A “bearable” Moment in Time

September 12, 2009
1 pm, east of L.A.

Old me, over the hill
I turned 12 way back in the Bicentennial hahaha, 1976.

So fucking old seems so long ago. 1976 I was 12 sheesh. Now people are
still turning 12 still bordering on the cusp of adolescence and puberty and
discovering how fantastic and horrible
life can be to those who let it….be.
And my son turned 12 now here in 2009.
And as is natural you turn back the clock mentally and regurgitate the same time period and place yourself in that long-ago context and think
how was I, how was mine, how was it exactly when I turned 12??????
You wonder
and judge and contrast
have we progressed
you experience the natural generational inclination. To see your offspring enjoy a better and healthier and more fulfilling life than you it’s what we want for our children
and you compare
are we better now?
And rushing to the ex’s house where the party will begin in 2 minutes because we left late (and even though no one else will typically be on time, it’s the thing to do, 1:00 start means 1:40) and on the way and before leaving
my son’s
cell phone
is busier
than mine ever is, my dusty cell phone neglected by self-imposed
But my son’s beeping and chirping away, phone calls texts blahblahblah so very popular with lots of friends, last minute additions, someone else coming, little, ok not little but young, boys coming to the party.
Rush get to the house, forgot Halo 3 and my camera the party cannot go on without! Drop son off
run back grab the stuff run run run!!! Mad rush time why do parties inevitably turn this way rush rush
run back.
Still no one arrived, eat. For there is lots of food, some people trickle in, parents and kids but kids are the focus parents take the backseat
and are the obligatory watchdogs but parents begin their long and futile
journeys of discarded artifact-hood NOW.
The kids are where it’s at, the bedroom where they filter as soon
as they step through the door it’s as if they have some
sort of KidRadar and know exactly where to go they rush to the tiny bedroom where their rapidly growing bodies
assemble and crowd
but it’s all good.
They do not mind. It’s fun. Laughing and playing video games and acting out the pre-adolescent rambunctiousness and know-it-all-itude.
And parents keep away, for it’s no country for old men or women in that tiny room.
Step in step in and leave the comforts of your aging world and step into the next generation
where there is no mercy! And stupidly, foolishly, blindly, I step in, exposed, harshness!
It’s like like…like stepping through a science fiction-like portal into another dimension, another Twilight Zone world. It’s to step into an adjoining reality connected but not
and the air is hot and stuffy with the blanket of too many people in one room but smiling and laughing and enjoying
a private little world and joke which
you can and should never be part of
and you realize that whatever has happened and transpired, and that which will happen and transpire is beyond
your grasp.
And the ultimate humbling experience happens NOW.
12, 13, years of age, the cusp of a new stage where you are cruelly relegated to the background. Are you not vital anymore it surely seems not
not as much
as these young and energetic boys
who will carry the torch for the next few laps. You now at this point in time realize
your grasp on that fiery torch
is weakening
and though these children want to hold the torch for now they bore and tire and hand it back to you before long
but soon
in the years coming very shortly
they will want to hold on to that torch and not relinquish it
and one day
the torch will no longer be yours
they are primed and ready as are you, in the opposite direction.
Leave the room quickly
for you cannot reach the laughing boys it would take ages to catch up to their humor and by then you’ll be dead.

Go take a leak stand and hanging is a calendar.
Your ex has decorated on the shit wall.
A girly calendar made of staw-like segmented material
a pretty picture.
A girly picture with a young bear girl and colorful flowers.
2009, 12 months.
And the words
nyuck nyuck
whatever the hell it takes!

Heaven and Hell and all that

My tagline. What does it mean? Some have asked.

Descent from heaven, ascent from hell, why?

I’m talking about a state of being.
Absolute peace. As close as we can scale Nirvana in our own life.
A state of absolute equilibrium. Nearly impossible to attain but something to strive for.

In our modern times we are battling and fighting and contending with constant distractions. Walk out your front door and you are bombarded.

Hell, forget walking out the front door…you are bombarded the minute you wake up.

Stress, anger, fear, despair, worry, boredom, hate, on the “negative” side (hell?); excitement, joy, happiness, love, lust, physical and emotional pleasure, gluttony, on the “positive” side (heaven?).

When summed up and condensed into one day out of our life, all this input, all these sensations, are addicting and they disturb the equilibrium of peace. I believe it’s much more difficult to attain (and maintain) a state of existence where you are an equal distance from hell as you are from heaven now than it was 200 or 300 or 500 years ago simply due to the presence of all the bullshit we fill our lives with.

And it’s addictive as hell. We have learned to crave all this and we seek to flee the state of Peace because culture has taught us that Peace is boring. Boring is a bad word for 21st century man and woman. OK, sitting in an office and waiting for an appointment can be boring; sitting in traffic for an hour is boring; a shitty movie can be boring. In this case boring is describing the attribute of a specific object, a moment. That’s fair…but to describe your existence as boring simply because you are currently experiencing a lack of heaven or lack of hell just tells me that you’ve bought into the lie.

Look around…watch how everyone clamors for more excitement and drama in their life. And they go about cultivating this consciously and subconsciously. In the choices they make, the people they choose, the situations they enable…we are addicted to heaven and hell because we are ultimately unable to accept and live in that region directly in the middle between the two.

This symbol is called an “enso”…Japanese for “circle.”

It is used in the study and practice of Zen and there are countless interpretations and uses of the symbol as an indication of our present state of being. It can never be perfect just as we can never find that perfectly equal distance between heaven and hell but it is a yardstick upon which we can lay our spiritual state and measure the unmeasurable.

There are versions where the circle is closed but I feel it should be open…for we are at one with our environment and our world. We are constantly discerning the mass of input which floods into our existence through the opening in the circle which is our conscious mind; the “awake” inner being which receives the stream of outside “data” and interprets and judges and accepts or rejects it all.

Like us, the circle can never be perfect. It can approach perfection but flaws intrinsic to our nature such ego, pride, laziness…always will doom the circle’s perfect roundness.

Ascent from hell, descent from heaven. Where are you?

Blogroll addition: The Dreamin’ Demon (“Real. Life. Horror.”)

Everyone does crime.
It’s all over the net. Google crime and you’ll see just how darkly starved the human race is for murder and mayhem and abuse and other forms of human cruelty. It’s amazing. Hey, I love it too. Before this wonderful project, I had another blog a year previously where I tried my hand at crime blogging. It is amazingly easy to do adequately. To do it well and creatively…that’s another story.

There are too many try hards and lame brains trying to carry the Crime torch and instead they present a mangled and twisted bloody blog farce…in fact many of these crime blogs look like they have been run over by an intellectual lawn mower in both appearance and content.

So when I first discovered The Dreamin’ Demon I was hooked. As the tagline says, “Real. Life. Horror.”

This dude, this Dreamin’ Demon guy, has designed an awesome crime site that is suitably morbid and twisted in just the right doses. He has the black humor down just right and he imparts a good dose of it on all the stories he covers; he manages to turn even the most gruesome murder into an object of uncomfortable humor without making a mockery of it or himself. Where does he get all these stories??

Recently he’s expanded his site. In addition to true crime he now has sections for movies, television and books, all with a Crime twist.

And twisted he is.

In case you don’t want to soil your computer by visiting his site, here’s a sample of DD’s wonderful crime coverage (and a tribute to his ability to dig up the most obscure local incidents which you’d never find on CNN).
Krista Arceneaux Slipped The Kid Some Tongue

Oakhurst, CA – When I came across this little story, three words came to mind: What. The. Hell? Here we have 37-year-old Krista Arceneaux – yes, a real looker, ain’t she?! A bit rough for 37, but with the right makeup, the right lighting, and a couple cases of Corona, she’d rank about a 5.5 or so. Krista was sitting outside of a bar last Wednesday evening when she spied a 6-year-old boy walking across a parking lot with his family. Whether it was because she was inebriated to the point of complete retardation or because she harbors some secret desire for little boys, Krista bolted from her chair, ran to the little kiddo, told him he was sexy, and laid on one him – tongue and all. Needless to say, the kiddos parents weren’t exactly thrilled with Krista’s nasty little show of affection and confronted her, sending her scurrying back to the bar. And that’s about the time Krista came a little unhinged.

Reported in DD’s impeccably dry and bewildered (with a slight tinge of horror) manner.

Go for it, don’t worry about your computer. You can wipe it clean afterwards.

A Someone’s Daughter Moment in Time

September 9, 2009
8:50 a.m.
In front of Denny’s, Sunset & Gower, on the Sunset side

Ugh damnit
trudging describes it
Four days off because I was wise enough to use a floating holiday and
stretch the 3 days (for all you poor suckers!) into 4.
Monday everyone trudged back
not I.
I stayed in and banged away on my keyboard filling this blog with bloggy bloggeries.
We must all face reality eventually…and that was today. For poor me. Trudge to
work from the Hollywood and Vine Red Line, drag my sorry ass down side streets while avoiding crazed foot commuters who are much more aggressive and rude than car drivers why is that???
Interesting, will blog, note that for future reference.
bullshit self-pitying whiny crap oh woe is me I gotta go back to work woe is me no more days off woe is me boo hoo. Work is never so bad when others die for want of less.
Work in big shiny building
there she is ghastly and gnarled and rough and dirty and worn.
Ghoulish now and grimy but, but
when I see you there sitting in that long tattered dress and your homelessly filthy
locks, picking flowers
I think this!

Were you


once upon a green hilly time did you dance in the blue sky
and welcome the ends of the Earth did you think it would never end?
I pass you
as you garden and sit on the dirty Sunset sidewalk outside Denny’s
and pick flowers
well-tended flowers and smooth rich soil wow this Denny’s place really went
all out
bringing a dose of the beautiful countryside to murky
Hollywood the cesspool where nothing beautiful grows but only dies
and you
are killing their precious work the precious work of a gardener they
paid with Grand Slams and atrociously overpriced lemonade
the gardener toiled over the soil and planted these pretty flowers
of which I have no idea of their name cause I don’t do that shit but I can
a pretty flower, a well-kept garden. No weeds, no litter, the soil smooth and uniform
and you sit there
in your urban dungeon
and pick flowers from Hollywood Denny’s verdant gardens.
Your skin, your face, everywhere, it is so rough and caked with dirt and no longer smooth
like it used to be on the hill, the green hill.
And your hands, your fingers so thick and nails so wasted and worn and whittled there is nothing left now
but dirt. Black greasy dirt. Not soil.
It’s as if you’re picking through soil
to pretty up your hands for once.
It’s beauty treatment. Beauty, the beauty
you left behind on the green hill. The beauty of younger days, when the air hummed with sunfire, now
a shopping cart sits near you, filled with orderly disorder.
And what on earth
do you keep
Domino’s box???

Final Destination 4, 3D mayhem and other bodily destruction



Dude, dude.


What more can I say.


Final Destination is a great franchise.


It’s what Hollywood does best. Sacrifice everything for spectacle. Throw in a 3D element and the sacrifice turns downright medieval. Plot, character development, dialog…right out the window baby!


Put on those damn glasses and WATCH. WATCH.
Do not listen, do not think. The minute you do any of those things it’s guaranteed those big-ass Swifty Lazar glasses will melt all over your friggin’ face.


Those glasses. I took my son…I can’t imagine taking a date. One look at each other wearing that shit is certain to spell doom for any ulterior motives you might have for post-cinematic entertainment.




The man is dead but his memory lives on in theaters near you


And the movie!
How many ways can the human body possibly be speared, sliced and diced (and suctioned) in one 90:00 sitting?
Apparently more than I care to imagine since we’ve now seen 4 versions of this slaughter.