Effen Hipsters


Okay so my wife just explained something to me. It’s something I’ve been in denial about for a long time, apparently. My pants are not tight, but I tend not to like anything popular. Inadvertently, my entire life, I have been a hipster. I cannot stand that word. Its so fucking  mainstream.

This mindset has screwed me up for success as an artist. I think it is hack to promote yourself, and being a sellout is lame. Who the fuck thinks like that? Not someone who is successful. Not someone who has touched people with their work.

With that being said, if someone has a beard and skinny jeans, huge plugs in their ears, and a successful yet quaint business or underground following of some sort, they are posers.

This mindset is absolutely retarded. I do not mean that in a mentally handicapped way, but in the literal sense – diminished.

Now that I have faced the fact that I am an elitist fuck , I will do my best to work past it. My pants will remain loose, but I’m keeping my goddamn beard. I will lose the shitty elitist frame of reference,   to how I see myself, and how I see the success of others.

Don’t be a hipster, unless you can do it in a healthy way. Being a dick is so lame bro…for real.

Image courtesy of Imgarcade.com

Wet Blanket


I Inadvertently took the last week off everything. At first I thought it was due to a lack of motivation, the holidays, and the influx of family in town. This seemed the most legitimate reason, but yesterday I was talking to my mother  (my biggest supporter in following my dreams) and she asked me why I hadn’t been writing. A fair question, but it was the next bit that made me think.

She asked me if being trolled had made me hesitant to write. I said no, but I am not sure how true that was. I mean, I am confident enough in my self that I wouldn’t let a jealous bottom feeder with poor grammar stand between me and my passion, but subconsciously I am not so sure.

Truth be told, nobody likes being disrespected, and this blog by nature leaves me pretty vulnerable to scrutinizers. The lesson I have to learn is to use such insults to prove to myself that they are wrong. To transmute this base level slime into the gold of inspiration.

Two post in a row about this shit. Sorry kids, back to business tomorrow…oh and if you enjoyed the first chunk of Broken Glass, the next segment will be available by Friday.

The moral of today’s entry:
Don’t let a wet blanket smother your spark.

Image courtesy of thepbandjshow.com

Dear Troll


I had no idea that my writing could cause such violent outbursts of verbal diarrhea, but it looks like I am the winner. Last night I was awarded with my first troll comment, written anonymously about my last post which is a fictional tale based in the factual past.

The comment was from “wil” who did furnished my with a fancy geometric photo, the standard of wordpress as a default. His (or her) name was in lower case letters, which is ironic as that is how I imagine them…small.

If you have been visiting me here in virtual space for long, you have read my mantras, my hopes for humanity. These wishes are not new, not original, and not hard. Be the change, don’t be a dick, my rights end where yours begin and vice versa.

This dude wil must have truly hated my story, and why do I share this? Because it bothered me I guess. Now that I have processed the emotions however, I do not give a single, solitary, perfectly formed fuck about this guy’s opinion.

Check it out:

I am who I am, no more or less. I cannot please every social tool out there, and the practice of trolling folks for your own amusement is so dick-hole-ish that I can’t even stand it. Granted I cannot create a post every time I get trolled, but the first time? Well, the first time is special.

Here is what he wrote:

“no one cares. your writing is shit and u are to. do us all a favor and go fuck yourself.”

You win troll…my heart is broken. Asshole. Ha ha ha.

Broken Glass Part 1- The Pusher

This is a story I’ve been trying to put down on paper (so to speak) for quite some time now. It’s a rash on the back of my mind that i scratch from time to time – mindlessly, never quite admitting what it is that makes me itch so. It’s a story that starts in a parked Chevy Corsica and ends in the dark, on shards of broken glass.

The car was silent save for the wet sound of skin on skin; mouths locked on one another. I dropped her off at her parent’s  two story on the master planned side of town where everybody’s parents had degree of some sort, the a large house of some sort, and drove a brand new car of some sort.

She was the obvious choice, a close friend turned lover though at the time things had not yet become deviant and destructive. There was something about her that hit me in the veins like a drug. She was the pusher and I was the junkie.

I couldn’t get enough of that delicious rush, and I would have given up everything just to be with her a little while longer. Little did I know at the time, like any addiction, I would give up much and more for her in the end.

My car wasn’t new, but having it was. I worked three summers to earn it though i still couldn’t have earned enough to pay for all of it. My family wasn’t exactly poor; we never really went without anything, but we were nowhere near living the way she did – the only child of two successful banking professionals.

We sat in the lamp light glow of the orange sodium-vapor street lights in my new but not new car. My hands ran across her bare back under her shirt striking over vertebrae and smooth pale skin in the dark, the smell of her skin on the air. I nibbled on her ear lobe, which was always the trick to get her to make that sound, the one that started the flow of that drug that she was to me, in my veins.

“We don’t have time for this right now,” she said in that tone that’s not quite a moan,” if I get caught, you’re never-”

“Are you sure?” I whispered to her as I pulled her slight frame over top of me hoping against hope that she would not stop my attempt at getting a fix.

“Nice try asshole,” she said as she worked her way across me to the driver side door. She kissed me on the forehead, sliding her lips down my face to bite my neck one time as she slid out the door .

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said as she slammed the car door softly and made her way to her door with the sodium-vapors playing off her skin and curly brown hair like the lights off a dancer at a cabaret. The street was her stage and, she was the star.

I sat there in the Chevy Corsica, reeling in the stunned silence trying to contain my composure. She always had this effect on me, and that’s why I kept coming back for more. The pusher in tight blue jeans with the sweet knowing smile and flare for making me bleed with her nails down my back.

I started the car, flicked the lights back on, and drove down the small suburban street lined with street lights painting the world in that soft city glow.

The road home in the dark of the  cold  moon was as inky black as the night sky. The constellation of reflective street lines was like the marks of a surgeon’s pen before the scalpel cuts the flesh; my starstruck eyes following that map of lines and stars and surgeon’s cuts the short distance to the other side of town – home.
When I was younger, the other kids on my street said my house was haunted, and in the light of the cold moon I could see why. The fifty foot centinel pines guarded the old chain link gates like soldiers on duty. The moonlight brushed the tarnished white painted brick of the house giving it a glow – ghostly in the quite night air.

I got through the old chain link gate navigated past myriad vehicles in partial disrepair opening the old wood door to my house. The door was of unpolished oak, at least sixty years old. The deadbolt could be locked by key from the inside as well as out. It was an old house lathe and plaster, old even when I was born, hell old when my dad was born. It was his face that greeted me in the kitchen as I went to grab a drink.

We stood there for a long moment in each other’s path – his face a mirror of what mine will be in the years to come. His Hair a salt and pepper grey, his eyes slate blue and full of malice.

“Hey stud,” he said without any humor , “home late aren’t cha?”

“I guess,” I said returning the icy stare, “its friday, we had practice and we just went out for a movie after…that’s all.”
It wasn’t a lie, I had been in the school band my whole life. I dedicated all of the free time I had to it and the people in it. They were my tribe – my family. He continued to look at me with that icy blue stare and grinned a cold grin – one that never met his eyes. He took a step forward, close enough that I could feel his breath on my face, my heart quickening with anticipation to what would follow.

With one hand much larger than mine even though we were of a height he pushed my chest – not hard, and not quick, but strong and deliberate and I felt my back pressed against the cold refrigerator door.

“Don’t give me any of that fuckin’ practice bullshit, I don’t wanna hear it. You keep up this little fuckin’ game bud, she’s gonna end up knocked up, and you’ll be flipping burgers for the rest of your miserable fuckin’ life. Gimme the keys.”

“Dad, I didn’t do anything, can I jus-”

“Just gimme your fuckin’ keys,” his voice began to boil with anger as he pushed harder against me.

That was always the move. Whenever I did something that didn’t make him happy, or tried to exercise some sort of freedom he would take away the only thing that he could hold over my head, my car. He stopped hitting me years before, as I was now as big as he, so he didn’t really want to push the issue even though by nature I was always pretty passive.

“What now,”  I said, “you going to fucking hit me? Go ahead I dare you.” I could feel the pinpricks sweat building on my forehead as we stared at each other down contrasted by the actual coldness of that autumn world.

“Oh yeah tough guy, you just wait you’re not going to be a kid forever. One a these days I’m really going to kick your ass.”

I said nothing, I only listened to my heart beat in my ears trying my best to contain my breathing and shaking hands as a trickle of sweat roll over my temple and landed on his arm where he held me against the fridge.

“You better get some sleep,”  he told me as he finally eased up the vice grip that he had against me, “I got big plans for you tomorrow.”

I made my way to my bed even though I knew he would not. It was payday, and that meant a fresh batch of meth from whoever or wherever that shit came from. I sat on the edge of the bed in that small room watching the white walls yellowed with age, wondering if I could make it one more year, if I could make it to adulthood without doing something stupid.

If I could only make it to February I would be free. Free of that fear, that anxiety of failure, fear of that anger, that hate that he seemed to have for me. Free to be with her my sweet little pusher. For now, I would get some sleep but in the morning I would go see Cortez, the cholo up the street who always bought me booze.

For now sleep would have to do, but little did I know, it would be coming sooner than I thought. In a few short weeks my life would change forever – the spiral toward the ground, forever changing everything.


Freeing Fiction


I have a story to tell, and I think I am going to give it away on this site.  I need a break from my fantasy epic – it is proving frustrating at the moment and I am losing sight of the pure idea I intend for the characters and their arch.

To distract, and possibly shed light on this for myself, I want to tell a pseudo – autobiographical tale about a young man’s relationship with an aspiring dominatrix, his family, and coming of age.

This story is fun to write, but rather salacious with sex, drug, and alcohol themes. You know, wholesome stuff. The trick will be that (for legal reasons) I am going to change the tale to accommodate actual people. I say again: the people in this story are phonies! Their resemblance to real people is purely coincidental. The threads of truth are for me to know.

So, tomorrow (editing permitted) I am going to post the first bit to see how it flies. If things go well, I will release it in a serialized, week by week form until it is finished. What do y’all think? I realize that acknowledgement of folks reading your blog is against etiquette,  but you know me…
Image courtesy of centrum.org

Perception In A Digital Age


Perception is supposedly reality, at least,  that’s what I’ve heard. Whatever you see as being real,  chances are it actually is. It could possibly be a shared hallucination in a fractal holographic universe made not of matter but vibrating energy, but so what? What difference does it make if matter is only vibrating waveform/particle energy , or everything is really as it seems, solid. For the purposes of this exercise of thought, it makes really little difference. This is really less about what actually is, and more about what you perceive to be.

The Internet has given us a great gift. It has given us the ability to answer any question, at any time, without any hesitation. It has given us the ability to span the globe in a worldwide network of awareness.

Issues of power, of truth, and various other forms of tom foolery that once below the radar are now everyone’s business. This has been helpful, but in some ways detrimental to life as we know it. The real issue that I’m thinking about at the moment is the news feed. Your newsfeed, shapes the way you see the world. If veganism  is your kink, then chances are your News Feed is full of vegan activism and the like. If you are all about conspiracy theory, you have an endless stream of fear mongering and propaganda against the state. If you’re a Democrat, point of you it looks like the Democrats are taking over. The same goes for the Republican, and the independent parties. If you buy the company line , your fear mongering is taking another direction.

Your News Feed is perhaps the most powerful weapon advertising for thought has ever had. It can change any point of view. Every like and every favorite, changes that nifty little algorithm changing your digital perception of reality. Every Google search, every article, every day. The Internet is becoming more specialized just. for. you.

This is extremely convenient, as I do not want to search through things I’m not interested in to find the meat and potatoes . I would much rather get straight to the UFO sightings, climate extremes, various weaponry, and folklore that seemed to take up my browsing time. Oh and let’s not forget the comic rap battles, stand up, and podcasts. I do not have time occupy someone else is reality as weird as that might sound. On my device, the Internet is mine. And no one elses.

That is fascinating.

I like to think of it as a series of lenses, obscuring the spectrum we do not wish to see. We use lenses to filter all sorts of things, not just the internet but the way that we look at each other; what we perceive to be true. Aldous Huxley said, ” there are things known, and there are things unknown, and in between lies the doors of perception.” I would like to take that thought one step further. In the doorways, between these doors of perception lies the ever changing lenses through which we focus our attention.
And just as the Internet is tailored to suit your preferences, it can also shape the way you see the world. You can go down different avenues, and see the most morally depraved acts of violence, as well as selfless acts of love. The cutest animals, or be heading with a hand saw. From the vantage point of your tiny glowing screen, it may in fact look like Armageddon has begun… Or not. The truth, is open to interpretation.

Educators and Regulators


I think that educators in this country, and perhaps all over the world are severely underpaid. They are under rated, they are under appreciated, and otherwise not given the credit they are due. Educators of every grade, of every type, and in every place are the most vital parts of our society. They take our children each day, and bestow upon them the knowledge that they will need to function in society for the rest of their lives.

Now, with that being said I have an issue with two things – both related, though indirectly. The first, is on standardized testing. I understand – this is the way that schools secure funding and yada yada yada, but forcing our children into practices of rote memorization does not prepare them to be critical thinkers in real life. It prepares them to be mindless, it prepares them to be told what to think, and how to perceive the world that they live in.

In what way is that prepare children to be adults? Short answer, it does not.

I know there are schools all over the country that practice different methods for teaching children, the various charter schools and alternative education schools that use all sorts of different methods to teach children how to think for themselves. To these schools I say bravo, and to the parents who could afford to send their children there I also say bravo, but not all families can afford to send their children to private institution for learning.

I do not fault teachers and administrators for what they have to do to prepare children in public school. I know that everyone is underpaid understaffed and overworked. It is the car at the top of this machine petsense down legislation correct your life and rules to be followed that is at fault.

The last thing that really grinds my gears may only be an Arizona state thing, but if I’m wrong, please tell me.

Homework is the issue. My six year old first grader has homework every single night of the week, a bunch of it which we really don’t mind…mostly. Some nights are a little less convenient, but we make time. Meanwhile, my daughter who is a sophomore rarely has any at all. All I really have to say about that is simply this:

The whole thing is ass backwards.

Image courtesy of http:// http://reallifeartist.wordpress.com