the man who knew too much completely stole its thematic posturing and overarching narrative from air force one.

errant.

i got a phone i can blog poorly from when i feel weird and have too much coffee in me

right now, i am avoiding playing the album i want a to listen to over the work speakers because it is a hip hop album that heavily employs the word 'nigger' and there are two black women sitting upstairs. now, my enjoyment of hip hop is separated by multiple disconnects, but i think i have an honest appreciation for a genre of music i have little business being involved in. this discussion could go on for days, exploring the justifications and exoticisations i use in my enjoyment of the music. what i really want to know is, is where does not turning on a hip hop album that has racial slurs in it because youre a white kid and black folks around you know that you picked the music fall on the racial political matrix?

Get him in the manner of getting him dead.

it seems that conscious observation of a world surrounding is just as important as the knowledge that one's brain and body parts and the brains and body parts of the people they love are conceived in doom when one is trying to write.

Xmas dulls the senses to a common denominator lower than the boughs of an underground hell tree. That is, a tree that grows upside down, underground into hell.

On Christmas I normally think about how much I hate Christmas and the white people christian consumerist fuckfest that I've seen my whole white people christian consumerist life. 
This Christmas, I'm apathetic and think everyone's an idiot for investing so much in a day during a season that's nothing but stress and unpleasantness.  I guess that's probably just for me though, and I should revert back to anarchistic anger, because at least the awful shit to hate is scientifically observable. 

when i dick you dick we dick

philip k. dick has a talent for making you feel frantically confused for the first half of a book. as if you lost a supplementary non-fiction guide and now have to make due without it.
like, shit what the fuck are psis?

Just writin bout boobs

nothing to see here.

Ten yards is a good amount of yards to get if you're a football player.

It's more than a stupid joke that goes, "Tall? How is that a small? If I wanted a small, I'd order a small, am I right?"

The balance of my anger toward Starbucks has shifted from it being the vast corporate entity that stands for ultra-consumerist-indulgence in something tripled in price without providing more functionality than its basic, beans-steeped-in-water, counterpart to it clandestinely implanting itself into the daily happenings of the American (and perhaps international) English language on a larger level than bullshit like Kleenex or Band-Aid, while simultaneously chopping and screwing bits of other languages and passing it off as sophisticated method of speech and life rather than retarded.

I threw a flower in the garbage today.  I can see it sitting on top of a half eaten tuna sandwich right now.

I think it's ok that

I have no theories on literature.  I mean, of course I enjoy the use of modernist objective stylings and meta-4th-wall-breaking postmodern one-liners or whatever (I don't know how to make footnotes in the blogger composition window or I would right there and say something like, "1. big fat bonerjuice."), but reading book reviews, and the pretense involved, makes me want to punch.

I gotta finish reading these short stories so I can read another book of short stories.

Plans to Read a Book and Enjoy

Plans to read a book and enjoy a nice cup of coffee at the nice coffeeshop down the street from your home can change quickly. As soon as the caffeine hits, you can't concentrate on the words you're reading and they start reading themselves and you've gone through two short stories and you don't even remember their clever titles.  You feel like a real dummy when the title is the first sentence of the story like an ee cummings poem or something.  But you're too busy listening to people thank each other for meeting there tonight to bounce ideas off each other about entry level plans within the industry. Or thinking about how nice it is to be reading this book, but you'll probably get stoned later and you won't to be able to read, and you'll probably try, and it will probably turn out just like this. Reading pages of a book but forgetting what you've read.  But you saved half of an al pastor burrito and bought a Heath bar with the specific purpose of smoking pot and eating them later. 

Coffee can turn an empty Monday night into a serious question of one's place in this American landscape.

Ok, I'm going to write a real story this time that ends like this:

But she looked at him and felt a sense of self-serving grace was compromising all the things she held dear.

I can't decide,

what would be a more vulnerable and hilarious situation to see Batman in.  Hunchbacked and squinting at his desktop computer, dick in hand, vigorously leafing through filthy porn sites, or eyes closed, candles lit, with slight splashing sounds of his hand sensually beating himself off in the bathtub?

This is a Story About Death

Dan threw up on the bar after the fourth round of whiskey. He tripped on his way to clean up and closed the bathroom door behind him.

After the first round of whiskey, Dan said, "Those shots were fitting. Glad we aren't just sticking to beers."

After the second, I put a dollar into the jukebox. It was an analog jukebox that played 3 songs for a dollar. A song by Bruce Springsteen played. I don't remember the other two. No one danced. No one had danced since we walked in.

The third round came and some of us smiled. Some of us smiled as we toasted. "To not blowing up in a car crash," someone said, I think.

Dan threw up on the bar after the fourth round of whiskey. Some ended up on his clothes. On his way to the bathroom, he tripped over his own feet and fell into the door before he could clean himself up. We all laughed and looked down in our wallets for jukebox money.

I'm going to write a short story that starts like this:


Dan threw up on the bar after the fourth round of whiskey.  He tripped on his way to clean himself up and closed the bathroom door behind him.

 It's gonna be about death.

Get off my plane

There is something very fatalistic, reactionarily nihilistic even, about the jaded dismissal of seemingly everything around this "alternative" culture we hipsters have created for ourselves.  It's so self-devouring that when it really comes down to it, everything you care about can be pruned and chipped away to a very embarrassing set of human emotions and actions that we like to pretend we don't possess.  Things like a need for social acceptance, jealousy, and self-interested motives.

The past few years have left me fairly confused on how to combat something like this. I've been pretty deprecating about my own life and about this heterogeneous subculture I somehow fell into when punk rock became more appealing than Kid Rock.  I do things with ironic intentions.  Listen to Lil' Wayne. Watch the movie Air Force One. Revisit old professional wrestling matches.  Somehow, these things, mixed with the drive to consistently be above caring, become important to me.  I think the Carter II is one of the best hip hop albums ever made.  Air Force One is an immaculately perfected American movie (Harrison Ford has to choose what wires to cut to hotwire a fuel dump and chooses the green and yellow wires because the other three are red, white, and blue.  I mean, Jesus Christ, that's too fucking perfect for what they were doing. But what that movie is doing could be written about for years). I also follow wrestling again with a serious critical passion.  I argue over plot devices and postmodern narrative techniques, capitalist consumerism's role in the televised product, and character development among pseudo-realistic, 4th-wall-breaking, REAL human beings constantly acting for years on end.

These are things I've come to deeply care about.  The fate of CM Punk's career with the WWE and Weezy's promethazine addiction are important to me.  They are rooted in a flippant holier-than-thou attitude I've taken toward things (and still maintain), but they've grown to become something much more.  And then I thought that I needed a good closing line and an inner-dialogue began that said, "Why? So you can tie this high-brow essay up nicely? Good one Hemingway, you're a real writer now."

Losing all the shit you've written on your computer really blows, yo.

Wrestling is cool, dudes.

Big Show is ok, but big men are still lame.

He's got so much momentum.

Programs filmed in front of alive audience in Mexico but broadcast to American television have an interesting added layer of pandering to the crowd.  The contexualized instances of the annunciation of national identity are completely different and skewed.  UltraAmericanized formalities turn into a double farce or something.

Cody Rhodes is such a good heel.  Incredible.  Orton needs to fight for the IC belt at Survivor Series.

Sheamus' music is the fucking worst.

The amount of legacy wrestlers out there today is astonishing.  Multiple top billers, mid-carders, and low-rung schmucks that are sons and daughters of former superstars are consistently broadcast, and I wonder if this is just a new phenomenon to me because I haven't watched for a few years, or if it's something that's plowed through the WWE recently.  I hope lil DiBiase has a job for a while.

Watching Smackdown by yourself late at night really fucks with your brain.

The application process for professional writing positions kinda blows when only things you have really written with heavy effort and revision are super serious four-paragraph explorations of alcohol-fueled existentialist melodrama with one good punch line at the end.  No one wants wants a copywriter that cant stray from death.

I almost bought Tender Buttons today, and then I thought, "is this worth $2.50?"

I'm having a very difficult time writing about anything but writing and I am barely a writer as it is.

If I ever buy a gun, it'll be a really big revolver.

I'm trying to write like a blogger for blogsites and I feel like a turd because I don't write like a blogger and barely have the ability to mimic writing like a blogger, yet I'm still doing it.  I don't think I'd even like to read whatever it is that I'm writing right now, but I'm not writing anything else, so I might as well spit some shit and see how it goes.

We should hang and blackout together

If I were a famous musician, I think I'd get to a point where I strictly wrote music to my friends, using inside jokes and intra-referencial lyrics.  That one Bright Eyes song on Lifted  where he tells Tim Kasher that he likes the new Good Life album is so cool.  I just want to do that.  Maybe I'll blow up one day by writing songs that rip off the lyrics of This is My Mess.

is crumbbum a legitimate insult?

I think I just came to the realization that I am awful at remembering to brush my teeth, That's a shitty thing to learn about yourself.

The Blowjob was Invented in 1999.

He grew discouraged by his inability, or was it a decision?, to provide commentary for the popular culture of his time. Even the wirestrung niche groups on the outskirts of the broadcast matte of society evaded his chickenscratch. Their tendency to shimmer for brief moments painted his tongue with disgust. The taste of ashes or old eggshells.Through all of this, however, he also steadily came to the conclusion that generations were not so different from one another. That such commentaries were nothing but self-absorbed attempts to differentiate and eventually validate an existence. What benefit does it bring to determine demographics and epochs as more wildly special or erratic than the rest? He sat in the sun and sipped iced tea, knowing that the lord would come in rapture to save the kids of his own generation, who started fucking each other at a surprisingly early age.

He also had to pee pretty bad.

The devil sang "RISE AND SHINE AND GIVE GOD THE GLORY GLORY" in his head while he washed the dishes.  His lack of nerve stopped him from telling the homeless lady upstairs she couldn't sleep here and would have to find some other place to go.

The devil started listening to Big Star on the day that Alex Chilton died.

autosave

What is one supposed to do with lost words?  Like, literal lost words.  Technologically eaten and forever nonexistent.  They were a brief spark of consciousness revealed, and now they do not exist except in warped memory.  I mostly wish they never would have happened, because it seems impossible to attempt them again.

satan's spinach

I think I'm going to write a small quantity of short short stories about the devil.  Maybe a little chapbook or something.  We'll see what happens.  The first one is about bumming him a cigarette.

soft suicide

I once learned how to play The Weakerthan's "Leash" on piano.  It took me a few hours of a furiously depressed day, alone in my mother's house.  My parent's bought my sister and I a nice piano when we were young.  It's gone relatively unused since then.  Pictures of our youth line the top and there is probably some sort of small lamp.  Every so often when I come home, I try and bang out something engaging and fresh.  It becomes a new method of brain exercise, accessing a part that hasn't entirely withered, rather sagged to a point of atrophy where it may not be worth the effort and attention to reinvigorate the mental muscles required to effectively play the piano.  But it is fun, and it makes me feel productive.  So I spend a day learning a song that I will soon forget.  That's an ok thing to do.

paralyzation

I want to meet the devil.  I think I'm getting closer.

Right now I'm upset by the societal metaphoricization of vanilla.  No fully formulated thoughts.  I just think it's bogus to turn an original, fully flavored taste sensation into a poster child for boring and uninitiated.  Fuck that.  Vanilla is the flavor of the future.

When I see the parking ticket on my floor, I think about death.

The things that keep someone from doing other things are probably not as complex as they present themselves.  Today, I have to do my laundry, but I don't have any detergent.  I suppose I should go get some.  Instead, I will probably do things like start reading a new book or try and finish an old one, do two sets of curls in front of the tv, update my blog from my couch, listen to Otis Redding and feel unentitledly connected to his words. 

Besides all of these distractions, how does one shop for laundry detergent?  It's something I do on a semi-annual basis, which definitely doesn't leave enough of an impression as to what I should be looking for in a detergent.  Super color resistance and bleach stain remover beads and lavender mountain breeze scents.  I just don't want to smell like a smelly kid in this heat. 

To blaze past the (un?)necessary arguments of artistic merit, sports as a dramatic narrative, rednecks who actually believe this is real, or what drives media (is it imitation, itself, or imitation of itself?), the wrestling match I went to last night was fucking awesome.

Free time during the day somehow does not equate with productivity and generally leaves me with a scornful attitude toward my evening plans, as if they somehow are impeding my ability to get shit done.  I've been looking at a parking ticket for about three hours while I've done nothing on the internet for the same amount of time.

old people young people

I'm slowly breaking my reading habit into a more modern era.  This is something that I view as an improvement to what I take in.  Instead of reading books by dead/way old white guys, I've been sucking down shorter articles, essays, stories and novels by people within my age group.  It seems necessary.  While of course a bunch of wisdom or knowledge or bullshit or nonsense can come from the geriatrically challenged, it's nice to wrangle some words from people outside of that demographic.

It helps to see things be put in a modern context.  There's nothing wrong with Facebook or eBay being written into texts (at least according to the current cultural climate.  Obviously that shit is going to be dated as hell within 8 years), and it's refreshing to have these things represented as they are.  I suppose a lot of writing is being done on the internet anyway, so there's no point in purposefully ignoring it's impact on one's daily habits.  Check your blog, tweet some bulljive, update banalities of living.  It's ok.  We do these things.  No need to spraypaint a sloppy shit.  Let it cover the bowl in style.  Document it flowing over the seat.  Take a Polaroid and paste it above the toilet handle.  Bring a mason jar into the bathroom and bottle the smell so you can bust it out at a party like a sick card trick.

Really I just want to read things that are not only thematically and metaphorically relevant to me, but also physically and currently.  I want to dive into your shitty job and shitty car, and the night you got really shitty at a stupid bar and spent $27 on the jukebox, listening to 90's nu metal for a laugh, but no one else thought it was funny.  For now, I just need a break from a cafe in France or a farmtown in the 1920's.  I want big dumps turned to words.

and its driving me mad

The past few days i have successfully dug new trenches and escaped the well worn ruts of my internet use.

I think i will start submitting things i've written to places that publish things other people have written.

But for now, i will head home to sit on my couch with the lights off.

cold dead are the eyes of the tried

i wonder if feeling old is like having a hangover.  weak, nausea, strange bowel movements. the point where you lay in bed and death is a much simpler option.  i don't think i want that.
or maybe its just like you smoked way too much pot the night before, and your day is a kind of haze that you can't shake, so you just smoke some more pot.  if that's what aging encompasses, it's doable.

iliketowatchthingsontv

of sickness and money

i woke up sick today and have been denying it for the duration of the day. clearly it isn't going to do me any good, so now i have to come to terms with the facts and accept it. my name is scott, and i have a common cold. this morning i got frustrated with my cigarette habit. i smoke too many of them and they do do much less than they used to in terms of qualming anxiety in social situations. while they've always been an enjoyable outlet of consumption, the ratio of dollars spent to happiness or relief felt is all but a sure thing if we're talking vegas odds. it's got me thinking, however, about deeper issues of how money and self destruction manifest themselves in folks overall.

oh nothing with a point. just that these things do things to people without them having the slightest notion that they are profoundly and irreparably changing into the skin a reptile leaves behind.

the hail

Dan and I watched two birds die in the hail yesterday. We were stuck outside smoking cigarettes and one of them fell out of the sky and was sailed away in the gutter water. The other limped around for a minute and we went back inside.

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2009511/To-Catch-Predators-Chris-Hansen-caught-cheating-wife.html?ito=feeds-newsxml

so chris hansen did it wrong. i wonder if the irony is lost on him as he begins apologizing to everyone in his life. i'm sure it isn't. he's probably swallowed some beers with a friend and laughed about it.

that's necessary sometimes.

i woke up from a nap that i hadn't intended on taking and saw this article. even though the concept of stars falling generally delights me, proving the morose truths of the media's pyramid scheme and the need to build others into something bigger than oneself, chris hansen getting his ill desserts leaves me with a bitter tongue. like too much ginger at once. yuck. clearly this was meant to happen, say, inevitable. And it bothers me that i don't love it as much as i love every other perfectly happenstancial celebrity downfall.

because watching pedophiles get busted is a fantastic thrill. they're dehumanizable, and clearly that's the draw of the dateline specials. but to juxtapose that with the fucked up police tactics employed really displays the lengths and depths of america's reliance on brute and arbitrary authority. the horrible balance is what makes the show a spectacle. it's what pulls me in. like the ride at the carnival where you spin against a wall and the floor drops out. its crazy fun, but you kind of feel sick. the sensations combined are something new and bizarre.

so maybe chris hansen's downfall was deserved. i'm not sure.

to begin again

An impulse to restart an amateur internet writing career really is tough to reconcile when you have little to write about. It's like snapping on a speedo and some goggles in the middle of a drought parched prairie. Not only is the endeavor rendered fruitless, but you get scratched up by the dry grass and chiggers. I feel like a bunch of chiggers are biting my shavedtoaerodynamified ankles right now.
And really, all I can think about regarding what I write is that I know I cannot write poetry. So, a poem:

a blog loaded like a cannon

aimed at the infinite emptiness

of the internet

is really a great way to imitate

the dredges of living

and sitting on my couch

watching to catch a predator.

those pedophiles sure are fucked huh?