Ok, I don't have enought time to really post. And going into the abass of a fun fill hippie week. Yet I feel remiss. It's that work ethic that I just can't avoid. So...anyways...I metioned it before and if anyone really needs an insight to the x, you can find photos taken by me here...
http://www.flickr.com/photos/29046422@N03/
Monday, May 23, 2011
after 2
Oh yea, by the way...I wasn't raptured either. Damn! I will have to get back to that one too.
after
Been thinking a lot lately about “happily every after”. Trying to wrap my head around it and understand what that truly means. It’s not like I can’t be happy, I find happiness in many things and sometimes in the strangest of places. Maybe it’s the ever after part, after what? Recently I have been reminded that the hell I complain about is really not that bad. I was slapped upside the face and called out, screamed at and challenged. Tears were thrown down that I didn’t cause and could not fix. And yes, mine can be a hell. But compared to the true nightmare that some people live, mine is like the Hello Kitty version, or so I’ve just been told. Which leaves me in an odd place, Hello Kitty is bad enough, but with a pitch folk and horns, yes that is Hell. Japanese culture just eats itself. Is that what’s in store for me? I feel pain and I hurt. I work tirelessly for things to be different, better, for true happiness. Yet sometimes it seems to no avail. Well, I have the different part down, if anything I always been know as different. But that’s not what I am talking about. No I am not dieing of cancer (at least that I know of), and yes I still have a (if you can call it that) job. But those are not the emphatic qualifiers to a wonderful life. And who names their kid Zuzu anyway? Bell
Friday, May 20, 2011
DROP
Damn it’s been raining here forever, well at least all week, and no end in sight. Yesterday for a few minutes the clouds parted and this yellowish flaming thing appeared in the sky, aliens…it was ALIENS!
Down here the sky is always falling. –Sylvia Plath
Down here the sky is always falling. –Sylvia Plath
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Third time's a charm
Ok, so I’m beginning to creep myself out. This is looking a little dark. Truthfully, I’m not EMO or Goth. Maybe I should do something like kittens and daisies. I CAN DO KITTENS AND DAISIES! And rainbows and sunny blue sky, yes, yes I can. Then would you all clap and give me a hand? Or Star bellied Sneetches who has bellies with stars. And smiley faced girls driving around in convertible cars. But if I think what I do, and do what I think. The color I use wouldn’t turn out to be pink. Life isn’t all roses or all lemons you must see. But the things that piss me off, sometimes won’t let me be. So I rant and I rave, occasionally with no end in sight. And sometimes I’m wrong yet sometimes I’m right. Please keep in mind and take with a grin, you can find sunshine and laughter even in sin. So don’t think me bad or that this is hype. Because all, after all this is just tripe.
I’m just full of it today……….
I’m just full of it today……….
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Should it be told...
Human Beings are such a frail lot, and I am not talking about people. Human Beings feel, they sense, they accept, they love, they dream. People are just people, they exist. Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing terribly bad about just existing. I myself have gone thru that mode more then once in this life. Sometimes it’s a survival thing, other a conscious choice, and sometimes it just happens. But I do believe that people have brought our downfall. It is thru them that the zombie apocalypse has begun.
But hoards of the living dead are not traveling the streets and trying to eat my brains, or so you think.
One of the common misbelieve of zombies and the ensuing mayhem is that it’s a fast acting type of virus or plague that once exposed, almost immediately turns you into a non-breathing, non-intelligent, instinct only, hateful, living dead. That works great for a 1+ hour movie that can’t invest time into plot. You know, only 2 months to go from normal to total shit-storm, Alice wakes in the hospital to a world overrun with Umbrella Corp host, or the radio reports first sightings and sudden they are everywhere. In real life, I believe that it is a much slower disease. Growing, spreading, and mutating for years if not decades. It infects at a basic level and has multiple strains that mutate and re-inoculate, strengthen in the host and spreading the infection to others. Whether it conforms to the actual definition of a “virus” is non-consequential. It is a plague and it is amongst us here today. If we as Human Being don’t recognize it and address it, sooner or later it will reach the pandemic proportions, and the infectious will become the undead (we all know and dread), and it will go to total shit-storm overnight.
When a Human Beings cease to sense life, looses the feeling of inner connectivity of all, and no longer feel the oneness and energy they becomes a people. I think at that moment, they are most vulnerable to the zombie infection. Some how it just “know when you are at your weakest, it smells it”. I think it is an aura change that gives the new people away. You can tell people from Human Being, people who are just existing, skating thru life, they don’t have a bright glow. At that point their energy levels are low and the zombie infection sneaks in thru their eyes. The windows of the soul, and there it darkens the soul and infect the brain. One would think that if this is so, we would have been able to detect it. But much like a pandemic, the first signs will be missed. There will be an upward spike in reports of illness that then initially drops. These will be brushed off as some other common problem, and by the time we understand the true nature of the disease, the infection will have spread and multiplied exponentially. Reports of the illness will have drastically increased and will be on the up climb of a ferocious spike of reports, and it will be too too late. Kind of like a canary in the coal mine. Which initially seems like a good idea, but by the time one realizes the bird is dead from poisonous gas, you are already dead, you just don’t know it yet.
So the zombie infection attacks the brain, swelling it, subjugating the soul, destroying and rotting the Human Being part. One becomes selfish, bigoted, and greedy. They become hateful fear mongering shells. Shadows of Human Beings, living in your skin and hungry for others and their brains. They seek them out to infect them too, like chalk on a chalk board. The zombies are out there, and they are coming for you, to eat your brains. It’s just not such a Graphic Novel idea of eating, a lot less blood.
Trust me, I wish it was the way of the Hollywood zombies. It is so much easier to get rid of zombies by just bashing them in the head with a rock.
But hoards of the living dead are not traveling the streets and trying to eat my brains, or so you think.
One of the common misbelieve of zombies and the ensuing mayhem is that it’s a fast acting type of virus or plague that once exposed, almost immediately turns you into a non-breathing, non-intelligent, instinct only, hateful, living dead. That works great for a 1+ hour movie that can’t invest time into plot. You know, only 2 months to go from normal to total shit-storm, Alice wakes in the hospital to a world overrun with Umbrella Corp host, or the radio reports first sightings and sudden they are everywhere. In real life, I believe that it is a much slower disease. Growing, spreading, and mutating for years if not decades. It infects at a basic level and has multiple strains that mutate and re-inoculate, strengthen in the host and spreading the infection to others. Whether it conforms to the actual definition of a “virus” is non-consequential. It is a plague and it is amongst us here today. If we as Human Being don’t recognize it and address it, sooner or later it will reach the pandemic proportions, and the infectious will become the undead (we all know and dread), and it will go to total shit-storm overnight.
When a Human Beings cease to sense life, looses the feeling of inner connectivity of all, and no longer feel the oneness and energy they becomes a people. I think at that moment, they are most vulnerable to the zombie infection. Some how it just “know when you are at your weakest, it smells it”. I think it is an aura change that gives the new people away. You can tell people from Human Being, people who are just existing, skating thru life, they don’t have a bright glow. At that point their energy levels are low and the zombie infection sneaks in thru their eyes. The windows of the soul, and there it darkens the soul and infect the brain. One would think that if this is so, we would have been able to detect it. But much like a pandemic, the first signs will be missed. There will be an upward spike in reports of illness that then initially drops. These will be brushed off as some other common problem, and by the time we understand the true nature of the disease, the infection will have spread and multiplied exponentially. Reports of the illness will have drastically increased and will be on the up climb of a ferocious spike of reports, and it will be too too late. Kind of like a canary in the coal mine. Which initially seems like a good idea, but by the time one realizes the bird is dead from poisonous gas, you are already dead, you just don’t know it yet.
So the zombie infection attacks the brain, swelling it, subjugating the soul, destroying and rotting the Human Being part. One becomes selfish, bigoted, and greedy. They become hateful fear mongering shells. Shadows of Human Beings, living in your skin and hungry for others and their brains. They seek them out to infect them too, like chalk on a chalk board. The zombies are out there, and they are coming for you, to eat your brains. It’s just not such a Graphic Novel idea of eating, a lot less blood.
Trust me, I wish it was the way of the Hollywood zombies. It is so much easier to get rid of zombies by just bashing them in the head with a rock.
Monday, May 16, 2011
CRITIQUE
No characterization....
Theme non existence......
Convoluted sophomoric plot...
Cliché thoughts....
Obsessed with reality issues.....
Poor design......
…quite frankly….tripe
Theme non existence......
Convoluted sophomoric plot...
Cliché thoughts....
Obsessed with reality issues.....
Poor design......
…quite frankly….tripe
out of S Inc.
Whoo...litttle out of sync, That’s what happens when you visit the past. Those blog masters did restore the past, but with a tint off. Or maybe I'm just inpatient. But having been an In Patient, I believe that I am allowed.
It goes so slowly, circles.
It use to be a child's game, Spinning. Twirling around and around, arms stretched out. But always pushed too far from enjoyment into the scary darkness. A terrifying dizzy buzz. Falling to the ground, lying unable to move from the high. Spread eagle on your back, starring at the sky. Watching as the world spins uncontrollable past the glassy eyed lobotomized smirk and really not caring. I guess that's the child part, not caring. But then came the vomit, rolling over on all fours and spewing one’s guts onto the swirling green grass. Suddenly soaking it with “not so much fun”.
It use to be a child's game, Spinning. Twirling around and around, arms stretched out. But always pushed too far from enjoyment into the scary darkness. A terrifying dizzy buzz. Falling to the ground, lying unable to move from the high. Spread eagle on your back, starring at the sky. Watching as the world spins uncontrollable past the glassy eyed lobotomized smirk and really not caring. I guess that's the child part, not caring. But then came the vomit, rolling over on all fours and spewing one’s guts onto the swirling green grass. Suddenly soaking it with “not so much fun”.
It goes so slowly, circles.
Try to catch a glimpse of when it actually happened. Put a Finger on it, Nail it Down. Pinned insect behind glass frame, is that what your true colors are? Look, I never noticed that before. Yet my bones know, they echo the empty pain in my head. The cold snow burns in my eyes and forces the tears to freeze on my warm face. I snap off my ears to glorify the silence and quell my inquisitiveness. Still the silence demands more mutilations. Next victim, please. And the screams echo around in turquoise painted rooms. My eyes vibrate out of my head. They fall to the ground rolling here and there, what a view.
It goes slowly, circles.
Should I wrap myself up in barbed wire just in order to realize that I can still feel the pain? The pig’s head is starring at me, starring from atop of the phone booth at the convenient store. I was buying a newspaper. A woman had entered the store and said, "there's a pig’s head on your phone booth". I guess the disbelief could be read on the faces of the clerk and myself. She said, "No, really, I went to make a phone call. There's a pig's head on the phone booth.... I just thought someone would want to know". She turned and slowly walked out the door. I returned to paying for the paper and followed out that same door into the sharp breeze. The woman drove by me and smiled. It was just a glimmer of one, her red lipstick twisting upward in a wirery sort of way. It was the first smile I've seen in a very long time. I felt like I was possibly someone. I had to walk around the pumps in order to get to my car. The gas fumes laid heavy there. It all seemed so familiar, sweet spacey intoxication. And there was the phone booth. On top of the small open sided box was a pig's head. Grey and lifeless it almost didn't look real. It's eye's open, round black marbles staring directly at me. I thought, you know she's right.
It goes so slowly, circles.
Do I really know anything? Why am I here? I draw marks on paper, angry slashes and calming circles, I hit keys, and slowly they become words. I read them over and over until I memorize each nuance. Can't I be whom I dream? Or am I just a dream of a dreamer? Speak to me, speak to me about truth, speak to me about lies, speak to me about your lust. Ou...there's and idea.
Try to catch a glimpse of when it actually happened. Put a Finger on it, Nail it Down. Pinned insect behind glass frame, is that what your true colors are? Look, I never noticed that before. Yet my bones know, they echo the empty pain in my head. The cold snow burns in my eyes and forces the tears to freeze on my warm face. I snap off my ears to glorify the silence and quell my inquisitiveness. Still the silence demands more mutilations. Next victim, please. And the screams echo around in turquoise painted rooms. My eyes vibrate out of my head. They fall to the ground rolling here and there, what a view.
It goes slowly, circles.
Should I wrap myself up in barbed wire just in order to realize that I can still feel the pain? The pig’s head is starring at me, starring from atop of the phone booth at the convenient store. I was buying a newspaper. A woman had entered the store and said, "there's a pig’s head on your phone booth". I guess the disbelief could be read on the faces of the clerk and myself. She said, "No, really, I went to make a phone call. There's a pig's head on the phone booth.... I just thought someone would want to know". She turned and slowly walked out the door. I returned to paying for the paper and followed out that same door into the sharp breeze. The woman drove by me and smiled. It was just a glimmer of one, her red lipstick twisting upward in a wirery sort of way. It was the first smile I've seen in a very long time. I felt like I was possibly someone. I had to walk around the pumps in order to get to my car. The gas fumes laid heavy there. It all seemed so familiar, sweet spacey intoxication. And there was the phone booth. On top of the small open sided box was a pig's head. Grey and lifeless it almost didn't look real. It's eye's open, round black marbles staring directly at me. I thought, you know she's right.
It goes so slowly, circles.
Do I really know anything? Why am I here? I draw marks on paper, angry slashes and calming circles, I hit keys, and slowly they become words. I read them over and over until I memorize each nuance. Can't I be whom I dream? Or am I just a dream of a dreamer? Speak to me, speak to me about truth, speak to me about lies, speak to me about your lust. Ou...there's and idea.
But then the cybotic video game seductively screams "in danger...abort...abort..., Welcome to the next level".
There was no blood and it's snout was open just a crack. A small slivered mouth gently curving upward oh so slightly. In the back of my mind I can still remember the flies swarming over my body. I close my eyes tight until they hurt, lightening flashes dancing around retina after images. Pig Head, Pig Head where's the pike? Squealing and screaming before the separation is in sight. Hack, hack warm blood pisses, pisses around. Drenching and dripping on everything to be found.
There was no blood and it's snout was open just a crack. A small slivered mouth gently curving upward oh so slightly. In the back of my mind I can still remember the flies swarming over my body. I close my eyes tight until they hurt, lightening flashes dancing around retina after images. Pig Head, Pig Head where's the pike? Squealing and screaming before the separation is in sight. Hack, hack warm blood pisses, pisses around. Drenching and dripping on everything to be found.
When I open my eyes again, the pig's head is still atop of the phone booth. You know, she's right.
It goes so…
It goes so…
so slowly…
slowly circles….
I think they are vultures. Then comes the vomit.
Friday, May 13, 2011
Time Traveler
I have traveled thru time, past, present, and future. Bending the fabric of existence, warping the continuum and flashing thru the years like a firefly on a warm summer night.
Just a jump to the left.
I have revisited old nightmares and seen the outcomes of today’s dreams. I have learned to understand that there is no destiny and how frail our grasp on reality is. One would think that such knowledge would create wisdom, in an almost God like manor. But knowing it all, realizing the outcome of our actions, what has happened and what is in store in the future, has just made me bored of the whole damn thing. Déjà vu, seen this someplace before. “Everything happens for a reason” they say. Well.... they are wrong. Chaos is actually what holds the whole thing together.
Did I just give away the ending? Not to worry, you did forget, or I mean will.
I think the hardest thing I learned being a Time Traveler, is that making hotel reservations really sucks. You think it is bad here today, try thru time. So I have seen the future and how easily it can be changed, how a “simple seemingly inoculate act would lead to his eminent demise”.. So I stopped going back in time. Hell, I have enough problems with today without it doing a chameleon change because I smiled at the third cousin twice removed of Mary Shelly. Yea, that one caused Bush to be elected, sorry, my bad. So I have decided no more past visits. That I will only try to change the future.
How about you?
Never mind I already know what you will answer.
Oh, that and you forgetting has nothing to do with your destiny, it’s just your nature.
Just a jump to the left.
I have revisited old nightmares and seen the outcomes of today’s dreams. I have learned to understand that there is no destiny and how frail our grasp on reality is. One would think that such knowledge would create wisdom, in an almost God like manor. But knowing it all, realizing the outcome of our actions, what has happened and what is in store in the future, has just made me bored of the whole damn thing. Déjà vu, seen this someplace before. “Everything happens for a reason” they say. Well.... they are wrong. Chaos is actually what holds the whole thing together.
Did I just give away the ending? Not to worry, you did forget, or I mean will.
I think the hardest thing I learned being a Time Traveler, is that making hotel reservations really sucks. You think it is bad here today, try thru time. So I have seen the future and how easily it can be changed, how a “simple seemingly inoculate act would lead to his eminent demise”.. So I stopped going back in time. Hell, I have enough problems with today without it doing a chameleon change because I smiled at the third cousin twice removed of Mary Shelly. Yea, that one caused Bush to be elected, sorry, my bad. So I have decided no more past visits. That I will only try to change the future.
How about you?
Never mind I already know what you will answer.
Oh, that and you forgetting has nothing to do with your destiny, it’s just your nature.
Currently Unavailable
Really???? How can a host be currently unavailable? Where is my blogosphere?? This must be one of those terrorist acts or some cyberpunk's attack that is meant to destroy reality itself. I feel lost, unfulfilled….Oh no….I’ve gone over the edge….I’ve lost touch with my reality….I am nothing but the sum of my posts…and they are all gone….NOOOoooo..
Sarcasm is just another service we provide here…..
Un available
Hey...ps..What happen to my blog from yesterday? I thought that the Blog masters were going to restore eveything. Damn, now I will have to go back in time and correct this issue. I hate going into the past...........
Sarcasm is just another service we provide here…..
Un available
Hey...ps..What happen to my blog from yesterday? I thought that the Blog masters were going to restore eveything. Damn, now I will have to go back in time and correct this issue. I hate going into the past...........
Thursday, May 12, 2011
Time Travel
I have traveled thru time, past, present, and future. Bending the fabric of existence, warping the continuum and flashing thru the years like a firefly on a warm summer night.
Just a jump to the left.
I have revisited old nightmares and seen the outcomes of today’s dreams. I understand that there is no destiny and how frail our grasp on reality is. One would think that such knowledge would create wisdom, in an almost God like manor. But knowing it all, realizing the outcome of our actions, what has happened and what is in store in the future, has just made me bored of the whole damn thing. Déjà vu, seen this someplace before. “Everything happens for a reason” they say. Well.... they are wrong. Chaos is actually what holds the whole thing together.
Did I just give away the ending? Not to worry, you did forget, or I mean will.
I think the hardest thing I learned being a Time Traveler, is that making hotel reservations really sucks. You think it is bad here today, try thru time. So I have seen the future and how easily it can be changed, how a “simple seemingly inoculate act would lead to his eminent demise”.. So I stopped going back in time. Hell I have enough problems with today without it doing a chameleon change because I smiled at the third cousin twice removed of Mary Shelly. Yea, that one causes Bush to be elected, sorry, my bad. So I have decided only to change the future.
How about you?
Never mind I already know.
Oh, that and the forgetting has nothing to do with your destiny, it’s just your nature.
Just a jump to the left.
I have revisited old nightmares and seen the outcomes of today’s dreams. I understand that there is no destiny and how frail our grasp on reality is. One would think that such knowledge would create wisdom, in an almost God like manor. But knowing it all, realizing the outcome of our actions, what has happened and what is in store in the future, has just made me bored of the whole damn thing. Déjà vu, seen this someplace before. “Everything happens for a reason” they say. Well.... they are wrong. Chaos is actually what holds the whole thing together.
Did I just give away the ending? Not to worry, you did forget, or I mean will.
I think the hardest thing I learned being a Time Traveler, is that making hotel reservations really sucks. You think it is bad here today, try thru time. So I have seen the future and how easily it can be changed, how a “simple seemingly inoculate act would lead to his eminent demise”.. So I stopped going back in time. Hell I have enough problems with today without it doing a chameleon change because I smiled at the third cousin twice removed of Mary Shelly. Yea, that one causes Bush to be elected, sorry, my bad. So I have decided only to change the future.
How about you?
Never mind I already know.
Oh, that and the forgetting has nothing to do with your destiny, it’s just your nature.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
admittedly guilty
Ok….So now that I actually admitted it, I should take it to heart, I blog.
Oww… that still hurts.
The problem here is that I am not a “good” writer. I mean I have tried, back in school, one might say that I was even quite enchanted with the idea. Yet, I always trip up on the mechanics of grammar. I never retained enough correct compositional knowledge. Sentence structure, paragraphs, prepositions and modifiers barely soaked into my visual orientated personality, and always landed in the wrong places. Yet, time and again, I have struggled to flay myself in penance for forgiveness. So that is that and this is this.
Far beyond actually believing in any sort of destiny, I do not feel that I have had a choice in the matter. Writing is just another expression of creativity, one that I use when my visual representations just won’t do. Though it’s not perfect, it’s just one different decomposing fruit.
There was a time that I worked as an Art Director of an Activewear Specialty firm. It was in this old beat up factory in an old depressed downtrodden mill town. My office, sort to speak, was directly on the factory floor. It had twelve foot cracked and broken windows, some panes covered with plastic and duct tape. During the winters the large hanging furnaces would make so much noise that it would drown out the 100+ non-english speaking women who sat there for 10 hour days sewing the cloths together. On really cold days the inks for the silk-screening presses would freeze and I would have to remix gallons of fresh colors. All the time while wearing gloves and all the women sewers wore winter parkas. Yea, sweatshop would be the term I would use.
I saw this football from the third floor factory window. It floated down the stream behind that sweatshop, one day at noon, many autumns ago, during a rainstorm. The sky was cold and grey, but not a steel grey. Moreover, it was the grey of a nickel platted garbage can that has been weathered for years, with the bottom almost rusted all the way thru.
The football, surrounded by leaves of yellow and red, became trapped to swirl around and around in a pool of muddy water before a rock. For three stormy days it visited, with a mechanical clock beat, counting off the minutes of my hell. Then on the forth day, a tall Egret appeared at the stream. The egret slowly paced down stream looking for fish, until it came to the pool with the football. Thru the crack in the window, I could see the egret watching the football as if it was a zamboni. For a good two minutes it watched the football. Then it stretched it wings and dove into the sky. The egret’s sudden departure left a wake in the pool of water that upset the football's path and sent it over the rock and down the stream, never to be seen again. And just like this, in awhile it will all be forgotten.
Someone once said that we do not pick the things that we love, but that the things we love choose us. Yet, just like when I was a small boy playing baseball, I was always the last one chosen for a team. Besides, “loving it” is not necessarily the term I would use for this.
Oww… that still hurts.
The problem here is that I am not a “good” writer. I mean I have tried, back in school, one might say that I was even quite enchanted with the idea. Yet, I always trip up on the mechanics of grammar. I never retained enough correct compositional knowledge. Sentence structure, paragraphs, prepositions and modifiers barely soaked into my visual orientated personality, and always landed in the wrong places. Yet, time and again, I have struggled to flay myself in penance for forgiveness. So that is that and this is this.
Far beyond actually believing in any sort of destiny, I do not feel that I have had a choice in the matter. Writing is just another expression of creativity, one that I use when my visual representations just won’t do. Though it’s not perfect, it’s just one different decomposing fruit.
There was a time that I worked as an Art Director of an Activewear Specialty firm. It was in this old beat up factory in an old depressed downtrodden mill town. My office, sort to speak, was directly on the factory floor. It had twelve foot cracked and broken windows, some panes covered with plastic and duct tape. During the winters the large hanging furnaces would make so much noise that it would drown out the 100+ non-english speaking women who sat there for 10 hour days sewing the cloths together. On really cold days the inks for the silk-screening presses would freeze and I would have to remix gallons of fresh colors. All the time while wearing gloves and all the women sewers wore winter parkas. Yea, sweatshop would be the term I would use.
I saw this football from the third floor factory window. It floated down the stream behind that sweatshop, one day at noon, many autumns ago, during a rainstorm. The sky was cold and grey, but not a steel grey. Moreover, it was the grey of a nickel platted garbage can that has been weathered for years, with the bottom almost rusted all the way thru.
The football, surrounded by leaves of yellow and red, became trapped to swirl around and around in a pool of muddy water before a rock. For three stormy days it visited, with a mechanical clock beat, counting off the minutes of my hell. Then on the forth day, a tall Egret appeared at the stream. The egret slowly paced down stream looking for fish, until it came to the pool with the football. Thru the crack in the window, I could see the egret watching the football as if it was a zamboni. For a good two minutes it watched the football. Then it stretched it wings and dove into the sky. The egret’s sudden departure left a wake in the pool of water that upset the football's path and sent it over the rock and down the stream, never to be seen again. And just like this, in awhile it will all be forgotten.
Someone once said that we do not pick the things that we love, but that the things we love choose us. Yet, just like when I was a small boy playing baseball, I was always the last one chosen for a team. Besides, “loving it” is not necessarily the term I would use for this.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Would of, Could of, Should of.....
I never have been accused of being stingy.
So this is something new, blogging from home. I haven’t had a home internet connection for a few years now. It was one of those things. Tired of dealing with over priced, connection problem laden, monopolistic corporations that suck you dry for access to the “free” World Wide Web. So I bailed, used my break and lunch time at work to get my internet work done. Granted it has been limited. Yet, now that I have my very own blogosphere, I felt I needed more access. Obviously I also have too much money and had to get rid of it somehow. So I bit the bullet and signed on the line for home internet access. Though, it is with mixed feeling (outside of the damage to my wallet) and trepidation. Being off the grid, sort to speak, and AFK was a freedom that I am not totally ready to give up. So I am put in an awkward situation. On one side, wanting to be off-line, private, and non-traceable marketing data. The other side, I blog. So because of a simple T1 line I have become embroidered in “a quandary . . . being devoured by the swirling cesspool of his own steaming desires”. Well, not quite a wreck, but I do still scrinch when I say “I blog”. And I should be happy, duality is a step down from my normal personal arguments. Yet, though it’s not earth shattering or by no means an internal crisis of ethics, it is somewhat bothersome. What’s a guy to do?
So this is something new, blogging from home. I haven’t had a home internet connection for a few years now. It was one of those things. Tired of dealing with over priced, connection problem laden, monopolistic corporations that suck you dry for access to the “free” World Wide Web. So I bailed, used my break and lunch time at work to get my internet work done. Granted it has been limited. Yet, now that I have my very own blogosphere, I felt I needed more access. Obviously I also have too much money and had to get rid of it somehow. So I bit the bullet and signed on the line for home internet access. Though, it is with mixed feeling (outside of the damage to my wallet) and trepidation. Being off the grid, sort to speak, and AFK was a freedom that I am not totally ready to give up. So I am put in an awkward situation. On one side, wanting to be off-line, private, and non-traceable marketing data. The other side, I blog. So because of a simple T1 line I have become embroidered in “a quandary . . . being devoured by the swirling cesspool of his own steaming desires”. Well, not quite a wreck, but I do still scrinch when I say “I blog”. And I should be happy, duality is a step down from my normal personal arguments. Yet, though it’s not earth shattering or by no means an internal crisis of ethics, it is somewhat bothersome. What’s a guy to do?
Southern Home Tripe
• l lb honeycomb tripe
• 1/2 cup dry white wine
• l sm tomato, chopped
• l pig's foot or veal knuckle, split in half
• l cup chopped fresh parsley
• 10 multicolored Peppercorns, lightly crushed
• 4 whole cloves, crushed
• l ts nutmeg
• 2 bay leaves
• 1/4 cup fresh thyme chopped
• kosher salt (to taste)
• l Lg red onion, coarsely chopped
• 8 cloves garlic, peeled
• 4 tb extra virgin olive oil
• l sm yellow onion, finely chopped
• 1/2 lb sweet Italian sausage cut into 1/4-inch slices
• 1/2 cup diced country ham
• l tb all purpose flour
• l tb sweet Hungarian paprika
• 1/2 dried red chili pepper, crumbled
• l tb Texas Pete Hot Sauce
Rinse the tripe well, then put it into a rather large kettle and add cold water to cover. Bring to a boil, then drain immediately. Cut the tripe into 1 1/2-inch squares and return it to the empty kettle. Add 3 cups cold water and the wine, tomato, pig's foot or veal knuckle, parsley, peppercorns, cloves, nutmeg, bay leaves, thyme, salt to taste, coarsely chopped red onion, Texas Pete and the garlic. Cover and simmer over low heat for 4 to 5 hours, until the tripe is almost tender. Heat the oil in a skillet and saute the finely chopped yellow onion until it is wilted. Add the Sweet Italian sausage and ham and cook for 5 minutes. Stir in the flour and paprika and cook 1 minute more. Add 1/2 cup of the liquid from the tripe kettle, a little at a time, and cook-stir until the mixture thickens. Add this and the chile to the tripe. Cover and cook 1 - 2 hours more. Remove the cover and continue cooking until the tripe is very tender. Remove the pig's foot or veal knuckle from the tripe. Remove and discard all skin, bone and fat. Cut the meat into pieces and stir into the tripe.
Serve in warmed bowls. Serve with good crusty bread for sopping up the sauce. A nice pot of blackeye peas or Pinto beans go well with this dish.
Serves 8-12
• 1/2 cup dry white wine
• l sm tomato, chopped
• l pig's foot or veal knuckle, split in half
• l cup chopped fresh parsley
• 10 multicolored Peppercorns, lightly crushed
• 4 whole cloves, crushed
• l ts nutmeg
• 2 bay leaves
• 1/4 cup fresh thyme chopped
• kosher salt (to taste)
• l Lg red onion, coarsely chopped
• 8 cloves garlic, peeled
• 4 tb extra virgin olive oil
• l sm yellow onion, finely chopped
• 1/2 lb sweet Italian sausage cut into 1/4-inch slices
• 1/2 cup diced country ham
• l tb all purpose flour
• l tb sweet Hungarian paprika
• 1/2 dried red chili pepper, crumbled
• l tb Texas Pete Hot Sauce
Rinse the tripe well, then put it into a rather large kettle and add cold water to cover. Bring to a boil, then drain immediately. Cut the tripe into 1 1/2-inch squares and return it to the empty kettle. Add 3 cups cold water and the wine, tomato, pig's foot or veal knuckle, parsley, peppercorns, cloves, nutmeg, bay leaves, thyme, salt to taste, coarsely chopped red onion, Texas Pete and the garlic. Cover and simmer over low heat for 4 to 5 hours, until the tripe is almost tender. Heat the oil in a skillet and saute the finely chopped yellow onion until it is wilted. Add the Sweet Italian sausage and ham and cook for 5 minutes. Stir in the flour and paprika and cook 1 minute more. Add 1/2 cup of the liquid from the tripe kettle, a little at a time, and cook-stir until the mixture thickens. Add this and the chile to the tripe. Cover and cook 1 - 2 hours more. Remove the cover and continue cooking until the tripe is very tender. Remove the pig's foot or veal knuckle from the tripe. Remove and discard all skin, bone and fat. Cut the meat into pieces and stir into the tripe.
Serve in warmed bowls. Serve with good crusty bread for sopping up the sauce. A nice pot of blackeye peas or Pinto beans go well with this dish.
Serves 8-12
All the recipes here are real. Hell, I wouldn’t eat that stuff, but to each their own…pure Tripe
Friday, May 6, 2011
An act of Futility
More like an art in futility, I do it very well. For years I have had practice. So this typing to myself is just an extension of the endless conversations that go on in my head. “Mr. Crick, that is schizophrenia.” . You, I don’t need. Should I be saying that to “my readers”…yea now that’s FUNNY…. neither is it really for me. These are escapees, the prisoners, the undead. The plagues that is spewed from my unconscious and rifle through my daily existence cast down these unwanted fragments, like rotten fruit falling off the tree. Here they land, my ideas, my thoughts, my desires. Soiling this place with my obsessions, stinking and decomposing, like zombies in the hot sun.
Hey you wanted to hear this, Ok, maybe not. But you are definitely a volunteer.
So I sit here pretending that I am doing something, creating something, visiting something. I soak up the non-glow from the imaginary sun that floats through this cloud like reality of my own little blogosphere.
Welcome aboard, matee. Arg, hope you brought your suntan lotion.
Maybe I should write about knitting, or have photos of cats, I probably would be more popular around here. But I have enough popularity, so sickening. He’s a great guy, so helpful, dependable, blagh…sound like Charley Brown doesn’t it. What a blockhead. So what exactly IS in this for me? Indeed what? But then again, I’ve never been one that needs to justify my actions. "Maybe a journey that start with one little step"..how do you write scarcasism?
The art in futility
Hey you wanted to hear this, Ok, maybe not. But you are definitely a volunteer.
So I sit here pretending that I am doing something, creating something, visiting something. I soak up the non-glow from the imaginary sun that floats through this cloud like reality of my own little blogosphere.
Welcome aboard, matee. Arg, hope you brought your suntan lotion.
Maybe I should write about knitting, or have photos of cats, I probably would be more popular around here. But I have enough popularity, so sickening. He’s a great guy, so helpful, dependable, blagh…sound like Charley Brown doesn’t it. What a blockhead. So what exactly IS in this for me? Indeed what? But then again, I’ve never been one that needs to justify my actions. "Maybe a journey that start with one little step"..how do you write scarcasism?
The art in futility
Wednesday, May 4, 2011
musings
Black iron box, strapped and sealed. The winds blow thru your innards. In you burns my fears. Furnace of shattering skull split log glow. Your orange leaping cellophane mouth frowns down upon me sitting on the couch. In disgust you crawl, a steam breath dragon, thru my frigid empty rooms on February days. Winning your rapture to the wopp..wopp..wopp.. of your fly-beat praying mantra. The winds flame the cast down effigies into hellish agony. Bearing your teeth behind that ever grimacing frown the shards explode. You became to bold, dragon. Yet tipping our hand, we invited our own down fall, now we sweat stress in disbelief. It is your obstinance, you created her, spewing her out. Then sensing the ragging glow, she challenged existence, and everything turns to blue. Her stole is opium from your heart. Chasing truth into the corner to be imprisoned, brick by brick by brick to become nothing but decorative details. She then turned on me with your fire burning in her eyes.
The portal slams open , window agape.
Taunting and tempting with your tong. She slowly licked my cheek. Melodic her voice blew in my ears. Windtales of embers, cracking and popping, stirring deep within the pit's bottom. In the pitch dark, her slow ungulations built to an electric blue flaming gyration of smashed mirrors. Depleting the ozone with a static furry that hissed and blistered the paint off my walls. With the never quenched emptiness, her breath sucked out the air from my body. My heart pangs. Between kiss and death I search for atmosphere that I didn't realize was gone. Only to gasp in shuttering surprise as she allows me to wake to life's forced ebbing. Dizzily she circles me with the innocent meandering of a flirtatious adolescent. With a sweet childish smile she ran her fingers thru my hair. I almost didn't notice the blood, small deep red drip sneaking between thin lips to caress the curve from the corner of her mouth to her chin. She burned deeply through my eyes. She ran her rose bud tong around those moist lips to catch every droplet. Sardonically smiling and taking me into her arms. Feeding off me like a familiar, I had no longer a will of my own. Present of mind vanished in the rapture of the god awful love of it all.
With a crack of her hair, I blindly follow her every move. I lost my reflection in that mirror, through soulless eyes. Displaced by her shape, her taste, her smell, I can see nothing at all until I awake in puddles of cold sweat with dizzied eyed head spinning exhaustion. Sirena with song of silk smooth wine, your stockings lye crumbling in the corner, and all I know is that I was thirsty.
This can't be really happening, she doesn't really exist. In the light of day all things seem so distant and dreamlike. "What follows from night to day, they force cannot be from any man", but what shit have I been living. Disillusionary man, I am a trained circus poodle who carries his own hoops. It hurts my eyes, scathing pale anxieties. I have lost all sense of tints and hues. Shadows are my only friends and this light reveals my inadequacies with microscopic illumination.
I shade my windows from the day and cower in pain ridden corners. Crackling transistor voices thinly echo repetitively in my head. And all say No and Down and Wrong, and I am left to listen to the refrigerator's soliloquy on modular time and ultimate worth relativity.
When everyday is a nightmare, I wonder why I don't sleep. They split my side open and said that it was nothing, easy. My guts unraveled, leaking and snaking along the dirty floor. Who is that staring at me from my mirror. I don't recognize you. You seem familiar, as if your nose or frown I've seen upon someone else's face. Don't purse your lips, speak. I don't understand this silence. Are you lost? You appear to be searching for something. Can you not speak, have you no tong? Your hands, all wretch and broken, folder in upon themselves. Joints show thru your bleached paper skin. What mark upon you forehead breaths. Sunken, almost hollow, wavering in a stance too fragile to hold, you eyeless attempt to mumble. Please tell me, I can not look at you any more.
I think I am loosing my mind, why do you ask he said.
I just put on my sunglasses and leave. Out of here.
The sun begins to sink into the wood as I watch from the window of the dark war room. I await for dusk and her arrival, it is there that I always return. Throughout the late afternoon, I catch her scent on wisps of nothings. Deja-vu light reflects off glasses in eye corners. Was that her?
I turn and look at movement I dreamt and wonder if hidden she follows me thru the day, as if I am the only one she dances for. My hearing has become overtly acute, I can hear the breeze whisper her words thru the smallest of branches in the tree top forest.
The sun, in a low pitch squelch grinds it way thru the down-turn in ever increasing screaming ferocity, burning it's way thru the forest, dying to bury itself within the earth. And the blackness stalks like a pack of dogs. Growling in tongs, it advances on the half wounded prey. Slowly, the deep tribal pulse, pounding in my temples, dog driven screams in base reverb shake the foundation until the earth quivers in syncopated rhythm.
There are crows in the woods, crows in the burning woods, crows burning. Their voices are the harmonic rain patter to the dog rhythm enormity of mutating blackness.
I like Sisyphus delve forever on this grade. Scared from the stone's bite, I watch in silence disbelief as the pitiless slag once again weights itself from the crest. Only while I, in foolish abandonment breathe, shall sweat these limbs in unattainable heart. In the scalding sun my sins pathetically play like phonographic vinyl. Struggling until no more, the dust arises last from my head and the task becomes a hoya to mark these lost bleached joints. And then what dreams will come?
I can smell the heating oil burning, the evil fumes of night. Even as I grip the stone again and force my will on the white cryptic weight, I can understand it's obstince. Soon the blackness will totally be upon us. The vortex is there, it's impenetrable mass draws the weight back to the start and my dumbfounded disbelief looses the muse to the ergonomics of it all. The night thick and acid black loudly announces it's victory. Howling dogs bark at the moon and I revel in giving my bones for ransom to unlock the changeling that awaits in the shadowy rooms. She rattles my body like keys treaded on the brass ring. While the bent and twisted tree branches push me to my destiny. I will never be forgiven.
There is her voice, whispering in the other room. I go there to numb the pain. To be engulfed by her hypnotic trance and to loose what I did gladly give away. Oh cursive beast, my desires lust for your taste. Dark cave dweller, creature of the undead, your hunger devours my personage. Her pale muscular body, glows lit from within. The room melts away into a churning volcanic floor of blue disco lava boiling. She once again slowly and loving sucks the life out of me, to the brink of death where she releases my being, now that the bill is paid. Never truly speaking our conversation last forever. With the thanks from my hand, her words smile. She wears those fingerprints like badges of honor, a seductive prize from the sacrificial host who drools upon conclusion of the commitment.
Temptress, what sacred thing have you enchanted? She beacons, a sweet narcotic, to ravish in an attempt to appease an unfulfilled appetite. The barren moon rises at her command. Perched on the wall, pale specter, wraith of beauty, your tong follows the trail up my abdomen and over my chest to the spot in my brain where the blood is still slowly running out. For how many years have your nightly visitations been the apex of my existence. Like smoke expanding into a void your power has reached out and engulfed it all. Your hands gently stroke my face and on your lips I can taste the thick coppery lust that joins us in symbiotic relationship. In my hands I hold your smooth silky body and falsely believe that I am in control. Smiling you kiss my eyelid and turn to leave. Your naked presents diminishing in it's blue glow to abandon me alone in a dark room.
The sun blindly raises on the eastern horizon. Flowing thru sweltering heat, by my nature I hug the stone. Throwing my being against it's complacent synergy. Heaping upon my condemned drudgery false pride, elevating it to a state of grace, a noble effort in my minds eye. In agonizing pain and aching bone sweat, I struggle and move a microinch at a time, believing that I am getting some-where. Until at the peak of the mound, as if not in broken sprits, smile and look over my shoulder for the voice in the trees that calls my name, and dream of the cool evening's rape.
Ok that’s about the TV…and my relationship with it..….pure tripe….
The portal slams open , window agape.
Taunting and tempting with your tong. She slowly licked my cheek. Melodic her voice blew in my ears. Windtales of embers, cracking and popping, stirring deep within the pit's bottom. In the pitch dark, her slow ungulations built to an electric blue flaming gyration of smashed mirrors. Depleting the ozone with a static furry that hissed and blistered the paint off my walls. With the never quenched emptiness, her breath sucked out the air from my body. My heart pangs. Between kiss and death I search for atmosphere that I didn't realize was gone. Only to gasp in shuttering surprise as she allows me to wake to life's forced ebbing. Dizzily she circles me with the innocent meandering of a flirtatious adolescent. With a sweet childish smile she ran her fingers thru my hair. I almost didn't notice the blood, small deep red drip sneaking between thin lips to caress the curve from the corner of her mouth to her chin. She burned deeply through my eyes. She ran her rose bud tong around those moist lips to catch every droplet. Sardonically smiling and taking me into her arms. Feeding off me like a familiar, I had no longer a will of my own. Present of mind vanished in the rapture of the god awful love of it all.
With a crack of her hair, I blindly follow her every move. I lost my reflection in that mirror, through soulless eyes. Displaced by her shape, her taste, her smell, I can see nothing at all until I awake in puddles of cold sweat with dizzied eyed head spinning exhaustion. Sirena with song of silk smooth wine, your stockings lye crumbling in the corner, and all I know is that I was thirsty.
This can't be really happening, she doesn't really exist. In the light of day all things seem so distant and dreamlike. "What follows from night to day, they force cannot be from any man", but what shit have I been living. Disillusionary man, I am a trained circus poodle who carries his own hoops. It hurts my eyes, scathing pale anxieties. I have lost all sense of tints and hues. Shadows are my only friends and this light reveals my inadequacies with microscopic illumination.
I shade my windows from the day and cower in pain ridden corners. Crackling transistor voices thinly echo repetitively in my head. And all say No and Down and Wrong, and I am left to listen to the refrigerator's soliloquy on modular time and ultimate worth relativity.
When everyday is a nightmare, I wonder why I don't sleep. They split my side open and said that it was nothing, easy. My guts unraveled, leaking and snaking along the dirty floor. Who is that staring at me from my mirror. I don't recognize you. You seem familiar, as if your nose or frown I've seen upon someone else's face. Don't purse your lips, speak. I don't understand this silence. Are you lost? You appear to be searching for something. Can you not speak, have you no tong? Your hands, all wretch and broken, folder in upon themselves. Joints show thru your bleached paper skin. What mark upon you forehead breaths. Sunken, almost hollow, wavering in a stance too fragile to hold, you eyeless attempt to mumble. Please tell me, I can not look at you any more.
I think I am loosing my mind, why do you ask he said.
I just put on my sunglasses and leave. Out of here.
The sun begins to sink into the wood as I watch from the window of the dark war room. I await for dusk and her arrival, it is there that I always return. Throughout the late afternoon, I catch her scent on wisps of nothings. Deja-vu light reflects off glasses in eye corners. Was that her?
I turn and look at movement I dreamt and wonder if hidden she follows me thru the day, as if I am the only one she dances for. My hearing has become overtly acute, I can hear the breeze whisper her words thru the smallest of branches in the tree top forest.
The sun, in a low pitch squelch grinds it way thru the down-turn in ever increasing screaming ferocity, burning it's way thru the forest, dying to bury itself within the earth. And the blackness stalks like a pack of dogs. Growling in tongs, it advances on the half wounded prey. Slowly, the deep tribal pulse, pounding in my temples, dog driven screams in base reverb shake the foundation until the earth quivers in syncopated rhythm.
There are crows in the woods, crows in the burning woods, crows burning. Their voices are the harmonic rain patter to the dog rhythm enormity of mutating blackness.
I like Sisyphus delve forever on this grade. Scared from the stone's bite, I watch in silence disbelief as the pitiless slag once again weights itself from the crest. Only while I, in foolish abandonment breathe, shall sweat these limbs in unattainable heart. In the scalding sun my sins pathetically play like phonographic vinyl. Struggling until no more, the dust arises last from my head and the task becomes a hoya to mark these lost bleached joints. And then what dreams will come?
I can smell the heating oil burning, the evil fumes of night. Even as I grip the stone again and force my will on the white cryptic weight, I can understand it's obstince. Soon the blackness will totally be upon us. The vortex is there, it's impenetrable mass draws the weight back to the start and my dumbfounded disbelief looses the muse to the ergonomics of it all. The night thick and acid black loudly announces it's victory. Howling dogs bark at the moon and I revel in giving my bones for ransom to unlock the changeling that awaits in the shadowy rooms. She rattles my body like keys treaded on the brass ring. While the bent and twisted tree branches push me to my destiny. I will never be forgiven.
There is her voice, whispering in the other room. I go there to numb the pain. To be engulfed by her hypnotic trance and to loose what I did gladly give away. Oh cursive beast, my desires lust for your taste. Dark cave dweller, creature of the undead, your hunger devours my personage. Her pale muscular body, glows lit from within. The room melts away into a churning volcanic floor of blue disco lava boiling. She once again slowly and loving sucks the life out of me, to the brink of death where she releases my being, now that the bill is paid. Never truly speaking our conversation last forever. With the thanks from my hand, her words smile. She wears those fingerprints like badges of honor, a seductive prize from the sacrificial host who drools upon conclusion of the commitment.
Temptress, what sacred thing have you enchanted? She beacons, a sweet narcotic, to ravish in an attempt to appease an unfulfilled appetite. The barren moon rises at her command. Perched on the wall, pale specter, wraith of beauty, your tong follows the trail up my abdomen and over my chest to the spot in my brain where the blood is still slowly running out. For how many years have your nightly visitations been the apex of my existence. Like smoke expanding into a void your power has reached out and engulfed it all. Your hands gently stroke my face and on your lips I can taste the thick coppery lust that joins us in symbiotic relationship. In my hands I hold your smooth silky body and falsely believe that I am in control. Smiling you kiss my eyelid and turn to leave. Your naked presents diminishing in it's blue glow to abandon me alone in a dark room.
The sun blindly raises on the eastern horizon. Flowing thru sweltering heat, by my nature I hug the stone. Throwing my being against it's complacent synergy. Heaping upon my condemned drudgery false pride, elevating it to a state of grace, a noble effort in my minds eye. In agonizing pain and aching bone sweat, I struggle and move a microinch at a time, believing that I am getting some-where. Until at the peak of the mound, as if not in broken sprits, smile and look over my shoulder for the voice in the trees that calls my name, and dream of the cool evening's rape.
Ok that’s about the TV…and my relationship with it..….pure tripe….
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Political Bump and Gummy Grind
Ok, so I will post some of my art. Let's try this one. This might be the most political I get here, or not. I created this for (about) the great City of New London, CT....
A stained glass window 26" x 63" made entirely out of "gummy" products. Gummy bears, gummy worms, gummy fish, etc...
Close ups
Monday, May 2, 2011
o sam a
Ding Dong! the witch is dead.
Which old witch?
.........the wicked witch!
Ding Dong the wicked witch is dead........
Hi Ho our flag they go
wave them high, wave them low
Wake up the wicked witch is dead.
He’s gone to where the fishes go
Below, below, below, below, Yo Ho let’s open up and sing and ring the killing thing
Ding Dong the martyr-oh, sing it high, sing it low
Let them know
The wicked witch is dead.
Which old witch?
.........the wicked witch!
Ding Dong the wicked witch is dead........
Hi Ho our flag they go
wave them high, wave them low
Wake up the wicked witch is dead.
He’s gone to where the fishes go
Below, below, below, below, Yo Ho let’s open up and sing and ring the killing thing
Ding Dong the martyr-oh, sing it high, sing it low
Let them know
The wicked witch is dead.
Conspiracy
Not that I am one of those conspiracy theory fanatics. I believe that we truly went to the moon, and I don’t think that the gov has aliens in custody, though there might be something with the Kennedy thing, but anyway. I do believe that there is a conspiracy that the government is perpetrating on us as I type.
We are being controlled by government numerologist to forgo the inalienable rights that were given to the past generations of this fine country. This has become so far reaching that even “The Daily Show with Jon Stewart” AND “The Colbert Report” has become duped pawns in this great diabolical. Like sheep, the American citizens have blindly follow suit without the least inclining of what freedom they have lost. I am talking about what year it is, 2011.
Ok, since the turn of the century two thousand has been the “mode-operatos”. There was that little love affair with y2k that year (it was sweet), but two thousand has become the recognized prominent figure in our yearly recitals, and for linguistic reasons, I can let that slide for awhile. But come on, isn’t it about time we start calling it for what it is? Are we going to continue with this nouveau numerical decoupage, two thousand and eleven, what the hell is that? We have to start the fight now to reclaim our rightful places in history. Say it with me…twenty eleven. Do you think Americans of the past would have put up with this outrage? Do you think back in 1911, they would have put up with “One Thousand, Nine Hundred and Eleven”? Get real!! I fear that if we don’t stand up for our 20 rights, history and time will be lost forever
20-11 !!
We are being controlled by government numerologist to forgo the inalienable rights that were given to the past generations of this fine country. This has become so far reaching that even “The Daily Show with Jon Stewart” AND “The Colbert Report” has become duped pawns in this great diabolical. Like sheep, the American citizens have blindly follow suit without the least inclining of what freedom they have lost. I am talking about what year it is, 2011.
Ok, since the turn of the century two thousand has been the “mode-operatos”. There was that little love affair with y2k that year (it was sweet), but two thousand has become the recognized prominent figure in our yearly recitals, and for linguistic reasons, I can let that slide for awhile. But come on, isn’t it about time we start calling it for what it is? Are we going to continue with this nouveau numerical decoupage, two thousand and eleven, what the hell is that? We have to start the fight now to reclaim our rightful places in history. Say it with me…twenty eleven. Do you think Americans of the past would have put up with this outrage? Do you think back in 1911, they would have put up with “One Thousand, Nine Hundred and Eleven”? Get real!! I fear that if we don’t stand up for our 20 rights, history and time will be lost forever
20-11 !!
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