The American Dream revisited

I try to avoid the news, over the years I have felt that the majority of things our media goes on about is lacking a certain...propreity. and not just our media, our legal system and the kinds of things we spent our time and tax money on are so trivial when compaired to real issues our public faces; education, health care, crime and taxes, our economic situation perhaps.

Instead our court system spends its time and our money on the sillist of things. Kind of makes me want to take a knife and stab it into "the whole idea of itself"
Now that'd be some top news yeah?

Its this sort of stigma that only furthers the views of our country to those around us...



Personally, I can't wait for the movie.


http://today.msnbc.msn.com/id/43145411/ns/today-entertainment/

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.9

[ Take 7& edit piece]

Litoria infrafrenata

Backwards Marathon

.Burning like a bridge for your body.

Yeah so im done with that, at least for a while. Ive gone through things and it seems a little rediculous to even think about it, let alone put those thoughts on paper, or in this case the internet for everyone to see. Although there is and always will be a huge story. Im begining to question why i keep all of these things. I mean sure its kinda cool i suppose, to have a box filled with all the memories of a different time. But im starting to feel like the marjority of those memories are not thing i should/ want to carry around with me. So what to do? Im certainly not going to write from it anymore, its all bullshit anyways. I was stupid.(young).
The tattoos, well theres nothing that can be done about those beside extensive laser treatments, not that ide consider it. I have grown very fond of every piece of art on my body, some just remind me how shitty people can really be.
Anyhow, since i will no longer be redrafting things from the past, im not sure what i'll write, but i will indeed do just that.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.7

Page 67; Destructo Spin

"Strange memories on this nervous night in Las Vegas. Five years later? Six? It seems like a lifetime, or at least a Main Era—the kind of peak that never comes again. San Francisco in the middle sixties was a very special time and place to be a part of. Maybe it meant something. Maybe not, in the long run . . . but no explanation, no mix of words or music or memories can touch that sense of knowing that you were there and alive in that corner of time and the world. Whatever it meant. . . . 

History is hard to know, because of all the hired bullshit, but even without being sure of “history” it seems entirely reasonable to think that every now and then the energy of a whole generation comes to a head in a long fine flash, for reasons that nobody really understands at the time—and which never explain, in retrospect, what actually happened. 

My central memory of that time seems to hang on one or five or maybe forty nights—or very early mornings—when I left the Fillmore half-crazy and, instead of going home, aimed the big 650 Lightning across the Bay Bridge at a hundred miles an hour wearing L. L. Bean shorts and a Butte sheepherder's jacket . . . booming through the Treasure Island tunnel at the lights of Oakland and Berkeley and Richmond, not quite sure which turn-off to take when I got to the other end (always stalling at the toll-gate, too twisted to find neutral while I fumbled for change) . . . but being absolutely certain that no matter which way I went I would come to a place where people were just as high and wild as I was: No doubt at all about that. . . . 

There was madness in any direction, at any hour. If not across the Bay, then up the Golden Gate or down 101 to Los Altos or La Honda. . . . You could strike sparks anywhere. There was a fantastic universal sense that whatever we were doing was right, that we were winning. . . . 

And that, I think, was the handle—that sense of inevitable victory over the forces of Old and Evil. Not in any mean or military sense; we didn’t need that. Our energy would simply prevail. There was no point in fighting—on our side or theirs. We had all the momentum; we were riding the crest of a high and beautiful wave. . . . 

So now, less than five years later, you can go up on a steep hill in Las Vegas and look West, and with the right kind of eyes you can almost see the high-water mark—that place where the wave finally broke and rolled back." 
— Hunter S. Thompson (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas)


Read it 10 times and it still gets me.

Viridian

Well it's wednesday, and thats where we stand. Long day at work today im unwillingly staring at this pile of papers i need to process and about ten thousand dollars in company checks waiting to be gone through.
Oh well no big deal really and once i get started it will be a breeze to help 9 o clock get here that much sooner.

Ide apprieciate any feedback on the previous three posts. Seeing as ive been stuck at the point for going on 3 years now, ide like to add to it, without getting to involved with the actual reality of what was happening at the time.
Gibberish.
That said, ill be going now thanks.

Published with Blogger-droid v1.6.6

Informal Gluttony; Part three

I try to read the novel I picked up in town but I was to fidgety from the nicotine craving to let the printed words soak into my brain, I slip the book back into my grey leather messenger bag that sits very snuggly between me and the wall of the subway car. I let my fingers graze through my bag and I finally pull out my I-pod. After a moment I close my eyes, and feel the world leave me. A few minutes go by, I look up and seated across the car from me is her. She looks a little like she has been dead for a month or two. Matted black hair and pale white face seated uncomfortably against the hard cold seat of the subway car.
Her arms were long and covered in what could be track marks but most likely scars, self inflicted. In the soft, dirty hands that hung from these arms is a cigarette, smoking and burning slowly down. One hand on her thigh due to the exposing nature of her dress.
She is beautiful to me, most men would consider her untouchable, a wolf. I saw something in her though, a sort of rebellious beauty, someone who, like me, had lost it all. “you shouldn’t do that” I tell her, “do what?!” she quickly shot back, smoke billowing from her broken lips. “smoke, I’m pretty sure they don’t allow it on the subway” I explain, she rolls her eyes and turns her head the other direction. “just a suggestion” I said under my breath but obviously loud enough that she still heard me. “And what makes you so high and mighty? Just because your in that suit doesn’t make you the fucking hall monitor of the subway?!”. She’s upset, to say the least, its erotic…sort of. I interrupt her, “I’m James” “--the hell gives you th--what? Ann, get lost!”. If you asked me then I couldn’t tell you why, but I took the seat next to her.

Reaction; Part Two

How romantic, I’m standing in the crowed front section of  a subway car that reeks of piss and stale beer. I find my way to the back, where the florescent lighting has all gone bad, and the lights flicker intermediately before finally sparking out. I am seated quietly in the back of the dark subway car heading towards my office in Manhattan.
I unwittingly found myself catching bits and pieces of a conversation between two teenaged boys dressed in all black with patches of punk rock bands lining there tapered pants, their feet resting on skateboards rolling back and forth with the cars motions. A man who looked to be in his mid forties was talking with them. Something about acid, ecstasy, too much shroomage?
Welcome to America, home of the free living sons and daughters of wealthy stoke brokers, who live incredibly well off home lives, but like to wear tight pants and bitch about politics and how the man tries to bring down the underdog. These kids haven’t met me. These children of tyrants snorting lines of blow off the pocket mirror they stole from moms vanity, they like to use there dads prescriptions to pop pill after pill looking for a quick release from there sturdy families, there well endowed lifestyles. Fakes. They proceed to openly discuss these topics with strange old men in dark subway cars. Strange old men who wish to share a relationship with these boys, why? Mid life crisis? Pedophilia? Who knows, maybe they just cant pull it together enough to hold an honest, mature relationship with the people there own age. Welcome to America.

Three stops and half a dozen acid filled stories later the kids step off the subway, so does Mr. Pedo-fuckin-phelia. I’m alone.