You Think That Guy's in the Band?

          Three years ago some friends were coming into town for a weekend-long music festival, and there were other concerts around town capitalizing on the crowd.  My best friend and I go into a bar adjoining the music hall; we've always understood each other deeply though I have long considered him more connective & social than myself.  I'm feeling out of place, my self-consciousness playing its usual tricks of having me believe I am sticking out as an obvious square in a dimly-lit room full of talent-possessing, love-making, interpersonally-adept people.
          As we get toward the back of the crowded bar I see this tall, thin-as-a-wire guy - who looks as young as we are - with an intensely asymmetrical haircut sitting rakishly in a booth with two very "alternative" styled, patently attractive girls on him.
          I tapped my friend and said, "You think that guy's in the band?"  My friend turned to me, looked me straight in the eyes with amusement and how damn enjoyable the universe is, and in a moment of unrestrained brilliance said something that changed my life:
          "Everyone in the room is in the band."

Half-Literate

Mar 15 2015

 Knowing how to read it but not how to speak it
sometimes feels worse than not knowing how to read it at all.

Be Being Been

JUL 27 2017

I'm SLOW and INEFFECTIVE at generating things because I believe that "I can't BE there unless I've already BEEN"

In other words, it's my mantra - "it can only be found by those who already know where it is" - being applied onto myself, destructively!

Of course I KNOW the whole being-->doing-->having method of things.  Yet I constantly believe that I must have ALREADY BEEN somewhere to be valid in pursuing being there (what moronism)!

How did I get into motorcycles?  I just joined the class and I bought one.  Boom! Now I'm a biker, because I ride a bike.
How did I get into swinging?  I just attended events.  I mentioned that it was an interest to girls I was into, I got onto SLS, I said yes to the opportunities that existed.  How did I get to make furniture?  I just made it.  How did I get to be an acid head?  I just took acid.  The doors were all open.  It was merely my prerogative to walk through them, but for some weird reason that's the part we humans find difficult.

So how do I get to be an artist?  Just make art.
How do I get to be a lover?  Just love.
How do I get to be a fit muscle man?  I just exercise regularly and eat well.
How do I get to be sexy?  I just be sexy.
How do I get to be rich?  I just make money.  I find things others value but  aren't doing, and I do them.
How do I get to be a leader?  I just lead.
How do I get to have fun?  I just enjoy doing stuff, and pick fun things to do.

Note the shift from 'be' to 'have' on the last question there, is there anything worth exploring in that?

How do I get to have my dream house?  Just build it, get the people needed to do so.
How do I get to have the life I want?  Just be the person who'd have that kind of life.

What's bigger than pornstar, or The Pleasure Man, since those haven't been drawing me forward.  The Maestro's part of it, so is the Powerful Man, but they're not there just yet...what's the magical thing that'll go DING and make EVERY LAST THING from the past disappear, leaving ONLY the beingness of this supermaster present.

What do I REALLY want?  Who do I REALLY want to be?  That would have the self-respect to pull off anything and everything I desire, no stoppages or excuses or shortcomings or justifications for why I don't have it.  I'm talking that Mad Max, Don Draper, Baron Flambeaux, Cary Grant, hard-rocking, brilliant, sexy, art-shitting, OUT THERE rockstar who just burns the world to the ground with his very gaze?!  The kind of guy who'd set sights on a girl and ultimately get her to a choice about him, and satisfied with her choice, but nonetheless having made it....rather than quiet in the corner, HOPEFUL (god what a vile word!).
The guy who's got a big, shit-eating grin on, whose Miami-neon swim shorts ripple in the wind while he holds open the throttle on a cigarette boat loaded with acid and amplifiers bound for some atoll off the coast with guys & girls of highest caliber.  He doesn't need to be the best..because they're all the best.  He's a god, yet he's among gods.  And he pulls others toward godliness.  He understands other perspectives but does not adopt them.  He is the Lizard King, and his presence throbs with a gentle, torquey unshakability.  Others may lob what they have at him...their cheers or their jeers, their tomatoes, their empty bottles at the back of his head, their roses & soaked lace knickers, their condescending tones & disapproving looks, their mind tricks, their delusions, their awe-struck compliments, every mechanism they have, and he shall not be deterred from his course.  For he knows it, and it is true, and true to it he stays with an authenticity purer than hydrogen.  There is only one sin: doubt.

He is.

I am.

"I am," he declared, and thus it was law in the universe.

Tales from the Intersection

     I sat there, at the helm of the machine, rumbling & grumbling in the misty night, waiting for my turn at the intersection, as the motor throbbed in anticipation.  I strained and in the distance I could hear the echoes of Spitfire pilots over the Channel.  A pink cigarette died in the ashtray.
     The red light disappeared and with nothing more than the slight twist of a small metal plate the beast came alive, all sound and fury and chrome and hot leather.
     The smell of female had suffused the cabin, born of the soaked upholstery, but presently it fought off the invading scent of premium gasoline.
     I howled down the boulevard, a blue streak, fully possessed of the moment.  It was all rich, clean energy, and it reeked of a man dealing with reality on its truest terms, namely: no terms at all.

Lightest I've Felt in Years

The truth is you're treating them like enemies, to be bested, because that's all they've ever been to you - competition or non-threats - when what you really want is to be friends.  You want it so dearly.

And realizing that was the lightest you'd felt in years.

You Know She Knows It

Don't declare that it's magnificent.  She knows it is, in part because she is.  You know it is - in part because you are - but that's not enough.  You need to recognize that you know it and she knows it too, but most importantly of all that you know she knows it, and therefore don't have to declare it.  The thrill isn't in what's explicit, it's in what's implicit.

Haikus in English are Patent Foolishness

Y'all don't know each other.
You smile.  She smiles back.  Life's gold.
'Murican haiku.

Originally written October 21, 2013

The Rear-Ending That Wasn't

I rear-ended a girl for the first time today, though not in the normally good sense of that phrase.

            I sat waiting at a red light on Santa Monica Boulevard, headed East towards Rosewood.  The light turns green, people start moving forward, everything's going normally.  I notice a Star Tours bus coming the opposite direction, fully-loaded.  I decide to remove my hat and wave it out the sunroof at them.  When I look back down in front of me, there's a car, almost stopped, not twenty feet ahead.  I stab the brakes, they lock up and I skid, but it's too late: I can tell I'm going to hit her five feet before it happens.

            It was only a gentle crunch.  We both pull over.  The worst part isn't that my flawless record's got a wart, the worst part isn't that the front of my car's a little bit fucked, the worst part isn't that it's going to be a long time until I can afford to repair the car, or even that my insurance rate will rise.  The worst part is that there's no way I can deny – to myself, that is; I'll obviously never admit it to insurance or anyone else – that this was entirely the product of me being a complete dumbass.  By choosing to give some idiots on a bus a show they'd forget anyhow, I delayed myself and the driver of the other car by some twenty minutes and caused myself what I'm sure will be a great expense.

            That having been said, there are more upsides than downsides.  I was in my S-Klasse and she was in a new Audi.  It was pure German-on-German, so hardly anything happened to either vehicle.  My grille, which is mostly plastic, got bent but my bumper's fine.  Her bumper somehow looks miraculously untouched, save for some light scratching.  I had expected it to be totally crumpled.

            This girl who was driving was cute in a cold, Scandinavian way.  Icy eyes, pure blonde hair, and a pretty rack.  I could tell by the rest of her – thin, far too thin for my taste – that the airbags weren't factory standard.  We both call our insurers.  After a while on the 'phone, during which I'd been looking the other direction, I turn back towards her car and notice some other, to be honest quite more attractive girl had suddenly appeared.  Evidently, she had a passenger that I'd not noticed at all before.  The driver – Nicole – had what you might call the ultimate blonde hair, but the passenger had what can only be described as golden hair.  She was even lovelier.

            Perhaps it's simply because it wasn't her car, but the passenger had a warm, completely natural smile.  She also had tits that readily outclassed Nicole's.  That's not to say hers were bigger – though they were slightly – but by god was she perfectly suited to them and vis-versa.  They looked natural, too, no sense of stiffness.  It's an open secret that I love big bolt-ons, but there's an unrivaled hypnotic majesty to the fluidity of god-given boobs in motion.  If I went to Central Casting looking for a believably though uncommonly attractive Beverly Hills girlfriend, they'd have given me this girl.

            If all goes well, and I expect it to, I'll have my Cadillac back in a week or two.  Perfect timing.  God bless that Mercedes, but it has got more issues than I can afford to deal with right now.  As a Benz brother once said to me at the golf course – he'd owned a diesel too – "Wonderful car; everything’ll break but the engine."  I've been learning that is the truth.  Door handles, window motors, locking system and other vacuum leaks, it all goes to hell and shipping parts across the pond ain't cheap.  But those five cylinders will crank until long after the last man breathes his final breath.  This thing was respectable with rough edges before, but after this crash it's looking trashy.

"I WANT MY CADDY!"

                      -Woody Harrelson

            I must have lied earlier when I said that the worst part was how this collision was my fault.  The worst part is that I'm not fucking both of those girls right now.  Particularly the passenger.
            It'd be great to have accidentally, moronically hit Nicole's car and then hit it off with her friend and us have this fun night while she's still stewing about minor cosmetic damage to the bumper of her A4.  But that fantasy has an ever-so-mildly cruel, vindictive touch.

            No, something better might go like so: Nicole is discombobulated by the unexpected alteration of her otherwise uneventful afternoon, but she handles herself well – she asked me after several minutes on the wire with her insurer, “Want to call your insurance company too?" at which point I realized that's what I should've been doing all along; this was my first time at this particular rodeo (something I made sure to tell my AAA agent, verbatim) – while her friend is surprised but laughing *with* the universe and *at* Nicole & I.  Meanwhile I appear to the passenger as a suave-yet-perverse stranger, rather than the milquetoast inconvenience I'm sure I ended up being in reality.  I would hit it off with the passenger, the effect of which is doubled to Nicole since she's surely thinking I’m [il]legally retarded for banging her car.  The fact that she drives a current-model-year sportscar & I hit her with a junky yet somehow miraculously operational black luxury car with black seats and black windows while wearing dickshit shades and a sheriff's hat says to her that while I've clearly yet to find my place on some sliding scale – maybe that of money vs. taste, though more likely that of 'trying to be cool' vs. 'actually being cool' – I evidently somehow know what the hell I'm doing enough to afford to be driving through Beverly Hills in the middle of the afternoon in a Mercedes, even if the driver door handle's broken and the brake pads are worn to the metal and I actuate the starter with a screwdriver.

            This peculiar aspect of reality unmistakably turned her on.  When I was younger I would've been too stupid to realize that this particular aspect of my reality was eggs-actly WHAT turned her on.  I'd then suggest that we pull off Santa Monica, since the trip from the 405 to West Hollywood that'd normally take fifteen minutes damn near doubled thanks to our halving the number of open lanes.

            She was driving a new Audi through Hollywood during work hours.  She and her friend had tits granted by Santa Claus and if not God himself.  It was all predictable, but as network television and Samuel Goldwyn can both tell us, predictability is nothing to be afraid of, if anything it is something to which should be clung.  Nicole quickly realized she didn’t' want to go home to thousands of square feet and constant bickering.  A half-Olympic pool with custom underwater speakers and imported bottles of brandy wouldn't erase the banality of sleeping next to a man who barely expressed passion for signing thirty-five million dollar contracts, let alone coming home to a gorgeous naked blonde woman backstroking in his half-Olympic pool.

            Many hours, bottles, and positions later, Nicole and her passenger sat splayed on my wall-to-wall rugs.  Well, my common-law aunt's wall-to-wall rugs.  My name wasn't on this place's title, I just lived here.  They were juicy and so was I.  At least girl-juice was clear; grease wasn't: you should've seen this place before I rented a professional-grade rug-cleaner.  Gross.  The girls smelled good.  Five years of sloppily transported Filipino food didn't.  God Bless You Rug Doctor.

            It wasn't the best.  It sure wasn't the worst.  Maybe there's some personal bias, but those Scandinavians know what they are doing.  Must be in our genes.   Nicole and her passenger and I were nothing special, we were just another set of people in the thrashing confluence of humanity, which while incomprehensible at large can be at least marginally understood by focusing the glass on Los Angeles.

The Difficult Women

We love the easy woman, because she is easy, but...

we are drawn to the TASK of unlocking the sexuality of the difficult woman, precisely because we know a WOMAN is there under her robes in any situation.  The reward is unlocking the sexual nature of the woman presented to us in the distinctly nonsexual situation.
Would you rather have twenty dollars earned after a hard day's work, or a twenty dollars given to you for free?  The answer is obvious, yet the male mind is drawn to that twenty from work.  surely this is not rational.

the male mind is not innately rational simply because it is opposite to the female mind and the female mind is irrational.  we are, like the women, wholly and dramatically irrational, just differently.  Coke and Pepsi are both cola.  But Coke ain't Pepsi.