Saturday, October 4, 2008

Sit. Stay. Comfort.

Soup,
You are cosmic. You, even in you furry form with limited vocabulary, are a being entitled to a fortune called Earth. Before Time began you were weaving yourself together as particles and elements, atoms and cells, and you joined the rest of us on this big ball of wax with awareness and love.

When I noticed a slight slosh/slosh/bubble noise in the boys ears and observed him doing his best swimmers ear head flitters I knew that the changing seasons and air quality and grit smoke and city air was creating a waxy residue in his ears.

I consulted an anatomy text that I have (thanks Kristin) and then consulted the inter-nerd for a diagram of the anatomy of a dog's ear and then I thought back to Bio2Advanced and discecting a cat and how Ms. Baily told us that cats, dogs, and humans anatomy's were pretty much spot on baring a few genetic differences and then I compared the diagram of a dogs ear to the diagram of the humans, felt confident that as lond as I was gentle and loving, Reiki level one, peace in my heart and acting out of total love than everything would be ok and I would perform the process without damaging sensitive inner ear parts of Soup. Take a look...





 
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He was warm and glowy for about 5 minutes, then about 10 minutes of doggy disbelief and head shaking, smiling and now his energy through the roof. If you've never tried ear candles, do. They are a great way to detox your ear holes and way better than jamming a Q-tip down at the wax which really just packs it in cannon ball style. If you like em and think your dog would as well you have the Dr. Jordo seal of approval to give it a whirl. I found that Brian Eno's "1/1" off of the album Ambient 1/Music For Airports was perfect background/room filling music for performing the minor holistic surgery. Turn it up loud and close your eyes, Capt.! (And with your eyes closed, close your eyes...)

Friday, September 26, 2008

Bad Taste Has Never Tasted So Good



I saw it twice yesterday evening. I was out in a Ford Explorer, explorin the far dark reaches of the Jar/QC/BAMA Capital/Vortex, and I was looking for a good time. Music anybody? Real, homemade, delicious wood block coin collecion music? I found it, and if my off-grid friend with the i-phone would relinquish his fear of the BBC findng him I would gladly share with this readership what we made.

But what I saw twice was something way more ordinary than using paintbrushes and spray paint ans to make beats and sing spontanious folk music. What I saw is a staple of Americana, what I saw was delivery drivers.

Two of my dear friends, after long work days, opted to call and have hot food delivered to their doors last night. At the first local I hear the delivery driver comment that she had "passed twoof our other drivers who were walkin' but there was nothing I could do for them, I dont have any gas to give em." Oh, but here's your pizza.

My friends live 3 blocks from a pizza shop.

Later, around midnight, my music cohort called to see if "the kitchen was still open" at a food-out-of-the-box Oriental restaurant. They were and I heard to routine switch to "do you deliver!?!?".

Yes. America delivers. Pizza is always hot. Homes are warm. College is the best years of your life. Life is good. They all ring true, in that hollow, herion, one foot off of the bridge kind of way.

I dont blame any of you. . . not even the AI GW. This has always been about self-awarness.

Wednesday, September 24, 2008

Digestive Tract: Transfer Americana, Part 1

On September 11th I put my green t-shirt on that has brail down he front of it. It is the same t-shirt I am wearing in my photo ID on my passport. I have worn the shirt, which is lovingly known now as the "flight-shirt" on every overseas venture that has ever required that I sit calmly in an aluminum tube at 35,000 feet above the Earth. That Thursday I had gone to the airport to look at the ticket window prices of flights to Scandahoovia. My bags were packed and in the truck, flight-shirt freshly washed, I was sure I'd be flying that day.

I can remember what the corner of Billy Graham Pkwy. and I-277 looked like that day, when what we said was the worst was collectively UNremembered as the rat race and feudal gas chase went on, with a tooth in the rear-view, gutted-gums and blood-residual, reminding all that to stop would be to catch up to the now, and there is no way to keep reliving the then when you are elated by the now.

I lied down on the couch. Hurricane Ike was a catagory 2, or atleast reported as such by weather channels and news outlets that were "covering the storm" which I've learned is nothing more really than having the resources to stand at a removed position and leave 500 miles of sea wall searching with all its might for balance, hanging out in an abstract delusion, similar to watching the whole thing happen in the back of a wal-mart. I paid attention, however, and with each hours update I felt the wind knock my "verbal commitment" around in the bay.

A random face from the commie mart and I had had a conversation a few days before. He was adament to want to know why I felt like leaving the United States for more peaceful ground was my outlook in the face of America's Great Push for Change. We talked and much of that conversation and those conversations are not up to me to recreate because what is said in them is usually the interwoven history of a nation, a newsreport and a person. Usually you just have to have a conversation like that to hear it. A day or so later, maybe just a few hours, he was calling me asking me if I had computer skills that I felt comfortable using; he asked if I wasn't doing anything more than nothing anyhow and if my name shouldn't be added to a list to go work to keep cellphone tower power running wherever it was needed post-seawall in the Gulf. I said there was no reason. Nine eleven, I'm laying on the couch in the flight shirt and the phone rings. "Yeah, it looks like Ike is gonna hit somewhere around Galveston, can you be on a flight in the morning?"

From Transfer Americana


I left without saying goodbye to most, save my parents and a few others who I routinely talk to. Seems that the world pushes in that direction. A collection of friends makes a good intermural team but a party of every affair is a notion of crab dip and crackers, merry flutes really, when it comes to making a transfer. Its going that has to be done, moving towards it. A goodybye window could last a lifetime for me. I'd rather be sleep-eyed in the shire than glassy-eyed in the data. Perhaps I'm just utterly sick of having to see the daily transfer Americana take all the time of those who inhabit the land. I'm pretty sure there are some in the capitalist volley now who aren't quite pulling the weight. I'm pretty sure that all we've got is right next to us, and theres nothing to worry about because we know where that is. Until the contract/combat requires a good man go dying. Perhaps more than anything that is what I'm saying, my utopia, my dreamy pace of peace is the creation of freedom from that one standing idol of America and Beyond: oh timepiece, 30 slices by the mad Einstein and you still seem relavant, your index finger like London fog bent always in the direction of another morning and its uncounted shills. Oh foggy window of winter, begging not like the love of a woman, but the love of the whole damn sleeping situation, the love of the bedroom, like the chair Mr. Picasso. Time your gears are wailing in the shifting wind.

The landing gear retracted with a bang, the function of the bay door and its hydrolic cringe enough to steer the beast, like reaching for a water bottle in the cadence is enough to bring a rider down. The plane lunged, fish-tailed and looked for a jet stream to call home and the nose turned back up to the trembling atmosphere looking for anything but down. The runway was in sight and all on board had fixed an eye to its tarmac and lights. Flying into Ike, hurricne Dwight D. "Beware of the Military Industrial Complex" Eisenhower, was a pitch and roll. Too bad grit smokers and muffins in the morning, coffee and scones meet constricting arteries, meet squeezed gut juice, meet the feeling of force. Go ahead, tell it your favorite song. We circled Lafayette, LA looking to land and we took one more look at the lap dog laden swimming pool lay of the land. I mused aloud as to why my fellow pilot wouldn't just go ahead ad "90the bastard for god sakes". He kept it together.

Laffy and beyond, a pickup at the pickup, closed I-10 and the case of LA. v. chaos. Rainsuits, brief diluge followed by sheering sun, back to rain with a Kraft cheese sandwich in between. Stage set for a convoy, generals aligned and on-line, orders refined as refineries power fell back towards its natural state, oil got to sit around as oil a second longer, the cattle of the beefline that feeds our bright nights and night clubs paused to consider its gladiator status before the corporate plan od aggression sent out a 5 mile truck line on a closed interstate hauling diesel fuel and generators towards a city under water, water for miles, acres and weeks to follow. I-10 was the high ground. We were waiting to deploy in the parking lot and I was out of the car. I got a phone call asking what I was doing, the cnvoy had left, we had to catch up. I was hitting 110 and 120m.p.h. and feeling the wind lower a shoulder into the side of the rental. The drive took all night. We were eventually flagged down by state troopers who checked papers and orders before we drove through the twisted metal scene of Houston. Early morning we say john boats being deployed to rescue people from 2nd story balconies of roadside motels, entire portions of roadway stopped, water running through in its new stream, smiling and filling, flowing. No power anywhere and thats a good thing because that which we call "wire" but is actually metal was hanging, open, like the tounges of so many serpants ready to expose the ankle in the bush to so much pure void power inside. The convoy had a hard time staying together, what with all the other living people in cars looking for answers in a way out, or a way in. It was every best man for himself as we flipped on the gps and left the guys in the red truck wandering. A line of traffic to get into the yard, a brief software debriefing, an immideate work assignment, only after having to verbally disarm the two refuelers who would not have weenies in a rental passing standstill traffic lest we be the yahoo professionals we said we were, the nerds who were going to run the computers for the entire show. George walkedin with his laptop, I sat and waited to park the car. When we arrive at the trailer we had to start plugging GEN-ID#'s into the system. The previous day we had had to network 7 computers onto 4 printers and link up a software. Dude, I really had been working 24+ hours.

The army ain't lying or joking, if you want some long as well paid work it's out there and it's in a rodeo ring. The ATT trailer moved in. A small bucket setting of main street that would in the next few days turn into the bread line of the ranch dressing/jelly movers. More and more a pattern emerged and in it I found ownership. I took an office that was a folding table in the last 5 feet of a horse trailer and I mved the table next to the wall, I set up another table and I seperated the workstations so we could use the acoustics in the metal to work for us, I labeled files and I taped down wires so they wouldn'tbe tripped on, I walked into the big boss room to clarify, I asked for things, I walked across the street and asked ATT why I couldn't hear on the phone and they were a global communications giant. I wrote important numbers on the board, established protocall that we "were the last call." Before I knew it rookie energy bounced and a kid who had previousy been using a gluestick was using software. Holy shit, I did work 96 hours. More rookies showed up, in times of quiet we gained understanding of who one another was, the musi we liked, the desire and longing for real instruments, stories of dropping everything and following a goal. The calls would be flooding in by mid-day, and the office war room was ready.

Im not sure how to piece things out. Finding a 24-hour donut shop in Pasadena with a 283 and her father running the place was a light twist of peace with glaze. I was an atom sharing my energy with the unlikliest of elements, though its usually not up to the atom, eh? So just laugh along the way. Life, actual life itself, is good. The "life is good life" lasts as long as the flavor of ranch dressing being sucked through a t-shirt.

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Whats the problem?



There are verbal reports already rolling in that gas is unavailable at the aptly named gas stations. Oh well. We saw this one coming in 05, the year of the very cool. I just returned from a 9-day spy novel that took place in the heart of Texas. I was nothing more than an organc router with 10 voices in my head at all times for sometimes 11-hour shifts. It was a war zone. It was a contract.

Stepping away from it has left in need of rest and healing. The truth will do that. As I run into people and I tell them what Ive seen, where Ive been, I get one line out of everyone that is the same: "Why don't we hear about this?"

I am trying to get the story down. I slept 26 out of the first 48 hours I was home. I looked in the mirror and saw myself in my late 30's, not20's, so I've been keping my mind from going back to the actual reliving. I can't imagine what so many people around the world are daily processing at reality, while in America our reality is far removed from the concept of real. They are connected. That which is pulled out of the ground and used to transport that which will replace it will not last. An "Oil for Trash" program needs no congeressional disapproval to be seen as pointless, wasteful, idiotic.

America, I'm not so sure you're ready for the winter.

Thursday, September 18, 2008

Rodeo Clowns and Ranchers




OH... Get Ready. LLLLLLLLLL IIIIIIIIIIIIIIII GGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG!!!!!!

(... so long as the ranch dressing flows...)





More to follow.

The Bridge



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Many people will not be sleeping inside in south Texas tonight. Bridge City is gone. Just there no more. Dogs, cats... birds prolly made it out. In response, and in order to keep life good, ATT got to work getting its cell towers back online. The effort includes nothing more than more gallons of diesel fuel per second than any of us math wizards could compute. I signed on. I've promoted myself to middle management. I'm doing data analysis. Im cracked out.

I cant believe that ATT will rest its head on its pillow again tonight. Were staged in a rodeo yard in Pasadena, between Houston and Galveston. I haven't been able to get out of this horse trailer turned mobile office under satellite to go tour the damaged areas, but the shots are rolling in from the diesel duel wheel well truck driving dudes. Its crushed. The news may say Galveston is bad, and it is, but search east for real damage. You just dont hear of it because its a little further away from ATT Houston HQ.

The air in this diesel yard is unreal. The first day here my face went numb. My #2 chakra is sending messages of worry. My inner body transfer is way off. Food is provided by cans and cans, dummy meat and nothing. Here, these cheese nips should do. Ive been eating a lot of grapes. The sewage backflowed out of the high school football stadium locker room. People love Ranch dressing here. Its served with every meal. The police presence is amazing. Tanning is half off. Drive thrus are packed. Apocalypse Later, indeed.

Tuesday, August 12, 2008

s u s h i a n d a f l i c k




Italian babies confused
Pants a new attitude
Like Hemingway in the ranks
And the dusty trail that follows tanks
Thanks
Might not do
Oh, a new attitude

Thursday, August 7, 2008

"Fat, Angry People"

"Are you sure youre hungry?" I asked the question with conviction; convicted of my space, form, shape, breath, love. I asked knowing where I was.
"Yes, I need to eat something," came the response from across the table.
Tourist trap steak house full of direct hits to the guts and tits and more burger than you could shake an angry, Yankee glance at. Men at the heads of tables and heads all around gap jawwed and open, making the air frequency go "yeeeeehhhhhhuuuuuuueeeeeehahahahahuuuuhhhheeeeehhhhuuu"/the noise our species creates. You know its bad when I tell my mom that Im gonna have a hard time holding it together and her response is, "Well, you better, these are some fat, angry people." I've never seen my mom, whose a fantastic water colorist, as a Ralph Steadman, but at that moment her humor shone through and actively creeped me out. She was right, if I lost it 50 heros would take me out, beat me to within an inch of my life is good and leave me on the filthy rubber mats out by the dumpsters.

God, beach trips are amazing.

A day later, today, it clicked for my mom and she laughed when she realized i was giving her the opportunity to walk away and not eat the hush pups and baked p's. It was all shit. T total crapola trucked in by a trucker and cooked by a cook. Served by a server and eaten by... eaters?

What the hell are we kidding ourselves for? These titles mean shit. Shit except a ribbon and a concept, more judgement of who you are. What could you possibly mean?

I stood on my head and watched the cloudscape be sea and sea be sky, my oh my how funny it is and was to see you and him drip from below but above this and fall out in form for a moment your form, slip a laugh through your lips slip a ship through the storm slip a thorn in the skin slip again and again.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

"Out here in the west were still free..."

The above header image is the art work of Jack Unruh and is currently in Mother Jones magazine.


The road leading into Yellow Stone National Parking Lot from Cody, Wyoming is amazing. Steep mountain walls along both sides lines with running water, green trees and brown bears. I saw it with my own eyes and smelled it with my own nose and was in it in the middle of nowhere in the least populated state in the Union of them. Little did I know what lurked just behind the east gate of the martnini-shaped super volcano, waiting there to remind me of exactly where I was and what I was in. Wonderous nature? Serene scenery and Earthly vibrations? Mystery of life and rain? Try "red tape".

We waited in a long line of cars at the toll entrance booth and when it was our turn to cram thru the turnstile I took it upon myself to explain, "Hey, I'm on bike, this is how im traveling, I'm not responsible for road damage in the park or pollution or any of the other "reasons" that the federal's are insisting that I pay a fee and an extra tax to view nature in the country in which I'm a citizen. I don't think I should have to pay." No dice, something like 20 bucks a head for both of us on bicycles since they were two seperate vehicles. I was also reminded that that fee did not include the camping charge, and that there was no camping in the park other than in designated camp areas, aka, gigantic pields of suburban style street layout with no McToonHomes but empty lots instead anticipating the weekly/daily/hourly arrival of gigantic RV's which are a very popular way to "see the west" for many in this nation.

Money paid, argument lost, temper kept in check, lets move on. What's this, a line of dead still rush-hour traffic? Wasn't I just in the middle of nowhere? Huh? We'll have to load our bikes in a work truck and be transported for seven miles across gravel construction? Seven miles, five years, five million dollars. Thats what it takes to pave a road in Yellowstone. A woman with a radio is ordering us to get off the biks and put them in the truck. We do and I go to get in the back, it's a s-10 and she has a broken arm, K is with me and I figure Ill just take it easy in the bed and glance around at the view. Illegal. I, a grown man, can't decide to ride in the bed of a pick-up if I choose too. Instead I'm to squeeze into the cab and ride the seven bumpy miles engaged in a bitter argument with the woman driving and working for said quagmire construction project about whether bicycles should be allowed in the park at all. Another fellow is the one who informed me of the illegal nature of my desire to ride in the bed and when I retorted with, "You can buy beer from a drive-thru on a four wheeler but you cant ride in the bed of a truck in this state?" he said, "Out here in the west were still free." He looked at me like he was free and I was not. He seemed to imply that I was just visiting freedom and one day would hang its north face labeled threads from the hook on my guest room closet door and simply remember through the photos of a disposable camera freedom and when I had seen it.

"Youre free from everything except the tourist dollar," is what I said back to that. And then I got in the truck, got transported and dropped off seven miles in the park. Wonder and amazement coupled with the most traffic I'd seen since Rapid City. Multiple honks and verbal commands to get out of the road. Being passed by macho male white life is good vacationers in RVs called "The Rambler" and "Wild Explorer" and other such names of non realistic views. Passed on roads with no shoulders. Passed closer than a city bus.

Oh, where the buffalo roam.

Thursday, July 3, 2008

Bo White's Rebel Force, "Pedro" Live @ HeckYeahCoffeeHub



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Bo is a founding father of and active mamber in both Calabi Yau and YardWork, two of the Jar's better live music options. I snuck my phone out last night and got him doing this solo... enjoy.

Tuesday, July 1, 2008

in rainbows



This past Saturday there was a double rainbow in the Jar. There still is.

Monday, June 30, 2008

Math W/YardWork, "If you dont wanna work (Live: HeckYEAHCoffeeHub)"



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Really, YardWork, the regional, national, global and universal implications of your sounds and styles and sets are clear, and fun.

The first time I heard this song was on a Friday night at Lunchbox Records. I "had" to work the next day at the corner of Cool & Cool. I applied the philosophy later that Saturday afternoon by telling my "boss" and "manager" that I did not want to work again the next day, Sunday, Easter. I wanted to go ride my mountain bike with Billy and The Slim Rookie My Brother and Swammi and whoever that kick ass old dude was who rides with Swammi. I was told the it was "Easter" and "there will be a two hour wait" (I was working as the bitch of a reataurant at the time so that meant i was to "host" the Easter brunch-goers) and that "the entire staff" had been called in to work this one. Not one to overlook logic I immideatly realized that things would be fine if the whole staff would be there. I also realized it was my last day at "work" there and that I would be celebrating my own holiness and all of everyones by being outside where I could see the Sun(son).

That feeling, sitting there knowing, knowing I'm walking away and being ok, whole and happy, available and present is a glorious one. It is in us all. I talk to people who dont understand it and I try to help them see that they won't. There is no way to approach anything that is an illusion from a logical standpoint or approach feelings of fear or guilt from a holy standpoint. And that letting go is as easy as admitting that you know... you know you know.

Play this tune a few times and e mail the guys from YardWork and tell them you want a CD. Because you do.

Friday, June 27, 2008

Price per Barrel






Images from a "ride" I took yesterday. Out the backyard, down the hill, across the 485 bridge, just over it cut across field into neighborhood, down/up hill, into woods single track, tons of technical work out at the Indian Rock, jumps, cut onto sewer path, get a response to my question as i see a white tail deer, cross a creek, get into the thick of it, following deer path, running between 485 and BallanToon golf course, get into the thick of it with thorns, think about ticks, think about how thistle is an invasive species and its everywhere, lay bike down, go look at traffic flying by on 485 in gas bubblers, disappear like a yeti back into the woods, jump out onto golf course, see a huge no trespassing sign, get off as fast as i can, come out on a office complex under construction road, see a huge dirt berm made to look and feel like pump track, ride until im coughing up dust, laugh about how i used to do this here when i was 11 and it was all woods. oh well. later chased down a roadie in the bike lane and passed him tucked into a downhill roll. he fought back on the climb and i stuck to his wheel. i took a right into the thick of it car style and he kept going.

When I saw the barrel i couldnt help but think of the phrase price per barrel and then over the barrel. I cant help but connect the two as i look closely at what it is daily costing America to keep its moods and modes.

Thursday, June 26, 2008

I'm...






How am I getting these shots? Did you all notice Frank hangin out in these images? It is just a camera phone but I'm not.

I want to go swimming in deep water.



Monday, June 16, 2008

GO TO HELL, ARLIEGH!

Dear Readers,
Arliegh can go to Hell.

She can suffer and burn in Hell.

She can take an airplane straight to Hell and get off and starve in Hell.

And I want you to help DAMN her!

Thats right, by clicking on where I just wrote "DAMN her" you can cast yer vote in this years St. Cruz (he's dreamy) bicycle competition open to the psycho-public also known as the Hell Ride. Last year a little known man from the Queen City that goes by the moniker Team Dicky won and went out to CalaFornEyeAya and got lost and gnashed his teeth and got poked with a pitchfork and that made Arliegh want to do the same thing. High high mountains with little oxygen and steep descents that go off in each direction towards the souls of the lost and damned, for, it is Hell!

You might be asking, "Mr. Math Teacher, who is this Arliegh you are speaking of?"

SHES THE WRENCH WHO BUILT THE BIKE THAT I RODE ACROSS NORTH AMERICA ON, any more preguntas?

Yeah. Think about it, pray about it, but get your eyes and clickish fingers over to the web site and vote for her to GO TO HELL!

Oh, go to www.arsbars.com to look into her world.

Thanks all, and I know that the 2 to 3 votes this brings her way are going to be the little drops of goodness that make it all happen.

Ill see you in Hell, Arliegh!

Saturday, June 14, 2008

H2O for Humans in H3's

The grass in front of BallanToon Jewelers is very important, and it is very important that the grass is green, because when the grass is greener on your side life is gooder, too, also, and your jeweles will shine brighter and prettier...

One Saturday ago I saw a neighbor's spp-ppp-ppp-ppp-rrr-iii-nnn-kkkk-lll-eee-rrr-sss going off in the middle of the afternoon under a 99degree-on-the-news-111-street-level-atmosphere. The water was hardly making it through the stale, thick and hazy air before it made its "hey!-I-didn't-get-to-be-a-cloud-yet" trip back to the surface of the Earth. Three sprinkling heads were positioned to pop up and cover all ares of the postage stamp that is worshiped from behind closed windows in an AC'd house. I walked home and put the grocerys and the dog inside and walked back over to the neighbors house. Before I knocked I composed myself and asked that I not be angry or scary in any way.

When the home owner opened his door I smiled and said, "Hi, I'm your neighbor (motioned to my house) and I would like for you to please turn your sprinkler off." He hadn't opened the glass/screen door and he sort of cocked his head and looked cracked out and said something like, "I'm sorry?"
I said, "Yes, we're in a major drought, were something like seventeen inches in the negative on our water table..."
"Were allowed to water on Saturday's," he said.
"Yes. Well, if you choose to do so could you please either water very early in the morning or late at night when the sun is down? If you water in the heat of the day like this it is really just a major waste; most of the water evaporates before it even hits the grass and that which does make it surely won't reach the root system. It's a bit innefficient."
A moment of thought passed, I cycled into a slow and quite out-breath.
"Yeah, I could set it to do that," he said.
"My name is Jordan Moore, by the way," I tagged on as he closed the main door. I can't be sure that he cared to know the name of his neighbor who was out and about acting like Ben Franklin or Thinky Mc1850's. I don't care. We have to act like that. Really use our noodles and spout off, in very respectful ways.

When we observe it is for action, not for frustration, and a distinct personality can rock another's world. Where would you be without your examples, heros, leaders, writers, teachers, friends?

AS I walked away I noticed that his sprinkler turned off and today I noticed that they were on super early this morning when I was heading out to get in a bike/run/ware-Mr. Wolf-out session at Col. Jason Baily Park. Yes, I do some biking from time to time. Y'a'll'a'll want to hear about some of that? Maybe.

Oh, well, this is what I saw today when I left the ToonFood during a downpour...





The mushroom is a) pretty and b) just bloomed when I took it's photo. It is an Oyster Mushroom, or Pleurotus ostreatus, and is a delicacy. It is also carnivorous, eating microscopic round worms and therfore making nitrogen. If you see one near you feel lucky and hungry. Prolly in a stir-fry or stuffed with Israeli Cous Cous with melted goat cheese.

Monday, June 9, 2008

Math, "This Suicide"


utterz-image

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A friend of mine recently pointed out how he's suicidal. I am too. So are you. By living where we do, how we do, and i guess I should tack on "why" we do now, we are all by definition suicidal. Thats when I sat down and recorded the song that's up above the heads of these letters. Kind of like the 1,000,000 flights a day about our heads. Im not bitching, Im really trying to use my super powers to get people to actually talk to one another about how we can begin retrofitting our own personalitys in order to let go of the wasteful behavior. Hey, it might be fun... actually kind of... a good time???

I dont care what you say, you cant block it out and it does affect you. And im not blaming any one person because how could I? But I am one person who wants to speak to more and more people about what we can do to stop this insane suicide.

The AIR we are BREATHING is POISON. And before you change the chanel, trust me, I can think like this. I'm not angry and commiting a "real" suicide or "crime", Im simply pointing out, with intention and focus, that the AIR we are BREATHING is POISON.

You're right, what good is my opinion...

PERHAPS YOU WOULD LISTEN TO THESE TWO? (click it)





Friday, June 6, 2008

Life Is Good!




Tomorrow will be one week exactley from when I experienced the most ironic moment I think may ever happen to me.

I have been observing the "life is good" phenomenon for a while now. People who are so impressed with the rate at which we as a nation can waste resources, time and energy and how convenient that makes "life" appear to be that they willingly go ahead and put a sticker on their car or don a cap or t shirt or hand bag or frisbee that promotes the company/idea "life is good".
The first variation I came up with is that life is gooey. That makes more sense biologically. Then I came up with life is food, which makes a bit more sense on a bio/socio level. Neither of those have caught on and life seems to be "good" only.

Is life good because it's raining jet fuel out of the sky over our backyards, because here in the JAR a minimum of 1,000,000 auto engines are turning and burning for 10 hours on a daily basis, because we have interior AC units on 1.5million homes that make the insides cooler and the oustides poison, because every car lot in C(h)ar-lotte has 700 heat reflecting overstock auto-vipers sitting on its black tar space, because right now people are at thier jobs which require them to double click away acres upon acres of trees which are the lungs of our planet, because trees once the outside temp feels like (not is according to yer newscast) but feels like 105 quits going through the process of turning out fresh oxygen because it is in a fight for its own life? Or is it really just access to malls and Zaxby's and FootLockers and food-to-the-face boxes that makes these individuals feel like silently and acceptably shouting to the world kind of that they think life is so damn good?

Well, in true fashion the more one focuses on something the more prevelant it becomes. I see it everywhere now. Because it is. One week ago tomorrow The Dude and I had met up at the ToonFood as a rendevous to ride our green-transport-machines aka bicycles to the movie theatre to see a flick thats been on my mind to see. To get there we only had about 1.5 miles, maybe, of hardball roda structure to cover. Part of that route took us over the 485, the JARs solution to traffic by making traffic. The bridge opens up to a three lane highway that has traffic coming in off a wide right turn at about 60 mph. When we got to a certain point we made eye contact and without words decided it was better for the future of our lives to flank it up side by side and take the entire lane, forcing the issue that cars would have to go around us in one of the 2 other lanes they had to choose from. Not seconds after we made our decision came a vocal ass clown in a pearly white jeep cherokee (yes, like the race our nation killed off) with his bloated wife in the passenger seat and a five year old kid in the back. He yelled as he slowed beside us, "YOU NEED TO GET OUT OF THE ROAD!" Before he finished I was hitting back verbally with an eight letter phrase that means exactly what it says. That made him want to fight and punch. He slowed to look at me and his wife accused me of having foul language. I asked him if he was really interested in pulling over and making anything more out of a situation he was creating in front of his child who has seen 700Xs worse im sure out of this pecker-wood. When I looked in right at him to let him know that there was no joke being joking'd about I saw it. Tucked in, pressed, and freshly unfolded: a "life is good" t - shirt. With a cartoon bicycle on it.

I burst into laughter.

Total disbelief.

I told him to look at his t shirt. I laughed again. Suddenly it became so clear. I retook my position next to the man with the strength of a baby mule and I sat in the middle of a Hwy on a steel frame single speed mountian bike and I just laughed. Of course. Ya know. Life may be good because all these yokels/yuppies/buckets/its-all-the-same-mentality-ers have the world at their material loving finger tips. Fine. Life was great to me in that moment. It was damn near generous. Getting to experience being treated like that was somehow the funniest and best thing about life. That douce is living with anger and judgement, so for him he has to defend his good life.

Meanwhile the man behind the wheel of the auto which is full of gas and working for him (which makes life good) sat out ahead of us, rolling slowly and staring in the rearview mirror, wife making threats to call the law, son taking it all in and learning that this is how you treat other individuals.

Kid in the back, sorry you had to hear a certain range and frequency of vocabulary before yer time, but really, hold strong to it and one day use it to free yerself from the control of that goofball cracker father of yers. And that hand gesture The Dude was doing that involved two fingers and his tounge is also critical to yer development. Don't forget it.

Well, there it is people, the Life is Good, post! Remember, as long as the cartoon on yer shirt is having a ball then you must be too and no thats not jet fuel you feel on yer skin or poison in yer lungs, it a magic reward for all our wonderful inventing we've been up to.


Ain't life grand?

Thursday, June 5, 2008

This one's for you, Emily Chasklebomb





Emily thinks that her fear of clowns started as a kid when she was forced to sit and eat cereal and watch episodes of "Bozo the Clown" while her dad negotiated big-time deals with some tennis pro named Pearlman. She also thinks it has something to do with the time she woke up in her basement and "Killer Clowns from Outer Space" was playing on the tv. Thats not the last time that she has experienced waking up in the middle of the night to mind altering matter. A few months ago she was asleep on the couch and an object on her mantle that her semi-pro-kickball-coach-common-lawwers mother had given them that was blue fell to the ground and shattered. It woke her up and on the tv was the face of one Nick Tripplet, leader of the JARs Green Party, who was being interviewed as a candidate for sitty council. He lives right across the street from her on Thomas Ave, and that in and of itself is creepy. The across the street neighbors face being pumped into your living room and you only see it because an inanimate object commits suicide? PAY ATTENTION!!!

Emily's favorite part of the Bozo the Clown show was the ball toss game that required maluable children participants to throw a ping pong ball in a series of buckets to win cash and fame a glory.

I hope you enjoy the clip I've put up, Emily. I reeaaally do...

Wednesday, June 4, 2008

Math, "Lake Placid (Live)" @ HeckYeahCoffeeHub




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Yesterday I got a call from B-Thomp-Thomp, owner and resident of HECK YEAH, a coffee cooperative started on a whim when a Shaman's hand rubbed a clear little circle on a foggy window. He asked me if I would have any interest in playing a set before a guy named JasonCyman who is on tour in a car from Brookline, Manhattan, Corcoran, NY, USA played his stuff. Yes. Well, it took a few minutes of thinking, all I was doing at the time was sitting in a hammock reading "Animal Vegetable Miracle" by Barbara Kingsolver. Its non-fiction so it won't spoil them mind, so go ahead and order a copy. Now. Really.

I needed new strings for my aix so I went to the Sam Ash music store. Now theres an experience. Its like a REI for musicians and it took me about 25 minutes to get in and buy one set of acoustic Dean Markley Alchemy's. Read the Alchemist , non fiction as well for your own life will intertwine with the book, and then you will understand why I had to have these strings and there were no other strings to buy at that point. Whatever.

I went and saw Charlotte's finest guitar tech and single-speed guru, the Biggest Werm, and we strung it and tuned it and then sat and played it front porch-style for a while until I realized that it was 45 minutes past when I was supposed to get to the coffee shop. When I arrived there was a fleet of Vespas parked afront the shop and plenty of folks milling about so I retuned my new strings and started playing about nine. The first song I played is one called "Lake Placid" that I wrote few weeks ago, and thats what you can hear today. I wish I would have recorded the next one too because DJ sat down on the drums and played some wonderful two-step beats behind some country goodness I've been working on and it was the first time anybody really got to hear it, including myself. I've been so in love with Honey lately that I had to write a song and sing about it. At one point I asked the crowd if they had any requests and I wasn't able to play a single one of them. Nice. Then I played "Tom Sawyer" by Rush and a few others and then Jason played. Skinny fella from Tupelo with soulful vibes who opened with "Let My People Go". Yeah, that was nice. His pitch was amazing and he reminded me of crickets in the night and lanterns, dusty moth wings and screen-door slams. Thanks Jason and good luck on your car journey of music.

Thanks to all who came out last night as well, especially L-Stem and Chasklebomb. I appreciated hearing a response to that which came out of my sloar plexus and throat.



Monday, June 2, 2008

Do Not Be Confused

Confusion is the 9mm of the ego. It's there and speaks louder than the mouth, lungs or heart. When you feel confused make sure you ask it to go ahead and step behind you. You don't need it.

On the first day of June, a Sunday, Billy and I took off out of the jar on flight F-150, destination Big Mountain Transfer with EuroNate. Please click here and read a full report of the days events as recorded by Billy. The story was amazing and real and so fun it's hard to convey in a written document.

I want to address the legal implications of what we experienced on the Blue Ride Parkway that fine June yesterday. We were stopped not by cops but by our own hippy mechanical systems. So, when I say "we were stopped" I mean literally we had stopped ourselves. Waiting. Chit chatting with Lt. FirstRide and Old Man Hiking Sticks. When I saw a truck hanging onto the hardball surface of the Pkwy with all fours, frame steering towards where it was told but body leaning towards the direction of the Reactive centrifugal force I used my equal and oppostie LOUDNESS to arrest the objects motion. Worked. Full on stoppage. Park Ranger, serious by and for nature, 9mm and Tazer and confusion on his we little belt. He wanted to know what I had yelled and I told him to slow down again. Billy mentioned the fact that he could feel the speed without seeing it but we were assured that the speed limit was 45mph and that he was doing 35mph to maybe 40mph. The little man had further instructions for us to wait, however, for an even more real officer of the law for nature but not natural law to show up, for there were questions about our involvement in an earlier voice box/1st ammendment matter at the scene of a crime that we had passed through in order to still be on our planned route of journey. What?

Lets just stop here and consider two phrases:

A - Probable Cause

and

B - Reasonable Suspicion

Reasonable suspicion is the simmer until reduced gravey of probable cause and they both are and include but are not limited to the following: tie-dye, long hair on boys, short hair on girls, any combination of co-ed activity that does not contain equal parts boy and girl and therfore equal boy and girl parts, tattoos, a lack of reflective gear on your person, liking the Dave Matthews Band, laughing, being a human who hasn't joined the police force, not tucking your shirt in, wearing things like sandals or black skin, talking about good ideas, using biodegradable products, gardening, liking to be around other people without exchanging money, playing the guitar, training a dog to respond to love and not need a leash, using a bicycle in place of an automobile, openly talking about a desire to raise goats and turkeys, not sending text messages while driving at 75mph on a three lane interstate loaded with cars, napping, reading anything besides a value menu, practicing head stands instead of watching the evening news, not washing your jeans/hair, breathing if your not in a suit and tie or pants suit and heels, smiling, mocking hell and fear, giving lunch to a stranger, hula hooping, traveling to places your guts telling you to go, talking story, drinking anything besides MountainDew or Four-bucks coffee, sleeping on the side of a highway in the sun and breeze, staring at a blade of grass blowing in the wind, eating vegetables, and did I mention having black skin or being a black person, especially if youre doing/having anything that a white person may also want to do/have? The list goes on and on and on... so many reasonable reasons to suspect suspects.

We were dealing with confused officers who wanted to make sure that we hadn't yelled anything like, "The only way out is in!" or "I am the love that created me!" or "An eye for an eye will make the whole world blind" or "In God we trust" or any other suspect words.

Ill be frank, they were stoner-hunters on the hunt for stoners. Like mushroom hunters around the patties they troll the Blue Ridge with wide open nets to feed the hungry slot machine that is the economic system that relies on the Prison Industrail Complex, the Military Industrial Complex and the Box Industrial Complex for its momentum.

You all know this.

Im just here to remind you.

This week should provide more details and a further journalistic effort into some other aspects of yesterday, including an interview with real live hippies and filling in the blanks of missing adjectives. Keep your fingers crossed and think good thoughts, it matters like that.

Also, I would like to back up Billy's mention of the Young/Old man. He was a Grandpawson, a variation of both the pa-paw and the junior. Im serious, I saw a young man walk out of the trailor to tell us not to drink Poo2O and then I asked an old man if he had any clean2O. Then a young man told us where we could get clean2O and an old man told us to look close cause it was easy to miss. Old man/young man, thanks for stopping too much fecal from going in my system and thanks for being the oracle of clean spring water. May you live a long/short fulfilling life and grow old/young happily surrounded by such wonderful nature. And may you be the first of many Grandpawson's I meet...

Saturday, May 31, 2008

Math, "Hello, Pretty Bird"








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... at the far end of the Paradox there was a stage set up with a cover band playing. Front man, drums, electronics, hawaiian shirts, jeans, beaded necklaces. The front man looked to her to be one who would always be refilling his gin glass and never really focusing on thoughts outside of his own grey boufont. The stage was an indoor outdoor concept covered in potted plants with bright lights set everywhere and barstools at it's base on the outdoor part. Even though this city is two hundred miles from the nearest coast line men and women sat sipping bright purple drinks wearing swimwear. The band, called Prom Dress she noticed from the banner tacked up behind the drummer, was playing Jimi Hendrix. "A Vietnam vet," she thought as she looked around the already crowded bar/lounge full of happy hour's finest. People who live a few floors above these places, a few blocks this way, in stacks and towers who are mostly the same age. "A Vietnam vet," she repeated in her head, feeling obviously out of place with her sweat stained t-shirt and dusty, unwashed hair. She wasn't going to go any further, was ready to bail on the whole napkin chasing fantasy. "Shit," she thought, "this is dumb. I could be walking into a trap." The napkin had blown into her lap earlier that morning and it had scribbled on it directions to this place, a child-like line drawing of a man wearing a beret and striped shirt swinging a golf club, and her name. Not the name she was known by but her real name, a name she was pretty sure only one other person knew, and that person was very, very far from this financial mecca.
Just as she turned to leave a familiar sound caught her ear. When she spun back around she saw a dark-skinned man with one or two pearly round teeth hanging into his open smile from gums the shade of a sharks liver looking directly into her eyes as he pressed the keys and pumped the lung of a harmonium. The front man of the band was sipping Gin out of a plastic cup and smiling at some older women in the front row. As the girl leaned over the bar to hear what the Indian man with the pretty tooth was saying the band started up again, an Allman Bro's tune. She leanded closer and smelled the mans breath, like that of clorophyl and roots. He pushed half a coconut to her full of a powdery green liquid. He shot one back himself, he had been saying something to her. She leaned in closer saying, "I can't hear you." "It is not goo-od at all if your mother and father are crying..." he said, and looked down at the juice. She picked it up and took it down in one swallow. He laughed and began to pump the harmonium louder, drowing out the southern rock top 30 in the background....

Thursday, May 29, 2008

Climbing the Corporate Ladder




When I was a kid in Oklahoma somewhere around the years of 1987 and 1988 we talked a lot about early non-productivity based society peoples who now get called Indians even though that's kinda goof. They also get called native Americans but that too is a wee spit cart before the muley. It was EarthPeople if anything, and they're still alive. I suspect I am one on some leve, moonlighting in cities but stretching my spirit towards open space and non-reliance on corporate middle people to provide my needs. Fighting my way out of this wet paper bag is harder than one who is not even trying or imagining would think. My friend called me yesterday crackin out because he was staring at a McD's billboard that had an "aig" (ya'll prolly say "egg") in the bottom corner with a thought bubble over it's head and the thought was that the aig was aspiring to become an aig muck muffin. We agreed that what he was seeing was the spreading of the myth and lie that all things share a human view and that all human views aspire for the same things, therefore enforcing the emotional feeling that becoming a product (or obtaining products) is the only satisfying path. People often comment when I talk to em that "you can't take it with you," implying that upon death when yer pumped full of chemicals and placed in a nonbiodegradable box to one last time pollute the environment you cant take the stuff along. What? What kind of logic is that??? Seriously, I'm on a logic hunt people, that's my official job title, Jordy Moore, Logic Hunter. How about this for a change... You can hardley take it with you anywhere, while yer still alive! Forget dying and the implications of life/death good/bad/ heaven/hell/ girl/boy haves/havenot etc/etc... the stuffs heavy and unnecessary and really only there to try to reenforce that in a meaningless world objects or posessions can have meaning. They Cant. Thats why people are locking everything down, they have to leave it alone and hope some individual they deem criminal won't want the same stuff they wanted at one time too and go in and take it. People do, I know, im no hippy about that fact. In FACT I know that out of the entire population of persons behind bars on the planet 25%!!! are locked up in the U S A. Thats 2.2 million individual warehoused. Like the rest of the stuff that the rest of society is concerned with getting... in a legal way? Really, how legal is the manner in which were getting the stuff were getting. Were mowing down trees left and right to build homes, but the trees are the lungs of the planet. Were building those same homes on the homes of what used to be another species home, which violates awareness. Were driving millions of cars a day going on millions of errends when really we could be networking to meet our own needs in an efficient way. Were telling the rest of the world were a democracy when in all actuality we are a corpocracy that is violating the individual rights set forth in the Constitution of the United States of America and spreading the lie that the world has always existed the way it looks right now and that we should all tow the line to keep it that way. Really? Two generations of humans living the life-is-good life is enough. This is just starting, and were going to take it in the direction of justice and evolution, peace and true freedom.

So at Harvest Hills Grammer School we would make outfits out of paper bags from grocery stores (in those days there was no good/evil option at the check out line) and make them look like vests and we would make feathers to and put on plays about these mysterious people who only left a trace of their existence in the form of a rounded spot on the earth or an arrowhead, and select writings and infinate amounts of cultural insight into THE REAL NATURE OF LIFE. I remember loving these people, imagining how their families stayed warm together and sat by fires and smiled under the sun. I remember being one. One of the songs that we would sing has always stuck in my head, (along with that song "Love in Any Language" that had hand signing with it... i digress), and this song in particular didn't sound too "indian" but we played it over simple little hand drums and sang it in a kind of chant that we deemed reverent. I paraphrase:

Go my son, go and earn your feather
Reach my son, go and climb your ladder
Lead my son, make yer people proud of you (ooww-oooww)

From the ladder of an education
You can speak to and reach entire nations
Believe my son, watching all the dreams come true (ooow-ooow)

... and so on.

That song was in my head yesterday as I climbed 55 feet into a tree and wrapped steel rope around its branches so that it can be pulled out by the root... It creates too much shade and its wood can be used to grow mushrooms in. With each spike-step going into the tree I got higher and higher and breathed into my awareness and remained where I was, because I didn't even want to think of where I would be or how I would feel if I didnt, just bodily. Err. But up at the top I sat for a second and closed my eyes and remembered those songs taught to me by The Teacher's back in the day, and it was a good and happy moment, of knowing I am climbing in the right direction.

Wednesday, May 28, 2008

Math, "BurmADeltA"


utterz-image

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Swimming under the shallow waves on a populated beach by the legs of law enforcement, having no problem holding my breath, trying to remain hidden as they troll the shore looking for me. The last one reaches down and pulls me up out of the water and with the mirror glasses asks me if I know where im going.

When will you not take em anymore?

The world is on fast-foward, the tape reelin WHEEEEEEEEE! This is a crucial lifetime, for every single one, and the value can not be counted, but can be recognized only in silence and knowing. The paradox...

... She walked into the Paradox and looked around, the napkin had said to be here at 7:30pm est, and it was five minutes past. She had stood outside around the corner smoking a Nat Sherman Hint of Mint and staring at a line of taxi's that could get her out of here; this city, this state, this country. But she didn't take one and now she was standing inside the brand new Bistro and Kava Bar that was taking this banker's metropolis like a Tsunami and turning ties into coral and khaki into kiwi... or Kava.

Tuesday, May 27, 2008

Math


utterz-image
This another variation of that one moment. . . I like the guitar w the harmonics better though. May as well post it while its relevant cause the obsolete is just that. Love one and one love. ABHA! AB HA!

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Math, "Just That One Example"





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Memorial day celebration got me new looks out of the drivers, looks of amazement and solidarity, though the reason i wore the flag was personal. But i won't kid around with you, on that day, with that flag, i was treated with a reverence on the road that ive not experienced in the JAR before. Seeing peoples thoughts stop at anger and frustration and back up to the moment they are in is bizarre, especially because of an icon that we see prolly 43,000 times a day within the "borders" of this nation. Defenders of the Constitution of the United States of America, unite and raise yer weary heads!

24 inches of stick, Soup's favorite 08 plan.

This song, "Just That One Example" is not about realizing that there was a sign to follow and avoiding it, IT IS not following that indication. It feels horrible, low, dark, piggish, and rude. I'm thankful that i realized my phone was a recording studio so i can do something with that feeling and turn it into art to share rather than internalize it and let it build a home of meaningless in my body.

When i took all my clothes off and stood in the mirror is was just me staring back, and when i had my coffee this morning i was looking at myself from the shiny top of the french press. . . My talent is sharing, talking, provoking, encouraging, connecting, laughing, breathing. That is my place in this world. There is a keyhole, that we are peeking through to the other side of the universe, and under our feet are the materials of success. Sand, stone, water, wood, rubber, aluminum, glass, love.

Friday, May 23, 2008

Math, "Lake Placid"



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Analytics (aka, that photo of a crimescene)



eyes like oceans

i had studied

envision but

so so so unaware

blind anger
past
sided
ambition
mice

so so so

so cool

almost

cold

elevation
steppes
bent blood cells
crevase
axis mundee
14trillionyearoldlightfragments
so what is now
because the sides of my mind

like the dog-faced ray locked in low tide

flap up and down in a watery home

and ask about providence
mystery

forgiveness

coffee

ea t he roo t

will we see any patterns

now eye only love the

sky

Hi

Hi

Thursday, May 22, 2008

WWOOF'n: The JAR?!?!


One and one-half bucket gravel, one third bucket water, one half bucket kwikrete, and one bucket four shovels full sand makes a happy mezcla.


Farmin' 1/8ths a mile off South Boully, you gotta keep the chickens quiet somehow.


A view of the pond with one hot house and multiple veggies growing in the background.


Two is better than one.

Aloha math addicts!
I want to point out again the addition of Lucy Gooch to my freinds and family plan. She is a blogger in the twin cities right now, but she has been all over the globe. As a matter of fact I met her when I was WWOOFing. WWOOF is an acronym, yep, and it stands for Willing Workers On Organic Farms. Or World Wide Opportunities On Organic Farms. Or anything that fits the letters WWOOF. Still, it's a global organization with no real HQ that can be a great way to get around foreign countryside and still have a roof over your head and food in your belly, Dude. You also pick up a skills set that is quickly being forgotton because of sugar, Mr. George W. Bush and blogs.

Any who, I'm WWOOF'n in the QC! Yeah. Back in February I was attending a shittake mushroom innoculation at Grateful Growers Farm and met Boris and Djanna. They have taken their measly half acre located betwixt South Boully and Archdale and turned it into a fully functioning homestead. They have tomatos carrots cucumbers strawberrys mushrooms onions potatos beets orchids lettuce 10 other kinds of veggies and chickens... Chickens! City rules state that you can have up to 20 chickens on an acre of property in the Jar. That means that these guys get to have 10 since technically their half acre is just that. They do get plenty of complaints from neighbors who would rather the world look like a tucked in homogynized cardboard cutout of life. In fact, thats why Boris uses the pellet gun to pop the chickens if they start squakin. I wanted to take the gun and pop the guy running the leaf blower, the guy running the jack hammer, the guy with the muffler on his auto, and all the other noise polluters in Meck. Co. who aren't chickens.

Just goes to show that no matter where you are you can start making the world look like the change you'd like to see in it, just like Ghandi said. Thanks to Boris and Djanna for the urban WWOOF opportunity.

Whats the trade off? If you have to ask, you can't afford it.