The Real-NotReal Energy Crisis

Popcorn & Coke

2010-10-04T13:48:00.000-07:00

Delicious

2010-09-15T20:06:00.000-07:00

Zach

2010-08-26T19:03:00.000-07:00

Meet Zach. He's thirteen. And he's big. When he gets on the beach he becomes a spry puppy, rolling in the sand and scratching like a whale shedding barnacles. His favorite game is getting in the way and he is good at it.

Zach was raised in a household in Dunedin and when the old lady (Zach's primary care giver) stepped out, the old guy didn't want him and the eighteen year old daughter didn't feel any need or responsibility welling up either. So now Zach lives on a permaculture homestead with Bob and tells sexist and racist jokes just to get a rise out of the German Tai Chi master who also lives there and spruces the place up with Ikebana.

Also, through dream, Bob has discovered that Zach is short for Exactly.

Let The Good Times Roll

2010-08-23T21:33:00.000-07:00

Garnered Wisdom/ Photo Plop

2010-08-20T15:00:00.000-07:00

"If it takes shit to make bliss/ then I feel/ pretty blissfully." - Modest Mouse

"The bad writing (of politicians) on which I am about to remark, I do not pretend to look on as the cause of the present public calamities, or of any part of them: but it is a proof of the deficiency in that sort of talent which appears to me to be necessary in men entrusted with great affairs. He who writes badly thinks badly. Confusedness in words can proceed from nothing but confusedness in the thoughts which gave rise to them. These things may be of trifling importance when the actors move in private life; but, when the happiness of millions of men is at stake, they are of importance not easily to be described." - William Cobbett, 200 years ago

Lose All Your Money or Double Up

2010-08-06T15:10:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I called a sheep farmer out on Winton and asked if he needed a hand. He's in his 70's and his sheep are about to be "lambin'". He said sure and I asked him how long he needed me. He said for a week or a fortnight. I chose the fortnight, because it was the first time in my life that I've ever had that option. When I hung up the phone and reported back in to the folks who helped me find some farm contacts they said stuff like "hey great" and "sure". I kinda just stuffed my hands in my pockets and tipped up on my toes a bit. Someone awkwardly asked what I was going to do for the rest of the day. Good question. It was at this point that I started discussing how paying 20 kiwi bucks to stay at the Globe Travellers was a bit steep. Stranger in a strange land. To my relief a woman volunteering at the Eco Centre said, "Eef yu cin't find a place yer can alwees stay at ours." I kindly thanked her and sincerely kept it in mind.

Well, I went on about my day. Trying to meet people and talk, finding out what life is like at the bottom of the world. I hate to report that its a lot like the middle and top. Day to day stuff. Mystery deflated. That whole thing. So I went on about my business and a little before the Centre was to close I showed back up and started chatting with this kid Derrick who I had met yesterday. We had some coffee and honey and sat by the fire and I brought up the fact that I had been offered a place. (Just to let you know, the average cup of coffee in NZ, even in the remote/wilderness Southland is about 4 bucks.) Well, we figured out who it was who had offered me a place and tried to call. No answer. We decided to roll out around town for a tour and I'm glad we did. I was able to go up on some high coastal rocks and look south to Stewart Island and see some amazing Earth. I regret that my camera was dead. In a way I don't though. Ghost island off in the distance that were the homes of flightless birds, ocean pulling back towards a block of ice the size of the skull of an Earth, breaks and wave spray, seals and teenagers parked far away from the now-million-dollar-homes that line the way up. On our way back in we still hadn't contacted the woman who had offered me the place. We stopped and bought cat food. Then, low and behold, who was to cross the street going into one of 4 local bars, but the woman herself. Derrick said, "This is that thing. . . the uh, what do you call it, Syncro?" Yes, the Syncro is fine. I asked Derrick if he thought I would be safe and whether or not he thought this lady a cougar. He just kinda laughed and said, "Cougar. . . " and drove off.

She was drunk and drove home using a side of the road that felt familiar, which was an odd feeling, to not be nervous in a car because it was in what felt like the correct lane but was actually in the very wrong lane. She stammered over her words and I just laughed to myself. I heard her say that I'd have to give her a few minutes, ten she said, to clean up. She stumbled inside. She could've taken ten years, this place was a wreck. I set my stuff down and fixed a cup of tea. Shit everywhere: yarn, cats, fire wood, magazines, stink, curtains, tools, books, photos. A tv and a radio were on. Kiwi TV is just like any TV anywhere else. We sat and talked, she fell asleep between sentences.

I'll just say that when I woke in the middle of the night I was struck with a very real, very odd thought, and one that is creepily sticking with me. The thought was, "If a private residence has a sign on the bathroom door marking the toilet and some video gambling machines in it, then this is probably some type of odd speak-easy casino."

toilet

video poker

tiger dreams

house on the hill

(PS, there was a lovely orchard all around the place and this is just one example of one human surviving after the full gambit of life, love and loss had taken its toll.)

Sweet bed, eh? I slept like a tiger, I know that much.

In the morning there was some oatmeal fixed and more tea and I thanked her for the hospitality (cause she just saved me 20 bucks and gave me a hell of a story), and she thanked me for the company.

"Cougar. . ."

New Post, Old Pictures

2010-08-05T18:45:00.001-07:00

Oye There! Bout a git nip of a col comin on ya say? S'that? EH? GoDDAMIT I love kiwi's. E's are I's, every time. Wait a second... Oh, hello everyone. Well, seeing as how I left my cram down at the Riverton Environmental Centre (that's right, centre) I'll take this opportunity to use a few old photos from days gone by. Wouldn't want these to go to waste. The represent the America I will miss the most, and indeed, am sure I will see again in the ghostly reflections of these whale laden waters (wha!?!?!).

Ok, ok. First and foremost, I will miss this. I got used to seeing this so much in the states that I didn't even notice it missing until I was. . .

ENOUGH!

Another thing I really miss is my dags, my sweet, blunder hounts, the "dogs of hell", the dogs of the ghetto. We used to pop corn around 50 gallon drum fires, stoking the flames with pimp canes and keeping the embers hot with our mean mugs and empty Andy Capps hot fries bags. . .

Dogs of Hell ("Slow down son, I'm not gonna hit you. THE HELL I'M NOT!).

While we're on the subject, look at Fire Breathing Chicken and Dora Phraserton running their lucrative South End Urban-Lazy-Lady-Boot-Camp. Applicable phrase from Dora Phraserton (the Pincherman) "The got a hard swath to mow, Mom."

And then there was the real deal dog stuff, when it got brutal and nasty. These are the days I will miss most: hiding behind a blind, giving off the stink of fear, wearing Chacos. . .

Yes, times were had. Now I sit on the edge/end of the world and look out at an estuary, I think the first estuary I've ever seen in my life. If I've seen an estuary before this, I just don't remember. If you saw an estuary with me, would you please e mail me? But this one. . . is beautiful. Now, there is a down side. It's being pumped full of poison every year because New Zealand is being turned into the breast of the world. Quote me. And the dairy farmers are using a chemical to grow grass for the cows to eat for the world to drink, and the chemical goes into the estuary. My idea for a solution? Stop it. I am here to strike fire into the hearts of Kiwi's and remind them that it's a-ok to keep your milk for your family. Farmageddon is right around the corner. . . http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif

Also, a SYNCRO report. I wrote a song a few years ago called, "Mawson's Will: The Greatest Adventure Story Ever Told" based on the book "Mawson's Will: The Greatest Adventure Story Ever Told" that tells the story of Mawson, a 1911 clad Kiwi who tried to be the first to reach the South Pole but ended up killing his friends and eating their dogs. Well, take a look at the performance taking place in Riverton this Monday August the 9th (http://www.radarswebsite.com/). Hmm, guess who god likes? A lot. Yip. Me.

Forward Motion

2010-08-04T18:14:00.002-07:00

New Zealand is 13 hours away by flight (if youre thru the security already and in LA). Its 57 if you actually have to go every step of the way. I listened to No Country for Old Men on book on tape on the flight over. It came in handy for dealing with the scene seen above. An old English bloke looked at me and said, "'v been over this o'shin 28 times now and this is the biggest mess I've ever seen." I replied, "If it ain't, It'll do til the mess gets here." His wife wasn't so sure to make of the good ol' country boy in the customs line. Neither was customs. Word to the wise, keep your passports in good shape.

After clouds and crackouts and being told to go to the "Chickin Disk" (Check-In Desk) I finally made it to the southern most tip of the south island of Kiwiland. JEEZ, talk about beautiful. The little propeller plane floated low over small houses, spread out, tin roofs and sheep and cattle. The airport was smaller than Constar. I asked a ride off the girl, Sarah Love, that I had been chattin with on the plane and she and her fam had no problem dropping me off at Sparky's hostel, which is actually closed due to a fight with city hall over something that I could never really wrap my head around, but I still slept there with the odd cast of characters that operates out of that joint. All I'm saying is, well, Sparky looked at me and said, "You're living in the now, aren't you?" Crackily, I replied, "You are too."

Ah the crack outs. So far NZ is more of a food desert than the east side of the Jar. No joke. Non nutritional seems to be the soup du jour. On my way on a migrant bus today to look at an organic food co-op near here and talk with a guy whose obsessed with permaculture and tree grafting. Perfect.

Oh, and Tim O'Donnell died. He was a 28 year old warrior in the Kiwi army who was training potential police forces (the same folks that the Pakastani PM is saying we haven't won and who Matt was saying we could only rent) in a northern Afghanistan provence. He was a Guard of Honer at Sir Ed's funeral. He was not a dumb jock. Makes me think that he was a target. New Zealand seems to be not so shocked, but I'm cracked, that the first Kiwi to die in the war on Tear Her did in the now. It is a lot to deal with if you think about what it means. I'll leave that up to you.

What? With 24 Days and All

2010-07-07T14:58:00.000-07:00

World? Are you listening? To the outcry of the pitiful? To the tops of the lungs of the miners and the Marines? This dude I knew named Noah Pier died in Afghanistan. I didn't watch him get buried because it was at Arlington National and it was not a good weekend for me and I was busy and there were other things going on and this and that and chitty chat chat; (Kurt Vonnegut suggested that semi-colons are the hermaphrodites of the English language). . . I saw Robby Burns lay in the same room, J.T., Elizabeth, Kathleen, and Mike Robertson, all friends dead at an age younger I now know to be appropriate for death. I'm talking 15 to 18. Noah was 25, I guess. I stood in line with Bill Fehr and we viewed the body and the family and the family viewed us and we smiled and we cried and Bill and I jedi'd the Marines and we felt the heat of an IED burn us and we knew it meant that Noah's younger brothers would one day fight against these here evil doer's and all.

The North American Hand-Built BIke Toon Festival

2010-03-01T20:52:00.000-08:00

PEOPLE ARE TRYING TO KILL ME

2010-01-29T07:10:00.000-08:00

Sauna tribes, sha-boing cults, yoga mats, killing chickens with needles and goats with a .22 and a knife, a fling with Julia Roberts, another girlfriend turning out to be a suicidal successful woman of Miami, Cho, composting thousands of pounds of organic leftovers just to watch it turn into a field of anaerobic death whiffs, grandma dying of Nabisco, brothers morphing beyond 3rd cousin once removed to being an entirely distant nebula, I read, timber framing school, sleeping in a tent in a bum camp on an overpass island in charlestoon, seeing where the Mississippi river begins in the near northern world, creeping out potential employers,

Sit. Stay. Comfort.

2008-10-04T13:03:00.000-07:00

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...

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...)

Bad Taste Has Never Tasted So Good

2008-09-26T11:36:00.000-07:00

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.

Digestive Tract: Transfer Americana, Part 1

2008-09-24T10:06:00.000-07:00

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.

Whats the problem?

2008-09-23T09:24:00.000-07:00

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.

Rodeo Clowns and Ranchers

2008-09-18T19:51:00.000-07:00

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

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

More to follow.

The Bridge

2008-09-18T19:36:00.001-07:00

Mobile post sent by Math using Utterli. Replies. mp3

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.

He's the Rapper I'm the Global Empire

2008-09-06T20:51:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-12T09:46:00.000-07:00

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

"Fat, Angry People"

2008-08-07T14:55:00.000-07:00

"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.

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

2008-07-24T11:35:00.000-07:00

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.

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

2008-07-03T15:38:00.001-07:00

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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.

in rainbows

2008-07-01T10:51:00.001-07:00

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

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

2008-06-30T12:21:00.001-07:00

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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.

Price per Barrel

2008-06-27T11:33:00.000-07:00

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.

I'm...

2008-06-26T10:12:00.000-07:00

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.

GO TO HELL, ARLIEGH!

2008-06-16T16:00:00.000-07:00

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!

H2O for Humans in H3's

2008-06-14T18:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Math, "This Suicide"

2008-06-09T06:52:00.001-07:00

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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)

Life Is Good!

2008-06-06T08:53:00.000-07:00

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?

This one's for you, Emily Chasklebomb

2008-06-05T12:40:00.000-07:00

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...

Math, "Lake Placid (Live)" @ HeckYeahCoffeeHub

2008-06-04T08:49:00.001-07:00

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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.

Do Not Be Confused

2008-06-02T19:57:00.000-07:00

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...

Math, "Hello, Pretty Bird"

2008-05-31T08:38:00.001-07:00

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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....

Climbing the Corporate Ladder

2008-05-29T08:22:00.001-07:00

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.

Math, "BurmADeltA"

2008-05-28T05:21:00.001-07:00

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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.

Math

2008-05-27T09:39:00.001-07:00

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"

2008-05-27T07:49:00.001-07:00

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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.

Math, "Lake Placid"

2008-05-23T21:04:00.001-07:00

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Analytics (aka, that photo of a crimescene)

2008-05-23T19:49:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-23T09:33:00.001-07:00

WWOOF'n: The JAR?!?!

2008-05-22T03:47:00.000-07:00

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.

'Mergency Mid-day Uppage!

2008-05-21T12:17:00.000-07:00

***HI READERS AND MATH ADDICTS! JUST WANTED TO CALL ATTENTION TO THE NEWEST MEMBER OF MY FRIENDS AND FAMILY PLAN. SHE'S A GIRL, SHE'S CREATIVE AND SHES RECENTLY BEEN TRAVELING IN ITALY! READ ALL ABOUT IT, THE PANINNIS AND THE TOMATO SAUCE-A! I PROUDLY PRESENT, LUCY GOOCH! THIS BLONDE EYEBALL AND I MET IN A 4 STORY SOLAR-POWERED TREEHOUSE IN AN ANCIENT MANGO GROVE IN THE LATE 1960'S IN HAWAII. SHE'S DUBBED ME SLOW JAM/GHANJA BISCUIT MASTER. I DON'T KNOW WHAT SHES TALKING ABOUT. SHE MAY BE OFF THE BLOG RIGHT NOW BUT THERES PLENTY OF BACKSTOCK AND ITS THE PERFECT TIME TO TELL HER WE WANT MORE! GOOCH, GOOCH, GOOCH!!!***

ALSO, THIS BLOG WOULD LIKE TO TELL WILLIAM BILLY P FEHR HAPPY THREE GOES INTO NINE THREE TIMES DAY! WE'VE LAUNCHED A BALLOON SKYWARD FOR YA, BUDDY, IT'S ON IT'S WAY TO THAT BIG PLASTIC ISLAND IN THE SEA WITH YOUR NAME ON IT! HIP HIP! HOOOORAYY!

Fiddy Pence

2008-05-20T19:58:00.000-07:00

You all may of heard of the pop-hipster-hop entity 50 Cents? Good. He got shot about nine times, rumor has it. Well, meet 50 Pence:

Andrew Daily resides in Greenville, North Carolina, a small town towards the coast that has contributed the brothers Flythe to our Jar, one in the form of cycle courrier and dad, one in the form of visiting rock star. This past Saturday the latter brohams band was playing at the RTA annex, a house show that eventually ruined his keyboard due to the amount of BEER being thrown in the air in a post-scavanger-hunt hoopla. Like SpeedStreet for track bikes. Either way, among the crowd of thighs and brims was the outstanding individual 50 Pence. You see, he is like 50 Cents in that he's been shot a bunch, but he's way more ol' timey.

Some time ago in the quiet American Ville of Green, NC, a local gang composed of six or seven 15 and 16 year olds decided it was time to validate their status as a collective menace to society. What better way to initiate a life of crime than a full on spree including weapons and everything? On this night 50 Pence was hanging in the backyard of the latter broham Flythe's condo. A bonfire was snapping and from what I can tell it was the same as any other brew-ha-ha that some of us have been to. Enter Pirates, stage left. From around the house the gang of ganksters emerged guns drawn demanding all things deemed valuable that the unassuming party-goers had on their persons. Yes, a full on bandito attack in our collective backyard. Young 50 backed into the shaddows. He watched as anger and confusion led its march into the field of friends and fun that had been fine without such uninvited guests. In self-preservation, for what else can we do, he was able to exit the scene without being noticed. He made his way to the front of the house.

On the front porch he attempted to contact the younger, keyboard playing Flythe brother. His call went unanswered. Alone under a burning 60 watt he stood while armed teens roamed the property taking what was not theirs. Suddenly one of the gunmen is approaching him, double-barrel aimed towards his face. Closer and closer the gunman...

50 Pence is no joke. Built like a Greco-Roman with a healthy mop of dark spirit on his dome he exudes a power that would not like to be attacked...

Gun in his face, demands being made. Something snaps. That something that says, "You know, this isn't right, and curse putting up with it." In one move one hand grasped the barrel of the gun and the other removed the action from the attackers grip. One more move and he was shucking back the pump and aiming at the young banditos knees. He didn't want to kill him, he didn't want that on his conscience. That didn't matter. No slug in the hold. Not loaded. Empty. Click.

He slammed the butt of the gun against the head of it's previous owner. That sent the guy to the ground, but he got up quickly, faster than one would expect. This is the point where the power of positive thinking kinda went out the proverbial window. With the one goon getting up another was approaching fast from behind and before anybody knew what was happening a shiv was shoved deep into 50 Pence's sweet meat. That's right, he got stabbed in the ass. He felt his index and middle finger go knuckle deep into the wound and his first thoughts were, "I can tape that up and be in class tomorrow," and, "That's all you got?" He even said aloud at that moment, "That's all you got?" It wasn't. From the reserves of the b-team depths came goomba number three. A classy fellow brandishing a .357 Magnum. Four shots. One in and through the left shoulder, pivoting young 50's body 180 degrees, exposing the back, then one in through the back and lung eventually stopping midway up his spine. Four shots from a .357 at point-blank range and no kill. Total amatuers.

50 fell to the ground laughing, the power of positive thinking kicking back in full swing. Not for one second did he think he was going to die. He crawled in some random direction and then eventually a sheriff with a dip in his lip was standing over him saying, "Damn boy, you got shot." A screaming lady was in his face shouting demands and not helping. He called the sheriff closer and closer and with one lung's breath told him to please get the screaming b@&ch out of his face. Another person was doing their best to hold his blood in, though it was pouring out of three holes in his body and covering one simply made the others pump harder. He knew he would survive, was surviving, and would walk away from such nonsense. He did, within 4 days to be exact. Today his lung works fine, fine enough to puff a grit and tell the story of what happend that night that destiny brought the likes of goofballs to his experience. You can still feel the bullet lodged next to his spine. Youn can move it around and stuff.

Nobody else got shot that night, though 3 weeks earlier the same mobile goonies had used the same .357 to shoot a 15 year old girl. She lived, too. Of course.

Eventually the same evening that young 50's blood got to venture into the material world the car-full of speeding teens got pulled for blowing red lights, or like energy draws like energy, whatever you gotta say. Anywho, the bag full of wallets with photo ID's made it pretty easy to put the kids at the scene and eventually in the place where your told, "No talking! That means, keep the conversation to a minimum!" The place where you cant choose when and where you'll go.

50 Pence and I sat on cinder blocks and talked while the party raged on and on. Mosh pits full of transvestites ruined keyboards with BEER throwing dance moves and fool-hearted hipsters climbed the tree of death built by this man (so please be careful) and took in the view of the Jar through PBR'd vision. 50 and I got to the point and it was agreed upon that there is no real world and spiritual world. They are one in the same. The real is spiritual and the spiritual is real. We talked about using our hands for work and the value of silence, the pleasure in making things better and the party, how it serves to distract for a while, and for that we can be greatful, but that it's noisiness and ignorance are not stopping the rain from falling on our heads.

50, meeting people like you in the Jar makes me feel alive and sentient. You are a fine artist and one of a guild that's comprised of a few. Thanks.

Photo credits as follows,
Dark and blurry - Jordy
Clear shot 1 - 50
Clear shot 2 - 50

On So Many Levels

2008-05-16T10:43:00.000-07:00

I wanted to share this, it just came my way via nothing major or drastic, terrifying or beautiful.

When there is no goal, there is still pulse and growth.
When intention enters, there are moments and photos.

Enjoy the damn movie without me talking...

Yau Haus-Pitality!

2008-05-11T18:52:00.000-07:00

Hospitality, like destiny, is waiting for you to show up.

Thank you Davey (we used to date) and Bo and all whose energy was welcoming to the girl with the rig no man could ride.

Two orange tents and a back yard. . .
Mouth singing over fire and to a gigantic broccoli. . .

Fuck being room and bored.

Im Proud of You, Too

2008-05-09T09:14:00.000-07:00

A thousand tornaders spinning around TV antennas and blocking out commercial contracts like the decisions in my heart are too currents involved in atmosphere. The truth is so clear.

Ride straight at your own destiny, with courage. Its out there looking for you.

Its a Career Path (If You Please)

2008-05-07T01:31:00.000-07:00

Tuck in your pants,

Hula yer dance,

And show a lil' faith,

This is a lil more than chance,

And when you see me. . .

Waves.

I love you all.

Arkansas Family Survives, Minus Ben

2008-05-05T19:42:00.000-07:00

These photos just in from Becky Hall, my fathers twin sister who lives in Damascus, Arkansas. Im not sure if it was big news or not but an f-3 tornado made its way across three states without lifting off of the ground. Much damage, as you can see, was done. My relatives farm was not left untouched; many barns down, fences crushed by trees, roads washed out. My aunt and uncle's property turned into the property of their two sons as well, Chase and Andy, who are both married with one kid each and they and their homes all made it out ok. The only soul who didn't was Ben.

Quite possibly the sweetest dog ever, I got to meet Ben this past summer. He had a nervous habit or a tick (not so sure what to call it in dogs) that was terrifying. Namely, when excited, he would curl and snarl his lips up exposing his teeth. So upon meeting him you would run into a 75 pound black-lipped mountain hound that looked like he was going to eat you alive. Really he was just happy and couldn't help that he was perhaps the world's only dog to actively grin in a human manner. He was grey with black lining his paws, lips and eyes. He was fast, too, following behind the pickup as my uncle Charles gave us a tour of the once-largest-dairy-cattle-operation in Arkansas. Then he would break off only to return to my cortex off in the far distance across a large field chasing white tails out of the woods. Later he would show back up and get his dinner, which was everything that wasn't eaten that night by his human friends. Soup, my own hound, sat outside with him into the star scattered night on thier quiet farm and they made fast friends. Two hounds, one city one country, sharing thier perspectives on gnawing and chewing, digging, running and sleeping.

Ben did not die in the high winds of the tornado, he died in the high waters that followed. While surveying the damage to their propery he jumped into the above pictured water called Brickey Creek, a place he had crossed many times before, and was unable to make it out of the current. He got confused and swam back for the dock instead of the bank and, like other dogs before him in the same spot, didn't make it out alive. Ben, tonight my heart is with you on your hilarious soul's journey into the bigger picture.

To my family in Damascus, I am delighted that you are all OK and wish I could be there to help you clean up.

Productivity Based Society: Commentary, Scene1, Act 1

2008-05-03T10:18:00.000-07:00

"Productivity is simply the quantity of living material an ecosystem can generate in a given period of time. This is just as important for agricultural systems as it is for natural ecosystems. Michael Swift, a biologist at the United Nations Tropical Soil Biology and Fertility Program in Kenya, has demonstrated convincingly the benefit of species diversityin agricultural systems. The best way to increse productivity in a maize field is by adding melons, trees, and nitrogen-fixing beans, not by squeezing in more maize. In their experiments at Imperial College's field station in England, John Lawton and his colleagues also found that productivity is boosted by species diversity. The result makes immediate sense, once you see it. Individuals of a single species will compete for the same resources, particulary space. Individuals of different species-some small in height, some meduim, some tall-can take advantage of different spatial territory. More of the available space is used, so more individuals are supported, giving higher productivity." - Richard Leaky

Where I live was once country. I remember how the end of the road behind our home narrowed slowly to one lane and then to gravel and then to dirt and opened into a field full of flowers and blackberrys, honeysuckle and white-tailed deer and sunsets. There was a pond full of fish that and frogs, ducks and geese and snakes that was one of the first places I learned to sit quietly and listen to the inner voice, to let the clouds roll by with my own thoughts. Even in the late 90's when I was into playing football and making my musculars bigger I can remember running through those patures with a log on my shoulders like I had seen on the TV. So much has changed in a decade. Exatctly where the pond used to be is an EarthFare, that is the heart of a shopping center with a dry cleaners, Quiznos, RedRobin, Sticky Fingers, Hickory Tavern, and all surrounded by three story buildings and parking decks that are connected to the Toringdon Business Complexy where humans, one singular species, works. Rather, labels what they do with their time during M-F 6am-6pm as work. Now the road behind our home that used to lead to sunrise and wild strawberrys is a major corridor for people attempting to save time by avoiding traffic by creating traffic. They put in those speed humps and I can't tell you how consistantly I hear peoples gear boxes on their transmissions cut into the asphalt as they blow over it around 35mph.

Productivity based society has an alarm clock nation rising and shining in unison. All autos started, pushing for the same points, competing for the same resources in the same space, chugging into the building in the morning and and out in the afternoon, before the Freaks come out. With one big puff out smoke daily wooshing up, up, as our contribution to the rest of the planet. Theres a sign on the temporary chainlink fence they've set up around the job site of the new Marriot being built across from the EarthFare. It reads as follows: "It's not worth your life." An allusion to the required hard had that must be worn if you chose to enter. The graphitti artist in me wants to make an addition that says, "Just the life of an Owl, Rat, Fox, Deer, and Pond."

No longer will I believe that I'm not productive. I am alive and well. And whole.

Let your hair shine against the sun, and contrast your flesh against the sillouettes.

Thank God for the bacteria on the roots and the fungus on your eyelashes.

2008-05-01T04:19:00.000-07:00

G'dmarnin.

I'd like to be able to put these videos right up here on my page but about 15 min. worth of trying to do that has been a fruitless endeavor. I have internet scurvy. Any who, this is a number by Jose Gonzalez, and artist that my friend Irish turned me on to. "Killing for Love".

The above photo was last night on East Boully-vard. The emergency rescue vehicle has been in my line of vision any time I go out the door lately. Though these peoples lives are seemingly unconnected to my own I know better than that. I agree with Dr. Bronner. And every time I come across one im compelled to photograph it. Im sure its just a phenomenon of a growing urban metropolis but its odd to think about the number of times a day these vehicles must be responding to individuals needs. Will rural America be affected first and how would we ever hear about cases of fire engines and ambulances running out of petrol if people don't blog. CNN ain't gonna touch that.

Last night I pulled off a sucessful toon-ta-jar-via-mr. osbourne's-crazy-train-ta-toon-transfer. My destination was the International House, an amazingly cool place that a total 283 has introduced me to. Its where one can go to practice foreign languages with all levels of speakers. I sat amongst 20-25 Francophiles as we discussed everything from how to rid your attic of pests to how saying you're excited in French carries heavy sexual meaning to urban sprawl and the price of petrol. It was 4+ Euro a litre when I was there in 04, so I cant imagine what todays prices are, but its all relative and oranges and apples when it comes to our little do-mes-teek problem. Never the less, if you're looking to make your hippocampus thump spend an evening there getting to know some pretty hilarious individuals. Weds @ 7 is the French session for those who are so inclined. Did I mention it was free?

I gotta admit, putting a bike on the train and only having to burn 8 miles worth of gasoline is a very positive feeling.

Bon Jour!

"Ya Throw Trash, Ya Raise Trash!"

2008-04-30T07:42:00.000-07:00

We had just enjoyed a wonderful day of rock-hoppin' up on the Rocky Broad River. Meself, W.B. Morris & Libner, Jonas & Lil' Joners, a young Davey Durphy and Eric "The-Deal-Closer" McDouche. I think Libner was in a photo class at CPCC at the time and that was the pretense for all of us city folk breaking away for a day in the rivers in the mountains. We passed most the time rock-hoppin, jumping from one slick rock to the next for miles up and down the river which im still gleefully delighted to report that Eric was horrible at simply for sake of being a pansy. Never the less, we had taken full-sun photos (which if I can find ill scan in at a later date, sorry) and were wrapping up a day of biological fun when suddenly, out of the woods appeared the fabled North American Redneck. . . hu, oh my. . . with offspring! (I have to admit, thats Billy's terminology and im openly ripping it.) As we watched this fascinating species operate we were stunned to see that it was going to teach its youngling a lesson about rivers, physics, and waste management. In his stuck-in-the-bottom-of-a-barrell tone he said to his daughter, "Wachh'ees, wiin Eye throwin this'hur cayyn N-2 thut wrrrrtur sitsgouna paup'up'in bee-hine thayt uther rok'n'yander." We watched as he limply took one more slug of the Budweiser and chucked it into the biodiverse rocky river. His offsprings eye's shined with the awe of magic as the aluminium can did what her daddy said it would and went ploop under one rock and appeared FURTHER DOWN RIVER behind another. Mystified. Dumbfounded. I felt myself choking for air before anything because somewhere in the transfer I had begun laughing so hard that I wasn't breathing. That on top of pure blood-boliling rage. As I looked for air to fill my lungs my ever-aware/brilliant origional first travelling partner Jonas stood at the ready in his tight Deisel jeans with one hand cupped to amplify his voice and he bellowed, "Hey, Buddy, Ya Throw Trash, Ya Raise Trash!!!" Lets just say air never found its way to my lungs. The sad, real-lifey, consequental part of the story was the She-Redneck-Mates hushed eye-contact pleadings to please not provoke the dominant male. We gladly obliged and packed up the vehicle and made way back for the QC. Eric was scared the entire time.

Which brings me to a few points. I did some math/research today. . . just a few clicks, really. I just wanted to bring it to the attention of readers, especially readers in NC, that we have the third most landfills out of any state in the Union behind Cali and Texas. On top of that I would like to point out that one of those landfills is called the BFI-Charlotte Motor Speedway Lanfill V. And guess which one is consistantly the most packed? Uh huh. The racetrack. So think about this math addicts, that track is functioning on a business plan and doing what it is supposed to do, and by doing that very function is creating millions of tons of trash a year. In your water, in your lungs, in your offsprings genetic code. So, next time you go to throw something away, try to really conceptualize where "AWAY" is. Is it, ploop, right under one rock and, HUH!, right out from behind the next?

Heres the numbers. Total garbage in tons from 2001 to 2007 recorded in North Carolina (think about all the missing particles) is. . . fourty-five million, one-hundred-seventy-three thousand, four-hundred and sixteen. 45, 173, 416. Tons. Thats 90, 346, 832 lbs. of actually recorded trash. That is a lot to expect to just go "away". Here, look for yourself.

*Oh Dear God. I just realized upon reviewing my math that it is wrong. Right. That first number is in tons. Which is 2,000 lbs. Which means that when i jumped from tons to pounds i shouldn't have multiplied by two, i should have multiplied by 2000!!! that means the real number is 90,346,832,000. Thats 90 BILLION pounds. Now im scared to publish this. WTF?!?!

What is IT?

2008-04-29T08:56:00.000-07:00

"for more than half a billion years, evolutionary processes have constantly generated variations on themes established in the Cambrian explosion. it was a time of unmatched evolutionary innovation.
Homo Sapiens came into being at a point in Earth history that boasted virtually the richest diversity of life forms that has ever existed. we may be the highest expression of life's arrow of evolution.
sentient species that we are, Homo sapiens is able to understand the shape, extent and value of Earth's biodiversity. indeed, we have a responsibility, as well as a self-interest, to value it."
---Richard Leakey

can it be called evolution to stretch your arms out in a race? if you're faster now and so is your predator haven't you in turn turned into the machine that is helping evolve other, more complicated, more destructive and non-sentient things. isn't it a gift to be the peak of evolutionary forces, so much so that if we DJ-scratched the wax revolutions back wouldn't the free style be different? im not asking for church of god hymns here, im saying, we are in a period of unique and extraordinary luck. yet, we openly watch the auto evlove, the mansion evolve, the sunglasses and lipstick and styro evolve, yet about our own evolution we are happy to rest? you are that sentient monkey with a brain on a stem that looks like a rose. expectations? what expectations. did any of you expect to be a vertibrate, a mammal, a biped? these are wonderful things that you get to be just by being a part of the big ol' cosmic picture, so thank you. i dont need to see you posing next to anything to assess your true value, becaue as a species you're invaluable. and so is the bio-diversity that made us who we are: the lizards that bit our toes in the cold nights and made us sleep in familiar groups, the insects that thrived in the grass that made us live at taller elevations, the tectonic-plates that serve our terre-able dinners in the style of Great Rift Valleys , the 40,ooo types of potatoes that existed in Peru alone. Did you know that Rain Forests covered roughly 1/16th of the Earth's land surface and held 1/2 of the world's species? whats evolving more, the bulldozer or the ant? well, the ant may survive but some one person is still going to have to turn that bulldozers engine over to get it to "do it's job." so, my bets with the ant. and my bets with the Earth. and my bets with conciousness. it doesn't seem like it was ever intent on reaching a stopping point. we, however, may want to reach one and get back to doing what we were so good at doing for millions of years, allowing Life to direct us.

Weekend Roundup

2008-04-28T09:26:00.000-07:00

Meet Andy. He plays in the band YardWork. He likes playing his glock·en·spiel in this fantastic folk-metal collaboration.
Meet J. Wade. He plays in the band Such Mad Hope. He holds desires to ghost ride his whip to the beach. John Stewart does too. I will offer any expertise I have to help them accomplish such. Really, "planning schmanning" is about as good as it gets for that type of thing, however. One day soon I will tell the story of "Jordy's Will: The Least Planned Out Adventure Story Ever Told." Start holding your breath.... now!

So this weekend brought a lil' sumpin called the Art N' Soul festival to the SouthEnd of Charlotte. Again, for nonnative readers, the SouthEnd is the closest group of old buildings to the actually big new buildings that could be turned into neat little things that neat people like to go to to do stuff. You know. For native readers a brief history of such will point out that a few years ago, in order to garner more tax dollars for itself, Center "Shi-tty" Partners annexed the SouthEnd and now makes sure that the ArtN'Soul festival is borning and bland. Its the perfect place to pick up a hand crafted leather necklace with a bead on it to make your soft seem a tad softer. Well, there was hope. Such Mad Hope, actually, along with some other amazing local musicians performing at THE HECK YE'SIR COFFEE HUB. The SouthEnd's filthiest cup of coffee with a brand new stage made of completly recycled materials. The affair was splendid and included such acts as 2013wolves, Andy the Door Bum (who played though his hand was smashed by an iron bar the day before), James K. Polk and the family friends, meself calling meself Jordie Moo, and many, many more. James K. Polk were these three amazingly sweet polite adorable little one's with filthy mouths taboot. Wonderful. And truly talented. Rumor has it there was whiskey in the coffee that day but I couldn't taste it. Anywho, plenty of the Rag Tag Armada peeps peeked heads in the door and it seemed like business was good. Just like life, huh?

So, as some a ya may have guessed im using a camera phone to get these wonderful photos. The header image was taken on Friday night when again, I happen to be the first on the scene of I guess what was a person's body shutting down in some weird way inside the governmant building on Stonewall. I made the image by getting right up on the emergency vehicles whilst they idled awaiting the human cargo to take to the hospital. Try to take good care of your bodies people. Ride a bike, drink Boot's Juice and try to read something besides a value menu.

Did I mention that Andy The DoorBum played... (click it, dont be afraid.)

Freak Out

2008-04-23T12:04:00.000-07:00

I always know I've arrived before the paramedics because I'm going right towards it.

"Racing witht he rising tide to my Father's door."

Frank Sinatra-Stemmerman and the worst pool game ever.

Thats a mouth, a shirt sleeve and an ear.

For those of you who dont live in the QC and who aren't on your way here this is Larry. I always think Larry Majors would be this real mans real name, but he is legendary without such definable attributes. Here you may know him as Chilly Willy Billy. A phrase and a name in one, Chilly as he's also known, will gruffel in his sea captain's wafer a call as you roll by at once announcing his own presence and encouraging yours. "Chilly Willy Billy!" You may know him by another name. You may call him Freak. Per his request thats how he asked I know him the first 40 or so times I've met him. The other night I called him Larry when I asked him if I could make this photo. It was a human to human transfer in the most basic of senses. As I crested the hill of one of our Uptown streets being operated on by municipal bonds and human hands I saw Freaks tattered figure standing lean in the wind of construction. Standing holding the two fingers of his hand as a message while many sleep. In a downtown project people were confused and and ignoring the Elephant in the Ghost. I to was seeing it but I operate where confusion in order to undo it for myself.

Many people wonder if Freaks dead. It comes up every three weeks or so as a rumor around coffee shops and the Phat Burrito and Lucky Cycles and maybe among the management of every business on East Blvd. that Freaks dead on the slab in the mourge and we all wonder if theres a Potter's Feild or someplace where this mans bones and fur would be put if it were the case that he actually stopped pumping blood through his existing in the streets. He has stated that he would only "pawn" a house if he were given one. Theres been talk about how 75 people a month could use five dollars collectively to rent this man a room. Dreams of and for anothers existence in a world where I can only try to be my own. BE. Freak will stand as high as BoA's tallest tower in Car-Lot and BoA's highest towers will erect themselves only to the last fluffy hair on this grizzled man's mop.

It was windy when the photo was taken and I couldn't help but think about the warmth in it when Larry said he was cold, or that it was cold. It wasn't to me, but then again, I haven't been out there since the mid-70's. I bet it is cold, and tiring. It seems like its a matter of disappointment getting you down v. being something that you can enjoy for what it is because it is making you who you are and are going to become.

I have heard Larry play the guitar, three chord jungga's that reek of prison blues before he even begins singing the lyrics, "These walls and bars are driving me crazy." I remember the eve of 2006 sitting outside in a circle of friends and people collectively chiming in and singing the words to his ditty. Folklore. One hit wonder. One hit wander. One hit.

Larry is one of many of many. The way the top two percent of the top two percent have the bling, the many of the many have the experience of calling the streets home. I am always blown away by this man and do not fear for his or any others death transfer.

Who will teach the children?

We all will.

And who will the children become?

Us all.

Who will be students?

They will also recognize you.

Kismet IS The Right Word

2008-04-21T16:31:00.000-07:00

My heads fallen over so im typing blind, but I should be ok. I've had to do this before. My head can't handle the thoughts. They move so fast.

Today on Ozzy Osborne's Crazy Train bucket's rode with pressed clothes and books, ipods and eyes that said. "Don't." Don't to the light. These people would cut you in half in the name of not being late for their four-million. People say prison is scary, at least in there you can supposedly trade cigarettes for kindness. Out here people do what they have to do to eat the other dog and win against the other rats. And they ain't got time to be messed with. When I got off the train this afternoon I did my best yeah-schools-out-lets-go-have-fun yell. It went right under appreciated.

This morning my plan for life was to drive 5.1 miles to the station, ride the el traino loco, work, and ride back to vehicle and drive the 5.1 home. this would be 10.2 a day, 51 a week/15ish a gallon 3.5 gallons a week = roughly $14 of burning this week {though next would be $16, the next week $20... but the end of this summer $60?} But for some reason my odometer didn't say 5.1 when I got out to run to the train, it said 7.1. Huh? DOO-WHA? Where the extra two miles, you ask? Well, fellow math addicts, I spent a good portion of the morning riding circles up and down three levels of piss-poorly-planned-parking-pods. I even follow'd a gent for a while who seemed to be on his way to his car, keys in hand and all, but then took the steps back up, so I went up the ramp back up and saw him walking about there. I rolled down my window and said something like, "Hey, are you leaving." "I would if I could find my car," he said and he walked around looking at all the cars. Then some guy in another car came up behind me and started honking which made the guy I was slowly following to see if he would ever find his car nervous? Eventually I bailed on this dude becasue I think his car was prolly stolen.

The entire time I was doing this the Diane Rhem Show on National Public Radio was discussing reducing carbon emissions. Yes, while I racqued up TWO MILES in a parking garage I had a discussion about reducing carbon emissions lowly playing on in the background. You know, it DID feel like getting kicked in the reproductive zone! Funny you should ask.

Thoughts on that: the real energy crisis is within. Align yourselves and the "garnered whiz-dumb that has never died" {that hyperlink will never, ever, get old} will speak to you and then a corporate plan of agression will not be necessary to fix the problem.

Then later in the day I got canned.

So much for my icicle messenger service career. Yes. Icicle.

If you are reading this blog in an attempt to gather information to help you collect a debt and for that purpose only please e mail all querys to Patrick Swayze at VeloCity Bicycle Courriers. Patrick, you are a man of honor and honesty and I appreciate the sincerity of your being and hope for total prosperity in your business. And whoever becomes your employee will be lucky indeed.

Well, sometimes the phone rings and you gotta go hang out with the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club.

G'dnight!

Long, Too Long America

2008-04-20T19:17:00.000-07:00

LONG, too long America,
Traveling roads all even and peaceful you learn'd from joys and
prosperity only,
But now, ah now, to learn from crisis of anguish, advancing, grappling
with direst fate and recoiling not,
And now to conceive and show to the world what your children en-masse
really are,
(For who except myself has yet conceiv'd what your children en-masse
really are?)

- Walt Whitman

115-160 yr. old words.
Headline not Headline.