I Saw This

A heart, a heart cut out of construction paper; it was red construction paper. Perhaps it was from the "holiday" that has just passed us by. I saw it floating in the air landing on the roadway, only to be swept up again by the Lincoln Navigator or Honda Accord that passed over it. I could not discern any legible language on it; I might be overlooking the simplicity of it. After all, it could just be a heart; a heart that belongs to anyone but I believe it was intended for someone special, possibly a mother. I'm sure there is some type of symbolism related to this, but I can't find it.

As I was driving into work today, I saw this.

a lost gem

I came back from the lab and sat down to eat my dinner. After flipping the channels furiously I finally settled on watching the last 15 minutes of Bill and Ted's Bogus Journey. I will provide some insight into these last minutes, but before I start let me mention a couple of things about what this movie means to me.

Vanderbilt is an asshole. He didn't invite to his movie birthday party in which he and a number of his friends watched Bogus Journey in theaters. It would have been cool if it was just like three or four of his closest friends, but if my memory serves me correctly, is was a shitload of random peeps. It was people who had invited him to their birthday party, and even acquaintances, but no I wasn't invited.

Also, the first time I saw this movie, it was on channel 11. It was the Sunday afternoon movie. My parents weren't home and I don't think I discovered jerking off yet, so I was pretty entertained. I recall eating popcorn and drinking soda. This movie infatuated me. I was satisfied when it was done.

Anyway, today I decide to watch it, and what do you know, the good Robot us's are on the scene. Yes, if you remember correctly we must mention robot versions of Bill and Ted in the context of good and evil, because the real Bill and Ted were killed by bad robot versions of themselves. With the help of midgets who look like scrotums, they build good robots out of common products one may find in a hardware store. How did they build with their short arms? Why would they help Bill and Ted? Really? If they were so advanced, why could they only speak one word? (station), which is also both their names? We are left in the dark with these questions.

Anyway, Death otherwise known as the grim reaper has accompanied our friends under some ridiculous circumstances. Death has a German accent (maybe), and loves to make little jokes and pop culture references. He's so cute. Wait wait wait... death isn't supposed to be cute... The five of them (station (2), bill and Ted (2), death (1), and the good robot us's walk into the San Demos battle of the bands, Which totally rocks by the way, by any times standards!

The bad robot us's, the ones who allowed our hero's to meet death, are somewhat shocked at the real Bill and Ted's entrance and say something like DUDE!. The thing is, you really can't tell them apart. Its funny, can people who say dude, and that rocks be evil? This is problematic in many ways.

The real Bill and Ted announce that they have arrived to save the day and proceed to use their 'joy sticks' haha to decapitate the evil robot us's with the good robot us's. This is really complicated so bear with me. The bad robot us's do not resist. They should considering they supposedly nefarious. They have 'the babes' (some broads the dog shit duo (what I will describe the real Bill and Ted as from now on) picked up in the middle ages) (Geographically you know where I'm talking about when I say middle ages) ... Ok ok so they have the babes tied up to rafters of the place, and claim they will kill them at the end of their purposely shitty number. Genius. However, they do not struggle when their enemies come back and use the good robot us's to kill them. They say bye to each other in their dude like ways, and the good robot us's decapitate the bad robot us's.

There are fireworks, the crowd is pleased, and the heads of the bad robot us's land in the dog shit duo's arms. They have saved the day, right? If you think that's it, you need a reality check dude. The boss character, (excuse my video games jargon), comes out of the famed phone booth. He's also probably German, is dressed in black, and has a gun that looks like it was purchased in KayBee. He states his name, like a true gangsta, and then uses a remote control to actually get the attention of the whole 'universe'. We see a worthless sequence in which purple electricity goes through satellite dishes. I am now a believer.

This is when we take a turn for the worse. An obligatory shot of people around the world is necessary, so we know that this shit is really international. Up First, is a scumbag, hairy, unshaven, fat Italian man in a wife beater watching to what we can assume to be a soccer game. He tries to change the channel, but no he can't. This 'melvin' has taken control of all tv, everywhere. He could read, or jerk off or something, but he chooses to keep on watching. Next we go the England where the prim and proper shitfaced family is drinking tea at the breakfast table or some shit. They all simultaneously say 'my word'. Is this really the United States' pop culture's view of the British? Shit, that's garbage. Then in a typical stereotype not given much play anymore, we visit China. In a bar or gambling den, old surly Chinese men bet their life fortunes on the role of the dice. They even have the nerve to give one of the men a farmer's hat.

We return to the gym. This guy is talking shit. Some nonsense. He won't shoot his gun, and we know it, but shit it's pointed right at the dog shit duo. What will they do? They have a conference. They agree to escape, but they don't say how. There is a toy gun pointed right at them, you would think they might respect it, but they anger the German even more. Instead of just leaving in the phone both to escape danger, they decide to go back in time and set up a dropping sandbag. A motherfuckn sandbag that falls at that moment and knocks the gun out of the German's hand. Instead of just picking it up, he stands there with his dick out, vulnerable to attack. As they discuss what they will do next, magically a cage falls on the German's head.

So in this scene the dog shit duo are in the present and they are describing what they will do when they use the phone booth. Man, this logic is more fucked up than Back to the Future. Well, as they contemplate what they will do to beat this gypsy, it just so happens, they are experts at timeing this shit perfectly. I never understood this when I first watched it, and I still don't. If you have any theories please let me know immediately.

The German claims he can manipulate time as well. He gets a key for the cage and another gun. Silly German! He forgets that Bill and Ted are 'the men' and will come up on top. So they fuck with the dude. Instead of having a toy gun that shoots lasers or some shit, a flag that says Wild Stallions rule pops out. Hilarious. Ted's father handcuffs the fiend and we are all good, but not before death, that daffy bastard, gives the German a huge weggie. He is labeled a melvin and figuratively shit on.

The next shit is the shit that really pisses me off. When the German gets over the shock of being humiliated on world wide TV, he smiles. He liked the wedgie. Logic says he likes things up his ass. The villain is not only a scumbag, and evil, but gay too. Fucking hilarious, really. The fucked up thing is death has undoubtedly dabbled in homosexuality himself, and here he is ostracizing the German because he likes wedgies. Tisk tisk.

Some insignificant shit happens, and then they decide to 'get good' by traveling back to the middle ages and practicing guitar. Wait wait wait... where did they plug their electric guitars into? They did have Station though. They come back to the present with ridiculous mustaches and beards, the type a man might spend a life time growing. Lucky Bastards. They introduce their band, death spits a rhyme: 'whether you are a king or a little street sweeper, you know you got a date with the reaper'. His nick name should be the cerebral assasian.

The dog shit duo had twins that were conceived at the same time during the duration of a 'mediaeval honeymoon' They practiced for 16 months, and for what, so they could play GOD GAVE ROCK AND ROLL TO YOU, considered by most to be a shitty power/monster ballad by a garbage band. Everyone loves it, because everyone is still watching internationally. Practiced for so long, and this is it? The British family loves it though. The reserved, conservative, prim and proper Brits are dancing to it. Shiiiit.... The Asian guy gives the other Asian guy a high five.

It is clear they are not actually singing this song. The message hits home with all. God did give rock and roll to us, and everyone.

The credits start rolling... wow that was some ride. Wait, wait, we get to see the future even though it didn't' t happen yet. Apparently, the dog shit duo become Sportsmen of the year, and take roles in world history that they could never have imagined growing up in San Demos. They cure the problems of the middle east (whatever that happens to be at the time) by simply going there. When the dog shit duo goes to the Midwest, agricultural production goes up 30 percent. There is a string of these events, which are obviously just correlation not causation, such as causing the Dow to drop because of break up rumors. Not only do they use the world's atomic bomb supply to fuel their amplifier, but they cure pollution with air guitars. Heavy stuff. The one I didn't understand was about death winning the Indy 500. The headline is a quote by death saying 'I didn't know I could run that fast'. Totally out of context. And finally like a real American story, technology improves and Bill and Ted play on Mars. Utter trash. Through this we are subjected to hearing a tall tale about the origins of rock and roll. Ya know, how god gave rock and roll to us, and everyone.

Needless to say, my reaction to this was WOWSERS! Really stupid shit. Surreal, and thus entertaining. I'm glad I could share this experience with others, and fuck you Vanderbilt for not inviting me.

She used to hum

She used to hum
when I guessed correct
(a song, an unknown
destination), a two-note measure
with a slight crescendo,
her smile a pressed leaf.

She used to breathe
a nectar breeze,
and sometimes a gust
of vodka and vomit,
like the moment before
she stumbled onto my lips
for our long-delayed
first bilious kiss.

She used to quake
my skin with her fingertips,
run them smooth along my neck,
or push her nails to enter,
puncture my back
to draw a red retribution.

She used to leave
pink imprints
on her Friday night glasses,
which I’d notice, but still
allow my lips to cover,
allow my tongue to swim
in crayon-waxy wine.

She used to whisper
my name into my ear,
and I couldn’t help but shiver.

A couple of observations

1. I was listening to NPR. There was a segment about the recent efforts of including more players from the Negro Leagues that may have been overlooked during the first half of the 20th century. First, I wondered, is it okay to say Negro? Secondly, I laughed out loud at Monte Irvin. He's the only currently living hall of famer from the Negro Leagues and he presently does voluntary tours at Cooper's Town Hall of Fame. As NPR broadcasts Irvin conducting his tour, he says, as I imagine him feebly pointing his 94 year old finger at a picture on a wall, "And that was Cool Papa Bell (slight pause as he probably licks his lips)...He was cool." Then, he heartily laughs at his own joke and I wish I could be there during that tour to laugh with him. Irvin is a comic genius.

2. I met a club guy. You know the type - they are regular club-goers and they come equipped with gelled hair, cheesy pick up lines, and condoms. The club guy I met is Peruvian, so add to him the 'Rico Suave' effect. I hesitated writing about this because it meant that I would have to admit that I was at a club. But, I digress, the Peruvian is sweet eye candy with slim to no intelligence and a heck of a kisser. He throws out a couple of lines about beauty and eternal love, of which I laugh at. I mean: I was laughing hysterically and even had to step aside to catch my breath. He looks at me with a hurt, perplexed look on his face. He actually uses those lines on girls that probably take off their panties right then and there for him. And, for me to laugh at him must have been a blow to his ego. This is his trade - lovin' the ladies. So, for me to ridicule his talent was like a doctor losing a patient or a trial lawyer losing a career-building-slam-dunk case.

3. I read a book - a great book. Memorias de Mis Putas Tristes - Gael Garcia Marquez - seriously - I love this book. I read it with my dad. Kind of like a father reads bedtime stories to their little kids, except I was doing the reading and we were both drunk. I can't vouch for the English version - but, in Spanish it is the most beautifully and poetically written novel having to do with a love affair involving a prostitute. Read it. Now...right now. I'll lend you the book, if you want it. So, like I said previously, the general gist is that of an old, old 90-year old man and his affair with a teen virgin prostitute (sans sex). Folded nicely in the crevices of that love story are poignant observations of self-awareness, brilliant ridicule of our society, and a defiance of life and our silly preconceived norms. It's not a sappy romance novel - don't get the wrong impression. But, it deals with the themes of lives lived and loves lost from the point of view of the wisest, wrinklest old man. (I know wrinklest isn't a word)!

First Funeral

Mom is downstairs, I saw her
Go down in her black dress,
Heard her clack the wooden steps,
Carrying her black handbag. She
Left her perfume stalled in the air,
A flower I’ll never name but
It must be violet and dusky and rare,
And I can feel it fall onto my hands
And neck, each sensation
Smaller than a pinprick, softer
Than a sprinkler’s mist. I wonder
when’s the next time I’ll smell
this scent again.

Dad is down there too, I can hear
His fingers tap the counter,
His wedding band a drumstick.
He is in black as well, a suit
That makes his shoulders
Proud. Mine look false
In the mirror, full of air
And set to burst.

I can hear the shower stop
Raining in the next room,
my brother open and slide
Shut the translucent doors.
I’ll have to finish soon,
If I can force my fingers to stop
Their fumbling,
So he can use the mirror
To comb his straight hair
And tie a knot around his neck.
I close the door and leave
The light off. It is dark,
But I can see enough.

The sun is peeking around
My parents’ shades. It is seven o’clock,
And I can’t tie a tie.

battle ax he-man

Sitting down in a dark corner I begin to ponder. I let my mind wander where it may go, much like a drunk chimpanzee searching for an evenings dinner. The physical has escaped permitting a meditative state to the likes of which has been equaled only on rare occasion. My joints become ductile and relax back into my essence as a slight wind escapes from a man's posterior. The finger is moved to regain temporal balance.

The world has changed. In the future there are no more water fountains. The public is non existent. The cyberourgeoisie have effectively turned the masses into a quite homogeneous monoculture of consumers. This dystopian vision of the future is not unique. I refuse to cite John Carpenter's 'They Live'.

The value that space was given back then seems quite out of place here. The fabric of what we refer to as a neighborhood has been destroyed by self effacing individual citizens who unintentionally manufactured the social, economic, and political institutions of this world. Can this state be attributed to advanced capitalism? Perhaps this is the case. However, when I take the time to examine my serially absent self in a shard of broken glass, I realize I am this. The forces that created such a place have created me. Created in the image of capital, I will always remain in it. I shatter the glass with my Converse sneaker. Emblematic of the day I'm having, I cut my shin on the remanence. Theoretically, survival instincts should have kicked in. There would be no older version of Marty Mcfly to accompany me in my time of need. Maybe Jesus has finally returned and this is a post messianic landscape.

My thought is interrupted by a spectacular fragmented object resembling some semblance of architecture's vast history. Unless the molecular structure of building materials has changed, the design of this structure is far from sound. The angles from which this place constructs it's identities are thrown about like garbage in the mews. The eerie turpentine smell emanating from it draws me closer. As I come near, there's a rise in my Levis. There is a small circular hole in the side of one the many fragmented walls. Upon closer inspection the hole is quite glorious in it's aesthetic qualities....

To be continued....

Una Pinche Autobiografia, Pt. I

Naci en el estado de Illinois. Siempre se me hizo muy extraño que no se pronucia la 's' en el nombre de ese estado. De chica conoci muchos lugares cuando vijaba con mi prostituta mama de ciudad por ciudad. Mi papa les vendia drogas a los gueros que eran aficionados de mi mama. De la edad entre siete y trece anos, cuando mis papas trabajaban, yo me la pasaba leyendo articulos en las revistas pronograficas que escondia mi papa entre los colchones de la cama. A si es como frutaron mis amores del viaje y de la literatura. Con la fortuna que ahoraron mis papas en los negocios de prostitucion y el narcotrafico, me dieron la oportunidad de viajar por todo el mundo.

Primero visite a los lugares mas bellos de Mexico, Centro y Sudamerica. Viajaba por la selvas de Chiapas, las calles del Salvador y las montañas de Colombia donde conocia los guerilleros cargando armas de fuego. Era una epoca cargada de tensiones politicas y una buena temporada para aprender sobres las gentes indigenas que me recibian. Ellos siempre daban regalitos para mi papa enredados con papel y pesados por kilos. Se me hacia tan linda la gente, que por donde quiera que iba me deban estos regalos para mi papa.

Mas adelante, mis papas me mandaron a Europa. Y para que no digan que mi papa es tacaño, tambien me encargo que entregara otros regalitos un sus amigos Europanos. La gente Europana tambien era muy amable y aunque les decia que no era necesario, me daban dinero y mas dinero al saber que les traia regalitos de parte de mi papa. Que linda es la gente.

Una vez, me dieron un recado para entregarle a mi mama. Yo creo era parte de un chiste porque no le entendi bien. Me dice el embasador de Peru con una sonrisa, "Dile a tu flaca madre que si el perro no revienta con polvo blanco, la polvorizo a ella." Jajaja. Yo creo tiene que ver el chiste con el tema de un cachorito con el que se encariño mi mama una vez. Que detallista del señor por averse acordado de aquel cachorito que queria tanto mi mama. Fue muy triste, porque ese cachorito despues se murio de un over-dosis de cocaina. Nunca nos enteramos como fue que el cachorito tenia cocaina.

Don't Cry For Me Technologia

I cannot think of any business machine more useless and annoying then a fax machine. In this day and age of email and scanners is there still a reason to transmit documents via phone lines. Regardless, everyday I am witness to my fellow coworkers involved in a never ending battle with this waste of space. All day long I hear them loading the sheets in, dialing the numbers (please note that and audible verification that a key has been pressed is unnecessary) and then the machine's response of "Beep, Beep, Beep". This sequence will repeat, with the occasionally echoes of the paper tray opening then slamming into the body of the beast, until one member of the struggle gives in. It really doesn't affect me until I hear the battle cries of that glorified telephone.

"Beep"
"Beep"
"Beep"

What is it trying to convey? Is it sending out some type of distress signal? Using Mr. Morse's alphabet that he created for horses and/or Helen Keller, I attempt to decipher it.

The Options:
"S"
-Could it be calling an army of snakes?
"E" "E" "E"
-On a phone that is 333- convert that to other letters you get "Ef'd" meaning we're fucked.
"E" "I"
-Perhaps that fax's alphebet only consists of two vowels.
"I" "E"
-I e- what? I eat? I envy? I e- what?

After a thorough examination of the evidence before me I concluded that it is not attempting to hold a coversation but rather it is an exclamation of pain. The machine appears to be hurt (paper cut?) and it is screaming out in agony. So this machine that I have come to despise is asking to be put out of it's misery and a feeling of helplessness falls over me.

As I stumbled upon this revelation, I sank lower into my ergonomic chair. I was horrified that I now have to sit and listen to death cries of a machine that is not scheduled to be replaced anytime in the near future. During the quiet times I glance over at it just to check if it's still there.
I have to wipe away the tears before anyone notices....

Paperclips, paperclips, paperclips

One of my life goals is to be featured in the Guiness World Book of Records. I've searched and searched for a record to break and by gosh - I've found it. I will create the world's longest paperclip chain.

The category
It's a tough one. The goal is to create the world's longest paperclip chain by an individual in 24 hours using 1.2 inch long paperclips.

The competition
Dan Mayer of California has gone unchallenged since February of 2004. He is a short, stocky man that likes to wear paperclips as cufflinks and has a slight b.o. problem. His love of paperclips began as a child when he used paperclip chains as garland for the family Christmas tree in sunny California. He is a devout paperclip aficionado. As you can see - the competition is formidable.

The strategy
It requires skill, speed and concentration. Nimble fingers are required for the interlocking of paperclips. This is the action that creates the 'chain'. In order to stay competitive I must interlock the links [paperclips] with haste. It's going to take steadfast concentration and mathematical calculations to stay on edge. History indicates, that 53,400 paperclips were used for the current world record of 5,340 feet. Let's break it down. That's 2,235 paperclips an hour, and 37.083 paperclips a minute. In laymen's terms - that's a lot of paperclips.

The acceptance speech
If and when I am announced the new record holder-I will have to thank God, my publisist, Jackie Chan - because he inspires me - and my mom. But, maybe not in that order.

Brainstorming

I have had writer's block for several months now. Juices aren't flowing, wheels aren't turing, lights aren't turning on.... So, I'm going to experiment.
1. I need you guys to leave potential post titles as comments.
2. I will attempt to write about said titles.
3. Life will go on.