Thursday, September 20, 2007

A Journal in Ireland (part 1)

The Brazen Head is the oldest pub in Ireland. Many other pubs claim this fact, but any real local will tell you The Head is the oldest. Brian, my redheaded friend, told me to meet him at such a pub. All three of us kids were nervous because of the high volume of pubs claiming the very same claim the Head holds. Our nervousness, also stretched from the infinite possibilities in the way of thwarting Brian’s quest to meet us, grew to anxiety. We had been traveling for more than 12 hours. Originally missing our train From Barcelona to Madrid, we could only afford first class tickets to a train leaving two hours later. Afford is the correct word choice, because if we left a moment later we would then miss our flight from Madrid to Dublin. Arriving in Madrid we ran to our Metro train, ran to the connection, and ran all the way down the terminal causing my back to flood like a hurricane rocked dam. I carried thirty pounds on my back, which is nothing compared to say a military hike or hardcore backpacking, but can ruin a traveler in extreme conditions. Making it to the plane the moment prior to departure was beautiful and we were all very thankful, but physically exhausted.

Kent, Amy and I found the pub after many attempted bus catching. The golden sign at the front was as magical as finding the Wizard of Oz. I didn’t seem overly sparkly, but the subtle shimmer drew my attention into a drunken stare. We walked through the archway to an outside patio. Not a single women could be seen, only tables of older men each extra with a Guinness. They shouted and laughed back and forth, but kept to their seats, bringing a slight order to the chaos… yet no sight of the lad. We walked inside first hearing voices crooning along to the band in front, and second we witnessed a full bar on a Tuesday. Irish men and women waving their beers, it was a scene from a movie. The moment we all stepped in, full of sacs, we realized that our unusual dress for a pub was drawing attention. What are these kids with semi bright clothes with huge backpacks doing at a bar? I’m quoting their eyes. Even the duo playing the steel flute and fiddle front and center of the bar turned their heads to us. We searched every head quickly not to attract more attention than we were receiving, but the only heads was brazen nothing red.

We checked in fifteen hundred more places. The pub lead us into secret rooms, hallways, bathrooms, offices, luxury couches and wooden block tables. I wondered how often the rooms were actually used. Of course we were still empty a redhead. I asked the bartender for two Guinness, and if she had seen an American redhead. She started her response like a gunshot went off accidentally in her hand and ended it her speech just as quickly, “You wouldn’t believe how many Americans I’ve seen today. It’s amazing the tree hugging hippies! This spot is too much a tourist trap.” Funny, I couldn’t see any Americans but my two friends and I saw one more in the mirror in the bathroom.

I starred at her pouring technique. Two glasses flipped in air while she looked directly at a fellow employee. She slammed two joining tabs and without even paying attention to the majesty beneath her, black magic filled the pint. Stopped her pour an inch below the pint line, my heart broke. What, this is a real pint of Guinness? But I was wrong, because she was only letting the head evaporate for the time being. I would soon learn that all Guinness is poured like that. A proper pint entails a pour to the top, waiting for exactly thirty one seconds and then topping the glass off. Us Americans should take a tip from the Irish and kill the head.

I grabbed the glasses before Amy grabbed my arm. With a slack-jaw grin she pointed me in the direction of the man with red hair. All smiles, hugs ensued… gigantic hugs. A man sitting alone behind us stood up and with a loud mouth he cheerfully said “I never get a welcoming like that.” His wide arms suggested it was time for his hug. This wholly creped Amy out, so she turned around. I couldn’t leave a local hanging so I drew him in for a one handed hug. He made it a little more than I intended it to be. I politely said hi, and by as quickly as possible so I could turn around to speak with the friend that made it from San Francisco.

It was epic; he bought two more Guinness for Amy and himself. We raised our glasses like we were about to sing an old jig and drank down sweet nectar.

Saturday, July 14, 2007


garlic chicken tomatoes basil pesto spinach dough flour oregano mozzarella ricotta

Tuesday, July 03, 2007


As most of my online friends may have noticed my absence, it was due to the explosion of computer. The worst part was that it decided to explode, after years of good service, in the heart of finals. I had to race to the finish line to keep my graduation tassels in order, pass my tests, write my essays, work at the restaurant, smoke pot and celebrate my birthday. I didn’t sleep for an entire week. Since then I haven’t needed a computer as much so it hasn’t been too hard. But with my ever increasing desire to be published with the magazine I edit, the tour I am booking for my band and the ever increasing goose bumps popping up all over my body in attempt to let my mind know I need to accomplish some degree of preparation for my upcoming European trip – a need has flourished yet again.

Yesterday my new laptop arrived the moment I told my brother I needed to use his for a couple hours. He said half jokingly that the doorbell could be the answer to my electronic problems. He was actually right though. I say “actually” because it wasn’t supposed to ship for another week and a half. Pretty tits eh! So, soon you will see me on aim a lot more; my nerd junky is back with a force greater than my dick.

This thing is awesome. It has Window’s Vista with an Intel core due processor. Hell yeah! Two gigs of that stuff, plus two gigs of memory and two batteries (a six cell and a whopping twelve cell lithium). It runs unbelievable smooth and has graphic content comparable to a Mac I’ve ever seen. It’s pretty much hella sexy.

Now I can get to the important things, like all the shit I mentioned. Now to final edit Travis’s article!!!

Sunday, June 24, 2007

Become a Published Writer!!!!! Jack and Jill Magazine

email me two samples of your writing at i will read over them, and send you a short assignment for you to complete, after that you can contribute and we will look into what role or niche you would be at best filling.
the magazine is 1/2 maxim, 1/2 cosmo called "Jack and Jill." The difference with our mag is we want to be much more edgy and satirical, focusing on better prose and interesting writing. I am in charge of the guys side, I am the editor of 1/2 the mag and also a contributor. My current job is to find talented writers. Our projected publish date is October 1st, but we have already released a teaser/pilote mag for ads and bank. We want to pay our staff, but we can't until we publish. We are currently working on getting articles to show more advertisors. So if you would like to be a part of the staff, you would start immediatly in writing entries on the subjejct of mens health... jokes, comentary, girls, stories, reviews etc... emai me with any questions, or call 9255750813
we currently have 2 hired and 5 people looking into it, were hoping for as many as possible

Wednesday, June 20, 2007

Chico, Chico

Chico is such a small town, it has the power to remind people of passing minute details. Just now I passed by the same scruffy bearded skateboard punk I passed by in the same spot earlier on route to my apartment. This time I was leaving, but we locked eyes for a split second right at the dirt mound connecting the path to the fields behind legacy.

Not much happens here in town but you can bet it happens twice… whatever that may be. Here, it’s the thought that entered my mind and also his. I keep on walking though, my head filled with dreams of bigger things and better days. Luckily, my need was filled a mere fifteen minutes later. During the time between, I neither saw nor heard a single sole. But alas, I find myself in accord with a women looking at me from ahead. Both are feet touch the first bar of white paint on the crosswalk at the same time on Warner street; this is human time. It’s as if we have structured our lives so similarly; we do things without any known connection until we all end up at the same place and the same time.

We like to think we never planned these outcomes and we think highly of our supposed individuality, but there are simply too many people living equivalent lives. We don’t know this in our hearts; we would like to think otherwise, but too often I find myself yelling at the driver of the car who stopped to my right at the four way stop. Screaming from inside my car at four in the morning it is clearly his turn to go, the DMV told me so! When we stop at the same time it’s your move jerk-off! Still, I can’t help but think his inability to drive is directly caused by the sincerity of the impeccable timing we as creatures seem to possess. He doesn’t know it, and I sure as hell didn’t know it, sitting there in the heat of traffic before the sun has risen; but our actions show it. It’s inescapable – our connectivity. We all love and hate different things, and that’s exactly what frogs, llamas, fish and possibly aliens don’t.

I can only draw one conclusion, and in conclusion, my conclusion is somebody else’s conclusion.

Tuesday, May 29, 2007

Davis Loop (first step)

Spinning around downtown and the houses, enjoying The Davis Loop's people scenery and the like, zoning out under dehydration from previous calorie expenditures, exhausted and worn thin, not from harm but from love, not aware of my present description, longing for my hunger to subside, looking ahead in time, denying my immediate past and long overripe drifted memories, succumbing to the authority of a circumference of thought, long awaited, delirious but ready, lose enough to perceive everything hidden; i look inside myself.

Monday, May 28, 2007

Expression (an introduction)

Expression is difficult. It takes keen insight from inside oneself to even begin trying, because many express but few express themselves. Such people are few and far between regarding right course of action, but most if not all on some level are faking. Even if subject (A) is not aware he is faking, he is faking his true self.
Self reflection is like walking through a thorny patch of roses. Cuts will happen before any perfume reaches the nose, and if one waits to long to delve or dive the necessary deep, one will experience a rotting devoit of any beauty. Too much reflection constitutes inauthenticity (see Sartre Being and Nothingness), but too little is something else entirely. The less and less one reflects, the less one is fully conscious of his or her experience. One must be aware of the lenses one see's through, because none are the same. There is no good and bad perciever though, there is only the ones who percieve and the ones who fully consciously percieve. The latter by definition has a more rich constitution. This is true, because at some level we all are interpreting reality, and most interpretation is subconscious. No matter if there is this thing we observe as reality or not, we are putting our own labels, ideas and connections into what enters our experience. We filter information like a silk screen. The key here is getting to know your silk screen. One must look at what is left, what is filtered away, what is before any filtering and what is there afterward. If you can do this you can self reflect, because the obvious consequence of filter reflection is knowledge of oneself in relation to everything.
Knowledge is just as much a burden as a benifit. Many don't want to know what roasts deep beneath the surface because of the harsh potential burdens one might have to face, but no matter what, eveyone must face such information. Left unchecked, said info rotts away until the smell is so bad it seeps into the well sealed vents of the conscious and appears in the oddest of ways. When you reach the level of a rotten mind, a safe trip home is difficult. Expression becomes acting in ways one can't control, wholly the opposite of what one truley wishes.

Monday, March 26, 2007

Couch Bandits

Tyler, Nick, and I arrive via taxi to a popping Chico party. It was a girl’s birthday, she had lots to imbibe, but I had no taste for her. This unknown female had aged whisky, beer, wine… name it, I could have drank it all. But I had to have whisky with a couple of rocks, a timeless drink since my pre-party drinking had already deluded my time space continuum, but more so since this other cute girl who looked like Velma from Scooby Do was pouring me a glass. My first impression of her was that I wanted to solve a mystery and then bone while thinking about justice. But I knew my oddly animalistic yet moral instincts had to subside, so we talked for a while.

She asked me why I drank. An odd question I thought, I asked her why she drank. She told me she wanted to forget the sober day behind her even though the intoxicant didn’t help a bit. She replied so quickly, I drew two conclusions. First, I knew she was telling the truth, and second, her personality was false. I chose her to mingle with because she looked different from the twenty airbrushed blond college girls across the hall, but her personality was no different. In my sarcastic state I replied “I drink to hit on girls who look like Velma from Scooby do.”

She didn’t understand what I meant. Even her dark rimmed glasses and quirky demeanor couldn’t fake smarts. She was a hack, a fake, a con artist. She didn’t know anymore than the dumb blond across the room, which scared me. Maybe I should try for someone way, way outside my league, and lose the hot but overly begging crime solving mistress. I was unsure of myself, and worst of all my stereotyping radar was striking out.

I told her she scared the shit out of me after I kissed her softly. Then I exited stage right. I left her attention to steal as much food, booze and pumpkin insides as I could humanly possible. After a couple hours Tyler had stolen a hat and he was “tired of it.” I supposed he meant that he was tired of the party so we quietly left out the backdoor. To Tyler’s dismay the dude who he stole from found us and was holding Tyler’s sunglasses. Begrudgingly Tyler traded hat for sunglasses so we could leave.

I thought the night was finished; I always do the first moments my feet make motion in the direction of home, but this night was slightly different. This was the first time all three roommates were out together, heavier from fermentation and grains, on a mission to get home. After walking four blocks, we passed 9th and noticed something that wouldn’t usually catch any of our eyes. Two beautiful couches lay on the porch of the house at the corner. One of the reasons why we party is because there are three roommates, and we only own one love seat. We can fit more people inside the toaster oven then we can on the thing we call our couch. Our comfort had not even matched the broke college student budget we flaunted. We were living a failed American dream with our cushy rights degraded. We were without decency; we were without comfortable seats. We needed a couch since the beginning, we needed to be comfortable, we needed those two beautiful couches laying gracefully in front of our eyes, we needed there to be a moment when reality failed to consist of rules, we needed to be happy. Our mission, under the despotism of a glance and an idea, changed.

In an act of semi-drunken desperation Nick and Tyler grabbed the closest couch and proceeded to walk down the street. I knew at that moment I desired either to be the one who stole a couch and walk over a mile to get home with it, or the one who got arrested for one of the most ill thought out drunken schemes in my history of activities. Not necessarily the best idea, since the alcohol in our system had depleted any extra oxygen we would need. Luckily, they realized this early, and dropped that shit onto the sidewalk.

Try as we little, we couldn’t move the couch any further. But once you’ve got the taste of couch you can’t rinse it out. It lingers there for hours, like a vampire’s blood thirst. Almost every step home, someone mentioned the word couch in connection with stealing. After a not-so-careful deliberation we decided we were going to walk to Rio Chico St., steal the nearest couch, and carry it all the way home.

On the way to destiny two drunken plastics crossed our path. I asked one of them if she was a giraffe. Not that she was tall, I just wanted to convey that I knew she has, will, or may have had the property of giraffedom. Angry, one of them said “You can’t have this.” To which Tyler replied “I don’t want no giraffe babies.” By then they had vanished into downtown to eat some leaves in high up places or something. We take it upon ourselves to be the enemies of the soulless beautifuls who drain the air out of downtown, but this didn’t shift our focus. Our minds still locked into the thought of owning a couch in the most ridiculous of ways. We walked to Rio, we found the perfect couch, and we scoped out the situation only to find people inside the house. It was still only 1:30, upon checking my cell phone I realized that I could still make a beer run.

I related to my town very well. I don’t have a car, but everything is in walking or biking distance. Since I am never operating heavy machinery I am afforded more opportunity to do whatever I want more often (if you catch my drift). I live kiddy-corner to the main Chico bike path. It runs parallel to campus and leads into downtown housing. Then parallel to the path on the opposite side is the train tracks. Which means I live as close as possible to a rock concert five times a night. Luckily, I have tuned out the sound. For emotional revenge though, we throw our beer bottles at the rockin’ locomotive every time it rolls by.

The gang and I walked to Star liquor, bought the cheapest twelve pack they had, pounded several on the way back to Rio Chico, and when we arrived we waited patiently with our brew. The absence of a sizeable moon, and streetlights made this stakeout easier than stealing a hot mother from a baby. We were directly in front of the house, in silence, sitting straight up, eyes glued to the window in front of us. Outside and below the window was the couch we wanted; inside the window was the resemblance of two dudes rolling a blunt.

We sat and thought about how the property rights for the blunt smoking, outside couch owning individuals sitting clueless in front of us would soon change. Rio Chico is the closest street to the southwest side of campus (I live northwest), and sits perpendicular to the bike trail. The river separates Rio Chico from campus. Not twenty feet from the house in question was a fence that yielded enough room to carry a sizeable couch twenty more feet to the tracks. We would be seen only as long as it takes to reach the fence. After that we would be free from any suspicious eyes wandering late night Rio. The tracks would render us incognito under the darkening of nearby houses.

We each had a beer, and by the completion of our brew the blunt was rolled and torched. Two men smoking a blunt at two in the morning equals two tired individuals. One of them walked into the other room, presumably to jerk off and sleep, the other passed out on the couch. It wasn’t even thirty seconds after his eyes shut before we were on his porch. The moment my hands touched the couch I thought about the state I was in and the states of my teammates. I only had several beers and a glass of whiskey, so I could hold my own… easily. Tyler was decently sober, but he had definitely crossed the “shlacka lacka” boundary (point at which Tyler screams “shlacka lacka” for no reason and laughs more often than he utters coherent speech). Nick was in Nick mode. He has trouble understanding what is going on at all points and times. I usually find this funny and try to play off of it during parties. However, I realized that all this was only the spark we needed to live dangerously, and away from the days our asses will be locked into unique indents left on the cushions of our prey. This moment was more important than the utility we would soon gain.

Tyler ducked down below the window and pushed the couch forward until he was no longer in view of the sleeping stoner. We picked the couch up and walked with charisma in the direction of the fence until Nick screamed “Holy shit!” I dropped the couch and looked back, but there was no one outside. False alarm I guess, but that scared me like AIDS. Nick didn’t realize that I only wanted him to give me the signal if we were in actual trouble. Nick and Tyler picked up the couch as I directed them to the bridge. We made it.

Then we immediately dropped the couch on the tracks. Tyler wanted to declare victory. I was a bit skeptical, but if I were arrested I would be content with the consequences. We sat down on the couch, Tyler and Nick smoked a cigarette and I took a picture on my cell. We chilled for a minute until my anxiety raised higher than I wished. I wanted the couch home before I could rest. My anxiety caught Tyler’s attention, which caused a critical idea. Tyler decided to push the couch on the rails of the train tracks. It was perfect, no carrying required. The couch wasn’t heavy heavy, but we knew we wouldn’t last the whole distance carrying anything more than a pack of twelve-ounce cans. Tyler’s lungs have crystallized from all the glass dust he inhales at work in addition to the packs he smokes down daily. Nick and I were huffing and puffing as is. When one can’t breathe and the other two can’t breath, lifting a couch a mile proves that much more difficult. To compensate we each pushed an area of the couch forward effortlessly as the couch glided on the rail.

Looking straight ahead towards home pushing our newfound couch, I noticed a strong light pointed directly at us. The light moved slightly to the right and left of me, my hands tensed up; I let the couch fall off the rail, professional party crashers (PPC), the bitches in blue – police. Two cars were directly up ahead; they entered through the Nord Ave path connection. I freaked out. Maybe my prior argument for the night’s plan of action was a bit misguided. Maybe I don't want to be arrested tonight. Maybe I am not as down as I have previously thought. But enough contemplation, this is a time of action. I suddenly ran for the fence in hopes there was a hole. The dirt underneath my feet knew otherwise, because it gave out. I tumbled downhill nearly hitting my head on something sharp, steel and heavy. Oddly enough, the near early end of my night put me back in the game. In that moment I knew I was in fact devoted to the cause, because if I could just out run these cops and swoop in at the best possible future time, the couch would be mine.

We ran towards the path right into another cop car. The PPC intercom’d “Get off the train tracks, we have your couch.” Maybe these cops are really mad at three drunken kids upgrading their amount of comfort, when just down the rails dealers slang guns and dope.

The police came at just the right time, since we were only a few yards away from a break in the fence. We walked onto the path, but in the opposite direction of the cops. Both cars mysteriously ended up far down the path away from us. Strange, I thought. It seemed at first that both cars should be headed right where we were. They saw us moving a couch, they told us they had our couch after we ran away from it, and now the police are a four-minute walk down the path. We decided that it was in our best interest to flee like bandits, so we darted towards campus. All three of us hoped the next fence, hit the ground hard, and waited behind a ROTC training unit. Bright lights moved in all directions around us, but could never penetrate our immediate zone of safety.

We sat, waiting for days and months and minutes and seconds and years and days and seconds and minutes and months and days. We had no idea what was going on. Were the cops having a meeting on the path? Did that second car bring fresh donuts? Our dream coupled with our blood alcohol level forced one rash decision. We wanted to know what was stopping us from completing our mission. The next moment we were hoping back over to the path, back on our destiny.

“Shlacka Lacka!” exclaimed Tyler.
“What’s going on?” pondered Nick.
“Time to get arrested.” I quipped, though I was part sarcastic I was also part serious. I had already gone through a lot that night, and I was pretty much prepared for anything.

We closed in on the police, walking fast and keeping our heavy heads high. There were two cop cars, one cop outside, the other cop was no where to be seen. As we walked by the man in view Tyler exclaimed, “Hey, what is the couch doing there for no good reason. Could we take it off your hands? We’d do it for free my good man.” In stating this Tyler gave this party crasher’s cue to professionally take us down, because the cop immediately scoffed “I’m not dumb.” He grabbed Tyler and I, threw us on the couch and told Nick to stand against the police car.

“You’re the boys who moved this couch, I saw you. You can’t be moving couches on the train tracks… imagine what could have happened if a train came?” He handcuffed Tyler and I while keeping an eye on Nick. His radio beamed static every now and again he would answer back some stereotypical officer jargon, but he stopped long enough to let us know we weren’t their original target. He said the cops were out on the path at this time of night because some bum called in a domestic disturbance call. This whole predicament was all because of some dumb luck. Our great quest was thwarted by coincidence. He looked at me with disgust, but his looks faded fast.

The bastard didn’t even care about the couch bandits, he just wanted to move the couch and talk to some married bums. He let us go after a bit of stereotypical questioning. Right as Tyler broke his chains he asked the cop “So, since you’re doing nothing with that couch can we take it off your hands?” Nick and I laughed hard, but the cop took it a different way. He yelled back “Get the fuck out of here!” We quietly walked back to the apartment, guzzled some beers, and passed out only to find the next day the house we stole from had a new leather couch out on their porch.

Sunday, March 25, 2007

10 Albums

10 Rock Albums You Should Hear but Probably Haven’t

01 Refused
The Shape of Punk to Come
Aggressive rock charged, techno and jazz spiced anti-capitalist manifesto. Who knew a punk rock album could have a harmonium, upright bass and electronic interludes? This album is more than punk; it’s just blatantly awsome.

02 The Fire Show
Saint the Fire Show
“The Making of Dead Hollow” begins with a vocal only beatnik type poem into a murky, yet harmonized guitar coda, and “Deviator Feels like Crook” has the lyrics and riffs in reverse chronological order. Saint has the tendency to trick the listener into thinking the opposite will occur at every twist and slant The Fire Show ride, so ride this one.

03 Television
Marquee Moon
If you like to rock out with your rooster and other assorted barnyard animals in the vicinity, please do yourself a favor and play Marquee Moon on your loudest speakers. Rock music didn’t sound this pure since The Velvet Underground.

04 Interpol
Turn on the Bright Lights
One of the brightest shinning indie rock albums to have received more press than its contemporaries, and well deserved. Sounds like Joy Division more than most bands sound like their biggest influences, but this album trumps Joy Division like a pack of apes on a lone banana.

05 Modest Mouse
This Is a Long Drive for Someone with Nothing to Think About
This album will sweep you off into a drugged out semi-consciousness even when your bong is out of commission. The first song is not just lyrically about carsickness (“Dramamine”) but musically tends to induce images of short curvy roads. If you drive with this album on your mind will be somewhere completely different from the road your tires tread, but you will be on a road nonetheless.

06 Broken Social Scene
You Forgot it in People
Sounds like a collage of sounds pasted together tastefully enough not to mask the shy heart felt in the vocals. Leslie Feist is breathtaking and she is only one-tenth the talent.

07 Laddio Bolocko
The life and times of Laddio Bolocko
Laddio Laddio Laddio Bolocko! Three notes fired into glass shape shifted in sweltering heat over prolonged periods of brooding, looming and grooving. Every song is a mess you love to clean. Listen to this and find yourself bobbing your head in even repetition to chaos… Yes, it can be done.

08 TV on the Radio
Return to Cookie Mountain [Bonus Tracks]
Electronic, punk, indie and eerie atmospheric sounds all meshed together with enough clarity, you’ll think they started their own genre. Like 50’s and 60’s pop music, the instrumental here is primarily a force for accenting the full-bodied pipes at center stage. Tunde Adebimpe (with bandmate Kyp Malone, David Bowie etc) layers vocal patterns like an artist mixing paint for his perfect color, and he hits each and every color flawlessly. Apart from the vocals, the albums sounds nothing less than stunning as a whole, with funky horns that conger up images of Fela Kuti, bombastic percussion, sound modulated wind chimes, sitar and stand up bass to taste.

09 The Microphones
Glow, pt. 2
“We didn't talk and silently we both felt powerful, and like the moon my chest was full.” Softly sung under waves of brilliant low-fi imagery begging the listener to let oneself get swallowed by this gentle monster of an album. Phil Elvrum creates audio landscape, and all that is possible in perceptual experience is joined together without over-stepping into Gods territory. The album is his creation; opening its eyes from the first note and looks directly inward for substance while simultaneously looks outward for inspiration and conception.

10 The Liars
Drums Not Dead
Get lost in the dense soundscapes protruding from the artistry of three men, which mirror an army. Recorded in a bombed out Berlin Mineshaft turned recording studio, all sounds acquire a character uniquely their own including haunting echo’s and baroque, hovering vocals. As with the title, most songs are built upon heavy, tribal drums. The wild percussion symbolizes the romantic expression in contention with the unforgiving Mt. Heart Attack. Each song exposes the battle further with the mountain and drum competing for attention causing metaphysical disorder until the beautiful resolution of “The Other Side of Mt. Heart Attack.” The Liars vision of pure creativity fighting for breath in such a treacherous location mirrors their own unique vision and the stagnant music industry such art fights against.

Sunday, March 11, 2007

I'm Repeatedly Tired of Repititions

This life repeats a good mount more than i would like it too, but then again without any repetition i wouldn't be able to break free for a moment in between the action i just preformed. i can sulk a while longer than one who has only the time to look forward and worry. However, all this repetition has increased the likelihood i do, in fact, stress for more. This has caused a chain reaction in the electrical wiring in my brain to make a decision, not hasty, albeit I imagined i would wait longer. Problem is i can't wait any longer. I want to cut some time in between the repetitions that i go about, and in accordance with said principle i will be heading to the great continent of Europe. Fuck discrimination, i want to be every possible place i can see. Kent and I will be sleeping on the train at night and seeing all that we haven't yet before at day. Furthermore, i feel it is a repetition for me to go home over summer. You may know that i did no such thing last summer, in fact, i spent most of my time biding it in Chico over some lovely trees in the bright, but the summer before that i was well scarred of staying alone in Chico and it would be a repetition to do the same even a year after. Every summer should be new and spectacular in some way that i forecast. This summer is the beginning of a challenge i have yet to desire. This challenge is not unfamiliar to most, but those my age scare away from it like a gazelle from a tiger. I'm talking about life here people, get it straight. I'm talking about my hand; I think i may even be ready to throw some in the muck and take my chances with a new hand. No offense to my old cards, i just think i spilled a bit too much beer on them. I believe that my life hasn't even begun yet. I believe it will begin this summer, because i will be graduated from school, away from all constraints, living on my own, paying my own bills, i will be my own person. Like the politician who isn't constrained by the corporation that fed him his meal ticket because they fed another, i will be able to take the higher ground on any occasion. This is based upon the fact that i am in charge of me.

me me mine