No Way

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 Most people don't realize that a twenty foot long Great White Shark is also both eight feet wide and six feet tall. That's incredible. I just finished reading "Devil's Teeth", a fantastic book about the Great White Shark population that congregates off the coast of San Francisco at a crag of rocks called the Farallon Islands, otherwise known as the Devil's Teeth by sailors back in the day. The book reads easy and I plowed through it this morning, propped up on the couch, listening to the Spacemen 3 and the Supremes.  It's a easy going Memorial Day here at the newly christened Manor up here in Bowling Green and the possibilities are endless. Do need to string some lights outside and put up the basketball goal. There's always something needing to be decorated round here too, hung up, arranged, straighted, squared away just like so. That's just what the likes of these days are good for. Turning and learning. 

Hey Genius

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Hey genius! Whatcha writing in that Moleskine ya got there?

Your memoir? Some poetry? Is it about your father? Is it about an old lover?

Did that person break your heart? Or was your heart already broken before they

met you? Or did you box that person’s heart about like a kitten playing with

spool of yarn? Do you feel so guilty about breaking that person’s heart that

you’re compelled to write everything down and cast them heart-breaking demons

of yours out? So when you write, what you’re really doing is yelling at them

demons: “YOU SHALL NOT PASS!” Ooooor, are you writing a screenplay, genius? A

sorta story in which a loveable Steve Buscemi-esque buffoon gets the girl that

works at the fashion design firm in Midtown who is way out of his league, who

also, in actuality, should really fall in love with the Jude Law-esque

character because that character has more money, is way more attractive, and

despite the overtly douchey way in which he is written, is actually a nice guy.

But since you see yourself as Steve Buscemi, except poorer, the Steve Buscemi

character ends up winning the girl based upon the merits of his stamp

collection. That’s pretty unrealistic, genius, but hey, it’s your screenplay,

right? Who am I to criticize your creative output? Or maybe you could be

writing a really swell novel, genius? Will it be a long one like those Russian

novels that I’ve never really read? Or will it be obtuse like Pynchon or overly

stylized like those overrated Beat writers? Will you use terms like “inky

night” or write about amphetamines in cool (not really) post World War II,

Nuclear Age slang that will influence decades of liberal leaning white people

and somehow convince them that their love of such literature is a confirmation

of non-whiteness, that they’re really not the wonder bread lamos that their

parents were? But I digress, I really don’t mean to talk shit genius, I just

want to know about your novel! I just wanna know about what you’re writing! You

have to tell me! The suspense is killing me genius! When I see you hunched over

your journal agonizing over each line you’re putting down like a surgeon

deliberating on which incision would remove that damn cancer, I’m just pushed

to the edge of normal curiosity, compelled to look over the cliff’s edge,

fantasizing about what kind of life a genius like you could live. Maybe I’m so

interested in you because my own life is a complete snore. A real fucking bore.

It’s okay though, I’m cool with having no interests or anything of specific

import happening in my little fish bowl of an existence, sometimes that’s just

life; the absence of life. That’s why god created ipods, marriage, and having

children; to give us something to do to pass the time between being 15 and

being dead. 

(MADDECENT)

All is Full of Love

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The stars were out in full tonight and I crowded under them as much as I could, staring at them like they could make sense of thing for me. Everything's just as restless as it always is, with conniptions racing past just as fast as always, yet I was strangely at peace with it all. The environment outside during today's sunlight hours was beyond gorgeous, and I tried my hardest to keep in its presence as long as possible. From rifling through the still wet remains of an soaked basement with the best of friends, to waltzing in pure joy around and about the shade of the setting sun, there's nothing like being outside to remind you that all is is full of love. Around and about every angle of every corner of every thought, vision, landscape, scenario, encounter, experience that you might come across on a daily basis. Blows my mind a little bit when I think about it. I threw idea around one of the smartest people I know tonight out on the porch under the stars. Isn't love the upmost common denominators between all world religions? Where does indoctrination and the blind following of rules falls by the wayside and gives way to true spirituality? Don't the words Religion and Relationship share the same root word in Latin? Benjamin Franklin claimed to be an diest in his later life and was quoted saying that he could look upon the  hierarchical organization of the natural world and see God. I gazed upon the stars tonight with the same deep seeking intention, a widely stretched but distinctively focused perspective that's humbled beyond belief when seeking to understand the vastness of my own ignorance. The more about the ways of the world I try to figure out, the more I realize I don't know anything at all. Not that its a bad thing, just true. Since bad things are just true by simple matter o' fact rationality, therefore there's good to be learned in the bad, which then concludes that there's nothing bad at all in the world. Whoa. The change from Joy to Misery to Joy happens at a frantic pace that's quite drastic to get used to. Everyone fears the unknown to a point and to live Life between opposite ends of Black and White, Up and Down is to learn to be at peace with the degree of ignorance regarding what the direction future events might take. But I suppose that's why they call it the fast life, right? 

Notes From Underground

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My angel little brother David got arrested this week. Code 3 violation too, which means tactical support was necessary. Six squad cars arrived on the scene in Edwin Warner Park and out spilled a whole battery of armoured up law enforcement officers who promptly bum rushed the our darling blonde suspect in question and hauled him off downtown to jail, no kidding that's jail jail since juvinile was flooded, for the whole rest of the day and well into the night, all for what? Poking around the park with a Civil War musket in tow, no gunpowder or miniballs or anything that might enable the gun to be anything more than a glorified doorstop, antique at best. In truth, he was filming a movie trailer for class and they did have fireworks but goodness gracious, mercy sakes alive. I don't know what's more woefully ridiculous in this here schenario, the wanton expending of tax dollars or the hypersensitivity our society lives in. People getting all up in arms, literally, over something way less incriminating than a whole lotta other things that immediately came to mind that are seemingly okay, because they're everywhere (gluttony, envy, pride, rudeness). They didn't even hear him out at the scene (of the crime) or even allow him his phone call when in jail. God almighty, how can you live with yourself everyday if you get off by getting on other people? I'm just saying, justice would be the last thing on anyone's mind if the dinosarus were still around, at least justice to the extent that was levied upon my dear brother David a few days ago. No doubt, catastrophies are no good awful events that get thrown at us, but they do grant the gift of perspective. It takes a truly humble spirit to say, "Well, I lost everything but my family and I are still alive and that's what matters." Light upon the true priorities shines through and everything unnecesary falls by the wayside, including a six car battalion sent to rustle up and apprehend  But why does it take Life's mighty hammer of unpredictable events to remind us of what's truly important? Do we have to be forced to feel, in a way? Only aware of death at funerals or only American after 9/11? I'm overdoing a little bit, but there's a lot going on with that right there. Whatever. If you see this man in the photos above, run for your life. I fucking loooooooooooove Iron Maiden. 

Iron Maiden-Run To The Hills

Nashville's Still Nashville

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Where the men are men and the women are proud of it.

(NASHVILLE'S DEAD)

White Trash Class

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Vietnam is a band that sounds exactly how they look. Dirt and cracked up Levis. Aloof, restless, nearly barefoot and looking to make something marvelous happen but happy with whatever the moment presents itself with. Nothing political, no game theory or hidden agenda in their sound at all. They flat out don't give a hoot. I saw them at the End in Nashville one hazy Valentine's Day quite a few years ago. They didn't grace the stage till nearly twelve and folks were getting drunk and restless, but Vietnam immediately put everyone there at ease with a smile and a sorry right before the first number. I've only ever seen babies lighten moods and faces like that Peace bringin' to that extent is absolutely admirable and an xtraordinary thing. That speaks leaps and volumes about a person, even more a band. That philosophy shines clear through their music as well. Their sound conjures up all sorts of utopian summer circumstances. No need to bother with unnecessarities when you're sprawled out in the back of a red 1965 Lincoln, one hand holding your hat and the other your beer, just like your other three bros as yall take off to Austin for a night in the city. They've definitely got some Texas in their freewheelin' happy rambling sound. They're out of Brooklyn now I believe which is surprising because they can choogle pretty well for city boys. Plus, their luscious rock locks are fucking rad as well. Summer and long hair hold each other's hand pretty sternly and I salute the boys that can pull it off with ease. I didn't cut my hair for almost twenty months and I tell you, it tangled up in the biggest snafu the likes of which curly hair's never seen. A crazy big snarl of sun bleached knots that sprang out every which way. It was truly an accomplishment but I'm pretty sure I'm allergic to long hair now thanks to it. At least the long hair that creeps on me. Not to say I don't admire it though. I hustled up a few of my favorite to parade at you so you seen where my love is coming from. The last two are this here band I'm loving at the moment. Cop these tracks from Vietnam, kick back and drift for a while, if just to take the edge of the exams looming large this next week. That's my dispositioning at least, simply because its a beautiful day. You feel me? Priorities priorities. 

Vietnam-Step On Inside

Vietnam-Priest, Poet & the Pig

Vietnam-Welcome to My Room

Hurry Up

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“It is not clear that more choice gives you more freedom. It could decrease our freedom if we spend so much time trying to make choices.” Research shows that an excess of choices often leads us to be less, not more, satisfied once we actually decide. There’s often that nagging feeling we could have done better.

(The Paralyzing Problem of Too Many Choices, New York Times | Continue)

Ensworth vs. the Great Nashville Monsoon