j-kiss left this comment regarding my previous post:
"hey Mr. gray, your quality life of is directly related to your perception of life. lighten up! I know, I know, you can't lighten up. you love living is a cesspool of gray and black matter. your probably better off there anyway, it's hell being happy!"
Firstly, did you read my change post??
Secondly, for you to assume that I was depressed because I quoted this passage from Fight Club is wrong. That quote expresses a quiet frustration among many regarding what our society deems to be 'important'.
Moreover, Fight Club is about breaking yourself down, deconstructing one's self to become someone better, returning to a beginning.
Our society (or is it simply the media?) constructs gods out of marginally talented 'artists' who contribute very little, if anything meaningful at all, to our lives. Are our own lives so empty that we must build these larger than life figures? This is why we must break down, deconstruct and return to the genisus -- a reevaluation of our lives.
What holes are we trying to fill with our culture of excess? We live in a 25 hour-fast food-plastic surgery-celebrity sex tape-carnival. We've got politicians like 3 am infomercial hosts marketing and selling tragedies for their own PR campaigns. "We are mighty and we are victorious. We are images, moving." It's a photo opp. A sound byte. A one dimensional image, flat. Fake. Cosmetic.
Picture a chimp strapped to a stainless steel table, fluorescent light reflects off the white walls, the white floor, the steel table, the pupils of the creature. Picture more straps. White straps keeping is hairy head in place. Straps to keep his eyelids open and unflinching. Straps suspending a monitor, a CRT tube, a television screen flashing images, quick and fast: 900 numbers for faceless women talking dirty, used car salesmen, fantastic explosions from Hollywood films, Africa's starving children, new drugs for new diseases, aborted fetuses, decapitated hostages, photographs of lost children from 1997, breaking news footage and talking heads promising new graphic video of mayhem, fuzzy sitcoms from the '70s, black and white footage of white cops beating black youth from the '60s, skeletons wrapped in yellow skin with dead needles surrounding. Images. Flashing.
The chimp's body tingles, crawls like every living soul on this planet. We see what he sees but now, now we're numb. Distant. Lost. Out of touch. Lost in the colours of a new gadget, a new movie, a new sitcom, a new drug, something else. We've stopped paying attention but we'll gladly pay for the new sensation. The latest kick.
We've stopped paying attention.
A force the size of life, a force of immense weight is on top of us. Crushing our sternum, ribs, cranium, femurs, bones, heart and soul. But we're numb.
And we've stopped paying attention.
We've constructed gods out of Botox injected flesh, plastic bone, neon lights and special effects to keep us at bay, entertained.
D E C O N S T R U C T
B R E A K - D O W N
To define ourselves we must confine ourselves from everything but ourselves. A Force of immense weight, of great presence, crushing beautiful. A manifestation.
Here, this is my response.
mc
31 March 2006
30 March 2006
i want you to hit me as hard as you can
"Remember this: The people you're trying to step on, we're everyone you depend on. We're the people who do your laundry and cook your food and serve your dinner. We make your bed. We guard you while you're asleep. We drive the ambulances. We direct your call. We are cooks and taxi drivers and we know everything about you. We process your insurance claims and credit card charges. We control every part of your life.
"We are the middle children of history, raised by television to believe that someday we'll be millionaires and movie stars and rock stars, but we won't. And we're just learning this fact. So don't fuck with us."
from Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club
"We are the middle children of history, raised by television to believe that someday we'll be millionaires and movie stars and rock stars, but we won't. And we're just learning this fact. So don't fuck with us."
from Chuck Palahniuk's Fight Club
27 March 2006
change
Call this enlightenment. An awakening. Perhaps it's simply a chemical reaction in the brain. Whatever it is, the self-proclaimed nihilist is having his doubts. The man who shunned God, spirituality, etc. is now seeking something higher, something organized.
Something has changed inside.
A light, glowing.
Something, shimmering.
I used to think the term "organized religion" was an oxymoron. Religion is far greater than any man on this planet so how can he collect the ideals and the principles of such an immense concept and attempt to make these tenets tangible to his fellow man?
But something has changed.
I feel like I need, I want something organized, something structured to bind myself to. I believe this is why my past "awakenings" have fizzled and faded; I lacked a frame to build and extend from. I lacked a set of commandments, if you will, to connect and adapt to.
I didn't realize it at the time, but Matisyahu's (Matisyahu is a Hasidic Jew that performs reggae/rap/rock music) concert had a spiritual impact on me. There was something pure and untainted about the man performing on stage. I could have been deaf, my ears not catching a single note, yet the freedom of the artist, the man, the human being still would have permeated everything.
So as an introduction to Judaism, I ordered Judaism For Dummies from Amazon (I've always felt insecure about reading these Dummies books, but hey, what can I say, at least I'm honest).
I don't know, I feel a little hesitant about diving into organized religion, especially Judaism since I wasn't raised in that faith. I was raised by two parents that celebrated Christmas, and when I was very young we attended Easter services -- the only day of the year we went to church (although I don't recall attending these services after I turned 6 or 7 years old), so I can hardly say I was raised in a Christian household.
So how does one with a clean slate, spiritually speaking, know which path to travel? I guess I feel like I should be able to defend and/or support my interest in Judaism. Why do I feel that way? Should I feel that way? I'm looking for a justification, a rationalization for this interest, but maybe I don't need one. To paraphrase Chuck Palahniuk, as soon as you give yourself a good reason, you'll start chipping away at it.
But I'm still bothered by this notion. I want to commit myself to something higher, I want to become a better person -- are these desires enough? I feel they should be yet I fear the question "So why Judaism?" I feel like I shouldn't have an answer to this question, but since I'm coming from a place that was ostensibly absent of a particular faith, I feel like I should have a response.
Any reader comments would be highly appreciated.
mc
Something has changed inside.
A light, glowing.
Something, shimmering.
I used to think the term "organized religion" was an oxymoron. Religion is far greater than any man on this planet so how can he collect the ideals and the principles of such an immense concept and attempt to make these tenets tangible to his fellow man?
But something has changed.
I feel like I need, I want something organized, something structured to bind myself to. I believe this is why my past "awakenings" have fizzled and faded; I lacked a frame to build and extend from. I lacked a set of commandments, if you will, to connect and adapt to.
I didn't realize it at the time, but Matisyahu's (Matisyahu is a Hasidic Jew that performs reggae/rap/rock music) concert had a spiritual impact on me. There was something pure and untainted about the man performing on stage. I could have been deaf, my ears not catching a single note, yet the freedom of the artist, the man, the human being still would have permeated everything.
So as an introduction to Judaism, I ordered Judaism For Dummies from Amazon (I've always felt insecure about reading these Dummies books, but hey, what can I say, at least I'm honest).
I don't know, I feel a little hesitant about diving into organized religion, especially Judaism since I wasn't raised in that faith. I was raised by two parents that celebrated Christmas, and when I was very young we attended Easter services -- the only day of the year we went to church (although I don't recall attending these services after I turned 6 or 7 years old), so I can hardly say I was raised in a Christian household.
So how does one with a clean slate, spiritually speaking, know which path to travel? I guess I feel like I should be able to defend and/or support my interest in Judaism. Why do I feel that way? Should I feel that way? I'm looking for a justification, a rationalization for this interest, but maybe I don't need one. To paraphrase Chuck Palahniuk, as soon as you give yourself a good reason, you'll start chipping away at it.
But I'm still bothered by this notion. I want to commit myself to something higher, I want to become a better person -- are these desires enough? I feel they should be yet I fear the question "So why Judaism?" I feel like I shouldn't have an answer to this question, but since I'm coming from a place that was ostensibly absent of a particular faith, I feel like I should have a response.
Any reader comments would be highly appreciated.
mc
23 March 2006
pornographia
I'm limp in my left hand and all used up, wasted away.
Cold.
Empty.
Disgusted.
Invisible seeds swim in the milky white goo soaking the toilet tissue. It came from me. Wasted bullets that will soon be flushed away like piss, shit and goldfish. Dying bullets deposited from my ugly pistol. But I'm the victim.
Limp.
Faded.
Spent.
The lone gunman.
Despite my condition, the screen continues to flash moving images of naked bodies.
Women: breasts, vaginas, assholes, mouths.
Men: cocks.
The only parts that matter.
The naked bodies. The contorting bodies. Penetrating bodies. Fucking bodies.
This isn't lovemaking.
And this isn't sex.
This is fucking. Ugly and brutal.
The man you never see captures the creatures' flesh and movements. She is splayed out, her naked body like some kind of obscene interactive display, complete with anatomically accurate parts, access points to stimulate, penetrate and destroy. Three men surround her, stroking and sharpening their weapons, unsheathed bayonets coated with skin and veins, preparing to plunge. These pulsating weapons are connected to their bodies, extensions of their bodies. The only parts that matter.
The man you never see captures the motions of exploitation. In his steady hand is an electronic eye, unflinching and hungry.
The man you never see captures the sounds of the creatures, exclaiming some primal language absent of syllables, vowels and consonants.
These images and sounds are recorded, distributed and sold. Dirty hands exchange dirty currency to view the reusable prostitutes trapped on celluloid. They're ready to go with a push of a button. Ready to suck, fuck, moan and scream. Reusable and recyclable. Over and over and over.
Dirty hair: rinse and repeat.
She is merely an object. A crude device used by these filthy creatures. They all get a turn with the device. A doll covered with hot flesh and crawling with cold blood. They insert their stained rods as she glistens with ugly human fluids. Dirty hands sticky with perspiration cover maps of flesh that have been explored countless times. Exploited. The Indian Removal Act of 1830. The Treaty of New Echota of 1835.
A gold watch is wrapped tight around his wrist, the rusting band clings and digs into his hairy arm as he fills the shiny plastic hole. In. Out. In. Out. Instant gratification. The battery is dead. The battery in his gold watch is dead and the hands are stuck on 12:34, stuck in this moment. In. Out. Over and over and over. In and out of the device. The hole. Day after day, 12:34. Feeling and fucking until nothing and it's still 12:34.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Going nowhere fast but "she feels fucking fantastic, hit this, bro." This is instant gratification. Over and over and over and over.
Dirty: rinse and repeat.
The beasts drive her, the device, into a stained mattress, erasing her face until nothing is left. The sound of the primal language cuts through the room. It penetrates.
Empty sounds.
Empty bodies.
The emptiness.
Filling the hole.
In.
Out.
Something they don't have to think about.
In.
Out.
Something they can feel.
Feel.
Feel.
Fill.
Feel until you can't feel anymore.
In.
Out.
A simple action.
Over.
And over.
And over.
She's a device. A facial tissue. A diaper. Make a mess and throw it away.
Drive.
Fuck.
Penetrate until you erase what you used to be.
?: rinse and repeat -- until you erase that person from years ago. That untainted stranger. A person.
Fluids are replenished and so is the desire. Over and over and over and erase and forget and fuck and ignore the reflection and neglect the stranger. The person you once were and love is a four letter word (consonants and vowels) and they don't feel anymore and they just keep refilling over and over and over. Rinse only to repeat.
Ravenous creatures. Birds of prey. Seeking the carcasses of wicked delights. Devices to fuck and forget after the explosion. The ejaculation. Ejecting themselves from their bodies, their minds. Rejecting purity. Sanctity. Rejecting love and love is a four letter word, foul and fake, so fuck and forget.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck love, he says.
Fuck love, she says.
Fuck me, they say.
Limp in my left hand and I'm disgusted.
I will rinse and -- NO. The cycle ends here.
I'm the confined animal pushed beyond its limits. Naked, I smash the contorting bodies, ugly, into a million pieces. I smash the screen, a display device, and beautiful sparks erupt.
And I'm defiant.
Women: hearts.
Men: hearts.
The only parts that matter.
mc
LINKS:
Pornography as violence against women
In his final interview before being put to death, serial killer Ted Bundy disusses how his addiction to porn fueled his horrific crimes
Harvard article: "The Language of Violence In a New Context: Pornography and Cyberspace
Cold.
Empty.
Disgusted.
Invisible seeds swim in the milky white goo soaking the toilet tissue. It came from me. Wasted bullets that will soon be flushed away like piss, shit and goldfish. Dying bullets deposited from my ugly pistol. But I'm the victim.
Limp.
Faded.
Spent.
The lone gunman.
Despite my condition, the screen continues to flash moving images of naked bodies.
Women: breasts, vaginas, assholes, mouths.
Men: cocks.
The only parts that matter.
The naked bodies. The contorting bodies. Penetrating bodies. Fucking bodies.
This isn't lovemaking.
And this isn't sex.
This is fucking. Ugly and brutal.
The man you never see captures the creatures' flesh and movements. She is splayed out, her naked body like some kind of obscene interactive display, complete with anatomically accurate parts, access points to stimulate, penetrate and destroy. Three men surround her, stroking and sharpening their weapons, unsheathed bayonets coated with skin and veins, preparing to plunge. These pulsating weapons are connected to their bodies, extensions of their bodies. The only parts that matter.
The man you never see captures the motions of exploitation. In his steady hand is an electronic eye, unflinching and hungry.
The man you never see captures the sounds of the creatures, exclaiming some primal language absent of syllables, vowels and consonants.
These images and sounds are recorded, distributed and sold. Dirty hands exchange dirty currency to view the reusable prostitutes trapped on celluloid. They're ready to go with a push of a button. Ready to suck, fuck, moan and scream. Reusable and recyclable. Over and over and over.
Dirty hair: rinse and repeat.
She is merely an object. A crude device used by these filthy creatures. They all get a turn with the device. A doll covered with hot flesh and crawling with cold blood. They insert their stained rods as she glistens with ugly human fluids. Dirty hands sticky with perspiration cover maps of flesh that have been explored countless times. Exploited. The Indian Removal Act of 1830. The Treaty of New Echota of 1835.
A gold watch is wrapped tight around his wrist, the rusting band clings and digs into his hairy arm as he fills the shiny plastic hole. In. Out. In. Out. Instant gratification. The battery is dead. The battery in his gold watch is dead and the hands are stuck on 12:34, stuck in this moment. In. Out. Over and over and over. In and out of the device. The hole. Day after day, 12:34. Feeling and fucking until nothing and it's still 12:34.
In.
Out.
In.
Out.
Going nowhere fast but "she feels fucking fantastic, hit this, bro." This is instant gratification. Over and over and over and over.
Dirty: rinse and repeat.
The beasts drive her, the device, into a stained mattress, erasing her face until nothing is left. The sound of the primal language cuts through the room. It penetrates.
Empty sounds.
Empty bodies.
The emptiness.
Filling the hole.
In.
Out.
Something they don't have to think about.
In.
Out.
Something they can feel.
Feel.
Feel.
Fill.
Feel until you can't feel anymore.
In.
Out.
A simple action.
Over.
And over.
And over.
She's a device. A facial tissue. A diaper. Make a mess and throw it away.
Drive.
Fuck.
Penetrate until you erase what you used to be.
?: rinse and repeat -- until you erase that person from years ago. That untainted stranger. A person.
Fluids are replenished and so is the desire. Over and over and over and erase and forget and fuck and ignore the reflection and neglect the stranger. The person you once were and love is a four letter word (consonants and vowels) and they don't feel anymore and they just keep refilling over and over and over. Rinse only to repeat.
Ravenous creatures. Birds of prey. Seeking the carcasses of wicked delights. Devices to fuck and forget after the explosion. The ejaculation. Ejecting themselves from their bodies, their minds. Rejecting purity. Sanctity. Rejecting love and love is a four letter word, foul and fake, so fuck and forget.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck love, he says.
Fuck love, she says.
Fuck me, they say.
Limp in my left hand and I'm disgusted.
I will rinse and -- NO. The cycle ends here.
I'm the confined animal pushed beyond its limits. Naked, I smash the contorting bodies, ugly, into a million pieces. I smash the screen, a display device, and beautiful sparks erupt.
And I'm defiant.
Women: hearts.
Men: hearts.
The only parts that matter.
mc
LINKS:
Pornography as violence against women
In his final interview before being put to death, serial killer Ted Bundy disusses how his addiction to porn fueled his horrific crimes
Harvard article: "The Language of Violence In a New Context: Pornography and Cyberspace
21 March 2006
20 March 2006
choke on this
From Chuck Palahniuk's Choke:
"'Yes,' she says, 'I fought against everything, but more and more I worry that I was never for anything. Oh, I can criticize and complain and judge everything, but what does that get me? Griping isn't the same as creating something. Rebelling isn't rebuilding. Ridiculing isn't replacing.
'We've taken the world apart but we have no idea what to do with the pieces.
'My generation, all of our making fun of things isn't making the world any better. We've spent so much time judging what other people created that we've created very, very little of our own.
'I used rebellion as a way to hide out. We use criticism as a fake participation. It only looks as if we've accomplished something. I've never contributed anything worthwhile to the world.'"
---------------------------------------------------------
"Until you find something to fight for, you settle for something to fight against."
"'Yes,' she says, 'I fought against everything, but more and more I worry that I was never for anything. Oh, I can criticize and complain and judge everything, but what does that get me? Griping isn't the same as creating something. Rebelling isn't rebuilding. Ridiculing isn't replacing.
'We've taken the world apart but we have no idea what to do with the pieces.
'My generation, all of our making fun of things isn't making the world any better. We've spent so much time judging what other people created that we've created very, very little of our own.
'I used rebellion as a way to hide out. We use criticism as a fake participation. It only looks as if we've accomplished something. I've never contributed anything worthwhile to the world.'"
---------------------------------------------------------
"Until you find something to fight for, you settle for something to fight against."
19 March 2006
uncle
I just received word that I'll be an uncle...That's right, sister is pregnant. Words are few as I attempt to digest and absorb this news. More to come...More to come, indeed.
mc
"Can't believe how strange it is to be anything at all," Neutral Milk Hotel's "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea"
mc
"Can't believe how strange it is to be anything at all," Neutral Milk Hotel's "In the Aeroplane Over the Sea"
milk
She is spilt milk crawling across this cold kitchen floor, kissing linoleum and soaking the socks covering my feet. Her presence is undeniable as I'm reflected below, still and staring into her milky mirror, her calcium saturating socks. Such a mess.
The phone rang and I turned recklessly to answer and sent her tumbling from the table. That's how it happened. I watched her fall in slow motion. The flash of a second that seemed like minutes. Like forever. I was helpless. I was a witness with dead hands as she fell from her perch and for that moment of free fall she was still safe, trapped in cardboard, her fluids shifting from side-to-side inside. Incognizant of the imminent impact.
(in slow motion)
-5
-4
-3
-2
-the phone is still ringing
-1
-A soggy crash cardboard crush and a forced exit.
She always said I was reckless, so fucking careless. I'm sorry, babe. I guess you were right.
Now she is silent and racing, spreading out from her crushed cardboard castle. And she's getting all over the place. Reminding me. Mocking me with her silence, spreading.
The captured eyes of a missing child and the black lines of a UPC code gaze heavenward, skyward, through the ceiling, the roof, beyond the beyond.
My eyes are focused on her escape. She's gushing profusely, silently. And all I can do is stare at the cause and effect. So fucking careless. So helpless. Hoping for a stoppage. A clotting. Something to cease the bleeding.
But nothing.
Nothing but the sound of rain drops splattering and tapping glass and pavement. And the phone.
The phone is still ringing.
With soaked socks and eyes trained on the calcium and carnage , I answer.
"H-Hello?"
"Hey, babe. What took you so long?"
"Oh, sorry, love. I, uh, sorta made a mess."
"You're so careless. Have I ever told you that?"
I force a chuckle and say, "Yeah, love, you're right. Hey, hurry home. I, I need you. I need you here. I need some help cleaning up this mess -- me."
"Aww, you poor thing. I'm on my way."
And tears fall, rippling my milky reflection below.
mc
The phone rang and I turned recklessly to answer and sent her tumbling from the table. That's how it happened. I watched her fall in slow motion. The flash of a second that seemed like minutes. Like forever. I was helpless. I was a witness with dead hands as she fell from her perch and for that moment of free fall she was still safe, trapped in cardboard, her fluids shifting from side-to-side inside. Incognizant of the imminent impact.
(in slow motion)
-5
-4
-3
-2
-the phone is still ringing
-1
-A soggy crash cardboard crush and a forced exit.
She always said I was reckless, so fucking careless. I'm sorry, babe. I guess you were right.
Now she is silent and racing, spreading out from her crushed cardboard castle. And she's getting all over the place. Reminding me. Mocking me with her silence, spreading.
The captured eyes of a missing child and the black lines of a UPC code gaze heavenward, skyward, through the ceiling, the roof, beyond the beyond.
My eyes are focused on her escape. She's gushing profusely, silently. And all I can do is stare at the cause and effect. So fucking careless. So helpless. Hoping for a stoppage. A clotting. Something to cease the bleeding.
But nothing.
Nothing but the sound of rain drops splattering and tapping glass and pavement. And the phone.
The phone is still ringing.
With soaked socks and eyes trained on the calcium and carnage , I answer.
"H-Hello?"
"Hey, babe. What took you so long?"
"Oh, sorry, love. I, uh, sorta made a mess."
"You're so careless. Have I ever told you that?"
I force a chuckle and say, "Yeah, love, you're right. Hey, hurry home. I, I need you. I need you here. I need some help cleaning up this mess -- me."
"Aww, you poor thing. I'm on my way."
And tears fall, rippling my milky reflection below.
mc
18 March 2006
a strange road to benediction
A few years ago I responded to an internet personal ad that went something like "Bi-curious guy looking for..." and, well, you get the idea.
Through emails, telephone numbers were exchanged and in a phone conversation, personal information was relayed. A thick German accent told me he was 21, a student at IU, had never done "anything like this" before and was uncircumcised ("Iz zat a problem fuh you?"). I told him I was 22, had never done "anything like this" either and was circumcised.
I don't know what the hell I was thinking. I was extremely lonely, horny and desperate for something, anything to make me feel real, alive and wanted, regardless of the means.
A date was set. The details regarding blow jobs, hand jobs, etc. weren't discussed during the brief, stilted and awkward conversation.
That afternoon, on the day of our empty liaison, I was frantic. Spinning out of my head. I cleaned my room. Sucked the dirt and dust up and away. I meticulously thought about what I would wear. Should I have something playing on the stereo? If so, what? What do bi-curious German males enjoy listening to?
As the moment of his arrival rapidly approached, I paced back and forth, shaking my head in disbelief. Confusion. Pity.
The phrase "What the fuck am I doing?" was repeated numerous times that afternoon. Not once was I able to provide a justifiable response, an answer. Rhetorical questions are like that -- the answer lies in the question itself.
And then --
KNOCK - KNOCK - KNOCK
I'm limp and I'm thinking, Oh, fuck. Shit. Jesus. Is this happening? I mean, there's no why I can do this. What the fuck was I thinking?
KNOCK - KNOCK - KNOCK
The door rattles. My eyes are darting. I'm thinking, Okay, maybe sucking another guy's cock will make me forget who I am. Maybe banging some hot chick will make me feel perfect, or at least refined. Wanted. But no. And no.
Maybe we're all trapped. In ourselves. Trapped with our imperfections. Our cancers. Our blank spaces. Our reflection. Our issues.
Me and my issues: Fear of intimacy with women, body image, masculinity/femininity, junk from childhood, a mother who loved her son too much, a father who did the best that he could do. Trapped. All of us.
Maybe being inside a girl or wrapped around a man's cock for a few moments provides some with a temporary escape. A taste of freedom. A hope that the fucking will be so intense, so powerful that we'll eclipse ourselves and everything inside and catch a glimpse (a flash) of life through the eyes, the soul of another. A hope that our neurons will fuse and entwine and we'll know what it's like to live as another, as someone else, to be in another's skin -- but only for a flash.
KNOCK - KNOCK - KNOCK
Okay, maybe I'm not that lonely. Maybe I'm not that desperate. Maybe I feel real enough, alive enough. Maybe I've been neglecting myself. Forgetting about myself. Maybe we shouldn't look to our fellow man, or to our gods, or to our drugs for affirmation. Maybe the sweetest benediction lies in the ugly parts. The ugly parts in us, and in our past -- and our future, all around us, inside us.
Maybe it's time to throw my arms up, shrug my shoulders, give up and say, "I'm all that I have." The memories. The trauma. The defects. All of these pieces -- are me. Simply components...No more, no less. I am them. They are me.
And there was no more knocking on the front door.
Like a weary peasant walking on broken glass, I carefully crept from my room and made my way to the door. No one was there.
Cautiously, I peered through a curtain and walking down the street and away from the house was he.
And I was brimming with relief. An ejaculation. A benediction. Pure freedom.
mc
17 March 2006
16 March 2006
wanna come with?
This morning, the 2006 lineup for Lollapalooza was announced - and I'm so there. There will be 130(!) bands on eight stages (with "more to come" according to the website) during the three day extravaganza (August 4-6) at Grant Park in Chicago. Here are some notables:
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Kanye West
Wilco
The Raconteurs (Jack White's side project)
The Flaming Lips
Ween
The Shins
Common
Matisyahu (I saw him perform a few weeks ago. Unbelievable. Unique. Incredible.)
Sonic Youth
Sleater-Kinney
The Secret Machines
Eels
Editors
Lady Sovereign
Calexico
Sparta
Jeremy Enigk
Tickets are $130 for all three days and I'd like to get a gang of comrades together and make it a smash-up kung fu weekend. If you (comrades and strangers alike) definitely want to go, let me know.
www.lollapalooza.com
mc
Red Hot Chili Peppers
Kanye West
Wilco
The Raconteurs (Jack White's side project)
The Flaming Lips
Ween
The Shins
Common
Matisyahu (I saw him perform a few weeks ago. Unbelievable. Unique. Incredible.)
Sonic Youth
Sleater-Kinney
The Secret Machines
Eels
Editors
Lady Sovereign
Calexico
Sparta
Jeremy Enigk
Tickets are $130 for all three days and I'd like to get a gang of comrades together and make it a smash-up kung fu weekend. If you (comrades and strangers alike) definitely want to go, let me know.
www.lollapalooza.com
mc
13 March 2006
host of "press your luck" dies in crash
Monday, March 13, 2006
Peter Tomarken, host of the hit 1980s game show "Press Your Luck," and his wife were killed Monday when their small plane crashed in Santa Monica Bay shortly after takeoff on a volunteer medical transportation flight, authorities said. Searchers were looking for a third person reported aboard.
The bodies of Tomarken, 63, and wife Kathleen Abigail Tomarken, 41, were identified by the Los Angeles County coroner's office, said coroner's spokesman Craig Harvey.
Tomarken appeared in at least four other game shows in addition to "Press Your Luck," which was well known for contestants shouting the slogan "Big bucks, no whammies!"
The pilot was a volunteer for Angel Flight West, a nonprofit organization that provides free air transportation for needy medical patients, said organization spokesman Doug Griffith, who withheld the pilot's name. The plane was flying to San Diego to pick up a passenger who needed to get to UCLA Medical Center for treatment, he said.
The Beech A36 went down about 9:35 a.m. while apparently trying to return to Santa Monica Airport because of engine trouble, said FAA spokesman Allen Kenitzer. The airport is about two miles inland from the ocean.
The plane, found in 19 feet of water 200 yards offshore, was registered to Tomarken, according to Federal Aviation Administration records.
Rescue boats and divers converged on the scene, about a half-mile southwest of Santa Monica Pier. The aircraft, appearing largely intact, was later towed onto the beach.
Witness Luis Garr told KNBC-TV that the plane was silent as it "kind of landed into the water."
"I didn't hear any engine. It's a big splash, a huge splash, huge splash. Then it started going down. The wings were still floating so I was, `Get out! Get out!' because the door was still available to get out and nobody came out. So the plane kept going down, down, down. It was just the tail. A surfer started swimming toward the plane and he was the first one on the scene. The lifeguard showed up. ... It had gone down."
Tomarken's agent, Fred Wostbrock, said his client's first game show was "Hit Man!," which ran 13 weeks on NBC, followed by the four-year hit "Press Your Luck" on CBS.
"He was always a fun guy to be around, and he just loved the genre of game shows," Wostbrock said.
In 1987, Tomarken was on ABC with a show called "Bargain Hunters," and then went to the syndicated "Wipe-Out" in 1990. He returned to game shows in 2000 with the program "Paranoia."
07 March 2006
for friends
"...I wear my crown of shit / On my liar’s chair / Full of broken thoughts / I cannot repair / Beneath the stain of time / The feeling disappears / You are someone else / I am still right here / What have I become? / My sweetest friend / Everyone I know / Goes away in the end / You could have it all / My empire of dirt / I will let you down / I will make you hurt / If I could start again / A million miles away / I would keep myself / I would find a way,"
from "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails
from "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails
06 March 2006
nietzsche & dylan
"You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist," Friedrich Nietzsche
"You're right from your side / I'm right from mine / We're both just one too many mornings / And a thousand miles behind," Bob Dylan's "One Too Many Mornings"
"You're right from your side / I'm right from mine / We're both just one too many mornings / And a thousand miles behind," Bob Dylan's "One Too Many Mornings"
04 March 2006
inner workings
You get up early when the day is new and dark. The smell of coffee and dying midnight pervades the empty spaces and everything is quiet and settled - and safe. Bodies are still sleeping in black rooms of slowed breathing.
Somewhere, he stares at her sleeping body and ponders their circumstance, their position, their time, their place. We remain strangers, he thinks. Eight months and we are neither friends nor acquaintances. I am the foreigner. She, the outsider.
The inner workings of spiders and robots. The gears. The thoughts. There are combustible flashes under her lids of flesh. Dreams. Visions. Beauty. I want to know them, experience them, live with them, die with them. With her. This alien. This stranger. This woman, sleeping.
What drives us? Are we all those things we claim to be? Actors on a stage of our own design with coordinated movements and scripted dialogue. Soon you will rise from your slumber, freshen up, put on some clothes and go to that job you hate. Where will I be? Will you think about me? Us? Will I be the subject/punchline of gossip among girlfriends? You will go out - there - onto a stage and into the world and contribute, socialize and separate yourself from me, from this wreck of inadequacies. You will be unattached, floating like dust on invisible currents and I'll be here, pretending to sleep in this cold bed blanketed by daylight, alone on a darkened stage. And I'll wonder about you. Think about you and that thing you do with your fingers when you get irritated. I'll picture you, that beautiful stranger on stage, contributing, living, waiting in line for a cup of coffee.
I'll be here, just waiting. Eyes rolling over the barren landscape of my apartment. Photographs souvenirs radio mementoes furniture television telephone computer CDs records: Possesions built by robots, machines. And the books: Written by dead men, the machines of time.
Those people and these things, all lacking permanence. We're only as permanent as the materials constructing us. The skin, the plastic, the glass, the bricks, the leather, the paper, the wood, the metal, the thoughts: Construction materials constructing us.
The sun will be rising soon and so will you, he thinks. And we'll continue to build, construct, assemble and fabricate something - a circumstance, a position, time, a place, a stage - without knowing what any of it means.
The thoughts. The gears. The inner workings of spiders, robots, actors, strangers and outsiders.
And here comes the sun.
mc
Somewhere, he stares at her sleeping body and ponders their circumstance, their position, their time, their place. We remain strangers, he thinks. Eight months and we are neither friends nor acquaintances. I am the foreigner. She, the outsider.
The inner workings of spiders and robots. The gears. The thoughts. There are combustible flashes under her lids of flesh. Dreams. Visions. Beauty. I want to know them, experience them, live with them, die with them. With her. This alien. This stranger. This woman, sleeping.
What drives us? Are we all those things we claim to be? Actors on a stage of our own design with coordinated movements and scripted dialogue. Soon you will rise from your slumber, freshen up, put on some clothes and go to that job you hate. Where will I be? Will you think about me? Us? Will I be the subject/punchline of gossip among girlfriends? You will go out - there - onto a stage and into the world and contribute, socialize and separate yourself from me, from this wreck of inadequacies. You will be unattached, floating like dust on invisible currents and I'll be here, pretending to sleep in this cold bed blanketed by daylight, alone on a darkened stage. And I'll wonder about you. Think about you and that thing you do with your fingers when you get irritated. I'll picture you, that beautiful stranger on stage, contributing, living, waiting in line for a cup of coffee.
I'll be here, just waiting. Eyes rolling over the barren landscape of my apartment. Photographs souvenirs radio mementoes furniture television telephone computer CDs records: Possesions built by robots, machines. And the books: Written by dead men, the machines of time.
Those people and these things, all lacking permanence. We're only as permanent as the materials constructing us. The skin, the plastic, the glass, the bricks, the leather, the paper, the wood, the metal, the thoughts: Construction materials constructing us.
The sun will be rising soon and so will you, he thinks. And we'll continue to build, construct, assemble and fabricate something - a circumstance, a position, time, a place, a stage - without knowing what any of it means.
The thoughts. The gears. The inner workings of spiders, robots, actors, strangers and outsiders.
And here comes the sun.
mc
02 March 2006
01 March 2006
i will say
She's going to come to me on a night blinded by falling snow and I will be a frozen figure. Her eyes will be filled with flowers and flames and her hair will flow like blood in veins.
"Words always fail me in moments like these," I will say.
"Your words are the forgotten decorations on a Christmas tree from 1987 and have no place in this moment. This silence is safety. This silence is home so seal your lips and shut your eyes and we will fall into a void that not even the angels have graced. Silence, love. Silence," she will respond, placing fingers of warm porcelain over my blue lips.
She will secrete seeds in the forms of beads of sweat and drops of tears and I will plant them in my salty flesh as mine into her. Our breath is fertilizer and our kisses the rain and we will grow to dissolve and dispense melodies void of reason and time.
Soak me into your skin like rays from the burning sphere...Flames are lurching and leaping and reaching. And we will be there: A field of snow flakes and bleeding daffodils. We will live. We will love. We will breathe and we will die - and I am here waiting for you, Love.
Lingering like the last leaf in October, trembling.
mc
"Words always fail me in moments like these," I will say.
"Your words are the forgotten decorations on a Christmas tree from 1987 and have no place in this moment. This silence is safety. This silence is home so seal your lips and shut your eyes and we will fall into a void that not even the angels have graced. Silence, love. Silence," she will respond, placing fingers of warm porcelain over my blue lips.
She will secrete seeds in the forms of beads of sweat and drops of tears and I will plant them in my salty flesh as mine into her. Our breath is fertilizer and our kisses the rain and we will grow to dissolve and dispense melodies void of reason and time.
Soak me into your skin like rays from the burning sphere...Flames are lurching and leaping and reaching. And we will be there: A field of snow flakes and bleeding daffodils. We will live. We will love. We will breathe and we will die - and I am here waiting for you, Love.
Lingering like the last leaf in October, trembling.
mc
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