Monthly Archives: July 2010

This Town

They say one is their own judge and jury for decisions of this scale, but I found myself drudged and dreary instead. It happened on the first night, dreamt about a ghost, her dead spirit, not really a four-leafed clover type sign. I figured it was a sign that said I could be happy with my decision, but the dead thing part meant my happiness was extorted, unlawfully gained according to the judge and jury.

The company-supplied goons dragged me to a night at an old stale ale-serving tavern, KISS played on the jukebox, in fact, one of the patrons paid for the entire album of Smashes Thrashes and Thrills to be played. Themed as a dirty dive bar complete with unpaid accidental stuntmen who flew across the air because they either A.) Incorrectly answered a trivia question of little importance, or B.) Stared at the wrong girl. There weren’t any girls. I had to sneak obsessive notes like I was writing an SOS on my raggedy napkin that looked to have been employed by someone’s, A.) Nose, or B.) Someone’s asshole that may require immediate medical attention.

Before I had realized it, I had successfully blacked out, and woke up on a centrally placed bench In Central Park. I was warned not to be here after dark. I remember vaguely about how I got here, but distinctly remember brown tinted ale being shot into a smudge covered glass mug from a tap that might as well have been an old tired camels penis. The difference was the solution that hailed from the actual wrinkly camel dick had a higher probability of tasting better. Several KISS albums and shots of Jim Beam later, you kind of catch on that this is a recipe that takes you mentally, emotionally, and physically to places you don’t want to be.

I stiffened up on the bench and my senses became sharp when I heard someone steal my lines from behind me. “Hey man, can you help me out?” Muttered the ebonic voice. I quickly contracted the muscles in my legs and ran like an, A.) An Olympic trackstar at the sound of the pistol, B.) A herd of gazelle in the barren lands of Africa at the sound of a hunters rifle, or C.) Like anyone when they hear a .38 being fired in the distance in Central Park after dark. Subsequently, option C). Turned out to be real I think, but I definitely didn’t feel like a walk in the park to solve that minute mystery. I just poetically hauled ass.

When I finally reached that 65th St. Transverse in the middle of the park, a guardian angel came in the form of a yellow taxicab, I popped in and screamed at the driver to take me to The Standard in the meat packing district and the tires screeched just like it does in the movies. When we got to 9th I realized that I had already been mugged, most likely when I was slurring ” Bright Side of Life,” by Eric Idle from Monty Python’s the Life of Brian (from the scene where they’re all being crucified before the end credits), too delerius to even know I was being mugged at unnecessary knifepoint by two agents of the shadows. The sympathetic cabdriver stopped the cab, got out and physically threw me out and graciously didn’t stab me or hold some kind of petty weapon to my face like a dusty red brick or half of a vintage 7up bottle, thinner yet more unrecycled and sturdy. I was in front of Burrito Box on what I think was next to W. 57th st. and not thinking, I sprinted in the general direction the cabbie was driving. I didn’t know where the hotel was exactly, but I was sure I’d see it sticking about 20 floors above ground eventually. All I knew was that I’d see it from A.) The Empire State Building, or B.) the Hudson River. The second one seemed easier to do because the former, (with my luck,) probably meant I’d have to jog about 30 miles in circles trying to get up there at this hour.

Those boyscout meetings I never went to and fear of not talking to strangers finally served me some good, I stumbled into the lobby covered in sweat, smudges, and twigs and saved myself a world of explanation to the receptionist because she recognized me as the guy with the drepressed looking brown luggage suitcase she swore she saw in the movie “Blow.” She gave me a spare keycard and sent me on the way up with a paper cup of blue Gatorade, because it had electrolytes that athletes sweat in those commercials. As soon as the light on the electronic lock turned green, I turned the handle and leaned on the door to just fall inside. Instead of crawling into bed like a normal person, I crawled into the tub, (which was next to the bed,) and ran the water, because I was probably covered in germs with Latin names I can’t pronounce. I turned it into a bubble bath, removed my bubbly dirty clothes from inside the tub, disregarding the soon to be unhappy maid, took a deep sigh and eased my gaze out the window to stare at the view I had over the beautiful, now eerie city. Then there she was. The ghost that started this whole mess was staring out the window with me and without a sound. I blinked my eyes real tight and she was gone, just like that. I suppose I’ve just had (D.) an exhaustively strange night. I’m going to pack and leave the following afternoon, and say, I’ll miss you, New York.

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Catastrophic Logic

Floating is what we do when we look for the absolute answer through our peripherals. I couldn’t follow the common methods and procedures to uncover these truths because it was these methods and procedures that were fucked in the first place. So I floated.

Imagine yourself on the back of a motorcycle, blindfolded. You can’t see beyond the cloth why it is that the road rises and falls, and that bumps and potholes warp your entire body. Senses are led into believing these things just happen, and overtime we apply our own sense of meaning to this, tagged with our own sense of why it is that we feel the bumps, without actually removing the blindfold. Science has never been able to remove the blindfold, but only been able to lead us into believing why mental and physical physics occur with the best possible explanation, whilst concieving better explanations in the process. That is the hole of science. Science is a never ending equation and the best method of solution is through spiritualism, which is against science in the first place. Its as if the expansion of scientific truth is an inverse function of scientific effort. Catastrophic Logic.

The woods was what I needed. They inferred truth, sympathy, intuition, and even the concept of time. But the woods were gone. The sun sets over straight lines, and the moon shimmers in right angles. The wind has been predicted and the rain has been forecasted. Science oppressed science and religion meant well, but didn’t mean much anymore. The left has become right, and we laugh while we cry.

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Fear and Loathing in Las Menté

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This is really happening. Have you ever tried to disconnect? Just go offline and off the radar for a few moments, even a few months will inevitably become a few moments in your life. So much can change in a few moments, but not a single bit isn’t considered growth.

Sure there was a point where I felt like nothing could advance, progress was unfeasible, but that’s essentially a symptom of grief. Psychological symptoms aren’t easily identified,especially not by ourselves. We gab ourselves into disbelief because we’ve all been conditioned to believe, positive reinforcement is advantageous and negativity gets you nowhere. But without negativity, (if done correctly) learning from your mistakes proves difficult.

Allow yourself that overdue period of grief, is what I learned, and learn firsthand how sick self-loathing can become. Complaints and self-loathing are similar in the sense that both service no one except make it more unpleasant for those around you. And in moments like those, it’s the ones who care that surround you. We never seem to realize we hurt the ones we love most.

In one of my earlier blogs, I made an incorrect judgement in what phase of grief I was in, while contradicting that with the actual blog. I didn’t mentally brace myself and allowed the repercussions to flank me from all sides, completely obliterating any mental cognizance I had left. However, this did allow me to learn how to enjoy the smell of roses, by leaving me no other option than to, “go back to basics.” And when it comes down to it, basics are more than necessary to enjoy life. As humans, we just love to coerce, then complicate, then implicate.

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Hughman After All

You are half of another person. Both halves don’t necessarily agree all the time. “I don’t agree with what you say, but will defend to the death your right to say it.” But its tough when your other half is just a despicably confused set of smoke and mirrors.

World Cup, poor roping skills, bumpy harbor freeways, new sectional Ottoman couch, and a random cat.

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Grecian Bender

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4 p.m. Tea Time in Downtown LA. Seagrams tea vodka, an awkward combination, yet a fantastic result followed. The monthly Artwalk was the perfect playground for a Bender.

Armed with my two good mates, one of which who signs my paychecks, we shared our tea and asked homeless people for money. Delightful conversations with victims stuck in number to bumper traffic and losing neon hula-hoop contests. I got a lesson in hula hooping from a 7 year old carni.

When the long islands ran low, I pulled out my little flask of love potion number 9. Shared with a nice German girl, of course my good mates came in as overcast and scared her into the shade. Typical, but we all laugh anyway. Then we found ourselves in a Grecian Jewelers booth. Lovely custom made jewelry with Sterling silver and svarovsky crystals. Before I knew it, I was attracting a crowd. Little regards to stagefright, I spoke like a Victorian ringmaster and helped the Greek woman sell jewelry. If only I had a whip.

My mates and I wobbled back to our Jeep with a crowd twice as big as when we started, and danced and sung Billy Jean on repeat. We hallucinated a giant rabbit caricature artist, then soon realized the improbability of having the same hallucination. The giant rabbit was real! And instinctively, I jumped into my Victorian accent and attracted customers for him. But I did it with Egor’s hunch because the giant rabbit reminded me of Dr. Frankenstein. I don’t know why.

It was a fun night, it was a Bender. It was long overdue and I needed it to remind me that I can go out and have fun, and most importantly, laugh. I became the circus and it was brilliant. I’ll make sure to be at the next one, by the way, my writing seems a bit scattered and smallminded today because I have a hangover the size of Jupiter and I’m texting this on my phone. I need a prairie oyster.

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Scientific Echelon

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What is religion? The dictionary states it as an institution to express belief in a divine power. What is divine? It is percieving intuitively through perceptive powers. New question; is fact then, not a power, a perceptive power, at that? So in theory, science can be a religion. The only difference between science and the traditional religion, is that science revolves around humanity and religion revolves around divine credit.

I, myself, am a Catholic in training, but my argument isn’t to denote inconsistencies of religion nor is it to unintentionally blaspheme. It seems more so everyday that religion is meant to be a morality guideline, in which case, shares the same moral guidelines as most, if not, all the other religions as well. Which brings to question what I’ve dubbed, divine credit, which is another story for another time.

Science is ruled by logic, and we employ logic everyday. Its almost as if we pray to science by utilizing logic. There are two kinds of logic, inductive and deductive, as most of us psyche majors are aware of. And both methods essentially blanket our quest for answers. These kinds of logic, at first glance, seem dull and cautious, but they’ve been made that way in order to keep us from looking like fools. Romanticizing logic only spells disaster, and will dislodge any efforts we’ve made in any problematic edifice. Yet this doesn’t apply only to just scientific equations or mechanical issues, this applies to human social relations too.

You’ve all heard, “the power in the relationship belongs to whoever cares less.” Why is this? It is because of romanticism. We have a knack for applying too much too fast, before the wheels have been greased, meaning we drive ourselves insane before any factual information turns up, when in fact, nothing has happened. Impulsiveness has proven useful too few a times to ever be called useful at all.

Spending time to go through all the hierarchies of the laws of attraction don’t sound appealing to anyone, and as a result, this leads to offbeat pacing when the two involved should be striding along at the same pace. Attraction and love CAN actually be broken down to a science, until you truly learn, “patience is a virtue.”

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The Pen and the Sword

Amidst the rebellion stage of our youth, we yearn to destroy the “system.” We never fully accommodate the system for what it actually is. Imploring anarchy and the longing for a sense of something new or something better beginning. But as long as the minds or mentalities that prompted the old system remain, the old system will never die. Only as a collective, as a team will we be able to abolish anything.

I checked my Stanford-Binet score from when I was 20 and compared it to the score I have now. My score is in the high degrees, and has expanded slightly, but it’s left me with even less than I had before. My common sense has grown dull but only because I started thinking with my heart, what exactly is that supposed to tell me?

I’ve become an old wise man all before the age of 24, it seems sometimes that my mind intentionally evades childhood and seems adamant in not letting me taste it’s tender innocence. That’s just downright unfair. That’s why I drink. Please let me be stupid. It doesn’t hurt there. I don’t want the answers, I just want to have questions for once.

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Mirror Martin

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What happened there, skinny love? You used to be so beautiful. Now I don’t find you attractive. There’s nothing wrong with your outer appearance, all the little boys and thirsty old men seem to love it. Its your insides that’s finally lost it. You’re that creature that goes bump at night. Forever young and speaking incoherence like a child. Nothing is more pure and cruel than a child. Inviolable, charming, and dangerous.

Spend all your time looking for approval and acknowledgment of your beauty, which everyone already gives you, but selling your soul through that dirty mirror. Fake the art of having a heart, and the mindless drones will never notice. Blame it on wanting to find adventure and the call of the wild, but you and I both know you don’t believe everything that you read. Not even our own scriptures. We’ve lost your reception.

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Something Wicked This Way Comes

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Sixteen hours on the train. My fear of heights has reduced my transportational advancements from the skies not to four rubber wheels, but rusty train tracks. Sleeping while sitting upright, grand, and alright, feeling every bump in the land, with a continuous grumbling coming from the floor below. Luckily, I can’t sleep in silence, and the track friction played in time like lullabies.

The Windy City, louder were the winds than the tracks, I felt at peace and felt frantic all at once as soon as my brown boot bursted beyond the stepladder to get off the train. I had a tiny suitcase because the art of travelling light deemed itself appropriate, especially when travelling with a heavy heart. And there it was. The sign.

It read “cakes” and behind it was the tenth wonder of the world. Hair that waved superior to oceans, and eyes that would blind winged feathered travellers, and a smile that shined more melancholy than a a withered candle at the base of the stick. Words were unnecessary as our embrace spoke words of infinite value. Mutual was the feeling of not wanting to release the embrace. We left towards her studio, her steps, noticeably in haste.

“Make youself at home.” She said as she threw her keys on the kitchen countertop. Little did she know, home to me, was where she was, in her hands, hair, feet, voice, her existence was mine too. After the long trip, I did not fight her offer. Sprawled on the kitchen floor I watched each ceiling fan blade revolve as I gathered my senses. She smiled and said, “I’m going to go out and chain-smoke a little bit, will you be here when I get back?” “Where else would I be?” I replied. Little did I know that chain-smoking meant more than I had presumed. She never returned, and on my third and final day of my visit, I remained sprawled on the kitchen floor in her empty studio apartment, watching the ceiling fan blades spin.

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Scarab

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Keep coasting at that speed and you might hit something. Or you might breeze by like another leaf. Stay forever young, child, if you can. Some of us don’t even get the chance.

“Every passing minute is another chance to turn it all around.”

Let go of the things you shouldn’t hold onto, and hold onto the things that you shouldn’t let go of, there is but one opportunity for you to get it right, or to get it wrong.

The waves you make are truly exhausting, and increase in mirth every time you flail, yet the cruelest thing I can do, is to stop listening.

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