idot-man stuff

Last night I probably did 1000 stupid things I shouldn't have. I threw tact out the window and was reckless with just about all of my emotions that i've been doing really good to control lately. I spoke candidly at the bar about my love life and drank copious amounts of vodka and wine. I ate like a a barrel chested glutton and bedded a beautiful woman. I don't regret anything except the stupid text messages I sent to my ex.

After running into my mom gossiping with w/ my ex and seeing my ex for the first time in a month I figured she would text me. in my head it's a girl logic thing but it's not its just guy logic see her text her. I can't believe I haven't seen or talked to her in a month and it still bugs me this much. So I sent 2 rude texts calling her callous and self-centered and could kick myself for it because I just couldn't let go. As far as things go this girl is wrong for me and I had very good reasons for breaking things off but I'll be damned if I'm not still tied into it and I don't know why...

If that wasn't enough I hung out with a different ex who stayed over. To her, I'm the one that got away. I liked dating her, she's a great girl but I just won't have those feelings for her and in the end I broke things off because I knew I wasn't going to have 'em.

guy logic-- sex will get me to stop thinking about the girl I have all the feelings for. How does that make sense? It doesn't but it did at the time. So now I've bedded to beautiful women and am no closer to being over than my ex than had I taken a tylenol PM and gone to bed. Who knew.

Next time I get this wild hair to be a retarded hedonistic man-child I'm gonna take up something healthy like cage fighting.

it's insane that I can be so good at handling situations w/ women and life and doling out advice like a rock star shrink to all the unwitting friends that think I know what I'm talking about but at the end of the day the girl that treated me the worst is the one I still have the feelings for. WTF.

I am an idiot man-child and I need a lobotomy.

Crazy women today... everywhere...

It's been one of those days. I swear I woke up after having the most vivid sex dreams I've had in recent memory and knew something was going on.

An ex from out of the blue has been emailing me reminiscing about the romantic aspects of our relationship and filling my head with details I have long forgotten but remember fondly.

My ex Whitney who I am on platonic friend-status with and have been for a while despite the drama it caused with my most recent ex Jenna called and asked if I thought she looked fat when she showed up randomly in town from Chicago and ran into me at a bar.

A girl I've got weird chemistry with but no better than to get involved with called and left me two mysterious " call me back" type voicemails.

and the cute girl I got drunk and kissed keeps calling me "pal." It's like she's worried I'm gonna try and nail her since we got hammered and made out in the bar because of the ridiculous shit I put on my "To Do List:" tattoo. 3) kiss cute girl in lucha libre mask." I'd kiss her again but right now all the women I picture naked look like Barbie dolls, pretty and all but no genitalia. It keeps me out of trouble. I am all about being flirty friends but i hate being constantly called "friend" or something like that by a girl whose already made it clear she liked making out with me.

My most recent ex sent me a short 4 sentence email: "I miss you so much sometimes. I don't know what to say besides that, and I probably shouldn't say it at all. You were my best friend for so long, it's more than a breakup isn't it? I guess I just wanted to let you know."

Any ranting or emotional blog i've written in the past two years has most likely been about her. Of course it's a terrible breakup and of course I want to write her back and say i miss her too but the only reason she wrote that is because I stopped talking to her a week ago.

i'm writing tonight because there's a lot of stuff I never said to any of my exes, there are a lot of feelings that surface when I get this many random texts/ calls/ emails. With all of the weight of the recent break up on my shoulders I really want to write her back. But I don't want to be available to her. This breakup has been terrible and I've already done all that crazy obsessive shit and I'm pretty sure it's all out of my system but it's been hell staying out of contact with her when I've been so shut of from everyone else.

Looks like its back to the drawing board. I'm not after another tragic love like I just had but it'd be nice to find a girl that I had some chemistry with to help me keep my mind from all the exes in my life.


cheers and goodnight

sam

Thinking about the world at large

Thinking about life, love, and everything around me. I live in a place where everyone settles. I haven't ever been the type to settle. I'm passionate and I am ambitious. I am admittedly in a funk but it won't lastand I'll be back on top of my game in no time.

I was thinking about a story I really liked: "On Seeing the 100 Percent Perfect Girl One Beautiful April Morning" by Haruki Murakami.

What I like about him so much is how average all of his characters are and how magic his world is. The focus isn't on self-important louts but a beautiful world and a delicately weaved story. It just relaxes me and makes me think about how good we could potentially be to each other if we thought about the world as the beautiful and unpredictable siren she is and less about farrah Fawcet dying and what lindsay snorting this week.


since i don't have better words to describe it here's the story:

Haruki Murakami: On seeing the 100% perfect girl one beautiful April morning

One beautiful April morning, on a narrow side street in Tokyo's fashionable Harujuku neighborhood, I walked past the 100% perfect girl.

Tell you the truth, she's not that good-looking. She doesn't stand out in any way. Her clothes are nothing special. The back of her hair is still bent out of shape from sleep. She isn't young, either - must be near thirty, not even close to a "girl," properly speaking. But still, I know from fifty yards away: She's the 100% perfect girl for me. The moment I see her, there's a rumbling in my chest, and my mouth is as dry as a desert.

Maybe you have your own particular favorite type of girl - one with slim ankles, say, or big eyes, or graceful fingers, or you're drawn for no good reason to girls who take their time with every meal. I have my own preferences, of course. Sometimes in a restaurant I'll catch myself staring at the girl at the next table to mine because I like the shape of her nose.

But no one can insist that his 100% perfect girl correspond to some preconceived type. Much as I like noses, I can't recall the shape of hers - or even if she had one. All I can remember for sure is that she was no great beauty. It's weird.

"Yesterday on the street I passed the 100% girl," I tell someone.

"Yeah?" he says. "Good-looking?"

"Not really."

"Your favorite type, then?"

"I don't know. I can't seem to remember anything about her - the shape of her eyes or the size of her breasts."

"Strange."

"Yeah. Strange."

"So anyhow," he says, already bored, "what did you do? Talk to her? Follow her?"

"Nah. Just passed her on the street."

She's walking east to west, and I west to east. It's a really nice April morning.

Wish I could talk to her. Half an hour would be plenty: just ask her about herself, tell her about myself, and - what I'd really like to do - explain to her the complexities of fate that have led to our passing each other on a side street in Harajuku on a beautiful April morning in 1981. This was something sure to be crammed full of warm secrets, like an antique clock build when peace filled the world.

After talking, we'd have lunch somewhere, maybe see a Woody Allen movie, stop by a hotel bar for cocktails. With any kind of luck, we might end up in bed.

Potentiality knocks on the door of my heart.

Now the distance between us has narrowed to fifteen yards.

How can I approach her? What should I say?

"Good morning, miss. Do you think you could spare half an hour for a little conversation?"

Ridiculous. I'd sound like an insurance salesman.

"Pardon me, but would you happen to know if there is an all-night cleaners in the neighborhood?"

No, this is just as ridiculous. I'm not carrying any laundry, for one thing. Who's going to buy a line like that?

Maybe the simple truth would do. "Good morning. You are the 100% perfect girl for me."

No, she wouldn't believe it. Or even if she did, she might not want to talk to me. Sorry, she could say, I might be the 100% perfect girl for you, but you're not the 100% boy for me. It could happen. And if I found myself in that situation, I'd probably go to pieces. I'd never recover from the shock. I'm thirty-two, and that's what growing older is all about.

We pass in front of a flower shop. A small, warm air mass touches my skin. The asphalt is damp, and I catch the scent of roses. I can't bring myself to speak to her. She wears a white sweater, and in her right hand she holds a crisp white envelope lacking only a stamp. So: She's written somebody a letter, maybe spent the whole night writing, to judge from the sleepy look in her eyes. The envelope could contain every secret she's ever had.

I take a few more strides and turn: She's lost in the crowd.

Now, of course, I know exactly what I should have said to her. It would have been a long speech, though, far too long for me to have delivered it properly. The ideas I come up with are never very practical.

Oh, well. It would have started "Once upon a time" and ended "A sad story, don't you think?"

Once upon a time, there lived a boy and a girl. The boy was eighteen and the girl sixteen. He was not unusually handsome, and she was not especially beautiful. They were just an ordinary lonely boy and an ordinary lonely girl, like all the others. But they believed with their whole hearts that somewhere in the world there lived the 100% perfect boy and the 100% perfect girl for them. Yes, they believed in a miracle. And that miracle actually happened.

One day the two came upon each other on the corner of a street.

"This is amazing," he said. "I've been looking for you all my life. You may not believe this, but you're the 100% perfect girl for me."

"And you," she said to him, "are the 100% perfect boy for me, exactly as I'd pictured you in every detail. It's like a dream."

They sat on a park bench, held hands, and told each other their stories hour after hour. They were not lonely anymore. They had found and been found by their 100% perfect other. What a wonderful thing it is to find and be found by your 100% perfect other. It's a miracle, a cosmic miracle.

As they sat and talked, however, a tiny, tiny sliver of doubt took root in their hearts: Was it really all right for one's dreams to come true so easily?

And so, when there came a momentary lull in their conversation, the boy said to the girl, "Let's test ourselves - just once. If we really are each other's 100% perfect lovers, then sometime, somewhere, we will meet again without fail. And when that happens, and we know that we are the 100% perfect ones, we'll marry then and there. What do you think?"

"Yes," she said, "that is exactly what we should do."

And so they parted, she to the east, and he to the west.

The test they had agreed upon, however, was utterly unnecessary. They should never have undertaken it, because they really and truly were each other's 100% perfect lovers, and it was a miracle that they had ever met. But it was impossible for them to know this, young as they were. The cold, indifferent waves of fate proceeded to toss them unmercifully.

One winter, both the boy and the girl came down with the season's terrible inluenza, and after drifting for weeks between life and death they lost all memory of their earlier years. When they awoke, their heads were as empty as the young D. H. Lawrence's piggy bank.

They were two bright, determined young people, however, and through their unremitting efforts they were able to acquire once again the knowledge and feeling that qualified them to return as full-fledged members of society. Heaven be praised, they became truly upstanding citizens who knew how to transfer from one subway line to another, who were fully capable of sending a special-delivery letter at the post office. Indeed, they even experienced love again, sometimes as much as 75% or even 85% love.

Time passed with shocking swiftness, and soon the boy was thirty-two, the girl thirty.

One beautiful April morning, in search of a cup of coffee to start the day, the boy was walking from west to east, while the girl, intending to send a special-delivery letter, was walking from east to west, but along the same narrow street in the Harajuku neighborhood of Tokyo. They passed each other in the very center of the street. The faintest gleam of their lost memories glimmered for the briefest moment in their hearts. Each felt a rumbling in their chest. And they knew:

She is the 100% perfect girl for me.

He is the 100% perfect boy for me.

But the glow of their memories was far too weak, and their thoughts no longer had the clarity of fouteen years earlier. Without a word, they passed each other, disappearing into the crowd. Forever.

A sad story, don't you think?

Yes, that's it, that is what I should have said to her.

Sam is bad with police.

It was early when I went out. I've been mostly going out early and coming home early unless I wind up at JR's. My mood last night was terrible, I was having a hard time keeping my shoulders back and head up. I decided I'd go out and make the bar rounds. I had a good little routine going. Theos, Smoke & Barrel, Brewskis, Busters, Dickson St Theater, and JR's.

I parked in my usual spot at the brick wall behind the 36 club. It's a Dickson St staple fine dining spot with lots of unattended parking. I hiked up my pants that were dragging on the heels of my converse and buttoned the lower button of my shirt in a bent over, half slump, doing a few things at the same time kinda way. I crossed paths with a tall short haired, well-groomed guy in a tie, either a frat boy or a waiter and walked passed him to Brewskis. It was a quick walk-through. I couldn't really bring myself to stick around so I turned back up the street to drop in at the theater and head home.

The theater was the same it's always been and will always be. Fri-Sat-Sun club for the Hip-Hop crowd. The music is terrible the clientele is cheap and 9/10 there's always a fight. A few quick hugs and hellos and that was it. I was done. I was on my way home just as soon as I said hi to Tori and my friends that were texting me from Smoke & Barrel. Walking back passed my car I see the frat boy from earlier. I make the patio across the street from where I'm parked before he starts calling out after me, "Hey!" I turn back to face him and I'm trying to figure out who he is, like is he one of those local kids that I should know and don't. Walking up to me he asked, "Is that black car yours?"

"Yeah, why?" and I still didn't know who the fuck he was.

"Did you scratch my car? it's the Maroon 2000 Mercury Cougar?" Oh god, it's just some high strung waiter from the 36 Club.

"What? No, I didn't scratch anything." And that was all it took for me to get all alpha and all of this to escalate. Quick explanation, when I get accused of things I get short and sound condescending and you could even say I get a little mean.

"Well you were bending down by it, why were you bending down? I think we should just hang out here and see what the cops have to say about this..."

For the next few minutes the tense dialog between us was a back and forth of me insulting his choice of cars and his obviously high strung behavior until the cops showed up. They took statements, looked at my ID, tried to say that my front bumper looked like i had hit something, just really looking for something to make this asshole waiter happy. I fielded questions, was asked why I was seen bending over by his car and I just laughed. seriously? "I don't know why I was bending over."

Cop said " that was ____ ago and you don't remember?" Of course I didn't remember, why would i care? Eventually the whole ordeal blew over after I filled out a statement pulled his note off of my car and the cops sarged off.

I can not talk to cops without seeming guilty apparently. i tried to explain that I would have no motive to do something pointless like that to someone I'd never met and that even if I had done it, why would i bother sitting around or staying parked there next to the car I'd just keyed if that was the case. I hate cops. Nothing every works out with me and police. Ever. Which made me even more glad that I was 100% sober so far. I can just imagine getting a PI or being charged for keying this guy's car if i'd been drinking.


We ended up shaking hands after the police finally left. If i hadn't made an effort to make nice it would have eaten at me for the rest of the night. He apologized and i went to have a cool down beer.

a lot of crazy "i hate cops" texting later I ended up running into my bartender friend and ex's ex BFF Tussy. We would up dancing at a club in a 'Dance off' until we would up drinking shots at Brewskis w/ their entire bar staff until about 3:30.

women... life.... stuff

I can't goddamn sleep again.


Motherfucker I am depressed. I usually fuck my way out of depression. I have a girl. This isn’t supposed to be so difficult? Alright, I have a girl in Arkansas that is the difficult part. I can’t go on a no sex kick and sustain a long distance relationship and maintain my sanity can I? I can’t get her out here sooner and I’m not going home anytime soon. Let’s just say I’m at a very frustrating impasse. I want to pull out my own teeth drunk on whiskey to get through this. I want to pull out my toenails with pliers later tonight. I want to tweak out on adderal and right those columned lists or pluses and negatives. I don’t get feeling like this and being so far away from someone it doesn’t make sense. I know its reciprocated when I hear from unaffiliated parties that she was overheard talking about me. It’s nice. But for fucks sake, literally for the sake of me getting fucked before goddamn Christmas what the fuck do I do?
I’ve been fine to reassess my life til now at the bed and breakfast. I’ve been happy to wallow like a pig in a trough eating my dad’s food and staying rent-free while I wait to figure things out. I’m not looking for other girls; I’m just looking for reassurance that waiting this thing out.
For my mental health let’s just say it’s been since June 12th that I have seen my girl. In that time I have been totally faithful and patient. But I feel like an old wooden roller coaster that needs some maintenance. You gotta go around those things banging in nails about every day. There’s no fucking break form that shit. It’s rickety, temperamental; it’s a R-o-l-l-e-r C-o-a-s-t-e-r. I call her at 2:50am California time and she’s in Arkansas sitting in front of a bottle of Jack Daniels. Whoopee. That’s great for her. Do you know what my vice is? Girls. I like women. I like looking at ‘em a lot but I especially like touching ‘em and getting horizontal with the ones I really like. I need to start smoking. Try intravenous drug use or something. I can stick to a lot of things. I hold onto my convictions like a winning lotto card. I am horrible at not being validated physically or enough emotionally (telling me she wants to do it) to a fault.

No wonder I kept trying to break things off. I knew how hard this was going to be for me. I’m not even 2 whole months in. I could drink more, but I’d fuck someone from the bar. I could write more but I’d write about fucking. I could workout more but I’d have to join a Gym. And for that matter if I keep working out this obsessively it’s going to be me turning down hoes cause I’m drunk at the bar and they saw me at the gym and are dying to know if I can bench-press their BFF since it’s her bachelorette party. I know… it sounds crazy. Shit like that happens to me. Crazy women swarm to me when alcohol is involved. I talk mad drunk game as long as I don’t have to play bar games. I could not win a girl over w/ my skill at bar games. Or any games really. I kick ass at solitaire but can you imagine that pulling in some honnies? Hey baby wanna watch me play solitaire? Awww yeah, Solitaire and it’s straight to business, cause it’s Wednesday and that’s when we make sweet weekly love…

What’s gonna end this madness? Do I wait for her to move out here? Do I give her some ultimatum? Do I encourage her to set a goal? Ha-ha. God, That sounds like complete shit to me. That’s not how I roll. I know her deal, she wants to be mature and responsible and save money. I get that. I know I’m being selfish here. But she works 2-3 days a week and she’s drinking at goddamn 5am in the morning and I’m staring at ceiling tiles thinking its time to butter the corn. Ya know, parking the pink Cadillac, lock crotches; give her a hot beef injection. I need to get dancing with the good old-fashioned horizontal mambo… I wanna make sweet hot love by the fire listening to Barry White. Seriously. Does anyone have a bearskin rug I can borrow?

What else do I have to ponder when I’m up at 3am and she’s drinking herself to sleep? I need to moonlight as a night watchman at a sheep farm so I can catch some zzzz’s. I’m not in some city. I’m in sleepy small lake town, Lakeport, CA. What do I have to do when I don’t have Ethan? I need a library card, a gym membership, and a porn site membership. Some breath mints, a 20 pack of Trojans, and a god damn job.

I hate when thing are up in the air. I am all about plans, missions, projects, and goals. I may not seem like it but I love to write a list and when I have to keep myself on task I write lists every day. Like clockwork. Whether I complete them or not I write them. IF I was writing a list my first priority would be figure out how to get her here or to figure out a tactful way to have her give me a date that she’s set for herself.

Personally, Karen and I said in June that when she left she wasn’t coming back. I haven’t felt anything that intense and passionate in a long time. Maybe I haven’t felt anything like that before. What is scary is I can’t tell if it was because she was leaving and I knew it or if it’s genuine. If it’s the big “L” then this is worse than I thought. The problem with being privy to the ins and outs of the game is knowing what’s predetermined. Knowing the fixers means knowing the math of the situation. Percentages and calculations means being pessimistic which is the biggest slap in the face. What if this isn’t what I’m building it up to? That’s the secret there… Does knowing the rules make me the king of self-fulfilled prophecies? Who am I to criticize someone for not moving away from her home in Arkansas 2000 miles away? She’s leaving her friends and family to be with some guy? Of course it’s me so I’m biased because I’ m awesome. I’d move here for me. But I see that side of it. The whole mess kills me because this is what I do all night, think about all the angles and I’m so good at it I can make whatever conclusion I want and justify it just as easy as any passing whim.

Oh Jay-Z…. of course I wish I had it on lock down like you. I’m soft, but you’re married now. Let’s end w/ the Jigga bein’ hard back in his prime before I get sappy.

"Big Pimpin' (Extended)"
(feat. U.G.K.)

[Jay-Z]
Uhh, uh uh uh
It's big pimpin baby..
It's big pimpin, spendin G's
Feel me.. uh-huh uhh, uh-huh..
Ge-ge-geyeah, geyeah
Ge-ge-geyeah, geyeah..

You know I - thug em, fuck em, love em, leave em
Cause I don't fuckin need em
Take em out the hood, keep em lookin good
But I don't fuckin feed em
First time they fuss I'm breezin
Talkin bout, "What's the reasons?"
I'm a pimp in every sense of the word, bitch
Better trust than believe em
In the cut where I keep em
til I need a nut, til I need to beat the guts
Then it's, beep beep and I'm pickin em up
Let em play with the dick in the truck
Many chicks wanna put Jigga fist in cuffs
Divorce him and split his bucks
Just because you got good head, I'ma break bread
so you can be livin it up? Shit I..
parts with nothin, y'all be frontin
Me give my heart to a woman?
Not for nothin, never happen
I'll be forever mackin
Heart cold as assassins, I got no passion
I got no patience
And I hate waitin..
Hoe get yo' ass in
And let's RI-I-I-I-I-IDE.. check em out now
RI-I-I-I-I-IDE, yeah
And let's RI-I-I-I-I-IDE.. check em out now
RI-I-I-I-I-IDE, yeah

[Chorus One: Jay-Z]

We doin.. big pimpin, we spendin cheese
Check em out now
Big pimpin, on B.L.A.D.'s
We doin.. big pimpin up in N.Y.C.
It's just that Jigga Man, Pimp C, and B-U-N B
Yo yo yo.. big pimpin, spendin cheese
We doin - big pimpin, on B.L.A.D.'s
We doin.. big pimpin up in N.Y.C.
It's just that Jigga Man, Pimp C, and B-U-N B

[Bun B]
Nigga it's the - big Southern rap impresario
Comin straight up out the black bar-rio
Makes a mill' up off a sorry hoe
Then sit back and peep my sce-nawr-e-oh
Oops, my bad, that's my scenario
No I can't fuck a scary hoe
Now every time, every place, everywhere we go
Hoes start pointin - they say, "There he go!"
Now these motherfuckers know we carry mo' heat than a little bit
We don't pull it out over little shit
And if you catch a lick when I spit, then it won't be a little hit
Go read a book you illiterate son of a bitch and step up yo' vocab
Don't be surprised if yo' hoe stab out with me
and you see us comin down on yo' slab
Livin ghetto-fabulous, so mad, you just can't take it
But nigga if you hatin I
then you wait while I get yo' bitch butt-naked, just break it
You gotta pay like you weigh wet wit two pairs of clothes on
Now get yo' ass to the back as I'm flyin to the track
Timbaland let me spit my pro's on
Pump it up in the pro-zone
That's the track that we breakin these hoes on
Ain't the track that we flow's on
But when shit get hot, then the glock start poppin like ozone
We keep hoes crunk like Trigger-man
Fo' real it don't get no bigger man
Don't trip, let's flip, gettin throwed on the flip
Gettin blowed with the motherfuckin Jigga Man, fool

[Chorus Two: Bun B]

We be.. big pimpin, spendin cheese
We be.. big pimpin, on B.L.A.D.'s
We be.. big pimpin down in P.A.T.
It's just that Jigga Man, Pimp C, and B-U-N B
Cause we be.. big pimpin, spendin cheese
And we be.. big pimpin, on B.L.A.D.'s
Cause we be.. big pimpin in P.A.T.
It's just that Jigga Man, Pimp C, and B-U-N B.. nigga

[Pimp C]
Uhh.. smokin out, throwin up, keepin lean up in my cup
All my car got leather and wood, in my hood we call it buck
Everybody wanna ball, holla at broads at the mall
If he up, watch him fall, nigga I can't fuck witch'all
If I wasn't rappin baby, I would still be ridin Mercedes
Chromin shinin sippin daily, no rest until whitey pay me
Uhhh, now what y'all know bout them Texas boys
Comin down in candied toys, smokin weed and talkin noise

[Chorus Two]

[Jay-Z]
On a canopy my stamina be enough for Pamela Anderson Lee
MTV jam of the week
Made my money quick then back to the streets but
Still sittin on blades... sippin that ray...
Standin on the corner of my block hustlin
Still gettin that cane
half what I paid slippin right through customs
It'll sell by night its extra white...
I got so many grams if the man find out
it will land me in jail for life
But im still big pimpin spendin chesse
with B.U.N. B, Pimp C, and Timothy
We got bitches in the back of the truck, laughin it up
Jigga Man that's what's up

ranting on July 22nd

I want fewer attachments , I feel tethered down to social networking these days.

it's weird that I update myspace and facebook like I used to update my journal...

I was watching all these skateboarding kids on my friend's skate DVD and t I want to balance all these out but the constant updates and all of the constant messages really arent what i want to be keeping up with. I want a quick in and out experience. IF I have time i want to write not upload pictures and see who's commented on my page and how many profile views i have. which is funny, becaue I always check.

freedom, yeah right.

I watched Mike Hawkins' Stake DVD Lurking Hard the other night and have been mulling over rebellion ever sense. See, there's a reputation associated with skateboarders as being mischievous and whacky…they were having a blast getting hurt and skating places they shouldn't. I imagined how much fun I was having when I was their age. When I was running around in San Francisco drinkin 40's in Shakespeare's garden in golden gate park. I love it. I loved watching those talented young kids skate all over the U of A in Fayetteville after knowing how many times they've been kicked out. I think it's great that you can get kicked out of somewhere for skateboarding. I love that it's so dangerous and disruptive. I love that you can only smoke in certain places. I love that you can't talk on your cell phone in your car in California. I love that there are so many rules and there is so much legislation that there are all these boundaries around us that we put on ourselves if there's not some bureaucratic body to do it for us. There are far too few people out there to subvert things and challenge the norms that no one meets anyway.

Look. We're all fucked up, we have crazy issues, we're medicated, we fuck around on our significant others, we're scared to be alone, we obsess over our body image and all the details of our day-to-day lives. We are all apart of a system that is woefully perpetuating monotony. People are rushing into marriage, babies, and Escalades the way a kid runs to a quarter toy dispenser at the grocery store. I want to run into the ferocious full-mooned night with a pastor's wife. I want to take a knife to a gunfight. I want to talk on my cell phone on the highway while I go 13 miles over the speed limit. I want to make skate ramps out of church pews. I want to blast DMX in halls of congress for a laugh. I want to take the republicans and the democrats and their financiers and put 'em on an island. I want a working democracy. I want a government that doesn't intervene when banks go bankrupt. I want to see more celebrity mug shots and stretch marks and nipple slips and sex tapes.

Cause I've got daggers for eyes and a razor for a tongue and I wont ever settle. I'll watch it in silent (and not so silent) upheaval as society comes crashing down on its self. As the rules fall apart and people fall apart with out them. I can't believe that we have these amazing lives and we continually settle for the drawl of a picket fence and the crest of the sun over a freeway divider, that erect pinnacle of our morning commute. In another world, I'd player devil's advocate. I'd be the joker to someone's batman. I'd subvert someone's grand plan for moral cohesion. I can't believe we settle. I can't believe we have free will and the ability to do so much with our lives and we don't.

I am actually debating whether I should delete myspace and facebook. What the fuck is a social networking website anyway? What's social about that? Now all I do is text. Back at Shakespeare's garden we had pagers. It was bad enough. today I'm tethered to a lot of different internet based things and i dont really need any of them. I love human interaction. I love the thrill of the chase. I love to flirt. I love going on adventures with dynamic and amazing people. I am lucky to have the people i have in my life. I miss so much of the face-to-face communication I used to have. I can't imagine being a kid now. All I'd do was post pictures of shirtless me on myspace hoping my high school crush would see it and constantly checking my sent messages to see if she read them. God it's like a prison where we cut ourselves off by immersing ourselves in technology. I am so guilty of this. If I'm alone at a bar I sit there and text the whole time. I totally deny myself the opportunity to experience something random and amazing just because I can check facebook on my blackberry and I can send instant messages on my iphone and post on twitter all of my bathroom breaks during the day.

I'm gonna be the bathroom guy on twitter. I'm gonna start a profile and all I'll do is update it when I have a bodily function. That has as much relevance as anything else people post.

Ugh. I'm stagnant because I don't know how to take over the world. I'm stuck because I go to jail for parking tickets. What happens when I try and ramp my jet-powered bicycle over the white house? I'm in jail for life.


Our models for life and behavior are flawed. Our god is whoever is doing the new Nike, or Gucci ad campaign. Our god is the MTV producer who tells us what to do.


There is so much more potential in people than we are exercising.

It's like the joker says, "I'm a dog chasing cars. I don't have plans. I just do things. I'm not a schemer." I love that. It made so much more sense to me than Harvey dent or batman. Here's someone whose only goal is to create total anarchy. He bets that he can subvert one person out of 3 and does it. There's not a lot of risk and he fucks up a lot of shit. It's brilliant. Now for a disclaimer: I don't really want to be the joker I just want more than this mediocrity. I like the idea of rules being subverted in the public circle. I like people knowing that we have freedom to get off our Asses. I don't want to blow up a bunch of people. I'm just bummed to see people so happy to take what the get. I'm so sick of 72 month no interest loan on Hummer H3's and Toyota Priuses like ants in the car pool lanes. Should we really pat someone on the back for being green because they buy a Prius? Please.


No wonder I didn't finish my political science degree. It makes me depressed. So let's go grab a skateboard and head down to our nearest historic downtown and rattle some cages. Hell, I bet you can get in trouble just by blasting iggy pop and sitting on a skateboard these days.

Gettin outta Jail Greeting Cards:

Gettin out of Jail Cards. I mean, seriously.

I have walked in a Hallmark store and numerous drug stores but I never really thought about how there's not a good section for men’s' needs. So your old lady needs to send you some dope while you're in the pen, there should be dope dipped--- "hope jail is nice" cards. You know, something special for those late destitute nights in solitary. X rated scratch and sniff cards. I'm heading grossly off my initial topic, obviously there's very little to do in jail and any attention while you're there is exciting. I watched a few guys get mail and I was awestruck when the drug dealing Camaro drivin toothless crack heads were reduced to babies at mail time. Yeah he does 400 push-ups a day, but when Roy Lee got a letter from his sister he was a bitch for the rest of the day. People ate his food and pushed him around all day. But what about when he gets out?

Here's where my idea comes in, if you need to know how long til he gets back in the game, when he's going back to court, or if you just need someone to split the cost of an 8-ball it'd be perfect if there was a card for that. I don't think I'm asking for much. I would have enjoyed a card, and it could be simple, like: " Thanks for not being a snitch, next gram is on me."
Or: "While you were gone, someone had to look after your old lady, glad I could be there for you bro."

Anyway, there's a whole untapped market, and with as many drug transactions and arrests as there are around convenience stores it's only common sense to Market these cards to companies like AM-PM, 7-11, and Wal-Mart, cause where else can a crack head go at 3 AM for Motor Oil, Twinkies, and diapers?