When I was six years old the other kids would make me the unofficial referee in the foot-hockey games we played. I always felt weird about that.
We played with a tennis ball, on an asphalt surface, between two chain-link fences, about 200 feet apart. I usually played defense. I was the last guy between them and our goalie, who protected the net (the fence posts) wearing his jacket off his body on his arms like an apron. There are tens of thousands of kids who grew up playing goalie this way. For all of us, tennis-ball soccer was real hockey.
I was good at defense. Especially blocking shots and picking the ball off the forward. A lot of the time there was dispute over whether someone had actually scored. Everyone on each team would argue for their side, that the ball definitely did go in or it didn't.
Except I could never bring myself to argue for my side if I thought we were wrong - that, as far as I saw, our guy's shot did not go in the net. The thing was, I wish our team did score, so if we in fact did not, I was always reluctant to tell what I saw. I wanted those guys to settle it themselves. But eventually one of them would ask what I saw. I hated that.
How could my teammates not be honest and just let it drop if we didn't score? Why did I have to come down against my own side? But I had this reputation, see--that I wouldn't take advantage. That I wouldn't lie. As soon as I told them what I thought happened, the argument was usually over. Everyone would repeat what I said about the ball going in or not going in. The game would go on. Some of teammates would be upset that, because of me, we didn't score, but they didn't seem to argue.
To this day I think about how bizarre that was. I was six years old and I had this quasi-judicial authority. I loved foot hockey. I guess I should have felt complimented they relied on me to be the ref and make the call. Instead I felt annoyed, embarrassed, and alone.
Stop arguing, be honest and solve your own problems, people!
4/30/2011
4/19/2011
Why do I ask so many questions?
Could it be that history is a lie?
Could it be that what survives isn't what's good? Are cockroaches good? Were dinosaurs bad?
Could it be that there is no Plan? Is that a narrative fallacy? Do you believe in progress? Do you believe in chaos? Do you really think it could have happened by accident?
Could it be that, in the face of randomness, you could still choose something good?
Could it be that you can choose something bad, because you know it will turn out right in the end - because you believe there is a Plan?
Is religion for simpletons? Is atheism for the smug and the dejected?
Do you care about getting the credit? Do you just want your descendants to survive?
Have you ever thought about this--even for a second? Were you drunk?
Do you wonder why people need to take drugs? Have you ever tried connecting the dots? Is it any wonder we're tortured by sociopaths?
When was the last time you voted? Is abstinence the answer? Do I have a selective memory?
Seriously what is UP with this shit??
Could it be that what survives isn't what's good? Are cockroaches good? Were dinosaurs bad?
Could it be that there is no Plan? Is that a narrative fallacy? Do you believe in progress? Do you believe in chaos? Do you really think it could have happened by accident?
Could it be that, in the face of randomness, you could still choose something good?
Could it be that you can choose something bad, because you know it will turn out right in the end - because you believe there is a Plan?
Is religion for simpletons? Is atheism for the smug and the dejected?
Do you care about getting the credit? Do you just want your descendants to survive?
Have you ever thought about this--even for a second? Were you drunk?
Do you wonder why people need to take drugs? Have you ever tried connecting the dots? Is it any wonder we're tortured by sociopaths?
When was the last time you voted? Is abstinence the answer? Do I have a selective memory?
Seriously what is UP with this shit??
4/17/2011
Pledge
[more nonsensical than usual]
Got drain leavings to declog. When I'm done you'll hear me every day for a month. Acid builds up in the soul's muscles. Massages hurt the next day. Another twisted neck, case of heartbreak, gut rot.
Put yourself on the line and things get interesting. Stake your rep on a promise. You won't let down the fans. I mean, if you had fans. I mean, whatever.
We want myriad things, too many to encyclopedize. The massive gut wants more.
Building a tent beside the highway to Dubai, the most overbuilt shitstorm on the planet.
"I just came to say hello." ~Martina
I'm a master mummy; fully drained of fluid in my rocking chair, dessicated but with useful anecdotes. I told the one about the tortoise and hare, and the kids got bored. I said 'ok check out my art exhibit'. I try not to make children scream, but they get lollipop fingers on my knitting needles. Never mess with a middle-aged man's makework project.
Reconstruct awareness. Reconstruct ray of consciousness. Reconstruct the last authoritative version of your hopes and dreams- -a narrative to disguise your personal chaos. The trackable tale convinces passersby. Need a copywriter to tell the story of your olive oil, pressed from virgin trees in a small town in Abruzzo, so it'll be worth a 500% markup on the big box stores. One taste and you know what your tongue was for.
What words wind from mind, and what from keyboard rhythm, product of muscular bias--easier to spell depending on spacing of keys? Whatever became of the random flight of bumblebees?
Anarchy won't let you be. Sid Vicious, a bassist dead from an overdose, a '70s badboy with BO and sweat stains, blew his brains out on fame. I wanna be, the prince of malarkey. He never know God though. The mass is too predictable, too slow.
No matter what you say, people need to tell you later. Everybody wanna step on their creator.
Climbing Lou Reed's mountain of feedback - he powers his soul with battery acid. Don't be part of the scenery, step out from the machinery, grab your things, I've come to take you home.
Sooner or later you face off with bananas or booze. You've got the love, the handshake, the warmth, you've got the what-to-keep and what-to-cut. Though don't preface with hurried praise - you're telegraphing 'but'.
Got drain leavings to declog. When I'm done you'll hear me every day for a month. Acid builds up in the soul's muscles. Massages hurt the next day. Another twisted neck, case of heartbreak, gut rot.
Put yourself on the line and things get interesting. Stake your rep on a promise. You won't let down the fans. I mean, if you had fans. I mean, whatever.
We want myriad things, too many to encyclopedize. The massive gut wants more.
Building a tent beside the highway to Dubai, the most overbuilt shitstorm on the planet.
"I just came to say hello." ~Martina
I'm a master mummy; fully drained of fluid in my rocking chair, dessicated but with useful anecdotes. I told the one about the tortoise and hare, and the kids got bored. I said 'ok check out my art exhibit'. I try not to make children scream, but they get lollipop fingers on my knitting needles. Never mess with a middle-aged man's makework project.
Reconstruct awareness. Reconstruct ray of consciousness. Reconstruct the last authoritative version of your hopes and dreams- -a narrative to disguise your personal chaos. The trackable tale convinces passersby. Need a copywriter to tell the story of your olive oil, pressed from virgin trees in a small town in Abruzzo, so it'll be worth a 500% markup on the big box stores. One taste and you know what your tongue was for.
What words wind from mind, and what from keyboard rhythm, product of muscular bias--easier to spell depending on spacing of keys? Whatever became of the random flight of bumblebees?
Anarchy won't let you be. Sid Vicious, a bassist dead from an overdose, a '70s badboy with BO and sweat stains, blew his brains out on fame. I wanna be, the prince of malarkey. He never know God though. The mass is too predictable, too slow.
No matter what you say, people need to tell you later. Everybody wanna step on their creator.
Climbing Lou Reed's mountain of feedback - he powers his soul with battery acid. Don't be part of the scenery, step out from the machinery, grab your things, I've come to take you home.
Sooner or later you face off with bananas or booze. You've got the love, the handshake, the warmth, you've got the what-to-keep and what-to-cut. Though don't preface with hurried praise - you're telegraphing 'but'.
4/03/2011
Radiation release valve activated
Semiotic rifle, spoonful of trifle, we carry our cups to the dishwasher, rinsed, tossed, sealed, it's a cutlery holocaust. Tempers flare, totally tequila, bees in bonnets, nightmare sonnets:
Of his soul, it is dead, he buried it quickly with strokes of lead.
Bottle vapour is tough, but you'll be so high when you dig this stuff.
Be careful what you write: it might come true. I've been thinking about that since 2002.
There's no conspiracy - just fear and apathy. The stats are gnats; I count just fine. You can't predict a series in time.
Distrust what you know. You'll thank me later. Defeat him now - a reluctant debater.
Invisible hand removes the deadwood. Capitalism, man, it cuts down redwoods. Public institutions full of private people, bowing hypocritically for posts of unimportance? Inequality erases over time. My neighbour is starving, reeks of slime.
Of his soul, it is dead, he buried it quickly with strokes of lead.
Bottle vapour is tough, but you'll be so high when you dig this stuff.
Be careful what you write: it might come true. I've been thinking about that since 2002.
There's no conspiracy - just fear and apathy. The stats are gnats; I count just fine. You can't predict a series in time.
Distrust what you know. You'll thank me later. Defeat him now - a reluctant debater.
Invisible hand removes the deadwood. Capitalism, man, it cuts down redwoods. Public institutions full of private people, bowing hypocritically for posts of unimportance? Inequality erases over time. My neighbour is starving, reeks of slime.
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