Bourgeois Rant

My day has been along the lines of The Flaming Lips “Bad Days” song. Yeah, that’s right mothafucka’s I’m comparing a daily experience (my daily experience) to music. So, go ahead force on your skinny jeans, ironic t-shirt and simmer the fuck down before you hastily judge me. Hell, in our ironic self doubt maybe we could ride our bikes and talk about trees and love and vegans. I might make fun of you, but only with loving subtle stabs.


Power. Money. Sandy beaches and Lips.

Power: I walked out this morning/afternoon to a cop writing me a parking ticket. Yeah, I saw him. I approached my car, he looked at me, pressing his fingers firmly on his electronic ticket-spitter and tucked the ticket under my windshield wiper and walked away. Thanks. I don’t fucking care about rules, and so I’ll pay for it. In my half dazed state, I know I gave him the “If-I-suddenly-had-a-superpower-for-one-minute-I’d-laser-beam-you-with-my-fierce-laser-gaze” look. Alas! Don’t worry, the gaze wouldn’t kill him, just temporarily knock out memory and thus allowing me to successfully avoid the parking ticket and continue breaking the “rules.” So Power. Intangible. I dislike it. I think about Foucault’s adaptation of Bentham’s Panoptic Prison. Power, when used wrongly, in the metaphor of society being like a biological organism, is degenerative.
Hey Nerds! Go here--->http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Panopticon

Money: Dear Alumni: Please stop yelling at me when I’m using my nice voice to ask you to help with scholarships. I don’t like being yelled at. I hate my nice voice. But, you see, I will use it anyway. I don’t have any money either. I don't have scholarships. I don't have a B.A. yet. So you and you’re four or five year committed partner, Bachelor degree can go sit under a tree and cuddle. Bachelor probably gives you backrubs and paychecks. So. Just, please, for the love of all things holy (or not holy) just stop yelling at me. Please. Stop. Yelling. It makes you look like an inconsiderate asshole that humanity wipes itself clean with.

Moral is, well, that there, wait, what? There is no morality? Well, shit. Moral is Corona tastes like piss. Or what I’d imagine piss to taste like. A sick person’s piss. Disgusting piss. I would not want to drink Corona sitting on a white sandy beach, despite what your marketing techniques tell me.


But. As The Lips tell me, despite the lack of sandy beaches and beer that tastes like hypothetical piss, the yelling and the lack of cuddling with Bachelor, the bad days will end. Thank you.

The Flaming Lips - New Music - More Music Videos

Writers Bloooooock

I don't know what it is. i have the kind of writers block that no amount of wine consumption, lo-fi indie music playing, running around in your underwear (being a complete cliche) can unblock. this is a problem.
I need some fucking gin.

Speaking of which, or rather, on NOT speaking of which,

Yesterday I talked to an artist in Seattle, a Design major who had to take a job as a contractor (right after layoffs) at Microsoft because people stopped buying his art. If he made a living off his work, I can only assume that he was talented. Or people are idiots.

So I know Microsoft recently laid people off. Would him being a contractor make him somewhat of a scab? I've done some research, I'm pretty confident in saying, "yeah, yeah he's some form of a scab..." People were laid off, Microsoft hired contractors to cut costs.
Fucking. Shame.
I know what you're thinking. Who I am to judge? When pennies are pinching and the economy is bad, take what you can get. I mean, if want to be an individualist, yeah, go right ahead. You first. Me second. That's right, I'll even give you a pat on the back as you pass me by in your business suit. I'll firmly shake you're hand and softly whisper, "oh... congratulations on being an individual" and run my fingers through your hair seductively.

On lighter news,

Oh haaaay Teen Captain America, you're kinda sexist!

Oh, Joni!

Recently, I've been listening to a lot of Joni Mitchell. After having an extensive conversation about music with my dad, (whose musical knowledge of the 70-80s classic rock is so vast, its astounding. Im jealous)he told me to listen to her song, "Coyote." I haven't listened to anything outside of Blue but I found "For the Roses" the release after "Blue" and I think I have a major crush on this woman.

That song is almost narrative, lyrical genius. Telling story through song is hard, a lot harder than most people realize. I know I'm a sucker for singer/songwriter, so I'll get off the soapbox, but if you've never listened to her, I highly suggest you do.


(and just because im a sucker for bbc performances)

Thanks Nirvana.

Escalators? Ha.

Also why did I just find out about Lemur's? So hilarious.

Thank you.

Just when I thought I needed to stop thinking about words and meanings and linguistics and academeia, I started reading Saul Williams today completely by fluke. I also found my old copy of The Notebboks of Malte Laurids Brigge by Rilke with an old photo of my family in it and one of my favorite Rilke quotes,"For one human being to love another; that is perhaps the most

difficult of all our tasks, the ultimate, the last test and proof,
the work for which all other work is but preparation. "

The control this man has over language is absolutely beautiful.

Dear Washington,

On the long drive home I think I might of fallen in love with you.

is it possible to miss space? like the above picture of the Palouse Highway. can space be a tangible thing? I mean, to go from a crowded city to open wheat fields. I think I might have been writing my theory essay too long. goddamn. Space as a real touchable, thing? pfff.

C-c-c--choppy narratives.

its like the opening cinematic scene in a low budget indie movie. It's raining. It's dark. I'm driving alone becoming increasingly nostalgic and creating a past that didn't necessarily exist and consequently deeply yearning for its ideal perfection. But. Problem is, its hollow, since in reconstructing my own memories, they are falsely & intricately put together. They're not true. Things around me pretty much look something like the picture to the left. I'm not a mellow dramatic egotistical asshole so I steer clear from the "holy shit, white person having an psychological & emotional crisis" moment and instead, I turn on the radio. Ok, ok, I know I'm a cliche. And I'm making a blog entry centered around things I think are funny. Meh.
Somehow, I come across Elton John's "Rocket Man" on the radio. On the dial it was in between two popular country radio stations. And, oh, it was perfect.
-----

I heard the most embarrassing story today (to which I will leave totally anonymous) My friend, ANONYMOUS , got a call from her mom telling her to come to a superbowl party. She arrived halfway into the game with everyone way past being halfway drunk. Her mom stumbled out of the bathroom with all of her pants and underwear dangling around her ankles into a crowded room. Dead Silence. Her Mother's Vagina. Naked. In front of everyone. Holy. Fucking. Shit. What do you say in a situation like that? I mean, really. This was also the same ANONYMOUS that had a 40 yr old female roommate that was totally obsessed with Donnie and Marie. Ha. Seriously? Donnie? Marie? ach.
-----

the following conversation took place between my 83 yr old grandfather and my 86 yr old grandmother in their old person patterned living room
(note: Sprague is where men pick up prostitutes)

"Peter, what are you going to do for the hour I am at the hand therapist?"
"I was thinking about going to Home Depot. (pause) and visiting my girls down on Sprague"
"Well, you certainly will be longer than an hour"

My grandmother also said the following in regards to bartering with my father:
"Well, lets just take the dinner bill off of the snowblower cost. A tit for tat deal"

"I don't mind doing tit for tat but I've always thought tat for tit was a bit more fun"

I've learned to NEVER, I mean NEVER discuss politics with my grandfather. He's a New York absolutist with the aggressive verbal pouncing of a young spry mountain lion. With the east coast accent to match.

And this, folks, is why I drive 7 hours to see these people and wake up at 520 am to drive back.