All I can really say about religion right now, this early in the day, is that it sucks. Spirituality and faith and what the shit does it all mean? That's a little different I guess. I think there aren't enough people who respect the great big mystery in all its awe and glory and gut wrenching horror, interminable bullshit, no one knows shit. Some people go one way and spend their life yelling out loud about nonsense and throw their coin purses at some loser with a fist full of gold rings. Motherfuckers with spirals in their eyes. Forking over cashflow, however meager, voting this way, allowing the realest evils around into their homes and saying, "Loot away, God."
Others go another way and don't think about it at all. Life comes out of the ground like a flower and eventually wilts and becomes the soil again. Other people, most people I believe, don't know which way to look. They're too busy working and living and their victimization is often a result of this. All's I can say is that the hatemongering Rapture crowd is teleporting to heaven tomorrow or something, I'm not sure. I haven't been paying attention but if what they mean is that this tattered bitchmother called Earth will be expunging these losers and their insanity, their stupidity and their lame music, then I'm fucking down with the Rapture.
Some questions remain though. Nobody's gonna be around to listen to or even record those wonderful Arena-Christian songs, somehow the most soulless music alive. Gospel lives. That shit can disappear to wherever you dickfaces say.
Also, does this mean that all the athletes I can't stand, the Jesusjocks, will be gone as well. I guess they better move the Orlando Magic somewhere else. Baltimore would be cool.
Since there are so many wealthy landownders, businessmen and pedophiles that subscribe to this bullshit, they will leave a void in the world they created and kept in tact. What will we do without them?
And,
Since these wealthy shitmongers won't be using them, can we turn all the megachurches into homeless shelters/Dinosaur museums? Everyone would be warm and fed and would have jobs as curators, mechanics, guides and robot engineers. One thing's for sure, there will be no work as early humans alongside the dinosaurs because it didn't fucking happen.
Anyhow, these kinds of things always fornicate, abort then fornicate again and finally give birth to a big, raised Ford truck full of questions concerning the world and what it all means. It should be like this all the time. But it isn't. To be on par with their way of thinking, I should stop writing, buy an automatic assault rifle at Wal-Mart, (out of state and definitely not at a mom n' pop gunstore) and go open fire at the worksite.
Luckily I'm not them. I'll be drowning in hellfire with the rest of you listening to Morbid Angel and other tight jamz, excavating a fine time out of a shit situation. Just like it's always been.
Friday, May 20, 2011
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
Partytime!
I've been living my entire adult life inside the confines and amongst the ignorance of the post 9/11 world. Just about a decade of endless wars, perpetual earthrape and the calculated exacerbation of poverty apparently erased by some covert maneuver, gun shots and a dead Saudi who dies plenty paid, like Dick Cheney money, nothing learned from the belligerent fanaticism of before. Too many people on September 12th said take my wallet, keys and kids, whatever it takes to bullshit me. An empty gesture, an empire on life support, pigs raiding the trough, licking it clean, bleeding your grandmother, the erasure of any possible future for the next generation.
Frat-chant "USA !" all you want, Braden and Tyler. Your team fumbled the ball a long time ago. The wealthy mutants whose names and addresses you'll never learn have aborted your children far more thoroughly than Planned Parenthood ever could. Get a six foot sub and a three liter of Shasta Cola. It's gonna be a good one.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Emigrant
I've made so many trips from North to South and back up, mostly driving or riding, big rigs, Dodge vans, hitched one in a BMW once, 100 mph, 55 mph, sometimes by bus or rail, SF to LA, Stockton to San Bernardino, Oakland to Riverside, Richmond to Redlands, drug running, family shit, births and deaths, pit bulls, chihuahuas, marijuana, LSD, counterfeit bills, cop dodging, imagination wild like the past rumbling under your feet, six hours, ten hours, same gas station in Kettleman or Fresno or Paso Robles or Bakersfield or Mojave, interstate, highway, backroads, boulevards, clinging to the coast, higher than the mountain tops, through the bloodletting desert, malls and subdivisions, empty and angry, books, radio, spanish, english, vietnamese, bobby womack, husker du, buck owens, los tigres, infest, galeano read out loud by a half Peruvian woman a long ways back, blacktop, blown tires, engine dead, idle, roar, repeat.
Tonight will be no different. It's the same trip sometimes, ain't it? Driving down the state of California. Upon arrival, it can differ. This time will find me playing music with old friends and a big party to celebrate what's left of us, everyone and everything. The bullshit in the dark is unspoken and drowned in light beer, vision blurred from smoke in the eyes and whatever else. Excitement looms quietly until I'm there, until the radio picks up a familiar song, before it's all successfully one gargantuan advertisement for slow death. I'm still alive, motherfucker. Let the cucarachas scatter, pass the bottle and let me know what the fuck is up.
Not even sure how I'm getting back up but even the long walk's been done before. And that kind of thing doesn't matter as much as they say. They're always talking and I suppose these migrations I create for myself or the ones I'm dealt and have to handle, are to drown all that talking, the mindless noise, the dissonance of nonsense and stupidity, to murder it the best I can.
You know it takes a lot longer to get away than it used to. In a brief lifetime, I've seen the desert get farther away, the ocean become less sacred, the things we barely have be swindled out of our hands by the same old culprits, fattened and leisured and perpetually my enemy. But I still have to make the trip, work through, no thoughts, so that when I'm there, even for the crumb I'm offered, I can drink the swill and not be alone and know all that numb travel was worth something. Looking for my own noise. And if it don't sit well, nothing sticks, just empty breaths and hopeful that whatever engine it is, it don't break down. It's colder than a motherfucker, I'll take any ride.
Maybe Lalo knows a dude in Lodi who owes him money for a '73 El Camino, this was ten years ago but that asshole hasn't moved. He's been clean for years, he's good for it, just stop by, see if he has it, man. I can't leave, my P.O. would flip.
Anything to make the road warm up.
Tonight will be no different. It's the same trip sometimes, ain't it? Driving down the state of California. Upon arrival, it can differ. This time will find me playing music with old friends and a big party to celebrate what's left of us, everyone and everything. The bullshit in the dark is unspoken and drowned in light beer, vision blurred from smoke in the eyes and whatever else. Excitement looms quietly until I'm there, until the radio picks up a familiar song, before it's all successfully one gargantuan advertisement for slow death. I'm still alive, motherfucker. Let the cucarachas scatter, pass the bottle and let me know what the fuck is up.
Not even sure how I'm getting back up but even the long walk's been done before. And that kind of thing doesn't matter as much as they say. They're always talking and I suppose these migrations I create for myself or the ones I'm dealt and have to handle, are to drown all that talking, the mindless noise, the dissonance of nonsense and stupidity, to murder it the best I can.
You know it takes a lot longer to get away than it used to. In a brief lifetime, I've seen the desert get farther away, the ocean become less sacred, the things we barely have be swindled out of our hands by the same old culprits, fattened and leisured and perpetually my enemy. But I still have to make the trip, work through, no thoughts, so that when I'm there, even for the crumb I'm offered, I can drink the swill and not be alone and know all that numb travel was worth something. Looking for my own noise. And if it don't sit well, nothing sticks, just empty breaths and hopeful that whatever engine it is, it don't break down. It's colder than a motherfucker, I'll take any ride.
Maybe Lalo knows a dude in Lodi who owes him money for a '73 El Camino, this was ten years ago but that asshole hasn't moved. He's been clean for years, he's good for it, just stop by, see if he has it, man. I can't leave, my P.O. would flip.
Anything to make the road warm up.
Monday, March 7, 2011
Notez.
The High and Outside zine #1 is finally gone through enough printing to take a break from the pressure of having enough lying around. And the second issue is written and ready to roll. This is a good deal because there are two or three other zines that have been put on hold, procrastinated into submission and lost in a black hole of bluntsmoke and beer cans. I hope the the next few months are laborious with this shit so summer time can be the bright and budding psychedelic freakout it always hopes to be.
Also, an '89 Buick Regal blasting 2pac's Run Tha Streetz cruising 11th in Oakland is a badass sight to see and hear.
R.I.P. Cutty
Uncle Lalo's best bud.
Mojave Desert is a motherfucker.
Also, an '89 Buick Regal blasting 2pac's Run Tha Streetz cruising 11th in Oakland is a badass sight to see and hear.
R.I.P. Cutty
Uncle Lalo's best bud.
Mojave Desert is a motherfucker.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Facefucking Amerikkka, one status update at a time.
Like many people I know, "everyone" not being too steep an exaggeration, I sign into Facebook and find links to articles, music videos, find out my cousin was in town and didn't call me, etc. It took me several months to get over the science fiction freakout that social networking truly is. Once I did, I rolled with it a little. Occasionally I post some rants, music, information, things like that. I "like" certain people's status updates, talk some shit, go through the motions. But I can't help the exacerbated nausea every time I do any of this.
Anything I've ever said on the internet, this included, would have been better exclaimed on the street but that's not where we're at these days.
Could you imagine walking the streets of a major metropolitan area yelling at strangers, "Just booked tix to Vegas, girl! LOL!" or "I absolutely LOVE my little Bryce!" And how are the people on the street to know that Bryce is your ugly goddamn kid,and before they can, you pull out a hundred and fifty five photos of the asshole and shove them in people's faces, to which they shy away slowly until they can run away from this psychopath on the street who can't stop with the assault of useless, personal information. The police would be notified.
It's self-indulgent insanity that won't go over well when the apocalypse comes along. I'm just as guilty as anyone and as a hater, I always embed myself in the hatred. Maybe I just needed to scream into cyberspace and Facebook only allows so many characters.
My cynicism and frustration with all this social networking eased up a little about a month ago when I began reading Facebook and Twitter posts from Egypt, Tunisia and elsewhere. Waves of tearful solidarity washed over me and left me feeling like the world was in fact, real and palpable and not bloodless and lame.
I realized that using all this shit to burn mansions and eradicate despotic regimes, literally and figuratively, even in the face of clampdowns and increased censorship could be an inspiration, as it did set off a wildfire across the world of oppression. Left me with a kind of hope that slogans can't provide. I was really into it for awhile. But soon enough, I could see that for every post of revolutionary information, "Blinded by tear gas but we're holding it down!", there were a hundred posts like, "Tapas and Sangria in the Mission! Tizzziighht!"
I hang my head at the facts staring at me, unblinking, searing holes into my eyes. I don't give a fuck about any of this shallow, insipid bullshit. Can't trussit.
And yet, I hang on and read about the perils of waiting in line (Boo.), no bleu cheese(WTF), bad espresso(sadface), sold out Coachella tickets (Soooo bummmmmmed) and the general, shallow cuntraggery of our time.
So, I'm not above or below any of this, it's just an observation that leaves me low and lazy and fortunate for substance abuse.
Oh well.
I guess I respect the fuck out of my (real life) friends who don't go near the shit. There's about four of them. And family members who are too tired, broke or apathetic for the internet. There's still quite a few of them. And then there's my Grandma who thinks computers are the size of Buick Skylarks and strictly for military scientists in lab coats. Luckily, her brain lives in 1962 and will most likely remain there. She's the greatest woman alive.
And since Facebook is so universal, I know some people's grandmothers are very computer literate and they "like" statuses and network with loved ones. That's ok. But while Facebook is supposedly a "place for friends," I realize more and more that it's actually a place where your Grandma can discover that her grandchildren really are in fact, pot-smoking atheists.
The future keeps pulverizing us. And doesn't slow down for nobody. I find some kind of comfort in it or else I'll jump out the fucking window.
Everyday my brain is repeatedly stabbed with information I don't give a fuck about. But I read on. Because I'm bored and it's always there and I like reading words until I realize they're not real sentences and shit is misspelled.
Or maybe I hang in there out of the same masochism that inclines me to read mainstream sports journalism, watch TV or replace the Visine with LSD. Fuck it.
In between the chiseling away of the worldwide bullshit machine, I guess I'll be around with the rest of you motherfuckers.
LOL OMG 666.
Anything I've ever said on the internet, this included, would have been better exclaimed on the street but that's not where we're at these days.
Could you imagine walking the streets of a major metropolitan area yelling at strangers, "Just booked tix to Vegas, girl! LOL!" or "I absolutely LOVE my little Bryce!" And how are the people on the street to know that Bryce is your ugly goddamn kid,and before they can, you pull out a hundred and fifty five photos of the asshole and shove them in people's faces, to which they shy away slowly until they can run away from this psychopath on the street who can't stop with the assault of useless, personal information. The police would be notified.
It's self-indulgent insanity that won't go over well when the apocalypse comes along. I'm just as guilty as anyone and as a hater, I always embed myself in the hatred. Maybe I just needed to scream into cyberspace and Facebook only allows so many characters.
My cynicism and frustration with all this social networking eased up a little about a month ago when I began reading Facebook and Twitter posts from Egypt, Tunisia and elsewhere. Waves of tearful solidarity washed over me and left me feeling like the world was in fact, real and palpable and not bloodless and lame.
I realized that using all this shit to burn mansions and eradicate despotic regimes, literally and figuratively, even in the face of clampdowns and increased censorship could be an inspiration, as it did set off a wildfire across the world of oppression. Left me with a kind of hope that slogans can't provide. I was really into it for awhile. But soon enough, I could see that for every post of revolutionary information, "Blinded by tear gas but we're holding it down!", there were a hundred posts like, "Tapas and Sangria in the Mission! Tizzziighht!"
I hang my head at the facts staring at me, unblinking, searing holes into my eyes. I don't give a fuck about any of this shallow, insipid bullshit. Can't trussit.
And yet, I hang on and read about the perils of waiting in line (Boo.), no bleu cheese(WTF), bad espresso(sadface), sold out Coachella tickets (Soooo bummmmmmed) and the general, shallow cuntraggery of our time.
So, I'm not above or below any of this, it's just an observation that leaves me low and lazy and fortunate for substance abuse.
Oh well.
I guess I respect the fuck out of my (real life) friends who don't go near the shit. There's about four of them. And family members who are too tired, broke or apathetic for the internet. There's still quite a few of them. And then there's my Grandma who thinks computers are the size of Buick Skylarks and strictly for military scientists in lab coats. Luckily, her brain lives in 1962 and will most likely remain there. She's the greatest woman alive.
And since Facebook is so universal, I know some people's grandmothers are very computer literate and they "like" statuses and network with loved ones. That's ok. But while Facebook is supposedly a "place for friends," I realize more and more that it's actually a place where your Grandma can discover that her grandchildren really are in fact, pot-smoking atheists.
The future keeps pulverizing us. And doesn't slow down for nobody. I find some kind of comfort in it or else I'll jump out the fucking window.
Everyday my brain is repeatedly stabbed with information I don't give a fuck about. But I read on. Because I'm bored and it's always there and I like reading words until I realize they're not real sentences and shit is misspelled.
Or maybe I hang in there out of the same masochism that inclines me to read mainstream sports journalism, watch TV or replace the Visine with LSD. Fuck it.
In between the chiseling away of the worldwide bullshit machine, I guess I'll be around with the rest of you motherfuckers.
LOL OMG 666.
Friday, February 11, 2011
My windows are wide open in winter. While it's usually shallow and uninteresting, obligatory bullshitting with someone who's the only other person in a waiting room or a bus stop or in a long line at your local glory hole, I need to talk about the weather. It's February and I'm enjoying the frightening specter of the apocalypse. Certain goddamn people have left the heat on too long, the house is on fire, "but it's warm and comfortable, can you get me another fig newton?" And then we're all ash.
But in the mean time, the windows are open wide, there isn't even the usual California rain storm around this time that causes local news media to gangbang the public with "STORMWATCH 2011!" Sounds like bad science fiction from some years back.
The sun is shining and I can't complain about it while my friends in Minnesota and New Mexico are literally frozen, barricading themselves indoors with (hopefully) some weed, Nintendo and a fire. Or else they could fucking die. So, I can't say shit about all this sunshine. Even with the lack of seasons in California, it feels strange but I'm always thrown off by something so let it be the summer invading January and February until the nuclear winter forever.
And with my windows open, people will drive by sometimes listening to tight jams, sometimes, and it makes me long for a cruise. I don't need a car and every day I'm not stalled in traffic keeps me another step away from death, but there is nothing like smoking something and driving around in the sun, wide streets, wide seats, metal, chrome, noise, music, wind blowing the brains out of all of the world's horrors. Good times were had.
Here's a jam I might cruise to. It's been out awhile but hasn't been played out. Long live shit.
But in the mean time, the windows are open wide, there isn't even the usual California rain storm around this time that causes local news media to gangbang the public with "STORMWATCH 2011!" Sounds like bad science fiction from some years back.
The sun is shining and I can't complain about it while my friends in Minnesota and New Mexico are literally frozen, barricading themselves indoors with (hopefully) some weed, Nintendo and a fire. Or else they could fucking die. So, I can't say shit about all this sunshine. Even with the lack of seasons in California, it feels strange but I'm always thrown off by something so let it be the summer invading January and February until the nuclear winter forever.
And with my windows open, people will drive by sometimes listening to tight jams, sometimes, and it makes me long for a cruise. I don't need a car and every day I'm not stalled in traffic keeps me another step away from death, but there is nothing like smoking something and driving around in the sun, wide streets, wide seats, metal, chrome, noise, music, wind blowing the brains out of all of the world's horrors. Good times were had.
Here's a jam I might cruise to. It's been out awhile but hasn't been played out. Long live shit.
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