The Silence In Diction

"You're Tearing Me Apart, Lisa!"

2010-01-31T03:02:00.000-08:00

The Room is an amazing cult phenomenon that I absolutely could not avoid being swept by. What sets this film from many other “so bad, it’s good” titles is that its cult status has transformed it into a participatory movie, much like The Rocky Horror Picture Show, and has become the larger factor of the hilarity pulled from watching it. From yelling insults to throwing cutlery (“Spoons!”), this celebrated disaster has my ticket for its monthly screenings at the Sunset 5. More than a year later, I still find myself pushing the envelope of my own enthusiasm.
Even hanging out with my friends in the overwhelmingly long line is always a riot, as seen here:

Revitalize the Quiescence

2010-01-19T00:11:00.000-08:00

I'm awfully frustrated with the inability to write as of late. I've composed works here and there, only to have completion left astray. Under my belt is a collection of work waiting for me to resume, inaccessible due to technical restraints--that being said, I've made it a point to resolve the issue and finally get the gears oiled up again. So, my quest for a literary muse continues and I foresee myself reveling in loose syntax, idioms, and curious rhetoric to jump start regrettable dead time. I suppose one can only look within for such inspiration...and cease an afflictively staunch habit.

Destruction, The Joy of Rebirth

2009-04-28T21:12:00.000-07:00

"What is this? An empty space? An empty world?
A world where nothing exists but myself?
But with only myself, I have nothing to interact with.
It's as if I'm here, but not here at all.
It's as if I'm slowly fading out of existence."

...why?

Without others to interact with, you cannot truly recognize your own image. In the act of observing others, you may find and recognize yourself. Your self image is restrained by having to observe the barriers between yourself; your self image is restrained by having to observe the barriers between yourself and others. And yet, you cannot see yourself without the presence of others. Because there are others, you can perceive yourself as an individual. If you are alone, then you will be the same without others. For if this world is only of you then there will be no difference between you and nothing.

By recognizing the differences between yourself and others, you've established your identity as yourself.

Horoscopes Under Eyelids

2009-01-29T10:49:00.000-08:00

Most people spend their lives immersed in three modes of awareness: waking, sleeping, and dreaming. But there are many other modes that have been explored down through the ages by the pioneers of consciousness. Some of them aren't very interesting to me - like those sought out by people who use cocaine or methamphetamines, for instance - while others are states I aspire to inhabit, like lucid dreaming, deep meditation and a visceral perception of the fact that love is the fundamental law of the universe.

I need a driving curiousity to tune in to realities that are currently outside my field of vision.

BRB

2009-01-17T00:03:00.000-08:00

"Let's do lunch," they'll say.
Reliability's on the menu
and you'll order, of course--
"Hey, that shit sounds good."
And with good faith you'll ask for it, only to have the waiter tell you,
they stopped serving it at two.
I only wish that,
after they tell you to "Heeey, call me sometime!"
and their phone number becomes a one-way service line to their voicemail--
you see them on the street, or a store.
And when you call them and see them ignore your call right in front of you,
you approach him or her and say,
"Hey, you self-righteous piece of shit!
You speak truths in blogs,
perform and model on webcams,
write love letters in text messages,
create digital memories
for a metropolis-revolving life,
yet you don't know the HTML code
to grow a pair of balls?
Or maybe you only send courtesy through MySpace messages."
These disconnected beings
wandering my city,
these kings and queens
deluded with monarchies stuck up their ass
with Louis Vuitton bags as fake as their rapport
and as empty as their promises;
but "fuck it," you say.
Just like a song gets stuck in your head,
it's a temporary plague that comes and goes;
suck the venom out and spit,
because that's all you can really do.
Well, I suppose the reason why it doesn't snow in Los Angeles
is because you're already bombarded by flakes every day.

Through The Rubble

2008-11-17T15:10:00.000-08:00

hello
young man
you've been sitting against this wall
caressing the cracks with your thoughts
forming a bond with the tough concrete
because you say
nothing else is solid.
you looked at me
and said that
you were living the days through
tracing the slab
with a tongue birthed from
anti-perseverance
towards the clockwork and social impositions
that make fighting self-destruction
so hard.
goodbye
young man
the mold outgrown from your back
has kept you
from pulling yourself up
because we both know that
nothing is solid.

Tonight's Winning Numbers

2008-09-02T12:02:00.000-07:00

Heading to work one morning, I happened to walk pass one of the homeless folk of Downtown, as I often do. She stood in front of the 7-11 convenient store on the corner of Olive and 7th St., hunched over and leaning on the ever-present, trademark shopping cart that accompanies most "street wanderers." She had stringy, blonde hair covering her face - only you could hardly tell through the layers of dirt caked onto it, from the scalp down. She wore a collection of clothing on her back, stacked up to the black bubble jacket on top; these were also thick with dirt, the tatters and tears showing off through the ends. I grimaced as I caught sight of her bare feet: long brown toenails that came to sharp points at each end and muddy, heavily calloused soles.

The faded blue handle bar on her cart read "Rite-Aid" and on top of the enormous pile that filled it was a big, spread-open sleeping bag that reminded me of the one I used as a kid. Maybe it covered clothes, trinkets, soda cans or more sleeping bags, but it sure didn't shelter anything that would justify what was in her hands. Bent forward, elbows on shopping cart handle, she clutched a lottery scratcher ticket in one hand, as the other feverishly swept a penny back and forth on the surface, with no restraint to slow down or stop. The top of her dirty, yellowed thumbnail was covered in silver shavings and the sides of the ticket collapsed into two creases on each side from her firm grip. Her green-brown teeth looked as if they sought blood, digging deeply into a chapped and flaking lower lip while bloodshot yet concentrated eyes darted back and forth, almost keeping up the pace of the sweeping penny.

This homeless woman, caked in dirt, was spending money on lottery scratchers - not just the single one in her hand, as suggested (upon second glance) by the crumpled losings that peeked through the plastic shopping cart frame - rather than food, a pair of sandals or even a bar of soap! Was this chance encounter a sign of our force-fed hope gone out of control? Or was this a skewed reflection of our festering greed overcoming the basic needs to get by, even when living on the streets of Los Angeles covered in shit with a Rite-Aid cart as a sole lifeline?

Whichever one it may be, all I know is that my face had just been slammed into the concrete floor of cold, raw humanity.

Disconnected

2008-08-15T10:38:00.000-07:00

To further my theory of how disconnected our society has been, I'd like to present an observation that I feel not only shows just that, but how selfish and self-centered we've become.
I've noticed that the polite conversation starter, "How are you?" or even the more casual, "How's it going?" has become nothing but a mere greeting. Too many times have I witnessed a "Hey, how's it going?" volleyed back with another "How's it going?" and ended with the two passerbys moving forward along their paths.
It's even promoting poor use of the English language amongst secondary English speakers. My apartment building's security guard, Gus, is my prime example for this. Gus is a really nice guy, maybe in his late thirties or forties who knows maybe enough broken English to get by - maybe. Every night, he'll greet me with a quick "How-are-yoou!", a happy nod and grin with a raised left hand. Great guy - only problem is, if I ask him how he's doing, he'll only cheerfully reply, "How-are-yoou!"

I feel that the root of this "How are you?" problem may be the now common oversight of taking the time to actually take an interest in one another. Perhaps people just don't care. Or maybe it's because we've grown so desensitized to human interaction, so used to communicating through technologically convenient means that we've grown to be repetitive and almost robotic with strangers or light acquaintances on the street.

We've only grown so egotistical and arrogant with our networking sites and online social forums that we've cut the connection to our everyday encounters. Are we all just depending on our carefully picked, photoshopped pictures that we feel best sell ourselves to gain compliments and reassurance? Or maybe our strong, opinionated voices online? The ones which crack down with harsh criticism onto strangers at the first opportune moment, only to reward ourselves with the idea of being smarter or above them?
We can parade ourselves like this with our façade.coms, but can't take the interest to ask someone - really ask someone..."How are you doing?"
They might not even be formalities anymore; rather, deterrents in the form of a mouthful of words to avoid the risk of making ourselves vulnerable to others, the fear of actually letting people get closer to us than the mere gazes we selfishly deliver from a distance.
Who would've known that rubbing shoulders with someone could grow to be so intimidating?

Eulogies From The Parking Lot

2008-03-18T08:35:00.000-07:00

They walk along the streets
looking for jobs on the floor
that someone might have forgotten.
Their wallets are filled with dead hope
and reminders of their struggles
as stale as its cheap leather,
while the children in the pictures fitted in between the emptiness
seem to frown
From the wrinkles maybe
or something else perhaps.
Something else.
They stand in the cold, shivering
in the hardware store parking lot
And they patrol
as sentries of patience
of want
of prayers
while the American dream blankets them from frosted morning
but nothing more.
And they cry
Oh, they cry
But they are nothing but a circus to sight
A circus, perhaps
But one which shows others
the truth
of living
to feed the young and feed the dream.
Allowing themselves to be exploited
like animals
they only return humble smiles
that stretch from sorrowful eye to sorrowful eye.
And on they go
with the pores of their skin crying loudly,
causing them
to leak their hearts down their faces.
Later, after sunset
They return to their homes
wallets still worn but
the table will be decorated with crumpled dollar bills.
Nothing more, nothing less.
For them
cracked backs and bruised hands
are medals of making the best
of what is just another day to the world.

Billboards As People

2007-10-15T17:33:00.000-07:00

Everyone's a walking endorsement--
a brand name for an identity,
a cross-stitched tag for an image.

Wash with warm water, your indirect false worship.
Use mild soap to cleanse the marketing embedded deep beneath your skin.
Do not bleach the somber lies you blindly wear.
Iron flat your dreams, because you sold them to Calvin Klein and Starbucks.
Tumble dry low your memories, for you are a corporate slave-soldier.

Welcome to the dry cleaners of the omnipotent advertisement that is society.
Apparel is always promotional.
Too bad individuality isn't.

Oh, Misery Is So Beautiful

2007-10-10T12:50:00.000-07:00

So this is what heaven is initially perceived as: this magical plane where one is granted eternal happiness, in exchange for the time served on earth carrying out model citizen duties. Behind the proverbial pearly gates is where angels will suck your dick for hours, while J.C.—at the right hand of God, the big man you've been slaving your entire mortal life to meet - shoots you a thumbs-up and a smile when you blow your load. And that's it right there. The golden finish line, the cherry on top of the sundae, and the standing ovation for the life you've made for yourself.
But as dedicated the hopefuls are to standing by this, as grand as they've all built it to be, and as tempting it all has been to eat it all up, it's bullshit; it has to be. The great landscape caressed by immortality is only a lie packaged in a box of propaganda, finished off with an illusionary, bright red ribbon.
What we’re really looking forward to…what this promise really grants…is an eternity twiddling our thumbs and enjoying the scenery.

If heaven truly existed, and was obtainable to those who fulfilled its requirements, then what lies ahead is no better than the lives we struggle with down here on Earth. Heaven, how I see it, is but a promise of a life with no purpose, no cause or meaning. There is nothing to work for, anything to strive for, nor work towards. Although that is the big prize – living worry free and not burdened with obligations – there is absolutely no stimulation. What makes life worth living is the human mechanic and downfall of never being able to be truly content--even if we aspire for the unobtainable, it gives us reason to wake up; to breathe. We bitch and we moan about how difficult life is, but if that struggle were taken away - if we were granted the key to “heaven”, or something like it - we’d only last a small breath, a tiny whisper before craving those very afflictions we detested.

So this, right here - our miserable, disgusting lives - is as good as it gets. We should all be thankful for the wondrous filth we’ve made ourselves to sleep in every night. We should give praise to the rapists, murderers, racists and terrorists for making life such a grand fucking adventure. A toast to all the moguls, high-society aristocrats, and celebrities for keeping that impossible wall for us to constantly climb, struggling with bleeding knuckles and cracked ribs. In the end, it all unknowingly plasters a grin on our faces that heaven could never match—because misery is so fucking beautiful.

So this is it.
Your heaven and your hell.
You can go ahead and call your mid-life crisis your limbo.
Your "God" might as well be that step-dad that put his hands down your pants when you were a kid.
There is no gold watch, necktie and farewell handshake.
Eat your shit with a smile, because eternal life is the toy in the happy meal that the Mexican kid stole from you.

It's A Safari In Los Angeles

2007-09-01T10:37:00.000-07:00

The Zoo, ubiquitously controversial in the animal rights world, was a place I had not been to since childhood. I had played around with the thought of going, the idea jumping back and forth between giving into my curiosity and allegiance to the ethical beliefs that were common ground amongst fellow activists. I was stuck; conflicted. But I later decided that my beliefs on such things are my own, and that any popularized ideas related to said topics were but building blocks for a foundational structure one may or may not want to go with.

So I decided that, even if I had chosen to be firm about any opinions towards Zoos (much like Circuses, but there’s no question that nothing will change how I feel about them), I should at the very least go to observe and fully understand what goes on before forming any final decisions. And hey, I love animals--plain and simple. I go and tell myself that if I see any of what had me against Zoos in the first place, I can witness the accounts firsthand. I do, however, know the other side of Zoo keeping: preservation of threatened/endangered species, breeding, conservation, etc., and hope to be more captivated by that than by anything else. And hell, it was a fun way to spend an afternoon with my girlfriend on our anniversary.

The Los Angeles Zoo was, quite surprisingly, not ghetto. I have joked about picturing a rundown lawn lined with rusted cages housing miserable animals that chain smoked – stupid, yes - but there would be some truth between those words. The establishment seems well maintained, runs a decent program along with involvement in many conservation projects and has adequate housing (although I’d rather see them free). Not too shabby, I must say. Honorable mentions include the California sea lions, mouth-gaping hippos being fed, beautiful girlfriend to explore with, and fresh kettle corn.

Breaking Back In

2007-07-11T11:18:00.000-07:00

I haven’t updated in quite some time, since my life has been…well, busy. I can’t remember the last time my life turned into this series of left and right hustling, but it’s definitely a great one-eighty. All of the things I’ve placed on my plate as of the last two months have not only been productive towards my life, but immensely rewarding. I’m not sure where to start, but to record as much as I can muster, I’ll start from the most noteworthy and go from there.

This decision is surely one that draws the most criticism, and the ever-so-popular shake of the disapproving head. I’ve moved out of my last apartment and into a new place that I now share with my significant other, Kathleen. This is a definite first in my book and - not so surprisingly – has been far from overwhelming (at least in the I-want-to-rip-out-my-hair sense). Other than for the better, it hasn’t changed nor deterred our relationship. All hands on deck, no regrets whatsoever, all chips in, and I couldn’t be any happier.

With going back to school coming up, the internships I have under my belt, my book and all else that makes up my quite stimulating life, I left my last job for one that was a far better fit for me – actually, this could be by far the best one I’ve ever had. And again, I couldn’t be any happier.

Now, I had a (massively interesting) back story about the newly acquired group of friends I’m about to mention and was going to blog about it, but felt that too much time had passed since (I’m just lazy, really - maybe I’ll still go forth with doing so after this post). I love how they’re mutual friends between Kathleen and I, and although only knowing them for such a short amount of time, I’ve really come to see them as genuine friends I’d know I’d hate losing. Either way, I enjoy their company and the time we’ve spent so far.

So, it’s summer now, and the aforementioned group of friends and I have covered making the most of it by beach hopping, gallery viewing, ghost hunting and torturing poor Denny’s servers. All’s left is going to shows, and as it’s concert season, I should start buying tickets.

Well, that's it for now. I swear, I'm going to get back into the habit of posting regularly, especially with new work/pieces. And the content is going to be a lot better - apologies for the poorly written blog.

Talking To The Moon

2007-03-12T23:53:00.000-07:00

I am absolutely enthused; today, our radio program's producer, Rita, gave me my first big assignment: read author Noel Alumit's latest novel, Talking to the Moon, and then interview him on-air.
This is something I'm definitely going to anticipate and prepare well for.

Funny enough, she gave me the assignment unbeknownst to the fact that the author is Filipino-American, with the culture strongly tied to his story. I see it as an opportunity to at some point bring the conversation to common ground, and aid me in avoiding asking the ever-popular tiresome and generic questions. After all, I don't want to look like a feeble-minded simpleton in front of an author who just recently added an LA Weekly award under his belt; I want this interview to do his reputation good justice.

Only digesting a thin layer of the first part of the book, I already enjoy the novel - and the author. I have definitely grown much respect for him and his writing so far. It's someone like him that makes an aspiring author like myself feel like having a shot at really making it.

Feel free to enjoy this small excerpt from the book:

The Final Descent

2007-02-22T19:46:00.000-08:00

"What...what is this?" he cautiously asked.
His hand slowly came up to meet hers, outstretched and beckoning for his grasp.

She had carried him away into what could only be described as the whisper of beautiful oblivion. He trembled in her arms, and when he turned to look at her, only a quiver of his lips was what he could muster as speech. She nodded with knowing eyes, and her soft lips spoke words that he could not hear, for ringing in his ears was the rhythmic tune of the marriage of their beating hearts.

His eyes darted back and forth in confusion, and his breathing grew erratic. Smiling, she cupped the side of his face with one hand, and with the other, drew a finger over his mouth, slowly starting to hang open as she calmed him. An inexplicable warmth greeted him, and their gazes met and locked in place, not faltering for a second as they both were flung into the mosaic of all that they were.

They embraced, and breathed into each other for the last time.

Requiem For Bohemia

2007-02-04T00:05:00.000-08:00

Today marked the first day of my internship at KPFK Pacifica Radio. Although I've only flirted with the idea of being involved with broadcast journalism, I'm awfully excited to learn both front and back end aspects of running a radio show; I'm even more excited to know that I'm actually going to get the opportunity to be on air. I've only started to get my foot wet and already I've compiled a small list of interviews in my head that I want to conduct for one of their many programs, "Poet's Cafe".

I had the wonderful opportunity to be in studio while Vivian (who I cannot thank any more for giving me this spectacular opportunity) interviewed author Daniel Hurewitz about his book, Bohemian Los Angeles. An aspect of his book hit close to home, as it touches upon the history of Edendale, California - what us Angelinos recognize as Silverlake and Echo Park today. Spending most of my life residing in Echo Park, an area that inspired and enabled me to participate in countless poetry readings, I had no idea the massive history and importance of growing artistic culture it encompassed - the bohemian lifestyle that was flourishing with the largest and most significant poets, artists, and filmmakers in Los Angeles at the time.

I came out of the station today having learned much more than I had expected. I was given some insight about a community's rich and inspiring story I was connected with, yet knew nothing of.
Boy, Abee's fascination about that run-down district makes so much more sense now.

Riding The Night With A Trafficked Mind

2007-01-08T02:01:00.000-08:00

I was driving down Route 66, burritos on my mind and a stomach hungry for thought. It was late but hunger prevailed against lethargy, and here I was driving towards Del Taco. The streets were empty, and I was relaxed. I felt so free to just think - the lights were out around me, but man, Vegas would envy the festival of thought right here, inside this metropolis between my ears. Five miles, and no sign of Del Taco. Did I go the wrong way? Shit, I did.

Red light. Green Light. Go.

And so I continued on, the only other street it could be on. I thought of her. I always think about her. I thought about how much I wanted things to change. But I had to be patient. I thought about the smile only she brought onto my face. I wish she could be here with me, sitting in the car with a trafficked mind too, and in an instant a conversation would give birth between us, immersed with our overflowing ideas and colorful banter. I wanted to create a world with her; I wanted us to beautifully destroy each other, to create each other. Damn! It wasn't on this street either. I decide to just settle for Taco Bell. After waiting ten minutes, they tell me that they're out of rice. I take my cognitive cash back and decide to find someplace else to get food.

Red Light. Green Light. Go.

Ralphs closed twelve minutes ago. Damn, I've already tacked on ten miles on this midnight journey. Albertsons is closed too, and at this point desperation is running high. I pass by three cop cars surrounding a scene of four officers arresting two drug dealers. I wonder if they had burritos on their minds, if they ran into a detour in a quest for the food of thought. The streets are empty, and I felt like speeding because all this thinking, all these wonderful thoughts are making my nerves dance, and I go. 120mph and it's still not keeping up with my thoughts. Of her. Of life. Of these trees, these lampposts and these lights turning into a melting blur around me.

Red Light. Green Light. Go.

I wasn't having any luck finding food, and the streets were growing tired of my wandering. I decided to go to the hole-in-the-wall Mexican joint near my house, a three minute walk down the street. I burned twenty miles of gasoline and thoughts for a restaurant three minutes away. But I didn't care; I had everything on my mind and nothing in my stomach. I ate, and waited for the thoughts to digest.

Chris Gil

2007-01-03T02:13:00.000-08:00

An Unfinished Start To An Idea For A Possible Short Story

I.

We sat at a restaurant in Hollywood and he talked about his life up to that point. His name was Chris Gil and the kid should've been miserable, but he wasn't. He seemed just fine and open to his scarred history - maybe a little too fine and open. You'd be shocked to hear him say, "My mom just went to jail yesterday" or "Yeah, my life's pretty damn messed up" with a calm, straight face accompanied with a tone that made the remarks feel like a rehearsed line he was trying out. You'd swear he were lying, that he was just pulling your leg for a cheap laugh, until you caught it. Through the pair of light brown eyes you'd see the glint of despair, the whisper of loneliness softly embedded in that seemingly blank stare - and then you'd know. With pain like that, he couldn't be kidding for a second.

Chris lived in the house behind my parents' with his father. It was a small, spanish-styled two bedroom house in the small sub-city of Los Feliz in Los Angeles. Chris' father was gone for the most part each day, so Chris practically lived in solitude, fending for himself at fifteen. For whatever little time his dad was home, he was wasted. I knew of this the first day Chris and I had met.
"So, is your dad home?" I asked.
"No, he rarely is" he replied. "When he is, he's drunk. My dad's a, you know, an alcoholic."
I have to admit, I was rather surprised. No one says anything that sharply without either sounding spiteful or shameful. But this came out under neither extremity of the spectrum. What did he expect from me after blurting something like that out? What type of reply did he usually hear? Was it a cry for help? An obstacle to overcome that he was proud of?
"My dad works all day, so I'm here alone a lot."
"That's unfortunate, man" I said, trying not to sound like it was out of pity.

I was a tad uncomfortable, so I really didn't know what the right thing to say was. Maybe if he were older it wouldn't have moved me as much, but he was just a kid, like every other naive kid. On the other hand, Chris came off so much more mature. He seemed to have his head straight; he was a blessed weed in the field of pre-pubescent teenage angst.
"So, what do you want to do down the line, Joe?" he questioned. I was amused at him taking interest in me.
"I want to write" I answered. "How about you?"
"I want to be a policeman" he said, nodding his head and smiling.
"Wow, that's pretty admirable."
"Well, all my friends joined gangs. Not all of them, though - some are just doing drugs and stuff. It sucks and I don't want to get into that. I want to do something that'll clean up the city, and make me feel good about myself, not the opposite."
I chuckled. "Well, that's the perfect job to do it, I suppose. That's cool that you didn't fall into all that junk."
"Yeah, it's all just so stupid."

The kid really did have his head straight. A drunk for a dad, a convict for a mom, gangsters and drug addicts as friends, and he's still holding it together. He really started to impress me.

- Just brainstorming some ideas, so I don't know if I have anything yet. All I know is that I'm in dire need of some sleep before I attempt to revise these notes or figure out how to move forward with the story. Maybe I should work on this outside of directly coming up with stuff onto Blogger's post box, because it's sounding very bland and elementary.

And it's 1, 2, 3 strikes you're...

2006-12-27T01:38:00.000-08:00

It was another long night and I, of course, was speeding home. I'm so accustomed to it that I don't think anything of it; it's a perfectly normal procedure when on the freeway (well, driving in general, really). Halfway home I thought, "Maybe I should keep an eye out for any cops." I frequently suggest this to myself while driving, disregard it, and make it home without any incidents - until tonight. I kid not, it was only a handful of minutes after thinking it before I was blinded by the set of lights behind me.

"Sorry, I know was going a bit too fast."
"Excuse me? 'A bit'?"
"Yeah, I know, I know. I'm just in a rush and..."
"License, registration, and proof of insurance please"

Asshole, I thought.

I explained to him my situation: I had just come from work and was rushing home only to head back to handle a family emergency. I prayed he bought into the story, doing my best to make him feel sorry for me by being extremely apologetic and meek. I didn't care if I seemed like a wuss - I had to do my best with whatever it took to get off the hook. This was another procedure I frequently practiced, because, well, it wasn't anything new.

The first time, I told the officer I was already in trouble with my mother and freaking out I was late - hence the speeding. He asked why I was out so late. I told him I lost track of time while studying all night with my best friend for the SATs, which were the next day. In truth, I was just going home from hanging out with my girlfriend at the time. The second time, I explained to the officer that the squealing noise from my car were my belts, not my tires. Each time, I got away scot free. This time, my luck ran out...somewhat.

"Have anything to drink tonight?"
"No sir, absolutely not." I accidently spat while saying this.
I hope he doesn't notice, I hope he doesn't notice.
He looked down at his hand right after the spit flew out with my words.
Dammit, he saw, he saw. I'm done.
He didn't say anything about my geyser for a mouth, and I was even more relieved to discover he was actually a nice guy. He decided to leave it as a minor infraction that can be taken care of by just attending traffic school. He also wrote down that I was going 80mph in a 65mph zone. I was going 115mph.

I really should start being more careful...
...about how well I keep a look out for these guys.

The Archive

2006-12-20T09:57:00.000-08:00

Here's an (incomplete, but growing) archive of my existing work.
Please feel free to read/comment/share them, as I receive pay-per-click royalties for each one. Thank you, and enjoy.

+ Eulogies From The Parking Lot
+ Riding The Night With A Trafficked Mind
+ Caffeine Monologue
+ Oh, Misery Is So Beautiful
+ Billboards As People
+ Imaginary Rooftop
+ The Final Descent
+ Riding Away
+ Road
+ Script (Unfinished)
+ Stand In The Rain
+ Cousins
+ Paper
+ Distressed Attempt
+ Sanctuary
+ Time
+ Twilight Falls
+ A Dog's Last Chapter
+ The Silence In Diction
+ Playground
+ Is This Goodbye?
+ Home
+ The Smile Of Deception's Victim
+ Revelations In Deep Drags
+ Winter
+ Still Lost
[More To Come]

Life As A Movie

2006-12-14T21:50:00.000-08:00

If life is a movie most people would consider themselves the star of their own feature. Guys might imagine they're living some action adventure epic. Chicks maybe are in a rose-colored fantasy romance. And homosexuals are living la vida loca in a fabulous musical. Still others may take the indie approach and think of themselves as an anti-hero in a coming of age flick. Or a retro badass in an exploitation B movie. Or the cable man in a very steamy adult picture.

Some people's lives are experimental student art films that don't make any sense. Some are screwball comedies. Others resemble a documentary, all serious and educational. A few lives achieve blockbuster status and are hailed as a tribute to the human spirit. Some gain a small following and enjoy cult status. And some never got off the ground due to insufficient funding.

I don't know what my life is but I do know that I'm constantly squabbling with the director over creative control, throwing prima donna tantrums and pouting in my personal trailor when things don't go my way.