But I am wasteful with my time lord. Oh how I let things dangle. And as I sit naked on this leather chair in Weed California, most of the story has already passed by. It is late here, so the rest will wait. But I will tell you the end: All Roads Lead to Pizza Factory.
Lie - Not the end at all. The snow will keep things interesting tomorrow. They never talk about snow in California. It must be a sign from America. Oh U.S. of A, I hear your voice on the wind. Shut up, I am trying to sleep.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Sunday, January 17, 2010
Go South Young Man
They say if you drive south long enough, you live forever. So I did it, or that is to say I'm doing it. Pantsless at the bottom of Oregon, I reach out to you.
At the edge of Washington there is an industrial park. They make clouds. I did not stop for the tour, but the basics were obvious. Mountains of logs cover the concrete from the sidewalk to the wide mouthed factories. From these factories there issued copious expanding matte steel clouds. They coated everything above us, and two days later we haven't driven out from under them yet. I suspect this is the main fabrication point for the greater North West. As we left this tower of industry behind us, the car was cut off by a dirty red and purple panelled Chevy truck. It wove a bit before straightening out in the right lane. I read the back of their your heads as they pulled away; a baseball cap, a shoulder length brunette, a long blond. I forgave the near miss. The car was running erratic on a seventeen year old boner.
Crossing into Oregon involved a bridge and a sign. I would have prefered something more but so it is. The winding road was guarded by giant golems, inert excavators that slept but not so soundly that I would have honked the horn. Certainly one could assume they only waited for a hard hat toting operator to come and resume his work on the earth, but there was more malice in them than that. No, I think it's safe to say that they'll animate the moment there's trouble.
This is not the end.
At the edge of Washington there is an industrial park. They make clouds. I did not stop for the tour, but the basics were obvious. Mountains of logs cover the concrete from the sidewalk to the wide mouthed factories. From these factories there issued copious expanding matte steel clouds. They coated everything above us, and two days later we haven't driven out from under them yet. I suspect this is the main fabrication point for the greater North West. As we left this tower of industry behind us, the car was cut off by a dirty red and purple panelled Chevy truck. It wove a bit before straightening out in the right lane. I read the back of their your heads as they pulled away; a baseball cap, a shoulder length brunette, a long blond. I forgave the near miss. The car was running erratic on a seventeen year old boner.
Crossing into Oregon involved a bridge and a sign. I would have prefered something more but so it is. The winding road was guarded by giant golems, inert excavators that slept but not so soundly that I would have honked the horn. Certainly one could assume they only waited for a hard hat toting operator to come and resume his work on the earth, but there was more malice in them than that. No, I think it's safe to say that they'll animate the moment there's trouble.
This is not the end.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Y2XK
So it's 2010, Jesus-Christ.
Ten years and a few days ago a lot of people thought you world was going to end. Y2K. People called into talk radio shows to explain how at the stroke of midnight the computers were going to think it was 1900 and they'd totally shit an old timey bike or something. The grid was coming down and if you didn't stock MRE's, (meals ready to eat, an army put-in-your-mouth-substitute that can also be made into an anti-Gatorade bomb), garbage cans full of water and a ham radio you were fucked my friend, Fucked!
But now a word from my sponsor.
And we're back. Buy those videos kids.
So it will come as no surprise that looking back, as the clock rolled over to Y2XK, I was disapointed with the path my life had taken. I mean really, what have I done? In the past ten years I graduated highschool, enroled in three different Universities, graduated from one of those, worked several times at a Forestry Eduacation camp, was punched once outside a nightclub and got several tries at having sex. Pretty normal you might say. Pretty average. And that's just it.
I could have been so hard.
If humanity had been thrown into a post-apocalyptic wasteland I would be so hard right now. I would have slept with feral dogs. I would have had to make difficult decisions about caving a skull in for a crust of bread. I would wear tattered, awesome clothes that blew ragged in the gritty-grey sand of erodded skyscrapers. At exactly twelve midnight, January 1st 10 P.E.D. (Post Easy Days) I would have shook the mane of hair under my weathered panama hat with powerful developed neck muscles because my brother in arms Celery, (P.E.D. everything changed and 'Dean' just didn't feel right any more), would be a techno-mage, using the dying art of chemestry to create flashes and soaps and conductors that would frighten the savage eastern raiders. He'd also be good with things like keeping time without a wristwatch because he's so smart.
As for me, I'd carry a shovel and a shotgun, the only things you need to bury a man. And they'd call me Jack. Jack Shit.
As for you? Well you'd all be dead.
But I'd be so hard.
Ten years and a few days ago a lot of people thought you world was going to end. Y2K. People called into talk radio shows to explain how at the stroke of midnight the computers were going to think it was 1900 and they'd totally shit an old timey bike or something. The grid was coming down and if you didn't stock MRE's, (meals ready to eat, an army put-in-your-mouth-substitute that can also be made into an anti-Gatorade bomb), garbage cans full of water and a ham radio you were fucked my friend, Fucked!
But now a word from my sponsor.
And we're back. Buy those videos kids.
So it will come as no surprise that looking back, as the clock rolled over to Y2XK, I was disapointed with the path my life had taken. I mean really, what have I done? In the past ten years I graduated highschool, enroled in three different Universities, graduated from one of those, worked several times at a Forestry Eduacation camp, was punched once outside a nightclub and got several tries at having sex. Pretty normal you might say. Pretty average. And that's just it.
I could have been so hard.
If humanity had been thrown into a post-apocalyptic wasteland I would be so hard right now. I would have slept with feral dogs. I would have had to make difficult decisions about caving a skull in for a crust of bread. I would wear tattered, awesome clothes that blew ragged in the gritty-grey sand of erodded skyscrapers. At exactly twelve midnight, January 1st 10 P.E.D. (Post Easy Days) I would have shook the mane of hair under my weathered panama hat with powerful developed neck muscles because my brother in arms Celery, (P.E.D. everything changed and 'Dean' just didn't feel right any more), would be a techno-mage, using the dying art of chemestry to create flashes and soaps and conductors that would frighten the savage eastern raiders. He'd also be good with things like keeping time without a wristwatch because he's so smart.
As for me, I'd carry a shovel and a shotgun, the only things you need to bury a man. And they'd call me Jack. Jack Shit.
As for you? Well you'd all be dead.
But I'd be so hard.
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
I could do with you fucking off
Whoever said "I'm a poet and I didn't even know it" first should have been hung and then shot. It would have set a good precident.
I'm in a bad mood.
Hey aclaimed British author Eoin Colfer - I purposely pronounce your first name wrong when I say it in my head and I don't appreciate your writting new Hitch Hiker's guide to the Galaxy books. I hope you understand that by doing this your taking something a consider sacred and possibly cocking it the cock up. And I say cock because that means you're fucking it up British style. If you've written a book that's even supremely above average I'm going to hate you. Simply the fact that you're stepping into the shoes of an author I revere means we've started off on terrible terms. And the worst part - the worst part is I have no choice but to read this book. I swear to the god Adams didn't believe in that if you George Lucas'd this series there'll be hell to pay.
Hey New Scientist Magazine, when you announced that you were taking submissions of flash fiction set 100 years in the future for a contest, I assumed you would get a Chinese garbage scow's worth of enviro-disaster shorts. I seem to be on the mark as seven of the nine stories you've published were variations on Pixar's Wall-E. Now I'm not saying that I don't believe in global warming, but next time I'll make sure to write to your politics and name my protagonist Gal Ore. And I'm not saying I should have made the cut, I'm just saying the winning story requires enough suspension of disbelief to hold up the Golden Gate Bridge.
And another thing
Dear Bawler,
Who taught you how to walk like that? My god, I would say your shoulders swayed like a boxer in slow motion if that didn't make it sound as though there was something graceful involved. You walk forwards and sideways at the same time. When you stand in one place to order your ground Starbucks coffee you jack yourself up and to the left, standing on your right toe. Your shoulders are level though, you must compensate by bringing the left one up and dropping its counter weight. This is my theory anyway. The folds of your volumptuous hoodie make distinguishing where you begin and end into guesswork. Is your goal to take up more space? Mission accomplished: no one wants to fight you and your ridiculous pants. You mutter something as your walk out the door. It sounds like a complaint or a rap lyric. You lumber off into the night, the crotch of your jeans a hammock between your knees, your shoulders wobbling like a circus bear on the high wire, your green flat brimmed hat making your look, nearly impossibly, even dumber.
I feel better.
I'm in a bad mood.
Hey aclaimed British author Eoin Colfer - I purposely pronounce your first name wrong when I say it in my head and I don't appreciate your writting new Hitch Hiker's guide to the Galaxy books. I hope you understand that by doing this your taking something a consider sacred and possibly cocking it the cock up. And I say cock because that means you're fucking it up British style. If you've written a book that's even supremely above average I'm going to hate you. Simply the fact that you're stepping into the shoes of an author I revere means we've started off on terrible terms. And the worst part - the worst part is I have no choice but to read this book. I swear to the god Adams didn't believe in that if you George Lucas'd this series there'll be hell to pay.
Hey New Scientist Magazine, when you announced that you were taking submissions of flash fiction set 100 years in the future for a contest, I assumed you would get a Chinese garbage scow's worth of enviro-disaster shorts. I seem to be on the mark as seven of the nine stories you've published were variations on Pixar's Wall-E. Now I'm not saying that I don't believe in global warming, but next time I'll make sure to write to your politics and name my protagonist Gal Ore. And I'm not saying I should have made the cut, I'm just saying the winning story requires enough suspension of disbelief to hold up the Golden Gate Bridge.
And another thing
Dear Bawler,
Who taught you how to walk like that? My god, I would say your shoulders swayed like a boxer in slow motion if that didn't make it sound as though there was something graceful involved. You walk forwards and sideways at the same time. When you stand in one place to order your ground Starbucks coffee you jack yourself up and to the left, standing on your right toe. Your shoulders are level though, you must compensate by bringing the left one up and dropping its counter weight. This is my theory anyway. The folds of your volumptuous hoodie make distinguishing where you begin and end into guesswork. Is your goal to take up more space? Mission accomplished: no one wants to fight you and your ridiculous pants. You mutter something as your walk out the door. It sounds like a complaint or a rap lyric. You lumber off into the night, the crotch of your jeans a hammock between your knees, your shoulders wobbling like a circus bear on the high wire, your green flat brimmed hat making your look, nearly impossibly, even dumber.
I feel better.
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