some new writing rools...

i am imploring you, Bartles! to find the original writing rools. if indeed those still exist. until then, here are some new ones...

• Inflatable Hearts

If you want to write creamed corn, write it. I want to write like that Everwood show, heartwarming stories about morality and forgiveness, never as edgy as those Gilmore Girls...

• Too Little

Pick up where Hemingway's spent shotgun shells left off. Eliminate any and all useless words. Spend a lifetime trying to "write one true sentence..."

• Too Much

Write with nothing but unnecessary words. Like McClanahan, use three or more pages to describe a pubic itch.

• Grammar School

Learn about punctuation, capitol letters, and the very fundamentals of grammar and it's use within the english language. Just learn it, you do not have to use it.

• Beauty in Bank Heists

"Sans haine, Sans violence, et Sans arme"

You can borrow here and there from your friends stories, but it is advised that you tell them first. You never know when your lotto numbers will hit, and then you'll have a lot of explaining to do. If you are going to steal you should do so w/o hatred, violence, weapons. elevate everyone always... Do not end up like our Bonnie and Clyde.

• Avoid Senseless Destruction

Treat all your writing like the library of fucking congress. DO NOT burn all yr. notebooks. DO NOT leave all your writing in the apartment you are being evicted from. You will only have to write it all over again, and you will, taking away energy from the NEW writing you should always be doing.

• There Is No Original Thought

Everything has been written before. In every form. It has been written much more effectively and ever so beautifully. What matters most is how you respond to this threat.

god bless us.

up all night with the Permanent War. what has been accomplished this week. we bombed some dudes in somalia. we sent 21,000 or so more men and women to iraq in an attempt to "win the war". manhattan smelled for a couple hours? and i was just watching a news update about an explosion at the us embassy in athens.(12.41 am). i just want to watch conan and try to get to sleep... republicans against bush? i'm beginning to actually write a novel? well it will be words on paper in a pile, we'll call it something when we're done. the world's not supposed to end till 2012. it's gonna be a long hard time. god bless us.
(i'll update in the morning if i ever get to sleep...)

***

when i woke up (2.20 pm) fox news was still talking about "Donald and Rosie"- so i guess the world is still right where it was when i went to sleep. (7.30 am) i was up all night, probably due to high hypericin doses mega b- complex doses and dr. pepper(mmmmm.phosphoric acid)- you have no idea how great it feels to be filling up notebooks again. front and back. I've spent years trying to get myself back into writing/ writing anything at all/ and all of the sudden it's flooding back. scribbling in the dark because every thought may be vital.critical. never forget a thing. keeping pen and paper at the edge of the bed, fuck! it feels good. baby steps sure, but not when it comes to this. after years of dead weight depression it feels great to be a bit manic. i just need to move the desk over by the back window and set some guidelines down for myself. it needs to be disciplined writing. silent writing. a schedule for weeks and weeks. I've got time. it's the discipline thing that gets me. i just need to get into it and then it wont seem so impossible. impossible is something, indeed, but not today... horaccordian.

rough ideas part1

i've been trying today to read about nathaniel rochester but my focus keeps shifting back to sam patch. i'm not sure when this obsession began with me, but it certainly does persist. and that ridiculous bear cub he was dragging around from bar to bar while he was drumming up interest and drinking whisky in the hours leading up to his fateful jump.
sam patch wasn't even a rochesterian.
i think i'd have much more fun if i place nathaniel rochester in a spaceship that crashes in a field just off the banks of the genesee. he also needs something like a talking duck that he carries around beneath his left arm. i have no intent on writing any factual history, by the way, just the history that makes sense to me.
there is only so much i can read about grist mills and rope and nail factories.
...maybe a talking duck that only tells hackney jokes about someone walking into a bar with a talking duck...
...a spaceship which was repaired by seneca indians and later used to transport escaped slaves on the underground railroad...

who cares?

before i decided to drink my weight in high potency malt liquor Tuesday i truly did have an epiphany. there are those moments where things really do align and i am able to see something so fucking clearly, especially something that's so fucking obvious. i finally had a way to tie up a lot of loose ends and give myself a creative outlet while still being incredibly negative and incredibly true at the same time. sometimes I'm glad i take such copious notes on my own life. even up to the point that found me in a snowstorm making phone calls, some of which got through and some where i just mumbled something and hung up. who knows. i wont let it ruin my better intentions. the last 11 or 12 days have found me in much better spirits with something approaching hope for my future. that's where three thousand different ideas all kind of ran into each other. yesterday was a good old fashioned hangover, another reminder. but i will push forward. with a good idea this time and with research to do and really just SOMETHING to do besides thinking about sobriety- which is what leads to relapses anyways- i have no will power. i need this new direction. we've all got to start somewhere, pick a point and just go!!!
Bartles was right. It's about baby steps.
so i think i am going to change my focus on this blog. i will use it as a kind of journal on the writing process as i attempt to write my history ,the history of alcoholism, and the history of a city that I'll never escape from. this is where i embrace them all. ha!!!

relapse.woops...

shithouse mouse

the parking lot boys were at it again today at Sunnie's. they always pull me aside and ask me to buy them ridiculous amounts of alcohol, at three in the afternoon no less. but i'm only going in for USA Gold cigarettes, which are Sunnie's cheapest brand, it really doesn't matter anyways, when you are inhaling burning tobacco leaves I don't believe taste has anything to do with it. it's a lot to pay for your death no matter which way it tastes. the parking lot boys give me dirty looks when I leave, but I never have a change of heart. these boys used to be us, but after the pizza place closed it was much easier to go closer to the city and "pimp" the 7-11 parking lot. go and get drunk in Turning Point Park and throw the empties in the river. stumble back across the tracks and the trail that would end me up right in my backyard. it was a secret road for drunk and high kids. it was our inebriation railroad... i'm so glad I wasn't raised on one of the many track house cul-de-sac bullshits that the people with money in this town have invented. i think i probably would've went to college and would never be here writing this now. Better, worse, or just preference??? there were plans dependent on that ill-fated ferry to resurrect the old trolley line. it would have been so splendid to see a trolley whistling through my backyard. but it is all just dreams and there was no way it would have ever worked. but dreams/ yes dreams/ are even better most of the time. it is finally time that I sit and write MY history of Rochester and all these canal towns and low bridge evrybody down and how this all related to the Iroquois and the creation myths and sam patch and susan b. anthony and my broken ipod and everything else...

Antietam Mattress Massacre

In the two years I lived on Belmont St. I never once slept on a proper mattress. Right across the street was Dixie Mattress. I would watch but never once saw a single soul go in. Two years I spent mostly on the floor. I had a futon given to me by my sister but It ruined my back something wicked. It was here I realized that no matter how much love a human can hold inside or believe to hold inside - destruction will always come first. There are always those strange angels waiting on your rooftop to knock once or twice during the night to remind you. And now I'm on the other Belmont crying out: "I'm too old for this, I should be farting in the morning on my way for coffee and my job working for the town department driving a snowplow!!!"

But we all know it doesn't snow anymore. And just like that all of my childhood memories become ancient dreams. All of the storms and snow days. I'd pray for any snowfall above an inch. It's always springtime now. The world won't end. We'll pass through a black hole first, and none of us will be any wiser. just gone. destruction is inevitable...love is an invention.

Hang in there, indeed!!!

Get Pumped

I am working on a great sports article about championship trophies, it will be really long.

congradualtaions!

I've seen so many things that made me wonder But sometimes it's hard to tell I said "Take your time" But no one was listening I walk a thin line They told me that I never would recover Still some say they knew me well I said "Stay by my side" But no one said nothin' I walk a thin line I said "Please toe the line" But no one was listening I walk a thin line I said "Fate takes time" But no one was listening I walk a thin line.

fleetwood mac/ Walk A Thin Line

***

I was just asleep. Getting asleep and this song woke me up. And the round about route I've taken to get to Fleetwood Mac appreciation. Tusk haunts me, it truly does. Even more so the Camper Van Beethoven version, which is my favorite. Anyways, today I saw a picture of someone I was absolutely crazy in love with when I was a younger man (boy). I thought it was strange how sometimes I forget people exist in their own universe, not just in my memory. There are a lot of people caged up in there from the late nineties. The picture brought back a lot of feeling which is strange in it's own right. It feels like my brain is waking up from a coma, like it's some big bubbling stew of neurotransmitters beginning to live again. It's not the most comfortable sensation. I've passed the 7 day mark on the calendar, but I've also passed it in my heart and through my guts. I need it This Time, and it will work. And this girl was fucking great and way beyond me. I drove her as far away as I possibly could. In the past I've blamed it on my drug use when it was just my utter and complete lack of understanding of women.(is it understanding or fear?) But that was almost ten years ago. And today was a human day. My fear is that I become too manic. That I over do it. I mean I just woke up like a rocket and immediately started searching for my headphones so I could listen to one Fleetwood Mac song, and now I'm writing this. But it's always got to be truth from now on. Every last fucking drop will be bled and I'll be free. which is kind of how it's always been. Now how the hell am I going to get back to sleep?

James Who?

Cash Only

I wake up every day to the sound of a barking dog. Then I roll over and snuggle...until my alarm goes off. Stephanie gets up and shuts off the alarm (which is a phone) and snuggles. We listen to the dog bark and then after a few minutes I lunge over her and look at the clock, if the time is close enough I get up and put on snowboard pants and jacket and walk to the car. "I love you," I mumble. "OK, have a good day," whatever that means.

The steering wheel is always freezing cold ( I eventually bought gloves).

The windshield is usually frozen but rarely covered with snow, I start the car and put it in reverse (though I cannot see where I am backing to, I just know instinctively) then I use windshield washer to defrost the ice so I can see ahead of me. This works approximately half the time, the other half I just drive straight and follow my gut.

I sing loudly to songs on the radio, "I'm A Pyschiatrist!" Just to wake myself up.

By the time I'm on the freeway I can barely see because the car is so fogged up. I gun the engine to eighty for about 20 minutes and then I'm in the sleepy ski village that employs me. There are people walking their dogs in the twilight. They gaze at my car as it blasts reggae through it's cracks. I stop for coffee and sometimes a warm muffin. "Thank You," I say in a crabby voice. I am coldest by far to the lady who runs the coffee shop, like she cares about me and my immediate needs? They don't take credit cards.

I park in a car garage. And then I walk through the lodge that is filled with foreign employees who have already started their day. They are Mexicans who work the lifts, they look tired. They are the Jamaicans who work in the kitchen, they always return my hello. I go past the gondola and down a flight of frozen metal stairways and unlock my office door. I turn on all the electronic stuff and turn up the heat and wait for the day to unfold.

This happens everyday, even on the days it doesn't.

in this dream i was decapitated/ almost decapitated by overhead power lines. i fell to the ground but rather softly i was surprised. i asked the mailman if there was anyway he could avoid putting muddy bootprints on the driveway. all he said was that it really wasn't that high to fall it happens all the time. after that i was in a rage and i ordered a beer off the back of a truck. i woke up with such an awful feeling of guilt and disgust. i got the mail. i made some coffee. now i feel quite all right after a day of reading and time on the exercise bike. a huge glass of green tea just like i used to and i burned my tongue. i can't have dreams like this. they feel too real and the guilt of breaking a promise i've made to myself is unbearable...it's all right i can stay up and away from dreams. i have a lot of books that i couldn't read when i was drinking. more later...

variation on: The Shortest Days of the Year

Some of my best jobs have been in gas stations/corner stores. My first legitimate job was at the one and only Sunnie’s. I can remember sitting on an overturned milk crate in the walk in cooler about half an hour before closing. I was reading the Tibetan Book of the Dead at the time, or maybe I was just looking at it. In my walkman was The Best of Cream. It wasn’t an actual walkman, I don’t think I ever owned one of those, I always owned these GPX personal cassette players that Caldor sold for 9.99 or thereabouts. In the empty cassette case I had a bunch of "mushrooms." From inside the cooler I could peer out in between the beer bottles toward the front of the store and keep tabs on Sunnie’s location. Sunnie always ran the register, he still does, he just hires kids to stock the shelves and mop the floor. I was just waiting for the right time to eat the "mushrooms" and get my mop water ready for my final task of the night. I remember grabbing a snapple and munching at those "mushrooms" as quick as I could. Then I got my mop bucket out and went to the front of the store before Sunnie came looking for me, as he often did, I was usually in the back scribbling in notebooks and smoking cigarettes, thinking of better ways to steal beer without any chance of getting caught. I was a master thief. The only chance of ever getting caught was in my head. So I checked the clock and knew just how much time I had, I began to mop as O.M.C’s "How Bizarre" began playing on the store’s overhead speaker. "How Bizarre" was always playing and at that point in my life it always seemed to fit. I mopped up with my head down, and when I finished I went to the back and poured out the water in the slop sink, put on my hoodie and went to the front door to wait for Sunnie to finish closing out. It was the longest wait of my life. I had misjudged just how long it would take for the mushrooms to take effect. I should have eaten something first. Finally Sunnie went to the back and I could hear that clicking sound of switching breakers as the store lights went out in sync.
After what felt like an eternity, Sunnie came back up front and opened the door and I was free. After that it was just "She walks like a bearded rainbow" and having hands ten times their normal size that somehow managed to hold up the sky. Anyway, the rest doesn’t have to do with a gas station/ corner store at all. This was just the first one. The second store has many more stories, a full chapter of a book perhaps. I remember getting drunk and saying to myself "I’ll call it my gas station symphony." God Bless Sunnie’s. And now that he has satellite televison and radio it’s always aljazeera and bollywood movies and that great screaming nonsense that he plays on the overhead speaker nowadays. How bizarre, indeed. To be continued, endlessly.

just a few quick points about today

-today i ate vegetables. they are a good thing

-my new iced water with cranberry splosh drink is also a good thing

-there is a full moon out. it is very accusatory. like a searchlight that's got you caught. left me with the feeling of "you've got to be kidding me..." if you don't believe me go out and see for yourself

-a city crew came by today and dug a huge hole in the front lawn. then they filled it in and went away. and no one knows just why

-i need to buy an ottoman. my legs get cramped sitting cross legged. the last ottoman i owned disappeared shortly after i tripped over it

-heartbeeps is a movie

The Shortest Days of The Year

Been hanging around a gas station these days, talking to the cashiers Herb and Donald. Pretty soon me and Herb got into discussing money and politics. "It's no good," I say.

The store always smells like photocopies and plastic burning. Donald burns cardboard and old reciepts in the morning.

"A bunch of us get together on National Holidays and take over government buildings," Herb says one morning over coffee and the morning fire ritual. "It's kind of like a sleepover... only we do their paperwork for them...and we get drunk and tell stories of old times."

I nod and sip my morning coffee, things have sure gotten stranger lately. Herb colored his hair. Donald has started playing opera in the store, they keep asking me if I want a job here.

I keep all the chewing tobacco advertisements I want, but my grandma is starting to complain about the clutter in the garage. In the afternoon I take a marker and write on the calender in the kitchen. In purple writing I claim my independence from the house, "President's Week Vacation". In the evening I grab a twelve pack of my favorite beer in a can and a large bag of chips.

Sitting on the counter I proceed to get drunk and wait for the evening drunks to come in. One by one these days get shorter. I watch the front of the store while Donald makes phone calls and Herb heats up steak sandwiches looking at his roots in the black glass reflection.

2oo7

The floor's been swept and mopped. I'm on cold water with a splosh of cranberry. Meditating on forward momentum and a year that will be nothing less than the endless rearrangement of 26 simple letters. I like the look of 2007. I have a feeling that old accounts can be settled. For once, for all, and I will be able to move much freer. In space and in time. All I need is paper , pen, and some chewing gum... It is possible to take REGRET and call it EXPERIENCE. My education of those outer territories. Empty spaces in the mind and in the heart, those loose frontiers. Now it's time to describe it all. And better descriptions are needed. As I've always felt:Better/Brighter/Faster.

and a note to self...

Ever Get The Feeling... You Can't Win?

And the first one tore a picture

of a dead and hanging man

who was kissing foreign fishes

that flew right out from his hands

and when I put my arms around him

felt the blushing blood run through my cheeks

and an eerieness surrounded

when his tongue began to speak

and he said, "oh, boy, you are so pretty,enough to wrap tight in rice-paper string"

and when I finally kissed him

the whole world began to ring

lost like a bell that's tipping over

with two cracks along both sides

and I knew the world was over

so I took a look outside

and watched the fires that were reaching

up to the weather vanes and the tops of trees

and the waiting scene and the Sunday dream

they're all waiting here for me
Deli markets with their flower stands

and pretty girls and the burning men

hanging out on the hooks

next to window displays

and I took out my tongue

twice removed from my face

across a bridge and across the mountains

threw a nickel in the fountain

to save my soul from all these troubled times
and all the drugs that I don't have the guts to take

to soothe my mind so I'm always sober

always aching, always heading towards

mass suicide, occult figurines

and wasted gas-station attendants

attending to their jobs

and a nice drive in the country

finds a nice cliff to drop off

oh, when this life just gets so grating

all the grittiness of life

but don't take those pills your boyfriend gave you

you're too wonderful to die
And the last one tore a picture

from the pornographic page

and all the pleasure points attacking

all the looks of love were staged

and it's a lie that you've been given

that just hurts you every day

so why should I lie here naked

when it's just too far away

from anything we could call loving

any love worth living for

so I'll sleep out in the gutter

you can sleep here on the floor

and when I wake up in the morning

don't forget to lock the door

'cos with a match that's mean and some gasoline

you won't see me anymore

neutral milk hotel/ song against sex

which will you go for which will you love

which will you love the best...

who is that man?

sometime in march 2003. on the way to an anti-war rally in portland. who was this guy. what was he up to. doing his best bukowski impersonation. except in pink. nothing but ramen and red wine. i think everyone has to live like that sometimes. i dont think i'm recognizable now next to this picture.

this guy is probably 80 to 100 lbs. less than i am now. 4 years removed. and with a lot more brains cells. but never, NEVER any common sense... everything from now on will be measured and rational. good luck.

Merry Christmas To the Computer Address That Symbolizes The Spirit That You Are, BN.

This is Monica Bellucci,

..............First snowfall in a long time here, then it rained. God speed and Good Luck with aspirations on the new year. I'm all tapped out.

hiatus

bartles v. james

hiatus until dec.26 . read the rest, there is a great mess there.

(hiatus from what???)

exactly....

HOLIDAY BLACKOUT

with the first sips we fire up the ship. officially enter a time of holiday communication blackout. three days trying to sustain a suitable level of intoxication. get through christmas, it doesn't exist anyways. my sister is on a holiday meditation retreat for a week or so. my brother has his other family. i dont think bartles is in town.
i cant be fat and bearded and washed out like this much longer, but i'll give myself the next three days. communication blackout so i dont share the breakdown with others. merry christmas.
i'll be back soon enough with unattainable new years goals and resolutions...


***last minute addition***
but don't worry. your brother is a genius. and no matter the horror i have to live, i will make something of it. the glass is half full. but it's half full of shit. blackout/ rainout christmas. it's 55 and rainy in western new york. from 4:30 to 8:50 i've had 14 genny beers. i've 16 left for tonight and they don't work. i can't get drunk. what the fuck...

I'm Bitter, Merry Christmas Student Loan Co.!

This is a class from my school, check out the dude in the middle (as if your eyes weren't gravitated to him already). He is the mascot of our university, his very demeanor can sway our beliefs and weekend plans on any whim he pleases. He is a dorm-based matador of pot, ecstasy, PBR and drunken sex with sluts on a mission to get as much cock as they can before they settle down with the richest kid with a trust fund they can find.

His necklace is a beacon of weed deals to come, his thousand mile stare suggests that he is too deep for VCR Programming 242.50 but he is concentrating dammit, because Dad said at Thanksgiving that if he doesn't get his ass in gear he can kiss his Irving Gas card goodbye!

Ship Sails on Solstice...

and with several blasts of the horn and a round of applause from the crowd, it was gone. tonight we finally said farewell to "that fucking ferry". and i regret never making those t-shirts. or getting a picture of that road sign for the ferry that was graffitied with the quote "enough, already". or something like that. a 30 million dollar ship. another 10 to 15 million dollars spent to operate it, not to mention the money spent rebuilding the lakefront. if you've never lived here you'd never understand. a poor, violent city. a broke city gambling it's cash on rather large ships. a broken city always hoping it can be the year 1908 again. a city with this strange self- esteem issue. jealous of never being as good as Buffalo? inadequate. limp. and now ship less...


it is my brother's bowling night so i couldn't get him to take me to the beach. instead i turned the t.v. so i could see it from the back patio, and i listened. it's funny how sound travels around here. the lakefront is a healthy half a mile from here, but i could here the horn and here the applause. it was like having a funeral in times square at midnight new year's eve. strange. strange. that's all i can say. this place has my temperament to a T. big dreams that are always bad ideas. bon voyage, and like every Rochesterian, we never bothered to ride you but we are sad to see you go. you big fucking ferry...

Christmas facts to facilitate your holiday celebrations

Christmas Facts

1. Sinterklaas is Santa Claus' retarded half-brother.
2. Saint Nicholas has a reputation as a friend of children because of various legends that include resurrecting children from death and saving them from prostitution.
3. He rides a white horse called Amerigo over the rooftops.
4. Having triumphed over evil, it was said that on Saint Nicholas' eve, the devil was shackled and made his slave.
5. Sinterklaas passed through a rainbow with his boat
6. Black Pete (zwarte piet) was said to be an imported African servant of Saint Nicholas. Today however, a more politically correct explanation is given: Pete's face is said to be "black from soot" (as Pete has to climb down chimneys to deliver his gifts).
7. Sinterklaas traditionally arrives each year in November by steamboat from Spain (which is odd as he lives in a palace in Madrid - a city without a port!)
8. Children put their shoes next to the chimney of the coal fired stove or fireplace, with a carrot or some hay in it for Sinterklaas's horse , sing a 'Sinterklaas' song, and will find some candy in their shoes the next day thrown down the chimney by a Zwarte Piet. (a bundle of sticks and/or a bag of salt for the bad children
9. Bad children will be put in the gunny sack in which Black Pete carries the presents, and be taken back to Spain.
10. After visiting all the children Sinterklaas silently returns to Spain.
11. Giraffes do not exist

(eleven is more of a personal opinion than an actual Christmas fact.)

(one fact that is omitted from this list is that the baby jesus was the first to use the expression "boo-yah" ,and that in his teenage years he spent a year in rehab kicking his nasty frankincense habit...)

(i know that's not funny, but not all jokes work, now do they???)

my late lunch with true james...

...exists somewhere between "my dinner with andre" and "my breakfast with blassie". we were out on the christmas hunt. or actually he was. i dont have money to scratch my ass lest purchase christmas gifts. we were at a Chili's restaurant. or applebees or olive garden. i mistakenly ordered a 30 oz glass of beer. who knew that's what the waitress meant? i never listen to waitstaff when i order. just nod and gesture and say thank you. my brother noticed that it had begun to snow, and i was relieved, but just as he mentioned the snow he asked the waitress to please close the blinds. bossy. bizarre. maybe it's just me. all in all it was a splendid lunch. the food was dreadful and the ridiculously large beer was warm before i could even have three sips. but i got a chance to explain to him everything from mt. hood mountain climbers to how i never understood where the homeless in rochester go in the winter until i learned about the abandoned subway tunnels. an awful lot of homeless for such an awful climate. but not really. maybe a couple days of snow, and that's about it these days. global warming can be global beauty sometimes.
but before this and before my horror in the chili's restroom i must mention the mall. true james and his girl always buy each other a lot of clothing.and lemon zesters. and other tame gifts. somewhere inbetween the gap and bedbathbeyond he was wondering what he could "really" get her.
as we walked out of sears i said
"you can give her a baby. i need a new title in life. elevate me. uncle br. would be magnificent..."
i'm not sure if he always sees my sarcasm. not so soon after that we passed by my eleventh grade english teacher, who i think is directly to blame for all of my problems. who was he to encourage me to write anyways?
but being a mess is good sometimes. true james said that i look like a longshoreman, and no one would ever recognize me. which was the reason i didn't want to go into the mall in the first place. i hate people who see me, and i see them, and i hate people, and they hopefully know it... a longshoreman whose just spent three days in county lock-up.
anyways, after lunch i found myself in a public fucking restroom. i've never been a germ freak, it's been my previous four years of employment that has taught me. there was nothing to actually clean my hands with. the sink, the soap, the paper towels were all contaminated , i mean you couldn't grab one sterile surface to grab the other. no clean surface to start or end with. but that's all right, sometimes it's better to push open the door with your foot then piss then not flush then fore go the sink then wait for someone else to open the door then slide out. germ free. it's a freebie for men i guess...

(i'll save the bizarre best buy cattle herd for another day)

so after all of everything i get my brother to stop by Sonnie's for a fourty and gin in a teacup. his daughter was there, who is now some kind of fucking pakistani princess genius, and as always he is there watching al jazeera. and he knows by what i buy that i am broke. and i only buy something once or twice a week these days. maintenance drinking. sober for 72 to 96 hours then a night to stop fucking shaking. anyways he keeps saying i can always work for him again. that's a bit too much of a fucking circle for me. that's how the whole of fucking life is. the symbol i sharpie onto the back of my hand everyday.

FROM GOLDIELOX!!!

and i have been on a date with Edwin Heaven for the past week. and he lives in my neighborhood. by the way, he wrote howard the duck in case you are unfamiliar with his work. he was also close personal friends with richard brautigan. we have been riding around california at 3:30 in the morning in a fast european sportscar, all along the pasific coast highway and into the hills. this is a direct quote from his new book that won't be done until next year..."A shirt flies off.Then humongous corduroy pants sail overhead.Then several muscular actors step aside."that's all he would let me have for now and if he finds out that i posted this on my blog he is never going to fuck me again, so i hope you're all happy. i have been frequenting peepshows and slowly giving myself a tattoo of a circle...

* * *

... And i lived this way for the space of about three years.And the essential thing i needed was the blanket.And i always had one of them whereever i went.And one time i even found a quilt blanket up off of a trail up near upper FOLLY POND.And eventually i even slept in ROYCES old truck.That was when it happened to be raining outside. And it's to very cold to be apart of that wilderness up there in YORK. And we've got this thing as to where we all should be.And if it wasn't for housing i don't know where i'd be now.And i'm now preparing up my my latest BOOK,CALLED THE SCRAPBOOK OF YEAR 2005.And it's just about my very best of my collectables.And the CANINE POLICE WAGON has stopped a car out here.HOLY COW, just look at those flashers.THE whole road is lighted up.They have now just left.I'm not in any trouble whatsoever at the time being.And i'm so happy for ABBY THE CHOIR DIRECTOR at our CHURCH,And she finally has our movie for now.GOD BLESS her soul.And i'm so very happy foer such a wunderbar tag.IT couldn't have been any besser. And being around nice company is truly great credit.Thank you for the meal PHYLLIS.aND THE LADY PEPPERALL HOUSE in KITTERY IS up for sale.And we even talked about tree houses today also.And my cat is looking for something under the sofa.SHE'S a very playful kitty.And i'm very happy to have her.And so many wonderful friends.the NICE MAN COMETH,LOTHAR PATTEN

sufferer's time

Time is slippin’ awayAnd I and I no reach high oh yeahFe we time, fe we timeDis a sufferer’s timeFe we time, children, fe we timeDis a sufferer’s timeA time fe sufferer’s drive big carA time fe sufferer’s live it upA time fe sufferer’s drive big carA time fe sufferer’s live it upFe we time, fe we timeDis a sufferer’s timeFe we time, children, fe we timeDis a sufferer’s timeNow that rasta ???Time fe rasta ???Now that dreadlocks ???Time fe dreadlocks ???BecauseFe we time, oh lord, fe we timeDis a sufferer’s timeFe we time, children, fe we timeDis a sufferer’s timeFour hundred years of colonialismAnd I and I no get high oh yeahI and I no reach high oh yeah‘Cause too much ism and skism, childrenToo much ism and skismToo much ism and skism, taking overToo much ism and skismA so we stayA so we goA so we stayA so we goA so we stayA so we goA so we stayA so we goFe we time, fe we timeDis a sufferer’s timeFe we time, children, fe we timeDis a sufferer’s timeA time fe sufferer’s drive big carA time fe sufferer’s live it upA time fe sufferer’s drive big carA time fe sufferer’s live it upFe we time, oh lord, fe we timeStop the ism and skismFe we time, children, fe we timeIt’s a sufferer’s timeFe we time, children, fe we timeStop the ism and skismFe we time, oh lord, fe we timeDis a sufferer’s time

Get up in the morning, slaving for bread, sir, so that every mouth can be fed. Poor me, the Israelite. Aah.Get up in the morning, slaving for bread, sir, So that every mouth can be fed. Poor me, the Israelite. Aah.My wife and my kids, they are packed up and leave me. Darling, she said, I was yours to be seen. Poor me, the Israelite. Aah.Shirt them a-tear up, trousers are gone. I don't want to end up like Bonnie and Clyde.

Poor me, the Israelite. Aah.After a storm there must be a calm. They catch me in the farm. You sound the alarm. Poor me, the Israelite. Aah.Poor me, the Israelite. I wonder who I'm working for. Poor me, Israelite, I look a-down and out, sir.

HalleluJAHSalvation, and glory, and honour, and power, unto the Lord our GodFor true and righteous are his judgments: for he hath judged the great whore, which did corrupt the earth with her fornication, and hath avenged the blood of his servants at her hand.HalleluJAH

And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war. His eyes were as a flame of fire, and on his head were many crowns; and he had a name written, that no man knew, but he himself. And he was clothed with a vesture dipped in blood: and his name is called The Word of God.

Stratovolcano

..."You make me feel like a wash-out," I told her. "I can't be that bad! There must be some good in me."
I finally got dressed. I went to the bathroom and threw some water on my face, combed my hair. If I could only comb that face, I thought, but I can't."

Bukowski, Post Office

it's been decided that the remainder of the year will be spent in bathrobe and slippers and cowboy hat. i've no appointments. no need to be anywhere, anyways. so why pretend. i bought several packs of cigarettes today, enough for two weeks under strict ration. i am going to learn to end this daily self dissection. there really isn't as much to me as i'd like to believe. i thought about the opposite today. what if i was well and healthy and strong. i would have to quit pretending that i am terminally ill. get rid of the fucking notion. something i have followed long enough. like i've said before, it's something i was pretending to be and i eventually became. a loser. a fucking deadbeat. but i'm just not that good at it anymore. i want to be able to make logical arguments again. make enough money to not have to live on this silent street. if it's not alaska, then i'm going back to portland. i don't need to see any other part of the u.s. find a place where i can skate by & be just fine. be another king of nothing much, nothing at all.

(Sam Kinison as the angel in "It's a Bundyful Life")

in 2007: br. James Roosevelt Belmont

and Dr. Bartles E. Americana

we love the all, the all of you...

pale blue dot

this feeling makes everything possible. woke up early enough to catch a biography of John Fante on pbs. also saw a program that explained how nasa put these insane gold records on the voyager satellite which is now hurdling through the universe, offering all the best of the earths culture, at least the best of the 1970's...

(instructions for aliens)

this program also had a little piece on how teddy roosevelt survived an attempted assassination because the speech he was carrying in his breast pocket was so huge that it deflected the bullet enough not to cause serious harm, and how after being shot he went on to give an hour and a half speech.

had a dream that i saved a building from burning down. the building had this huge industrial clothes dryer. the noise from this dryer annoyed this squirrel so much that he cut the wiring and nobody could use the dryer. but he didn't chew the wires, he used a set of wire cutters. someone came along and tried to fix this by twisting all the wires together. "we" were playing cards upstairs ( the "we", i think, was just random people, at least not important to the dream) and i smelled smoke and grabbed a fire extinguisher- which sprayed seltzer water?(was this vaudeville, or a circus clown act?)so i put the fire out and i was a hero. until i told everyone they were stupid mother fuckers for not wiring the dryer properly. i then went into a detailed explanation of the complicated wiring of a dryer. (which i have done in "real" life, the time i took our clothes dryer apart and felt proud when i fixed it...)

the dream was really not that strange, it's the squirrel with the wire cutters that gets me...

???

bartles v. james

we've lost control of this blog. the posts are nonsense.

an almost perfect stride as we close out 2006.

Bob Ross: An Obituary

UNTIL HE DIED ON THE FOURTH OF JULY AT the age of 52, the most famous artist on the face of the earth, and I use the word artist loosely, may well have been Bob Ross. His name doesn't ring a bell? Don't panic; you're not going to find him in the standard reference books. You'd do better to go channel-surfing on your television, which for the last dozen years was Ross's domain. He was the bearded, fuzzy-haired host of "The Joy of Painting," the public television series on which he gently guided couch potatoes through the intricacies of painting a landscape in 26 minutes.

Speaking in an anodyne voice much like the one police officers use to coax jumpers off ledges, Ross encouraged viewers to paint "happy little clouds" and insisted that anyone who followed his simple instructions could succeed. He provided art's version of "A Better Body in 30 Days." Each week, millions of viewers, from Akron to Ankara, from Harrisburg to Hong Kong, tuned in -- a whopping 97 percent, according to Ross's calculation, just to hear his voice. His laid-back on-screen image belied his off-screen drive as a businessman. He wrote popular books with easy-to-follow recipes for painting snowcapped mountains and lakeside vistas. He designed courses to train instructors, hundreds of whom have spread across the country, preaching the gospel according to Bob. He even marketed his own line of art supplies, with his smiling face emblazoned on each tube of paint.

Far be it from me to cast a dark little cloud over Ross. I'm just struck by the whole Ross phenomenon, which seems so quintessentially American, notwithstanding his global appeal. Perhaps there's nothing more American about him than the fact that at the end he became an icon for Generation X-ers. Following in the unlikely footsteps of Tony Bennett, he achieved cultlike status after starring in a series of promotional spots for MTV. Ross was so unhip that he became hip.

He was a throwback. His show consisted, basically, of one camera trained on him or his canvas the whole time. The approach was calculatedly homespun, like his voice. In that sense, it was the very antithesis of MTV, and it tapped into a nostalgia for the cozy can-doism of America in the 1950's. The 50's, after all, were the heydey of Grandma Moses and the paint-by-numbers craze. Ross updated both, with his treacly pictures of a mythical frontier and his do-it-yourself technique.

Of course, he also promised instant gratification, which wasn't so different, ultimately, from what MTV offers. Give him half an hour, and he could teach you to paint a picture. He was said to have completed 30,000 of them himself, which by my calculation comes to an average of almost two a day for every day of his life. Or put another way: all alone, Ross could have decorated virtually every pizzeria in America. In any event, his reported productivity represented another bygone American ideal, namely the Yankee work ethic.

Ross's pictures were thickly painted, garish landscapes that conformed to age-old formulas about balanced composition: trees on one side, mountain on the other, moonlit lake in the middle. He didn't paint people -- because they might spoil his unspoiled vistas or because they were too difficult to do, I can't say which was more the case. In any event, his landscapes were resolutely American, chock-full of fruited plains and purple mountains' majesty.
Whether Ross actually invented the technique of instant art is a matter of debate: his archrival on television, the Bavarian-born William Alexander, was also his teacher, and Alexander has claimed that Ross stole the fabled wet-on-wet technique from him. I leave it to Ross's biographers to sort out this sordid affair. I only want to point out that Ross's life was a Horatio Alger story in that he was a drop-out, a carpenter's son, from Daytona Beach, Fla., who made good after hitting upon a scheme to market himself.

Americans have always viewed art as therapeutic. From the beginning we have believed that it should be uplifting, that it's either good for us or no good at all. Which is an insupportable notion, if you think about it. But it's the populist doctrine that Ross championed all the way to the bank. His feel-goodism rang true to millions who watched his show, and who, like him, probably distrusted abstraction as something that foreigners sneaked into the country, which in a sense it was. Ross said, "If I paint something, I don't want to have to explain what it is," an odd remark coming from someone who made his fortune explaining to millions of viewers each week precisely what he was painting. Still, I know what he meant.

Ross will live on, through reruns. I don't foresee a retrospective at the Museum of Modern Art any time in the near future. But you never know, considering the recent fashion for thrift-shop and outsider art. Given his wealth and popularity, you can't call Ross an outsider, exactly, but he certainly wasn't an insider. He was somewhere in the middle. As in Middle America.

Bob Ross: A Eulogy

Bob Ross: "We don't make mistakes here, we just have happy accidents. We want happy, happy paintings. If you want sad things, watch the news. Everything is possible here. This is your little universe."

Bob Ross (October 29, 1942 - July 4, 1995) was a grandmaster American oil painter who primarily practiced the finer, more respectable arts of relaxation and kindness. His quiet, nurturing disposition was a form of therapy to the weary, and the reassuring intonations of his gentle voice hypnotized entire generations of would-be illustrators into creating a million-dollar art supply store enterprise.

His PBS series The Joy of Painting duped viewers around the globe into believing they too could create impeccable rectangles of content suitable for framing in just under twenty-six minutes. For this reason, it's no wonder The Joy of Painting is the most recognized and studied art show in the history of television. Ross's light, experimental excursions through nature and beyond have thrived since 1983 on over 300 public television stations -- a phenomenal achievement for programs of this genre. Every thirty minutes, on a public TV station somewhere in the United States, Bob Ross is just starting (or just finishing up) another masterpiece.

The phrase "harmless international cult" certainly applies. Foreign distribution of The Joy of Painting began in 1992. Responsive audience members armed themselves with palette knives, brush beater racks and base coats across the United Kingdom, Mexico, Canada, Japan, South Korea, Taiwan, the Netherlands, Turkey, Iran, Hong Kong, Costa Rica and Germany. The Bob Ross machine continues to be an unstoppable force, as many of his original broadcasts tickle people's imaginations from the safety of a VCR or DVD player. What television neighbor Fred Rogers does for the lonely, alienated child, Bob Ross does for the isolated, emotionally unavailable adult. Or at least a person who considers his own existence to be more of a mistake than a happy accident. He accomplishes in mere minutes what it's taken Dr. Phil, Dr. Laura, and the Deepak Chopracabra a lifetime to fail at.

"We tell people sometimes: we're like drug dealers. We come into town and get everybody absolutely addicted to painting. It doesn't take much to get you addicted," Ross says while touching up the branches on a birch tree with Titanium White. He gestures toward a limb with his angled sponge brush: "That's where the crows will sit. We'll have to install an elevator to get 'em up there because they can't fly. They don't know that, but they still try."
Not a tremendous amount is known about Ross's youth, but he spent most of it in Daytona Beach, Florida. He mentions from time to time his childhood pets: an alligator who constantly chomped at Ross's fingers until finally it was set loose, and an armadillo who "tore up" everything in his father's carpentry workshop. He intuited that painting could change a person's life in much the same way people gravitate toward music, writing, or gardening. Following a brief career in the U.S. Air Force, Ross started to develop a quick-study oil painting technique meant to appeal to the masses. By distilling the artistic process into steps and keeping the number of colors to a minimum, he grew to be one of the few artists whose name is associated with the "wet on wet" technique: the progressive addition of oil or watercolor to a canvas without wasting enormous amounts of time waiting for content to dry.
"Little bit of black, a little bit of blue.. some criss-cross strokes, or little x's, whatever you want to call them. Whatever. There you go."

His half-hour television performances unspooled before the cameras in more or less real time. The only sequences edited out were bloopers: his enormous house painting brush had a habit of knocking the canvas off its easel while Ross rhythmically dap-dap-dappled fall colors onto sycamore trees. And there were intermissions between strokes -- ranging anywhere from five minutes to an hour -- so layered undercoats of white or black gesso were allowed to dry. Not everything has to be "wet on wet," of course. This is your universe; feel free to experiment with hilly landscapes dotted with craggly trees, lush meadows, or snow-dusted farmhouse panoramas suitable for abandoning in a thrift store. While some folks distract themselves toting iPods of shitty music around like colostomy bags, others prefer to remain focused on a cardboard canvas with a modest fan brush.Bob Ross was like a chef on the Food network capable of turning an ungreased cookie sheet into white chocolate cheesecake with caramelized apples on the side, simply by producing from under the counter a time-lapsed version prepared prior to taping.
Viewers sometimes felt like they were left standing in their kitchens without a VCR, struggling to follow along. The real reason folks at home couldn't immediately replicate his paintings? Ross infused about thirty years of practice into every stroke.

As he streaked his flat, disposable foam brush down the entire length of the canvas to paint the soft craggling of a birch, he'd pause to "dirty" his instrument on the palette so the painting would look better on television. By loading the bristles in a deliberate, gradated manner which took into account the fractal nature of bark patterns, or the leafy, hyperkinetic color schema of fall, or the predetermined uniform direction of celestial light sources, he was able to provide as much instruction as one could possibly telegraph into a video camera.

Bob Ross historian and former business associate Annette Kowalski (along with her husband Walt and their daughter) presently run Bob Ross Incorporated from the quiet, secret suburbs of Washington, D.C. People clamor for his books and videotapes, his brushes and paints, his discarded dropclothes. What kind of easel does he use? What's gesso? They want to know everything, and they're prepared to put it all down on their Discover card.

The Bob Ross empire leverages no small degree of delicate sorrow from its participants: often audience members fall in love with Ross before they realize he's been dead since 1995. Viewers who maintain emotionally wrenching, co-dependent television relationships with him latch onto him even harder once they discover he's "not here" any longer. They simply cannot let go.
Nearly twenty-four hours a day, a team of four operators fields calls from American viewers. Overseas sales are handled abroad. An army of dedicated, enthusiastic would-be painters strive to populate our world with the Bob Ross aesthetic. His namesake company has recruited and trained over 2000 art teachers, all of whom proudly wear the "Bob Ross Certified" logo, and all of them capable of delineating the proper technique for landscapes, wildlife, and flowers. Students have been known to pay $375.00 for an hour of instruction in the Bob Ross technique.
Co-owner Walt Kowalski: "The vast majority of people do have a private urge to be creative. Generally speaking, people think you have to be blessed with talent to be a painter. I think we've pretty much reversed that whole notion."

After Bob Ross died at the age of 52, the majority of his original oil paintings were donated to charity or PBS stations.

Meanwhile, a Louisiana band calling themselves The Bob Ross Experience continues to play gigs. Their influences include Poison, Dave Matthews and Lynyrd Skynyrd. Ross did in fact do a promotional spot for MTV (as well as posthumously appearing in a Celebrity Death Match videogame opposite Jerry Springer), but the bona-fide Bob Ross can only really be experienced in the syndicated wilderness of public television.

This Pretty Much Sums Up My Childhood

I swear I will research this further, but I was told Bob Ross did all those shows live...from prison.

Late Night Conversations

Followed by huffing the gasoline fever bag. I went to the store to get cups and got followed by a swallow in a muffed up ride only to be damaged minutes later; with insurance man & ambulance in tow carrying plastic forks and knives, the dangerous caterer will consist of black and white and flesh driving a catfish and guilty of not using blinkers in the fog.

The beard will work there once everyody else passes; the pen will cause cold sores; the pencil will damage the gums and the spider prays on the dust mite before he takes a bite out of you.

Stick and vinyl have an intervention as Wendel plays the oboe. You are cordially invited to a royal bowel movement.

Due to a plastic allergy Brother Bartles is hereby permitted to miss class today. Signed Doctor Robert.

"Hey Baumer!..........Alright.......................................Alllllllllllllriiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight!!!!!!"

end up here.

...full of holes

horror to glory to coma to ever since that first umbilical snap to back again this circuit open and close open and close open and we keep doing this i can trace it back it is this even line it directs me we'll go on this cycle again it will take bare knuckle rain we'll take the ride i have every fucking memory from every fucking life and i know that i don't need to end up full of holes i don't want to end up like bonnie and clyde but if you'd like to?

and brother bartles and sister ethel and anonymous nicolle and the real brother james i will be expecting you to contact me you all know my home phone. this is the holiday season.

Hello Fat People

I played this system the past two nights and I'm sore as hell. This gaming system might just lead us obese americans on the road to recovery:

Lazy Tuesday

Waiting for the Celtics to trade for Iverson.

Waiting for the Red Sox to sign Matsusaka.

Waiting for the Patriots to eventually lose in the playoffs.

Waiting for the day I realize NASCAR is cooler than the NHL (and embracing it)

I saved my kitten today from dying underneath our basement stairs.

I cooked dinner (shrimp scampi over angel hair)

I redeemed my Ben & Jerry's coupon

Officially made Long Trail Double Bag my beer of the week.

This is the first time I have completely re-edited a post, I must be taking this seriously.

Hmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm?

year end remnants

baubles, blue lights, and other assorted bullshit. decorations are hung, most of it i just stacked on the mantel. created a kind of xmas/sgt. peppers cover. it's the black and white dylan head in the background that causes that effect. listened to the sirius christmas station all day and i was reminded of the goodwill holiday torture made famous in 2002. realized it's better to write everything like writing a telegram. change subjects frequently. realized this year has turned out to be an al bundy kind of year. those later seasons when the show was just unwatchable. no ma'am. watched brewster mccloud late last night. was it a good movie? should i see nashville? i never noticed robert altman until he died. next year something needs to happen. anything, really, would be nice. i'll finish this one later. after my headache subsides. it's not very well lit in here, with just blue lights. Come to Santa Poco put on show, stop.

"I Get By With A Little Help From My Friends"

Hey I found that teacher that compared Bush to Hitler. And we are a match made in heaven, holy shit, can this guy drink Jameson or what? I'm still sweating off my hangover.

great things on planet earth?

last night i meditated on the snowstorm. pulled up the blue chair and sat in the dark and watched. the sideways snow. the ufo's. one every 17- 21 minutes. the ghosts in the room behind me, one for every memory. these are my great things on planet earth. there is western new york and lake effect snowdrifts. there is david bowie's : "Hunky Dory" . and there is my precious few. without which i would never be able to survive. the precious few who have a tendency to forgive me no matter how far away I try to be. thank you. and i realized this and i realized that and i think what i need is discipline instead of excuse and a goal that is anything better than just rotting. somehow the game got away. what i used to play ---

i actually became...

i need to go on christmas holiday. atleast in my head. i poured all the decorations on the couch and told my brother : "that's as good as it gets..."

so thank you , the precious few, and merry christmas.

i'm on holiday.

Deepraved bith gets her first anaal porkingcode

today we drove around looking for angle grinders and other assorted power tools. me and the true brother j. we hit all the big box retailers on the greece side before we ventured into bizarro greece. the town of Irondequoit. drove past the hot dog shacks and guitar stores. finally found the appropriate tools to cut the floorboard of a '68 mercury. we crossed the bridge and i got to finally see the great ship.

there is only four days left - until they close the st. Lawrence for the season. i want a refund. i've asked and they won't let me live on it. this ship belongs to me. it was an idea that was just fucking wrong. and they got it while i was gone.

anyways , got a lead on a job driving cars for a chevy dealership up and down the eastern seaboard. this is the job for me. the hours are incredibly random. drive to buffalo or drive to tampa. i think i could see a lot of what i NEED to see on a job like this. this is just shit in the wind- but that is what i pray upon. or prey upon shit in the wind. either way i understand. i saw someone i knew today from highschool and i ran away. i went outside to smoke. i need to be one of those people who are proud of what they are up to. i need a spine. christ.

i guess that's it...

"And all in all we're just like you/We love the all of you"

"I bought some rock star ashes, from the back of rolling stone/

I guess he wouldn't mind it, they couldn't sell his soul/

The tiger in my tank, is going to go extinct/

And I'm not feelin so good myself, I think I'm on the brink of disaster/

I had a dream last night, the tv and the phone/

Grew some legs and took a walk, and left me all alone"

--"Tiger in my Tank" by Eels

Welcome to the Terrordome

The alternate title for this was: "Have you seen that Britney Sex Tape?"

mr. bush can we fail?

Big babies. Big random babies...

Is there anything as creepy as currier and ives? way back in the attic of my childhood memories with scenes of some kind of christmas torture.

(and rockwell rubs me the wrong way, feels like being sick?)

i'm tired of feeling useless. i'm done typing about it.(this is never writing). it's ridiculous to think that one of the greatest people ever born should feel useless. perhaps i'm too great to do anything. i'll carry that one around for awhile.

watched a nova special on dogs. there was this great part about narcoleptic dogs. this sad little guy starts running down a hallway, gets about twenty feet before completely collapsing, then he gets up and makes it twenty more feet and again collapses. that is the dog for me. it can never get happy it can never get upset. it just goes to sleep.

and what about the homeless in those states that don't carry a bottle deposit? i'm sure there is a study on this. point me towards it.

the car has a flat, which is fine, i don't drive it anyway. i'm trying to get my brother to get me a job at the bowling alley. i worked there when i was 19. i don't want to work there again. but i'm tired of looking for anything else. i have my anything else. i have my everything. and the knowledge that -- the knowledge that just getting up is enough. or even napping is enough. just stay alive is what i learned long ago.

just stay alive is what i should remember and carry. me and my narcoleptic dog.

tomorrow I will decorate and make myself a happy christmastime.

A Brief History of Technology

01/1983: Cable tv and HBO become reasons to stay home from school for many days to come

06/1984: I am five and though I have no recollection of the time period, I know from past documentation that I have a record player that plays only singles. It is on this record player that years later that I will listen to Prince and realize I am a freak. I realize like to get freaky and secretly like the color purple.

12/1988: Nintendo! Given at the final minute of Christmas morning. Though I was also bequethed a small television and a rather large space in the entertainment center under the family tv. I would hide in this cubby space and close the magnetic doors and play in silence. Thank you Nintendo, you were my best friend.

06/1991: My first tape player, a Walkman. Accompanied by a tape called Bon Jovi: Slippery When Wet. I shun this music and decide to spend my life savings on the La Bamba Soundtrack. A financial move that I still condone.

12/1993: Sega Genesis. It's almost like they knew I would be smoking pot soon.

06/1995: Discman, the rich man's Walkman.

04/1997: My first ATM card/credit card, like I can handle this sort of responsibilty?

From here a huge technological gap takes place, history experts claim insufficient funds created a dark age for new products to surface. Although oral historians say a nicotine addiction is far more likely.
Although the Internet is invented, creating a world of masterbation so scandalous...

12/2002: Cd Burner, my dreams of Prince are finally realized. The jazz collecton reaches depth beyond my dreams.

05/2003: My first cell-phone. It is now 100% easier to get laid at 2 in the morning. I can also drink and dial, a habit harder to break than smoking.

12/2004: Talking Elmo (hey it's worth mentioning, sold like a billion units)

01/2005: I purchase a copy of Madden'06 for XBOX and my world is shattered, I will spend the next four months ignoring everybody and only addressing them with grunts. I will also accomplish very little in the real world.

10/2006: Blogger comes into my life, thank you blogger.

another t.v. dream

if i could live on the first cup of coffee i would be fine. if that feeling could support me i'd certainly get something done in this life. i've got all the decorations out but i'm not sure i want to put them up. it only means to take them down again. and what happened to another week. sober but i still missed most of it. my job search has reached an all time low and i realized i haven't left this house in ten days...dreamt i had open heart surgery. not a heart attack. instead my heart was in the wrong place, no joke. and dr. romano performed the surgery. as they were putting me under i kept questioning the fact that he got crushed by a helicopter years ago- or something like that. i was so pleased by the surgery because it gave me the perfect excuse to just sit around for a couple more months....it's exhausting feeling in amongst the millions fighting addictions. i just need it out of my head.everyday to wake up praying "god help us jesus god and baby jesus help us..." but 'tis the season. and that's where coffee comes in.