former mrs. miles davis. funk nasty OG!

dave dahl did 20 years for armed robbery. now he makes the most amazing organic bread ever up in oregon.  there’s a rumor he’s opening a plant in no. california?!?! very exciting.

dave’s killer bread is welcome in my oven any day.

self-de⋅lu⋅sion

–noun the act or fact of deluding oneself.

it seems the word itself carries more merrit in philosophical analysis, rather than an actual psychological term. usually tossed about with an acid tongue, i find it quite admirable in most cases.  i strive to be the best self-delusionist i can, each and every day.

this is my favorite song to get raped to:

gene montage.. with special FX!!!

found this on my camera last nite. don’t remember making it, but the bandanna and dull gray light suggest it was made in portland. there are hundreds of these on youtube, which would normally make me cringe, but i guess some phenomenons are sorta sweet.

i’m not predjudice, but there’s just something shady about grown-ass men with pony tails and strong arian features who not only mark a striking resemblance to klaus kinski, but also share the name of a biographical character he played about a murderous tyrant.

Ronald Reagan’s Hamburger Soup

(as sent out over the PR Newswire, March 11, 1986)

There’s been speculation that this first made news after President Reagan innocently announced his liking for fancy French soups…and was immediately accused of being elitist. Whatever. It’s definitely a homespun, plain soup, and not as bad as you might think when you see that there’s hominy in it. This corn product–with an Algonquin Native American name–was an important food to early U.S. pioneers. It’s a nice firm little ball in the soup–almost dumpling like. Serve the soup as a lunch meal to 4-6 people with lots of cornbread, cold milk, and maybe a big American pie for dessert. Here’s the recipe verbatim–note the non-elitist allowance for canned foods and bouillon cubes.

• 2 pounds lean ground beef
• 2 Tablespoons butter
• 2 cups diced onions
• 2 cloves chopped garlic
• 1 and 1/2 cups sliced carrots
• 1/4 teaspoon ground black pepper
• 10 ounces [canned] hominy
• 1 cup diced green peppers
• 3 quarts [12 cups] beef broth or water with bouillon cubes
• 16 ounces chopped tomato (canned or fresh)
• 2 cups sliced celery

Step 1: Brown meat in butter in six-quart sauce pan. Add onions, garlic, carrots, celery and green pepper. Simmer 10 minutes with the pan covered.

Step 2: Add beef broth or water with bouillon cubes. Add chopped tomato and pepper. Simmer soup on low heat for 35 minutes. Add hominy. Boil hamburger soup for 10 minutes more. Makes 4 quarts.

from soupsong.com

see also George Bush’s Cheeseburger Pizza & Pat Nixon’s Meatloaf

but i’m a little embarrassed and super fucking confused.. and i’m not exactly sure how to describe my predicament, except that it is something so terribly consuming and physical and much more real than the fluttery metaphors  i’ve been trying to sell it to.

despite being stuck in this wickedly boring asshole of a town, i feel somehow more rooted by experience and all the insanely gifted people i’ve known and loved. and as i watch my fleeting youth waning away with the moon, i can feel my core strengthen in truth. and yet a riddle remains, which i’m determined to solve before my first denture fitting.

at exactly what point of adolescence or early adulthood does everyone become so obsessed with fucking everyone else over?!? and not the instinctual steps we take alone to secure our place in society,  but i speak of a bloodthirst,  a carnal addiction to the destruction of others. i’ve given up hope on simply ignoring such actions, i’m not capable of defeating them or judging them, but i no longer wish to be a target of them. and i’m not sure how to do that. i must have been high that day in school.

i recognize an anthropological reasoning for this madness. it would seem our blood takes longer to evolve than technological convenience. we are tribal hunters. we’re territorial. we’re migratory.  and we can shit out babies all year long. without excluding the possibility of returning to the forest,  we are left with the grim choice of adapting a modern outlet for these instincts, or suffer the consequences, which tend to swing between the two extremes of severe inverted anxiety afflictions, or becoming psychotic lunatics.

i’m not opposed to killing my own dinner, but if the modern solution to fulfilling the thrill of the chase is aerial wolf hunting with sarah palin, then i’ll pass. i have a feeling the tribe would not object. (i do have a severely unfounded theory linking veganism/vegetarianism to some personality disorders, but i’ll keep that to myself, for now.)

territorialism runs strong for many, including myself. on the rare occasion i’ve had a place of my own, i’ve probably been more suspicious of strangers in my home than others. but i’ve never had digs worth fighting for, including this rotten country, so territory fails me.

i suppose migration has been my drug of choice. perhaps i’ve had the solution all along. but the devastating truth is, that of all such instincts, modern society is least accommodating towards wanderlust. the ability and desire to pack-up and leave town has saved my ass on more than one occasion. selfless as it is selfish. the reward and struggle are your own. there will always be new streets to memorize, new bars to find your way home from, new faces, and a whole new energy, unique to every highway sign.  the romantic spirit does not fade, but the ability to convince others of it’s sincerity can and will. such efforts are perceived as endearing and whimsical throughout your 20’s, but as your resume stacks up with a ridiculous assortment of jobs not exceeding 6 months and your charm takes on a  gruff, morose persona, it becomes more difficult to harvest the fruits of the open road. saddest of all, you will forever be treated as a guest, a visitor, a passer-through. any attempt to connect with someone or something, no matter how real, will continually be mocked and dismissed.

i’m kinda looking forward to turning 30 and taking more opportunities to tell the right people to go fuck themselves. but i’ll be forced to choose between a strict regiment of career planning and anti-depressants, or having a child. i suppose baby making is the most common and accepted form of quenching our old monkey habits. and ive witnessed it’s resounding influence on one’s soul journey. but my fierce anti-adoption stance and my sexual preference make this somewhat impossible. if i could get pregnant from sucking dick, i’m sure i would have had sextuplets by now, and i would love every one of them, but it’s probably best all the same.

despite our design, i fear people are getting meaner. and for no good reason. friendships revolve around social status, constantly pitting everyone against each other til nobody’s standing. any resistance is met with scorn and suspicion, targeting anything which dares to breath in the toxins. we set each other up to fail and hurt and fear. sometimes it seems as though we’re all jealous ex-lovers, because we know love is the one pure thing that can never be miscommunicated, or robbed from us, or fabricated by a paranoid tribe of finks. and everyone is just kind of sad and lonely. because nobody knows how to be friends anymore. because everyone is too busy making disastrous attempts at orchestrating “what’s gonna eat who” and “why’s gonna fuck how” to ever be willing to admit how contrived and boring and hideous we can be.

perhaps it’s all building up to something. maybe the poles will shift and we’ll all learn how to appreciate one another with a new consciousness. and for the slightest moment, everyone will just fucking relax.

last nite, i acquired the challenging new task of transporting all of the salt and pepper shakers back to their homes in the dining room. as i carried the tray off the salt and pepper processing table, i heard the vicious clinking of glass and the reflective surface of the shaker tops threw blinding rays of light around my skull as they bobbled about like corn stalks in a summer breeze. i began to anticipate a most salt and peppery disaster, much to the entertainment of all, i’m sure. i quickly reminded myself that the moment i think of it, is the moment they will fall. (a parable i desire to utilize more freely, but lack the capacity to do so.) I recalled my spirit animal guide, who i met on a pyschadelic beach one sunny day with an old friend. a deranged gull of sorts, with missing feathers, a broken wing, and the most awful, raspy squawk. it appeared to have fallen from the sky, perhaps a victim of aerial gull to gull combat, or maybe it just passed through a cloud of thorns. after recovering from a shameful landing, it ordered us both to follow it across the swirly purple sands towards the sunset.
and this is what i thought about at work last nite, and before i knew it, i’d followed that bird right out the door. as i was deciding how i would contaminate my body for the evening, i wondered where i was being led to, and who i’d meet along the way.

Alternative Soundtrack #5 from Krautboys on Vimeo.

when i first moved to portland, i spent over a month living at the joyce hotel, p-town’s most notorious flophouse. i believe they may have filmed portions of drugstore cowboy there. in my first few days, i encountered jim. a rotund, balding man in his 50’s. he had one of those eerie smiles that would make you uncertain as to whether he wanted to fuck you or kill you. or perhaps both. jim often invited me over to his room for food, which apparently he had plenty of. once the notes started arriving under my door in the middle of the night, i became suspicious of his intentions:

well, at least it would be really easy to avoid jim, considering i’m in 417. oh me.

uh-oh

i should say something..

think george costanza with downes syndrome, seriously.

but i would like to thank jim for clarifying exactly where he’d like to administer this “rim job” he speaks of.

i’m just marking items into evidence at this point. hopefully, the judge will remember my vigilance at the time of jim’s sentencing. if there’s anything left of me, please scatter half of my cremated remains in big sur, the other half should be dumped into a drainpipe somewhere in downtown manhatten. i love you all.

i am a prisoner.

as if i’ve even jerked off to a porn catalogue since i was like 5 years old.

i often think about jim, and how often his note sliding approach is rewarded.

-manage social outlets accordingly. empower my introversion, reserve any desire of human contact for those who inspire me. defend myself at all costs from sociopaths, schemers, and soul-suckers with a fiery sword and a dirty eye
-reject all systematic methods of amerikanized living. become the underlying force of revolution. develop better shoplifting skills and free my mind
-begin outline for 2012 celebrations, including personal invitations to yoko ono, patti smith, etc..
-live on the coast. possible destinations: big sur, russian river, guadalajara
-write a pocket book of dystopian psychedelic love poems
-instruct certain members of my family to eat shit and die
-curate a small collection of vintage sun dresses
-re-learn to fall in love with whomever i please
-write 5 songs that will knock yr socks off
-allow someone else to cut my hair
-find the man who stole my guitar
-learn transcendental meditation
-stimulate a pallet for seafood
-vandalize a church
-acquire a passport
-grow a beard

so maybe i was up til 6 in the morning watching “fried green tomatoes”. again. anyways, i still find it odd that a movie from the 90’s, which makes several references to kathy bates’ vagina, refuses to make any verbal/visual representation of the blatant fact that ruth and idgie were totally bumping nasties. i suppose it’s trying to capture an era or whatnot. the point being, i cried when ruth died. but not as much as when i watched this:

view?i=be6_1229884422

i’m becoming a glutton for spontaneous tears. i suppose i’m on the christmas rag. im gonna go eat some fudge and crawl under the blanket that shields me from my life’s failures. happy holidays!