March 16, 2007

You sank my battleship

It begins, you set your plan. It's random. You really don't have a plan, but you proceed as though you do. Once set, there's no going back. The ocean will get smaller and smaller and your ships will slowly sink. Oh, you'll get yours in the meantime. Bam, Bam, Bam. You might hit water. You might hit steel. Flesh against flesh you'll battle it out. Your random plan failing or not. It doesn't really matter what your situation is. Eventually, you are gonna take a hit.

It hurts. it's never a good thing to take one up the tailpipe. However, it's your turn next. You can send one up the tailpipe of your oppenent. Sometimes you lose faster. Sometimes your opponent just can't find anything but water and you strike again and again with impunity.

Sometime, you are going to call out, "You sank my Battleship!" Indignation, anger, fear, renewed vigor to continue. To conquer. The fight back is more enthusiastic. The game isn't over in that moment. It's like John Paul Jones said, "I have not yet begun to fight." They sank his ship in that battle, but he sailed away the captain of the enemy vessel. Unexpected win. Have you begun to fight?

March 15, 2007


I love having paint on my hands. Being filthy in a way I can't clean off. It sticks. It discolors. It embeds itself in the skin. Rage dissipated on the brush. Transfered to the canvas in broad swaths of color. Mingled, mixed, warped. The smell of thinner tight in my nostrils as I wash the brushes whatever emotion lingered gone. The swell of color in the bucket gone grey. Dull like void inside, the fire once bright and hard, now a lingering ember of energy.

It takes days to clean my hands after I paint with oils. I get the paint on me by accident. Almost as though it jumps on me. It's meant to be there. Yellows, ochre, brown, blue, red, black, white, oranges. Pebbled across my skin. Lingering as echo's of the strokes of my arm. Reminders of moments of creation. Something new where once there was nothing. LIke rough skin the canvas pulls the paint off the brush birth a new image. Suckling onto itself the new life form spewed from within my brain.

What sensation comes with the release. Pent up, caught up, self pity, anger, pain, pure vital energy.

March 10, 2007

Needless Markup

While i was at the mall, i went into Neiman Marcus to look around

Found a T-shirt. A plain black T-shirt (albeit very soft) for get this. Wait for it...
one-thousand-twenty-five dollars. I about shit my pants. I'm like WHO THE FUCK would spend that much on a T-shirt?

I was wearing handmade Italian shoes, nice jeans, and a $150 shirt. So, I'm not like a slum bum. I go into the Ralph Lauren shop - 'cuz they are getting hipper (which is actually kinda scary). I find a shirt I like, but want a different color - Ralph is big on that normally. For 15 minutes no one will help me. One woman comes in shows me two things and goes back to a conversation with her co-workers. Then, I find a cool pair of pants...i'm digging them... do they have my size? I can't tell. Can't find the tag. Crappy service?

Then as I'm about to say fuck it and leave, the manager comes in and calls back to her employees that there are two people in the room needing help. One sales person comes in and helps the other guy (who just walked in). He says - just looking. And THEN she wants to talk to me. To keep from blowing my top I ask about a shirt I don't give a shit about. Do I hear a munkey giving hell? And she won't let go of the fucking shirt. Can you show me these pants in my size? "Oh, those'll go with the shirt too." On and on about the shirt... I had to ask about the pants 3 fucking times. Finally she goes in the back room to look for the size and brings them out. I try them on. Super, I mean SUPER comfy. (As a side note, in an interview I read with RL once, he commented: If people are buying my clothes for the horse, I'd rather take it off my clothes.)

I decide to buy them despite the crap ass service. So Neimans doesn't take certain credit cards (I know this from previous experience.) So I ask her... "what credit cards do you take?" Neimans and American Express, she pauses to look at me as though I'm too lowly to own either card and says, "If you don't have either of those, we can..."
I cut her off by pulling out my credit cards. I hand her my fucking AMEX Gold Card and proceed to ask her...

"Actually, I'm more curious why no one would wait on me..." I went off without ever raising my voice about how I probably would have spent more money if someone had helped me, blah, blah blah

She said sorry, she had been on break until her manager told her there was someone in the dept. I was like... "Whatever," Gimme my fucking bag. I wasn't mad at her, but the other 4 people standing around gabbing while I was looking at stuff all around them. I swear to god... I'm going back in that store and I'm pulling shit off shelves left and right so they have to fold the shit back up including the $1025 T-shirt for christs sake.


March 05, 2007


finally slept for the majority of an international flight. Well, I wouldn't necessarily call it sleeping, but for me it passed as sleep and several hours passed that I wasn't looking at a watch wondering if I could miracle my ass to the destination of my choice. You see, I really hate flying. It's not the act of flying, it's not fear, it's sheer boredom. I'm bored out of my skull on a plane. Flying boxcars with human cattle. Moooo muther fucker.

I had this vision while I was on the plane of these cool flights that were flying clubs. Get some music and entertainment going. Select your cabin based on music and environment preferences. Move freely about the cabin instead of being sequestered in your seat. I love the airlines temerity to warn me about DMT and then tell me I can't get out of my seat because we might encounter situational air anomalies. TURBULENCE you Jackass. Call it what it is. Don't try to sugar coat it. Don't try to make it sound better. Tell me what the real problem is then let me know the solution.

My favorite of the new air rules is the words. "If it has an on/off switch, please use it now." I promptly turn on my iPod and tune the fuck out. Of course, this is exactly what they don't want. It's not that the monster electronics inside the iPod shuffle (or any number of other small media devices) will crash the plane, but rather that they will cease to have CONTROL of you as a bit of cattle. Moo for us again please.

I'm going to have to look into FAA regulations and Just WHO gave them the authority to make regulations that cover how I can sit in my seat. What I will listen to (or not) while I'm sitting there, etc... Tell you what, you want me to pay attention. Make that seat cushion a little more plush so my ass doesn't go numb 45 minutes into the flight. I have to admit that I use the airline blankets and additional seat cushion, so think about that the next time you pull that little blanket up to your face. The previous occupant might have been me and my ass.

Now, I'd like to end this post, but I don't really want you leaving with your last vision being my ass on the blanket of your next flight. Sooo... Let's talk about beer. Why does it cost us $5 to get any kind of drink on a plane? Why can't I provide my own (other than the fact that I can't bring more than 3.6 oz of a fluid on a plane)? But in reality, that's almost 4 drinks. More than enough to get someone comfortable on a 1 hour flight.