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...