Hey Bob.
Yeah Carl?
How are we going to get rid of all this garbage on our street?
Hm, thats a tough one.
Maybe, some form of giant truck type thing?
Hey yeah that could work.
But wait, its going to need to pull over all the time, that could be hazordous to other drivers.
Mm, your right. Well what if we just did it when no one is on the road?
Hey thats a great idea! Right around 6 am should do the trick.
And seeing how no one is on the road when were driving it around, well have to make sure to put screechingly loud beeping devices all over it so no one gets hurt, just in case they didnt notice a 20 foot tall 80 ton truck with an engine the size of your house and a giant metal arm sticking off the top.
Oh and we definitely have to make sure the beepers are way way louder than the truck itself, otherwise they would never notice we were there and could get completely crushed by our incredibly slow moving metal arm.
BAH.
The only possible reason those stupid beepers could be a good idea is to wake everyone up who might have possibly forgotten to put the garbage out the night before so they can make it out just in time.
That's not what they're for.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
1.20.09
the classics, pt 2.
This, condition.
Our condition.
The "human", condition.
We are all bred, this certain way. This way were taught, brought up, and trained. Brought up to be some certain way to people that wont be around for much longer. What do we have to prove to them other than that we can hold a shovel and dig a grave. Nothing, I say. We have nothing to prove other than the simple fact that we will remain, and self sustain. Multiplication of self feels for so long as an option but soon becomes a need. The need to replicate is a strong one and can heavily influence the decisions one makes in this carnival called life. Pushed and pulled like some pig on auction we wander through this life adrift, lost amongst a sea of those who are certain.
Oh, certainty. Rare, but always pure. Its one of the few things in this world we can truly define as clean, and until dashed, wholely pure. For as long as its true to that person it will always retain its purity. The matter being of where we apply that certainty, thats the real enigma. Some are certain that no matter what, things will work out. Others, that the world will end if a single misstep is made. The human condition is what separates and binds us, twisting and twirling a billion humans at once through the universes washing machine. Trying to shake our grounding, our belief system, our morals. Strength is present in times like these and its true form is shown to us only when we discover it within ourselves. The strength to carry on, the strength to perservere, the will to do the bidding of our society, our parents, and the ones we love. That, is strength.
So what is it when we choose the opposite. What shows of our character when we don't align, or when we opt the latter. The "path less traveled", if you will. We become these, these characters of outcast. The understudies to the truly great. Waiting to snatch up whatever opportunity falls through the cracks of dissonance, and gobbling it up thusly. I feel slowly but surely Im becoming that, while all the while trying to maintain what my ancestors set in motion as the right idea, the correct plan. And then I start to ask myself what I truly want. Conformist? Or perhaps the role of Outcast. The one who fits not within our society but one within his own mind. Spinning and swirling in a humdrum of random thoughts, ideas, and unapplied theories. Sputtering drunk on 5th avenue telling of the end of the world to an audience that will never listen. Ill say it once and Ill say it again, what good is an idea if you dont have an audience. I pull on my strength and I pull on my ideals, both instilled in me by my forefathers and those before them. A caste system drilled into the skulls of the ever-willing and never questioning.
So who am I to question it.
Some...fucking punk.
Some guy who thinks he has the ability to be something different.
When I sit in a room with 30 others with ambitions close to my own. Falling back in to this repetitive cycle of stare, listen, and learn. I feign interest ever so carefully as I release my creative beast via pen and pad.
In a world that places little value in creativity I find myself clawing at its coat tails, begging to be one with it, when all I truly want is to be free from it. I'm more human then ever in these moments. Pondering when I should be consuming. Learning when I should be playing along. Creating when I should be conforming. Its that silly human condition. Say one thing, do another. And within that we find each other, either lying in the gutter, tounges relentless, or sitting at a desk, mouths zipped shut.
Pity we cant have both.
This, condition.
Our condition.
The "human", condition.
We are all bred, this certain way. This way were taught, brought up, and trained. Brought up to be some certain way to people that wont be around for much longer. What do we have to prove to them other than that we can hold a shovel and dig a grave. Nothing, I say. We have nothing to prove other than the simple fact that we will remain, and self sustain. Multiplication of self feels for so long as an option but soon becomes a need. The need to replicate is a strong one and can heavily influence the decisions one makes in this carnival called life. Pushed and pulled like some pig on auction we wander through this life adrift, lost amongst a sea of those who are certain.
Oh, certainty. Rare, but always pure. Its one of the few things in this world we can truly define as clean, and until dashed, wholely pure. For as long as its true to that person it will always retain its purity. The matter being of where we apply that certainty, thats the real enigma. Some are certain that no matter what, things will work out. Others, that the world will end if a single misstep is made. The human condition is what separates and binds us, twisting and twirling a billion humans at once through the universes washing machine. Trying to shake our grounding, our belief system, our morals. Strength is present in times like these and its true form is shown to us only when we discover it within ourselves. The strength to carry on, the strength to perservere, the will to do the bidding of our society, our parents, and the ones we love. That, is strength.
So what is it when we choose the opposite. What shows of our character when we don't align, or when we opt the latter. The "path less traveled", if you will. We become these, these characters of outcast. The understudies to the truly great. Waiting to snatch up whatever opportunity falls through the cracks of dissonance, and gobbling it up thusly. I feel slowly but surely Im becoming that, while all the while trying to maintain what my ancestors set in motion as the right idea, the correct plan. And then I start to ask myself what I truly want. Conformist? Or perhaps the role of Outcast. The one who fits not within our society but one within his own mind. Spinning and swirling in a humdrum of random thoughts, ideas, and unapplied theories. Sputtering drunk on 5th avenue telling of the end of the world to an audience that will never listen. Ill say it once and Ill say it again, what good is an idea if you dont have an audience. I pull on my strength and I pull on my ideals, both instilled in me by my forefathers and those before them. A caste system drilled into the skulls of the ever-willing and never questioning.
So who am I to question it.
Some...fucking punk.
Some guy who thinks he has the ability to be something different.
When I sit in a room with 30 others with ambitions close to my own. Falling back in to this repetitive cycle of stare, listen, and learn. I feign interest ever so carefully as I release my creative beast via pen and pad.
In a world that places little value in creativity I find myself clawing at its coat tails, begging to be one with it, when all I truly want is to be free from it. I'm more human then ever in these moments. Pondering when I should be consuming. Learning when I should be playing along. Creating when I should be conforming. Its that silly human condition. Say one thing, do another. And within that we find each other, either lying in the gutter, tounges relentless, or sitting at a desk, mouths zipped shut.
Pity we cant have both.
1.19.09
the classics, pt. 1.
(re)Cycle
Its 4:34 am.
You sit there, staring.
Staring at this blinking line.
Fuck you blinking line.
Taunting me.
That little insignificant blinking line is attached to a word. That word, is hooked on a sentence. The sentence, is clinging to a paragraph and that paragraph is splashed on a page. The page is attached to a document, and that document is nice and warm inside a screen. Soon that document will be thrust out into the cold cruel world, and then soon after stuffed inside a nice, secure, hard cover binder. That binders goin inside a soft pouch and that pouch is slung on an arm. That arm is going to pilot a car to a class where that document is destined to once again be ripped from its security, soon to be scrutinized and judged for its content. After its involuntary beauty pageant that paper is getting a tattoo. That tattoo is going to be copied in to another nice, warm, computer. Then it will be sent out with a bunch of other tattoo's and become a math problem. That math problem will be calculated, revaluated, and printed again, thrust out onto a transcript. That transcript will then be stuffed inside an envelope with another document ,full of suck ups and kiss ass. That sucking, kissing envelope will then land you in another place, in another time. Time will pass, years will fly. Soon, youll be handed a shiny, gold leafed document that says you turned in other documents and did other math problems, cheating on the original ones. You take that shiny document and show it off, where it gets placed in a lock-tight super secure cherrywood frame, behind freshly cleaned glass. Soon enough, that shiny gold leaf piece of paper will get you a desk, inside your very own warm, secure, hard cover cubicle. At that desk, will be a computer. In that computer will sit a document, holding a page, supporting a paragraph, precursing a sentence, maintaining a word, with a little, blinking line at the end of it.
You sit there staring.
Staring at a line.
That line, points to a number.
It has another, shorter line attached, pointing to a different one.
Fuck you line.
Taunting me.
Its 4:34 pm.
(re)Cycle
Its 4:34 am.
You sit there, staring.
Staring at this blinking line.
Fuck you blinking line.
Taunting me.
That little insignificant blinking line is attached to a word. That word, is hooked on a sentence. The sentence, is clinging to a paragraph and that paragraph is splashed on a page. The page is attached to a document, and that document is nice and warm inside a screen. Soon that document will be thrust out into the cold cruel world, and then soon after stuffed inside a nice, secure, hard cover binder. That binders goin inside a soft pouch and that pouch is slung on an arm. That arm is going to pilot a car to a class where that document is destined to once again be ripped from its security, soon to be scrutinized and judged for its content. After its involuntary beauty pageant that paper is getting a tattoo. That tattoo is going to be copied in to another nice, warm, computer. Then it will be sent out with a bunch of other tattoo's and become a math problem. That math problem will be calculated, revaluated, and printed again, thrust out onto a transcript. That transcript will then be stuffed inside an envelope with another document ,full of suck ups and kiss ass. That sucking, kissing envelope will then land you in another place, in another time. Time will pass, years will fly. Soon, youll be handed a shiny, gold leafed document that says you turned in other documents and did other math problems, cheating on the original ones. You take that shiny document and show it off, where it gets placed in a lock-tight super secure cherrywood frame, behind freshly cleaned glass. Soon enough, that shiny gold leaf piece of paper will get you a desk, inside your very own warm, secure, hard cover cubicle. At that desk, will be a computer. In that computer will sit a document, holding a page, supporting a paragraph, precursing a sentence, maintaining a word, with a little, blinking line at the end of it.
You sit there staring.
Staring at a line.
That line, points to a number.
It has another, shorter line attached, pointing to a different one.
Fuck you line.
Taunting me.
Its 4:34 pm.
Saturday, January 17, 2009
1.17.09
Did Keystone set out originally to make the shittiest beer out there? Like were there a couple guys just sitting around like, "Man, I want to make the cheapest, crappiest beer that has ever existed, lets do this."?
And then did Natural Ice come along with a big
FUCK THAT
We, Natty Ice, will make the cheapest shittiest beer ever forever!
All the while Milwaukee's Best is sitting in the back, plotting their own plan for domination of the really shitty Im completely broke beer market.
Just all these companies trying to make their beer cheaper and cheaper than the other guys, and not giving a rats ass about quality.
Funny to think about.
And then did Natural Ice come along with a big
FUCK THAT
We, Natty Ice, will make the cheapest shittiest beer ever forever!
All the while Milwaukee's Best is sitting in the back, plotting their own plan for domination of the really shitty Im completely broke beer market.
Just all these companies trying to make their beer cheaper and cheaper than the other guys, and not giving a rats ass about quality.
Funny to think about.
Friday, January 16, 2009
1.15.09
America runs on Dunkin'.
I heard that slogan and then this came out.
America runs on 7-Eleven, Quik Stop, and gas stations, around the corner and fully operational 24 hours a day.
America runs on McDonalds, Burger King, and Jack in the Box, faster than a speeding bullet and cheaper than one too.
America runs on Pizza Hut, Round Table, and Little Ceasers, for all its soccer victory parties.
America runs on Panda Express, Taco Bell, and P.F Chang's, to feel better about ethnic cleansing.
America sits down at Applebees, Denny's and Carrows.
When we feel like eatin fancy.
America runs on John Deere for his perfect lawn, and Miracle-Gro for her flowers.
We run on Ford and Chevy to pile in the illegal immigrants that maintain both.
'Course we pick em' up at Home Depot, Lowes, and OSH.
(Same place we got the mower and the Miracle-Gro)
America runs on one-stop shopping.
America runs on malls.
America runs on Macy's, Nordstrom, and Gap, to impress others with showings of wealth.
Can't forget about Brookstone, Sharper Image and Spencer's Gifts, for showings of stupid people who somehow got richer than you.
America feeds on Pasta-Roni and Hamburger Helper, to keep our children from jumping so damn high.
Canned fruit and Manwich, to get our fruits, carbs, and protein.
America runs on DirecTV, Comcast, and Blockbuster, to keep ourselves distracted from how utterly terrible and depressing our lives are.
America runs (and then promptly falls) on alcohol, pharmaceuticals, and good ol fashioned hard drugs, to make all of the above more entertaining.
America runs on Wal-Mart.
For everything else that I forgot to mention and so much more.
America runs on everything the rest of the third world wish they had for a day.
America doesnt run on the natural.
Its supernatural or bust.
We need it fast.
We need it easy.
We need it cheap.
We need it built on the backs of Latin Americans, Chinese, and even a couple of our own.
We need it now.
And were all completely guilty.
I heard that slogan and then this came out.
America runs on 7-Eleven, Quik Stop, and gas stations, around the corner and fully operational 24 hours a day.
America runs on McDonalds, Burger King, and Jack in the Box, faster than a speeding bullet and cheaper than one too.
America runs on Pizza Hut, Round Table, and Little Ceasers, for all its soccer victory parties.
America runs on Panda Express, Taco Bell, and P.F Chang's, to feel better about ethnic cleansing.
America sits down at Applebees, Denny's and Carrows.
When we feel like eatin fancy.
America runs on John Deere for his perfect lawn, and Miracle-Gro for her flowers.
We run on Ford and Chevy to pile in the illegal immigrants that maintain both.
'Course we pick em' up at Home Depot, Lowes, and OSH.
(Same place we got the mower and the Miracle-Gro)
America runs on one-stop shopping.
America runs on malls.
America runs on Macy's, Nordstrom, and Gap, to impress others with showings of wealth.
Can't forget about Brookstone, Sharper Image and Spencer's Gifts, for showings of stupid people who somehow got richer than you.
America feeds on Pasta-Roni and Hamburger Helper, to keep our children from jumping so damn high.
Canned fruit and Manwich, to get our fruits, carbs, and protein.
America runs on DirecTV, Comcast, and Blockbuster, to keep ourselves distracted from how utterly terrible and depressing our lives are.
America runs (and then promptly falls) on alcohol, pharmaceuticals, and good ol fashioned hard drugs, to make all of the above more entertaining.
America runs on Wal-Mart.
For everything else that I forgot to mention and so much more.
America runs on everything the rest of the third world wish they had for a day.
America doesnt run on the natural.
Its supernatural or bust.
We need it fast.
We need it easy.
We need it cheap.
We need it built on the backs of Latin Americans, Chinese, and even a couple of our own.
We need it now.
And were all completely guilty.
1.14.09
Ok, tomorrow I make up for three of them.
Been super busy, work sucks, Ill get on it, I will.
Chill.
Been super busy, work sucks, Ill get on it, I will.
Chill.
1.13.09
Services and actions that were wiped because of the internet.
Phone books
Physical maps
The questions of who what when and where
The classified section
Come to think of it, the whole newspaper is soon to be obsolete really
Travel agencies
Garage sales
This list is going to continue as I think of more or as more are rendered extinct, I intend to keep it up for coming years
Phone books
Physical maps
The questions of who what when and where
The classified section
Come to think of it, the whole newspaper is soon to be obsolete really
Travel agencies
Garage sales
This list is going to continue as I think of more or as more are rendered extinct, I intend to keep it up for coming years
1.12.09
My Favorite Album.
Is not the one you would expect (Deloused). Its actually an album done by a little known artist named Damon Albarn. What Damon did is travel to Africa, going to the smallest, most remote towns he could find on a map, armed only with his laptop and recording equipment in a small bag. No professional escorts, no guides, just a map, an interpreter, and the ability to capture sound. He went to these small, unheard of villages, and explained to the indigenous people why he was there and what his machines did. He asked every town for their best musicians, and recorded with them.
In principle this sounds basic, but as I thought about it it became clear what his intentions were. In Africa, in these remote villages that have had little to no contact with our world, is the purest essence of music. Music not intended for commercial use or grandiose performance, but pure, celebratory music. The musicians in these villages have never heard any music other than what they themselves create. Its completely unfiltered and unique to that village alone. In the end he had traveled to some 15 villages, recording with each, and producing what I would have to say is the best expression of pure music anyone on earth has accomplished since the birth of recorded sound. The album is called Mali Music, and I highly recommend you check it out.
By the way, that Damon Albarn guy is relatively unheard of, but only by choice. He is the one person behind the entire "band" The Gorillaz, and also the lead singer for Blur, just so you know.
Is not the one you would expect (Deloused). Its actually an album done by a little known artist named Damon Albarn. What Damon did is travel to Africa, going to the smallest, most remote towns he could find on a map, armed only with his laptop and recording equipment in a small bag. No professional escorts, no guides, just a map, an interpreter, and the ability to capture sound. He went to these small, unheard of villages, and explained to the indigenous people why he was there and what his machines did. He asked every town for their best musicians, and recorded with them.
In principle this sounds basic, but as I thought about it it became clear what his intentions were. In Africa, in these remote villages that have had little to no contact with our world, is the purest essence of music. Music not intended for commercial use or grandiose performance, but pure, celebratory music. The musicians in these villages have never heard any music other than what they themselves create. Its completely unfiltered and unique to that village alone. In the end he had traveled to some 15 villages, recording with each, and producing what I would have to say is the best expression of pure music anyone on earth has accomplished since the birth of recorded sound. The album is called Mali Music, and I highly recommend you check it out.
By the way, that Damon Albarn guy is relatively unheard of, but only by choice. He is the one person behind the entire "band" The Gorillaz, and also the lead singer for Blur, just so you know.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
1.10.09
If you were to introduce someone to The Mars Volta, what song would you play for them first and why?
Friday, January 9, 2009
1.9.09
Born n raised man, born n raised.
I was in Fairfield, CA for traffic court today, and stopped by a charming little barber shop to get a haircut after the proceedings. There I came across not only a feeling I thought was lost, but a character I felt no longer existed in this day and age.
The feeling I got was that of Bill's Barber Shop, an old place that was in the Pruneyard for about 30 some odd years, that my dad used to take me to once a month back when I was younger. Everyone in the shop knew me and I really liked that, I never had to go to Supercuts or Schroeders and get my hair done by some angry random asian lady. Bill always did it personally when he was there, and that was something I valued, even at that young age. Sad thing was Bill was a little too old fashioned for the Pruneyard's future plans, they terminated his lease and kicked him out on his ass, replacing his old barber shop with a chic' luggage store, sad to say the least.
So as I was wandering around Fairfied looking for someone to tame the shag on my head, I drove past an old converted house, with the classic barber pole in front. "Scotty's Barber Shop" read the lettering in the window, and I knew where I needed to go. As I walked in a bell was jingled, signaling my entry. There was a barber, two chairs, mens magazines, and a price list; 15 dollars for a cut, 20 for a cut and a shave, and that was it. Immediately a feeling of nostalgia and warmth bathed me, for I knew I was in one of the last great barber shops, something the new and improved lifestyle of salons and spas couldn't touch. Sitting in one of the chairs was a man who had to be in his eighties, discussing fishing with his barber, the man himself, Scotty.
I grabbed a magazine and sat down, all the while listening to these two old timers shoot the shit. Talking wives, motorcycles, boats and the military, it was like two old friends from elementary school catching up on old times. It felt authentic, watching those two, like some hope could be had for the old beaten up ways of this country. They continued as I poured through an article in Rolling Stone about "Kanye's Comeback", reading about his obsession with fashion and so-called "futuresound". I sat there imagining what would happen if Kanye stepped in that shop at that moment, and watched these guys, these relics of the American Dream. What kind of an effect would "futuresound" have on these two, and how hard would they kick his ass for dressing the way he does? I laughed somewhat loudly at the thought of two old dudes kicking the shit out of Kanye West using barber tools, although it went unheard due to the intensity at which the conversation to my left was developing. I read on as Scotty finished up on what I could only assume was a regular, a fellow Fairfieldian that he had known for years. As the old man hobbled out of the chair, and turned to hand the barber his due, Scotty chimed in;
"Hey man well it was real great to meet ya, if your ever in town again youll know where Ill be"
What in holy hell? This was the first time they had ever met? As this realization dawned on me I wondered what sort of haircut I was in for. This old time barber had thoroughly convinced an outsider that a man he had just met was not the best friend from elementary school as he thought, but alas a complete stranger such as himself. The old man walked out, and Scotty looked at me with a grin on his face, eyes lasered on my skull;
"Quite a mess ya got goin on up there, gonna cost ya extra for me to tackle that shit"
Still somewhat speechless, I jerked myself into interaction and gave a polite smirk and sat myself in his ancient chair. For some unexplainable reason, fear started to dawn on me. What subjects could he possibly bring up? What in god's name would we talk about? How involuntarily engaged was I about to become? I clutched my magazine tightly, with the hopes that maybe I could just read this one out. He draped the hair cover directly over my open reading material, and asked me for my name.
20 minutes later I found myself laughing so hard he had to stop the cut on multiple occasions as to not butcher my head. I had somehow spilled half my life out of my mouth without even realizing it, and trusting this newly met entity with all of it. The man had seen so much, been so many places, yet always returned home, here, to Fairfield. He had been all over the world, worked every job, yet still cut hair for 25 years, right there in that barber shop. Its an anomaly really, someone so traveled, so experienced in the ways of the world, yet so simple and pleasant. Not precocious in the slightest, and understanding of all. An old man with a skill for a simple trade and a mouth full of stories. I had this funk bothering me for months but I couldn't put my finger on what it was, and meeting Scotty today I think put a perspective on it. I feel more and more that the old ways are being thrown out, and the world is being made into a faster, more productive, and increasingly less forgiving place. I was starting to forget that there are still places in this life where you can just slow down and enjoy the company of a stranger, free from the fear of judgment and status quos. Thats a great feeling, an honest one, one which I will hold on to until the generation unto which he belongs finally begins to die out.
As my cut was coming to a close, another man walked in, grabbed a magazine, and sat down. Scotty greeted him the same he did me, and I assume he was a stranger as well. What stories would this man hear? Which ones would he share? I got up from my chair, turned and looked at my hair for the first time during the whole cut, and as I had hoped, Scotty lived up to a reputation I hadnt even heard yet but knew existed. I gave him a full 20, wishing I had more on me to tip with. He graciously bowed and as he smiled his wrinkled eyes reminded me once again of Bill. Here I was, 13 years later meeting a man who could easily run a shop with the man I once called my barber, far away from the fast "future-chic'" boutiques of San Jose. As I walked out the door, the bell gave a ring, and the man behind me sat down. From just outside the shop I could hear Scotty's low scratchy voice bellow softly to his newest customer;
"So whats yer name stranger?"
I smiled and walked on.
I was in Fairfield, CA for traffic court today, and stopped by a charming little barber shop to get a haircut after the proceedings. There I came across not only a feeling I thought was lost, but a character I felt no longer existed in this day and age.
The feeling I got was that of Bill's Barber Shop, an old place that was in the Pruneyard for about 30 some odd years, that my dad used to take me to once a month back when I was younger. Everyone in the shop knew me and I really liked that, I never had to go to Supercuts or Schroeders and get my hair done by some angry random asian lady. Bill always did it personally when he was there, and that was something I valued, even at that young age. Sad thing was Bill was a little too old fashioned for the Pruneyard's future plans, they terminated his lease and kicked him out on his ass, replacing his old barber shop with a chic' luggage store, sad to say the least.
So as I was wandering around Fairfied looking for someone to tame the shag on my head, I drove past an old converted house, with the classic barber pole in front. "Scotty's Barber Shop" read the lettering in the window, and I knew where I needed to go. As I walked in a bell was jingled, signaling my entry. There was a barber, two chairs, mens magazines, and a price list; 15 dollars for a cut, 20 for a cut and a shave, and that was it. Immediately a feeling of nostalgia and warmth bathed me, for I knew I was in one of the last great barber shops, something the new and improved lifestyle of salons and spas couldn't touch. Sitting in one of the chairs was a man who had to be in his eighties, discussing fishing with his barber, the man himself, Scotty.
I grabbed a magazine and sat down, all the while listening to these two old timers shoot the shit. Talking wives, motorcycles, boats and the military, it was like two old friends from elementary school catching up on old times. It felt authentic, watching those two, like some hope could be had for the old beaten up ways of this country. They continued as I poured through an article in Rolling Stone about "Kanye's Comeback", reading about his obsession with fashion and so-called "futuresound". I sat there imagining what would happen if Kanye stepped in that shop at that moment, and watched these guys, these relics of the American Dream. What kind of an effect would "futuresound" have on these two, and how hard would they kick his ass for dressing the way he does? I laughed somewhat loudly at the thought of two old dudes kicking the shit out of Kanye West using barber tools, although it went unheard due to the intensity at which the conversation to my left was developing. I read on as Scotty finished up on what I could only assume was a regular, a fellow Fairfieldian that he had known for years. As the old man hobbled out of the chair, and turned to hand the barber his due, Scotty chimed in;
"Hey man well it was real great to meet ya, if your ever in town again youll know where Ill be"
What in holy hell? This was the first time they had ever met? As this realization dawned on me I wondered what sort of haircut I was in for. This old time barber had thoroughly convinced an outsider that a man he had just met was not the best friend from elementary school as he thought, but alas a complete stranger such as himself. The old man walked out, and Scotty looked at me with a grin on his face, eyes lasered on my skull;
"Quite a mess ya got goin on up there, gonna cost ya extra for me to tackle that shit"
Still somewhat speechless, I jerked myself into interaction and gave a polite smirk and sat myself in his ancient chair. For some unexplainable reason, fear started to dawn on me. What subjects could he possibly bring up? What in god's name would we talk about? How involuntarily engaged was I about to become? I clutched my magazine tightly, with the hopes that maybe I could just read this one out. He draped the hair cover directly over my open reading material, and asked me for my name.
20 minutes later I found myself laughing so hard he had to stop the cut on multiple occasions as to not butcher my head. I had somehow spilled half my life out of my mouth without even realizing it, and trusting this newly met entity with all of it. The man had seen so much, been so many places, yet always returned home, here, to Fairfield. He had been all over the world, worked every job, yet still cut hair for 25 years, right there in that barber shop. Its an anomaly really, someone so traveled, so experienced in the ways of the world, yet so simple and pleasant. Not precocious in the slightest, and understanding of all. An old man with a skill for a simple trade and a mouth full of stories. I had this funk bothering me for months but I couldn't put my finger on what it was, and meeting Scotty today I think put a perspective on it. I feel more and more that the old ways are being thrown out, and the world is being made into a faster, more productive, and increasingly less forgiving place. I was starting to forget that there are still places in this life where you can just slow down and enjoy the company of a stranger, free from the fear of judgment and status quos. Thats a great feeling, an honest one, one which I will hold on to until the generation unto which he belongs finally begins to die out.
As my cut was coming to a close, another man walked in, grabbed a magazine, and sat down. Scotty greeted him the same he did me, and I assume he was a stranger as well. What stories would this man hear? Which ones would he share? I got up from my chair, turned and looked at my hair for the first time during the whole cut, and as I had hoped, Scotty lived up to a reputation I hadnt even heard yet but knew existed. I gave him a full 20, wishing I had more on me to tip with. He graciously bowed and as he smiled his wrinkled eyes reminded me once again of Bill. Here I was, 13 years later meeting a man who could easily run a shop with the man I once called my barber, far away from the fast "future-chic'" boutiques of San Jose. As I walked out the door, the bell gave a ring, and the man behind me sat down. From just outside the shop I could hear Scotty's low scratchy voice bellow softly to his newest customer;
"So whats yer name stranger?"
I smiled and walked on.
Thursday, January 8, 2009
1.8.09
Question of the Day;
Why do you smoke weed, how often, and are those two reasons related?
Follow up;
How old do you expect to be when you no longer smoke?
Why do you smoke weed, how often, and are those two reasons related?
Follow up;
How old do you expect to be when you no longer smoke?
Wednesday, January 7, 2009
1.6.09
Ive come up with a new game, its called "Stay off the main run and in the trees as long as you possibly can"
and its working out pretty nicely so far, amazing tree runs abound
and its working out pretty nicely so far, amazing tree runs abound
1.5.09
Ive come up with a new game, its called "Stay off the main run and in the trees as long as you possibly can"
and its working out pretty nicely so far, amazing tree runs abound
and its working out pretty nicely so far, amazing tree runs abound
1.4.09
"MEETING! EVERYBODY, MEETING IN THE LODGE LETS GO!"
crap.
"Hey everyone how you all doing, just wanted to bring to your attention some discrepancies and issues we need to address as a group. Now as you may have heard, we had to fire three of our employees just this morning.."
double crap.
"..for reasons that we as a group need to discuss. Now for those of you who havent heard yet, three of our employees were caught smoking pot in the gondola on the way to work this morning, and were fired on the spot. You should all know how unacceptable this behavior is. I mean, in the gondola? Really? Heavenly is a big place and the best spot you can think of is the one area we at East Peak have no control over?"
wait...what?
"I mean really, smoke at home if you have to, or even in the trees on your ride to work but come on not in the gondola. I know its a long ride, I understand that, but its not long enough to air out, and they will catch and fire your ass, and Ive got no pull in that department. So basically what Im saying is, if your gonna be high for work, fine by me, this job is long and rough on all of you, I can understand that, but for the love of god be responsible ok guys? Thats pretty much all we needed to talk about, sign your handbooks too and get em in some time today."
i dare say i think i have just found the coolest boss that has ever existed anywhere ever, Steve Kramer, you win.
crap.
"Hey everyone how you all doing, just wanted to bring to your attention some discrepancies and issues we need to address as a group. Now as you may have heard, we had to fire three of our employees just this morning.."
double crap.
"..for reasons that we as a group need to discuss. Now for those of you who havent heard yet, three of our employees were caught smoking pot in the gondola on the way to work this morning, and were fired on the spot. You should all know how unacceptable this behavior is. I mean, in the gondola? Really? Heavenly is a big place and the best spot you can think of is the one area we at East Peak have no control over?"
wait...what?
"I mean really, smoke at home if you have to, or even in the trees on your ride to work but come on not in the gondola. I know its a long ride, I understand that, but its not long enough to air out, and they will catch and fire your ass, and Ive got no pull in that department. So basically what Im saying is, if your gonna be high for work, fine by me, this job is long and rough on all of you, I can understand that, but for the love of god be responsible ok guys? Thats pretty much all we needed to talk about, sign your handbooks too and get em in some time today."
i dare say i think i have just found the coolest boss that has ever existed anywhere ever, Steve Kramer, you win.
Saturday, January 3, 2009
1.3.09
So Ive been meaning to write about this for awhile, but have spaced on it many times, and here it goes.
Its a topic that I find extremely interesting, and I dont remember where i first heard it, but the sentence, "you are made of recycled atoms" always stuck with me.
It makes complete sense, just think about it. While your mother is pregnant with you, the atoms that make up the molecules that make up you dont just come from anywhere, they come from what she consumes throughout your creation process. If she eats chow-mein, that food is broken down, the molecules are re-calibrated, and form into what is soon to be you. If you ask your mom what she ate when she was pregnant with you, youll find out where your atoms came from thereby letting you know what food your body is made out of. Where it gets interesting is if she eats the meat of another animal, the proteins and amino acids of that cow she just ate are broken down and make up a portion of your left knee cap lets say. All the atoms that were contained in the burger are now being recycled through the various chemical processes that go into creating a human being. I figure Im mostly frozen dinners and Jewish food, with a little bit of weed and ice cream thrown in.
"You are what you eat" gets it part of the way, but you really are what your mom ate.
Weird right?
So what are you made of?
Its a topic that I find extremely interesting, and I dont remember where i first heard it, but the sentence, "you are made of recycled atoms" always stuck with me.
It makes complete sense, just think about it. While your mother is pregnant with you, the atoms that make up the molecules that make up you dont just come from anywhere, they come from what she consumes throughout your creation process. If she eats chow-mein, that food is broken down, the molecules are re-calibrated, and form into what is soon to be you. If you ask your mom what she ate when she was pregnant with you, youll find out where your atoms came from thereby letting you know what food your body is made out of. Where it gets interesting is if she eats the meat of another animal, the proteins and amino acids of that cow she just ate are broken down and make up a portion of your left knee cap lets say. All the atoms that were contained in the burger are now being recycled through the various chemical processes that go into creating a human being. I figure Im mostly frozen dinners and Jewish food, with a little bit of weed and ice cream thrown in.
"You are what you eat" gets it part of the way, but you really are what your mom ate.
Weird right?
So what are you made of?
Friday, January 2, 2009
1.2.09
you fucks.
you degenerate fucks.
you dirty, downtrodden, outcast fucks.
you beer drinking, bong ripping, chain smoking fucks.
sailor mouthed, womanizing, bigot fucks.
authority dismissing, time wasting, bottom of the barrel fucks.
plate slinging, knife throwing, sauce pouring fucks.
pan slamming, meat searing, fire crisping fucks.
long hour working, caffeine addicted, fringe of life fucks.
cooking, screaming, speedy fucks.
my fucks.
my degenerate fucks.
my people.
my cooks.
where i once and still belong.
the good, the bad, and the skilled.
my people, my people, my people.
im back
you degenerate fucks.
you dirty, downtrodden, outcast fucks.
you beer drinking, bong ripping, chain smoking fucks.
sailor mouthed, womanizing, bigot fucks.
authority dismissing, time wasting, bottom of the barrel fucks.
plate slinging, knife throwing, sauce pouring fucks.
pan slamming, meat searing, fire crisping fucks.
long hour working, caffeine addicted, fringe of life fucks.
cooking, screaming, speedy fucks.
my fucks.
my degenerate fucks.
my people.
my cooks.
where i once and still belong.
the good, the bad, and the skilled.
my people, my people, my people.
im back
1.1.09
WOOOOOOO!
a perfect and undeniable expression of jubilance to the masses, wrapped in a short sweet package.
walk around in any public area and if you listen closely you can hear it any direction.
this public outcry of complete enjoyment, one that is universally understood and accepted.
stroll past any group of folks, produce this warcry, and if alcohol is being consumed theres a high chance yours will be returned with a louder and even more boisterous roar.
my theories on this rely in the primal. I believe this form of outcry is something we as humans have a hard time resisting, when in the presence of those with which we share a common bond and goal. skipping around with the inebriated and intoxicated and flourishing in the auras the joy of it all exhumes.
its been years since i started appreciating and understanding this collective aura of happiness that can surround these events. I guess i could say bfd being my first concert was the first actual experience, but lovefest is where i gained an interest in the dynamics that occur at these mass spontaneous events. the real breakthrough came at bay to breakers, 2007. the day itself isnt something that can be fully described, but the results i got out of it were pretty significant. i learned what the masses were capable of, what cell phones and the internet brought us, this sudden and significant gatherings of collected consciousness.
we were actually able to run around to any person we saw and ask their name, why they were there, and for what reason they saw fit to wear nothing but adult sized diapers and a scuba mask to this event.
(wont have to stop to pee, direct beer system. genius really)
the ability that we were privileged with is that to go up to random strangers, of every race religion color or creed, and strike up perfectly normal conversations about any old thing, free from the paranoia that is normally associated with daily life. a chance to be loose, willing, and accepting of anything that crosses your path. youd be surprised how easy it is to get into politics with a man dressed as a flamboyantly gay big bird in 12 inch platforms with a face painted like buffalo bill from the silence of the lambs.
i think about the preparations, whether it be slipping in to that costume, or putting on your sunday best, the vibe that everyone brings to that moment is hard to match. with the homeade floats, coordinated costumes, self designed mobile bars, impromptu concerts, comes one of the great museums of our times.
the collective silliness, it would be called. one of the most extensive portraits of the human condition known as love for all things regardless of status or place in the world.
I see something universal in these gatherings, the ability to drop it all at the door and know for this one day, you and 80,000 others just really arent going to care.
that aura is strong, and to me at least, freakishly beautiful. these people who on monday of that week will resume their positions as accountants, computer technicians, bankers, and secretaries. for that one day a year they can be whoever they want to a group just like them. introduce themselves however they like, fearing little reciprocation from the thousands walking alongside them for one, unjustifiable and equally silly cause. thats hard to find in todays world, but it speaks of a future yet to be seen. one where freedom is measured in how far one is willing to go as opposed to what one may or may not do. that one day everyone is the new best friend and each one is more interesting then the next. pouring through these masses, uttering your mating call, trying to "woo" another to your nest, to once again start the process of greet, laugh, repeat. say hello to a stranger, and take his candy. grab the ass of a free hug giver and play twister with your maid. pose for a painting and roll down a grassy hill with a 63 year old woman. today is the day of mass silly and left behind inhibitions, enjoy it while it lasts.
so the next time your wading in this swamp, find your fellow miscreant with a well projected yelp amongst the sea of exuberance let them know that yes, fun is being had and wed like to know if you feel the same. its cheap, easy and efficient, and that happiness is just a "woo" away.
a perfect and undeniable expression of jubilance to the masses, wrapped in a short sweet package.
walk around in any public area and if you listen closely you can hear it any direction.
this public outcry of complete enjoyment, one that is universally understood and accepted.
stroll past any group of folks, produce this warcry, and if alcohol is being consumed theres a high chance yours will be returned with a louder and even more boisterous roar.
my theories on this rely in the primal. I believe this form of outcry is something we as humans have a hard time resisting, when in the presence of those with which we share a common bond and goal. skipping around with the inebriated and intoxicated and flourishing in the auras the joy of it all exhumes.
its been years since i started appreciating and understanding this collective aura of happiness that can surround these events. I guess i could say bfd being my first concert was the first actual experience, but lovefest is where i gained an interest in the dynamics that occur at these mass spontaneous events. the real breakthrough came at bay to breakers, 2007. the day itself isnt something that can be fully described, but the results i got out of it were pretty significant. i learned what the masses were capable of, what cell phones and the internet brought us, this sudden and significant gatherings of collected consciousness.
we were actually able to run around to any person we saw and ask their name, why they were there, and for what reason they saw fit to wear nothing but adult sized diapers and a scuba mask to this event.
(wont have to stop to pee, direct beer system. genius really)
the ability that we were privileged with is that to go up to random strangers, of every race religion color or creed, and strike up perfectly normal conversations about any old thing, free from the paranoia that is normally associated with daily life. a chance to be loose, willing, and accepting of anything that crosses your path. youd be surprised how easy it is to get into politics with a man dressed as a flamboyantly gay big bird in 12 inch platforms with a face painted like buffalo bill from the silence of the lambs.
i think about the preparations, whether it be slipping in to that costume, or putting on your sunday best, the vibe that everyone brings to that moment is hard to match. with the homeade floats, coordinated costumes, self designed mobile bars, impromptu concerts, comes one of the great museums of our times.
the collective silliness, it would be called. one of the most extensive portraits of the human condition known as love for all things regardless of status or place in the world.
I see something universal in these gatherings, the ability to drop it all at the door and know for this one day, you and 80,000 others just really arent going to care.
that aura is strong, and to me at least, freakishly beautiful. these people who on monday of that week will resume their positions as accountants, computer technicians, bankers, and secretaries. for that one day a year they can be whoever they want to a group just like them. introduce themselves however they like, fearing little reciprocation from the thousands walking alongside them for one, unjustifiable and equally silly cause. thats hard to find in todays world, but it speaks of a future yet to be seen. one where freedom is measured in how far one is willing to go as opposed to what one may or may not do. that one day everyone is the new best friend and each one is more interesting then the next. pouring through these masses, uttering your mating call, trying to "woo" another to your nest, to once again start the process of greet, laugh, repeat. say hello to a stranger, and take his candy. grab the ass of a free hug giver and play twister with your maid. pose for a painting and roll down a grassy hill with a 63 year old woman. today is the day of mass silly and left behind inhibitions, enjoy it while it lasts.
so the next time your wading in this swamp, find your fellow miscreant with a well projected yelp amongst the sea of exuberance let them know that yes, fun is being had and wed like to know if you feel the same. its cheap, easy and efficient, and that happiness is just a "woo" away.
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