, my friends, you should go see it. I guess I don't want to over do it... so yeah... highly recommended.
I was going to go see Borat tonight, but due to timing issues, I walked down hollywood blvd, from my house to manns chinese theater... didn't feel much in the mood for Borat (or how many people there were there), so I decided to catch a little later showing of Babel.
I watched the movie, and as the end credits came, I was one of about 40 or 50 (out of 600 or so) individuals who gave my applause. As the lights came up and I darted for the door, I heard some girl in the back say "that movie did NOT deserve clapping". My first thought was to stifle my laughter in pointing out to this lady that "good to know there's still no accounting for bad taste"- especially/even in a place that likes to take itself as seriously as Hollywood.
As I hit the street to walk back to my apt. (I walked tonight, an unfortunate rarity) I was greeted with the drama of sunset blvd on a saturday night. Totally in keeping with the film, but I was relieved to discover the mood of the film stayed with me, allowing me to see the "all singing, all dancing crap of the world" for what it is, the obnoxious people blocking traffic whilst they pile out of their beemer, or 1 of the fucking million mercedes benz's I see here (theres not even this many in germany, I'm goddam sure of it), or the stretch hummer limo's, my personal bete noire...
But the film rendered me impervious for a time, a time I shall enjoy very much... because assuredly the conundrum of this place will assuredly, once again become its own distraction. But I (and the filmmaker, if I might presume to relay my interpretation of his intentions to you) feel above this petty, babylonian gemorrah. The $5000-$7000 dollars (per tittie)... it's (they're) insignificant, when you consider the overall experience of humanity, so it's to be expected that some shallow trollop might deem a work of art on the interconnectedness of all humanity unworty of praise.
That's basically the point of the film, with some play with structure (anticipated if you've seen any of his other films), but an exquisitely rendered exploration of the common elements of the human condition; bad choices, bad situations, sadness, and how these moments can really define a persons life. This isn't really a date movie, unless you have the blessing of being with a woman who appreciates this kind of thing, or are that woman yourself.
My inner woman was grateful, grateful for the reminder that, for all it's uselessness and panoptic unoriginality, that Hollywood still faciliates gems from time to time. While I'm not aware of the specifics relating to the production and distribution of this film, at the very least I'm glad someone decided it was worthy of mainstream distribution. Somewhere along that chain of decisions I'm sure someone here in LA had some influence in that decision, so whoever you are, Thank You.
Everyone else, my friends, you should go see it. I guess I don't want to over do it... so yeah... highly recommended.
