Snapshots

I bought a Polaroid camera for two bucks. It came with 9 pictures in it already, but each one I took came out distorted and mangled and barely developed. Awesome.
Seeing as most film companies are ceasing production, such as Kodak and Polaroid, I figured film would be cheap. I stupidly forgot my economics. Film is so expensive now it's ridiculous. $20 for ten Polaroid shots and not worth it.
An average roll of film is $5 plus the cost to get it developed and onto a CD which is $4.50, almost ten dollars total.
I'm anxious, I guess. I like taking pictures with film, but one day, Target will remove their developing machines. Wal-Mart, CVS and others will soon follow. I'll have to buy film online and develop it in my dorm. Augh.
All artists are willing to suffer for their work, I guess.

---

I started taking pictures of homeless people as a photojournalistic thing. This always makes me nervous, that they will attack me or get insulted, which is worse. I don't want them to judge me for judging them.
I got two shots of unsuspecting homeless people, but then I went into a ditch and saw two old men drinking 40's and talking about how kids have no respect. I took snaps of all the graffiti in the area and then raised my camera to them.
"Don't take my picture. Get that fucking camera out of here! No respect!"
I asked the guy why not.
"You'll steal my spirit, like a native."
I reluctantly put my camera down and left. I still wish I had just taken the shot and I felt angry at homeless people for the rest of the day.
"Why are you upset about this?" My father asked. "They were psychotic. Who cares?"
J.R. was right when he said the camera is this generation's handgun.

---

I went with my father to Safeway to buy dishsoap. At the checkout, the cashier gave me a strange feeling of Deja Vu.
"Did I go to school with you?" He asked me.
"Ethan?" It clicked. He had tattoo sleeves and gages, but it was him.
"You in college?" I asked.
"PVCC."
The school we attended was a mile down the street. He probably never moved anywhere else.
Outside, my dad said, "Small world, huh."
"No, that just means nothing has changed."

---

My father told me about some guy from Boston he got in his cab who came all the way down to Phoenix for the Red Socks game. Someone who has that much money to blow.
My father recognized him as a kid from school, since my father grew up in Massachusetts. He used to beat my dad up for his lunch money.
Too bad this guy didn't realize who my dad was. And so my dad took the long way around and cost this guy an extra $20.
"I got my lunch money back plus interest." He told me.
"How is that interest?"
"Well, shit, lunch money back then was only a quarter."
This guy told my father all his problems, ironically, and my dad still listened. Poor guy tried to solve all his problems with alcohol, his wife was in the process of leaving him, etc, etc.
"When he got out," my father says. "I told him, payback's a bitch."

Heroism is Simple II

5 Sentence Reviews of 5 Movies

5 Sentence Reviews of 5 Movies
Mene Tekel

Sleepy Hollow (1999) - Lame. Way to ruin a perfectly good legend, Mr. Tim Burton, with your fancy special effects and immature Gothic storytelling. Even Johnny Depp can't save this terrible retelling or make the horror believable. This is as bad as From Hell, only because it's another film Depp latched onto, that bastardized a classic element of culture (and both involved serial killers, in one way or another). Burton always adds too much to something simple.

Australia (2008) - Terrible. Nothing but a tawdry romance novel for lonely women that love the dildo and lust after burly men, dreaming one will swoop in and bed them. Nicole Kidman is a whiny brat and Hugh Jackman is dumbass twit and everyone else is an imperialist, racist douche. Oh, and not to mention the irritating little kid who I wanted to smack. When people died, I cheered, such as when a fat woman drowns and an alcoholic gets trampled by cattle.

The Air I Breathe (2007) - Beautiful. Many lines that floored me, many scenes that were astounding. Needed much work, but for first time full-length directing, Jieho Lee is incredibly insightful and performs miracles, not the least of which is making Brendan Fraser act less like a tool. Really reflected on the life choices I have. Haunting and poetic, but still lacked something as a result of a weak plot.

Milk (2008) - Powerful. Despite drooling for an Oscar, Sean Penn does a decent job of portraying how chaotic history can be. It's no coincidence that Milk is portrayed like an Obama-wannabe, especially after the passing of Prop 8 and 102. Parts of the film are preachy and at the core, the politics are just sickening, but it still worked. A bit too optimistic and the death never moved me.

Pride and Glory (2008) - Awful. Edward Norton's acting is the only pleasure in this dry film about corrupt New York policemen. By the end, I was rooting for the drug dealers and not sympathetic to the cause of the protagonist, despite how great a character Norton can be. Weirdly, he had a scar on his left cheek that moved and changed color throughout the film.

Fruits

It is the end of the semester here, the tests are over, the shit is done and now I am packing to go home. To burn some stress, my roommate and I have indulged in chaos and also caused some of our own.
On Monday, there were some candles lit in bags for a mile around the university. A months ago, I had found a giant PVC pipe candy cane in a dumpster and left in my roommates car until I found a use for it. Suddenly I had an idea.
Yes, Kyle drove down this stretch of road and I leaned out the window with my giant candy cane and bashed every single candle I could, leaving a trail of hot wax and torn paper bags. We laughed until we cried.

That's the magic of dumpster diving. You find incredibly useless shit, but if you're openminded, you can find a use for anything. So since this is the end of the semester and since many people are leaving for the semester or for good a lot of useless shit was thrown out. Kyle and I drove around and took as much as we could.

Here is a short list of what we found:

a hooded vest (I don't understand it)
biodegradable tampons (not just any tampons, mind you! These make mother nature proud!)
Vans skates shoes, mint condition (gave to Kyle, they were his size)
First Aid kit (very old)
design DVD
sunglasses
a nice thin jacket from Target, great condition
skirts for an anorexic girl
a nightie
a Target shopping basket
an exit sign
a Renaissance costume w/ shoes and a tiara
prescription eczema shampoo
a Bible
a baseball bat
a pro-life v. pro-choice poster

We divided up the goods among us, threw away the useless crap (such as opened food) that somehow got inside our finds and donated the rest. We found a use (or will) for everything most people found useless.

Each dumpster we visited made me more disgusted with this campus. At one dumpster, we found an entire slab of ground beef with a $9.19 pricetag. I found an entire waredrobe worth of Abercrombie and Fitch clothes, which is inexcusable. In each dorm there is a box for people to donate clothes to the homeless. If you're going to spend $60 dollars on a t-shirt, not to mention a boring t-shirt that makes you look like a preppy douchebag you should at least have the decency to give it to a needy family or shivering homeless person. I was seriously mad, very mad that someone would do that.

But then I remembered the discarded Bible, brand new, barely even cracked open. I wonder why that didn't upset me so much. I have plans for it, I guess, I'll give it to someone because it's very nice and it's small. Still, maybe I need my priorities straight.

We were taking in our fruits, our arms full.

"You better hold that bag better," I said. "Or those tampons are gonna spill out and someone's gonna say, what the fuck."

He laughed, but ignored my advice. Sure enough, when we reached the door the bag split open right in front of several guys.

"Hey," one asked. "Why do you have a baseball bat?"

"Um," I said. "I found it."

"No, dude," another said. "What I want to know is why do you have tampons?"

We laughed, but couldn't think of anything to say.

"Hey, one of you," Kyle said. "Say what the fuck."

"What the fuck."

"Awesome."

As I was taking out my own trash an hour later, some punk rockers came up to the dumpster with flashlights. We talked about dumpster diving, one of the three dudes was from the local band the F-Holes. "Yeah, we were just doing that."
I watched as they went through the shit I tossed out, including an old photograph and some papers that said "Deface please".
One of the guys held up the photo and said, "Dude, how could you miss this?"
The irony was killing me, so I said nothing.
"I'm gonna take this home and frame it!"
"And look at this! Some papers that say 'Deface Please'. What does that mean?"
"Dude, it's poetry."
I smiled, still silent. It was an awesome night.

You can watch the terrible video I made of the candy cane v. the candles here:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSWWakfZXOU

Picture Book - This is it!

My girlfriend and I are going to make a book together. It's going to be pictures of ours taken of decay in America. Gean is designing it, mostly. Sweet Urban Decay is the title.

It should be done by January or February. I want to be able to collect some more images during my time over winter break.

Cost will be about $30 per book. You may be able to buy it off the website we're using cheaper, but I don't know how to work that yet. We'll see.

Images will be like the pictured example, the fringes of society and the act of decomposition. It will be full color 7inches by 7 inches and nice and full of pretty pictures you can get for free on my flickr. Knowing that, who would be willing to buy a copy? FYI the cost is not to make tons of money, it's just to cover the cost of printing and developing film and stuff. Any extra cash would go towards making more art, not cigarettes or any of that. Honest.

So are you willing to buy this book that I am publishing myself? Self-publication runs the risk of not being able to sell the book, so I was going to only order ten books (about $300.00) but that would put me in a lot of debt. It would help if you would pre-order it. Especially in this economy.

So this is it. And that's it.

A Novel for a Novel's Sake / 258 words / 50,000 words

So much has changed in my life that I want to tell you about. But I can’t begin. I’ll start with this.

I met Diana Gabaldon, a local world-famous author. She told me how I could get a novel published, but less practically, she told me I had the ability to do it.

Diana wrote her first novel as an experiment, just a novel for a novel’s sake, and it became famous. She barely tried. Her novel is something terrible about 18th century Scotland and a time-traveling WWII era British Nurse. Oh and it’s a romance. Diana has a devoted fanbase and movie deal in the works.

Today I ran into my friend Meghan, who was handing out copies of her feminist zine and it made me question, what am I doing with myself? I was supposed to be doing this a year ago. Being all done with a novel for a novel’s sake. Publishing zines all over the place.

Then I read about National Novel Writer’s Month, which is November. Basically, it’s a challenge to write a novel in 30 days REGARDLESS of terrible quality. Just writing for a novel’s sake.

I only learned about this today. I have 13 days to write a 50,000 word masterfuck. And so I’m going to do it.

It could kill me, no? It’s a very real possibility I could fail and have nothing. But I’d rather try than complain.

I might start publishing the results online, as I go along. But I’m going to do it.

For more info:
http://www.nanowrimo.org/eng/whatisnano

Who's Laughing Now?

The Enemy Review

The Enemy is a fresh UK punk act that, weren’t gonna take the 9-5 anymore and so they became rock stars. According to one song, they “Had Enough.” But that’s not all. They want you to escape, too.

Their debut album We’ll Live and Die in These Towns can be summed up in their anthem, “This Song.” Lead vocalist Tom Clarke sings, “This song is about you / about changes in your life, your mind, changes in the times,” and the rest of the album has a similar vibe. It’s about anyone who feels trapped by their dead-end job, by their small town life and the self-destruction that commonly comes with age, such as teenage pregnancy and drug addiction.

But The Enemy escaped from their small town and they encourage you to also pursue dreams—violently, if necessary. Songs like “Aggro” (a word that means aggressive behavior) and “You’re Not Alone” (about job loss in UK factories) are meant to get you to rise up and fight The Man. Other tunes such as “Technodaneaphobic” and the title track are more sympathetic to those that can’t resist a normal, depressing life. Someone has to flip burgers; we can’t all be rockstars.

Perhaps The Enemy’s best song is a bonus track cover of Bowie’s “Five Years,” a tune that reflects on what you’d do knowing the world would end in half a decade. It’s pretty obvious what Tom Clarke would do; listen to his favorite songs, tell the girl of his dreams he loves her and fall back on all the people he never knew he needed, including you.

But the message is effective by itself and will get you up in the morning, even if you decide not to rebel. You can still appreciate the amped-up power chords and catchy lyrics, basically joining The Enemy in their fun and living a quiet life quite loudly.

Why America is Evil

Oh look, America makes raids on Syria and Pakistan and then refuses to say a damn thing. That isn't evil, this isn't nationialism, this isn't an ACT OF WAR.

This couldn't possibly lead to a world war if China, Russia and Venezuela decide to get involved. Syria and Pakistan are NOT like Iraq; they have allies and they have weapons and they have armies.

And the people are just as bad as their stupid government. Why aren't there any riots or protests about this shit? Why isn't anyone doing anything?

I am going to do something. I am going to a protest in Phoenix on the 22nd. I am raising awareness and I am getting pissed.

In case you didn't know, my family originates from Syria. Many of my distant relatives could be killed by these acts of war. Many of them may have died already if they were living near Iraq or Afghanistan for some reason. This is a terrible tragedy and it will probably only get worse. I fear for my country, my family and the world.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sz_0mMvqcVw

new fiction: we are driving

New fiction at:
http://menemenetekel.blogspot.com/2008/10/wearedriving.html

I wrote it while drunk. That will influence how you like it, a lot, so I almost didn't want to include that.

Bee Microwave

I was running through an alley with my friend Kyle. We were escaping from the cops even though they weren't chasing us. We stumbled upon an old microwave that looked like it was from the 1970's. I decided to take it home and recreate my "microwave experiments", but it was heavy and cold and I dropped it in some random parking lot.
I came back the next day with Kyle and his car. He told me to plug it in and see if it worked before we took it home. And it did! We juiced it up and it started to hum.
"Put a leaf in it, see if it heats up," Kyle said.
I opened it and said, "There's all this mud and shit in here. And ants. And BEES!"
The bees, having just been microwaved, were too stunned to swarm out at me. I frantically slammed the door, kicked the thing over and sped off.
But seriously, what the fuck kind of bees nest in a microwave?

Keane Review

Published in this week's Lumberjack.


British pop band Keane have evolved from album to album. Their debut Hopes and Fears used only piano, drums and occasional bass. Their second LP, Under the Iron Sea added guitar riffs, organs and effects pedals. Their newest album, Perfect Symmetry finds the band tossing in annoying synth sounds and monotonous background vocals. Once past that, it's pretty much the same-old, same-old you expect from the trio, which is a relieving and good kind of familiar.

Keane's Under the Iron Sea was an attempt at a concept album, but the scattered notions didn't really stick with the diverse pallet of songs. Perfect Symmetry seems to present a better underlying theme with almost every song about drowning or swimming in wreckage, which are metaphors for the human condition and romantic relationships. Basically they're just echoing the lyrics from Radiohead's "Pyramid Song "I shake through the wreckage for signs of life," sings lead singer Thomas Chaplin. "I dreamed I was drowning in the river Thames; I dreamed I had nothing at all." If any progress Keane has made is good, it has to be the lyrical content.

The first track is a tune called "Spiraling" that at first sounds as if the disc was microwaved. Each chord warbles between the backup vocals, which sound like Alvin, and the Chipmunks. This is their attempt at being original, and while irritating at first, the song quickly fades into familiar territory. This antagonizing sound is patterned throughout the album, crowding out the actually decent tracks such as "The Lovers are Losing" and the album's title track "Perfect Symmetry.”

Other notable tracks include "You Don't See Me" and "Black Burning Heart,” songs that retain the minimalism that made Keane good in their early days. Unfortunately, Symmetry is too unbalanced to maintain Keane’s former decency.

Space Rocks

I went dumpster diving behind a research center with my roommate and found a lot of odd photographs of rocks next to quarters (for size). I found some of the rocks too, and I can only assume that they are space rocks.

We went around downtown and stapled them up to poles. We put them under windshield wipers. And anywhere else they would fit. We had about fifty of these things.

Some guy started following us and tearing them down. He glared at us. But there was no way he got them all. Still, a week later and they were all gone. I hope it was because someone took them home.

UNABOMBER FOR PRESIDENT!

UNABOMBER FOR PRESIDENT!

Finally, a candidate I can get behind. His slogan is the best, "If elected, he will not serve." The intended symbolism of the campaign is not that it was a joke, but that the political system is a joke.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Unabomber_for_President

Leathery Goodness

George Clooney steps behind the camera for the fourth time in Leatherheads, a screwball comedy in which Clooney also stars. The plot revolves around the early days of professional and college football, loosely based on actual events. After working with the Coen Brothers on at least three of their films, its easy to see where Clooney picked up some of his directing skill. Leatherheads is almost as good as Burn After Reading in terms of laughs, sharp dialogue and a tangled plot.

Set in the mid-1920's, when college football was incredibly popular and professional football was still "underground" (and muddy), Leatherheads is the story of Dodge Connelly (Clooney) and Carter "The Bullet" Rutherford (John Krasinski a.k.a Jim from the Office) who try to make football a legitimate sport and win the heart of Lexie Littleton (Renee Zellweger) in the process.

Does it sound like you've heard this story before? Yet even when Clooney is serving up something cliché, he adds a personal, Coen-esque twist to it. Even tackling on the plot of (yet another?) football film, Clooney takes us into the world of prohibition, down-and-dirty sports and nasty politics. The attention to detail, including the leather helmets the players wear (from which the movie gets its title), add more life than your average football/inspirational blah like We Are Marshall or Remember the Titans.

Sure, the Duluth Bulldogs are an underdog team (no pun intended) up against an insurmountable football team, and sure, they win in the end, but the movie is so wrapped up in story that by the ending, you really don't care about the grand finalé, you care about the people. That's more important.

Considering the intended audience for this film would be hipsters or mature members of the Facebook generation, the vein of this movie's message, in all likelyhood, could be that once football was rough, surprising and actually interesting, unlike today. This decade's breed of teenager cares less and less about sports (unless you count the XBOX 360 versions) and more about Guitar Hero and Zelda. Games where participation is often more rewarding. Watching football is overly formulated and predictable to the average member of the 21st century. In fact, most people watch the Super Bowl just because of the commercials.

Perhaps the main point of this movie is that the government decided to govern the rules of football, which instantly made it boring. Leatherheads is almost promoting a view that says "keep government out of professional sports" because 90 years ago, they dehumanized it. The government added a shitload of rules making it nearly impossible to score, making every play the same and lulling audiences to sleep. If only, Leatherheads suggests, football was the same, we'd have more of a human element in one of our national pastimes.

Fiberglass

New fiction at http://menemenetekel.blogspot.com/2008/10/fiberglass.html

BUY MY VOTE

On Friday, I registered to get a new social security card because my last one was lost in a move or something. Maybe an illegal stole it and that's why my credit is so good. What a fascist institution the social security system is. I become a 9-digit number to the state so they can keep track of everything important I do. Work, get a house, get married, etc. None of that is their business, but with the help of their police state tactics they can stick their nose in my life (and take money from me in the process).

If you don't think that's fascist, I strongly encourage you to look that word up. As far as I know, even Nazi Germany didn't have a social system like America.

I also registered to vote.

It was cool, at least, so I'm told. It's the only thing that makes me an American citizen. Took 5 mins and under occupation I put: AWESOME. When I get my card in the mail, it should (at least, it better) say I am awesome for a living.

Yes, I think voting is a waste of time, but I'm still going to do it. My cousin wants me to vote for Bob Barr (since Matt isn't old enough to participate). That's a good idea, but I still don't know who I'm going to pretend to elect yet. So I am offering my vote for sale. I will vote for the candidate of the person who offers me the most money. Starting bid is $20.

This is a great opportunity for you! Imagine, you now have TWO voices in this fascist state that doesn't care what you think. If you really think your idol needs to be in office, the chances are just that much higher if you pay me off.

It's illegal, totally illegal, federal crime, makes me a felon. If I get caught. So this is the part where I say I'm joking and you can give me the money as "a gift". I'm still gonna vote for who I want.

But seriously. C'mon, $20.00 cash. It's not that much. And who knows? Maybe your fascist of choice will win! Every stupid vote counts, right?

The only thing I can see going wrong is if someone offers me the most money NOT to vote.
I'd take it. In fact, I may threaten to vote for McCain unless you pay. Take my vote ransom. Ha!

Good luck this November. There are people like me choosing the next president.

Fashionable

My photography professor said it straight, "Advertising tries to get you to part with your money." Then he encouraged the class to make photos that did just that, manipulated people into BUY BUY BUY.
If you agree that art is an expression of the soul, then perhaps you agree that creating something to sell something cheapens the soul. You put a pricetag on something and then it becomes measurable against other things.
I don't like commercial art because all it represents is the exchange of money, something I don't think is very important. But if you think the opposite, fine.
Selling art in a gallery isn't the same thing. That's more of a "here, I made this, you can forever share this expression for this price" and that explains why art is expensive. It's the application of humanity. It should be overpriced, sometimes.

But since I didn't respect my teacher's assignment, so I did pictures of my friends cross-dressing. It seemed the most controversial anti-commercial thing I could do and still get a passing grade.

Brian, my male model, was incredible, even paid for the dresses we went across town to gather. I spent a roll and a quarter of film on him, mostly prancing around, flirting with a stolen balloon, fooling around on a school playground we trespassed onto. Some people gave him raised eyebrows, compliments and talked to him.

Laura, my female model, wore some random designer t-shirts I found in my laundry. No idea how they got there. She tried to pose like a guy would and she pulled it off well, but the pictures still didn't come out very well. I think it was my fault. Still, I really liked her dress-jacket idea, where she turned a hoodie upside down and zipped it up over her bra. Improvisation is great.

I don't think my photo teacher was amused. But I felt blissful and free because I did what I wanted. I expressed art in a way that isn't salable. That, in itself, is invaluable.

Bullets

My roommate's father came to visit and brought a pistol with him, one that he'd recently bought out of paranoia of the state of the States. We went out to shoot it, at this alcove dug into a mountain. Most of the rocks were volcanic and pieces of shot up computers and broken bottles littered between them. Train tracks were nearby and when we weren't deafened by gunshots, the racing rattling of an Amtrak overpowered our hearing. It was a strange environment, far from the Flagstaff I'm used to.
It was great fun, since I've barely ever shot a gun. I think I was pretty accurate. The best part of the day was when a chipmunk scampered by our shooting range and Kyle tried to shoot it. Every blast seemed to confuse the varmint and it would run over to the puffs of dust where a bullet had just hit. It wasn't smart enough to run away until Kyle was out of ammunition.
Then I tried loading a clip and it snapped up and caught my pinkie finger. I'm a moron and have no idea what I'm doing when it comes to guns except 'pull the trigger'. It left an interesting wound however, like leprosy or little leeches.

The Revolution is Not Over

Voice of Reason.

Bulletin Board

Some people part of a gay activist group have been putting up posters around school accusing me of accusing them of things. For example, "A large percentage of straight people are child molesters. Would you want a heterosexual man teaching YOUR kids?" At the bottom is an advertisement for their group and when it meets. Because after it was assumed that I just assume things, I really want to join their little sect.
So on the poster that says, "What do you think CAUSED your heterosexuality?" I wrote in bold letters; BOOBS.
I think it's clear what I'm against here (pithy unorganized organizations that cause more problems then they solve), not homosexuality.
Anyway, the poster was removed the next day.

Cliptomania Comics

Hello friends!
Even tho this started at the beginning of the semester, I thought I should promote the webcomic I have started with my roommate. It's called CLIPTOMANIA, and follows the theme of Married to the Sea and Wondermark, which captions old clipart.
The site is updated Mondays and Fridays at http://www.cliptomaniacomics.com/
The comics are also published in NAU's weekly newspaper, the Lumberjack, which I also write OP/ED for. They are censored there, so it is best to read them online.
Here are three to get you started. Bookmark the site or do that RSS thing, whatever.
I hope you enjoy this small side project of mine.

Warless

Albert Einstein:
"The pioneers of a warless world are the youth that refuse military service."

I find it fascinating that the most noble and moral people throughout history were also anti-war. Einstein, Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Buddha, Henry David Thoreau, Leo Tolstoy, Lysander Spooner, and of course, Jesus.
They weren't just anti-this war. They were anti-ALL war.

On the other hand, those that most supported war were crooked, wretched men such as Hitler, Stalin, FDR, Bush (senior and junior), Nixon, LBJ, Mao, Castro, Saddam Hussein, Caesar, etc.

Am I missing anyone who was a moral person who supported violence by the state? Anyone who hugged the bomb as well as un-aborted babies? Probably, but they aren't the norm. People who think war is a solution to their nation's problems are evil, evil people.

Now, my point is this: Obama supports war in Pakistan, Darfur and Afghanistan. McCain supports war everywhere.

You really think voting is going to make a difference?

Climbing up the Walls

I dream graffiti. I envision its spectacular array of colors and hues that shape into words and artwork. Each composition seems to speak a message to me that I can never translate into consciousness. Emotions, perceptions and memories of both the past and future meld with sensations that open eyelids cannot recreate.
In my visions, I take it, I taste it, I breathe it, I create it. Sometimes I get caught, sometimes I am free. Sometimes I am the wall itself.
Words, gibberish, like AKEP and KUK or BLIND and GIRL appear to me, but I can’t decipher their meaning.
I awake with a sense of emptiness, the soul exhaustion of an artistic wet dream.
Nothing as good as you imagine it.

*

When I started doing graffiti, less than a year ago, my stencils covered my neighborhood. For weeks, everywhere I looked made me smile. I feel I made my community a more vibrant and interesting place.
Since I’ve returned from the east coast, I noticed a lot of sticker vandalism and tagging scrawls all over my neighborhood, much more than usual. My artwork was long painted over. Now it is replaced with the scraggly handwriting of several self-indulged teenagers.
Behind Krupa’s sausages is one of my stencils of a pig, captioned “eat me”. It used to be the only graffiti on the entire wall. Now it is covered with names and aliases of a handwriting test gone wrong. I wonder, did I start this trend? Was I the can opener for this cylinder of vermin?
My first reaction is to despise it, to see it as an eyesore, just like cops or senior citizens would. The uncreative people who seek to uniform my city and keep it grey.
I always say that tagging is better than nothing. Better some awful John Hancock than a boring, blank electrical box. But my reaction contradicts this.
I wonder if I’m being socially conditioned or what. I want to appreciate it somehow, because it represents a scene I stand for, but I’m not sure I can.

*

I traveled to east Flag to visit a thrift store to buy some clothes. The store was cramped with incredibly worthless crap, even for Salvation Army. Most of the furniture was in a lot behind back. It had recently rained and all their wares were soaked or worse, looked like they’d been there for a few seasons. I was disappointed that the only appeal of the store was that is was incredibly mismanaged.
I soon felt like Flagstaff was lacking something. I saw it everywhere and I couldn’t shake the feeling. I needed to leave.
I went to Phoenix the following day, more escaping the Mountains than visiting the Valley. But the feeling didn’t leave. I found decay in everything I laid eyes on. I had changed the filter, but not the view.
I couldn’t take it and so I took comfort in the small things I could find. Or I tried.
However, I still can’t describe what I was searching for, or better yet, what was missing.

*

Downtown had this entire wall of graffiti, urban art, street art. Very detailed, delicate murals, everything incoherent to me. It was such a public street, I wondered if it was commissioned. There was some Dr. Suess art behind a liquor store that was obviously encouraged, and I began to lose interest. The murals I gazed upon and snapped up with my point-and-shoot camera were the material that I only dream of, but somehow, if they were done legally, for money even, they lost value to me.
I don’t really understand it. The medium versus the message once again.
But I gazed anyway. The street was quiet, even in broad daylight, so perhaps it was a genuine target for illegal art. I don’t know.
But I turned the corner and discovered some wheatpastes that were so incredibly creepy and offensive that I knew there were unauthorized. Later, I found an abandoned building that someone had tacked up some personal paintings onto the walls. And then the dumpster dripping misspelled tags. Something personal, something authentic.
They made things okay again.
I felt comfortable dreaming again, and I returned to my doors and my schedules and my assigned reading and my pillow.

Burn After Reading

Burn After Reading, the lovely new Coen brothers film combines the violence and mirth of Pulp Fiction with the brothers other popular flick, Fargo. There is a scene towards the end completely mimicking Fargo, but in a great way because it takes the action much further than the 1996 thriller. Brad Pitt and George Clooney slid into character like gloves, becoming as asinine as could be. Were it not for Clooney's clumsy paranoia and Pitt's idiotic charm, the movie would barely be a comedy. The soundtrack was intensely paranoid and dark, perhaps to make up for No Country for Old Men, the Coen Brother's previous film, which completely lacked music. Slow at the beginning and sparse with jokes, Burn almost has confused identity. Is it thriller or dark comedy? It barely matters, because the gruesome violence fills up any remaining space, picking up pace until the strange, satirical finish that ends unclimatically (but not unsatisfying). Burn After Reading is in the classic style of their classic creators, producing a tastefully blended piece that many fans will enjoy.

Brandalism

Capitalism makes everything available to everyone. You know the coke you drink is the same as the coke the president sips slouching on his fat ass, the same coke as the homeless niggers drink, the same coke as those posers in high school guzzled.
So you gotta invent brands, basically the same product, maybe even manufactured in the same sweatshops, but much, much more expensive. Then the poor kids or the hipsters can't afford or won't afford to buy your shitty five dollar bottled water and 400 dollar jeans.
Maybe there is a slight difference in taste, wear-and-tear, color, maybe you notice it, but that doesn't matter. What matter is now you can glare down your nose at those that cannot afford a logo. You've recreated the social hierarchy. Once you were equal, now you are divided again.
You are better than them again.

Choke trailer and interview with Chuck P.

Excited for the movie? This trailer is tame. However: pretty interesting story with Chuck. The interviewer sucked, but Chuck is a great orator and can use even boring questions to his advantage. Worth checking out.


http://bordersmedia.com/backlot/choke.asp?cmpid=SL_20080911_REW

Keepin' Up

I've done some things recently I thought were worth sharing. It will make this past week seem like it was non-stop fun and adventure because I'm going to leave out the parts where I slept and had a few issues with boredom and depression and those tedious classes I had to attend. Let it be.I broke into this abandoned roadside stop on the I-40 with some friends. I smashed shit up and stole some artifacts and took some nice film pictures.

I got some space on Gawker, meaning my art profile and a link to my flickr stream will appear in the place of ads on certain, generous websites. Awesome, huh? Look: http://artists.gawker.com/5044672/mene-tekel

I pushed my girlfriend, Gean, downhill in this cart. Freaked her out.
For two bucks, I bought a huge stack of stickers for this awful band that my girlfriend loathes. I stuck them all over campus, just to piss her off. She found out it was me. Now whenever Gean sees one of these, she punches me, hard. I just laugh.

It's an inside joke that's all around us. I love her.

Who Killed Amanda Palmer?

by Mene Tekel

Dresden Dolls frontwoman Amanda Palmer has released a solo work with Ben Folds, East Bay Ray of the Dead Kennedys and more.


With a more clever and less pretentious air, the album "Who Killed Amanda Palmer?" sounds better than the D.D. work she's done. The album's loose concept, with an introduction written by Neil Gaiman (Stardust), is that Amanda Palmer, a super celebrity in leagues with Anna Nicole Smith, died, leaving a legend bigger than her life.


Tracks like "Runs in the Family" and "Guitar Hero" prove Palmer's music is stronger and rejuvenated, giving her "death" a new life.

Strangness Lurks

Long time ago, I read Yahoo! news because I was working in a business office, which automatically made me a loser. Here are some strange comments that stood out from a Yahoo! Health article.

http://health.yahoo.com/experts/menlovesex/80589/4-instant-intimacy-boosters/

1. Posted by Hungry Man on Tue, Jan 22, 2008, 1:27 pm PST

My girl and I like to pretend that we are having a threesome. The third party in the threesome is a pillow. The pillow definitely knows what it is doing...

6. Posted by Charro on Wed, Jan 23, 2008, 10:51 am PST

I once role-played with my wife that we were a priest and a nun. I was the "dirty priest" and she was the "dirty nun." We held hands for 45 minutes, then we slow-danced. After that we watched TV.

14. Posted by stanley d on Wed, Jan 23, 2008, 1:47 pm PST

All the things you talked about are great in a first marriage.But being divorced twice,things will never be the same,no matter how hard you try.When two people meet,and have families,kids parents,and friends, it's real difficult to make things right.I think being alone is the the way I'm going to be.I don't have to contend with disappointment,hurt feelings,why weren't you there for me??? I think I will get another dog,They always love you no matter what...

incidentally

trauma is an interesting thing/.
specially when you create i for yourself.
firecrrackers. i remember them the most. the way their packaging felt in my hand, the way they smelt and the way they popped when lit. i would hold them as long as i could, even up to my ear, seeing how tough i was. then i would toss them into the air in panic and watch them burst.
i didn't have the pussy kind either. i had the big fatass ones that really bang.
bang bang bang
i dont remember who i was with or why we bought them. i barely remember where we went. some small mom and pop store
all i remember was the flames from one black cat that didn't light correclty.
burned the whole strip mall to the ground. i can remember the sirens and the sulfur smell that stuck in my cloths.
i can't remember getting caught or nothing, so i guess i wasn't
i just remember tyhe regret i felt the following weeks
i destroyed so many lives in one single pop.
pop pop pop.
i could go on and on

Fire and Falling

WHAT WOULD YOU ATTEMPT IF YOU
KNEW YOU COULD NOT FAIL?
Nothing. I've already won.

STFU

Many men have anger management issues because of a social conditioning that doesn't encourage appropriate emotional expression. The only suitable emotion is anger; anger as a response to every situation in society. So when faced with the frustrating, despairing presentation of such trivial psychobabble, they end up fucking shit up.
-Jimmy Kane

Discarded - Lifted

Today, I purchased a young woman's diary from a secondhand store. It's rare that you can find such a thing. Goodwill usually censors all personal items. It's about thirty pages from the year 2000.

I've been skimming through it and I feel as if I was transported 8 years ago. I feel as if I know her. For two dollars, I got to be someone else by learning their fears and hopes and dreams and gossips and laughter and . . .

This is about how I felt when I bought that old, old camera. I feel like a different person behind that lens. I see things differently.

I've been feeling not-myself lately. I think it's my way of escaping the stress of school.

I know it's just another cliche. I just don't know what I'm going to do with it.

Sea Cucumber

These things take planning, but I wasn't prepared for this.

I love the way my eyes swell in the morning, crusted so bad I have to peel them open. I love the bloodshot hopelessness in the worm-like veins. The tears that choke in the corners and the sporadic dilation in the morning sunlight. Like my eyes are rotten grapes bleeding wine.

I love the aching I get in every tired, pulled muscle of my damaged frame. The way my bones crinkle with weight and age. The way my mouth is dry as sand and the way my teeth throb with cavities.

I'm not kidding. It really makes me happy.

I made myself anorexic just last week. For fun. I'm not really concerned that I'm fat, I just want to be disgustingly thin. Like a living skeleton, sucking and smoking thin little cigarettes. I want my bones poking out my back like dragon skin. Like a dead lion, the ribs wrapped in tattered flesh. I want it to hurt to masturbate.

After a big meal of blueberry pancakes and orange juice and bagels with cream cheese and some chocolate bars I use a toothbrush and massage my epiglottis. It's sore and cancerous, but soon my gag reflex is stimulated enough that I puke my guts out, disgorging viscera like a sea cucumber. My salivary glands are swollen and dry. I think some of what I regurgitate is blood, but who knows. That gag reflex feeling is beautiful. I'm pulling myself apart.

I love this.

The brown-red barf swirls down the bowels of the toilet bowl and into oblivion, like this never happened. I feel tired all of a sudden and lay on the tile, focusing in and out on the ceiling light. The sporadic dilation in the florescent sunlight.

Some of the bile splattered on the magazines next to the toilet paper, smearing the ink of a weight loss book. The title screams "LOSE 30 POUNDS IN SIX WEEKS!"

Five more weeks to go.

Miniature

Transported to a surreal landscape, a young girl kills the first woman she meets and then teams up with three complete strangers to kill again.
- Rick Polito

I'm on a bus and i feel like i'm going to get decapitated

everyday I would go into an antique shop and every day I would see that head. I rarely found anything worth buying, so some days I would go just to make sure that shrunken head was still there.
7 days a week I would stop by, peek inside and see the head, it's leathery skin glistening, gangrenous and beautiful.
I told others about it. people asked me why i never bought it.
it just had to be there, I suppose. it couldn't be anywhere else.

Dear Barber,
I've been finding the small things that inspire great change. Butterflies and pebbles and sparks.
Your photo album speaks to me and I can't stop looking through every single image.
Until I realize that I've already seen all these. It doesn't matter, it's not my choice.
As each one wants to say to me,
Hello. I am here again.

Heroism

Heroism is simple.

Photo by William Lamson

SAPIENT Pt. I

I was dreaming that I was dreaming. That's the best way to explain it.
No, it was more like being in a movie theater. The lights in my mind were dimmed and a different reel was spinning.
I remember standing, looking down at my girlfriend, Gean, as we inhaled together. I wasn't feeling anything and I wondered what I was doing here in the woods, about to see Pineapple Express a second time. It seemed a waste of time.
Then, with the flutter of our eyelids, down went the houselights. The screen flickered and I had to sit down. And then, I was dreaming that I was dreaming.
I knew I had to write this down, so I pulled my notebook out of my back pocket. It fluttered into my lap like spreading sheets on a clothesline. The flap of wings. I felt my leg falling asleep, from sitting on it weird. This taught me that "Everything Flows to Something" and with a heavy, slow hand I jotted this down.
In the theater of my mind, I felt like I was watching my entire life play out in front of me, in bits and pieces. It was always an illusion and this scared me intensely. I couldn't decide which one was the true reality and I couldn't decide which one I wanted.
I looked to Gean, her eyes red as mine, and she had a knowing smile. She shared the deep pleasure, but I don't think she was as far gone as me. I'd never had such a weird trip. But if my entire life was a dream, that means I was dreaming of her. I kissed her, but it was in slow motion until my lips impacted hers. It was one of the only things that felt real.
The only other reality I could be certain of was my pen against the paper. I didn't want to stop dreaming of Gean so I wrote "WAKE UP" a dozen times, scrawling through time and space to make my point.
The theater was dark and the film blurred at the wrong moments. Everything had that vignette feel.
My head said, this is really happening. Hold her hand. And I did, and it felt real.
We walked and her friends drove us to the movie theater. We sat in the backseat and I laid my head in her lap. They passed to us, but I didn't partake. Gean blew smoke in my ear and I felt like a caterpillar, curling up in her palm.
I knew I was in no condition to be buying movie tickets, so I made Gean do it. But apparently I was conscious enough to find some gift cards in my wallet and hand them to the annoyed cashier.
In the movie theater, things became even weirder. I was convinced I had died, but I wasn't sure which reality was accurate. I resisted coming out of it, because I was curious and lost. I was arguing with a voice in my head that was merely trying to convince me to go back. "I don't want to go back into the dream" I wrote.
I would constantly kiss Gean, to make sure she was real and would stay that way. I would sing to her and tell her I love her, to the point of irritation. I would pause to write down another hectic thought. "My writing is the only thing that feels real."
At one point, I felt that my feet were wrapped in balloons of water, the same kind you'd carry a goldfish with. I dreamt of a field of golden tulips, each with an all-seeing eye gazing at me. They said to me, "I AM WATCHING YOU". I told them, I am worthless. I am a painting. They wouldn't stop watching me.
Then, I discovered that there are three levels of perception: the Me sense, the Dreaming sense and the Gravy sense. The Gravy moniker was just to explain a level of perception I have not reached, nor understand. I don't know what it is really called. I also wrote, I am three people at once.
It seemed illogical to be thinking this way, so I scribbled, "Believe it or not!" and then kept repeating the phrase to myself.
I kept trying to figure out if I had really died or not. I knew I could go back into the reality I'm used to, but if it's fake, what is the point? Looking at Gean, I knew I wanted to love her and if I died, I couldn't "Let out the love."
I was in space, and realized that space is the blackness in my eyes, in my heart. But I asked myself, when am I going back?
I kissed Gean and asked her, "Do this again with me sometime."
She gave me a coy smile and said, "Maybe."
And I went back.

I'm Glad I saw Epic Movie

But I am more glad that I found you.

Guess which one is a joke.

Update for those who jump to conclusions: I posted this because of XKCD, obviously, but my real intention was only to create more content for something that previously didn't exist. I'm not "using" XKCD for advertising (besides not having anything to sell), in a way I am using you, the angry nerds who felt it necessary to search for the same keywords as everyone else. Don't be upset. Or do. I'm honestly enjoying the unnecessary hatred.

Tao

I went to a theme park yesterday. I hate the plasticity and forced fun of theme parks. Being strapped into a contraption that moves too fast or too slow doesn't scare me and it doesn't make me sick. I almost wish it did, because then waiting four hours to ride the Big Fat Whatever would actually be fun. The most fun I had the whole day was carving my name into the fiberglass seats I chained myself into.

When we left the park, my family and I went to Concord for dinner at some place called Margaritas. It was Mexican food, in the sense of deaf people singing and the restaurant used to be a jailhouse, so some of the booths were jail cells.

Anyway, I promptly ditched my family to take a walk around Concord, the capital of New Hampshire. I started taking pictures of street art that was everywhere. Behind a fancy restaurant, a waiter was smoking. He watched me bound, literally bounce, up to a wall of sticker graffiti.

Graffiti turns me on. I mean, when I was watching the Departed, I noticed graffiti and wanted to travel to Boston just to see it for myself, if it's even not still there. It doesn't matter if it's just scribbles or an entire mural or just a sticker, I love it.

I one day realized I was just getting excited about art, nothing more. That made me happier. Graffiti is just different from what's hanging in a gallery. It's free, in multiple senses of the word. It's not following some curator's rules and it is done by people just like me. More importantly, it is done by people nothing like me. I experience so much and take in so much from it. It's far from an eyesore, it's eye candy.

It is the most pure and amazing type of art.

Anyway, as I was snapping this picture, the waiter asked what I was up to. I told him about my obsession with street art and he smiled. Said he used to be into that kind of shit too. He said he personally hated the sticker variety because it was so easy to do. I wanted to refute that the message is more important than the medium, but I bit my tongue.

He told me the best place to find some street art. I grinned and shook his hand and before I ran off, I asked his name. Tao, he said.

I found the place he was talking about. I climbed up onto the roof of an abandoned thrift store to get the shot I wanted. I was expecting beautiful, colorful murals, but what I discovered wasn't much. It's entirely possible that Tao did them himself, but they weren't bad. Still, I was loving many of the stickers I found. I adored exploring the city. Getting lost. Becoming one with the pavement and surrounded by people.

I still appreciated Tao's directions. I like strangers. They can be wonderful.

I returned to my family and ate crappy Hispanic food, but didn't tell them where I went. It was my secret.

Oded Ezer

The Finger by Oded Ezer from www.odedezer.com on Vimeo.

Day Fifty Five: ETC

Things have been passing quickly and no without excitement since my whining on day 52.

Last night, saw the Batman movie and can't get over how well put together Heath Ledger's character was.

Today, I went golfing with my relatives. I don't like the sport anyway, and felt kind of like a dick playing it and hitting the ball into the woods on purpose. Then a thunderstorm (or squall as they call it) soaked us. I was quite pissed.

I went to the ETC shop, a place I've visited maybe twice before. It brought back a few meaningless memories. Glad to have them again.

My cousin Mark, who is a musician is recording a song with me. You'll see, you'll see.

We shot each other up with air-soft guns in the dark, hunting each other in a field. It was really fun and intense.

I have another surprise maybe. It's the thought that counts. You'll see, you'll see.

Day Fifty Three: Soothsayer

Cutter, the reporter that left, is a curse to the paper, but a blessing to me. The other reporters have to pick up his slack but that means I get to do stories no one else has time for.

Today I spent my shift writing a feature story on the blueberry economy of New Hampshire. As boring as it was to write, I loved every moment. I had to make a dozen phone calls and quickly got used to calling strangers. The finished product probably blows, is probably worse than the most hideous of my feature stories, but I don't care. I liked the feeling so much. I wasn't just typing up press releases, like I have been.

I was so excited I made myself some coffee and poured in chocolate sprinkles and a maraschino cherry. It tasted amazing, especially that cherry which stews in the coffee and absorbs all the creamer and sugar and chocolate. Best taste ever.

I've become friends with everyone in the office, I make jokes and I love it. Vickie Guay, who sits behind me, is such a pleasure to work with. She has a great sense of humor and often makes me laugh. She was a great help on the blueberry coverage.

Gail, who sits in front of me, is pretty ballsy. She calls the mayor of some town and swears like a sailor at him, in a joking way. Gail has a voice like someone chewing gum and different syllables pop and snap, and I can't listen to her without amusement. She also reads Hunter S. Thompson, which surprises me and also doesn't.

She shared Hells Angels with Geoff, a kid with greasy blond hair and a sense of humor that instantly reminds me of Beck and my old friend Waid. Geoff was the one that covered the stolen snake story two weeks ago.

But then there is the Soothsayer. She is an old police scanner who sits in the corner and we get every single bit of chaos that is happening in this state. Sometimes, she has a sense of humor but today, she is a harbinger of doom and decay. Today, she tells the story of a man who was working under his car, when the jack slipped out and crushed him. Crushed his ribcage and possibly his heart.

Gail perked up at the news and said the address aloud. "That's just around the corner. Alright, who's going?" Someone, probably an editor said, "Take the rookie." Gail looked at me and said, "No. You do not want to go." She says, "You'll have to do this kind of traumatic work eventually. Put it off as long as possible."

Geoff ended up covering the story and took pictures on his digital camera. He was told to get back and was nearly arrested but got the scoop. The victim was dead on arrival and still, staring at those images didn't phase me as much as my sick fascination with the story itself.

Tomorrow it will be front page news.

Day Fifty Two

By now, I'm pretty sure I lost count. I may be close, but I don't think this is Day Fifty Two. I don't care enough to double check.

I'm wondering if I can make it these next few days. Somehow, being here has really been tough on me. Even my job is beginning to lose its luster, but that was expected. At least I can find myself doing it til I die, or whatever, but I don't want to get on a tangent. My point is, today I was sulking in my cubicle, really truly wondering what it was going to take to face 15 more days of this.

I've never felt a longing like this before. I couldn't get the image of a thick black oil burning away at my ribcage and exposing a violet glowing inside. I don't know what it means, but I couldn't shake the thought.

I had a dream last night that I tagged the word BLIND in bright green block letters on a wall. I turned the corner and saw some of the most beautiful paintings I had ever seen on the far wall. Then I woke up.

Again, I don't know what it means, but I'm hoping something.

Day Fifty One: The Tourists

I'm learning a newspaper is really just a business. I knew that, but I was thinking it was less business and more writing. Maybe some newspapers are like that, but not the Citizen. I'm okay with it being all about money and subscriptions and advertisements because it's still a weird job with weird liberal people that I love being around. The only republican, far as I know, in the whole office left today. He got a job offer in South Carolina.

His name is Cutter and most of his stuff is front paged. He even did a few breaking stories, really investigating whatever exciting things were left in Laconia. He uncovered that hazardous materials called "coal tar" were buried in a mountain several years ago starting this intense environmental investigation. And he's leaving in the middle of it.

Then there's John Koziol. He's a short guy with a growing bald spot and a beard that's growing gray. He speaks softly, so I have to pay attention. That's the way it is with anyone who has a worthwhile perspective; they're soft-spoken, so you perk up. In the office, John is a different person. He's got a weird sense of humor and he's got a solid head, so we get along great. He often gives me a thumbs up or a "rock-on" fist, tells me I'm working hard, jokes like he's serious. Calls me rookie. Calls me grasshopper

John took me out to lunch. We bought three bottles of this disgusting soda called Moxie that Cutter really likes. I tried it, tastes like puke. He bought me a sandwich, chips and while they were being made we took a walk around downtown Laconia. I've explored the little city a dozen times, but he gave me a tour. He pointed out the same buildings I took snapshots of, but gave them names and history and meaning. We walked by the river I've kicked things into and he told me how and where it flows into the ocean, the names of all the lakes in the Lakes Region. On top of a parking garage he showed me everything that I had missed.

John has the perspective of New Hampshire I wish I had captured in my short time here, but I missed it. He knows exactly what this place is and was and will be. I'm not mad at myself; frankly I don't mind, I just have respect for him. His judgment softens my scorn and I can feel at peace even in the midst of "swamp vampire Yankee hicks", as he puts it.

We gave Cutter a goodbye party. Everyone in the break room and a card that was signed by everyone that knew him and a cake. The cake was covered in little images of things that Cutter had covered over the years. Things like Baby Googly Eyes Elmo, which I didn't understand, but it was an inside joke no one felt like explaining.

John has pictures on his desk of when he was younger. A wedding photo. He looks so different now.

Maybe a newspaper is a business, but I think I love the people element of it.

Day Fifty: Gravity Always Wins

My last day in Virginia was like this:

I went to my cousin's house to see the trees that were struck by lightning and nearly killed his dog. The dog is fine, but one tree is going to topple over and crush the house. My relatives are trying to tie it off, and pull it so it doesn't fall on the house. My cousin's wife is close to tears that she's gonna lose her roof, holding her 22 month old kid, just frantic.

I'm scrambling around taking picture after picture of the house, hoping that if it does fall on it, I get a great before and after shoot.

We leave and go visit my other cousin, who hasn't been married a year yet and already has a two story house. 100 years ago, they'd call a building like this a mansion, but now it's just a house. It's a perfect building, in every facet of the sense but something about me makes me hate it. When I was landing in Virginia I viewed a neighborhood like this from the plane and every house is the same. I think that's what made me despise it. Nothing special about it. Furthermore, a house is not a home and I'd rather have that quality than clean carpets and high ceilings.

We got a phonecall from my other cousin and the tree fell and it just barely missed the house.

Day Forty Nine: Virga Impacta

Church, an old man stood and interrupted the service to say to my uncle, the pastor, "Duane, I just had a vision. It was like nothing else I've ever seen. All the righteous people were dancing and praising God in a field of green under blue skies. Then, these black column-like clouds came out of the sky and the people allowed them in. And they shrouded the people in darkness. Let's cast out all the clouds in our lives!"
The slide changed and without skipping a beat, the service went on, as if nothing had happened.

Today, humidity 100 percent, 90 degrees. Somehow, in the evening it starts raining. Raining like crazy. Four inches crazy. We were driving and it was so torrential it felt like the car was underwater. My family ate at a pizza restaurant, nothing special. Creepy paintings of vegetables dotted the walls. The best part was when the power flickered and the crappy music shorted out.

Beckie was telling me about "Pickle Bob's", an ice cream shoppe that will give you a free pickle if you are pregnant. She tells me, she wanted a pickle so she 'pooched' out her stomach and got one. The way she says 'pooched' makes me laugh.

My cousin's dog was hit by lightning, kind of. He was outside, underneath a hammock, lightning struck one tree and traveled to the other through the chain. The electrical discharge was enough to heat the dog and scare the hell out of it. The thing survived but when I told a friend about it he asked, are you jealous?

A little bit, but the rain was already drifting away.

Day Forty Eight: Virginity

Think Virginia, think "imperialism", please. Don't think "close to D.C." and don't think "for lovers". Think "Jamestown", think "slavery plantation". For God's sake, don't think "virgin queen".

I'm in the country, even further away from civilization than I was in Center Harbor. The people I am staying with are Duane and Joyce W. They are my father's cousins, and their children are my second cousins. Beckie, age 22, is my favorite. She's a lot like me and a lot like Ashley K. and we get along well.

Duane often says things about evil spirits and Satan. Other weird things such as The Beatles being heathen music. He called Marvin Gaye 'the original queer' because of his last name. It's hard to tell if he's joking or not.

Duane owns his own business, a mechanic shop for Mercedes-Benz cars only. So every single relative has one of these sports cars, to the point that I've gotten sick of them.

My relatives asks me if I'm a libertarian like my father. They consider him kind of rebellious because he doesn't subscribe to the two-party charade. I told them I'm an Anarchist, just to piss them off, because I'm kind of tired of caring what they think. Well, it's true anyway.

A lot of people are commenting on my obsessive photography habits, especially since I alternate between 35mm and digital. They say, you're one of those artsy-fartsy types, aren't ya? I smile. They say, that's from God ya know. God is the original creator and He gave you your gifts. I say, yeah. I think, nice reminder. They say, how can you handle that?

The people who were married are Nick and Liz W., people I have barely met. They have never dated other people before. I don't know if that's incredibly romantic or incredibly naive. Either way, I don't think it matters so long as they stay together, generally happy. In fact, I think the lack of prior relationships helps.

The wedding was nothing special. To be honest, I expected a lot more. No alcohol, no cigars. I think the cake was even sugar-free. I was nursing a headache and trying not to be negative. I had to escape because I couldn't stand it. I walked to a convenience store, tempted to break my cigarette fast, but I prevailed.

I called my father and I felt better because we joked about how frustrating these people can be. We discussed advertising and politics and stupid shit. He told me to stop caring what they thought and so I did. I felt glad to be myself again, but I don't know why I let them dress me up. I don't know why I let them concern me.

When I returned to the scene, I helped them vandalize the bridal car. I drew artsy-fartsy hearts and a dove that looked more like an obese seagull. My cousin Eric thought it would be funny to emphasize that the couple waited for sex. The car has this sickening pro-life sticker that says, "dismembering unborn babies is wrong" and above it says, "Honk for virginity". Classy accentuation.

I guess, weddings don't really do anything for me. I've always been hoping they would, as gay as that sounds. I guess every charade I attended I hoped would be romantic and special and I would have a good time, like the movies. The only wedding that even came close was Ben and Megan's. It was short, sweet and I actually knew the people.

---x

In other news here, I'm often bored so I've been doing a lot of phonecalls. I don't get very good reception however. I called Gean and a tree fell on a Mercedes-Benz, which was kinda funny to me. My aunt ran over two snakes driving at night. Watching a lot of movies, taking a lot of pictures. I went into town to develop some film because my cousin Ben is very generous. We ate chinese and the owner kept asking us weird questions, like if my Monster energy drink was from Russia. We went shopping at a cheap thrift store and I bought many things, like a book on optimism. I haven't peeled it open, but I really want to start being happier.

I think I'm onto a good start, despite all the complaining I just did.

Chrysalis

Inspired by and for Gean.

Chimera, I think I'm outgrowing you. In honor, I present a list of twenty-three things that make my life purposeful and happy.

Worship,
painting,
walks in ditches,
smoking cloves,
long-drawn-out music,
caffeine drinks,
galleries that don't suck,
35mm film,
graffiti,
speeding,
indie record store browsing,
kissing,
thrift store salvaging,
trespassing,
complex movies without endings,
friends that I can say 'fuck' around,
certain nature trails,
chaos,
dark humor,
getting lost,
traveling,
piano,
and
great books.

Day Forty Six: Virginal

I kinda like Virginia.
My relatives are just as conservative as I'd feared. I don't know why I hoped otherwise and I almost feel stupid for it.
You know how I call everything fascist, like TSA and airports?
Most people here call everything communist. Like Barack Obama. My cousin Matt is reading that fasco-communist's book because he was bored. He's not old enough to vote, so no harm I guess. I've skimmed a few pages. It has made me hate him a lot more, if that was possible.
I was bored too, so I picked up Christopher Buckley's new book Boomsday. He wrote Thank You For Smoking and this issue is just as funny. It's about killing all the baby boomers and boy, would I love to.

I tried catching fireflies today. It is harder than it looks. My strained eyes, City Boy lost in the woods.

I didn't feel like writing, but did anyway.
Here is whatever:

inside out, it was eating itself.

hummingbird feeder, the ants crawled inside,

floating, drowning alive in an eternal bath of sweet

Day Forty Three: Shit List

I am officially a journalist*. I want to carve the word into my arm and then everyone will know. They will also know I am self-destructive and that could be good or bad, but at least it's honest.
(*I don't count the Lumberjack work I did as journalism. I don't know why, besides the obvious. It really only got me this internship with the Citizen.)

This is one step toward one dream. The biggest question my internship is supposed to answer is "DO I REALLY WANT TO DO THIS WITH MY LIFE?" I don't want to answer early, because this has only been one day, but so far, yes. Get back to me when I've had a really tough day and we'll see if I want to work through this til I retire.

Anyway, this work is pretty easy and fun. I work from 11AM to 6PM, meaning I get to sleep in a little and work less. I get paid the same and all I did today was write. I did about 7 or 8 feature stories. At Financial Resources, I was given all the shit jobs that no one there wanted. It's the same here, only I don't mind doing them. I'm trying to be Mr. Brightside, I guess, or maybe really, I just don't know what's real anymore.

I sat at some ancient computer that has Windows '98 on it and sent the files to a server far, far away. No spell-check. I was sitting next to a poster that said "IS THIS GOOD FOR THE COMPANY?" My co-workers are vulgar, dirty, realistic, genuine people. And because I'm the intern, they're shedding all this career wisdom on me. I like everyone I work with.

Most of the stories I wrote seemed kind of boring and . . . old. For example, I wrote up a piece celebrating of some random couple's sixtieth wedding anniversary that was in May. If the feature I wrote goes to press tomorrow, it's still two months late.

I also got to write up the DWI (Driving With Influence, instead of 'Under' like it should be) shit list. A police record of everyone who was arrested for drunk driving gets published in the paper so as to embarrass and ruin the reputations of hundreds of people. Wrong or right, what did I care? It's a job. I don't know anyone around here. So I got to put my name under it. And under my name is the label, CITIZEN INTERN.

I like that. Citizen Intern automatically makes me think of Citizen Kane which automatically makes me think of Jimmy Kane and then I think of Citizen Insane and I just feel really rebellious inside, when really it's two separate words. I'm making a big deal outta nothing.

I also got to write the crime log, which is somehow separate. NAU's paper 'The Lumberjack' has a crimelog and it's written so badly it's tragic. Altho not the worst, here is an awful example. Read the line that says, "It is suspected the suspect. . ." Almost as classic as "Today's News TODAY!"

Writing the crimelog for myself was refreshingly the most boring part of the job, but many of the 'crimes' were hysterical. People were hitting bears, deer and moose with their cars. Someone stole gas, a motorcycle, even a headstone. Unfortunately, I forgot most of the others.

I get a free paper everyday, so I can save all my precious clippings and move up this demented media ladder. I'm trying to think of some newspapers I would one day want to work for that don't suck. Maybe someplace in Chicago or Portland or wherever the Washington Post is.

I feel filthy and tired and sick.

I'm mailing you a body.

Day Forty Two: Book Idea

I've wanted to publish a collection of my short stories for a while. Today, I thought to publish an anthology including several stories by me AND my friends. I'd want them to be above or at my personal standard for writing. But a couple of my friends have talent, so that would be fine. I would take them, edit them, have some other people edit them and in the final copy of everyone's story, put them in a PDF and email it to a publisher. We share royalties equally.

I'm not sure I have enough friends that really take their writing seriously. I'm not sure the material would have to be fiction. It could be a collection of essays, poems, etc. It would need a common theme however.

Now I request feedback.

Parasites

For some reason, my grandma once gave my family a Discovery channel video called Parasites: Eating Us Alive. I must have been eight. I remember feeling very disturbed by the film, as I watched all this stock footage of people dying from the sickest things. My sister seemed very fascinated with it and watched it often.

Sure enough, the whole ordeal is on Youtube. Come, share in a memory that I wish I didn't have.

Day Thirty Eight: Some What Damage d

So I don't think I hate animals as much as I thought.

I woke up and the first thing I could think to do is to shoot arrows again. By now, most of them are somewhat damaged from hitting rocks. Eventually they all got stuck in trees, so I prayed for rain to knock them down again.

I didn't go to work today because I had a meeting with the Citizen to get a work schedule. As I drove there, I nearly ran over this fuzz ball in the road. I pulled over to investigate. It was a kitten, but it didn't run away because it's eyes were so infect they were crusted over, leaving the animal blind.

I had to go or I would be late, so I shoved the animal in my cousin's arms and told him to wash it. When I returned, he had cleaned it, but it was such a bad infection it's eyes were mostly scabbed shut. Nothing to do about it. My grandma made grandpa take it back to the house where I found it. The owner who feeds the feral animals said all their eyes are like that.

If I hadn't have rescued the kitten it would have been mashed dead by me or another driver who speeds down that road. Then I would've stopped and taken pictures of its corpse. Viscera eyes. Maybe it will anyway, seeing as it's back where it started.

Anyway, the meeting went well. I start Monday. I met some really cool dudes who work there. They were talking about a guy who stole a snake by walking out of the pet store with it wrapped around his arm. They were going to go down and take photos of it and write up the news on it. They look fresh out of college, scruffy, young journalists like me. I'm very excited about my job.

After the meeting, I went to my other cousins house and played Wii while Mark's cockatiel sat on my shoulder. I really love that bird. Something about it makes me feel so comfortable. I'm thinking about getting one as a pet someday. He's been itchy and prying off his feathers in some weird, somewhat damaged self-destructive way.

It started raining, then it started hailing. It was exciting and I drove home in and all my cousins and I went swimming. I dove down deep and saw a fish floundering on the bottom. When I came back up for air, I told my cousins, "Fish." I dived down again to see it, and it was still there, so I grabbed it. I swam back up and yelled, "Fish!" It flopped in my hands, the stupid bass.

My cousins told me to throw it back in the water but I kept it. Turns out the fish was somewhat damaged, cut pretty deep on side for some reason. That doesn't make it any easier to catch. I wanted my grandma to cut it up and cook it, and she said she would, but later she changed her mind and left it out for the raccoons.

I'm sure that was pleasant.