Modern society has always been divided into two fractions. There has been the world and there has been bohemia. It is in bohemia that people of the world go to dream. Bohemian has always been referenced as the alternative lifestyle. In Europe, it was the artists, writers, musicians and actors that clung to this title. As such, the concept of alcoholism, drug-use and caffeine have always been prized. These are the gears that keep the machine running for these people. Political points? Always contrast that of the traditional. Sexual points? Always contrast that of traditional. Bohemians were the first lift-wingers. It was these gypsy that knew how important it was just to breathe. Today's bohemian wears piercing and tattoos… it is these people that live on the edge. It is these people that are mass-marketed as the bohemian lifestyle. Take for example Suicide Girls. Their news? Always left-wing to the fullest. They are liberals. The pin-ups? They must have attitude as much as they have the look. This also feeds into other high-fashion magazines. All of the Tattoo magazines demonstrate the same. They are selling what has been sold to the world since the industrial age. It is the world where they work. It is in bohemia that they dream. People that elect the alternative lifestyle still carry the bohemian spirit. They have unorthodox opinions. They are antiestablishment. Uniforms may have changed but it remains the two fractions. Difference, however, has been marketing. A vast portion of people barring tattoos and piercings today have been sold the idea. Shows such as Miami Ink has now brought ink into the home. Traditional culture is now buying. It is not usual to be in a kicker, cowboy hat club and see Wranglers with tattoos. I am curious what the next leap will be to build a wall, again, between the two fractions. Mentally, the wall will forever be there. It is that liberal spirit and that's the bohemian way.

Scissors Cut

I was on a string
Wrapped up on you
Every thought of that night
Set in a fortune's farce made of fable twigs
I lied and said I didn't love you
You lied and said you were done with him
Thunderclap with metal writhe
Soon my words were dialed out
Becon sedated spill in a cloud of you



*above link is poem as read by me in a wav format.

zampire hours

bags under my eyes

hours waste like toilet paper

plug unplug dial-up GO

yesterday was happiness

tomorrow comes too slow

404 404 404

it could change at any second

caffeine sugar liver EXPLODE

I’ve spent the past few hours listening to random bands that the web can provide. Tiger Army was a nice find, or rather, it was nice to listen to instead of the dull void of the workspace. My part timer is working as a tech assistant which means when he feels like calling a sick day or sick week? I get the call. I don’t mind it because it pays. It’s a job that’s just enough a challenge but not enough that makes it feel like work. I handle the technology side of it.

Which was all made long before I was born. The entire system runs on an IBM environment that IBM doesn’t even support anymore. You remember that white and green lined paper? We use that. I handle all technical issues. Majority of them I haven’t a fucking clue about.

The real fat of my job deals with the fact that over a hundred checks are printed, cut and mailed a day. I’m the guy who aligns, prints and cuts said checks. I keep the system going, I feed the printer the check forms with their stupid guide (which you have to tape to the first check) and I hand them to payroll.

Tonight, I’m playing side-kick in this skit presentation that I had no creative input at all in. We’re supposed to cover Walter Fisher’s Narrative blahblah. Instead, my lovely team decided we should steal the concept of the opening of a late night television show of the ilk of Letterman or Conan. I think that would have been fine if the idea was nurtured because this team has done whacky shit before. Two quarters ago, we had a presentation that had a video tape of skits (a la Monty Python), glow sticks, a puppet and duct tape. Only, this idea hasn’t been molded at all.

A lot of has to do with the interesting fact that the instructor has opted to only use the material that came with the book. Even the tests are the ones that came with the book. The pain… I can’t describe. So I understand why no one has wanted to bother to even work on this presentation. We just want to get this credit down.

It’s going to be a nightmare.

It’s going to be called ‘Fishing at Night’ for fuck’s sake.

"Lisa"
a Minneapolis short

Cancer was like gingivitis in the United States. He had spent his life in the uniform, fighting for all the principles that his nation was founded on. There was nothing before nineteen ninety-nine that he couldn’t fly for the Air Force. He had the award of valor for his time during the first Iraq slap boxing. Howard Devoto was Superman to his wife. No one would ever believe that over the nineties, when he was fighting so gallant for his country, his body was being invaded by breast cancer.

Howard Devote never knew he had cancer until the last four months of his life. He never got to play with his young wife’s new tits that he had bought her for her birthday. When he died, the government and insurance backed her enough that she’d never have to work a day of her life. She grew bored with that. No, she wasn’t stripping for a child’s education. She wasn’t stripping to make a living. She was stripping because of boredom.

That was apparent in her dance. She did not seduce the hyena males that filled the smoky building on Fourth Avenue downtown Minneapolis. Save the smoke, the building was outstandingly classy. White marble, with slabs of peach and other fruit hued neutrals that made up the corridors. Books, even though they were empty elaborate journals, filled up wooden arches to mirror a study or Victorian libraries. The echoes of the gentleman’s club still were present but new management was after the money and not the ambience. Schieks Palace Royale had ceased to be when it was sold to the fat man with the cane.

Walls were ripped open, the cubicles that brokered sex were lost and a long stage was installed. The upstairs of the club was deemed the fat man’s ‘Hugh Herfner wet dream.’ The fat man had fetishes and the upstairs became the home of those and him. It had originally been the Federal Reserve Bank but was converted into a nightclub in nineteen eighty-nine. Like any good reserve, it was in the heart of the business district and at its peak had over four hundred erotic entertainers with imported champagnes, cigars and wines.

Heather Devote and the Federal Reserve Bank had lost all their dignity. When once it took a cover to enter the doors, the fat man had lowered the charge down to free. Where executives once cheated on their wives, now teenagers mingling in from the club First Avenue (founded by Prince, when it was called Glam Slam).

The boys still ate it up. Nudity was still nudity. While the woman with a homely face began to peel off her clothes, the coarse blonde hair peeking out of the panties, it was then that the shot was heard. There was no reaction from the crowd; since the music in the establishment had often been laced with weird sound effects. It had taken another shot for blood to return them from being lost in a hormone war.

She dropped to the floor. A burn came from her nude shoulder blades as it had slammed into the runway. It had taken that to make her cry. To make her realize that if she died at this instant, that she would die here. It made her realize that forty bucks in ones wasn’t worth making a fool out of herself every Friday night. For now, Heather was in a ball on stage as the crowd began their tour of panic.

Why would someone do that?

Lisa had breasts that felt like silk pillows. Lisa could support her entire body with her knees on a guy’s shoulders while her face was buried in his crotch making muffler noises. This client wasn't excited by the muffles as now the lap dance had ended in a bath of blood. Why would the fat man kill her? Lisa was a money maker. It was easy to explain.

The fat man was in love with her.

The world won't see me today because I will be spending all my cash on things that shouldn’t be putting in my body. I will be attending the so-called ‘Great Minnesota Get Together.’ Since I’ve been up here, I’ve been subjected to three of these all-day events with insane crowds, screaming kids, rides and food.

I’m off to gain ten pounds.

I’ve decided to get this up and looking somewhat decent. It has two folders. Oh, by the way. I’m Jack. Chances are if you’ve stumbled by this it’s because I’ve commented on the fact that you’re either pretty damn spiffy, I’d love to get my fingers in your knickers or your tat is awesome.