I'm going to be in Phoenix sometime in the near future.

So you thought you might like to go to the show..

Every single fucking day either I or someone near me props me up like some junkie rock star to go through the motions of the moment. No more.
Watch The Wall, all of y’all. It’s sick.

And stay away from Pink Floyd marathons on VH1 Classic.

Run like hell.

Relax, I’ll need some information first. Can you tell me where it hurts?

The countdown has begun. Can I survive another 6 weeks? Is it worth the cash? Where do I draw the line? All I need? Ramen noodles, running Nikes, an 8 ft board, cat food, rent, power money and fistfuls worth of green stuff. And Xanax. Hmmm.

Got a little black book with my poems in…

I got wild, staring eyes…

There’s still nobody home…

This is not how I am.
Usually.

How can you have any pumpkin pie if you don’t eat your Spiderman Mac ‘n’ Cheese?

Happy Belated Thanksgiving!

This is my sister and my nephew Ryan. We were playing with his wooden train set. He’s being raised progressively untechnologicic in a world of circuits and gigabytes. His imagination beats all of our creativity combined.

You should have seen the look on his face when his dad passed dessert to him on his own personal Sponge Bob plate and I snatched it and passed it to myself. Let’s just say I won’t EVER do that again.

Unmotivated

I have a beach football game later today.
I can feel the hangover inching in.
I’m supposed to QB. I think not. I might just look for cool sea shells.

Freefalling.
Brickwalling.
Skywalking
Boardwalking.
Sun rising.
Ice forming.
Balls freezing.

Hold on. I gotta put some pants on and turn up the heat.

Karma Drama

Wow. Thanks, Ann.

I woke up Friday morning, checked my links and found that Ann passed a picture my way. It’s this thing called a Superior Scriber award. It's only given out to "select" blogs.

Here are the rules and Ann’s rationale for nominating this blog:

First, the link to where the Super Scribbler originated:
http://scholastic-scribe.blogspot.com/2008/10/200-this-blings-for-you.html

OK, on to what I have to do:

A: Post award in your journal. (Done)
B: Link back to blogger who nominated you. (Walking Surreal, link to your right. Scroll. She is one of the best writers on our planet. If not THE best. Her blog is visually arresting, as well. She has a talent for photography and an instinct for layout. She's a fucking genius.)
C: Link back to originating post for list of rules. (Ann, plus above crappy graphic)
Then: Give this award to 5 other people that you feel fit the criteria of this award. (Is this going to cost me money? Or make money for someone else?)

In Ann’s words, her sweet nomination of July’s Hazy Motives:

1) My first choice is a given. I'm choosing PK over at July's Hazy Motives http://julyshazymotives.blogspot.com/ He can write. Plain and simple. I found him 4 years ago over at AOL Journals and became glued to his blog. It may not always be politically correct and it may not always make sense. And sometimes it might really piss you off but -you will read- even if you don't want to admit it ... Because he's good.

My response:

Bollocks!

Don't get me wrong. I love Ann. She has pulled me through life and death with the patience of an arc angel. But I'm wondering what the difference is between this "award" and an honest recommendation. I guess the viral nature of the "honor" compels us to make choices.

But in the spirit of Ann’s kindness, I’ll spread it, thoughtfully.

It will be Judy, Joe, Ann, JudithHeartSong, and Mrs. Linkletter. Way too stoned to excavate.

http://backyarddolphin.wordpress.com/
I get emails from Judy every day about the ocean and stray pets. I adore her. We’ve shared the train a few times this year, and this past summer our empathy overlapped big time for the dolphins trapped in our local non-oceanic river. I hold back a tear for each one euthanized for pneumonia. She and her husband, Cliff host the coolest parties in town, by far. (I’m a seasoned reviewer of parties.) Holy shit. I had deja vu again. It happens a lot when I'm discussing a Judy-based topic.

http://thefullcatastrophe.blogspot.com/
Joe could be making double his salary, easy, if he were to work in the City. He's gifted in science and spirit. His talent was evident the moment I met him. We share a lot of the same tastes in music, films and lit, and he is one of the unfortunate few who have endured me as a fucking boss. He's better off without me in the picture.

http://wakingsurreal.blogspot.com/
Ann is probably the only friend I haven't touched. We’re a thousand miles apart physically and next door neighbors spiritually. She's in love. She gave me a first nod. I don't know how to thank her. Maybe we'll meet in the past, sometime.

http://judithheartsong.blogspot.com/
JudithHeartSong is a smooth gift. She is one of the chosen few who are wired to interpret the world for the rest of us. She crept into my consciousness back when I was an AOL blogger. The company I currently work for is a famous benefactor of the arts. Judith, thankfully, creates by its grace, and thus, for all of us. Check her out. Her talent is astounding.

http://mrslinklatersguidetotheuniverse.blogspot.com/
Mrs. Linkletter alighted upon my AOL journal with the sound of an autumn leaf hitting ground. The principals of physics were caught sleeping. Her words got me through a tough time in life. I miss her and she probably has no idea who I am.




Holy shit. I am baked. My TV sounds like a cross between cartoons and cooking shows. I must resist this mysterious inclination to purchase the Flirty Girl Fitness Pole for my living room. Holy fuck. I think me trippin.

I'm not done with this post yet.

Half of the lies they say about me are true.

I am a liar, and I can prove it.

That was a mathematical theorem. Woah.

Theoretically provable, but never really close to the truth.


There is a bleeding shotgun blast with an ugly exit wound in nothing but your own heavy guilt.

Where is Lady Ms. Kier when I need her?

Groove is in the heart. Thump it with the ass slap crack of a sonic snapstick whip snap whack, my friends.

Who wants entertainment?

Who wants a diary entry?

Who wants a bleeding heart?

Who wants a bleeding wrist?

Who wants a sleepy weeper?

Who wants a bailed out bank robber?

Who wants a line of whispery words?

Who wants a meat-packed monologue?

Who wants a teeny cup of filtered tea?

Who wants a big gulp of laced caffeine?

Who wants to be backstage?

Who wants to be in the LIMELIGHT? The universal dream?

Who met Kramer this week on a 4th street subway platform?

Who met Thomas Friedman in Penn Station?

Who slums in SoHo while inching for precious ass space on 55th and Madison?

Who froze his big balls off today in the coolest city on the planet in the world of the universe while juggling egos and expectations, dodging frozen spit, and buying Thanksgiving coloring books for his nephews at Borders?

Who is reading about Kurt Gödel and Alan Turing and the meshing of their dreams?

Who is striving to comprehend the distinction and blend of reality, truth, perception and proof?

Who is going to get baked tonight with a few friends and funnel a thought or two?

Who wants bacon?

Who wants to DJ some tunes for me?

iMod or iApp? Or BaconBerry?

I don't know whether to get one for my iPhone or my BaconBerry. Maybe one for each.

I am on the plus side of the money question. For now.

I was on the minus side of a six-armed jacket. Way back when.

I write alone effortlessly.

I write belabored, with company.

I mumble funny bacon recipies.

I’m humbled by people who can fake feelings.

I walk all day.

I can’t get my car to start. Time to buy a truck.

I want to stop working.

So I can get on with my life.

I work in the city.

I’m an insider looking in.

I live near the beach.

The commute is worth the money, but at what cost? I’m in the loss column.

Cue REM mandolin, Depeche Mode bass, a pocket full of bottle rockets tossed into a campfire and my distant perspective.


Consider this
The hint of the century
Consider this
The slip that brought me
To my knees failed
What if all these fantasies
Come flailing around
Now I've said too much

I’m losing… my own… personal religion. Boom, Boom, Boom-Boom, bah, Boom, bah, Boom da Boom, Bah, Boom, Boom, Boom…

I will deliver
You know I’m a forgiver

IT’S LIKE RA-AIIIIN, ON YOUR WEDDING DAY. BLAH. BLAH.

I think I’m going to go for now.

Whoa

Stayed up way late last night. Watched The Matrix on cable till 4:00 AM.

The more books I read, the more accurate the movie becomes. I’m reading Hey Nostradamus and Brain Fiction right now. (Am also reading Jim Norton’s epic I Hate Your Guts, but Torrie gave me that one, autographed by the author, as an affectionate gift, so if I can’t count it in as a Matrix-worthy mindfuck, I’ll go ahead and give it 5 stars for honesty and laugh-out-loud writing.)

Hey Nostradamus begins with a rip-your-heart-out, first-person rendering of life by a beautiful young woman, newly religious and deeply in love. She’s an 18-year old, secretly married, pregnant high school student. One day she is randomly gunned down, Columbine-style. She narrates her own death. The examination of violence and spirituality elevates, evolves and resolves (kind of) in the ensuing thousands of wonderful words.

Brain Fiction takes on the topic of confabulation, and its network of neural cousins. Confabulation is, from a psychiatric standpoint, the replacement of a gap in a person’s memory by a falsification that he or she believes to be true.

The melding of these two ideas fascinates me.

Anyway, take the red pill. It will pull you from perception into reality. It’s kind of an elaborate euphemism for stoner speed. Life force as a slow booming, intensely beating bleeding healthy heart blood flow. Watch the movie. Check out the slo-mo kung fu and Neo's ability to casually dodge bullets as they ripple through speeding waves of sound, light and time aimed at your life. Trust me. I know my pills. Ha ha.