"!"

Consider: McCain left the Arizona stage to part of Hans Zimmer’s score from “Crimson Tide.” (This part, actually.) The 1995 Tony Scott film focused on a career Navy man (Gene Hackman), labeled a maverick by some, who is stripped of his authority and ultimately beaten by a young black guy, somewhat new to the scene (Denzell Washington).

Then there was Obama, who left the stage to the strings of Trevor Rabin’s score from “Remember the Titans.” The 2000 Disney/Bruckheimer joint followed an African-American coach who brought together whites and blacks to win a championship.

This is obviously more than coincidence, but is this genuinely telling? Someone chose these songs on purpose. [MTV]

Puff Daddy Quote of the Day

Regarding newly elected President Obama...(man, it feels good typing that)

"I felt like my vote was the vote that put him into office. It was down to one vote, and that was going to be my vote. And that may not be true, but that's how much power it felt like I had," the hip-hop mogul said.

Election Fatigue

So everything's different on Wednesday, right?

This is how bad McCain is

McCain is SO bad, he's getting Indiana racists to consider voting for a (1/2) black guy. Wow.

In Fishtown, Indiana, one man was quoted as saying, "I'm voting for the nigger".

Amazing country this is.

leave fingernail marks on your soul mate to the beat

Drowning in blankets of red patterns, and a blue one around my feet for safe measure from a kitten, my nostrils were adhering to the airborne remnants of a woodstove. I peaked out the blinds, rubbed my fingertips across the window surface for a clear view of a neighbor clearing his drive way. The type that you'd expect to be wearing an ascot and hoisting a snifter of brandy. Smug. An avuncular old gent. I stared up at stucco and listened intently as a shovel damned a layer of ice in rhythmic fashion in the early afternoon. It forced you to leave finger nail marks on your soul mate to the beat. Like all the punk bands that grew out of contempt for the incomparably deluded frat boys and prissy, politically correct dilettantes who these days pop collars and rock Uggs. The ice was a tendency, the motion of the shovel was the irresistible tendency to leverage out a trend. It was a fresh sound that reminded me of the frantically turning wheels of my childhood.
A run of the mill Tuesday in 1988 was like watching painted grass drying, while growing. I remember riding my Big Wheel down Bridle, holding the handles like a grudge and achieving little success at the art of traction, pebbles distracting the purpose of my underachieving plastic tires. Feet dragging, the white noise of peddles spinning like a tripped out Ferris wheel in a Terry Gilliam flick. I would end up on my side, most days, in a king size unmade flower bed of a one armed bachelor next to a pumping station by the lake. The fall down was virginal beauty off the rails. The blood from my nose was the breakfast of champions. The neighbors mutt, at this point, was charging the gate like a Visa with speed lines along a collar that resembled a hanging grape with a splash of fire. The pebbles that threw me off course made a new colony in my open knee. The mongrels mouth pressed through the rusted steel gate as if mashed potatoes through the prongs of a fork. His bark, a power line snapping in a pool of rain. His single armed feeder mirrored his angst through a kitchen window, mourning the transplanted ladino clover his bed once blanketed. It wasn't the type of expression that would get him a quick loan at the bank, that's for sure. The vinyl sides of pre-World War houses became the urban sprawl horizon for a boy on his side basking in the sound of spinning wheels coming to a halt. These moments remind me of the rarefied air of Paul Newman. There's a romantic cache I seem to give them. Like the feeling you get when you watch the 'Sandlot'.
The hole in my blanket that I peer through is the shape of an onion while I listen to her type. Pitter pat with a fat cat. Stomach as empty as a volleyball, I was beckoning her in need of driving her crazy with Huh?-inducing escapades and made up languages. It's the effect on you that prolonged exposure from me gives. I eat three meals a day, unfortunately, the ingredients of two are primarily my own words. He just dun killed himself an opportunity, that one did.

The Popcorn Man

He was the son of Edith J Williams, aka, 'Wings', the woman who lived in the home I was raised in. The one I type in, in the shadow of her lilac bushes. She took in my grandfather, 'Normie' as she called him, in the spring of 43 while the Popcorn Man stormed the beaches of Europe becoming a man. She cared for her garden and waited for Western Union to deliver the bad news.

He used empty hand grenades as lamps, filled with kerosene with boot strap wicks. Among his pockets, I imagine, were two rosaries, his drivers license, a folder of 16 photos of family and friends, a blood stained letter, and $1.61.

The war, I imagine him saying, was like a comic opera. Because you only die laughing.
The beaches were littered with leaflets demanding the allies to quit, and the skies rained shells from storm clouds of artillery smoke. They said you couldn't complete 12 missions without dying. Duncan J. Williams, The Popcorn Man, completed 18.

His nickname changed to Yo-Yo, because he always came back to you.

He had a paper angel in Worcester. They spent 90 straight days together before he was shipped off. He asked her not to exceed three dates with any particular boy. This way, she could get to know others and make her own decisions. But she wouldn't get to know them too well. He remembered these requests, I imagine, in the shadows of a crumbling monastery, picture in hand, while leaflets swirled in mini tornadoes with shredded ally uniforms choreographing a dance in it's shadow.

The Italians around him used his trench knife to cut their wedding cake while during downtime the troops would stage baseball games and give their cronies their share of beer. Oh, the Fighting Seabees.
"Mother, I am in the very best of health, and I hope to hear the same of you always". "Tell Mary, to head to the beach with the babies, and although I won't be there this summer, I will be next. It's a date. Take care of yourself and keep the stoves roaring and the chow line long."
He was captured by the Germans.

I'm holding, in a trembling hand, the notice declaring him a Prisoner of War.

Kriegsgefangenenpost.
Rank and Name: Sgt. Duncan J. Williams.
Prisoner of War No. 100663
Important: For prisoners in German hands the prisoner of war number should be clearly indicated if known.
A letter. From broken Wings.

Dear Duncan,
School started again today, and for the first time in 16 years there are no Williams', as Normie went to his mother last night. He called me three times today, Normie did. He is terribly lonesome, poor little fellow….and so am I. I wish I could have kept him as my own.
I am all alone.
I received a letter from Davey today. Still in California. He has changed his mind about coming home.
I hope you are well. I want to see you terribly. Love from all- Mom.
By Air Mail, Par Avion.
Everyone written about above would end their stories by dying a lonely death. I have never been so proud to have Normie on my arm, or to have been raised in this house, with the smell of her lilacs infiltrating my window every spring like a front line attack. I never knew the popcorn man, but the inspiration has brought me a mighty headache as I shield a laptop from tears.
The eye sees, the mind knows, the heart feels. I have no war to call my own, but I have people whom I love that I will never let go without a shoreline fight. I have integrity that won't be sold or drowned out. No matter how much you doubt yourself, remember that the Yo-yo always comes back.
I know that.

Rehash and Relax, Another Tale of Gusty and his Starry Gaze

I don't know his name, but I've known him through comfortable eye contact for about three years now. It's a 'smile and nod' relationship with a little something extra. As if we were pretending not to know each other. I've spoken to him enough to lose his name in a thick brush of accent and to learn he turned up here from India years back, to look for a better life. I know him from dumpster diving in the daytime.

Today was something very new.

I opened my hatchback to pick up a painting I had put together on glass. The glass was hot from the stay in the car, but I lifted and headed into work, because they all wanted to see it. As I approached the doors I saw his skinny legs like tree trunks growing from the dumpster. I laughed. When the air conditioning met the glass in my hands, it instantly shattered, leaving my hands full of slivered glass and blood. They all looked at me with that, "this kid can't catch a break lately" look, and all I could do was smile. At this point, these things are very funny to me. Keep the punches coming. I'm a masochist.

I washed my bloody hands and wrapped gauze around them to soak the spills. Pulled out the shards, headed to Register for the end of my shift.

He's over at Petco now, collecting bottles and trying to make conversation with the pretentious white folk in the Lexus. My attention drifts from my wounds to his attempts at tête-à-tête, and directly to the old woman buying Soy milk.

She looked at my hands, reached out and held them. The wrinkles under her eyes, like power lines. I imagined birds resting on them. "You are young, you will heal. I just hope I can finish the food I buy before I die", she says as she looks past me, over my shoulder. She lures me in with a finger curl and whispers in my ear, "St Peter is knocking on my door. I'll be with him very soon".

I drop my elbows to the counter with comfort and sift through her change for her. I'm photo-introduced to her four grandchildren and her poorly organized purse, and we discuss the fleeting options of hope and health. And she appreciates my smile and good intentions. She tells me their aren't many like me, she can see it in my eyes. My line disperses in frustration as we hugged like old friends. I helped her to her car, turned down a dollar tip, and my attention drifts to my Indian friend who's name I don't know. He's watching and smiling. He knows.

I walked up to his beaming smile and we walked together naturally, with a connection and expectation I cannot translate to words, and we headed to the back of the store. We had just bagged up bananas, bread and OJ, so I went in and took enough for the two of us. We sat in silence and broke bread and soaked in the sun. I went back inside, punched out and walked away. I heard the sound of cans dragging on pavement and thought of a car with "Just Married" written on it, dragging aluminum over cobblestone.

All day I had been greasing my palms with my forehead, now leaving it quite crimson. Exhaustion struck. Life in general made my knees shaky and I sat on the curb. On the warm Shrewsbury pavement, I slept in the warm luminosity. The ubiquitous feeling that life is beautiful and tragic took hold of my joints and told them it was quitting time. The moment was a bona fide masterpiece.

The sunlight oversaturated the license plate as I awoke in time to see the car strike the cat. The feline was struck but not run over, and as my blurry eyes reminded me of where I fell asleep, my weary legs told me it was time to punch back in. My Indian friend was across the lot, but saw the hit and run, and he ran.

The feline saw the gutter as womb, and crawled onto it's side hoping to find an answer.

I picked the cat up, ignoring the wounds, the germs. Ignoring them to hold the animal in time for it to die in my arms. It looked up at me, and then the little guy died. That moment is frozen. I think of the old woman, the dreamer by my side, the driver who fled the scene. I wonder what he had for lunch, what he was listening to in the car. I wonder if the woman will die with the quickness of the cat, and if the painting breaking was just a metaphor. The dried blood. The bread.

All this death, all this life. All the moments where the two meet. Existence, it has no pyramid of value. To exist is to exist, whether you are in a Mercedes or a dumpster.

He looked at me with compassion and took the dead being from my grasp.

We dug a hole together in the shade of the trees, language barrier in place, and held a funeral with Jim Beam and crusts of bread. I named the cat "Jack", because the author is always on my mind, and couldn't help thinking I was burying the old woman at the register. My grandfather. Myself.

We collapsed to our knees and prayers from India were thrown into the breeze. I cried with a man who came looking for a better life. He realized, like we all do, that there is only life. There is no better or worse. It's the myth of "meant to be".

Being a pro-war pundit means never having to say you’re sorry

"Scrape/Scrape/Clatter"

Says the nickel to the dime to the penny for your thoughts on a mahogany press- with a chime-of fathers dirty desk in the mornings clean light. If you look away too soon, from the script, I mean, you'll miss the crescent moons imprinted on the steering wheel that our fingernails leave.

I woke up there, under ol'fathers desk, the one that contains the glass of bullets that sit, reminding us that Poppy tried real hard but ultimately quit. He poured his feathers on a wall and decided to dive because he saved his frequent flier miles and despised the sky.

So his pocket change and glance did the prettiest little dance with the screen quite-squeaky-faucet-leaky like the chatter around a newly signed peace treaty. If the wound was silence then my dad made a suture out of whispers spreading change just like Martin Luther.Not with a nail and a door but with pocket change for Gatorade while I slept on his office floor, his religious (pocket) change comes in the form of carbs flavoured lemon/lime.

Right quick, I got up..

Right quick, said the blur/

--- to think of the place I woke up the morning before.

(in my head)

Because that bed

(and it's biblical sheets)

Mean a lot to me already with a clever trace of urban irony.

Today it was here and tomorrow hopefully there, where it was yesterday, I'm trying to say. And in two days maybe my new place where I'm moving today, but maybe in a few, on the weekend I mean, I'll be basking again, where I hope to be tonight, I mean. Of course, the ubiquitous and the obligatory are never far apart, like a starter pistols smoke and the race for another's heart.

Hark! Bob barks because of the commute of the fleas, who are on their way to work in his wildest dreams. His paws carry nails that flail to no avail,skin is red and irritated contrasting the pale, and faded skin that lies within, all the fur on his belly tell him that these bastards mean buisiness. They jump real fast to poor Bob's dismay, as he rakes his black lawn rolling from sun to shade. They move like Fred Astair up the east side just to frolic while he squeals and does a dance on the west side. In past tense, he lost it, could've hit play but he paused it. He puts your trays back up, chairs in the upright position, he has no concept of the pocket change as I continue to listen.

These are noises from the floor, Chapter 4, Thoughts in my head about her, Chapter 6, about the world outside and how they gave the dialogue to Chapter 9.

So ripple:ripple+gleam says the sky to the trees,

Who returns the favor by extending branches (s)mothered with leaves, to do a dance{dance}dance quite choreographed, like a late night talk show that seems improvised upon a glance.

Like floss through teeth we dream,

We screen---

Our calls, our thoughts,

Like the movie of the meek

We plan---

We intend, what we show in the end,

Is a little boy who reaches for the sky,

Sending his best regards from his mother to the highest bidder,

Like the apple in his fathers tide.

And when we get/get/get/get/get to the squeaky screen with the oil to pave quiet thoughts for our memory to read...

From the page: page/page>>

Like it was all the rage!

We fall in spine and match our mothers pride, like we're the prettiest little black dress to mismatch the fall line.

Scrape/Scrape/Clatter

Ripple/Ripple/Clatter/Gleam

Says the metal money to the wooden trees to my head to the Bible sheets.

20

"One way the poor can help themselves would be to be in control of the size of their families."

Above all else, I respect radical decision makers. They might work, or they might backfire, but they're going to be bold choices. I've been biting my tongue in cheek watching washed up lifers with hub cap halos taking a ride on the Mass Dike in the shadows of geriatric male pole dancers. You heard me. I've always skipped class.

15 paces, turn, and draw. Keep your eye on the prize, it's mutual appreciation. The removal or expulsion of accidental human action on purpose while maintaining an emotional distance is neither healthy for one or the other. But it's the one I hold close to my heart that makes all the difference in the world. The one who marks keys with nail polish and holds dearly all the inside jokes.

All Roddenberry optimistic with big giant philosophical ambition. Pop that aims a little higher. The sweet spot. A train of thought wreck. A two timing alt-cowboy with a glock and distorted visions of his father fly fishing during the
Eisenhower administration. He stares down the gay guy wearing the life-partner beater, planning on crashing the civil union that his daddy wove fake flies for. It's the unfortunate side effects of a free style sour note. Family secrets make you so washed up, you're reversed and dirty.

Control-Alt-and Eat. Cap lock and yell, givem hell! Looming large is never far behind, so quityerbellyachin, and stand tall. It's nobodies fault. It happens. An informative tease on the space and muffled banter after unexpected chemical influence can spit fire on your early morning. This won't erase June, but it won't hinder our Septembers. No need to crumble on either end, but honesty and straight forward thinking is required as far as I'm concerned. Not a choice, but a role, and certainly a responsibility that I was always fit to, but never had a chance to fit into. Sorry is not the word, fore there must be one ten times bigger. But the frog in my throat reproduced and I cry for not one, but three.

And now we move on, and smile! Knuckles were made to wipe away and let the skins folded cracks enclose either blood or salty water. The upside is full of wonder, and the future will be held hard and embraced. No time to waste!

More effective relief is on the way. Jack is remaining nimble while taking the quick down a notch, blaming the late shipment on Hispanic temperament. Perfect casting for the re-boot. Boy don't cry, well don't pay any attention to my last call behavior. I haven't absorbed it yet. It was a long night with such brazen support even in the shadows of shots while I was away on a curb. The next day required the headache of a lifetime and tears into a fan on high. But my biggest/newest fan, whom I admire and soak into, knows that that moustache was unwavering and astounding. Too hot to handlebar? Sugar, you know it. I'm right where I want to be.

20 is the Route to my Heart. 9 outta 10 inadequate homebodies agree…

The curriculum is age-appropriate

Current mood: yes please

I'm the founder of an artistic movement painting discreet vomiting while carrying on apropos conversation amidst accommodating co-workers through bathroom doors. And yes, while that seems quite downtrodden in an attention seeking way, I declare, "What meaningful movement isn't, and hey, it's something we can all do together". This isn't Andy's 'Factory', it's Matt's 'Sweat Shop'. And while basking in the shadows of meandering vernacular, while pretentious and self aggrandizing, I admit, I lose myself in this manboys Leonidas complex, the arrogant bastard, I think, while killing a bottle of jack on a balcony overlooking the racist implications of White City under a very black sky.

So this artistic movement hinges upon others drug problems while I search for that bottle of southern comfort, because, well, he's getting chatty and I'm getting thirsty. I brought up a dangerous subject among new people to which there is no turning back, but I kept my nose clean, this I promise. He's not pulling in the reigns, he's pulling in more chit chat about his sex life, and matching it with his polo to show the easy girls,surely,that he's hard to get with a hard on, well dressed (poorly). His vernacular, as pretentious as previously stated, and dare I say, in rival to mine, is an illuminating introductory essay to why business minded salesman tend to ruin my nights(life). I hate buisiness, for the record. I hate what it does to peoples character, but i suppose thats an oxymoron. I'll never go full time, i won't marry a company when a one night stand for a paycheck makes more sense. If he went public I wouldn't buy his stock with stolen Cash, which the cliché, the Johnny kind, is on his stereo, but he only plays the popular tunes to which he knows not the name right or the lyrics even, for that matter. For the hundredth time dude, it's not "Lake of Fire".

And I took a brake from writing this to think of the apartment that I have but have yet to sleep in, and my father calls out to which I reply 'yes' to a boat ride. I pick up my dog (myspace.com/blackbobbarker) like luggage and head for liquid hills with a gasoline engine. I am not that, I say while looking upon the building I was at from a boat, on the same lake I threw up into last night from said building. I do not run on the same oil, I have found an alternative that is similar from the outside but oh so different. And the Cousens Administration will send young men overseas to fight for said alternative, I assure you. Your brothers funeral will not be in vein while I continue to age. So, we yell apropos from a boat. And on the meta4ical nightstand we leave a handwritten note, that says thanks for the fuck for a buck, and we lift up the bedsheet and tuck.I will give these gentlemen the benefit of the doubt, as it dawns on me what dusk does, what luck!

I said, on that balcony, not to underestimate me through all your banter that only you laugh at. He was happy to find an adversary, or a formidable opponent who was confident but stylistically modest with an image but no care for said image. Honestly. And I said, I pinpoint, but I do not judge. Bullshit!, he cried. I said, you know, you are right. The sonavabitch was/is right. I judge, the sarcastic/cynical/hopeful/honest/raw/patontheback motherfucker that I am, I judge.

I admit.

I figure most people out on the right quick. People hide, they fear, they have a face and a mask because they've/we've been burned before for being honest. Well, burn me, I say. I will remain this way, I will set fires and put them out. I will throw bricks and uncross arms, and fix the holes. The holes need to be made! We learn everything about ourselves during the patch up, don't you see how beautiful it all is?! He got me! He was right! He was drunk and obnoxious, but he was raw and honest. He put on a face because he's been burned. He loves business because he has nowhere else to turn. He is scared. I was, but I'm not. Put a hole in me, I'll be more whole for it.

Don't you see how beautiful it is?

He got me!

I admit! It's a precursor, a rhythm, to recombine who's hip to it. I want to appreciate others thought processes, I want to grow so that you can cut me down so I can grow back thicker!

How apropos, how you twist and turn common theme, stealing the beginning for the ending like a common thief!

I am completely free from superstition. Nobody truly ranks with Plato's republic for depth and insight, sorry fella. But you have the advantage of writing 2000 some odd years later. Go home and tell your mom you love her for chrissakes. When you get there,picture me putting my hand yay high and telling you that you need to be this tall to ride said ride. Painkillers are a mans best friend, but lord knows i love my dog too. I made him a myspace for pete's sake. I don't even know a pete.

It's just the way my mind works in the shadow of near alcohol poisoning. Bend over, the kid likes it banal.

For the first time in your life, "if" is your ally

Hastily assembled and classical men mean the same exact thing. And our words, even the breathless and slow motion ones, are bleeding the blood of influence. What would our words be otherwise? They are not ours to keep. Everyday is an exercise in humility. It's not for the sake of a step forward, but reacting to the idea of falling one back. Unless you really think about it...

And that's ok. Poise and poison seems to have been jettisoned. You can't move into the structure (the beast/the game)without overproducing and marketing and glossy photoshopped eyes. Cheeky smiles and ass kissing for a mortgage, if you will. Unless you really think about it...

She shielded her face with a left hand/swoop up. As her hand formed a vertical bridge with a wedding band as a bolt, she ignored my attempt at a receipt handover and told me, "You remind me of the beatniks, the ones who cut their donuts in half and buttered them in San Francisco. And I know you're an artist, I can tell. And I feel a vibe in you that is quite unlike the others"

There are more ways to eliminate the middle man than they think. I have marshmallow gums that harbor blood like Jews behind barbed wire and a heart surrounded with coronary damage, knees coated with itchy downfall. churn your stomach, churn yard. We may have been built to fail, but we can swing like prize fighters and live like no other. We can unleash what we have, give it to others, find meaning. We can paint silly pictures, even ones on ourselves that last forever. We can dock inside jokes at a haven and lie side by side on cotton and dream. We can dance through missteps. We can. We will. Watch.

It's easy. Life is easy. Just watch. Pushing up daisies is no option, I'd rather hand them over. And I keep picking scabs and ignoring said medical issues, debts, aspirations, responsibilities. But look at how lost and unhappy they all are. Lost in jobs and other people, in a bogey marsh. Shape up or ship out is a myth (like meant to be) and much of your jib isn't cut up to par.

But I'll do something great. It won't be important to anyone but me and a few, but I will ignore the flaws in the design and look back with an exhale and a hazy eye. This I promise. I may be headed up hill, but I haven't even entered the shadow of my heyday. I see beauty on the horizon. I see hands held. I see clarity. If only because I won't stop until the motion does, and I won't stop this car until the fucking wheels fall off. When all you care about is Discerning comeuppance, you've got a whirlwind, sugar.

The wooden spoon from a hoodsie cup, you've either got or lost it, found or forgot it. Like the leafy hipster in NYC that ride no brake bicycles just cause brakes aren't 'hip'. Poor sap.

I admit my flaws. I accept my problems as my fault, even if they truly are the problems brought on by a structure I have no business being in. This is no Mecca of my own. I am the Wizard of my Oz. Fame means watching where you put your fingers. You know this.

"I'm Stephen Malkmus, and I lengthen my shorts for no one"---Oh the art of avoiding hipster scorn.

This I trust. Whether hastily assembled or classical. You better starve to get hungry. I've got love and ideas, a pure need to get them out, and a little bit of crazy. And when the follow through comes in with dawn you'll all bask in the entire sordid, enthusiastically blasphemous and therapeutic size ups on linoleum.

Allow me to illustrate. I'm fucked up, and it's all unclear, but I'm thoroughly happy. Not just because of her, but because I'm not afraid. I don't feel what pressure feels like. Expectation and potential are lost in this understanding of what I know will happen. However unclear, I can't wait. And it will happen for you too, if you need it to. It's not a matter of want anymore. I'm not afraid. We will stay or move, be rich or poor, find ourselves within a new environment or grow in the shadows of our own, with sun light or without. It's all drenched in outside influence, but through commentary and comedy…through a clearly pov with a never ending open mind and a hunger for over saturation and overwhelming, …. We will win.

I promise. This isn't naïve, this is no looking back. This is a decision made to win at all cost, in what form? That, i'm not going to tell. The ink is still drying, and i hope it always will remain a tad wet off the press. The isn't re-invention for the sake of marketing a new album, it's recording because you need to vomit thought. Whether you get me or not, does not matter. There is no offense taken. I'm just asking that you discover who you are outside of influence and wear it on your sleeve. Take your lumps and run with them. You're beautiful. Get up for more. Self evaluate while understanding others. Grow. Punch. Get hit. Rebuild. Road trip it. Photograph it. Wear it. Fuck. Chill. Ask. Tell. Do not harbor, let go. Do not judge, understand. Do not blame, take blame and move past it. What's around the corner will shock you, but if your head aint up honey, it won't ever sink in. Even though it hurts. Move past it.

And here's the kicker: Charles Manson took over 150 hours of Scientology courses, rejected it as too crazy, and then went on to murder a whole bunch of people.

Jimminy

Each rivet banged out sounds to me like the bell in between rounds of boxing. It's the entry of the rhythm fantastic. There's no time for chit-chat, hit that! Why is my hand shaking? Exhale. Hurts. Fuck.

Quick!

Sidebar.

What to do when anxiety regarding your personal life strikes at 4 AM while at work.

1) Vomit in the lot. Sorry handicap logo.

2) Have a bizarre flashback sequence while doing so involving

A) The JFK headshot (w/a smooth transition into)

B) a duck diving head first under water at dawn (followed harshly by)

C) that time you broke your thumb in Disneyworld in 1988 (may not apply to all)

D) a cross-dressing dermatologist (applies to all)

E) if uncomfortable with D, replace with the Prince Charles/Di wedding.

3) Back to reality. Grab a hammer.

4) For good measure, have one more quick flashback to Captain Bob, that nautically themed artist you used to watch at 5 am when you were a kid.

5) Question how you got inside the building when the last thing you remember is being 40 feet away from the door. Blame flashbacks. Get a grip.

Jiminy Cricket, it's dawn. The screws get warm when the drill has it's way, and Siamese Dream is lifting my mood. Bad habits, dagnabbit. Christian, I'm sorry. So selfish. So selfish. Break Time.

1) Hand. Front right pocket-pull-open-lighter. Mouth. Cig/burn/burn/exhale/stomach acid/burn/burn/flick. Coffee/sip/sip/erase acid/puke/sip/cig/drag/etc.

2) See 1.

3) Approach door. Stop. Walk away. Notice the echo of the sound of a car not starting and pay close attention to how your shadow wraps itself around poles like it's your lover at dawn. Disregard. Another cigarette? Yes please.

This has become a veritable cornucopia of fuck. It's all become cinematography in my head. When I'm quiet, I'm filming, shooting. You're all extras. Some of you are much, much more. Jesus, are you. So while I'm exchanging war stories and showing off scars I'm realizing that I certainly don't want to come to grips with a dead giveaway. But all this hootin an' hollerin is giving me a headache. Square zero.

These so called real men put their organic gallons in plastic bags. They can't even handle it.