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Vinyl Haul [26 Jun 2010|01:26pm]
[ mood | corona ]

Sun Ra - Cosmic Tones for Mental Therapy
Velvet Underground - Loaded
CSNY, Buffy Sainte-Marie, Thunderclap Newman - The Strawberry Statement
Art Tatum - Solo Piano Vol II
Buffy Sainte-Marie - Little Wheel Spin and Spin
Buffy Sainte-Marie - Moonshot
The Rolling Stones - Aftermath
David Bromberg - Devil in Disguise
Faces - Ooh La La
Quicksilver - Shady Grove
Lenny Bruce - Is Out Again
v/a - The Moonlight Tapes - Moonlight Club Bands Live
Bloodrock - 3
Quartette Tres Bien - Here It Is
Jazz Crusaders - Old Socks New Shoes (made Doubles)
Traffic - The Low Spark of High Heeled Boys (Doubles)
James Brown & v/a - Jump Around (Instrumentals)
Hank Williams - Memorial Album
The Bee Gees - Idea
Soft Cell - Loving You, Hating Me 12"
Larry Levan, Mantronik, etc. v/a - Sleeping Bag's Greatest Mixers Collection
John and Yoko - Unfinished Music No 2: Life with the Lions

and 45s.  Lots of 45s/ children's music, PSAs, Tom Tom Club, Toni Basil, Solomon Burke, Stevie Wonder, Ahmad Jamal, and others.

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intelligence smarts [24 Jan 2009|08:20pm]
[ mood | blue ]

Gentle, blood held the answer
it's quiet deployment reigning in all the things I'll never know are part of me
the wholeofme shifting
sliding into
climbing out of

it's mortality's tissue
a magnum"
worn sheepishly under slouches(
draped~across couches
hidden in[bed
hidden in{sleep
beneath slippery^steeples
behind two a-piece peepholes..

if everything was Cerulean could you tell?
if you could/would you
keep it a secret/believe it

2 comments|post comment

[23 Dec 2008|03:37am]
Somedays when it gets late you just have to give up.
Tomorrow will happen.
3 comments|post comment

Soup in Theory Soothes but Now it'll Float and Froth [26 Oct 2008|02:09am]
[ mood | ick ]

Warm, smooth, soft is my exterior. How far will I be pushed before I am old a great? Age is a disability, and a certain predictability. I never felt as old as I do right now, and it's always true everytime I feel it.

Fuck, just Fuck, it is at times like this it is the only word that adequately represents how I feel and the only word I can utter with conviction. It is the only act I can complete with conviction. Even now, my hands feel hollow and this is all I can do to not smash my head on the street under the unravelling trees.

I'd vomit if I thought that the bile in my stomach would surrender it's campaign against the back of my throat. I'd sleep if my mind could agree to just stop fucking spinning.

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.................................................... [18 Oct 2008|07:32pm]
[ mood | butter knife set ]

Hi, my name is Andy and I'm an alcoholic. No kidding! Certifiably so, been through rehab twice whiling away the hours retelling the best times of my life. Made good time serving a few weeks in jail (work release to be exact). It was like summer camp with worse food and better ghost stories.

Been living in a white trash paradise, far from the trendy bars and boulevards of my hometown. As you can see, I never made it back to Cali. When the universe tells you it isn't for ya, how can you do anything but scorn (Sisyphus by way of Camus). Not as well read and swimming in the red. Living in sin and thrashing in my bed. She's a good woman, a great painter and we hold hands, coffee and court... share cigarettes and secrets.

Excommunicated myself from my old circle, the old world. Watching movies and rolling smokes, seeing, peeing in a cup and staying away from dope. I walk, I work, I wallow and watch. I am much too much.

My furnace doesn't work and my basement is flooding. My backdoor is kept closed by a 2x4. "Can I get a witness?" Just dead bolt the door that ain't jammed, stay in doors and wonder when I'll get out from under the thumb. Detroit, hate the way it makes me hate. Hate the way it makes me pace, hate this place, hate the way I forget my face.

I have no stove and my minifridge is one I stole away from the police department dumpster after community slave labor. Scrubbing toilets isn't as demeaning as the way the live everyday. I remember looking at that uptight fuck and thinking no matter what they put me through my life will always be better than theirs.

You know, the only performance footage of Lenny Bruce I can find is after he went mad from being drug into and out of court and just ranted about his trials. I think that says more about me than him, at least it feels like it.

There you have it,

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click click click [04 May 2008|10:52pm]
Life is worth dying for? Is life worth dying for? What is worth dying for? Death is worth living for. Death is worth killing for. Worth. Of what value is life or death?

One's death is not necessarily an indicator of the worth of their life. How is one's life changed by the nature of their death other than the obvious end that it brings? In the memory of others we live, and with a dramatic finish comes a certain amount of punctuation to our life's sentence. To desire a flamboyant death we wish to be eulogized with envy. The vanity of suicide is likely contemptuous for it's participants seemingly guaranteed pity. By drawing attention to our suffering we do nearly the same. Nearly.

While death may be painless (I can't be sure until it happens), it is the dying that hurts us. Sylvia Plath (I do believe) said that from the moment we are born we begin to die. She stuck her head in an oven to end it all. Perhaps perspective is everything.

Is it that death is our reward for living?

Death is the release of dying. We die to live. The suffering involved in living is our burden. How come so often we forget?

I want to pull off your ear and yell loud enough so that it cannot be ignored any longer. Too often we compare our suffering to others and make value assessments as to whom deserves their life more by determining what kind of price they have paid for it. Our suffering is unique to ourselves but the saturating beauty of existing and living is a common reward. Why do we allow our suffering to keep us from connecting and enhancing our living experience. Perhaps the only unbearable and insufferable life is that of pure loneliness.

I don't stand by any of this, I'm only guessing.
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I have more to say than I have time to say it, more often than [STOP] [04 May 2008|03:21pm]
Oh, it gets stale in the basement and I get all cluttered and my favorite bird just happens to sing along off key every time I hate a song on the radio. She's a handful, a hatful of secrets and she's got a designer purse full of paint-markers and pens. We float from diner to diner and haunt an abandoned mall where we can see 3rd rate movies at a 5th of the normal ticket price.

I got arrested again. I drink, I drive, I cut more people out of my life. Like a cancer, (yeah, it really is that bad) ugh. He's gone, that cat from all the way back. He's a shadow and I tried to walk the past and he's trying to forget and I've given up, at last.


Context, Content, Oxycontin
Prophets, Prophylactics, Addicts
Syntax, Spin Wax, anyone can be an alcoholic
I'd prefer my coffee to be coffee and my candy to be chocolates
2 comments|post comment

(Who doesn't like dick diagrams?) [09 Dec 2007|04:57am]
[ mood | dry ]

My bed still smells like her hair conditioner, her lip gloss, like her menthol cigarettes. She ain't organic. She's got some nasty habits in her past, she's been cut with broken glass, had boyfriends put her leg in a cast. No bullshit, I met her last night. We smoked cigarettes, slipped on black ice under the bruised sky. I drank too much coffee. I smoked too many cigarettes. I didn't ask enough questions. I don't have any answers.

I've been waiting for something good to happen to me. I know, I know, I know! I've got to make it happen but still, shit rains down upon me for it's own reasons so why not something sweet and nice and candy colored? It seems like it's always tomorrow and I can't just tell the world to stop pulling me out into the streets for something electric and dazzling and mediocre. It's all distraction.

In 4 hours I will be in a medical facility. I will blow the sober whistle. I will piss in the pot while a flittish, fat black guy in a striped polo shirt watches in the mirror propped up next to the toilet. For this I will pay them twelve dollars. It'll be the third time this week. I don't think my probation officer likes me. She's a nasty troll that's probably never had a day of fun in her life. Upon our only encounter she made momentary eye contact with me barely three times. She had greasy straight hair, a plain oversized tee shirt and ill fitting jeans she probably bought at wal-mart or k-mart. Seeing as I had been caught with beer and pot in college I must be some kind of hard core addict. Or maybe I was a dumb kid with the bad luck of having even dumber friends? Well, I guess not everyone can drive to work with a hangover and get away with it. Don't wear a mohawk in the burbs kids, it leads to harder things like crew cuts and prison blues. Pure profiling.

Too weird for the burbs. Maybe too white for the city. Racism goes both ways. I'm starting to see it more. I'm delivering pizzas in midtown Detroit. It's usually college kids or regular decent folks but some of these neighborhoods make my skin crawl. My brother got jumped, robbed and kidnapped by a couple crackheads a few weeks ago. I deliver to houses and apartments just a few blocks from where he was accosted by the dead eyed and slobbering free base zombies. If I had a half a million I'd buy up all the slums and bulldoze the lot of it and start and urban farming project. Kwame would have a fit.

I hate Michigan for it's desperation (worst economy in country, worst real estate market). I hate it because it is ruled by it's jaded history and it's bloated state government. I hate this generation of bad haircuts and even worse music. Fuck this shit that passes for punk rock these days. Sure, their just kids for the most part, but they don't get it and I'm pretty sure the bands don't get it either. The Casualties played at my work tonight. Never heard them, didn't even care to check out their set on my smoke break. They got these fans with these terrible mohawks (I'm so fucking glad I shaved mine off. I didn't realize how many people had such dumb fucking mohawks until I had one. For the record, mine was awesome.). These fans, they got these jackets and tight pants covered in patches with the logo of every punk band they like. It's like NASCAR for the oblivious neo-con generation. They rage it up, smoke, drink underage and then buy a Pepsi from me. Do they not realize that everything that they do feeds the masters? Doing drugs and listening to music is not revolutionary. It's exactly what they want us to do. Because when your high and listening to music you are not doing a fucking thing. Don't get me wrong, I used to get fucked up and listen to music and I still would if the government wasn't preventing me from drinking. Ironic, it is.

I thought life would be easier if I wasn't drinking. It's just as fucked up as it ever was, I just can't take the edge off anymore. The full force of the daily brutal truth is hosing me down at all times.

As much as it might appear that my life is shit, I am doing pretty well. I've got a river of angst running just below my awareness of the moment. It is my awareness of every moment that has kept me from slinking back into the self hating depression that I indulged in so frequently not so long ago. I find reasons to smile and laugh and I have fun. Fun is contagious and do my best to be infectious. You pretend to have fun long enough and you just might end up having a good time.

5 comments|post comment

Daughters, lock up your Mothers.... [05 Dec 2007|04:50pm]
I'm back. Maybe I'll tell you where I've been. Maybe not. I'm back.
4 comments|post comment

Voice Post [01 Nov 2007|10:53pm]
396K 2:02
(no transcription available)
1 comment|post comment

Pivot Points [18 Oct 2007|10:33am]
[ mood | it's the way of the future... ]

I was dead to the world for 21 hours from friday 11pm until 8pm saturday. I never imagined it would be so long. I kept sommersaulting until I landed on a Wednesday morning. Now I'm off to some job interview. Landed in my lap, could be something bigger. Could be nothing.

California, Carolina, or I could just stay here. 40k is enough to stay for at least a year, it's enough for me to start a riot. I just need to keep my head straight, keep the money in my pocket, give my liver a rest and make myself do the rest. I'm looking around, find myself in the same set of problems I've always been in. And no amount of running gonna make up a new happy ending.

Shower, shave and get my shit together. At the very least it reminds me that the money is still out there. The universe smiles on me when I put my head together. It's been like an ostrich hiding from an ocelot. Sand in my ear, sand in my teeth but as long as I'm diggin' graves I'm pretty much out to lunch.

Timeshares in suburban hell? Living outta suit cases in the Windy City? Vacation in the redwoods? Start a revolution in Charleston? I'm really not to sure but it all sounds right about now now now now now now now now now now now now now now now nown onw!!!

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Voice Post [08 Oct 2007|06:18pm]
30K 0:09
“Does anybody else think it's really the weird how Austin or McCartney gets like ___ out hip pop song.”

Auto-Transcribed Voice Post - spoken through SpinVox
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Voice Post [29 Aug 2007|07:06pm]
479K 2:33
(no transcription available)
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honest is overrated and i'm fucking famous [15 Aug 2007|12:03am]
[ mood | fucktarded ]

I left
Came back
And turned around.

Everybody everywhere needs me.
I'm not a savior.
I'm not even christian.
Yet I wonder where I do the most good.
Inside myself or outside myself?
Am I as benevolent as I think?
Perhaps my help is guilt driven towards lifting unhealthy whimsy...
Perhaps my help is hurtful!

Oh, but if it wasn't for the girl.
The temptation!
I could be happy forever and still leave all my goals unaccomplished.
If there were ever a clearer mark of death I wouldn't know.

I won't be young forever.
Yet, I ain't dying any time soon.
I'm not as special as they think.
I am greater than I am.

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Voice Post [01 Aug 2007|07:13am]
213K 1:04
“Just had a kind of strange epiphany, like, I'm not sure what, like the dictionary definition of litter is, but, I was walking to my truck through a parking lot & such & there's a little blue piece of paper. Some sort of promotion for a cigarette company & on it is printed, Put litter in it's place. And I was just thinking like, isn't litter by definition like, trash that's like, out & about like, not in a trash receptacle, so it's like, like litter is already in it's place. Once you put it in a garbage can it's no longer litter so like, so like were they really asking me to pick up the piece of garbage & throw it away or were they asking me to leave it there? I'm like, I know what they mean but like, what exactly the thing is what they were saying. Anyway. ___”

Auto-Transcribed Voice Post - spoken through SpinVox
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Voice Post [19 Jul 2007|05:19am]
380K 2:04
(no transcription available)
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I don't want to vote for anybody anymore [06 Jul 2007|12:09pm]
Poll #1016589 Why can't I get a good feeling abou this guy?

Who else thinks Barack Obama kinda sucks?

I do, but that's because I'm a racist
I won't vote for terrorists
He smokes, what a fag!
I like him, he speaks soooo well!
Personally, I'm more into Oingo Boingo right now
5 comments|post comment

I Love You, and I Want You To Know [13 Jun 2007|12:16am]
[ mood | seriously ]

The most important movie you will see this year.

It's two hours long but you can watch about a half hour at a time and come back to it.  Please, watch it.  It'll be a better world for it.

Spread it around, you know... like the clap.

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everyone should have a happiness hour [08 Jun 2007|02:13pm]
"The difference between deification and defecation is simple an I and an E. Either you're making gods or making poo, and the simple difference is I, or the space between E and you."

Today I almost died, sort of. It wouldn't have been so bad, I would have died with a smile on me face. I was driving in the sweltering heat. I get ridiculously happy everyday around 11AM. Maybe it's because I get out of work or maybe it's because that is the awesomeness hour. Regardless, this morning I skipped on breakfast and drank red bull and coffee to off set my still-drunk hangover. I ran out of water around 10AM and just kept drinking the coffee that never got cold (yeah, really fucking hot one today). Well, I'm just fucking ecstatic and jacked up on coffee and happiness and I'm cruising and singing some song by the Guess Who. You know, the one about "these eyes, are crying...", and I'm just wailing like a goddamn banshee in heat. Then I pop on my mix CD that I've been rocking for like 5 months, right? Okay, so I kick it off with the Faces "ooh La La" because I know every word and anyone can sing that song with Ronnie Lane and not feel silly about how you're ripping your voice to shredded shit. I start to feel a little light headed but then I think it's just that I'm getting wispy because I know I'll have to learn about women the hard way and not even Ron Wood's grand pappy can talk any sense into me. Then a rip into Dion and the Belmonts alternate take of "Runaround Sue". It's got this double time rhythm that makes the original sound kind of plodding and slow. Anyhow, now I'm making eye contact with other drivers at stop light and telling them personally that if they don't want to cry like I do that they'd better keep away from runaround Sue. So, my hands are getting a little, uh, tingly. In fact my whole arms feel like they might fall asleep. I think to myself that I just need to drink me some water when I get home, only a few more miles. Next song I sing is "I Saw Her Standing There" by ze Beatles. Well, man, I am just singing-ing-ing my sweet little heart out when I notice that my hands are numb and cramping like little Margaret getting her first period, just like she asked god for and, honestly, I had asked for what was happening to me too. I knew something was wrong but I was getting highly delirious on the weirdness. At one point I asked myself silently if this is what it felt like to die. So I weave across three lanes of traffic and find safe harbor at a gas station on the corner of Greenfield and 10 Mile. I walk through the parking lot like some maniac on cough syrup. I push through the entrance and promptly begin laughing in an inappropriate and unfocused manner. I slither past a customer contemplating his drink selection and struggle with the cooler door mostly because I can barely open my hands. You know th shape you make with your hands to do a goose shadow puppet? That's what my hands wanted to do all the time. So I struggle and succeed in getting some gatorade and make my way to the cashier. He asks me how I'm doing today. I reply like some kind of crackhead, saying "I can't feel my hands, man, I can't feel my hands."  This was not a response he may have ever heard before for such a standard inquiry.  I tried to explain that I had lost all my water and that I must've been singing too loud.  He offered to call an ambulance but I denied him.  Perhaps if I fell over, we agreed.  After washing my face in the restroom I wandered down to a pizza parlor and ate 10 anchovies and a slice of pizza.  I was coming out of it after that and safely made my way home.  Turns out it was a bit of heat exhaustion.  To think of what may have had happened if I had lost consciousness behind the wheel?

Still, man, it was some grrrrreat fucking singing-ing-ing. 

In related weirdness, my great uncle had a heart attack today.  He's in the hospital, hope he makes it out alive.
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Fool in the Rain [03 Jun 2007|08:00pm]
He sat in his car. It wasn't so much as it was a truck. Actually it wasn't a truck, it was a GMC SUV, clearly a casualty of the acronymnization of language. So it's a big gas slurping nightmare with a dent caused by an unknown provocation. It's deeper than algae green made it indistinguishable from a similar model in blue. This caused emabarassment on late night in a parking garage, with much whooping and squeling from the antitheft alarm.

The car sat in traffic. No car, truck or SUV could make it's way due to road construction. Great orange pylons and barricades surrounded the craters of renewed progress. And did I mention the low pressure front had swooped in and was dumping great buckets of water onto the people and cars people were in and the houses they were going to. And thunder was grumbling it's impressive cosmic burps over the violent curses of impatient drivers.

One person was able to match the volume and attitude of the disappearing vacuum in which O3 was being born. He's dead now, much like he was on that day. Still, he managed to keep our driver from caring very much about the traffic, the rain, the war, gas prices or exgirlfriends or dead relatives. That man that was able to out thump Thor's hammer? His name was John Bonham and he liked to play the drums.

And that particular song? Why, it was "Fool in the Rain". The man that was non-driving and non-caring had listened to this song approximately fifteen times that day, a 50% increase from the day before. The song connected with him instantly upon first listen. This song embodied where he was and what he was doing and not doing at the same time. This had nothing to do with his vulgar and unpractical car he drove. This had nothing to do with two days of thunder storms. It had to do with what every red blooded american boy ever cares about.

A girl. Oh yeah, a girl. She had crept into the edges of his mind. This song sounded perfect to him for these two days. He had known this song for at least ten years but it had never made him feel like this. Like a tuning fork ringing to the perfect pitch, he sought to relive this aural fixation over and over. Like a 'tween that just discovered masturbation, he never flet old no matter how many times he repeated. And it didn't hurt that it made him think of a girl.

He likes the song so much that he wants to learn to sing it just as beautifully as Robert Plant. In this dillusion he begins to learn the lyrics. A creeping realization starts flowing from his lips as he sputters the first few verses into the glow of the dashboard. The song is perfect, yes, but the lyrics are spelling the wrong story. Oh yes, he's feeling the yearning, baby, but this isn't how he wants it to go down. What, with watching people shuffling downtown, being stood up in the rain. This isn't the right story, not the one that he thought it was.

And still this girl hasn't called for days and the paranoia is crawling up his spine like John Paul Jones' bass line and that stomping piano is crushing his tingling heart. All the while the traffic has been slugging forward. And wouldn't you know it, he missed his turn. Yeah, he's on the wrong block.
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