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
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
s u s h i a n d a f l i c k
Italian babies confused
Pants a new attitude
Like Hemingway in the ranks
And the dusty trail that follows tanks
Thanks
Might not do
Oh, a new attitude
Thursday, August 7, 2008
"Fat, Angry People"
"Are you sure youre hungry?" I asked the question with conviction; convicted of my space, form, shape, breath, love. I asked knowing where I was.
"Yes, I need to eat something," came the response from across the table.
Tourist trap steak house full of direct hits to the guts and tits and more burger than you could shake an angry, Yankee glance at. Men at the heads of tables and heads all around gap jawwed and open, making the air frequency go "yeeeeehhhhhhuuuuuuueeeeeehahahahahuuuuhhhheeeeehhhhuuu"/the noise our species creates. You know its bad when I tell my mom that Im gonna have a hard time holding it together and her response is, "Well, you better, these are some fat, angry people." I've never seen my mom, whose a fantastic water colorist, as a Ralph Steadman, but at that moment her humor shone through and actively creeped me out. She was right, if I lost it 50 heros would take me out, beat me to within an inch of my life is good and leave me on the filthy rubber mats out by the dumpsters.
God, beach trips are amazing.
A day later, today, it clicked for my mom and she laughed when she realized i was giving her the opportunity to walk away and not eat the hush pups and baked p's. It was all shit. T total crapola trucked in by a trucker and cooked by a cook. Served by a server and eaten by... eaters?
What the hell are we kidding ourselves for? These titles mean shit. Shit except a ribbon and a concept, more judgement of who you are. What could you possibly mean?
I stood on my head and watched the cloudscape be sea and sea be sky, my oh my how funny it is and was to see you and him drip from below but above this and fall out in form for a moment your form, slip a laugh through your lips slip a ship through the storm slip a thorn in the skin slip again and again.
"Yes, I need to eat something," came the response from across the table.
Tourist trap steak house full of direct hits to the guts and tits and more burger than you could shake an angry, Yankee glance at. Men at the heads of tables and heads all around gap jawwed and open, making the air frequency go "yeeeeehhhhhhuuuuuuueeeeeehahahahahuuuuhhhheeeeehhhhuuu"/the noise our species creates. You know its bad when I tell my mom that Im gonna have a hard time holding it together and her response is, "Well, you better, these are some fat, angry people." I've never seen my mom, whose a fantastic water colorist, as a Ralph Steadman, but at that moment her humor shone through and actively creeped me out. She was right, if I lost it 50 heros would take me out, beat me to within an inch of my life is good and leave me on the filthy rubber mats out by the dumpsters.
God, beach trips are amazing.
A day later, today, it clicked for my mom and she laughed when she realized i was giving her the opportunity to walk away and not eat the hush pups and baked p's. It was all shit. T total crapola trucked in by a trucker and cooked by a cook. Served by a server and eaten by... eaters?
What the hell are we kidding ourselves for? These titles mean shit. Shit except a ribbon and a concept, more judgement of who you are. What could you possibly mean?
I stood on my head and watched the cloudscape be sea and sea be sky, my oh my how funny it is and was to see you and him drip from below but above this and fall out in form for a moment your form, slip a laugh through your lips slip a ship through the storm slip a thorn in the skin slip again and again.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
"Out here in the west were still free..."
The above header image is the art work of Jack Unruh and is currently in Mother Jones magazine.
The road leading into Yellow Stone National Parking Lot from Cody, Wyoming is amazing. Steep mountain walls along both sides lines with running water, green trees and brown bears. I saw it with my own eyes and smelled it with my own nose and was in it in the middle of nowhere in the least populated state in the Union of them. Little did I know what lurked just behind the east gate of the martnini-shaped super volcano, waiting there to remind me of exactly where I was and what I was in. Wonderous nature? Serene scenery and Earthly vibrations? Mystery of life and rain? Try "red tape".
We waited in a long line of cars at the toll entrance booth and when it was our turn to cram thru the turnstile I took it upon myself to explain, "Hey, I'm on bike, this is how im traveling, I'm not responsible for road damage in the park or pollution or any of the other "reasons" that the federal's are insisting that I pay a fee and an extra tax to view nature in the country in which I'm a citizen. I don't think I should have to pay." No dice, something like 20 bucks a head for both of us on bicycles since they were two seperate vehicles. I was also reminded that that fee did not include the camping charge, and that there was no camping in the park other than in designated camp areas, aka, gigantic pields of suburban style street layout with no McToonHomes but empty lots instead anticipating the weekly/daily/hourly arrival of gigantic RV's which are a very popular way to "see the west" for many in this nation.
Money paid, argument lost, temper kept in check, lets move on. What's this, a line of dead still rush-hour traffic? Wasn't I just in the middle of nowhere? Huh? We'll have to load our bikes in a work truck and be transported for seven miles across gravel construction? Seven miles, five years, five million dollars. Thats what it takes to pave a road in Yellowstone. A woman with a radio is ordering us to get off the biks and put them in the truck. We do and I go to get in the back, it's a s-10 and she has a broken arm, K is with me and I figure Ill just take it easy in the bed and glance around at the view. Illegal. I, a grown man, can't decide to ride in the bed of a pick-up if I choose too. Instead I'm to squeeze into the cab and ride the seven bumpy miles engaged in a bitter argument with the woman driving and working for said quagmire construction project about whether bicycles should be allowed in the park at all. Another fellow is the one who informed me of the illegal nature of my desire to ride in the bed and when I retorted with, "You can buy beer from a drive-thru on a four wheeler but you cant ride in the bed of a truck in this state?" he said, "Out here in the west were still free." He looked at me like he was free and I was not. He seemed to imply that I was just visiting freedom and one day would hang its north face labeled threads from the hook on my guest room closet door and simply remember through the photos of a disposable camera freedom and when I had seen it.
"Youre free from everything except the tourist dollar," is what I said back to that. And then I got in the truck, got transported and dropped off seven miles in the park. Wonder and amazement coupled with the most traffic I'd seen since Rapid City. Multiple honks and verbal commands to get out of the road. Being passed by macho male white life is good vacationers in RVs called "The Rambler" and "Wild Explorer" and other such names of non realistic views. Passed on roads with no shoulders. Passed closer than a city bus.
Oh, where the buffalo roam.
The road leading into Yellow Stone National Parking Lot from Cody, Wyoming is amazing. Steep mountain walls along both sides lines with running water, green trees and brown bears. I saw it with my own eyes and smelled it with my own nose and was in it in the middle of nowhere in the least populated state in the Union of them. Little did I know what lurked just behind the east gate of the martnini-shaped super volcano, waiting there to remind me of exactly where I was and what I was in. Wonderous nature? Serene scenery and Earthly vibrations? Mystery of life and rain? Try "red tape".
We waited in a long line of cars at the toll entrance booth and when it was our turn to cram thru the turnstile I took it upon myself to explain, "Hey, I'm on bike, this is how im traveling, I'm not responsible for road damage in the park or pollution or any of the other "reasons" that the federal's are insisting that I pay a fee and an extra tax to view nature in the country in which I'm a citizen. I don't think I should have to pay." No dice, something like 20 bucks a head for both of us on bicycles since they were two seperate vehicles. I was also reminded that that fee did not include the camping charge, and that there was no camping in the park other than in designated camp areas, aka, gigantic pields of suburban style street layout with no McToonHomes but empty lots instead anticipating the weekly/daily/hourly arrival of gigantic RV's which are a very popular way to "see the west" for many in this nation.
Money paid, argument lost, temper kept in check, lets move on. What's this, a line of dead still rush-hour traffic? Wasn't I just in the middle of nowhere? Huh? We'll have to load our bikes in a work truck and be transported for seven miles across gravel construction? Seven miles, five years, five million dollars. Thats what it takes to pave a road in Yellowstone. A woman with a radio is ordering us to get off the biks and put them in the truck. We do and I go to get in the back, it's a s-10 and she has a broken arm, K is with me and I figure Ill just take it easy in the bed and glance around at the view. Illegal. I, a grown man, can't decide to ride in the bed of a pick-up if I choose too. Instead I'm to squeeze into the cab and ride the seven bumpy miles engaged in a bitter argument with the woman driving and working for said quagmire construction project about whether bicycles should be allowed in the park at all. Another fellow is the one who informed me of the illegal nature of my desire to ride in the bed and when I retorted with, "You can buy beer from a drive-thru on a four wheeler but you cant ride in the bed of a truck in this state?" he said, "Out here in the west were still free." He looked at me like he was free and I was not. He seemed to imply that I was just visiting freedom and one day would hang its north face labeled threads from the hook on my guest room closet door and simply remember through the photos of a disposable camera freedom and when I had seen it.
"Youre free from everything except the tourist dollar," is what I said back to that. And then I got in the truck, got transported and dropped off seven miles in the park. Wonder and amazement coupled with the most traffic I'd seen since Rapid City. Multiple honks and verbal commands to get out of the road. Being passed by macho male white life is good vacationers in RVs called "The Rambler" and "Wild Explorer" and other such names of non realistic views. Passed on roads with no shoulders. Passed closer than a city bus.
Oh, where the buffalo roam.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Bo White's Rebel Force, "Pedro" Live @ HeckYeahCoffeeHub
Bo is a founding father of and active mamber in both Calabi Yau and YardWork, two of the Jar's better live music options. I snuck my phone out last night and got him doing this solo... enjoy.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Monday, June 30, 2008
Math W/YardWork, "If you dont wanna work (Live: HeckYEAHCoffeeHub)"
Really, YardWork, the regional, national, global and universal implications of your sounds and styles and sets are clear, and fun.
The first time I heard this song was on a Friday night at Lunchbox Records. I "had" to work the next day at the corner of Cool & Cool. I applied the philosophy later that Saturday afternoon by telling my "boss" and "manager" that I did not want to work again the next day, Sunday, Easter. I wanted to go ride my mountain bike with Billy and The Slim Rookie My Brother and Swammi and whoever that kick ass old dude was who rides with Swammi. I was told the it was "Easter" and "there will be a two hour wait" (I was working as the bitch of a reataurant at the time so that meant i was to "host" the Easter brunch-goers) and that "the entire staff" had been called in to work this one. Not one to overlook logic I immideatly realized that things would be fine if the whole staff would be there. I also realized it was my last day at "work" there and that I would be celebrating my own holiness and all of everyones by being outside where I could see the Sun(son).
That feeling, sitting there knowing, knowing I'm walking away and being ok, whole and happy, available and present is a glorious one. It is in us all. I talk to people who dont understand it and I try to help them see that they won't. There is no way to approach anything that is an illusion from a logical standpoint or approach feelings of fear or guilt from a holy standpoint. And that letting go is as easy as admitting that you know... you know you know.
Play this tune a few times and e mail the guys from YardWork and tell them you want a CD. Because you do.
Friday, June 27, 2008
Price per Barrel
Images from a "ride" I took yesterday. Out the backyard, down the hill, across the 485 bridge, just over it cut across field into neighborhood, down/up hill, into woods single track, tons of technical work out at the Indian Rock, jumps, cut onto sewer path, get a response to my question as i see a white tail deer, cross a creek, get into the thick of it, following deer path, running between 485 and BallanToon golf course, get into the thick of it with thorns, think about ticks, think about how thistle is an invasive species and its everywhere, lay bike down, go look at traffic flying by on 485 in gas bubblers, disappear like a yeti back into the woods, jump out onto golf course, see a huge no trespassing sign, get off as fast as i can, come out on a office complex under construction road, see a huge dirt berm made to look and feel like pump track, ride until im coughing up dust, laugh about how i used to do this here when i was 11 and it was all woods. oh well. later chased down a roadie in the bike lane and passed him tucked into a downhill roll. he fought back on the climb and i stuck to his wheel. i took a right into the thick of it car style and he kept going.
When I saw the barrel i couldnt help but think of the phrase price per barrel and then over the barrel. I cant help but connect the two as i look closely at what it is daily costing America to keep its moods and modes.
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