So.

You want to know just what kind of person is able to cut off two of her own fingers? Hmmm? You want to know what it would take to go through with something so completely fucked-up like that? What it would entail, mentally…A momentary lapse of reason, I think most would say. But I can attest with utmost certainty that I was calm and in control that day eleven years ago, when I got out of my chair and walked with long, steady strides to the paper cutter in the far left corner of the classroom.

I moved deliberately—I raised the blade and gave in and let my body go limp, just like during sex.

(It’s not about whether you win or loose)

I watched as my blood shot up in twin jets and splattered the asbestos insulated drop ceiling

(It’s about whether you can stay lose)

I watched with the same muted interest that I have when I watch a nearly naked girl strap on a piece that’s meant for me

‘her’…

it’s

always

only

been a ‘her’…

(until now?)



Flashback to me with my fingertips pressed against my burning eyelids

The wave of a coke high has pulled back

and left me gasping in the puddles…

lost and alone without a thought in my head.

Or check back to the hundreds of parties where my smack high

turned people I couldn’t stand into fast friends.

Oh, I did what I had to do, back then.

I performed all my own stunts.

I thought it was the drugs that made me do all those fucked up things to other people, but it turns out they were just an excuse.

(electrify! electrify!)

It’s the beastly joys that I can’t shake.

That’s what’s at the bottom of all this.

All of the lies and institutionalizations and chemicals.

It’s why my father used to cry when he hit me.

(He knew! he knew!)

Even when he used the pipe or the time he caught me in drag and punched me full on the face.

What I didn’t know then, when I was willing to die for this abstract notion called ‘love’ was that it’s true definition is ‘the state of never getting what you want’.

Love is dissatisfaction of the most extreme, unrelenting variety.

Love is a tearing asunder of the little life you scrounged together.

It doesn’t make anything better, on the contrary, it fucks everything up.

So there’s no sense in dying for it

cuz it’s going to kill you eventually.



I don’t say much.

I often feel bad.

And when I go out I don’t feel any particular need to pretend that I’m having a good time.



It wasn’t so much about figuring out that I was gay—

The girls came for me

Even in the church parking lot

Wednesday nights after Youth Group.

Everything I did was noticed and responded to.

Even when my chest was still flat

My sexuality was powerful but indescribable

like a full moon or a mass murder.


I mean

I’ve slept with lots of girls.

Black girls, white girls, Puerto Rican girls, Asian girls, married girls, guitar playing girls and lawyer girls.

Girls with bad breath and angel smiles.

Girls I played Bonnie and Clyde with

Girls I ate on top of hills with.

And while each girl was different

A spinning galaxy onto herself

My story with them always started the same way:

I was on the outside looking in

plucking them out of their little world with my eyes

challenging them ever so gently

with my stare

my rocket girl,

thousand yard stare.




jibjab


beef being brung

i'm just a hip-hop faggot.

n.e.r.d. are like the beatles of today, they started out on their neptune schtick doing the hip-pop equivalent of “I wanna hold your hand”—creating infectious, fun tunes with fresh melodies and bubble gum sweet and sexy lyrics… as n.e.r.d. they drop dirty bombs like the new “fly or die” which is some Sgt. Pepper rock-out-i-don’t KNOW what. there’s a teenage runaway note in there, answering machine beeps, computer chirps, sliding guitars…all with a bluesy undergrowth that’s extremely SMOKEABLE. it’s like they’re coming out the other side of their own best impulses, flipping the script without reshuffling the deck.

I like MCs who are different characters in different groups with different sounds

I like stoner rock and big black cock

in the future we’ll try on personalities like t-shirts

(I roll mine up in a ball when I’m through)

the poor will sell their faces to the rich

sperm donors will have their abs measured

and white girls

will have jheri curls…

and the video game playing, knob-twiddling, tube sock wearing perma-boys will rule the skool.


I mean, seriously, look at them. they’re cute as hell…I mean, holy SHAT.

you can't read with music like this playing...

it would be no biggie to me to drift off on the couch and die while white label aphex twin is on the stereo...

the script has been flipped, party people.  sterling is the one out on a limb while i'm cool, calm and collected...my patience, however is wearing thin.  i'm like david banner, feeling that first twinge of annoyance between my shoulder blades...

and meanwhile there is sterling, brilliant and biblical, standing over a sea of daffodils and claiming that every one of them has a soul.

 

the mind is a terrible thing to taste

hi,

i'm fucked up and self medicating with prescription psychoactives which i know full well is a recipe for disaster when you're a recovering freak like me but whatever, the disaster is already upon us.  i'm supposed to stay away from the computer i'm supposed to stay away from the windows and the phone.  i called in sick on tuesday but not since so who knows if i still have a job.  are you there god it's me margaret.  ha.  i found myself standing in the mirror naked before.  i must i must i must increase my bust.  fuck coffee, it gives me gas and then the runs.  fuck the runs.  fuck us all, fuck all the roads and all the cars on them, the blue green glass of the skyscrapers in battery park, i was riding in a cab that smelled of mcdonalds, the indian dude was asking if he could "do frenchie" with me.  maybe he meant "friendship" but i told him to fek off anyway and i put on my headphones and watched the scafolding pass overhead as we went underground into the orange light tunnel.  and i don't notice that i'm still wearing my shades, back inside now hours later.  fuck. i remember this now.  this is what it's like to be high.  everything happens at once but you can't see the trees just the thick green barrier of the forest closing in.

fuck us all, i said.

bullet the blue sky the sun is slanting off the windshields  that lady cleared out mega millions so fuck her too.

i'm going to go far away  somewhere new and i'm going to go there and want you

in hotel rooms with room service

and harsh a/c

i'm going to want you and wish i was dead when they knock on the door or when i'm going down in the carpeted elevator so fast my ears pop

i'm not really here;

this isn't happening...

 
raymi, you are right

it's a truth but it isn't worth it

oh and now out the window the brick is burnt orange with yellow halos

i'm sorry i didn't mean for this to happen

i crossed the line and it crossed me back

fucking hell at the christopher st path station TRUE is holding me up and drinking an iced coffee at the same time the floor looks like chocolate squares

all i can say is what am i going to do?  what am i going to do?

it's not so bad, she says

keep perspective, she says, you're not actually losing it you're only looking for an excuse to lose it.

i'm not here;

this isn't happening

there were beats in the park raining down like rain the street was split open on washington, still trying to fix all the sewer lines that cracked when the towers fell down.  it was a chain reaction, leading to all that dust and the pictures of the missing and the war and now the rats running up from out of the gaping wound in the asphalt and racing up and down the streets at night...

TRUE and i went to giovanni's he took care of us like always with pepperoni and mineral water and veal cutlets the way i like em.  he understands lemon and salt even if he puts down a spoon for the pasta and even if his business has been down by 40 percent for 3 plus years he's still always there and so are we, but only when we need it most...the live music on one side of the room and the stereo that they always forget to turn off overhead, distracting me away from myself.  gorgeous i think, as I swallow another one.  this is what it is meant to be like.  flat as flat can be without a thought in my head but then over at the door as i'm waiting for my umbrella i lean in to look at a framed something i'd never noticed before.  at first i thought it was a butterfly but i look a little closer and it's a pair of metal wings, the kind they give kids on airplanes who are flying alone.  the caption beneath said, "this is from American Airlines Flight 11, it was found in the flowerpot outside the restaurant on 9/11" and i look at it again, this stange relic of that strange day that somehow escaped the flames and fell so far to land amongst the flowers...

it is perfect, not a scratch on it.

 

 
 
 
it's funny how things happen, sometimes.
 
the first time i went to tony pierce's site, this was the pic he had posted.
 
it's of johnny knoxville, of jackass fame.
 
i didn't know that back then, however, as i had never seen the show.  i was living without television having accidentally tackled my cute blue toshiba late one night, killing it instantly.  the screen smashed into a zillion pieces all over the floor.  my big regret is that i didn't snap a pic of the carnage.  it twinkled like the milky way.  a year later i was still finding shiny bits in corners and under furniture.  anyway, i was all set to front with the warranty card when sterling convinced me it was fate, and that i shouldn't buy or procur a new set.  television brings you down, she told me.  she had been living without one ever since she got clean, as watching TV reminded her too much of how she used to spend her mornings getting drunk on heineken and riding the H train.  she gave a little speech about "what we can learn from the punk lifestyle" that was so convincing that i followed her advice and went without one, figuring that if there was something important to watch i could always go to a bar or scam on someone who i didn't owe money.
 
so i missed the whole jackass phenom...i was going to try and catch the movie version, but i never got around to it.  so when i saw the above pic i had no idea who it was and assumed it was this tony guy himself.  fabulous, i thought.  i loved the rough looking hands, the facial hair, and the flag in the background.  was he blowing us a wish?  i noticed the "nothing in here is true" and it intrigued me all the more, as i had just started BTB and was looking to enact a similar creed.  mine was a little more open ended though:  "Somewhere in space, this could all be happening right NOW".  it's a sample from a kool g. rap song, actually.  yep--like most of the best shit on this site, it was stolen.
 
anyway, the point of all of this is that two years later i finally saw an episode of jackass...on some fucked up satelite channel on sterling's big ass TV.  that's right, along the way on her journey to extreme yuppiedom, sterling rearranged the pillars of her punk ethos and somehow justified buying a home entertainment system.  shit is fat as hell, lemme tell you.  invisible speakers and a bassbox, a screen that's thinner than the august issue of vanity fair.  i've been over there babysitting her bewildered ass and catching up on all sorts of pop moments.  jackass has gotta be up there with the best.  how come none of you made me watch it before?  fucking hell.  it's like, exactly what i've been aspiring to with this blog.  crashing into shit and getting hurt on purpose and recording it for the masses.  the select masses that is--those who don't take life TOO seriously and appreciate a good old fashioned RUSH.  i loved the part where one of the dudes goes around town with a big ol dildo in his shorts, fronting like he has a raging boner while perusing a guitar shop and working out and getting fitted for a suit.  then there was the "blind" guy getting into a car and "running over" a bicyclist...the urban kayaking in public fountains...johnny knoxville's failed attempt at jumping the LA river on rollerskates.
 
it's perfect--failure is success--yr a champ if you get knocked out
 
pain is real, ego is not...
 
anyway

i had some kinda ephiphany last night, sitting there on the couch with my cigarettes while sterling slept in the other room.  it carried over to today.  i can't really put it into words yet.  it has something to do with feeling the fullness of time, like when you are way out in the ocean and a giant wave passes through you...the feeling of being alone, but not lonely...i don't know.  this morning i read an email from a friend whom i had a falling out with.  he wasn't asking to make-up, he just wanted to say he was sorry for having hurt me.  which he did, big time.  he also said he hoped that i could maybe do the same--you know, write someone i had had some beef with and tell them i was sorry, even if it wouldn't change things.
 
so OK.  there you go.  tony pierce, we were never super tight and you might be a right bastard and a wannabe pimp, but if it wasn't for you, i don't think i'd be as deep into this blog game as i am.  and for that i'm grateful.  and also for the kurdt posts from back in the day.  those were inspiring, man...
 
anyway, sorry if i ever hurt you.
 
that is all.
 
thank-u, drive-thru...
 
 
 
 
 

money, power, respect

sterling has totally lost it.  i always knew the day would come again...you see kids, you don't need drugs to fry yr brain.  a nine to fiver will have the same effect.
 
but it's weird, you know...now that she's got this big unrequited romance with a dude i find myself able to put my arm around her, maybe even touch the side of her face like girls who are best friends do to one another in the movies.
 
ahhh...the movies...i think i'm going to get high and go to one right now.  sit in the back and shoot half chewed skittles out of one of those big ass green starbucks straws.
 
 
in the meantime, big ups to radiohumper and the rest of the beef kids for holding it down while we deal, crisis mode style with my girl's impending unemployment and other, less mendable disasters...i mean, i haven't had a legal gig in years and that's never stopped me from looking dapper as fuck.
 
 
also, one love to my day ones
 
raymi, jamie, anti
 
next level blogs, represent.
 
 
 
 
 

"Hello Indeed" or, "I Can't Believe I'm Posting This," by the ACID ZAR

hello?

is there anybody out there?

i love the way that song begins--all abrupt and demanding...followed by that dramatic sound that was like a spaceship taking off...i listened to that album over and over when i was a little girl. it wasn't like the music on the radio, at least not the stuff you heard on the bus. you had to listen to the whole thing, all the way through, the first and then the second record with the lyrics on your lap.

i sat up in my father's office in the attic and thought and thought and then i ran around in circles while birds flapped past the window and the big empty street stretched out below.

did you listen to that album too? you are older than i so it must have been different. the first time i heard it i was still so little i drew all over the white bricks with my scented magic markers.

pink floyd is at the foundation of my consciousness.

no fucking wonder.

listen, that's a true story, but here's something else i want to say

that, as it turns out, is neither true nor false:

you can be anyone you want here.

you can put on a mask and tell me all the things

you could never tell me in person.


...what you like

how you like it...

you can let me know about all those things and more



and then if you think you want to try them in so-called real life

all you have to do is give me a sign.






google image: sterling fassbinder

hi people at work. hi boss. hi whoever. yes, it’s me. I know the gig is up. I know you’ve discovered my little world here. welcome, welcome--I give up. make yourself at home. perhaps you’ve been hanging out for awhile, reading about the three of us and all our adventures. I’ll go home in just a few and know that you know lots and lots about me, which is quite strange, because I’ve always prided myself at keeping a low profile here. despite my hair (or lack thereof) and my obvious dykeness and my “maimed claw” as I once overheard someone describing my hand…I’ve always been quiet…aloof. I didn’t tell you anything about me and I didn’t want to know anything particular about you. I’m never rude, I do what I’m told, I speak softly but articulately, I wear office casual and every once in awhile I laugh at your jokes…in fact the routine was so deeply embedded in my mind that I began to assume it would go on like this forever, this juxtaposition of two lives. the hiding and tilting of my flat screen and the frantic writing of a post during lunch or whenever I could scam a few minutes. the fact that I knew I could “get in trouble” made it seem so much more dark and profound. at first I freaked out when I realized that one or more of you have been weeding through my little back-up folder of past posts. I ran outside and stood in the rain, watching the bike messengers and the food delivery people and the UPS guys going in and out, pushing metal carts overflowing with all the things a busy skyscraper needs to survive. what am I going to do? I thought, over and over. how am I going to explain myself? but then it dawned on me. so what? I mean, I’m a good employee. I’m smart and mostly dependable. if it’s time for the chips to fall than let them fall where they may. now you know who I am. you know my dirty little secrets and you know just how slutty I can be. big deal, I guess it just adds another dimension to whatever you had already imagined.

I can write that, and mean it, but then I pause and read it over and I feel a little sick. what if one of you comments? what if I get fired? well, than I’ll get another job, I think. there are plenty of ways to make money in this world, millions of ways, in fact.

but there’s only one me.

only one sterling fassbinder:

dyke sureshot.

fresh like studmuffins

just when it seems like all hope is lost and the world is going to hell in a cheap ass faux louis vuitton handbag from canal street, my beefcake Canadian supermodel comes through in the clutch with some fashion forward pix:



dig on rosie the riveter there in the background, IMPLORING US to ACT…the scandal of our lifetime is unraveling around us…they treated us like a buncha dumb fucks and LIED to our faces about why we were going to war

now it’s up to us to change the tide

don’t just change the channel

they knew we’d never go for it if they used the words “regime change”

don’t just change the channel

so they fed us some fat WMD bait dipped in 9/11 special sauce

don’t just change the channel

our intelligence is a joke, we aren’t safe

don’t just change the channel

his approval rating is starting to drop, slowly but surely

don’t just change the channel

think of all the dead soldiers, mothers, fathers, sons and daughters who aren’t coming back

don’t just change the channel

not to mention the Iraqi civilians

don’t’ just change the channel

the injured, the maimed, the kids, man

don’t just change the channel

the effin kids







instead repeat after me:

we can do it

we can do it

we can do it


it’s now or never, party people.

fuck bush

i was just at the world trade center and there were all these tourists and cops dressed like nazis with machine guns and i had a line of dried vomit on my sleeve from the night before and i only realized it at the cross walk when everyone took a step away and no one would look at me and i felt my eyelids with my fingertips and they were completely swollen and my teeth were coated with psychadelic wool and i was so lonely i could cry and all i wanted to do was cross the street and get back down into the subway but more cops were passing by in their cruisers, one after another, smoking cigarettes out the window with smug looks on their faces and i really needed to cross i really needed to get out of the light but this humungous pig put his arms out and said, "police excercise in progress, you'll have to wait," and he didn't look at me either, concerned instead with watching the slow procession of cars, 20, 30 maybe 40 in all, i thought i was going to lose it, i kept muttering, "whatthehell whatthehell," and rubbing away the clear coke snot that was running out of my nose like water from the tap.

then it finally occurred to me--this was a practice motorcade for some fat ass republican coming to pollute the city at the end of august.

"fuck you!" i shouted, as the last car pulled past, "fuck you nazi motherfuckers. you want protect us so bad--why don't you do something useful like learn arabic!"

doughboy turned to me, enraged, but the crowd was pushing forward and i ran through the middle and escaped out the other side

sugar high

fuck, why did I have all those cheap ass American chocolates now I feel like lashing out and I forgot what I want to write about. and I drank a coke too, from a fountain, not a can, and it had a funny aftertaste, like someone had tossed a Winston in the mix and let it ssssssoak. man you never know… I went into au bon pain and saw the guy who makes the sandwiches picking at this thing on the side of his face. he actually had the audacity to stare at his fingernail afterwards. then he went back to picking. if I knew how to projectile vomit I would have puked all over the counter. i was waiting for him to stick his finger in his mouth or better yet his ear and then his mouth. anyway I got the hell out of there. packaged food is the way to go. at least you have the choice of not really looking at what you eat. none of this hard skin shit hanging off your turkey sandwich. flesh rinds…they make me think of penis scabs, and dried pimple puss flakes and other beautiful things cooked up in mother nature’s crock-pot.

it’s like when you manage to score a seat on the express and the dude in front of you has his crotch in your face and you can totally smell it’s unwashed ripeness. and you wish you were dead or somewhere far away, all alone with waterfalls of green, irish spring soap bubbles foaming all around you.

speaking of trains, my favorite part of spiderman2 is when he’s trying to stop that faker than fake speeding train and he’s got his mask off and the rest of his costume still on and it’s this total heideggerian moment in which he’s kick-ass spiderman at the height of his powers and peter parker at the same time, for all the world to see.

according to Heidegger, truth is not a thing or a fact…it IS the act of unveiling…the act of taking something that was hidden and revealing it to the world…

spiderman IS peter parker and peter parker IS spiderman—the only way to fully live is to embrace the essential contradiction of your own existence…

(so says the girl named TRUEBOY…)

there is only one thing that is fer sere in this world. only one fact that you can be certain of—and that is that you are going to die.

once you grasp that, everything else in the world is possible.

of course when they laid homeboy down in the aisle you know if it was REAL new york folks would have been snapping his pic like crazy with their camera phones instead of nodding solemnly and promising to keep his secret.

ha yeah, spidey, don’t let em take yr pic…have the peter parker pr department provide em

become an entire corporation, onto yrself

brand that shit

then swing back on home to mary jane

fuck

coming down

coming coming

coming down


who’s gonna catch me?





the s stands for slicker than most

the j's like the jam on my toast

b's for my old school

chillymost...

and r's for a queen from the northwestern coast

protocol 1

12. Feeling of understanding Poe much better now. The entrance gates to a world of grotesques seem to open up. I simply prefer not to enter.

Independence Day

I got wasted and went looking for trouble. That said, not much happened. At least not that I can remember. I ended up at Stonewalls. We kissed at the bar, then I sat on top of him in an upstairs booth filled with fake snow, deflated pink balloons and empty drug baggies.

He had prickly stubble that I made wet with my saliva. His lips were soft. His mouth tasted like whiskey.

He chuckled about how hard he was. I remember the insistence of his hands on my back as he told me he hadn’t thought it was possible with a woman.

Hearing this in turn got me hot, but I remember everything stopped early, like maybe someone had intervened or I suddenly freaked out or something. But we both had our pants all the way on, this much I remember.

I think we smoked some weed in the boiler room later on. There were other people there but their faces were blurs, like in a dream or a dream sequence in a movie.




dirtylittlehomos

this chick was in my dream. she poured me a coca-cola.

Ladies Who Lunch

hi darlings! this summer THE hot spot for lunch is Zabar's Cafe on the bustling corner of 80th and Broadway. that's right, from here on in you can find me there, pining the afternoons away with the rest of the rich bitches in one of the 20 striped brooks brothers shirts i just purchased. i'm tuning in and dropping out, taking the train uptown to lunch and learning to live without the needless distractions of downtown eating--i need to undo the pavlovian response of looking up each time the door opens, to see if a) the new arrival is someone i've fucked or b) someone i'd like to fuck.

zabar's frees me from all that. the cafe is its own little universe--i'm tempted to start a blog and write an entry every day from the gold speckled Formica table while i nibble on premade gourmet sandwiches wrapped in plastic with expensive mayo dressings and enjoy free samples of the latest Creamalita flavor (today was peanut butter--a lovely lady in the nurse-type attire of the zabar's uniform comes around with a tray). i could document the lives of the regulars, the new mothers and retirees, the rich old bags with their diet snapples and shoulder bags the color of easter eggs.

i could call it ladieswholunch.blogspot.com...

oh, but that would be like work, somehow, and the w word is very much antithetical to the zabar universe. the cafe is always very busy, with lots of chatting and calling out of orders and yet somehow, there's the feeling that nothing ever changes, that the world outside is spinning out of control, but here, inside these four walls, those of us who are lucky enough to not have to toil our time away can mingle with one another and be...understood. when i tell folks downtown that i don't have a job, they immediately feel pity for me--it doesn't even enter their minds that unemployment is my preferred state of being (and one that i strive hard to maintain). at zabar's, no one thinks to ask a question so gauche as "what do you do for a living?" more important are the discussions about the latest estee lauder bronzer, or the best time to jump on the hamptons jitney. sporting my latest pair translucent, thick framed reading glasses, a signed copy of clinton's bio and a constellation of drug pimples under the left corner of my mouth--i simultaneously affect the appearance of someone who is just passing through and someone who has no where to go. in other words, i fit right in.

finally, a place where nobody knows my name...

Thank-U, Drive-Thru...

so i saw Fahrenheit 9/11 and i have to say that despite my many trepidations, i found it to be a pretty decent flick. mm's film making skills are top notch and this time he lays off the wacky-ass pseudo logic that plagued bowling for columbine. (the fact that defense contractors build missiles in colorado can in some way explain the actions of two fucked up teenagers? por favor!) thankfully, he doesn't say anything in f 9/11 that hasn't been reported elsewhere, and for the most part, (and this is merely an observation) i don't think anyone watching the film was SHOCKED by what they saw. for example, i think most americans know that bush and his daddy have been doing bidness with the saudis for several decades. yes, and we know that the saudis are two-faced, and yes, their own country is pretty much as far away from democracy as you can get, and yes they have a fat trillion invested in our country and yes, they get special treatment on account of that investment...OK, yes, yes, yes...we funnel down all of this info over the course of 2 hours, being reminded all the while that poor, disenfranchised kids from all over this country are (right now!) fighting a fucked up war that will make these same, reprehensible rich people even richer.

it's the same old story. it's the song we hate called "western civilization"...

and of course it's all well documented--the paper trails, the soundbites and film clips. mm takes care to cite the sources he pulls from--the wall street journal, the NY Times, Fox News, CNN...but it's not the individual bits of scandalous info that proove revelatory, it's the manner in which he puts them together and feeds them back to us that does the trick.

yes, feeds...that's the metaphor i want to explore...because while i think the film is good and worth seeing, it's the overall act of watching that i have a problem with. in more than one review, i've heard people describe how they left the theater feeling wiped out and depressed...and no wonder--the past four years are played back to us to the tune of "You Sure Got Fooled Again." we are the dupes, the stupid, well-meaning fucks who (on a daily basis) are overwhelmed by the circle jerk of media corporations and tricked by the rich, self-serving assholes who run our government, time and time again. according to the film, the only responsibility of the lowly citizen who is not an elected member of the government is that of the individual's responsibility to him or herself to survive--we see the soldiers "just trying to make it home" and get out of Iraq, we see a mother who has lost her son trying to come to terms with her grief and disillusionment in the country she used to love, we see the poor kids in flint, MI, just trying to get by and get an education...while all along cocky ass bush and his boys are giving great media head and making money hand over fist. mm never looks deeper, and he certainly doesn't offer any viable alternatives. he seems content to reinforce the idea that we are all just anonymous pawns, with nothing much to offer to the country as a whole. as a director, he at least has the camera, the enlightened consciousness and the connections who photocopy classified info for him--but we the people have nothing but to watch and learn.

how come he doesn't talk about why these dudes are so rich? how come he doesn't talk about why we are so beholden to oil, i.e., why doesn't he ONCE mention our country's love affair with the automobile? try counting the number of car commercials you see on TV sometime...it's outrageous! bush and his daddy and cheney and the saudis would be out of business if we refused to buy these gas guzzling machines. the trillion dollar investment would start to shrink if we agreed to raise the price of black gold per gallon to an amount that might actually curb our consumption of it...the reason these dudes are so rich is because YOU AND I ARE BUYING WHAT THEY ARE SELLING.

we can demand the implementation of alternative energy sources, we can car pool, we can take the subway, we can regulate fuel consumption

we can get off our fat, lazy, apathetic asses and start walking.

i saw f9/11 on times square, right around dinner time. just before it started i got on one of the 8 lines at the concession stand to get a bottle of water. all around me were fellow members of the f 9/11 audience, anxiously awaiting their turn to spend more money than the average iraqi sees in a month on a "snack". guts protruded over waistlines, dollar bills were clutched in fists...it was all i could do not to shout--"so this is what a revolution looks like in the year 2004!" this is how one gets their message across, in a super climate controlled setting, with extra cheese nachos and convenient bendy straws for super large cokes...

don't you see--y'all love yr lives. the comfort and greasy food and instagrat...you love yr brand new car and your plasma screen TV...

you love yr pills and yr potions, yr shrinks and yr televised emotions...in fact, if anything makes you sad it's that you want, no, you DESERVE MORE! more of everything! especially the right to point the finger at everyone else!

(and more than anything else right now we love DUBYA! yes, that's right! all of us, even me--i love him so much because he's the perfect bad guy for me to direct all my moral indignation upon)

we have become a nation of soft heads and bellies. we are greedy enough to believe we can "have it all" without anyone else having to suffer as a result.

the world, unfortunately, does not work that way.

in closing, i think f 9/11 is a good movie to see, because it accurately portrays one aspect of the problem...it shows just how wide we've allowed the gap between rich america and poor america to become. it also tears asunder the thin veils that our government put up between us and the "truth". in that, it is successful. but the important next step that mm does not take is to point out that it is WE who let it happen. it is time that WE wake up and get hard again. drop the fast food and get out of the car. shut off the TV and go outside...


the next step is to fucking do SOMETHING.

think

talk

read

write




free yrself from yrself for it is truly now or never.






you can start by writing a post for this site...

piiiiishhhhh


the feds are all over this site, btw