Thursday, June 26, 2003

sometimes I wonder if I really have any deep thoughts of consequence anymore. Day after day, hour after hour, we creep in this petty pace, shining a flashlight through the ether, making our way along the path that was designated but always adjustable, taking time here and there to look at the leaves on the trees, the trash on the side of the road, the clouds in the sky, the clever license plate frames on the VW vans, all along thinking to ourselves, this is it, this is depth, the depth is in the details, the meaning is in the realization that we are just an infinitesimal part of an overlying universe that in all truth does not give the slightest fuck about us regardless of our overwhelming views of our own importance.

And then I think I’m probably full of shit. just looking a little to hard for something to tie it all together, something to give the whole shibangle a theme, a hypothesis by which I can go out and either prove or disprove. Lather rinse repeat. Stop drop and roll. Duck & cover. Wake up, take shower, drink coffee, hop on the bike (oh wait that’s something kind of cool) turn the switch on the fuel line, engine switch to on, turn the key, hit the ignition, feel the power of the machine between your legs, rev it a few times, make sure it’s not too cold (no need for overkill, this is Hawaii after all, playboy), pull in the clutch with your left hand, left foot pushes down on the gear shift, ok you’re in first, masta ace, pull it out of the driveway, watch out for those pebbles over there, ok you’re going down the street, clutch in again, lift up the shifter, you’re in second, turn right, pass the liquor stores, over the hill, pop another right, shit it’s a nice morning, nice breeze, nice trees, come to a stop at a light, find neutral, kick it and breathe in the morning air. Maybe it all does mean something. Maybe life is in the details. You’re not stuck inside an air conditioned environment listening to Frank Sinatra bang out Manchurian Candidate propoganda, your soundtrack is the tradewinds blowing in off Kaneohe bay. Your band is the mongoose scuttling across the road, desperate to get to the other side. Why did the chicken cross the road? Yeah there’s chickens in Hawaii, contingent, plenny kine. Fighting chickens, slaughter chickens, they take em to the market they take em to the backwood old skool spots to square off against each other. Winner take all, loser ends up with rooster stew and/or some gristled out filet o’ lil’ jerry seinfeld.

Why did kurt have to blow his damn head off? Shit.

Hmmm. Everyone wonders that though. That’s nothing new, keith, that’s typical horseshit, you were on a roll there, and you lost it, what’s the problem, what’s the paradigm, what’s the schizoid, ain’t nobody gonna look at that and get all jack handy.

Fuck jack handy.

Well that was the ending, grand as it is, but I went to publish this and apparently I’m being transitioned into the new version of blogger of which I have heard, well, I guess not that much, it’s all been good actually, except for ya know, quirks of learning a new system, um, whatever, yes fascinating stuff.

I’m gonna go take some drugs. I’m still just a little under the weather and the plain wrap orange crap sounds like a proper sedative, especially with big al rambling on in the next office. At least if he comes in here and tries to talk story to me I’ll be ready with visions of daffodils and pegasi (pegasi? Is that Pegasus plural, is it like cactus & cacti, did I take my drugs yet, oh wait, no, ok, hold on, well I mean you don’t have to hold on literally, but if you want to experience the effect, you can wait and count 1, 2, 3, before reading the next paragraph.)

Ah HA tricked you. I didn’t go yet. Ok now I’m going.

Ok now I’m back. Jesus fukn Christ, big al is full of shit. I don’t know who he’s got on the phone, but he started telling them about his trip to the mainland and now he’s telling the old crappy story about how fukn charming him and his brother were back in the day and how it wasn’t a party if him and his fukn brother weren’t there. It’s probably someone he knows, but seriously, this guy has cornered like travel agents on the phone before telling them these old BULLSHIT stories, like about his fukn high school football team from like the 1920’s or some shit, or every single job he ever had, or how fukn he went to every 49er game during the years they sucked ass, but you’ll never ever hear the story of how he got his blatant and “what the fuck” level combover which graces his bald head. Ok look, I’m losing my hair, I’ve still got a good amount up there but I’ve faced reality numerous times that one day there will be nothing on top of the ol’ noggin. I will never ever ever ever have a comb over, ok, because I will not wake up from freaky dream in the middle of the night and wander stumbling to the bathroom to splash some water on my face and look in the mirror of the medicine cabinet and see some guy with short hair on one side and like hair hanging down to his shoulder on the other side and nothing up top and this confused look on the guy’s face in the mirror, like “what the FUCK happened here dude?” like your modern persona is facing the persona who originally decided to start the combover and like having a battle of wills, all within the same medulla oblongata, over the unbelievable self-delusion that must come with the rationale for thinking that if you comb a few strands of hair over your bald head people will somehow think that it’s growing out of the top of your head.

I just deleted this long diatribe about this conversation I had with this bitch on the phone after which I slammed down the phone and gave it the bird (it didn’t seem offended, damn inanimate object) and thought about punching my bob big boy bobble head statue but, ya know, he didn’t do anything, so instead I wrote this and hopefully somewhere she’s not reading this (she won’t recognize it now cuz I took out the details – hey, you can never be too careful, just cuz you’re paranoid doesn’t mean there not watching, etcetera, hey ask Trevor, they’re watching him) and calling the cops and sending a fax and fukking me over like some other people in the blogosphere are getting fukked right now vis a vis (and YES I know I used that French or whatever the fuk delineation phrase it is yesterday) the dramarama of bloggerville. Fuk it probably no one is going to read this far down on this crap ass post anyway.

But if you did make it this far I’d like to recommend that you go check out 8 3 5.

Aloha. Oh and remember, trust in Allah but tie up your camel.