tuesday afternoon...

feeling a little lazy today as i wait for my yellow split peas to soak. Making a Dal today, there many different Dals and this one will also be unique. i will use an amalgam of recipes to form my own—that's my M.O. whenever i do stews or chilis or soups. i think i'll add some beet shavings in and instead of red chile i'll use some green. No masala or asafoetida, but i'll use some tandori for zing...

but as i say things are lazy in the constellation, taking it light after a return to the pool early yesterday morning and another trip there tomorrow. Lazy in getting things done, i really should get over to the laundromat and get things done there, the place is closed tomorrow but instead of all that i sit in front of my computer checking some facebook and headlines and not even thinking of posting something...

but i couldn't help wondering. What would it will be like in 100 years when the only people who can afford health insurance in this country will be the richest, let's call them the 1%...

as our jobs and skills disappear more and more over the next 100 years due to corporate shuffling and deterioration of education of this country, will there be anyone left to consume the products and services of the 1%...

will there be people to watch there shows, drink their soft drink, and wear their shoes. Will people even be able to walk. Will they be so overweight from the lack of dietitians who lost there jobs because the health care industry found no need to keep them on the payroll, i mean; they were talking bad about McDonalds, they had to go...

people waddling around aimlessly—barefoot, talking nonsense, blind from the radiation of the television and deaf from the bullshit stuck in their ears. How will the 1% deal with us then. What are they going to do then?...

what are we going to do now?...

i'm going to do my laundry and make dal...

back to the grill again...

woke up this morning and went for a swim...

5:30 am, you'd think that's when the pool is empty at the 33rd street Y. Its not. But there was room enough for my 60 laps. After a summer of biking and running and running and biking when the hawk makes his way back to the big city, i hit the pool. Back to the grill again...

woke up this morning and the Yankees clinched their division...

now every half-a-retard Yankee fan will come out of the woodwork and scream 'Jeter' over and over again including Tim McCarver; i mean, he has his lips firmly clamped around Jeter's johnson. Back to the grill again...

woke up this morning and learned that Social Security will pay out more than it collects this year...

hip hip hooray!! All of those card carrying capitalist-'fiscal conservatives' finally got their way. They've all but defeated the greatest socio-political deed since Hamurabbi's code. FDR would get up, walk out of his wheelchair and punch each and every one of those social-hawks in the brain—one by one if he could. Fiscal conservatism used to mean fiscal responsibility, now it its just a generic, like aspirin. And what is Obama up to? He's going to Copenhagen to try and score the Olympics for his fair city, sweet home Chicago. Now i normally wouldn't have issue with such a trip as the Olympics make a ton of money for the host country as well as the city, that said, 'Rack (that's what i call him cause we got it like that), you need to set yourself up in a lawn chair in front of the steps of Congress with a cooler of beers and a bb gun and pick off anyone who tries to get out. Ain't no one leaving 'til something gets done for the middle and lower class; you know, like you all said you were going to do. Back to the grill again...

hey, the sun is shining and the weather is sweet—i'm just saying, the more things change...

back to the grill again...

sunday evening quarterback...

i never need an excuse to put this picture up. Nothing beats Namath in the fur...

nothing...

except for maybe this guy...

...barrelling into the end zone head first! Unfortunately the art is unavailable, but if you saw it, you hear me, if you didn't, what can i say?...

football is back and this time we have a quarterback. No, not that broken down see-sawing nancy boy Brett Farve, not the career back-up to be Kellen Clemens. No Richard Todd or Browning Nagle here, ladies and gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to an honest to goodness franchise quarterback—Mark Sanchez...

the Jets won today, 24-17, and sure, the stout defense did more than its share to put a W up on the board but they didn't score any of those 24 points. They didn't lead an offense down the field to score three touchdowns and a field goal. It was Sanchez...

did he make some mistakes, sure. He seemed to have some issues with wet footballs and yipped a throw over Chansi Stuckey's head that might of been the death knell in past years—the old prevent offense as the elder used to say. The Jets used to be good at finding ways to lose. But suddenly, since the last Saturday in April, the franchise has finally figured out how to find a way to win...

and sure, he's not the guy he shares a stadium with. Eli might be better pound for pound and pimple for pimple, but Sanchez has something that i'm not sure Eli will never have. Mojo...

namath had mojo. He guaranteed a Super Bowl victory, then went out and did it. It was the last time the Jets were truly relevant. They came a half away from the Super Bowl with hometown kid Vinny Testaverde but i don't think that even Jet fans ever thought they would beat John Elway and the Broncos back then. Truth be told i cringed on draft day when the report came over that the Jets traded up for Sanchez. i didn't think he could handle it. The City, the press the weather (that still remains up for debate)—i just didn't think he was going to be the guy the Jets needed to succeed. Yes, they needed a quarterback, but Sanchez, after one year out in sunny Southern Cal, there was no way he would make it. It was after an interview later that day, Sanchez seemed to have an aura of leadership about him. He said all the right things and certainly looked the part. He shrugged of the horrors of the City and ask for more. It was then i knew we had ourselves a quarterback...

So the Jets are 3-0. Nothing to get excited about. They were once 9-0 to start a season with Ken O'Brien, only to finish 1-6 and lose in the second round of the playoffs. There is a long way to go, and Sanchez himself has a long way to go. But this team, with its defense and the protection Sanchez gets, along with his confidence he seems to have when he's slinging the ball around to the likes of Dustin Keller, another star in the making, its hard not to believe that this team isn't headed for special things. This season and beyond...

it might be a bit early but...

this kid looks good on Broadway...

in the evening...

trolling for inspiration last evening...

i was feeling pretty caged yesterday in the midst of a wonderful fall like day and decided to take a walk. All jacked up and nowhere to go. There are days when the creative energy is flowing without end, but untapped, it needs to escape, so i took it to the streets...

while walking Yellowstone Blvd, taking a look at the place i would have bartended at if Gordon Ramsey had not made it a nightmare, i was greeted by an email by the Cat Mom, detailing her day to come—she is a night kitten and also three hours behind us here on the right coast. She also relayed the revelation of a sex dream with bonus dead husband—baby steps my dear...

that got me inside of a a russian mob front/coffee shop to write a short playing off an apparition and the foiling of a perfectly good fantasy. Inspiration is an odd thing. Satisfied in a job well done—the story is not yet finished but well on its way, i did some window shopping for books on sailing while on my way to picking up a falafel on 71st. The Israeli joint was closed due to sabbath so i went to the middle eastern cart by my bank. Out of falafel! Peace due to Allah and all but what the fuck, man? Gas face given, i went on my way to meet the Judge over by Kaufman Studios to check out a new beer garden. Still hungry and itching to continue my reading of A Prayer For Owen Meaney i took a seat at a Cuban place on Steinway for a couple of sub par empanadas, the -nada apparently stands for not enough beef. Oh well, on to Studio Circle...

down the block from Kaufman stands a four story building that houses amongst other things and an open-air beer garden atrium-style tucked inside a corporate veneer. It had big beers at a good price and although at times it seemed very crowded i never did feel all that sussed. Bonus individual restrooms gives the bathroom area the feel of a changing area at a department store, it was a nice touch—the Judge commented that it was a class joint. He and his cousins were meeting. i met them all between the haze of the Judges bachelor and matrimonial nuptials. Normally they would meet at another garden not too far away, apparently Astoria has cornered this market. The Judge said they decided to change the venue since that particular joint got zagat rated and became bourgeois in hurry afterwards. Word of advice for the Studio Circle, keep up the good work and keep the ego in the sink where it belongs...

after three large Sam Oktoberfests i drew the line and made way back to my domicile, satisfied that something productive was accomplished. If nothing else a good time was had by all...

that's all you can ask for when you're trolling for inspiration in the evening...

are you listening? vol 4...back in the days on the boulevard of Linden

de la soul has a track off the album Stakes is High named 'Supa Emcee'. It asks the simple question—'Whatever happened to the...EM-CEE'. Its track two after an intro that contains an amalgam of recordings of members of the De La Soul and, presumably, the hip-hop community recalling each persons first experience listening to their debut record Three Feet High and Rising. Stakes is a landmark record that describes the trials and tribulations of a life in hip hop since the days of that lofty debut at a time where, as far as hip hop was concerned the stakes were high. The south and the west coast started to water down the product. In New York, where the art form was created and mastered, greed seemed to take precedence over the art. producers shooting rappers, rappers shooting gang members, and meanwhile a music business holding the strings controls the action. Hip Hop allowed itself to be taken advantage of...

these days, for the most part, Hip Hop is nothing more than free advertising for the latest fashion, car, alcohol or gadget. A capitalist's best friend. And for every 50 Cent who is smart enough to invest in himself there is any number of mic jockeys who go into debt recording two terrible records, dump even more record company money into some ridiculous video that features gold, platinum, an Astin Martin and don't forget the ladies...

'times done changed for the...EM-CEE'..

they come out of the wood work, somebody's cousin got a beat from from somewhere and all of a sudden he's all over the radio, and the TV—he or she will live the high-life, champagne, sex, and all the money in the world until the record company calls the margin in, then they are back to sitting on their cousin's porch, talking about when...

'every woman and man wanna...EM-CEE'...

i can count my own two hands the amount of Hip Hop cds worth talking about since the release of Stakes, there's the first NERD, the Black Starr record, a Roots record, Mos Def's first solo cut MF Doom and Kool Keith also get big ups here and its sad. I remember driving with Kareem so many years ago listening to Stakes and actually having the conversation that it would be the last great Hip Hop record. We weren't all that far off. The industry has gone wild, just as De La had prophesied on Stakes...

the final track on that record is a glorious number dubbed 'Sunshine', where in which De La dream of a better life for themselves and for Hip Hop. As the songs fades into silence a voice abruptly checks in stating 'when I first heard Three Feet High and Rising I was—'...

it was the voice of Q-Tip. Front-man of the legendary A Tribe Called Quest. Tip has been absent from the conversation for many years. His first solo try, that was after the systematic disintegration of Tribe, was Amplified, nothing more than a poorly produced pop record. A shame considering the kind of water Q-Tip used to carry when he picked up a mic. He disappeared into the obscurity of cameo's and Budweiser commercials. Until last week when he released Kamaal the Abstract, a long, and i mean long awaited, follow up to the failure of Amplified...

in Kamaal, Tip delivers a throwback, that is to say a stellar Hip Hop record. One that understands, melody, arrangement and savvy while still knockin' blocks with well produced beats and satisfying the hard rhymer in all of us. Tip can still rhyme with the best of them and his voice is as distinct and potent as ever. Short and succinct, Kamaal comes off like a Stevie Wonder record, grooves all over the map, offering a promise that maybe there is still another voice that can carry the torch from Linden Boulevard....

truth be told, i've always had a soft spot for Q-Tip, his hailing from the thorough borough and all, but there isn't any nepotism to be found here in the Queens family. In Kamaal, Tip has scored a bona fide hit for the sake of soul of Hip Hop and those of us who remember where they were when Three Feet came out...

i was in a hospital bed and first heard some its tracks via a mix tape called Canon's Rap that was given to me by Robbo. Three Feet along with Tribe's People's Instinctive Travels and Paths of Rhythm that restored my faith that Hip Hop cold last the long haul. On the precipice of another loss of faith it would only be apropos that Q-Tip once again brings that faith back to the fore. To stand alongside the likes of Mos, and Doom and handful of others that still understand what it is to light up a microphone...

do yourself a favor, and get your hands on a copy of Kamaal the Abstract, not for Q-tip, but for Hip Hop and the return of its Supa Emcee...

just asking vol 1...so, why not Olivia Newton John?...

the constellation would like to take this opportunity to welcome Olivia Grace, daughter of proud parents the bastard and lady friend (soon to be partner in crime). While the constellation is confused by the logic of such an event—we here in the constellation don't see the reasoning behind adding to the overcrowding of our fine planet, but she has my last name, so constellation be damned!...

so without further adieu, welcome Olivia...

congrats to the two-time poppa and first time mom and the lovely Olivia—may you get our eyes and common sense but be spared the sweating...

hey bastard, don't you think you guys should have waited until censored material returned? He may not talk to you for a week or so for such an egregious misstep in protocol...

capital improvements...

i will be mailing the letter today that will resign me from the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers, Local Union #3. Time to cash in my chips and use them for capital improvements. Being a struggling writer has its disadvantages, but being employed under the umbrella of the union for a little less than two years had its advantages. Now i will reap them, upgrade the wardrobe, settle a debt, and plan to counteract new debts. Guerrilla finance at its best...

it is fitting that i have begun this process of legitimizing my writing, sending it off to be judged and cut the ties to another old life, another notch in the belt on and around this time. September 21, which just past, is a watershed day in my personal history. I have made references here and on beingabastardworks.blogspot.com (archives—2005, September 22, do your own research—i have things to do) about how that day itself was an Auld Lang Syne type of day. I consider it a second birthday without any gifts, except for another year on the planet...

maybe i'll get into some day trading, i hear the market's up...

censored material...

spent the weekend with a Californian this weekend. The bastard, her and i spent the better part of two nights catching up on our drinking, BBQ and family gossip...

the long story short is that we all have our tales to tell, some more provocative then others. Amongst family nothing is censored material and in turn, when these things get out you have to leave it be. Your skin is only your skin and making it thick only insulates you from reality. Vindicated, i knew i wasn't alone in this, besides what others might think...

in the following days i will be submitting a piece of fiction i've been working on to various publications. Throwing a line out to see if some unsuspecting literary magazine will take the bait. Nothing particularly inflammatory just a little bit of neo-pulp about an otherwise lovely woman who has bad taste in derelicts. i might get to posting it here although it might be a little long for the blog-type medium...

this tale is loosely based on the truth, in that, the characters are real people, that's about it. My fiction will often have some basis of truth to it, whether it be a character, event, or hyperbole of an event. It might just resemble a truth that came to me along the train platform or a lie in the presence of a sunset. Either way, from time to time, the truth is stranger than fiction, and i will be more apt to expound about that...

this here, this constellation is nothing more than a commentary, a journal of sorts. A place to maintain a string of thought for posterity. Its as i said many times sitting on the tile outside of Tower, you can either subscribe and participate of take your toys and go home, i could care less...

at Howard Stern's pinnacle of popularity it was stated that his biggest demographic of listeners were people who were morally against his program and its practices, the idea being, the best way to beat him is to find out what he is saying in the first place—rather than to object to his 'immorality' without ever listening to him. Your biggest detractors often tend to be your biggest fans and in turn benefactors. Stern had to know this and raised the bar, eschewing the idea of censoring himself in order to stay safe, palatable, and on the airwaves with, you know, a job, instead he became more of an anti-hero to the franchised and disenfranchised alike. He owns his job now...

i'm no Howard Stern, thank goodness. Nor do i believe this blog is so subversive that it merits keeping an eye on for the sake of humanity. i certainly don't think i have the power to hypnotize readers to my bidding simply by writing some claptrap. i giggle at the thought of a joke that came up this weekend in the company of the bastard and Californian #3 that when speaking of those who don't wish to be included in the archives here at the constellation i should use a tag-line not unlike 'THE FOLLOWING IS CENSORED MATERIAL, PLEASE EVERT YOUR EYES'...

no thanks, i'll stick to my own program. Wait until i start writing about Florida. I mean; after i get through with them...now there's a group that will have a right to be upset...

'color catalog available, right now!'...

i am a registered democrat. i registered when i was 18 and i've seen, heard and learned a ton since pigeon-holing myself 18 years ago. Do i consider myself a democrat? No. Should i re-register to properly identify my political affiliation? Maybe, but there is no box for Pragmatic Anarchist...

i'm a big believer in chaos theory, what i like to refer to as celestial violence. Chaos theory works,—your taking up residence on its greatest achievement, this planet. Now, you aren't still believing in an all-knowing, all-encompassing being are you? I'll put it this way, if the most intelligent humans on the planet don't believe in a god, and the dumbest do believe in a god, who are you going to side with?...

be careful how you answer...

ignorance is bliss, sure, i'm not buying it. Neither should you. Ignorance creates a world where giving a woman a choice about what they will do to their own bodies, how they will decide how to enact their own liberty, is questioned and even demonized. A woman with a choice is not a murderer, she is informed...

ignorance challenges your patriotism when speak out against a war that peripherally stalls any progress in creating a cleaner, safer form of energy while abusing that patriotism to allow for a colossal power grab the likes of which we have ever seen. Simultaneously, that patriotism is applauded because some television gasbag tells you that the current administration wants to kill the elderly...

ignorance gives a microphone to a high school drop out/former crack dealer and asks the President to answer for that persons foolishness because of the color of his skin...

ignorance makes us ask the same questions over and over—Which way to America?...

'i look out the window, i don't see your America'—Corey Glover...

ignorance is not Windex, its the the smudges, the grime and bug filled screen. We are a nation still very much divided, but not in two. There are the haves, those who run and take great benefit from the Military-Industrial—and let's add Pharmaceutical, complex. There are the have-nots, that would be us, but that group has been fractured. There are the pawns, the foot soldiers of the complex, those holding the baby killer and the cold dead hands posters down the mall in DC. They blindly walk the walk and talk the talk of the great word. And there those of us who know better...

see it doesn't matter what i'm registered as, democrat, republican, libertarian, constitutionalist, water buffalo-humper at the end of the day i'm a have-not. So are you. And even know our numbers grow everyday i feel as though i'm in a growing minority. Its difficult not to bash the talking heads and the lowest common denominators when they propagate their foolishness, on TV or on the streets. Kings of hypocrisy—all of them, whether they know it or not...

ignorance, its what's for dinner, well, i'd rather side with anarchy. Anarchy, that is chaos, always has a way of working itself out...

while i was upstate this past weekend i got a good look at the night sky, filled with stars. It looked different from the last time i got a good look. i wondered how much it changed since last October, the last time i got away from the city or when i was a teenager at Boy Scout summer camp when i used to stare up at the infinite...

sea changes are for the rough and tumble. We are at ground zero of one right now. The next 50 years will depend on these next few months and even years. Will people get over their ignorance, see the light and actually question what it is they truly believe in...

where is your America?...

wilderness survival...

you know what your problem is?...

...you don't see enough of this...

...or this

i spent the weekend in the Adirondacks with the patrol. In between the canoeing, the fire, the exploring, the Mentors and some patrol spats, we did it like we always do—Forever Wild. Thrilla, K-Luv and i took the 5 hour trek to Indian Lake, leaving the city and its ghosts behind. You know what I'm talking about, the bustle, the bullshit, the stress...

we all met via the Boy Scouts so many years ago, along with the bastard and Jonny Airplanes. We still feel the need to work and act as a patrol. To explore the outdoors. To challenge ourselves, our bodies and minds. Upon returning and reconnecting with the world i read a reply from the Judge after i had told him where i had been. He asked if i was on a spirit journey. The Judge is a big Jim Morrison fan, but i guess he wasn't far off. A trip up to the woods will always get you thinking...

it occurred to me overlooking the wilderness before us that we have it pretty good. Not the three of us, all of us. This is where we are from. This is what we are. Four elements. Fire, water, earth and air—the rest is gravy. Don't forget that, we don't need anything else. Everything else is an extravagance. We are not our football—an over-jacked, over-hyped excuse to act like an animal, and that's just the fans. Don't get me wrong, i like football, i'm liking the way the Jets started their season, but i don't like where football is going, sexual assault, self-inflicted gunshots, vehicular manslaughter, greed, greed, and greed. If its not the owners its the players, or ESPN—they are killing the game, all of them, and you are all a party to it. Enjoy the lockout people, its coming, there's a lot of money out there, but each side wants to take it from one another. When they are quibbling and squabbling in two years remember that it is your money they are fighting over...

we are not out Video Music Awards, and thank the stars in the sky i'm not Kanye West—that emperor needs some new clothes. And Beyonce, honey, i've seen you before, your Diana Ross and if you keep believing you're some kind of queen out there you'll end up a hop and a skip from looney bin just like Diana. Tat goes for all of you out there, you're all an embarrassment out there. When you lose your voice, your assistants, your fame, what do you have? There's a great line by Vincent Dinoffrio (before he lost his shit) in The Player, he says to Tim Robbins' Griffin Dunne, 'I can write, what can you do?!' Well, yeah, i can do that. I can also start a fire while Thrilla catches us our meal, K-luv will cook it up after he finishes up on a shelter. We may not live forever, but we'll live long enough to see you fade away. Music sucks these days, when you have to do research in order to find something you might like, that's just too much work. Stop acting like you guys are rewriting Sgt. Peppers or Pet Sounds, Love Supreme, Burnin' and Lootin', Crossroad Blues, Hank Williams, Beethoven. Its pop music without the pop. Your fucking arrogance is insulting...

you are not two building that crumbled into the Battery. Leave it behind, its only there to antagonize you, and keep you wounded and scared. i normally put a particular picture up from my profile on facebook. i took at Union Square some years ago, a spray painted stencil on a stone that reads 'Obedience is not Patriotism.' It applies here. Believe in conspiracies or believe in your government, but don't let the pain of that day shackle you into thinking you have live this way. You think your free because you see the light—because they say where the light is but you should turn around and see where the light is really coming from. Let all of that disappear so the exploitation of you 'patriotism' will stop. That will be the real tribute to the fallen...

on trail or better said the lake, i made a deal with the devil. Thrilla can be a chore sometimes. We got into a ruckus about time management while fishing on the lake, an hour away from the camp site. Tucked inside a shaded cove we got into what was best for the patrol, there was work to be done back at the site, wood cutting, tending to a warming fire for the evening, food prep, and the like. Long story short, we acted like assholes, the both of us, and after screaming and hollering K-Luv began to mediate only to have Thrilla jump off the boat onto an island, push the boat off back out to the lake. It was then that i decided to what was best for the patrol. I sat back, shut my mouth and wait for Thrilla to end his tantrum. He got back to the boat and we humped it back to camp. It was no easy task. Handling egos never is. Its a recurring theme lately. It seems i'm running into egos everywhere i turn right now. Well, fuck it, i learned long ago in the Boy Scouts that its all about the patrol. Its the only way to survive. Whether you like it or not. That's all i'm about...

scouting has taught me a lot about how to treat this planet, how one is no more important than the other. To be inquisitive, to challenge yourself and others. That's all i'm trying to do here...

you know what you're problem is?...

you think i'm talking shit...

nah...

its just that scouting spirit in my motherfucking soul...

if its not a Rush album, it don't mean nothing...

quickly, just so we can get back to the business of living our lives without inane distraction...

there is nothing special about 9/9/09, just like there was nothing special about 8/8/08, or 7/7/07 or 6/6/06...

there will be nothing special about 10/10/10. Please, get over it. We work off of the Gregorian Calender. It is incorrect insofar that it doesn't correctly determine the time before or after Christ. If A.D. (Anno Domini) means the year of our lord then shouldn't day one be Christmas Day? So for all we know 9/9/09 is really 12/20/5769 or 9/19/1430 or 7/21/98, it all depends on who you talk to. The Julian calendar says it August 27th—you get the point...

And of this 2012 talk is ridiculous, everyone who is everyone knows the world is going to end 9/21/2026...

trash, labor, and the trail...

apparently summer is over. That's what they say and we all know, they are the foremost experts on what...

sure, i along with everyone else on the planet knows that summer doesn't officially end until the Autumnal Equinox on September 22nd—get your eggs ready. Today, along with the throngs that are off to work as they are most weekday morning the teachers join them. School has opened across the tri-state area. All of those poor teachers, all complaining about how they have to return to work. It must make the rest of you stand up and release the bird in a chorus of 'Up yours part-timer!!' I remain unemployed...

this will not be a post littered with reference to my need to work or obtain salary. While that might be true, the fact is, i am working. This is work. This, along with any of the other manner of creative writing i'm doing currently is my work from here on in. Paid or not, destitute or not—i mean; i can always take a job as a Mr. Elegant, but it would only be a job. This is a life...

this also won't be a post about the union in which i'm still affiliated with, that treats its ADM division like a red-headed step child. Yesterday, Labor day, being its most high, holy day fights for wage increases for its laborers that force construction firms to squeeze the profit from subcontractors forced to use Union labor, in turn, subcontractors cut their fat when times get lean, hence my unemployment. I believe in the theory of Unions, they are an important part of the checks and balances of the free market, so i'll bite my tongue...

this is simply about the last weekend of Summer...

friday you would have found me at the Trash Bar in Brooklyn checking Spag out doing his thing with Two-Man Advantage and afterwards walking the streets of trendy-burg with resident Hripsack, Sods and Miss Anne—soon to be Mrs. After some moving and shaking on Saturday afternoon in preparation of this Friday's Forever Wild outing in the lower Adirondacks, i took an evening of rest, that is after a short trip to 7-11 where i had a brief run in with the kid down the street, still sulking. i was engaged in conversation with the Cat Mom at the time so besides a point in his direction i just didn't have the energy to pad his ego. He has made his choice, he'll have to live with it—family business can be troublesome, but i learned long ago, if you can't beat them, you might as well love them. You just need to let the rest of it go...

Sunday was highlighted by a visit from an old friend from the mountains so on to Garden City for a BBQ, plenty of food, margaritas and beers and then the subsequent fighting over the greatest American Band, or songwriter or—so it goes with Matt Palumbo. it was good see Bob, next time i catch him will probably be on the trail somewhere out West. I look forward to it. Matt and i will continue the conversation over a 'Sweet Action' at the Croxely's or Miss Anne's wedding...

Monday was spent nursing a nasty hangover and the clanging of my blood pressure pulsing in my skull. We took a trip to the House that George Built, and took what would be my first and final walk past the House that Ruth Built. Shrouded as it is picked apart for auction, i can't wait piss on the ashes of that joint. i couldn't help but be jealous as the new house will be filled well into October while Citi Field will fall quiet when the leaves turn. I can rest in the knowledge that the great curse will find a way to thwart the 'mighty bombers' from a championship...

September is here, the leaves will indeed turn orange and brown as truly the best time to be in New York approaches. i used to the say the same about Florida. The streets will be a little less crowded with kids and their temporary mentors, the weather gets cooler and things get clearer. A respite between the high flying days of Summer, and the dreaded winter and holiday season. Maybe Labor Day is the penultimate change of season, put your white away, break out the sweaters. For me, it will be time to shed the security blanket of the union, collect my chips and move on. Like trees becoming bare of their leaves, morphing themselves to a feigned skeleton only continue the process to an eventual reinvention, i too will reinvent myself...

i will feel the first chill of pre-Autumn this weekend. i look forward the mountains. The boys and i have been remiss in our duty to the outdoors this Spring and Summer and we will have to make it up in one fowl swoop. The bastard has issues with a shelf guy and unfortunately he will have to remain absent from this trip. Although, knowing his luck, we would be on a peak somewhere when his daughter drops, putting himself in the eternal doghouse, so maybe he's better off. The patrol will also be without Jonny Airplanes, who should be renamed Jonny Row-Yer-Boat as he patrols the Caribbean with the Coast Guard, or patrol the locals in Key West where he is stationed. He will also be missed, but his ass-to-mouth line of questioning will not be. So Thrilla, K-Luv and i will hit it early Thursday. One last Summer fling even if Summer is 'over'...

see you on the trail...

origins vol 8...sound's like a whisper...

i'm that nigga you love to hate...

i'm a 36 year-old fair-haired, blue-eyed white boy. A.K.A. the Devil with bonus shaved head to denote nazi. Everything is my fault and i'm living off the fat of that land. All the problems of the world can be boiled to down to what me and my fellow white boys are up to. i get a white boy check every week. i deposit it my white boy bank so i can pay for my white boy food and clothes. When i'm not spending my time pillaging from the less fortunate, i'm playing it cool in the White Boy's Social Club—members only. When i die i will be buried in the white boy cemetery and my estate and effects will be offered to my fellow white boys...

those of you who know me know that's some bullshit...

i'm Slavic-Celtic-Caucasoid from lower-middle class upbringings. i went to public school, i wore hand me downs and my family had to live the guerrilla life until the time i went to college. i worked most of my teenage years to help support myself and to make up what i was consuming from the household—that is when i wasn't occupied with nuclear waste. i am receiving a check weekly, for now, but its no white boy check, and at some point check is going to stop coming...

but peep this. Because this is not about that, at least not on the surface...

when i was in P.S. 33, as young tyke, graffiti and break-dancing were the rage. i did both, neither very well, but when called into duty i can bust out some fresh footwork and a windmill. In the end i left the graffiti to a kid named Jason Stone—i'm sure he had a tag-name like js-one or j-rock or something but i can't remember. Good natured kid who minded his own business for the most part. i remembered he took the early bus since he lived pretty far away from the school. He actually lived closer to 135, it never made any sense, but I met him in 2nd grade and i would have considered us good friends for a stretch back then. He was the graffiti guy. His work was good for a prepubescent. Great letters and even better characters. He carried around a sketch book, filled with his pieces always willing to let a brother take a look. As i would go through them, he would peer over my shoulder while i perused his work. He was like a new father showing pictures of his newborn. He described the inspiration, his style and the difficulties or ease with which each piece was crafted. He also would be quick to point out pieces he felt were 'throw-ups'. They were not to be confused with his elite work. A 'throw-up' is a piece done on a moments notice, no planning, no real basis from which to start with, a celestial inspiration—just the artist with his marker...

i never carried sketchbooks for my graffiti. The best thing that can be said for my graffiti is that it didn't hurt anyone. As a writer, i didn't carry any special special vessel for random thoughts and asides. Nothing for serious writing either, i used whatever i had on me, spiral notebook, looseleaf, receipts, and countless other scraps of paper, pocketed amongst the lint. it wasn't until '97 or '98 that i picked up my first sketchbook and started using that uniform medium for my ideas. Sure, i've continued to litter my waking thoughts and story ideas any place a pencil or pen will mark—i've used ten-pass LIRR tickets to store thoughts, even the inside of cigarette boxes, but when its something substantial, or at least the attempt at something profound or sublime, i use the sketchbook. I'm up to volume 5. When i leaf through the volumes i am always struck by the absolute schlock i have the ability to create. i once wrote a screenplay called The Hit, partly during my breaks at Tower and also in my Biology class. i failed the class, i was arrogant enough to think i wouldn't have to pay attention to the curriculum and still pass the course. No dice. Recently i read it some of it and i realized failing that class wasn't that bad, the epic fail was this screenplay. There are sheets of ridiculous lyrics, alternately spitting venom at my latest enemy and laying rose petals at the feet of unrequited love. While those opus are an atlas of the suffering, apprehension and introverted journey that was my teens and early 20's by no means are they worthy of human eyes, including mine. Even the some of the work i did on a major idea of mine back when i was doing day shifts on metropolitan make me cringe. But you know where this is going...

going through the volumes i've found some throw ups worth revisiting. Quick lyrics, a short dialogue, a rambling tale about a man, a hurricane and his home. All throw ups, in one way or another—hidden gems, waiting to be shined up and put on display...

here's one—

'you say that someday its got to get better, someday its got to be real,

something to put it all together, something with mass appeal,

you can stand on high upon your stool with your elders, or sit on the floor with the kids,

but i can tell you that life is very seldom there to massage your id'

'i can tell you that life is very seldom here to massage you id'...

Your ego, lose it, its a problem. You are going to die, i promise, and when you do everything in your pockets is going to go to your wife, your child, parent, or the dude working the night shift at Potter's Field. That's it. Your ego is going to argue with you and make you think there's some old man in the sky waiting to give a pack of Camels, a fifth of Sauza Tres Generaciones and a free pass to the great gig in the sky. Keep thinking that, is it working for ya'? 'Cause that kind of attitude is pretty selfish, and you're not special enough to be selfish...

see, its the ego that makes you think you need Puff the Magic Dragon to blame the worst parts of your life on. Its your ego that drives you to excess, collect those things, put that guy down, do that chick, watch that dreck, and, more or less, avoid the life you never want to admit you live. Ego is what appalled you when you read the word 'nigga' atop this piece. People, racism is so 1987, haven't you heard, terrorism is the new racism. Fear and hate make you forget that you have strings tethered to your back, i mean; you ever get the feeling that your future has already been written?...

you see, life is very seldom there to massage your id...

at 36 years old i'm am part of the great and holy Generation X. i say i'm part of a forgotten generation. A small, late part of that generation segment, that doesn't quite fit. i'm old enough to remember the gas lines, but only to understand them in retrospect. Old enough to remember Iran Contra, and Black Monday, but not yet be of age to have a voice worth listening to. Desert Storm, and legislative stand-offs i was of body and mind but without experience. When the eastern air was bereft of defense i stood on the promenade deck of Arthur Ashe Stadium when i watched the buildings burn and then disappear into the haze of smoke, panic and death. i was helpless, but we all were...

these days we stand before a precipice of something epic. This is not just about a recession, or a war, or the Real Housewives of Atlanta. This is about the way we are going to live our lives over the next decade and beyond. These last 8 years have been trying, full of turmoil, sure. Yes, our jobs are gone, our factories along with our creativity long disappeared, soon our moxie, then our soul. We are consumers. We are thought to be worthless drones whose only use is to make someone else rich. We're feeding the machine and this country, us, we, are quickly becoming a Pink Floyd album...

do we turn to our government? How? They put us here. Spouting the magic word—democracy. Its democracy feigned. At its root the error in democracy is as simple as the difference in the wants and needs between Queens Village and Forest Hills. Forest Hills and New York City. New York City and Sullivan County. Sullivan County and New York State—New York State and Nebraska. Our government is fractured by design, and through those cracks come the lobbies, pork bellies and the corruption. At the end of the day our government is really only there to serve its master and if you are reading this then chances are you have strings tethered your back. my are made of hemp, you know, for the environment...

its the mechanism, its been here for years. Masons, Illuminati, Templar—please, ghost stories at best—Keyser Sose in the modern age. The men who stand behind the men. Keeping the rich, rich and the elite, elite—the secrets, secret. Making sure the rest of us are checking out the new season of Mad Men, or what that cartoon Glen Beck is screaming about. Shiny lights in the sky, the hand is quicker than the eye—ooo, Sportsnation is on, that Colin Cowherd sure is a card...

white, black, yellow, brown and from the boogie down, this is a call to all. Leave your ego at the door, its of no use—just like my white boy check. We are not without power. As consumers we have demands, what if our demands change? What if we wake up from our Henry Ford induced coma and demand change? Individually we can't demand a bagel. The machine wants us to fuss and fight, wants us to be happy in our TV trance, listening to the Jonas Brothers suck each other off. The machine wants us distracted so we lull ourselves, to sleep resting our egos, and let them get about the business of ruling the world...

times don't change in a flash. Times change incrementally and leave marks. And if not for your fellow man, or yourself, how about the kids—the motherfucking kids! For lamb sakes, there are new ones popping up all over, so if you're not going to stop fucking then you have a responsibility to them, and to those of us who haven't littered the world with our seed so haphazardly, to make sure those kids get a fighting chance and don't become the illiterate undead. Let them know that their future doesn't have to be pre-screened, that they can write their own, just like you did...

life is very seldom there to massage your id. Neither am i. I don't care about what you think of me, this is my good turn daily, my volunteer work. This is my chance to right the wrongs i never had the opportunity to fight against. This is street philosophy, take it or leave it. It'll be no harm to me either way. I live my life on a blade, it cuts a lot, but i don't mind. Its what it takes to remain unsold...

don't you know?...talkin' bout a revolution