To the pinned out button expressionists who spend time concealing Hot Topic purchases, Music is not your boyfriend.
Music is your music, and any potential boyfriend will be a mortal dude who (showing my age here) played Mortal Combat, and does not ride around the galaxy on waves like Doppler.
I am leaving San Francisco to volunteer for Obama in Detroit in two weeks time.
CRAZY!
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
SFC
The Occident is a pile of garbage and skyscrapers
Citizen tourists live stale mythologies
A theme park over several zip codes
Horse enthusiasts grow up to saddle Schwinns
Correctly skinny vintage maidens
Counterculture crownin' while you're just clownin'
Lost youth believe what they hear,
End up in the Haight Ashbury yelling "Nugs"
Loitering in the Disney Land Parking Lot
Pampered and handily wiped,
The dollar goes here to feel better about itself
Echo chamber for the distraught and overchoiced
Civilization feels too guilty about itself to rape as it once did
San Francisco is the capitol of post-rape Civilization
Repressed, Victorian, hypocritical civilization
I am tired of this shit.
Citizen tourists live stale mythologies
A theme park over several zip codes
Horse enthusiasts grow up to saddle Schwinns
Correctly skinny vintage maidens
Counterculture crownin' while you're just clownin'
Lost youth believe what they hear,
End up in the Haight Ashbury yelling "Nugs"
Loitering in the Disney Land Parking Lot
Pampered and handily wiped,
The dollar goes here to feel better about itself
Echo chamber for the distraught and overchoiced
Civilization feels too guilty about itself to rape as it once did
San Francisco is the capitol of post-rape Civilization
Repressed, Victorian, hypocritical civilization
I am tired of this shit.
Post-humanism
I hope he made millions, the dude who came up with the fake cavemen are people too non-profit looking envelopes Geico uses as solicitation. If I were not so young, wise to the trickery of Babylon and the stated goal of advertising agencies to saturate my every waking minute and subvert my every private thought with their product-lifestyle, I might fall for it and think them extremely clever. As it is though, I just look at the envelope as I'm sorting the mail and think "Nice try, Geico, but you are no SubGenius!"
The best part about Shakespeare is that English teachers invariably lose the class during discussions and have to instead talk about all of this auxiliary knowledge they were tested on at some point in graduate school involving 16th century European belief systems composed of charts.
I love these charts, because they're premised with "I know it's impossible for you guys to believe that at one point Europeans had faulty explanations for life and the natural world, BUT-". It's like we walked into the classroom thinking our belief systems universal and timeless, if we considered them at all. The idea of a world where alchemy is the central consideration, or demons exist in people, whose sole purpose is to tempt us into damnation, will one day make as much sense as a world in which money is the central consideration, and demons exist in people, whose sole purpose is to tempt us into Islamofascism. I guess we haven't gotten very far.
My textbook is the best part of that class. Langston Hughes and I met for the first time in it's pages, and a poem on Goya's figures as the realization of humanism with America as it's conclusion, that was good shit. I think about history a lot, to the point where the Angela Davis sponsored History of Consciousness Major offered at UC Santa Cruz makes perfect sense to me. As the natural world does it's best to wake us all the fuck up, challenges us by exposing our lifestyles as unsustainable, our core beliefs alien to any natural order or process, I think we're entering a new era of understanding in terms of humanity and our place in the world. The past four hundred years may have seen (more or less) the universal ascension and empowerment of man, at the expense of the power of nature. The 21st century will be about harmony, or we will not be here at the end to record it's passing. Simple as that.
On a different note, I didn't have coffee yesterday, but I sweat tremendously at the exact moment I would have drank coffee. Constipation was another side effect of going without, and it generally lead to a an unpleasant day of not knowing what the fuck my body wanted, and being unable to provide it. It made me decide to be alone, though that decision made me go online.
Smoking less pot this week (because the stash is visibly depleted) but in more of a daze. I think about how excited I can get sometimes, and wonder if that's not just a long overdue chemical release in my brain that lasts for a week or so at a time, the end result of a month's freeze on the production of that happy chemical, inside depression. I wonder if it would matter if it was, I am a walking puddle of chemical processes and reactions, none intrinsically more legitimate. I wonder about the earth, also composed of about the same amount of water as my body, also teeming with simplistic life forms simultaneously indifferent to the greater consciousness but also dependent on it for survival. I wonder if the earth also gets high. Whole swaths of China as bags of airplane glue.
The best part about Shakespeare is that English teachers invariably lose the class during discussions and have to instead talk about all of this auxiliary knowledge they were tested on at some point in graduate school involving 16th century European belief systems composed of charts.
I love these charts, because they're premised with "I know it's impossible for you guys to believe that at one point Europeans had faulty explanations for life and the natural world, BUT-". It's like we walked into the classroom thinking our belief systems universal and timeless, if we considered them at all. The idea of a world where alchemy is the central consideration, or demons exist in people, whose sole purpose is to tempt us into damnation, will one day make as much sense as a world in which money is the central consideration, and demons exist in people, whose sole purpose is to tempt us into Islamofascism. I guess we haven't gotten very far.
My textbook is the best part of that class. Langston Hughes and I met for the first time in it's pages, and a poem on Goya's figures as the realization of humanism with America as it's conclusion, that was good shit. I think about history a lot, to the point where the Angela Davis sponsored History of Consciousness Major offered at UC Santa Cruz makes perfect sense to me. As the natural world does it's best to wake us all the fuck up, challenges us by exposing our lifestyles as unsustainable, our core beliefs alien to any natural order or process, I think we're entering a new era of understanding in terms of humanity and our place in the world. The past four hundred years may have seen (more or less) the universal ascension and empowerment of man, at the expense of the power of nature. The 21st century will be about harmony, or we will not be here at the end to record it's passing. Simple as that.
On a different note, I didn't have coffee yesterday, but I sweat tremendously at the exact moment I would have drank coffee. Constipation was another side effect of going without, and it generally lead to a an unpleasant day of not knowing what the fuck my body wanted, and being unable to provide it. It made me decide to be alone, though that decision made me go online.
Smoking less pot this week (because the stash is visibly depleted) but in more of a daze. I think about how excited I can get sometimes, and wonder if that's not just a long overdue chemical release in my brain that lasts for a week or so at a time, the end result of a month's freeze on the production of that happy chemical, inside depression. I wonder if it would matter if it was, I am a walking puddle of chemical processes and reactions, none intrinsically more legitimate. I wonder about the earth, also composed of about the same amount of water as my body, also teeming with simplistic life forms simultaneously indifferent to the greater consciousness but also dependent on it for survival. I wonder if the earth also gets high. Whole swaths of China as bags of airplane glue.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Fuckin' Gonuts
Franchise Comfort Seeker
Hear my Symbology!
Dip and Dunk America
Fuckin' Gonuts Friday
The Bayview Library has VHS's of blaxploitation films, only they're not blaxploitation because they were made before World War II and are all about sticking to a Christian path. I guess I only evoke blaxploitation because I can't imagine anybody other than a bamboozled audience or a curious descendant sitting through them. It's too bad old shit is so boring sometimes.
They also had DVD's of The Flip Wilson show, I watched the episode with George Carlin and one of his sketches has him as the radio news announcer, a lot of dark "99% of non-smokers die" type of non-sequitors, apparently you could do anything you wanted in the early 1970's. He was interspersed with Miss Black America contestants covering Dionne Warwick songs and Joe fucking Namath.
Another episode guest'd Johnny Cash and his lovely wife (And I mean without cosmetics or DVD lovely) and had a skit where Johnny played Captain Ahab to Flip's Ishmael. Ahab got called out as the jive Turkey he was. The show adressed issues of race quickly: a chess game, what side to pick, they're both the same, then I'll pick black because black is beautiful, okay well white moves first type of jokes. Others fall a bit more flat, like a card game Namath and Carlin play with Flip where they make up all of the rules, and Flip loses all of his money, only to catch on at the end to the white man's trickery by producing from his coat pocket a book of rules for the game, showing I guess Flip's ability to overcome structural impositions, but being a bit too symbolic for a workable punch line.
My favorite line in the show was during a sketch where a voice actor was pretending to be a series of auditions for the new National Anthem, and he began one saying his name was LeBrawn Stevens, and he is from any Ghetto In America. He starts the song with the lines "You lock up all your blacks", and immediately is shut off with a not-so-loud-as-to-anger-the-black-guy "NEXT". Flip Wilson was ahead of his time, though I'd have trouble thinking of anybody who was definitively of the time of the Variety Show, as I've never seen Sullivan.
There's a reggae store that says it's Retail/Wholesale on Third Street which never seems to be open. I could see Rasta keeping odd hours, but I think this is just an indication that the whole thing is a front. NOT ONE DOLLAR OF GOV'T MONEY GOES INTO THIS BUSINESS, reads an adjacent storefront. I went for the Chicken and Waffles, after surprising another patron just by walking in who said "How you doin' Cuz, ordering happens over there". I like being called Baby as an obligatory suffix to "What do you want to order". I realize for the first time that OBAMA '08 signs in storefronts might be the most lucrative, bridge building decision merchants can make, and I wonder how that good will could translate into governing. Fireside youtube chats with the President elect at the local library, all of us huddled in our Norman Rockwell coats and finery? We shall see!
Hear my Symbology!
Dip and Dunk America
Fuckin' Gonuts Friday
The Bayview Library has VHS's of blaxploitation films, only they're not blaxploitation because they were made before World War II and are all about sticking to a Christian path. I guess I only evoke blaxploitation because I can't imagine anybody other than a bamboozled audience or a curious descendant sitting through them. It's too bad old shit is so boring sometimes.
They also had DVD's of The Flip Wilson show, I watched the episode with George Carlin and one of his sketches has him as the radio news announcer, a lot of dark "99% of non-smokers die" type of non-sequitors, apparently you could do anything you wanted in the early 1970's. He was interspersed with Miss Black America contestants covering Dionne Warwick songs and Joe fucking Namath.
Another episode guest'd Johnny Cash and his lovely wife (And I mean without cosmetics or DVD lovely) and had a skit where Johnny played Captain Ahab to Flip's Ishmael. Ahab got called out as the jive Turkey he was. The show adressed issues of race quickly: a chess game, what side to pick, they're both the same, then I'll pick black because black is beautiful, okay well white moves first type of jokes. Others fall a bit more flat, like a card game Namath and Carlin play with Flip where they make up all of the rules, and Flip loses all of his money, only to catch on at the end to the white man's trickery by producing from his coat pocket a book of rules for the game, showing I guess Flip's ability to overcome structural impositions, but being a bit too symbolic for a workable punch line.
My favorite line in the show was during a sketch where a voice actor was pretending to be a series of auditions for the new National Anthem, and he began one saying his name was LeBrawn Stevens, and he is from any Ghetto In America. He starts the song with the lines "You lock up all your blacks", and immediately is shut off with a not-so-loud-as-to-anger-the-black-guy "NEXT". Flip Wilson was ahead of his time, though I'd have trouble thinking of anybody who was definitively of the time of the Variety Show, as I've never seen Sullivan.
There's a reggae store that says it's Retail/Wholesale on Third Street which never seems to be open. I could see Rasta keeping odd hours, but I think this is just an indication that the whole thing is a front. NOT ONE DOLLAR OF GOV'T MONEY GOES INTO THIS BUSINESS, reads an adjacent storefront. I went for the Chicken and Waffles, after surprising another patron just by walking in who said "How you doin' Cuz, ordering happens over there". I like being called Baby as an obligatory suffix to "What do you want to order". I realize for the first time that OBAMA '08 signs in storefronts might be the most lucrative, bridge building decision merchants can make, and I wonder how that good will could translate into governing. Fireside youtube chats with the President elect at the local library, all of us huddled in our Norman Rockwell coats and finery? We shall see!
Monday, July 7, 2008
Fourth of July Weekend as a Salvia trip
I am in a room somewhere in the Berkeley Hills overlooking Sebastopol listening to side 3 of The Basement Tapes rolling a joint and taking in fireworks over the shoulders of social strangers, piss drunk and totally sober. I'm talking to a girl I met at a party while on LSD the night before moving here, and she is a Sister of Mercy, in the Cohen sense. I'm holding in the butane fueled purple smoke and expecting pixelized vision, impatient but no longer afraid.
Talking animals about a simulated normality, too many details to know, blue shirts without context. They go about their individual businesses like wind-ups, like scripts. Wood forms on walls compose the sterilized cool of an electric guitar base, I nob. Flowing color, sinking contentedness, baseless reality, I move. Cool as a cucumber, I remember, these are my friends. I remember, I am on drugs. I remember, They too are on drugs, we're doing fun together. Experience show, take I and my baggage away and leave stuff- colors, movement, feelings. I try and answer a question about Michael Paradis, I slur, I am back.
Three days, more like four with Thursday chores ending at 9:30AM. Only bits of it worth repeating are the aforementioned salvia experience, the box of infinite joint rolling and record library at the Berkeley Hills BBQ, and spending Sunday being with somebody so interested in what I had to say as to make me believe I could change them, that I was insightful.
I ate a lot of other people's foods, drank from their cups and piggy backed on their virility. My skin grows thick and I wear flare on my pants and out of my head, an androgynous warning that the rules do not apply.
I am, I realize at the end of the trip, Michael Paradis, and these are my friends, and we're all on drugs together, pretty much all the time.
Talking animals about a simulated normality, too many details to know, blue shirts without context. They go about their individual businesses like wind-ups, like scripts. Wood forms on walls compose the sterilized cool of an electric guitar base, I nob. Flowing color, sinking contentedness, baseless reality, I move. Cool as a cucumber, I remember, these are my friends. I remember, I am on drugs. I remember, They too are on drugs, we're doing fun together. Experience show, take I and my baggage away and leave stuff- colors, movement, feelings. I try and answer a question about Michael Paradis, I slur, I am back.
Three days, more like four with Thursday chores ending at 9:30AM. Only bits of it worth repeating are the aforementioned salvia experience, the box of infinite joint rolling and record library at the Berkeley Hills BBQ, and spending Sunday being with somebody so interested in what I had to say as to make me believe I could change them, that I was insightful.
I ate a lot of other people's foods, drank from their cups and piggy backed on their virility. My skin grows thick and I wear flare on my pants and out of my head, an androgynous warning that the rules do not apply.
I am, I realize at the end of the trip, Michael Paradis, and these are my friends, and we're all on drugs together, pretty much all the time.
Thursday, July 3, 2008
Monday was hot, and I wore a coat defiant of that fact. The cars were being redirected at the Presidio gate, and when I kept walking some pork chop said "Sir, WHERE do you think your going?"
"To my house, I live here."
"The area is closed, we found munitions we have to explode"
"What do you recommend I do then?"
"The area is closed"
Awesome. I walked up Jackson and hopped over the wall at the end of Cherry Street and got in that way. I heard the explosion, should be allowed back in. Pork Chop Patrol has a cavalry. He didn't notice me until I walked up past him, and then it was all "AREA IS CLOSED!" like an earless prick. There were rich people playing tennis up ahead. I said I was just going to the tennis courts. Best not to try and convince him I need anything he cannot then see.
I took a different route home than usual, past where the cavalry had parked their unlocked trucks forcing upon me the regret of not jacking their fascist backpacks. I pack a bowl and sit on my porch as a static helicopter looks out over a decidedly closed area.
The next day I come home and there's a sign on the door from Comcast saying they believe they have given us cable service erroneously. The sign is full of offers, like the bank representative in Stroszek, nicing up the feudalism. It makes me remember when I later see a dead rat, straws on the camel's back. I'm getting kinda depressed.
Busrides still enlightening. Freckled creole repeating into his cell phone "You're ruining the game, You're ruining the game, You're ruining the game." It doesn't matter if you make a profit, if other people charge more than you'll be out of buisness. Don't try and undercut the competition, is his reasoning, because then they'll just buy your junk and sell it back to your customers and make your profits. And by junk, he insists he means computers. He gets off at Haight, asian highschool girls get on. The plan for them is to do the Zoo and then to see Wall E. Wallyzoo... Zoowally... She is happy with her inadvertant wordplay and repeats this last one to her friends as they sit down, zoowally. They're talking about why baggy clothes are popular, saying they make things bigger, like shoulders and legs. One of them then also points to the stomach and says "Also here", and they giggle shamefully. One gets off before the rest, and is then accused of talking "white". So many shames.
I took the T last night all the way out because without cable or internet, my room is actually just a room and not a launchpad into parallel realities. It goes all the way out and all the way back, the spinal chord of a gentrified Southeast. MUNI is running an ad campaign showcasing the neighborhood treasures, part of a co-ordinated effort by money to take back the last toe hold of working class culture in the city. Mam, MAM, and then a poke on the shoulder. I turn around and she says, "Oh sir I'm sorry", and her boyfriend smiles.
Yes, this train goes to BART you provencial twat.
I'm tired, maybe a legacy of being sick so recently, but it's not a good place. Not the relief tired but the disinterested tired. I'm driving to Sebastopol today, and we'll see what that does for me.
"To my house, I live here."
"The area is closed, we found munitions we have to explode"
"What do you recommend I do then?"
"The area is closed"
Awesome. I walked up Jackson and hopped over the wall at the end of Cherry Street and got in that way. I heard the explosion, should be allowed back in. Pork Chop Patrol has a cavalry. He didn't notice me until I walked up past him, and then it was all "AREA IS CLOSED!" like an earless prick. There were rich people playing tennis up ahead. I said I was just going to the tennis courts. Best not to try and convince him I need anything he cannot then see.
I took a different route home than usual, past where the cavalry had parked their unlocked trucks forcing upon me the regret of not jacking their fascist backpacks. I pack a bowl and sit on my porch as a static helicopter looks out over a decidedly closed area.
The next day I come home and there's a sign on the door from Comcast saying they believe they have given us cable service erroneously. The sign is full of offers, like the bank representative in Stroszek, nicing up the feudalism. It makes me remember when I later see a dead rat, straws on the camel's back. I'm getting kinda depressed.
Busrides still enlightening. Freckled creole repeating into his cell phone "You're ruining the game, You're ruining the game, You're ruining the game." It doesn't matter if you make a profit, if other people charge more than you'll be out of buisness. Don't try and undercut the competition, is his reasoning, because then they'll just buy your junk and sell it back to your customers and make your profits. And by junk, he insists he means computers. He gets off at Haight, asian highschool girls get on. The plan for them is to do the Zoo and then to see Wall E. Wallyzoo... Zoowally... She is happy with her inadvertant wordplay and repeats this last one to her friends as they sit down, zoowally. They're talking about why baggy clothes are popular, saying they make things bigger, like shoulders and legs. One of them then also points to the stomach and says "Also here", and they giggle shamefully. One gets off before the rest, and is then accused of talking "white". So many shames.
I took the T last night all the way out because without cable or internet, my room is actually just a room and not a launchpad into parallel realities. It goes all the way out and all the way back, the spinal chord of a gentrified Southeast. MUNI is running an ad campaign showcasing the neighborhood treasures, part of a co-ordinated effort by money to take back the last toe hold of working class culture in the city. Mam, MAM, and then a poke on the shoulder. I turn around and she says, "Oh sir I'm sorry", and her boyfriend smiles.
Yes, this train goes to BART you provencial twat.
I'm tired, maybe a legacy of being sick so recently, but it's not a good place. Not the relief tired but the disinterested tired. I'm driving to Sebastopol today, and we'll see what that does for me.
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
Democracy Now
Joe the Lion seems to be a song built around the spoken word bit towards the middle, if David Bowie's voice on record could ever really qualify as "spoken word". It's Monday, slither down the greasy pipe, so far so good no one saw you, Hobble over any freeway you will be like your dreams tonight. It's David Bowie singing Life During Wartime, J.G. Ballard novels.
When the fog is heavy enough in the morning, it rains. Normally wet pastels, southern San Francisco with it's inter war large scale housing developments comprised of unique and faux European detached single unit homes, one wouldn't even know they were large scale developments if they didn't have fucking brick and metal arches at their loose sidewalk borders, after such a heavy fog they glisten and shine. From the top of the hill it's Islamic geometry, all the glittery tesora and rooftops shrinking into one another like a diorama-rama.
These houses were made possible by the automobile. Economies of scale and of oil gave our country to the workers. Maybe we were too busy focusing on the red menace to understand at the time, but in America the common god fearing man was made king, 100 million coronations taking place in 100 million different track homes starting an era of 100 billion served. The jungle was reshaped, reimagined, and tamed on the mostly humble and reptilian requirements of you and I. Now there is fruit in every home, and every man is the master of his destiny. God is still here, for it was his grace that gave this blessed nation the ability to be so generous, so righteous, and we will never forget him.
Generations grew up under the guidance of the masses, accepted their playground of moral relativism and the virtues of faith. Trash was the thing we made a lot of, so those who would be overdone by their own misanthropy were it not for making salvation out of culture started to celebrate the trash. The great masses of the people lead the government not deliberately, but through attitude and disregard. Government emulates Americans, and just as the newly enfranchised millions of the oil economy borrow and boast, so too does our government. Mutual expectations have shrunk into mutual suspicions and shared cynicisms. Democracy wasn't the best thing to ever happen to the world. True democracy was achieved in the post-war suburbs, and it is ugly. It is common. It is American communism like no 19th century philosopher could have ever imagined, the tyranny of the well fed, well intentioned, god fearing masses upon the concepts of change and limitation.
It is time to reinvent the American idea, the democratic idea. Upwards and onwards works when you're building railroads or subjecting natives, but as a personal philosophy, and America is only personal philosophy imposed on a global scale, even Jesus knew that shit was whack, unsustainable.
I slept terribly. I woke up and a third of my weight was gone, in the form of cold saltwater, all over my bedsheets. I am fucking sick.
Didn't stop me from smoking all the pot last night and watching Rockers with Ben and Max. I had forgotten the scene where Horsemouth goes to the soundclash. The rub-a-dub MC (Dirty Harry?) is presiding over a congregation of Saturday Night Fever outfitted red stripe drinking Lil' Wayne dreadding Jamaican cats, not deserving of the anonymous status granted them by the night and the crowd. There is dancing and rapping, a footnote to the story of Jamaican music as they thought westerners should hear it at the time, unaware that from the niced up style would emerge hip hop. It makes sense, Soundclash being the most commercially focused of the Jamaican genres, with the entire thing staged to sell booze, that American MCs would turn it into the soundtrack of Capitalism. Horsemouth stands around some of these cats just long enough for us to feel normal, and then one of them yells "BABYLON!" and the police bop some ganja smokers up, cue Junior Marvin.
I feel hungry, else I'd write more. I also need to buy my July Muni pass. They don't like making it obvious where they sell them. West Portal station was broken yesterday. Some asshole kid must've split orange over his Lionel. I waited for the 43 as an alternate, and found some leather gloves in a bush while waiting. I put the gloves on, and they were filled with pincer bugs. Reminds me of the old saying, "Don't put on found gloves, they will be filled with pincer bugs".
When the fog is heavy enough in the morning, it rains. Normally wet pastels, southern San Francisco with it's inter war large scale housing developments comprised of unique and faux European detached single unit homes, one wouldn't even know they were large scale developments if they didn't have fucking brick and metal arches at their loose sidewalk borders, after such a heavy fog they glisten and shine. From the top of the hill it's Islamic geometry, all the glittery tesora and rooftops shrinking into one another like a diorama-rama.
These houses were made possible by the automobile. Economies of scale and of oil gave our country to the workers. Maybe we were too busy focusing on the red menace to understand at the time, but in America the common god fearing man was made king, 100 million coronations taking place in 100 million different track homes starting an era of 100 billion served. The jungle was reshaped, reimagined, and tamed on the mostly humble and reptilian requirements of you and I. Now there is fruit in every home, and every man is the master of his destiny. God is still here, for it was his grace that gave this blessed nation the ability to be so generous, so righteous, and we will never forget him.
Generations grew up under the guidance of the masses, accepted their playground of moral relativism and the virtues of faith. Trash was the thing we made a lot of, so those who would be overdone by their own misanthropy were it not for making salvation out of culture started to celebrate the trash. The great masses of the people lead the government not deliberately, but through attitude and disregard. Government emulates Americans, and just as the newly enfranchised millions of the oil economy borrow and boast, so too does our government. Mutual expectations have shrunk into mutual suspicions and shared cynicisms. Democracy wasn't the best thing to ever happen to the world. True democracy was achieved in the post-war suburbs, and it is ugly. It is common. It is American communism like no 19th century philosopher could have ever imagined, the tyranny of the well fed, well intentioned, god fearing masses upon the concepts of change and limitation.
It is time to reinvent the American idea, the democratic idea. Upwards and onwards works when you're building railroads or subjecting natives, but as a personal philosophy, and America is only personal philosophy imposed on a global scale, even Jesus knew that shit was whack, unsustainable.
I slept terribly. I woke up and a third of my weight was gone, in the form of cold saltwater, all over my bedsheets. I am fucking sick.
Didn't stop me from smoking all the pot last night and watching Rockers with Ben and Max. I had forgotten the scene where Horsemouth goes to the soundclash. The rub-a-dub MC (Dirty Harry?) is presiding over a congregation of Saturday Night Fever outfitted red stripe drinking Lil' Wayne dreadding Jamaican cats, not deserving of the anonymous status granted them by the night and the crowd. There is dancing and rapping, a footnote to the story of Jamaican music as they thought westerners should hear it at the time, unaware that from the niced up style would emerge hip hop. It makes sense, Soundclash being the most commercially focused of the Jamaican genres, with the entire thing staged to sell booze, that American MCs would turn it into the soundtrack of Capitalism. Horsemouth stands around some of these cats just long enough for us to feel normal, and then one of them yells "BABYLON!" and the police bop some ganja smokers up, cue Junior Marvin.
I feel hungry, else I'd write more. I also need to buy my July Muni pass. They don't like making it obvious where they sell them. West Portal station was broken yesterday. Some asshole kid must've split orange over his Lionel. I waited for the 43 as an alternate, and found some leather gloves in a bush while waiting. I put the gloves on, and they were filled with pincer bugs. Reminds me of the old saying, "Don't put on found gloves, they will be filled with pincer bugs".
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