Today (now two weeks ago) i drove through the really wealthy neighborhoods and looked at the X-mas lights, the kind of houses that Blaine and Steph lived in, as if they had stables out back or bowling alleys in the basement, then i drove home and got stoned, and then baked peanut butter cookies while listening to the Smiths, it was as if Duckie had moved out to the suburbs, and he's doing alright, he's blissfully melancholic, one could call it not happy or not sad, but the Duckman was smiling as he sang the words and rolled peanut butter dough into balls, rolled them in sugar, and dutifully criss-crossed them with a fork, Mozza would've been proud, they're damn near fucking vegan peanut butter cookies, completely unintentional, more a happy accident...
Of course the other day as i left the man's house, my pockets emitting the aromatic scent of the finest indica, i drove the loop, a semi-quiet suburban street that runs sorta circle-like through my neighborhood, pleasantly stoned and creeping along, once again looking at the x-mas lights and listening to the new Deerhunter record which had crept into my psyche, i once again felt as if i was in a movie, it was a bit Edward Scissorhands, a strange Burtonesque ride, i took my time and gazed at the mostly dark houses adorned with the bright and twinkling lights, wondering what the residents were doing in the houses with the lights still on, mine the only car on the street, it's something i do alot, having practically abandoned my old temple, aka the bar, i cruise along and like Steven Patrick i ask myself, are they happy? i think to myself, are they fucking? (what else would i think first) does it smell like dinner? are the towels folded? is the garage in order? are they fucking? are there cobwebs in the corner? is there a ring in the toilet bowl? does it smell like dog or cat? are they fucking? these things float through my mind as i pass the occasional deer at 15mph...
In sticking with the Mozza thread, i watched the Importance of Being Morrissey again the other day, i won't mention how many times i've seen it, an abnormal but not unhealthy amount of times i'd say, i'm not going to lie i love the man's music both solo and Smiths, as a nearly 40 old man i nearly jumped four rows of seats to attempt to touch his hand, that's not fucking normal behavior, of course i'm not the only one, i will say that every time i watch the documentary it amazes me at what a fucking twat the man is, i guess one of the lovely things that comes with getting older is the ability to appreciate the art even when the artist can be a fucking knob, hell if i started only reading, listening to, or admiring the work of morally upstanding artists i'd be dealing with a real short fucking list, isn't that why one gets into it anyway? the art, real or imaginary gives one the right to be a bit of a fuck-up, it's like being a born again christian, they ask Jesus to forgive, the artist writes a story or sketches something, writes a song, it's absolution in the name of something or the other...
And so last year i wrote about the Hobo Motel that currently resides next to my humble abode, i'm the star witness for the prosecution, subpoenaed and all not once, not twice, but thrice, after two postponements we will tango rain or shine, hell or high water next month, seems the starting shortstop for the world's dumbest criminals has quite an impressive rap sheet, i wondered why he didn't just pay the fine but it turns out Muppet Boy will go down for a short stretch if he's found guilty, enough for him to miss his new child's first birthday or two, lately i've been in a (more) contemplative mood, by lately for the last six/nine months, it's what i call devising and refining a philosophy to live out the rest of my days in relative peace, to loose the pissed, to do good instead of pummeling the shit out of some moron, basically good works instead of evil, an impartial judge would surely say i've perpetrated much of the latter, and so i'm writing a letter to read to the judge or hand to the judge and basically it says that i don't want him to go to jail, that while what he did was technically a crime, a minor one at that, what good would it do to take this guy who works, from what i can tell quite hard, for his family, basically kicking his wife and kids onto the dole, his main crime was stupidity and while i hold that be a more grievous offence than petty theft we've all been guilty of it, what he needs to do is think next time and if he's dumb enough to end up back in front of a judge at any point in the future then they can do what they will to keep the privately owned penal colonies at capacity... i know some may say i'm a dreamer but surely i'm not the only one?
So where are we? ah yes the blogosphere, for shits and giggles when i'm not wanking or watching Mozza documentaries (i'll let the reader decide if i do both at once) i sometimes peruse the vast wasteland that is blog universe, seems there are many reasons and motives for these little sites of we lumpen-prole, seems there is a whole fucking cottage industry that has sprung up around them, i learned that people actually try and drive traffic to their sites, that there are new terms for old terms that basically mean someone is trying to sell me shit, trying to make money, it always fascinates me how what looks like a deep pool of water is nothing more than a puddle on a blacktop, i do this for the sake of doing it, for fuck sake if i actually took it as seriously as these wankers i believe it would become something like a job, and as we barflies, whores, and drug addicts know, the last thing we want here at the lounge is a career... in anything...
The long story short, or long depending, is that the internet can turn the blandest of housewives, office drone, warehouse grunt, bicycle messenger, dishwasher, lawyer, chef, etal, into a media whore, somewhere not far from where i write this the original media whore laughs in his grave, garish white hair atop the bone white skeleton, you see i am a buffoon in the purest sense, doing or dare i say creating shit for no other reason than i like to, yes maybe i put some of what i do in a public forum but that's fine, i'm attempting to share common experiences, emotions, the fucking human condition if you will, i enjoy it, i don't expect anything from it nor want anything from it, John Frusciante, former guitarist for the Red Hot Chili Peppers just released over 12 hours of music for free on-line, his rationale was that he wanted people to listen to his art, not to buy it, he didn't want to package it and make it a product, he wanted to give it away so people could enjoy it, think about it, fuck to it, paint to it, you get my drift, it was news that brought a smile to my face, cuz sometimes i'm still in that wilderness, a different part but still slowly and solitary marching towards the dirt nap, before i get there i want to write things down, maybe paint a few more rudimentary pictures of breasts and flowers and Henry Miller's mug, an attempt to apply meaning and feeling to an increasingly plastic coated world, i want to shoot baskets with the boyos, all around me the inhabitants of this world want to pick up more speed, want to boast of a calendar jammed with activity, i want to tell them they're doing it wrong but what do i know, chances are i'm wrong, i just prefer to sit and watch and listen, to learn, to listen to the wind and the rain, the traffic, the exuberant yawps of yard apes, to not worry about the future which doesn't exist or the past which is just a memory but to be here now, a lovely thing and simple thing to be...