Cult of Los Angeles is the new...

Cult of Los Angeles is the new black, again...I may have a particular understanding of what that means, but I totally understand if anyone has no idea what I am trying to convey.

My question is this,

"Why is it that whatever is the new hot business, the new dope market leaning, the brand and spanking new fashion is called the new black? If this is some new metric, then what happened to the "black"? Is "black" then sublimated to an arch-metric? Or is it the recycled out of tense loser, again and again to whatever new blond make-up, style icon brand that "becomes the new black? What is this all about and who are the authorities that govern these types of things? I'm performing an investigation. More on this later Cult...

just sick enough...

I found the beautiful and beautifully alive quote, "...a man on the move and just sick enough to be totally confident" from the beautiful and beautifully alive, even in death!, Gonzo journalism's asexual Father, Rider and near-Tamer of Life itself, ya Hunter S. Thompson, my main man. More on the man later. I just wanted to elucidate the power of language and attitude and rhythm in the hands of a master or an outlaw or a rebel or in this case with Mr. S. Thompson all three.

"...a man on the move and just sick enough to be totally confident." Yes, bad ass enough for me to nearly plagiarize. I mean, I haven't really credited the quote, my log line for this very weblog, until this very moment. I never considered it theft or plagiarism, although I really couldn't build a defense against those charges that the big and bad wolf couldn't blow down. I never put HST under the quote because upon reading it, I felt a connection to that ideal so intimately, I rushed to marry it to my blog before I even knew who wrote it. Two minutes later...Hunter Thompson, of course, love that guy. I remember I bought the first volume released of a collection of his letters probably fifteen years ago. His words, every single one was peppered with piss, pepper and vinegar, and reading his work, or worse, listening to him read from one of his works is and impossible and impossibly delightful adventure, a fight, a wave ride with the occasional crash...All these things meet in this sorcery, coded in language that intoxicates and delights with nuclear efficacy and efficiency. If I remember correctly the line was from "Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas" and the quote was descrbing Hunter's character, Hunter...Ya, Ive been there before and we stay sick for sure...

on general movements, El Patron and the girl...part dos, Salute!

Ok, back to the glory that was El Patron's story (my dear friend Martin from the LBC). So this cat is filling his tank up with premium petrol at some station in South Central. El Patron shocks and strides with a pretty deep footstep and can navigate diverse situations be they in the hills or the hood, whatever. Now, while he is filling his prized car's gas tank, he notices a girl noticing him doing some filling. And according to his telling, a common twinkle in each other's eyes mark a magical moment that he had to move upon. He was mesmerized by her gaze,, caught, pinioned, stuck inside a black hole singularity, a k-hole of chaos and electricity, a distinct attraction, hypnotised inside an eternity of pressure and congress delight- upon returning to his natural, unbent faculties made fierce attempt to locate the now disappeared nymph. His eyes darted, left and right and quickly, his head tilted slightly to the about, nose slightly pinched searching for that delicious scent, her flesh and sweat mixed with gasoline, sweet yet flammable. The scent, caught, the flash of a brake light, yes, that brilliant silhouette looking neatly back, but speeding away! In the suck of a quick breath, El Patron has disengaged the gas dispenser, jumped in his car and gave screeching, spy chase trying to dodge on-coming traffic and better judgement!, El Patron continues forward, sanguine, perpendicular and yes, delightfully phlegmatic following residual heat from his beautiful folly. He follows what he thinks to be her into a parking lot of a residential complex. He sees a shadow walk behind a corner into what he would soon discover was the back entrance of a multiple unit building. Once he got back there he had to decide,

1. "Am I going to really knock on one of these doors?"
2. "What am I going to say if it's the wrong door?"
3. "What am I going to say if it's the right door?"

El Patron crushes questions to action and like a General on the battlefield, General movements, decided the most strategic course of direction, equating odds and heating quick language, thinking and tongue for whatever case knocks...

The door opens and the light, a shadow, the eyes struggle to drink enough light to process, a little more, yes, it's her! He tells us that she looked a little confused and he started speaking to her in Spanish which he reveals he is "way more efficient in...". El Patron begins to notice her demeanor soften, and then down right liquefy. His last masterstroke was that he decided to give her his number instead of ask for hers and risk her being uncomfortable after he already was so aggressive at the beginning. Genius. The deal is that it is not even really that important to the story if she calls or doesn't. The point of the story were the strong, general movements he made when risk was high and danger was almost certainly afoot. The Cult of Los Angeles is made from this brand of adventure seeker, romantic, hero of the left-handed path. These are my friends, this is us, Cult of Los Angeles...I am in a hurry to post this so it will be edited later.....

I am not a gentleman...

The Cult of Los Angeles is the sum of a lot of things and sometimes the summation of the equation is not civil, gentle or balanced for that matter. Alas, sometimes, the Cult is ugly, violent, nasty. Ya, nasty...

These words are for the murder of Ego.

on general movements, El Patron and the girl...

I haven't referenced the Lounge in a long time. Maybe because I'm there everyday. Henry Rollins said, "You're only an 'American' when you're outside of America." Ya, like you are not really wet when you are under water. You are not wet until the context you are in is defined by an opposing, enveloping ubiquity, in this case, dryness. Digression is my great! and most amazing! stylistic folly, for sure. Tangents usually lead me to cool, wet places, none the matter what stylised vehicle we commence story or description (the first passion of language) with. So I go to the "LBC" with vigorous and indefatigable frequency for the myriad magic that strikes and ebbs and flows during cool, smoky moments of laughter, heat or attraction, a minute of cool inhalations and the press of a thousand loves and constant ahhhhhs do melt with molten wish massage...The precious territory that directly engages me with magic, me with joy and sweetest friends, me with sheer eternity. Right! Now back to the focus... I was at La Brea and conversing with two great friends, Castro and Martin El Patron about things dudes of our nature and type talk about. The conversation took a circuitous route as lively conversations born of a lively bunch do. A casual, enjoyable exchange became inspired when Martin El Patron, now El General, told us a story of some moves he had just finished making, prior to arrival and completing our intrepid triad...

Running out of juice/time. More on this later...

golden brown sound...

Damn, it's nearly six p.m. Pacific Standard and I'm supposed to be on the road to the bank...the freaking bane of my meager existence, but a necessary anxiety, doom, and the like. I don't think m engine is going to make it there today, I'm sure. A procrastinator, though, need not ever be fed and there I go...I'll have to take care of that tomorrow. There is always tomorrow in the Cult of Los Angeles, always a tomorrow of hope and more and delight. That is our strength in this town of such light and such devastating pressure, such hard won baby steps while most never taste the real spice of exotic and fine and action classic and avante-guard and cutting edge.

And I have found that if you wait long enough and with a certain self-assuring perspective inside of your happy and holy ground, even inside the place of your greatest "indulgement"- there shall arise the exact equation of sweetness to justify your placement. I theorize that that is the power of attention, to be general and perspective to be specific. With the brush of both hands of the freshest golden brown shine across my newly shorn face, a deep breath, closed eyes and a fire inside...This moment of inspiration and 'myriadelights'! That is the joy of association and budding friendship with diverse and lovely, exotic people, moments, like the aforementioned, of ecstasy and terse 'plus ultra'. The spark from her lovely touch with my electric attraction bore the arc of a thousand story lines and intimate, hushed communications. The miracle of golden brown sound, that burgled, for a moment, the breath and forced molten language to birth it in words, new life and eternal...

Another long night in the cut with plans in the morning. The Cult of Los Angeles invites to it's hard and less travelled ways, at times and rarely. That rara-avis will not remained unwarmed by my chase, for sure...An animal limping in the night beckons the Cult to pounce. We need new, fresh blood to keep this sacrifice going. Work on that tonight, TV architecture, stories, security, words, magic and the such...

whatever prey, may be...

The black market rush associated with the commission of a crime. There are small amounts of cocaine even in the proscription of the illicit, the ill-good, the action of menace, yes, the rebel and outlaw craft by way of getting over. For sure, hustling is a zero sum game, like speculating on culture or complexity, the measure of distance between the fall in love and the floor, it's calculus and change...an everyday exercise and long expertise- a lifestyle and icon mold. All this from the ambition to look beyond convention, safety, LAW and dead into the eyes of whatever prey, may be, snap its neck, then consume it!

six freaking thirty a.m.

Ya, the current time. And the Cult has been up all the livelong night. Not to rest, but be assured, it was a sacrifice, but a glowing one. Got to use the time, burn it coolly in my nightly, brick and thick plastic post. Finished a project, a good thing and yet neatly balanced...

A gauntlet awaits my warmth this morning, a gauntlet long and brutal and straight as the sole horizon...Ya, what new fight stalks me on that growing and fatted, ever-rapacious and hungry Los Angeles highway. A deep breath drawn and glorious carbon released. I'll close my eyes and strategize the sojourn back to the holy flat, the center of the World in my middle, in the eye of the storm, in the hot, taut space between never and sacrifice...

Tired, tired, tired...and yet miles and rounds yet to engage, to engage, to engage...

The Cult is my Corps and escort toward the Happy Isle...

Graveyard, lovelies...

It is a new job, yes job, passionless, but thankful suck of my lifetime- yet the whore pays me instead of the vice versa, that has kept me from the Cult with regularity. Well, to delve into a bit more specificity, it is the schedule I pass my sacrifice through: the graveyard shift my lovelies. That's overnight in the hood, Compton, California babysitting night's awful potential armed with wits and my "Glock automatic synthetic"...for an anemic, impotent sum- a sum I am thankful for and will add some Cult of Los Angeles magic to and...I'm trying to make a mint, my governor..

So as the Cult acclimates himself to the rigors of the graveyard, he steadies himself, and prostrates himself, agape and akimbo in the wash of the Cult, Los Angeles, dangerous woman and murdering ego...

"To destroy you must prepare, you must learn your pain."

Henry Rollins

Un momento, lindas...

The dwindling case for American girls part 2

I have given this second part of my dwindling case for American girls an:

1. open minded forum for comparison and analysis and,
2. determinedly prejudiced favor. Because I can.

The case for American girls is as solid as it has been since the second World War when, in my estimation the American girl rose to her highest plateau when compared to woman of other countries in terms of straight, high school, but the World, popularity. (woman is what I mean, but "girl" reads and writes more fitting). I suspect this sudden and explosive ascent was, at least in part, due to America's victory in the War as well as the rise in popularity of American cinema and the "pin-up" model. Ya, something we can be proud of inventing... The immense popularity of our female celebrities world-wide, the drastic copy of American women's fashion, idiosyncratic glamour, their strength and vigor are still truisms in a careful reflection of comparative world cultures. The reflection they cast around the World cools the interior heat of the hottest blood on the planet and could threaten blue blood to white. With enough of the population being sweethearts to balance the other dynamic, American qualities of independence and ambition (in our American girls) I contend that the dwindling case for American girls is not so much a dwindling case as much as a changing one. The World and the American girl in constant flux and the dude that introduced that idea, well, a bit obtuse, myopic. The Cult of Los Angeles will chase acceleration...hurrying the trip to the tightest efficiency. Oh, the Cult remains in love with the World as his American girls...

The dwindling case for American girls part 1

Years ago I started a miniature career in the security contracting industry. I worked around trained career intelligence gatherers, hostage rescuers and killers. And then me. Self-deprecation aside, I brought my own curious set of skills to the field, but the important detail here is the type of man I spent all of my hours around; mainly former special forces servicemen, Seals, Force Recon, other scary stuff. These became my friends over time. We worked long hours, standing, in harsh conditions and limited resources, but we were making, what was to me, ridiculous sums of money. Every single man in our outfit was armed except of me. I've had plenty of training with rifles and machine guns, I'd never shot, much less, owned a pistol. But I was paid the same as everyone else ($300 a day) When you get a bunch of armed alpha male types in close proximity like we were in (sleeping in moldy F.E.M.A. trailers after Hurricane Katrina in hot-ass and nasty humid New Orleans) stories pretty much become the main currency of community and companionship and the main subject matter was never ever boring, but the stories were one of two things: either some bizarre sexual exploits in some exotic locale or some equally bizarre secret war mission kill f'ers story. And they were all bad-ass, I loved them all, but they became, to me, a bit unadventurous after awhile...I remember after one of the particularly graphic and delicious exploit stories, the raconteur philosophized about foreign woman being so much more friendly, in general, than American girls. And that American girls better watch out or they will lose what little remaining status they have in the World. Apparently when this "happens" American guys will overwhelmingly prefer foreign woman. Plausible I guess, but probably not. The guys with extensive overseas travel, for the most part agreed and those that didn't were visibly contemplating the case, visible smoke, non-tobacco, evident, wafting from reddening ears. You could hear these dudes thinking. Amazing! I haven't travelled enough to make an intelligent juxtapositioning of the American girl friendly quotient versus the girls of the World. I will write that the single overseas trip I took, to Brazil, was magnificent and the girls there were extremely good sports with me. But I still have a deep attachment to American girls, but I would love to make a social experiment when the chance to travel presents itself. That would tickle the Cult of LA...Yes, the Wild.

I still, after a bit of serious and careful thought, champion the role of the American girl in America as well as her role in the World. And in the Cult of Los Angeles, the baddest of the bad and coolest of the cool. American girl runs and lays...in the sun her hungry eyes prey...The beaches and hills hide beautifully tipped predators. I stand, mesmerized, attending to becoming soft prey...

the Vegas addendum part 4

As is the case to a serious and dynamic psyche, well, oftentimes para mi (for me, that is, I'm practicing my bi-linguality) with the change of the winds a person can change a letter or number or spice of their equation which shifts human dynamics like they had no axis. So the crazy ass bitch from the Vegas trip has become, like magic!, Yeni, a sweetheart, albeit eccentric home girl. It's so much more in accord with the Cult and the World to welcome and enjoy. We try not to pinion ourselves to tightly to anything, especially of the heavy and conflicting spin. Well, no more! That is behind the World and Cult an stoked for new friends and new, sick adventures. New friends of new friends, new variables for the slow cook, for the equivalence principle to assimilate. That is an adventure of itself! Again, that is the nature of life and living and the code by which we abide in the Cult of Los Angeles. There is yet new mint even in the labyrinth. It is a matter of reception and bend. Thanks Arlene for the echo, the recurring magic (like Nietszche's eternal recurrence of things)...I see the glitter drops from sudden goes and quicker stops- a grip of heat, sweaty, drawing Vegas days...

to be in love part 2

"To be in love..." were the first words to a song by a cartoon pop singer named Minmae (not sure of spelling) on the Japanese anime series Robotech. Robotech was broken down into three parts back then and I'm not sure if I can remember the name of that particular title, maybe "?"... I got nada for that, not even a hint? It dealt with the first part of the story with young Rick Hunter, Lisa Hayes and the rest of 'em, heroes that made nine year old eyes wide with adventure and excitement and reverie for the fantastic and mysterous future, subtexted with mad passion and whipping danger necessary to fill the belly of entropy...all this in a flash of youth watching a cartoon drawn by men and women of an exotic culture plus thousands of miles away, but touching and gently massaging this loving, growing heart and leaving an indelible impression upon the Cult of Los Angeles. Of course there was a madcap love story between the singer and the show's protagonist, Rick Hunter which ended up withering as the story became more complex. Whatever. The point is I learned so much from "outside" sources that are particularly bizarre when analysed. After all these years the words to the aforementioned song still stir powerful emotions in my belly. I experienced a pull towards how I thought (projected) it felt to be in love by how her voice sounded and resonated throughout me, the experience, a palpable and measurable one, a fascinating event that I can pinpoint the origin of only because it was of such deep and profound import. The careful consumption of a steady diet of popular culture and some not-so-popular culture plus diamonds in the DNA equals a particular, well, answer?, solution? or just some simple equivalence...Maybe that is the most high and at bottom, the delicate still point that encompasses all the past and all the future-pressing them to the molten event, the potent moment...To this is the Cult of Los Angeles aghast and akimbo inside, this utter cool and new beatific.

"Everyone has an opportunity to use whatever advantage they are afforded. From bacteria to insects to the kingdom of beasts this is evident. And everything is always deserved, if by the cause of nothing else than an exacting necessity."

This is the way of life in the Cult of Los Angeles, for sure...exciting like Robotech was (and still is) to the nine-year-old watching and learning about love, passion, change...diamonds wrapped in DNA (like Angelface! in dress today...).

the fecund streets

These fecund Cult of Los Angeles streets...spray paint and spit, hashish, blood and desperate sweat. The flesh left behind, in the breach between self and the World, stuck and sticky, like honey, but with a metallic taste, like iodine, red orange on a nine-year-old's moist mocha skin. The streets exact a price on anyone who runs them, even the predator/rebel/artist meandering down uncharted, dangerous left-hand paths to more and more complex, chaotically arched story lines...I tell you from deep and intimate experience that the price is high, but that is the rub of ego. We can start the mint, sometimes at will and sometimes after an intense internal movement. But to be that close to the spark of culture mining, of which even the Cult of Los Angeles is wrought, worked from is worth the emotional and constitutional duckets that I tithe and sacrifice daily. It is like a church relationship through a distorted lens. And I guess, at times, I find comfort in strange places like these. Makes me feel elitest, at the lowest key, the note not outside the range of hearing, but outside the perception, a complex and bending language that attenuates to a point...

I'll remain with my head close to the curb, livid with detritus and the code to the brilliant and the new, the continuation of it's fresh again and again...yes, that code is what I risk my life for in the Cult of Los Angeles. Sometimes she's soft. And sometimes that fervid stink is so virulent, I refuse to put it in my mouth. Yet, at all times, she's still a lady, my holy ground, Cult of Los Angeles.

"writhing in her moist betwixt, the rapture, dope, expressionless..."

OxyPoxyDapolous

The search for balance and true equanimity is a prominent feature in the ambition, stories and study for the Cult of Los Angeles. And the slope is slippery, all oil and water, ice and dirty snow along the highway (drops of blood on brown packed powder). There seems to be a hand hold in the sheer face of terror if you look hard enough and your fingers are super strong and super sensitive. The adventurer must be sensitive with his senses as well and also with his thinking and language. A sensitive language is, well, has been the case in my experience, the most vital tool in navigating the self and the World...Right now, I am dancing on a bloody blade and I have to pick up my feet at a quicker pace, to run if necessary. I remember when I looked at running as an activity of cowardice. Then I was shown the efficacy of utilizing space when offense becomes defense. It became imperative to know the quickest manner by which to create space between you and the source of attack. Because in that space is logical necessity and escape or engagement must breath first to be an efficient, vital strike.

I digress. These next hours will be a necessary adventure. Ego is the swiftest and most dangerous prey. Snooping and pooping with a jaundiced espionage, nevertheless how polished and sharp. The stench in Los Angeles is as captivating and inspiring as the orchids and palms. And between the running gutters and wet curbs, the blood, spit and bathwater mix in utter congress- ya, the feeding ground kept fecund and alive with rot and wet capital. Therein is the magic that glitters and glows and jiggles from ecstacy! in the heart of the Mother from delight in her child, the World, any self, me.

"The Murder of Ego"

Everyday, the charge is to murder the ego.
These words are for the murder of ego,
These words are for the murder of ego,
Every word is for the murder of ego-
These words,
These words!

Everyday, the mission is to murder the ego.
These words are for the murder of ego,
These words are for the murder of ego,
Every word bends to the murder of ego.
My word!
Your word!

EGO, EGO, EGO, AYE!
EGO, EGO, EGO, AYE!
IEIEIEIE AYE!
IEIEIEIE AYE!

Everyday a celebration, every meal a feast
Ego murder, dead no foul- murdered ego beast!

"damn damn damn", he said to himself...

Yesterday while taking a break from writing, I went through my Apple and accidentally erased the entirety of my iTunes collection, some 83 gigabytes worth of music which is just under 15,000 songs. That shock was exaggerated by the misunderstanding I was just horribly figuring out. See, I was originally trying to free some of my available memory by deleted unnecessary files. I freed up over a hundred gigs, the bulk of it unknown to me then was my entire digital collection and a respectable one at that. When I maneuvered the cursor over a new song (it had been strangely silent for some time!) and double clicked a song I was particularly excited about hearing right then. A strange window appears on the screen?! The song cannot be played because iTunes can't find the root file?! What is this foolishness?! A single bead of sweat forms atop my brow. "Oh...no", I whisper inside the echo chamber of hard skull and soft gray. Menopause, as heat creeps and the heart starts to race the rising degrees, a mild anxiety rushes over me, with sweat membranes choked to flood I experience a flash of "damn damn damn", (yes) he slurred in a whisper, sober, but now toxic with organic stresses...A deep breath and "fuck attachment" realization begin to wash over me. I bootlegged gigs before and I can do it again. It was an adventure. And the Cult is all about that if nothing else...So today we get back to it with a wide open memory and a record of what I lost- forget about it. Today, 17 John Coltrane disks, Sonic Youth, Pixies, 1000 top hip-hop songs, Flying Lotus...ya, the fly shtuff.

The Cult of LA is never separate from connection to the Source, of cool, of cutting edge, of cool, of all holy fervor, of cool and what is cool and dope and new, fresh, even if it's old. What's e word anyway without direction, spin, acceleration? Gotta finish the architecture, the self, the World...before the dawn comes. I'm hurrying as coolly as possible...

Too!

...and so much love for my first and second leader, Mggn and Big Mike, and all the low-key Cult of LA readers.

Cheers lovelies!

CoLA

...like a cocaine fall

There are moments that I find myself wrapped in that I know are charged with some strange energetic, some dynamism of magic and creation...I feel as if I am treading in a field of chaos and electricity right now- a rare event of capture. I know this may read a bit arcane, but understand that it feels fairly elusive and welding words onto an experience you don't understand is tremendously challenging; even for a wordsmith, but fun nevertheless the difficulty. I guess the only palpable difference for me is the way I experience experiences. Wait. That seems a bit abstruse to me even knowing what I mean. What am I trying to write? What kind of question is that to ask oneself when an audience will be ever welcome and able to peruse these lines, seemingly self-reflexive, searching for distinction and specificity like a dog chasing his tail ad infinitum. Let's stop this now! Slow the heat schedule of meaning to a medium cook. The flesh and fat get tender to words and slide easily from page to pupil to medulla oblongata and back again ad infinitum...When the stars align just right and she winks back in time (you can smell her daisy perfume from across a crowded, hot room, so cool and sweet)- ya, when the balance of correction and the devil is just perfect, when thought and union join in sexual congress, and her tongue's caress, that cusp of never and yes, the wild! I love the freedom and feeling of fearlessness that overcomes my psyche when I perform writing. It tickles in my belly like a cocaine fall, when I pilot the power of language, direction and acceleration- quickened all the while. And the lovelies! The lovelies give me urge and impetus! You are the lovely, dear reader. The first steps of adventure on the left hand path are breath snatching...an immediate vacuum, potential oblivion warning!...and then the work begins again and again. Down to take that risk, a first punch, who shot first? Each excruciatingly delightful second is life or death on the blade run...even her smile reflecting the sun signifies neither loss nor won, nor best or worst. These conditions are illusory as is the difference between Cult and self...

I'll be trying to formalize these abstracts to a language recognizable by the Cult of Los Angeles. The Cult I am so madly in love with...and lust toward depending on drug or mood- the urge to ravish, ravish the Self and World to union. The only instinct is to keep it fresh and cool for the lovelies...from engagement with them do I derive immortality and attempt to reciprocate with each line of language.

miasma of clums and fuckery: part 3 in an anti-climatic tragedy in Las Vegas

Ya, "anti-climatic" as in no peak of action or excitement or passion in the heavy, hanging hours we spent frustrated, sweaty (upon the sunrise and while trying to pimp suit and stuff!) and crashing down from a buoyant intoxication that felt like we were circling the drain of doom. I felt like I was in... any scene from "Apocalypse Now", no, every scene- yes, "...the horror, the horror". I write "every scene", but not the scene in the "REDUX" version when the boys on the boat get to hook-up with the girls from Playboy. Sure looked like fun even in fake Vietnam and even with Marlon Brando's sweat membranes in threatening proximity. Anyway, back to my Vietnam (you just caught me exaggerating...or is that my hyperbolic bend?), yes, our sexy foursome walking around as close to aimless as you could get. So after the ladies figured out for themselves (it has to be that way sometimes) that there was no club to "rock" at this hour (now roundly past five "fucking" a.m.), the ashen quartet head back to Caesars' Palace for some craps and one roulette bet (for Mandy Angelface, 23 black). The gambling did not go as well as we had planned. Of course it didn't with the black magic that was going on around us, the evil stew that my buddy and I flavored with our excited hearts, our youthful spirit to embrace this quick adventure- ya, we sacrificed, but again I do believe our territory of experience, albeit how miserably gained, was made more complex by this engagement, this entanglement with weird fleshy sorcerers, the one strangely out of her mind with self-absorption and the other, pretty cool, until she allowed the crazy one to tame her cool. Like the BORG in Star Trek, resistance to the crazy ass one's influence was futile. The cool one was integrated into the cold fold and now everyone is , well, pissed. We are sure the crazy one was upset because we gave the cool one so much attention after awhile...because she was cool, what does she expect? Whatever. A trip with dope potential totalled. The trip home was the anti-climatic fizzle of an anti-climatic story. Now we know, at least...to plan better and leave stupid bitches at home where they are happy. It feels good to be able to move beyond this shocking failure...a deep and fresh breath for the Cult of Los Angeles. It's always new here...these fecund streets...Fuck Las Vegas.

This is the first entry in my upcoming compilation. The last of an era of work. It is titled, the compilation that is, "Our Funanimal World" after a quote from James Joyce's "Finnegans Wake".



1 number 1

Impassioned by your surreal feel,
saline dream-
Inebriated by your supine wine.
A morsel, a sup, a netherworld beast,
Let us dine,
Let us dine,
Let us feast!

part 2 of tragic vegas, yo...

Ya, So Jake and the Cult are headlong blazing toward Vegas, yes the city of proud sin, egregious, exaggerated and too much enough to be real, with two girls, his promised (and delivered) pocketful of money and pinches of potential energy. Again, it is now turning into one of the clock in the a.m. The music gets turned up and up some more and then some more. Me? I'm like whatever as long as I feel the driver, my stable friend Jake, is able to stay reasonably focused on the road. Things are fine. Oh, I forgot to mention that just before we set off it took Jake and I an additional hour to find where the one girl, eventually found out to be crazy as the proverbial bitch, lived. Just because I may write shit about her we will not use her real name. Let's call her, "Crazy Ass Stupid Bitch" or, for the sake of what my mother would ever think, we'll shorten that to "Casbi". So Casbi ,what we all later figured out, faked a weak stomach and motion sickness so she could sit in the front seat where I was sitting. The Cult smelled fish, but of course, didn't trip over that ego trap. I settled in the back for the long haul south through and toward the unwieldy desert. It stunk from the beginning, but even the effluvium of a foreshadowed doom, as long as it is connected to adventure is worth the effort, trouble and expenditure. Should we have put one and one together and gotten that there was even a chance that that funky attitude that we knew before today, but were experiencing in four dimensions and neon bright would haunt and heavy our trip from jump street until the bitter gross end? F ya, we should've freakin' known, but no, we had to see it through- let this drugged monster breath and pout, snort and flail about in some grotesque and let us say, shitty language and look. What lot of patient I have readily available, in reserve and back-up for emergencies was worn, burned and wasted by the time we arrived on the strip with me behind the wheel looking for our first planned stop (notice:plan). We make a premature turn, bust a near Los Angeles U-turn, LAU, or the "busted bitch (a U-turn also) and find Caesars' Palace, valet Jake's new Grand Cherokee (Go America!) and begin the delicious downward spiral to an exhausted and nasty, ruinous, wasteful adventure. I curse not the time, only that stupid girl. And there were pretty tickling moments that dotted the landscape of misery and melancholy. We are out of the car, in the open air, stretched and ready to hit some tables and sip on some Scotch or something. What? The girls want to go to the club? At four-thirty on a Wednesday morning? HA! Are you joking? Jake and I sneak "WTF" glances as we try and justify walking around the more and more sunlit and tourist and police populated streets of Las Vegas. Oh goody, now we're impaired, wearing sunglasses to legitamitely conceal the rising sun and on a quest, it seems, to some imaginary club, the "rockin' ones", the "hot ones"...I didn't know where these places were at four thirty in the morning on a Wednesday and afreakinpparently, to the bursting of my ire, neither did they...In reference to the descriptor "delicious" used above, it gets worse...more on this in part three my lovlies...

tragic Vegas adventure in four dimensions... part one

So my good friend Jake calls me up a couple of days ago explaining a strings of events that ended in two significant things:

1. He got fired prematurely from his job and,
2. He was going to Las Vegas for a short night and morning/afternoon of debauchery and gambling (and eventually found out he needed a wing-man, me).

In three words, "I was down." It tickled us later in the conversation when I figured out he had been inviting me for the entire span of a text conversation and then a five minute telephone exchange about the history behind the impromptu trip. Anyway after listening more and more to his plans, they seemed more and more involving a mysterious second person that begun sounding more and more like me. So I asked, "Is this an invitation?" He begun to laugh so hard then me in retort after I understand the words he he spitting between hearty laughter. Wow, he'd been inviting me all along. Funny, I suppose. Anyway, we make our plan to meet at the LBC, the lounge of my delights, around 7:30 that night, do some time there, then leave after the majority of traffic waned. Sound idea, I suspect. I would learn two important lessons by the end of this "should've been super-dope ordeal":

1.The more a plan changes from it's original sound context, the less sound, usually, will it become and,

2. Girls can either make a trip way better than just two bros (and super-straight bros, by the way) or a thousand times a thousand worse.

I arrive at my lounge earlier than the seven-thirty agreed upon time because I wanted to hang out for awhile before we peeked, then dipped our feet into the abyss; hell, I always keep enough wild on reserve to do, let us write, spectacular and wide-spread mayhem, damage to property, and very possibly self, others and very rarely animals- these rara-avis events of animal harm were necessary for either self-defense or sacrifices to the gods of the affirmative Wild of which he worshipped in whole for a span in his life. Please be aware that the wildest and most robust of these times occurred many years passsed, I am just able to resurrect some ghosts of long gone days for the right reasons. This invite to Vegas seemed just the right opportunity to stretch the old legs of the Wild laying dormant inside me. Yes, an adventure or the potential for one. By eleven-thirty that night we had included two girls, friends we met at the lounge, on the road trip. Now with a full car and plenty of potential energy, we set off on the three plus hour trip after twelve-thirty. I'm writing about twelve-thirty on a Wednesday morning. Slippage becomes more and more evident over the course of the next five hours. More on this later, lovlies...

...slakes the thirst!

When the impossible and I embrace,
The mirror looks back with your precious face-
and such your happy blood of course!,
the same that slakes the thirst of Source.

"...oooh, impossible concentration."

policia! policia! part 1

After having a particularly satisfying session at my happy place, the LBC, my smoky writing lounge of fervid and fecund social exchange, I was driving a good friend, Enzo, to his flat off of Ogden Drive, not far from the taco truck we just left on Olympic and Wilshire (Enzo was starving as was I, but the thought of tacos churning in my belly at that point in my life seemed like a poor idea). Enzo offered to have me drop him at the truck and he would walk home, but I refused to abandon my friend so I waited in my big and picked up, redneck, beach-ready Jeep Wrangler. A couple of minutes later, no more than ten, he ambles back to the Jeep, hands full of vittles and plastic kept condiments; pepper, some green, seasoned sauce among other goodies hid in his hand and armed embrace. Once he reaches the ride,i assist him by holding his organic and greasy treasure while he hops up and in the lifted vehicle. And we're off to his spot, then I'm off to mine in Mar Vista, no heavy lifting, no sweat, just a measure of petroleum and moments- the only resources that we are burning to the end of their respective functions. A couple of minutes into the drive, random, cool conversation is sparked and gently nourished and stoked by the curious ease and comfort a healthy and mutually respected friendship engenders. As I lay back in my seat, groping my handles of control, a black, leather wrapped wheel determines direction and my stick, like an upside down exclamation point with numbers 1 through 5 pressed on the ball with the sole letter, "R" (for "reverse"), positioned at a point on the ball as well, I notice the all too familiar shape of law enforcement creeping near my position; yes,the Po-Po, jakes, 5-0, the federales, la policia! it seemed, were stalking the Jeep and her until now, stress-free passengers. Immediately the calm dark of night was ravished by red and blue flashing lights, bright, whistling and purposefully frightening unnatural light bludgeons the cool duo and their placid context. This is, and I'm being mildly hyperbolic, the very last thing in the World I need to happen now especially with the condition my "papers" are in. I hushed the Jeep at the first available spot I could find and quickly so as not to perturb the enforcers behind me armed with state sponsored authority, an authority that is, at times, ultimately necessary and other times, abused horribly. This time when the die was rolled, risk kissed my cheek and carressed me. There is always the possibility of things going bad and getting worse. That is the nature of the World. So as we waited for the policia policia to run my name and information, Enzo and I spoke about intentions and friendship and punk music and dangerous women. Just under the surface of our exchange, a trepidation ebbed and flowed in my belly as we awaited the return of authority. Adventure is always adventure, but it isn't always necessarily a pleasant experience. This I've come to know for sure and even though it isn't always fun and games, adventure, for the hero archytype, for the taker of the left hand path is the only necessity. I look in my rearview and see an assault of red and blue photons exploding into my visual field with a shadowy body increasing in size as it moved in close and closer proximity to my driver's side door. My spincter involuntarily tightens. Ok, let's see what new torture or delight this gamble has in store...

More on this later in part 2...a hint, the Cult of Los Angeles remains in the cut and whole, but, wait for it...the remainder of the post in awhile dearest and most beloved Reader.

The beginning of an adventure is so delightfully filled with the curious tickle of suspense, the going up the rollercoaster when emotions are so prevalent, so palpable that they spill over the blood brain barrier and tickle the flesh. And a perilous territory as well. Many a child die in this pre-post birth stage, you know? Like a child I'll treat it then...My friend moved into her own place recently. I know she is so stoked on it, stoked like the sun is to shine and it shows in her smile. That shine is like the rush of cocaine...or so I've written in passed lives, passed personae,,,left over moss that I remember. Anyway, I bless her ability to make the World and Her Cult of Los Angeles happy and with molten delight, with myriadelight! The codewords of a wild language awash in magic and aplomb.

the meter and sorcery of the new World

So I'm listening to NPR, I think KCRW, the show, All Things Considered maybe, and they were discussing the bankability of certain American actors worldwide, worldwide compared to domestic and why. The segment began with the assertion that the domestic box office receipts, measured in USD, is not nearly as important anymore compared with worldwide markets, now measured in Euros or the Chinese Yuan. They cited a recent movie, Prince of Persia which made $90M and cost around $200M. "A flop, right?" I guess not. Worldwide box office receipts totalled $230M; remember that's after the $90M it made in the U.S. So some quick first grade equals a total count of $340M at the end of the day. That's pretty freaking dope. So now, the new movie calculus becomes what movie stars have the best worldwide bankability. There is a scale that measures this, of course, and the program's host interviewed the scale's architect who called the scale the stock market of movie star's worth. So the top ten highest bankable stars in the World wide. The two shocks?, Will Smith was number 1 (not so much a shock because he is superdope) and there was only one woman, Reese Witherspoon! The middling bunches consisted of the usual Hollwood fair and fluff; Pitt, Cruise, John and Pat, Phil B. Lah and then blah bla.... So I suspect a decoupling of the U.S.'s influence, both economic and aesthetically, with the rest of the World's taste. There are far too many other big countries commanding significant sums of money and culture gravitas to the point of shifting economic dynamics. And what is often the case, an economic transformation necessarily births a shift in a culture's sensibilities, the culture itself becomes pregnant with new efficient information and bulges, writhes and such, music and writing and painting, photography and all sorts of human endeavor reflect the meter and sorcery of the new World.

The Cult shifts with it's city and it's World. In the Cult of Los Angeles, there is an ever effect of flux and danger, polished edges and round, endless delicious summers. The city's ever fast beating heart, fast on paradise and ambition and other things as well...the reflection of my love and lust. My sincerest affection for NPR...will outlive the radio.

"I don't pretend to be perfect, I am! Cocaine from Heaven, Son of Sam..."

shine, adventure!

When one is compelled to begin selling extraneous items from one's warm and safe possession to the quick limbo of the market for the sake of mad and quick capital, things are either really good or really, rather bad...There is yet a third case; that the description of the actual event is so brilliant in vibration and dynamism that it's information cannot be translated, if even recognized by the almighty filtering ego. And then what remains is enterprise and a few duckets. Could every moment be so taut with union and caressed godliness?

Adventure is the only definition of this context. The purest and richest ilk, dangerous, seductive adventure; the type that sculpts emperors and breaks necks with abuse and pace. Tracing the straight gauntlet to the heart of the Cult and it's potency, to the phalanx of it's myriadelights!

Numbing the way to complexity and correction, not wholly, but the equation is heavy with such and such with pinches and blows of whatever. Again, the Cult is rich with Los Angeles and her sun kissed hue and shine, adventure, adventure! a million times, adventure plus adventure climes! adventure, a smack! adventure sublime...

What is so cool about engaging with the Cult is that it is so easy to learn really cool things and really cool things about oneself. Sometimes it takes interaction with the Cult to really see one's own peculiar structure or bring to light one's great idea. That really kind of happened to me today. It just so happens that I have what I consider friends that are intimidatingly cool. My friend Mandy is thusly. Anyway, something on a television commercial reminded me of an idea I have been nursing for a long time. Upon hearing my idea ( I trust the darling) she thought for a moment, of obvious analysis, and told me it was a good idea. If it were not, she wouldn't have said it because she knows she didn't have to. She made it a point to take a second to ponder the cool measure of the idea and then give me the treat of her final review...When it blows up the World will celebrate- as will the happy and heavy Cult of Los Angeles...

Everyday

Today the Cult went on a long run along the beach between Venice and Santa Monica. It is such a joy drifting through those pretty shores, the soft hues, the pastel, cool houses. Engagement with the Cult in such a romantic setting is such a delight, delicious, especially in the summer. Once I left Venice and passed the Santa Monica pier, I felt as if I could continue forever...and tried. I ended up going way beyond the distance I should've gone, opting to use the long run as a meditation on the holy ground upon which I live. It was rewarding and rich, but my body was beaten the "f" up by the time I made it back to the room. My lungs were fine, I wasn't breathing heavily, but my legs were hard fought, banged up for sure, but no regrets. It was a mildly religious event, worship of the most intimate and sacrosanct kind. A fine day in the Cult of L.A. Everyday a holiday and every meal a feast! Yes, in the Cult, safe and warm, like the meter and sorcery of her womb...

the pull and draw...

On my way in to the Lounge this afternoon, my punk rock happy isle and also the holy ground where I met and came to favor my first follower and considered dear friend Mggn (long appositive alert!), I was listening to a curious report on NPR about some of the futuristic technologies existing in the movie Minority Report that have now become in some senses possible and in others, plausible. Fast-forward passed the first two, blah blah blah, the most curious of these was teleportation. The real world applicability seems a bit spurious to me, but the experiments that have been performed and the concepts they support are pretty fascinating. According to the physicist interviewed there is a process that occurs when you place two electrons extremely close together. They begin to vibrate in unison, but more incredibly, upon separation, an invisible "umbilical cord" type of event presents itself. No matter how far you separate the two electrons, when you change the rate of vibration in one, the other electron is simultaneously affected in an identical manner. In the study of physics, a relationship like this affirms the possibility of "action-at-a-distance" which Einstein completely refuted because it means there is phenomena that can travel faster than the speed of light. Physicists have dubbed this "quantum entanglement". Now how this deals with teleportation is thus: because of the simultaneous transmission of identical information, futurist prognosticate that the information that comprises a molecule, a blade of grass, a car, a blog writer or his lovely and beloved first follower and their essential qualities, their mind and memory structure can be duplicated at some distant space. Again, this seems a bit specious to me, albeit good science fiction as well as impetus to furthering the conceptual field. The Cult must keep an open mind, but I'm not buying this. However, action-at-a-distance fascinates me and has since an astronomy professor in college, Dr. Hanna (licence plate on red Corvette, REDSHIFT, astronomy/physicist joke!), taught me that every particle of matter in the universe is pulling on every other particle of matter in the universe. In my dilettante estimation, this means there is an energetic, gravitation connection between everthing. I'm pulling on you right now. And you're pulling on me. This is the essence of the Cult... of Los Angeles and the World. The pull and draw between us...

to be in love...

To be in love with the city within which you live is a particular joy of living. Regardless of the face she shows me, Los Angeles always has a seductive, mysterious and wild quality about her that, to be frank, ravishes me in whole, throughout and beyond my physical connection with her. Admittedly a transplant from the other coast and only a resident of Cult of Los Angeles County just over five years, there is a palpable quake that churns with warmth in my belly and makes my heart beat fast when I drive across the PCH (top down on the old Jeep) or run along the Venice boardwalk or drive through Hollywood at 3 a.m. Yes, these are happy times and times less bright, but not less substantive frequent and continue to determine and define my lifestyle and lifetime in the Cult of Los Angeles.

The Cult we become, sinking in entropic spread (no! not dead!), but more on the metric, more on the scale...sacrifice and delight, our holy grail.

Even in the days of despair, in the clutches of the beast and fear, self-made and environmental wraiths abounding; just the realization that I was conducting the maelstrom on holy ground gave me, my purpose, my continuance a sense of certainty. When she chooses to overwhelm my balance with an evil eye or melt the skies on my top with untoward warning, I can still find seductive and haunting shade in her deepest cheekbones (her smile is never too far), her brilliant comliness never more than a sunset or sunrise away, a french kiss with the edge of earth at myriad shores...The Cult of Los Angeles loves and worships itself, it's sun and water culture, it's mad complexity and capital.

The Joy of the Cult in it's vast and rich "myriadelights"...

the first follower...

I was watching one of those Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation sponsored TEDtalks video a considerable while back and was fascinated by one of the programs. This short, five minute offering was titled, "How to Start a Movement" and it featured a short video of a man dancing like a crazy person at an outdoor type music festival. The camera shot was focused around the dancing man with an ancillary view of festival goers in various states of attentiveness. Now, the presenter is explaining the plight of the movement starter; having to stick it out alone among the masses that are probably thinking he's crazy, but because of his fierce and independent ambition continues broadcasting his pirate signal. After a couple of minutes of dancing, the inattentive ancillary masses become on-lookers, audience members, captivated, to some extent, by the hippy flailing, the crazy medium of his pirate message (whatever that is!). At some point a tipping moment occurs when, according to the presenter, the most important person or variable in the equation appears, the first follower. This first follower, we watch, begins immediately mimicking the free dance style, doubling the broadcast signal strength and most importantly, showing the now "potential movement members" that it is safe, easy, exciting and now, fun-looking instead of just aberrant. As the loquacious presenter continues, we watch a second follower, then a third, a group becomes followers four through seven and so on until more and more people join the dancing mass until it is a mob of flailing limbs, the leader lost in the whole.
At this point in watching the video of a video (this is a free i-Tunes offering) I felt triumphant like I had been apart of something...for a second, it was exciting for sure and easily observable and measurable in this case. The presenter concluded the exhibition juxtaposing the different qualities and virtues of the leader and the first follower. In a word, riveting. Now, my ever-crush and considered dear friend, Mggn took a ballerina's leap of faith and first followed my humble experiment. Thanks dear, for giving me the sweetest reason to write, your smile.
Now, with having a follower comes certain responsibilities (ie. prompt and interesting new posts). So as not to disappoint, that die is cast, and ad infinitum. Again dearest, I am so obliged.

"her metric sooths and smooths the cult, hers, molten and smooth."

I'm about in as much debt as the state of California. I, to, have to cut spending, cut funding to essential programs, all that. Similar to the state where I proudly call home, I am taking a stoical stance about the phenomena of downward spiraling debt. Note that I am negotiating this territory with a stoic (or my best attempt at) center and most certainly not apathy. Debt is a negative heavy and is good only in minor amounts, like fat and cholesterol. So, trust, California and her Cult of Los Angeles will continue to sufr (that too!), I mean surf these rough waves by anchoring our self to equanimity, to balance and then back to leverage...

More on this later...my ghostly legions.

Another day in the hunt, in the measure of eternity. Going to see inception with my sister tonight. stoked to engage the cult in it's gut. 0600 blade run tomorrow though. Thankful for the sacrifice, gotta be. No more calls to make. No more points to plot...

Lamb of God - Blacken the Cursed Sun (with Lyrics)

Banksy in LA

the architecture of imagination...

History, at times, can render magic to the muse or intensify her already ferocious efficacy to inspire, quicken, birth even. I have an original muse of this type, one that I suppose I cannot necessarily be with (in "that" sense of "be") forever or, evidently longer than a little while, but she embodies and defines what I consider to be all holy fervor, in the flesh, salty and sweet. Carmen bent my language better than ten years ago and continues to twist it still, even when under duress or delay. History has been a gamble with us, winning big and losing bigger, alas, but what was kept and remained has been worthwhile, necessary even. Our association is full of empty space, like the World, like the Universal equation, full of intensity, full of love, full of conflict and minor chords of contempt, but in the distilled end she remains the purest and most ebullient creature of sublimity, of creative messianic note. I wrote about her before that she "exists in all of my insecure and nasty places..." explaining why she will always live as an integral part of my psyche as my effective and ideal muse. Her flesh lives far away from the holy ground and her affection possibly further, but I've memorized her voice and it's timber, her face, it's relationship with artificial and natural light, the subtle difference between her language depending on whether she's speaking or writing (and god knows the thoughts that blow amok throughout her gray majesty and matter!), her supine and seductive structures and their magic and intoxicating potential. It was always about the sacrifice and potential with her...her original wonder. My invented repine for her, strong and sober, attacks my love for Los Angeles holy ground everyday. Haunted by my own muse, frightening and everyday and I'd bet Carmen doesn't...forget about it. It's not important. What is is the language, sorcery I conjure when I place any quality of hers at the fore...That is of the highest, most sacrosanct import...those thoughts are meditations on the Immortal and Infinite, on the corrected self, the World.

I see the World right now in her smiling eyes through the architecture of my imagination...

damn damn damn

I left my Songbook at Swingers on Beverly. Damn damn damn! There is new flesh inside those pages, growing. Hope I can fetch it back...fingers crossed. On my way out of the Lounge and back to engagement with the Cult.

Me vs. Traffic and Action...I'm liking my chances right now...Crack my knuckles before I egress into the Los Angeles sunshine and roborant dynamism- yes!, the wild...

the best time of his life, the best time of mine...

I was just speaking with a buddy of mine at my happy place, the lounge at LBC and I was reminded of a conversation we had three or so days ago about an experience he had. He told me the story of his time at the 2010 NBA Finals between the Los Angeles Lakers and the Boston Celtics. Now I am not a big sports fan at all, but I did follow the Finals this year. There were a bunch of my fast friends at the Lounge that were hot blooded over the Lakers winning again so I allowed myself the luxury of falling in their fanatical torrent- hell, who needs to justify cheering the home team especially when your home is Los Angeles? Whatever. So my friend is describing his time at the Finals, what celebrities were sitting around him, in front of him and behind (he was for the most part court side). He noted the bright lights, near neon in his imagination, near blinding to his flesh and hot, the roar of the crowd of which he was, at least, a vital organ, cacaphonic and cheering. As he sang me his descriptions of those nights, I could clearly see the wonderment awash in his eyes and hear the childhood electricity in his voice. I could vicariously engage in his rapture as he concluded his discourse, "It was the best time of my life. The best time of my life, ever." To me, there was a lot more going on than sports there. Passion, transcendence, this was nothing short of...holy fervor and the sort.

There are people that I have met in Los Angeles that are so dynamic and integral to my equation of creativity generation. My friend Mandy spends a considerable amount of time in the Lounge making sure it stays awesome and super-hip. She has developed into a sort of muse for me. The things that flow from her mouth...she is a girlie rara-avis to be sure, a cool blade of Fonzy coolness, old Hollywood grace and face + she is a sweetheart. These are some of the reasons I so frequent the happy isle, but, more importantly, these are the ingredients of a particular and peculiar sort of muse that tickles creative empires from this source...My piano and voice teacher, who has become a best friend, Polina, is also a peculiar sort of muse. I had a songwriting class this morning and I had a, I think they call them, breakthrough. How rich am I with muses that cause eruptions of language, my World, with just a short conversation, a quick meet, a reminiscence of experience with them, their smiles could cause rapture...

the World is flux

Finally, we can devote a little quality time to the topic I have been trying to unpack since Monday. So, I noticed the monopoly board game on the desk in my office at work. Whatever. After some indeterminable amount of time and for reason unknown (probably boredom) I proceeded around the desk to closely inspect the game, simultaneously not caring anything about the game and curious enough to give it a good twice or thrice over. Again, I suspect boredom was the culprit here, stoking a moot, empty curiosity in me that was to only cost a couple of calories of my biology and minutes, if lucky, of my time (it was close to the end of my duties for the day). Upon glancing down, with care, I spy the picture of an American family, prominent, on the cover of the game; black gentleman father, blond, white lady mother, and two beautiful children, both genders represented. That graphic dealt me a mild shock, honestly and a pleasant one for sure. I guess that is a little example of the dynamic nature of race and the perceptions of race and relationships in this country. A similar experience occurred last week with the commercial containing the interracial couple engaged in a deep and deeply passionate kiss. The nature of the World is flux; thusly, I must stay on the move...and my language and intellection as well.

I am alone in the Lounge now, no other bodies, save the friendly and sexy ones behind the bar to distract the Cult. Love that...

a monopoly on tolerance, fool!

So I was working my little sacrifice and on the desk of the office I work out of was a "championship edition" Monopoly board game. I half noticed it all day as I low crawled through my mundane duties, but when I actually eye-balled the box I saw what was to me the most amazing piece of marketing and nothing short of shocking to say the least...

I'm at my super dope Lounge and it's quitting time...more on this novelty of mine later.

Thanks Angelface!

hold

I saw the strangest, coolest thing today, but have not enough life in my battery to devote adequate time...damn, I guess I'll have to "...wait till the morrow so as to dispel this sorrow...". I'll offer a hint: the fruit of American rich, primal hatred made board game grade. It was a shock, a jolt that nourished goosebumps, standing, stiffening hair. Well, my catharsis will have to wait, my breath to bate until the language bends...hold, hold to be or not to be so bold! Today, my muse, her angel face! her happy knife! cuts classy grace...more on the board game later...

!!!!!You are now running on reserve battery power!!!!!

OK (press)

...the mint mechanisms

On Money:

"And once more, those bastards, those fucking evil geniuses are fueled by the double plucked "S", the mead squeezed and mixed, moth swarm sprinkled mint, the glaucous sugar that sweetens the blood of free market capitalism in all it's brutality, complexity, magic...i swear, i saw a mint in her shining eyes and i fell on the spot, in love, in money, in her belly how yummy..."

dangerous women...

"there is (and now I know this, now I am complete in this knowledge fully, I see the full scope with this subject) a thousand eternities of girls veiled with the moisture of the first crepuscular measure in constant hunger for the engagement with and fulfillment of my fecund and fervid language and it's length and structure; but in this shocking quantity, there is also danger, adventure, risk...dangerous women intoxicate this particular bent language and invite it's challenge. there is something archetypal about dangerous women and the hero that emerges from their necessity, this pregnant function labouring inside me..."

her acme, sans end...

"...and my grip accreted to her acme, sans end. yes, i can and will say that with sanguine confidence now, after a moment to ponder. and to whom is this information directed? well, i reckon this communication is for that uncharted and wild, terrified and questioning region within me......and not that bedeviled, unrequited, yet capital one? that one that thins and thrills the blood as well as it's pusher, it's pump..."

chaos, complexes...

Let us ride this rich wave of chaos, complexes...

"So much has happened since I first started this journal so many moons ago. So many fallen romances, drug glances and gluts, sweet measures with paid sluts, the gracious stains made pristine by capital and efficient scope- paid in full inviting guts, blah blah corrupt blah... So many lost hours, days, weeks, lifetimes...so much detritus, this arrested development that sublimates into a sort of transubstantiation. Even with all of this and true, I know it must be necessary, this sacrifice of flesh and memory. As I consume myself, the World, I uncover the territory of source. For this moment, this event, I utilize all my powers of immortality, consumption and espionage." Dec 2008

Today at the Lounge I was speaking with another regular, Troy, when he asked me if I could find any television shows of Samurai sword fighters on my Apple MacBook. I said, "Lemme see what I can do." I went on YouTube and typed in blah blah blah and a phalanx of Samurai videos placed themselves magically at the fore on screen. Well, Troy was nearly rapt in the Japanese dramas. After awhile, my battery began to wear down and the laptop entertainment yielded to stories. A slew of references to "Green Beret's" or the U.S. Army's Special Forces was especially interesting to me since my father served with this elite group in Vietnam. Troy told me that Green Berets were superior killers than Ninjas! That they drop into a territory at night with "nothing but a knife in their teeth and a length of piano wire" and kill everybody. Apparently only a couple of them against a vastly greater force. He told me these things, among others, with a measure of wonder and amazement in his eyes that softened my heart and made me feel young. It was magical for a moment to me, even though the information was apocryphal at best. In the magic of the moment, the timeless, span-less event that stretches beyond place and time I listened honestly to a story that sub-ceded truth or fiction. Thanks for that bit Troy...

codename, LBC

this little pocket of balmy calm in the center of Los Angeles. and the Cult does assemble itself, in droves, in the legion of grace and mist inside the collective. all the best and worst in the Cult of LA is represented here as in the jungle of the psyche. a mirror cubed. On a run in Venice Beach one day I was struck by this very sentence, "Thinking is the most hallowed of activities." This and the sacrifice is precisely why.

alas Lauren, tchau...

So I frequent this ultra punk rock, ultra rad, super underground LA lounge and have been for well over a year. It has become the scope of my social life, for better of for worse. I don't care. The Lounge represents my Happy Place, my Happy Isle. Anyway, the first girl to serve me on the first time I patronized the spot, i found out a minute ago, doesn't work here anymore. It is a shock, but I understand the constant flux of the World and do my best to stay in accord with that mystical dynamism. More often than not I am getting thrown off the cusp, but scratch my way back to the present every moment or so...if you know what I mean. Anyway, here's to Lauren, my fast friend slowed down to homie status, we pray. These words, to you...

Her, milkmaid, the cutest little shrew to tame,
I'd slake my thirst with mead squeezed from her sweat membrane.
This little lust cut with youthful hyacinth,
Smarts so sweetly and induces fly confidence...

Linguistics and Interracial Love on Television for Lunch

A mild and more enjoyable than not shock occurred to me during a lunchtime conversation with a good friend, underground LA rapper MoCheez, at our favorite underground lounge, the LBC. We were discussing the differences between and rating the "coolness" of East Coast and West Coast slang. The exchange deepened still when we began an etymological analysis of certain slang words namely: one-time (police officers), jakes (police officers), john (a slang word derived from the slang for a favorite thing, "joint" or even "shit" as in, "That's my joint! (as in song)" or "That's my shit..." (same song). During this particular segment in our tete-a-tete, I happen to glance at a flatscreening commercial and see an afro-ed young Black gentleman intensely kissing a brunette hued young White lady. He was the protagonist in this corporate chewing gum commercial and she was his girl, I presume. I watched this digital signal and sat rapt, limbs and language akimbo...
I looked after a second at MoCheez and asked him if that was as shocking to him as it obviously had been to me. He confidently chuckled and affirmed this. There is something going on with that scene that struck me unusually for a television commercial. To my Black American tastes, this commercial was delightfully provocative. Even prejudice is in flux, hatred is dynamic and sometimes shakes itself to the point of total and utter transformation. At a small enough scope of analysis, even hatred can be reduced to a combination of results, a paisley of distinct ingredients, devoid of humanity. At this scale, when things or events or humanity is distilled into their fundamental bits, there is connection to the mystical, to the brand and spanking newness that generates the present moment.
Anyway, I stay in love with the Cult that continues to shock a grown American man.

Cult of Los Angeles

ya...

as dirty as I would build the prima Lolita from the adventure of my sub-focus, subconscious. Anyway, back to the de-press before the sacrifice. And by that, I mean...what you think I do.

"you can do whatever you want to here, this territory is your kingdom-my body, yours." he replies, "ya, christmas lights..."

slow singing

Working tonight at a club in Downtown LA, the Conga Room. Not even looking forward to it even though I need the duckets. I'm feeling more and more choked these days. Forget about it, I'm better to struggle anymore; it gives grace to the muscles and focus to the thoughts. So the pressure on these lungs...is a gift. Bladerunning in the city tonight...and riding dirty like the streets...

this gift of press, hers,
motionless- and void her love for heaven's sake...

baby sleep, baby wake, baby heard my screams too late!