Archive for March, 2009

Stealing Buddha

Tuesday, March 31st, 2009

I met Sara when I worked at a gym. She had a pretty hot body and, shall we say, I was a little less enlightened at the time. To pull a Seinfeld, “Blah, blah, blah, we’re having sex during lunch breaks, at movie theaters, in hallways and dangling from skyscraper windows. We really connected physically. But through the painful process of awareness, I realized that having great sex could still leave you an unconscious jackass.

I guess the one good thing about me, and I assure you there is only one good thing about me, is that while I may on occasion bullshit someone else, I will never bullshit myself. I should have known it was trouble when on our first “date” we went to a movie screening and afterwards I asked her, “So what did you think?” and her reply was, “Didn’t like it.” It took me a monkey wrench, two sets of pliers and a ball-peen hammer to get her to explore her thoughts deeper. Speaking of ball-peen hammers, is it just me or when you hear that word do you giggle like a little schoolgirl and think, “That sounds like balls and penis”?

I started seeing that we could talk about current events or what book we were reading but besides a general overview of the “facts,” Sara really seemed incapable of chewing and swallowing down and processing and allowing to become her own anything other than semen. I dropped down on my knees, and after a little cunnilingus, I begged to my fake God in the sky, “God why? Why can’t you keep me unconscious so that I can just friggin’ enjoy myself here? What business is it of yours what I do in the bedroom—or at the movie theater, or in the hallway, or dangling from a skyscraper window?” He responded, “Do whatever you want. I’m not stopping you. Hell, I don’t even exist except for you to speak to whenever you have an existential question!” He had a point. I was going to write, “…and it wasn’t just his penis,” but my fake God is build like a Ken Doll—you drop the pants and are like, “Those cheap bastards couldn’t afford a speck more of plastic down here?”

Soon Sara wanted to stop engaging. I don’t know how much was me trying to help her to break out of her conditioning and how much was me just trying to get laid, but I challenged her assertion on all fronts—philosophical, political, sociological. I even made up a few “icals” just to sound smart. She wasn’t having it.

You see my philosophy is more tantric. I don’t judge the ethics of whether having non-committed sex is morally wrong or right, I say that as long as one understands what it is, then it’s all good. To make an eating analogy, I don’t care if you eat SnackWell’s low-fat cookies or not. Just don’t call it “health food” and pretend that processed crap is “good for me.”

Sara had a lot of conditioning from a traditional Indian upbringing and I did question how much of her pushing away the sex was because it was not what she desired and how much was the imposed guilt of a culture that thinks it’s okay to marry someone through arrangement that you never met and who may just have a Ken Doll cock but God forbid you enjoy some free-wheelin’ sex—it’s off to Hindu Hell for you. Blah, blah, blah…no sex for the Swami.

The last time I saw Sara, we had gotten together for dinner and a movie. She was paying for dinner and I had a free movie screening (one of the only remaining theaters from which we weren’t banned for life); it was living a Jewish fantasy for me: all the food, none of the paying. By the time the check at the restaurant came, the manager came with it and said, “I just wanted to shake the hand of the only person to ever order everything on the menu as well as food to go.” 

Throughout the dinner she talked about saving this money and using this coupon combined with this one and, once again, I had to pull out my ball-peen hammer <giggle giggle>, another influence of her conditioning as she told me that her family never really communicated and rarely even shared a meal together. I thought to myself, “I was raised in a Jewish family and this friggin’ dot-head is more Jew than any Hebe I’ve ever met!” But more important than realizing that compartmentalizing people by religion and culture limits one’s ability to call an Indian a “cheap Jew,” I realized that I was at a different place than I was the year before. It was now me who had she suggested we go to the bathroom and do the Porcelain Mambo would have been like, “Yeah, uh, not happening,” and only in part because I had eaten the equivalent of a hippopotamus’ daily rations and would probably puke on her and this would remind me of that Japanese puke porn video clip that my friend “Elks” sent me years ago which resulted in to this day me being dragged out of every Japanese restaurant I ever go to because I can’t stop myself from standing up and shouting, “YOU PEOPLE ARE SICK! YOU ARE NOT SUPPOSED TO EAT ANOTHER PERSON’S PUKE!” But I digress…

She told me how she had gone to a Chinese restaurant with a friend of hers and when they got outside he gave her a fairly nice Buddha statue that he had lifted from the restaurant. That part of the story I understood, as boys will be boys. But when she went on to say that she put it in a corner of her room and decorated it with flowers and incense because, “I heard that’s good for luck,” I was like, “Uh, I thought you dot-heads believed in karma. I’m kinda guessing that knowingly possessing stolen items might result in you coming back in the next life as a slug.” I offered to return the Buddha to the restaurant for her and she was against it. I even said I’d buy her another friggin’ stature of a fat chink if she really needed one. Incidentally, the term “rice dick” is not actually racist, originating in China when Chang Bo Zaq pulled down the pants of a Ken doll and placed a grain of rice where the penis should be located. “Chink” is racist.

I don’t make ethical or moral judgments. But I do question why someone would feel the need to possess something that would directly hurt someone else for some perceived self-enhancement. Then again, after spending five years trying to convince Sara that fucking me was a “moral obligation that surpassed her selfish need for feeling at peace,” perhaps I was attempting to “steal a Buddha” as well. Unfortunately, I got caught red-handed. In my defense, I swear I wasn’t aware that she was menstruating!

When you see the buddha in the road, kill him. Just don’t steal him from a restaurant.”

-Swami X, bringing an old Zen saying up to date

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The Mushroom Cloud

Monday, March 30th, 2009

I spent half of my morning walk with my dog in tears, experiencing the full range from the misty-eyed trickle to the complete balling downpour. If I went to a headshrinker he would ask me, “What are you so sad about?” and I would respond, “Nothing.” He would then start parroting jargon that enough “Polly want a cracker’s has fooled him into thinking it is his own wisdom, instead of borrowed bullshit. “We call that Disassociated Depression, when the cause of the depression is unrelated to any specific incident.”

But the headshrinkers are trained in seeking dysfunction, a very “cup half-empty” way to look at his fellow travelers, and so they see sickness as easily as a crack addict sees giant bees with duck’s beaks swarming his head—even when there is no buzzing and quacking. Perhaps Freud saw everyone has being sexually repressed because his small sample of life exhibited this pattern and so he projected its dis-order as a universal truth. More likely Freud himself was a sick pervert who had penis-shaped pencils in his office, making his patients think, “Maybe everything is a penis.”

I was walking my beloved dog to who even the most boring, plain, dirty city block is a joyous opportunity for exploration. I was listening to music by Matthew Nichols (www.matthewnichols.com), a musician I met in the subway that I recruited to play for my last yoga class, whose music soars my spirit upward. I was thinking about my soulmate who, after what felt to me like an eternity of wandering aimlessly because she couldn’t read the simple map I had sent her over the Astralnet, which even included those always-helpful landmarks like, “When you get to the man selling fruit on the corner, make a left—but only after picking me up a few bananas—he has the best deal on bananas in the city,“ finally found her way back to me.

I was crying because I was overflowing with Gratitude and when it fills you from the bottom of your feet to the top of the head, it usually starts to pour out of your eyes. Sometimes projectile vomiting has been known to occur but I still contend that this is more often the result of a bad burrito than Gratitude.

The headshrinker would ply me full of drugs from his butt-buddy, the pharmaceutical industry, whose sole interest has nothing to do with “souls” and everything to do with dollars. I would walk around like a zombie extra from “Dawn of the Dead,” never to cry again. I would almost forgive them if this were because side-effect number 256 listed on the insert in a font size of 4 read “possible drying up of the tear ducts.“ But sadly this is not a side-effect of the drug—this is the written purpose of the drug: to turn you into a zombie with no feelings who is now capable of little more than background work in horror movies. Headshrinkers have become whores to not only the dollar but to their ignorance of the natural state of Man, which is overflowing Grace and expressive joy and not “just getting by.”

At times I started to feel like Brendan Frasier’s character in “Bedazzled” when he asked the trickster Devil (Elizabeth Hurley) to make him more sensitive because his love interest wanted a sensitive man and next you see him he is beach blonde and crying to the girl, “The sun is so beautiful with its golden rays and the flowers with their beautiful colors and fragrances and the ocean is so lovely and the wind blowing through your hair…” until she had to excuse herself, because side-effect #256 of being in the presence of a pussy is nausea.

It is not the false gratitude that one feels when his stocks are up (can any of you even remember what that felt like?) or you’re getting laid or have just urinated on a homeless man. Something has shifted. I am not grateful for anyone or anything—I AM Grateful. I am Grace. I am love. This does not mean that I won’t be drawn back into unconsciousness and lose my connection with Grace. Nor does it mean that I won’t be a pain in the ass and all my writing pieces forever hereafter are going to be about “walking through fields of daisies” with “the glistening sparkle of the morning dew.” It is just, for the moment, I have a taste of Grace that is so scrumptious and am feeling so completely satiated that it is hard to even think beyond this very moment.

When one makes a bold declaration like, “I am at peace,” or “I am celibate,” that’s usually when the Universe likes to fuck with you by placing people in your path that either bug the shit out of you or are super hot and easy. Then when you lose your cool, or lose your load, the Universe usually smiles and says, “Did you have anything else to say?” If you know what’s good for you, you shut your mouth, lower your head a little and say, “No, ma’am,” and realize you’re just the Universe’s prison bitch and the less you struggle, the less painful your stay is going to be. Carrying the metaphor beyond any semblance of taste, it is only when taking things in your ass feels just as pleasurable as when things come out of it that you become a free man whom no bars can contain.

We all can get in touch with Grace. We all have so much for which to be grateful. We’ve become so distracted that, like an ADDH child, we can’t seem to keep our attention still enough to focus on what is with us always and instead find ourselves running around the room shouting “Poopy Pants! I’ve got Poopy Pants!”

For you pricks who will bring up, “What about the starving child in India, what does he have to be grateful for?” I will respond that grammatical rules dictate that you should not end your sentences with a preposition. But the very question would tell me that you haven’t seen what I have seen and know what I know, at least consciously, that even a single moment—a smile, a laugh, a dance, a song, a hug, a cry—experienced fully, is enough to experience eternity.

I imagined a nuclear bomb landing on New York City, tossed by our own government, of course, but assigned responsibility to an Islamic group name something like The Brotherhood of Allah. The mushroom cloud rose high into the sky and the heat wave rapidly rolled towards me, vaporizing every living thing in its path. Almost as if it were background noise, I saw people running and screaming and crying. A few people were looting, because their life’s worth was based on accumulation and if they could just grab one more thing before they perished they believed this would make them feel complete.

I dropped to my knees. I was not afraid. I had no one I needed to see. I had no sense of urgency. I was just Grateful. And nothing, not even my impending transformation to particular matter, could stop me from being Grace.

To see a World in a Grain of Sand
And a Heaven in a Wild Flower,
Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour.

-William Blake

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22 Cents

Friday, March 27th, 2009

So I went into my health food store of choice one late night and bought $50 worth of groceries. I left my coupon for $5 off of any purchase over $50 at home but figured I would just come back tomorrow with the coupon and the receipt as they always honor this. The cashier seemed like a hip dude and told me, “Hey, I have a $5 coupon here we can use.” I was like, “Cool.”

When I grabbed my change it was all bills. I paused for a bit, pondering whether he screwed me the additional 22 cents I had coming or whether he had just “rounded up,” like a bartender who says with a charming smile as he flexes his bicep from beneath his sleeveless shirt, “Here, this one’s on me,” graciously offering as a gift something that belongs to someone else. I think I may do that technique at a restaurant on some rainy day in the future. When a cute girl is about to leave into the elements I will be like, “Here, take this umbrella.” She will be like, “Thank you so much! Here is my number if you want to call me later and have sex.” I’ll at least be honest. I’ll say, “I’m less into sex as I am stealing umbrellas that don’t belong to me from the bucket by the door.” Back to the NOW of the story, (as I have seen a couple of DVDs with Eckart Tolle) I went outside and half a block later turned around and came back.

“Hey, did I leave any of my change on the counter here?” I asked in the only subtle way I could figure out how to say, “Hey jackass, you shorted me!” He said no and I had to decide whether 22 cents was worth calling the manager and making a big deal over someone who was most probably a good guy who was just a shitty mathematician. Perhaps I should instead search out the career counselor who suggested “cashier” to him and beat the piss out of that moron. I left.

The next day I went in and grabbed a few pieces of these nutty, chocolaty squares from the bulk food section and shoved them in my pocket. I followed the necessary precautions of first putting them in a bag, and then getting out of the line of fire of the security cameras. While I usually reflect in shame on the many all-you-can-eat buffets I’ve had at this very bulk food section back when I thought the word “ethics” meant “people who aren’t white,” today my years of free gorging experience came in handy.

On the way out, Mike the manager said, “Good evening, Swami,” and my guilty mind thought, “He knows!” I remember one time as a youth at my friend’s house where I went into his refrigerator (we had an open fridge policy back then) and grabbed an apple and at that moment his father entered the room and said, “Swami, what are you doing?” (I wasn’t sure why he called me “Swami” but obviously it had a tremendous influence on my future choice of career. Imagine where I’d be today if he instead said, “Mathematician, what are you doing?”) I shouted, “Nothing!” and ran out of the room as guilty as a three-dollar whore.

Today we have so many buffers and procedures and rules and chains-of-command to follow that it seems just to get your 22 cents worth you have to put in at least 50 cents worth of effort, resulting in a net loss of 28 cents (hmm, mathematician…?). “But if everyone took the law into their own hands it would be anarchy!” Perhaps. Or maybe people would finally start to take responsibility for themselves and their actions, knowing that they couldn’t cry to their surrogate mommies and daddies called the government, lawyers, police, managers or pimps every time you blew someone and the three dollar bill they gave you came out of a Monopoly set. You see, anarchy requires ethics, otherwise it is just sociopathic behavior.

Did I possibly, just maybe, happenstancedly take slightly more than 22 cents worth of the chocolate peanut square things? Of course. But I’m a sociopath who uses logic and pseudo-spirituality to justify his deviant ways. What’s your excuse?

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Eric The Pharisee

Tuesday, March 24th, 2009

I had just finished watching the Republican Presidential debate, where I was rooting on my man, Ron Paul, who although he didn’t have perfect hair like Mitt Romney (only a Mormon would name their kid after a baseball glove!) or have that bulging cheek look like he just shoved a fistful of Red Man (later changed to “Native American Man” for political correctness) tobacco in his mouth like John McCain, he was the only person up there talking any sense.

After a debate, I don’t really need to hear self-appointed pundits expound on what was just said with their own colorings, as they lead the sheeple viewer into getting caught up in the horse race while ignoring that all horseshit smells the same and at most is just a pillow to rest your head on while the government continues to bend you over and pound you like a bitch. So while I was going through my cabinets scrounging for something to snack on, the only reason I didn’t turn off the television was because the power button broke off a long time ago and I have to jiggle a butter knife in the slot just right in order to turn it off and on. And if the smell of elephant shit hadn’t totally stunk up the room, that prick Sean Hannity had to come and add his own lump of shit onto the fecal playground. 

Scammity started doing a post-debate interview with Ron Paul where he was totally unfair—talking over him, cutting him off, not allowing him to answer, giving his disagreeing opinion, or shall we say his marching orders from his puppet masters who set the agenda—and totally misrepresenting Dr. Paul. I was so infuriated that the next day I went out and bought a $1300 DVD/CD duplicator in order to copy Freedom and Truth videos to hand out to people to help break them free of the matrix that people like Sean Scammity were creating and casting with the political equivalent of the dog piss actor, Keanu Reeves. I figured I’d worry about paying my rent come the end of the month; worst-case scenario I’d be a homeless guy with a pretty awesome DVD/CD duplicator.

Half-a-year ago I had a computer crash and lost the software I needed to dupe discs. So today when I emailed Discribe, herein called Dickscribe, I received a response by Eric, a man who was so law-abiding that once when he was getting a blowjob from his girlfriend while driving a car, when the light turned red he told her to STOP, not only resulting in it being the last blowjob she would ever give him but also directly contributing to her becoming a lesbian.

Apparently, if I bought the duplicator a few months later that I did, I would now be eligible for a free upgrade. I asked Eric if he could hook me up with the update anyway. He wrote back, “You can pay $149 for the upgrade.” I wrote him back, “So your answer is no then.” He blabbered on about the “rules” and I was like, “Bitch, then just send me the older version.” To this I received a two-line response: “Dicksribe Robotic version 5 is no longer being developed or supported. I have to follow the policy.”

I called the company of the duplicator and told him Eric at Dickscribe was being a prick and the guy there sent me the program I needed immediately. Eric wrote me back and asked me what exactly I needed, which either made him a retard, as I had spelled it out for him already, or someone who was masturbating to my emails and needed one more response from me in order to pop. The image of a guy poking his girlfriend in the shoulder with a massive erection and seducing her with, “Let’s fuck,” and her replying, “Wait until Melrose Place is over” and when the show ends and he’s limp as a chicken’s neck she’s says, “Okay, let’s do it,” to which he’s like, “What are you fucking kidding me?” came to mind. “Too little, too late, Lewinsky. I already came on your blue dress.”

When the Pharisees tried to bust Jesus’ balls by asking him if he was doing healing on the Sabbath, knowing that if he admitted to it he would be in violation of the laws Moses had made up and said it was from God to cover his crack high, Jesus answered, “Was the Sabbath made for man or man for the Sabbath.” You see, Jesus was a Jew and we know those Jews can negotiate themselves out of any dilemma. “Officer, my cousin, Shlomo owns the donut shop down the avenue. Why don’t you forget the ticket, stop in, and tell him that Shmendrick sent you and have your fill of donuts?”

Eric is like many rule-followers, so attached to them that when the Nuremberg Trials happen a second time and they ask him, “Why didn’t you just fuckin’ send him the program?” he will answer like his Nazi predecessors, “I was just following orders,” thinking that answer will always point him North and so he can just discard his own moral compass.

Rules are meant to serve man, not enslave him. But no one has the balls to make the call for fear the boss man will get upset, or society will get upset, or “Mrs. Jones will get upset if I let you run without a jockstrap and not her.” And if they are the boss man, they will probably justify that, “I got where I am today by following rules,” forgetting altogether where they had left their brain upon its removal.

I rather live in the freedom of anarchy than the prison of the lawman. Surround me with dirty, unethical criminals over clean, law-abiding pussies. Most of you would prefer to walk around with dirty asses because someone didn’t tell you, “You might want to wipe your ass,” just so you could avoid the responsibility of making your own decisions.

Socrates said, “The unexplored life is not worth living.” Well, that’s not an unexplored life, it’s a life plenty explored—only by someone else. Tell them to fuck off and start living your own life and break some of their precious rules for a change. The world won’t suddenly end. It may even begin anew for you.

The alternative is to be a cocksucking Pharisee like Eric with your head up your ass following the stinky rules that someone else shoved up there, missing the fragrance of the fully blossomed Master who is right in front of you telling you to stop being a pussy and live for a change.

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The Empty Envelope

Monday, March 23rd, 2009

Only three people RSVP’ed to the first yoga class of the season I was offering and so I was going to cancel it but then decided, “What the heck, I’ll teach the class anyway.” I changed the booking from a huge room that could hold thirty to one of the smallest rooms they had, which was similar in size to my first New York City apartment whose landlord responded to my query, “Where do I sleep?” with, “The last person who lived here slept on the toilet.” I found out the former tenant had committed a felony solely so he could have a bigger rooming area in Sing-Sing. One day before the class, three additional people told me they would like to participate and so I went back to the studio and changed the room to a slightly bigger one, although a little less pleasant-looking.

Five people showed up and, despite an opera rehearsal next door, we had a decent class. At the end of class I told the students that I had an envelope for donations and that this helped cover the cost of the room, not to mention my crack habit. Rather than having them hand it directly to me, I have them put their donations in an envelope for two reasons: first, so they feel comfortable giving what comes from their heart and not from their guilt and secondly, because I don’t want to see some cheap mother fucker put her spare change in there and then be unable to ever look at her again without thinking, “She’s a cheap mother fucker!”

Walking home, I dug into the envelope and to my dismay discovered there was only $15 in it–$5 short of covering even the rental cost. In other words, it cost me $5 to book space, change the space a multitude of times to accommodate the students, and teach an hour plus class.

I wrestled with the idea of “donation,” as I had been critical in the past when people would use that word instead of what they really meant—a fee. “$250 donation” is not making a request, it’s telling you what a participant needs to put into to coffer and still allow you tax-free status. I always wanted to go to some big workshop with just such a “donation” and say, “You know, I’ve decided I’m not going to donate any money today,” and see how they lose their shit. Rather than being honest, these New-Age posers are just trying to manipulate the already manipulated tax laws. I’m going to listen to some jackass talk to me about “liberation” from the entrapments of the ego and the world and yet they can’t even liberate themselves from the Federal Mafia’s Income Tax? Please.

If the #1 massage therapist in New York told a group of people, “I will give you a great massage, minus the happy ending, and you can pay me whatever you think fair,” there would be a bunch of people that would pay peanuts not because they think it fair, but because they know they can get away with it, and also when kidnapping Peanuts from Charlie Brown they didn’t realize it was a package deal and they had to take that lame bird Woodstock too. I would tell the #1 massage therapist right out, “Look, unless you give me a quick rub-off at the end, you ain’t getting shit from me.” But that’s just me, straightforward and upfront.

I would like to get mad at these yoga posers, but they are just a product of conditioned fear, the belief that there is not enough for everyone and we have to struggle for our mere survival. It saddens me a bit, that rather than wanting to support each other in our endeavors, to help everyone receive their “daily bread,” our fear leaves us clawing for the loaf, leaving breadcrumbs at most for which the rest can go hungry. The Bible literalist will tell you that God will provide us with our daily bread, not realizing that God is not some gray-bearded man in the sky, he is our brothers and sisters  on the Earth.

I wasn’t planning on getting rich teaching yoga but I did hope that the students would show appreciation to the energy and love I put into my teachings, support my efforts, and not just take what I have to offer as, “Yay, free yoga!” They don’t seem to see that without their support I won’t be able to share my gifts to the many others who like to open them as well. Most don’t bother to look beyond “What’s in it for me?” And that is why yoga as “practiced” today is bullshit.

 

ADDENDUM: The next class I taught I wrote on the announcement: “$5 minimum donation.” That’s bullshit—I just fell into the very thing I criticize about others using the word “donation” inappropriately. If I’m giving an offering and it is by donation then whatever is given–or not–is okay and I won’t bitch about it…at least not out loud. I want to teach out of an outpouring of love, regardless of whether I feel the love coming back to me. If teaching becomes more draining than fulfilling then I am not so altruistic to say that I’ll be done with it and seek something else where my connection to flow remains totally open.

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“Good Luck”

Saturday, March 21st, 2009

I told Dan that I was going with a friend of mine for vegan pizza and to see live music and he responded, “Good luck.” I consider myself a fairly sharp-minded person but I had to go to my mental database and filing cabinet and card catalogue to figure out this one. Thank God I had recently updated my brain to Windows Brain Version 10.0 or I would still be using that scientific calculator that I had for some science class back in high school, which only proved useful to me in that I was able to slide a cheat-sheet in the flap of that geeky thing.

Perhaps he was worried that when I got to the vegan pizza place I would stumble on my words when giving my order and, like the Soup Nazi from “Seinfeld,” the man behind the counter would shout, “NO PIZZA FOR YOU!”

Or maybe Dan feared the Weimer Germany Depression that our economy is inevitably plunging towards has already affected the street so badly that I would receive my pizza and ask, “What the hell is this?” and be told, “It’s vegan,” to which I’d respond, “This is nothing but dough—no sauce, no toppings—which I could almost forgive if you at least gave me a smile when you handed it to me,” to which he would reply, “I’m upset I didn’t vote for McCain,” to which I’d reply, “They’re both New World Order Scum,” to which he’d reply, “I know, but his wife is better to look at than that butt-ugly Michelle,” to which I’d reply, “Well played, vegan pizza man, well played.”

Maybe Dan thought the unknown accordion player we were going to see would sell out and they would have to turn us away. Or maybe, being the confrontational pain-in-the-ass that I am, he figured I would challenge the one drink minimum rule and the result would naturally lead to me urinating on the stage, shorting out the accordion player’s amp, resulting in a blackout with the constant outcry of, “It smells like piss in here!” penetrating the darkness.

I finally gave up, cursing Bill Gates all the way, thinking he should have stuck with what he’s good at—supporting eugenics and the elite agenda to get rid of 85% of the population while appearing to be a pimple-faced, world-loving philatelist—and asked Dan what the fuck he meant.

“Good luck with the girls.”

Instead of being like the little child who keeps asking, “Why?” “Because Daddy didn’t use a rubber.” “Why?” Because he was trying to commit suicide and thought your Mommy was a skanky bitch who would give him the AIDS.” “Why?” I put off asking what his follow-up statement meant and instead I went back to my crashing, freezing Brain Computer, thinking how much higher my I.Q. would have been if I hadn’t received all those mercury-laden, brain-numbing vaccinations when I was a baby.

If someone asks, “How are the boys doing?” they are inquiring about your testicles. By that reasoning, I deduced, “the girls’” meant my labia lips. But I don’t have a vagina, well not one that isn’t made of latex, that is, and it would make no sense for Dan to ask me how it was, being that he had borrowed it last month and still hadn’t returned it. Note to self: make sure to get rubber vag back from Dan…and to soak it in hydrogen peroxide for at least a day. Maybe he was referring to my 23 illegitimate children that I spawned touring with the musical “Hair” in Europe, a percentage of whom the law of probability would predict to be girls. Risking a MORON sticker slapped onto my forehead I asked, “What do you mean?”

“You know, picking up girls.” No, I didn’t know. When I said, “Vegan pizza and live music,” I meant eating some vegan pizza and listening to live music. I felt like the gay man at the water cooler as the gang of heteros comment with adoration about the huge knockers on the new girl, “They’re like a couple of massive fun bags that despite not being filled with candy or toys are still quite fun”…“They’re like two speed bags but instead of punching them, I’d like to suck on them—and then maybe punch them”…”I’d like to hang my shirt up on that rack, and by shirt I mean penis and by rack I mean boobies,” and all I could come up with was, “They will provide some baby with a lot of milk one day.”

Although the length of my penis still hangs lower the drop of my nutsack, perhaps I have lost my libido, because when I say something like, “I’m going to the Korean Market to buy some bananas,” I don’t mean I’m going to see if I can pick up a girl in the two blocks from my apartment to the store and back—I mean I’m buying some fuckin’ bananas!

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Long-Haired Pussy

Saturday, March 21st, 2009

Last night I stopped into the 24-hour Apple Store, as the person whose wireless connection I have been pirating at home for about four months must have finally put a block on me and, like any self-respecting Internet junkie who needed a fix, I had to check my email twenty times a day or risk withdrawal symptoms. I got to the store around 11:30 p.m.

I had written down the error message I got and wanted to go to the “Genius Bar” to have a drink of computer wisdom passed to me by one of the Apple bartenders, sharing with him why my computer life was a misery and seeing if he could get me back on track, or rather online, in the comfort of my own home—oh yeah, without having to pay for the therapy, I mean, connection. I saw a fellow long-hair at the desk where they hook you up with a “genius” and, like a rasta seeing a fellow dred-head, I nodded as if we had both passed through the gay-sex rituals of the “Skull & Bones” Society like George Bush Junior, Bill Clinton, George Bush Senior and just about every closet fag in a power position in governmental and business and shared the same clicking jaw condition resulting from giving head for three days straight during Hell Week.

After explaining that I just needed someone to decipher the cryptic message I had written down on my piece of scrap paper that also contained notes for creative pieces such as “Six Degrees of Ball Shaving,” he recited like a good slave, “You need to make an appointment in order to speak to an Apple Genius.” Just another military man without the buzz cut.

I told him how this could be handled in 30-seconds and—“You need to make an appointment.” I told him how in the past once I made an appointment and when I showed up at 12:00 noon I found out that I had signed-up for 12:00 midnight but they still sent someone over to talk to me. “You need to make an appointment.” Apparently you needed to make an appointment to speak to an Apple genius but none was required to speak to a moron.

In the 60s, long-hair was somewhat of the “Don’t Tread On Me” flag of the counter-culture, waved proudly in the face of the short-hairs with the message “We’re not showering, shaving, cutting our hair, using contraception, going to school—and it’s all because of you, you short-haired square pricks!” I gave the long-haired pussy before me a history lesson and told him that while he was surrounded by a bunch of square pricks, he was essentially a round pussy. And as we all know, a square prick trying to fit into a round vagina needs a lot of lube.

It reminds me of one of my future projects where I plan to go up to one of those fake anarchists and take his iPod. He will be like, “Hey, that’s my iPod!” and I will respond, “Anarchy bitch—no rules. It’s my iPod now,” and see his false structure crumble as fast as the World Trade Centers after the thermite bomb charges were detonated.

Wear whatever friggin’ costume you want. But I don’t want to see you wearing what I’m wearing if you are a pussy. This round prick pisses on square pussies like you.

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The Brotherhood of X

Thursday, March 19th, 2009

I only recently started reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X, although I couldn’t tell you who authored it, when the spirit of Malcolm X entered me. When I say this, I don’t mean as if I was conducting a séance and had some suckers around a table desperate to hear words of assurance from their dead loved ones and with voice changing a dramatic falsetto I said, “I’ll always love you, George—and don’t forget to tip the séance-ier handsomely.” Nor is it just a deep empathy, where you cerebrally, “understand his pain” and then the mind translates this to the body senses to emote what it thinks “a good little body” should do.

What I mean is that there was no separation between his shem in Hebrew—his spirit, his essence—and mine and suddenly my world was seen through shared eyes, his taking the reigns and mine sitting in the carriage like a passive passenger.  And what I felt was shame.

I felt the shame of trying to make oneself more “white” by conking one’s hair straight with a lye combination that burned like hell, or taking pride in being a lighter-skinned black, sitting in their white school like a mascot, listening to teachers and students both joke about “niggers” and justifying it with, “They don’t mean anything by it, it’s just the way everybody talks.” It wasn’t until certain seemingly small events cleared the eyes to see beyond the veil of ignorance and cleared the head to demand more, that joking about “niggers” was no longer acceptable.

The other day I had written an un-blog entry containing racist remarks about Mexicans. I write mockingly against every group or individual that identifies himself as part of a group and the racism, sexism, homophobia and necrophilia are all just written to satire the stupidity of anyone who really holds these beliefs. Well, not the necrophilia but the other stuff. But reflecting now on this last piece, I saw it not as some brilliant satire inspired by the ghost of Eric Cartman, but as cheap humor, insulting not only to Mexicans but to myself.

The carriage turned to the “gangsta” watch and big medallion recently accumulated as part of my latest costume and found them ridiculous, feeling completely distant from items that only a week ago I had mused girlish over as fun accoutrements to my persona. Through the clear vision of Malcolm’s eyes, I saw them as degrading and an insult to Who I Am and an insult to anyone who has ever covered up his naked beauty because he didn’t think it was enough in its bare essence.

When Malcolm’s shem left me, in its wake was left a determination not to be a cartoon character but to, like Malcolm, never compromise the need to express myself authentically. I asserted that I would not cheapen my writing and in turn cheapen myself with uninspired insults. I was disgusted at this sophomoric expression of a man I saw as my alter-ego, pathetically fighting the oppression of conformity as a rebel surrounded by a self-constructed barbed-wire fence of lies.

It took me a couple of days before I could use words like “nigger,” “spick,” “chink,” “kike,” “wop,” “pussy” and “prostitute” again. But, like my brother in X, even bullets could not kill the uncompromising message that while one may seek liberation “by any means necessary,” there is no price worth exchanging for your honor and authenticity.

“People…think personality is individuality. It is not–in fact it is the barrier. You will never attain individuality if you are not ready to drop your personality.”

-Osho, The Book Of Understanding (page 160)

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Carlos The Jackass

Saturday, March 14th, 2009

It was late and dark and I just left my house to walk with my dog. As I passed the side of the Chinese restaurant at the end of my block where I often see workers sitting and having a smoke and looking for rats to kill for the “A Little Bit Of Everything Soup,” a loud shrill scream came out of one of the gentlemen sitting there. When I use the term “gentlemen,” what I am referring to is a complete jackass.

Unlike my dog, while I didn’t find the hyenic cackle to be something to put me on alert, I did find it annoying. I turned around and approached the three sitting on the stoop. In the middle was Carlos, the jackass responsible for the outburst. To his left was another guy, “Hector,” who seemed equally Mexican and almost equally blitzed. And to his right was a girl, “Maria,” not Hispanic but more white trash but it makes for a better Midtown Westside Story if I keep them all under the border. All three seemed to be either two brain cells short of a minyon or drunk or both.

I said to Carlos, “What is it you have to say?” He started to babble something mostly incoherent. His compadre Hector, said, “He wasn’t talking to you.” I said, “Most people who shout have something they want to say. I’m asking him what he has to say.” At this point Carlos piped in about how he was maced the other day by someone and he thought it may have been me who did the macing, not knowing that I have a strict policy not to waste mace on Spics. At this point they were all still sitting.

I decided to do the only logical thing: antagonize a drunk. “If I had maced you the other day, what would shouting at me like a little bitch accomplish?” Carlos was pretty out of it. Soon Carlos was standing and the girl Maria had her hands on his chest trying to prevent him from approaching me saying, “No Carlos. Don’t Carlos. Sit Carlos. Stay Carlos. Good dog.”

I could easily assess that Carlos was not posing a threat to me, nor had he wanted to imply he could pose a threat to me and said, “Let him go.” Even Hector at this point was like, “Let him go,” probably because the whole ordeal was disturbing his third siesta of the day and exhausted from washes dishes and batting down a piñata he needed some Z’s. I was like, “Hector, either add something original or shut the fuck up!” I wouldn’t degrade myself by taking assistance from a wetback.

A flash of my father’s voice came into my head. It said, “If I kill your mother, would you help me dump the body?” I said, “Uh Dad, I’m a little busy right now. Probably not the best time for me to agree to being an accomplice to a murder but you have my blessing in whatever you decide to do.” He then went on to nag me about “What good can you hope to accomplish by this confrontation?” but at this point I pretty much tuned that prick out, I mean, after his first question what’s next—me taking advice from Tony Soprano on how to conduct an ethical business? That would be insane, as we all know Tony Soprano is a fictional character and if I were to ask him a question it would probably be, “How does a fat bastard like you get all those hot women?”

I stood strong, made my point, which had something to do with noise pollution and a strong opposition to the Security and Prosperity Partnership preamble to a North American Union, and went off with my dog, who said to me, “I would have bit him but I didn’t want to get any hot sauce on me.” I told her that was racist and if she didn’t have anything positive to say that she should shut her black ass up.

Tonight I was walking back home with my dog after being out and about for awhile and as I rounded the corner to my block a shout echoed out from the phone booth and as I turned I thought, “Who still uses pay phones in this day and age where every five year old has a phone with the blessing of his parents and the telecom companies that have suppressed the “Radiation Pressed Against A Developing Brain Is Dangerous” data.” I turned and, lo and behold, it was Carlos the Jackass. And sitting on the Chinky stoop was the Chong to his Cheech.

I was in a bit of a mood and so I antagonistically projected, “Why are you shouting at me?” His hands went up as if to surrender and say, “No hablo Ingles,” seeming to have had his fill of discussion with the likes of me. Since I lack the resources and the desire to feed or house prisoners, I went for the jugular. “I asked you why you shouted at me!” Hector started addressing me over the incomprehendable Carlos, and had an expression on his face that seemed to indicate anger. I ignored him.

Carlos said, “I’m talking to my girlfriend,” as he indicated a space to his side that must have meant that he believed himself dating a ghost. I was thinking of saying, “If you’re talking to your hand, you don’t need to shout at it,” but thought that in his current state of dementia the masturbation reference would have been lost on him and there’s nothing I hate more than a lost masturbation reference.

When I lost interest in deciphering the auditory hieroglyphs coming from Carlos’ mouth, I turned to Hector, who was still talking, and said, “How is it helpful you yelling at me while I’m talking to Carlos?” They were both drunk, again, and I had made my point, of which I am not certain, and left.

I was particularly annoyed tonight because I had started reading The Autobiography of Malcolm X the other day and it’s heartbreaking to me that when someone actually works to raise up himself and his community, he will either be killed by the government (JFK, RFK, MLK Jr., Osho) or by the egotists who feel threatened that they are losing control of their sheep, forgetting that they originally went into the leadership game to free people from the farm and not to herd them into a new one with better grass.

I was also angry that it seemed that besides the few who rise above mediocrity, most others don’t want to be anything other than sheep, happily feeding upon whatever field they are placed, not caring to venture beyond the confines of imposed-upon limitations. And looking at Carlos and Hector it was hard for me to feel compassion for these two losers whose sole mission in life seems to be how to be in a state so as not to be able to experience it.

It’s only a matter of time before I walk my block again and Carlos The Jackass, like a drunken Turrets Syndrome sailor, shouts out at me. Who knows what I’ll do…perhaps I’ll throw his drunken ass on the ground and take a piss on him…perhaps I’ll throw him a beer (as who doesn’t have at least a six-pack on him at all times), supporting his quest for self-induced liver failure. Perhaps I’ll kick Hector in the face and tell him that whenever I hear Carlos shout that I would respond by kicking him in the face, similar to the beat-the-constantly-messing-up-fat-fuck-with-a-bar-of-soap-in-your-sock Army justice from “Full Metal Jacket” or the beat-the-constantly-messing-up-fat-fuck-with-a-bar-of-soap-on-your-cock Army justice from the gay porno “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell, And Especially Don’t Bend Over In The Shower” (which I thought was robbed at the AVN Awards this year!)

As I walked the final half a block home, my dog Abandon looked up at me and said, “You get mad at me whenever I stop to sniff another dog’s dirty ass and yet every time we pass that dirty Jackass you stop and give him a sniff. What’s up with that?” I looked at her sharply and she said, “What? I didn’t say ‘wet back’!”

 

REFLECTION:

What impression do you want to leave on this world? Forget the global-warming alarmists who think the environmental impression made from leaving a nightlight by your child who is terrified of the dark’s bed is worthy of you killing yourself. How much time to you spend unconscious, whether sitting with your own Three Mexican Stooges using a glass of wine or a keg of beer to numb yourself from fully feeling or busy doing “important” things that stir your insides about as well as one of those gay little red coffee stirrers that looks like a twin-barreled shotgun in straw form but seriously lacks the bang?  Do you want to be a sheep on the farm or the one that wanders out and risks living dangerously? Or is your concern with “grass” and if it can keep you high enough to avoid fulfilling what you came here to do?

MEDITATION

Imagine yourself blindfolded and swinging your stick at a piñata. If you bust that fucker in one or two swings, please contact my father as he has some, uh, “contractual work” for you. If you’re swinging your stick madly and still can’t seem to bust open that little thing and gain the lesson that, “When you destroy things, Jimmy, great amounts of candy shower down on you,” then open your eyes and cry yourself to sleep, as you’re too much of a pussy to have even a minor breakthrough in your imagination. If by “swinging your stick” you imagined smashing that dangling paper animal with your dick, then contact Para-Mount Me Studios immediately as they are holding auditions this week for “Rambone,” the sequel to their Special Forces box office smash, “First Blood: Because I Forgot Lubricant.”

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