Oldie, but a goodie

July’s Hazy Motives:

I am the bad guy. I groove temptation.
Advice to those of you in my boots:
Are you experienced?
If so, be like fire, be a progressive, devouring, emotive force.
Prey on the day.
Demand damned pleasure.
Eat the day.
Memorized moments of frozen bliss hold keys to the future.
The past made you what you are now.
Time to cultivate feelings long plowed under.
Bring your dreams to life.
Do not judge harshly; you should not judge at all.
Seduce, not over minutes or hours, but over weeks, months if necessary.
My blood is the color of a strong improvisational glance.
Match it, I assure you, we’ll soon someday dance.
Yours should be of similar hue.
Pray to the god of mega.
Be the god of you.
Periodically, I make a coordinated effort to resurface.
I do not break the ice.
I melt the ice.
I breathe tonal fogs and dream of feathercats.
Our generation, despite rumors to the contrary, is not lost.
We segue into newer kisses.
We touch, figure, adapt, initiate, explore and relax.
We can be slippery and be seen while being the scene.
We can go underground and dance with dozens, then alone.
Then walk away.
I have hazy, hazy motives and project cool, convincing glances.
A hip nature comes to mind.
Sometimes it’s time to be the savior, sometimes it’s time to recklessly accelerate with determination.
Sometimes it’s time to listen to you whisper and breathe and imagine you four seasons into the future.
I refer to old chart pages of Rolling Stone for nostalgia.
I burn memories like others burn dinner.
I establish myself today, I live for tomorrow.
I get serious about not getting serious.

Are you experienced?

No tienes ninguna idea cuánto nos divertimos

Life is all about “uh, what just happened?” It should be about "let's have fun."

I just, today, realized that the inspection sticker on my car was supposed to be renewed last February. Seven (7) months have gone by. That’s fucked up. That’s what happens when you drive just once a week, only to go to the market to buy provisions and cat food.

I go to a dealer named Marco for my inspection sticker. He is an importer of great esteem. He knows how to clean up a messy room. And it’s always a zoo when he’s in town, with the betting and the ”things taken care of”, and, above all, the inspection stickers. The police hate him but can never find him. (That's what you get for being a "criminal justice" major. lol. So was he, except he has almost as much $$ as me.)

I could go to the Division of Motor Vehicles, where my car would always pass, but I hate waiting in that 100-car-long line for some forever C-grade student (cop) dude to tell me, in a cavernous garage reeking of exhaust and burnt rubber, that my brakes are awesome and my turn signals work.

Waiting for Marco might seem on the surface as almost as bad as the carbon dioxide choked cavern of the Division of Motor Vehicles, but it’s really not that bad. Mexican dudes take your order and make the early morning run for 40s (Corona, gracias), and, since Marco is only around for 15 minutes, you get your sticker pretty quick. Then you hang out West of the Border, in Hispanic Red Bank (The Sunset Side of the Train Tracks). It so fucking rocks.

Los gringos no tienes ninguna idea cuánto nos divertimos?

Yes I do.

Years and/or milliseconds as chunks of time

Life is all about “uh, what just happened?”

Duh...

I've only now, stupidly, realized that I'm dependent on co-dependent relationships. Duh...
Go a week without a computer or cell or Blackberry. You'll learn alot about yourself.

Erasing Memory II

The more I forget, the better I get.

In some of the older, more exotic Eastern religions, one might equate that with The More I Forget, the Better I Get "It."

Regret, beset, parlay a bet, match game set, emotional debt, don't fret, live and let, remember when we met, caught in a net, let's pet, wow you get wet, I used to vet, ever yet...

Erasing Memory

In life, as in the movies, close-ups are clues.

(Especially the one you remember, he added, redundantly.)

Moses had it Easy

Rush hour, Penn Station, NYC. 50,000 people in one place. I barrel through the mob like a swift running back trying not to be touched. I‘m the Walter Payton of commuters.

Calvin and Harry

Here’s my take on the Harry Potter Generation—those Gen Y-ers who devoured literature via Ms. Rollings. Either A) They keep reading books, B) They stop reading and are forever Potter obsessed, or C) They never read or will read a book. This list excludes those who read B.P. (Before Potter).

Will there be an incompatibility among them? I don’t know. My generation had the comic strip/daily literature of Calvin and Hobbes. Some of us were into it, some of us weren’t. I was. And I can tell 10 minutes after meeting someone if they were devoted to it or not.

Thanks LuLu.

Too Far, Too Fast

Simple as this. That's all. We red lined with the clutch down, shifted gears so fucking fast...

Ring the Black. String the Red.

There is one name down there who’s bullshit meter has been red-lining off the chart by several different sources. Come clean or drag it on—and/or keep punching the clock for a dull, empty life just because it makes your insurance policy happy. Why live in the red? It's easy to live in profit nowadays if one has a lover and a brain. Or vice versa.

Imagine our brain, body and libido paired. As if. [Ft. Worth, TX, Sept. 2005] We almost got there. It's on the record, AmEx cards, Visa receipts, pink boots, winks to the concieirge...DNA. Broken glass. Wedding Crashers. Kitty Cats. Talking in sleep. The sheer sq yards worth of Ft. Worth pillows. Watching hurricanes together. As if. [Key West, FL, Oct. 2008]