LIFE IN THE TRENCHES: Romance, Rebellion and Running Amok

TWITTER, PANIC ATTACKS, WRITERS BLOCK AND THE EXISTENTIAL EQUIVALENT OF LOOKING FOR ANSWERS ON WEB M.D.

i'm going to fire this one off really quickly. (then come back and do some light editing when i come to my senses - time of sensibility is 1:35pm)

i'm having a son of a bitch of a time writing these days. like right now. just this second. i was like, "hey - i'm going to sit down and write what i'm feeling which is this right here and not get all fancy or try and fit square potatoes through pineapple wholes (i meant to write holes. the "w" was irresponsible) and talk about how i feel like doing push ups right now - i have been for a while - thinking about push ups - but i've also been thinking about twitter and other people and stuff about grammar and other bullshit - i was hoping to make lots and lots of friends to validate some ideas about the possibilities of letting it spew all heart and nice like to bring all the creatures together and create a legion of bad motherfuckers who do things they want to do it with a whole lot of sass and style - like charlie's angels but better. kind of like the free press - which it is - but more so in the way that isn't so god damn fucking stupid. inclusive. and yet i snipe. i wish i had more toys as a kid - and i'm mad i even lost the last few sentences to that one - grammar and the love of twitter without knowing twitter or getting twitter but being too lazy to look for its sexy little hot and hopping prohibition era clit - because the eyes are all of a sudden (sorry - all of a sudden the eyes) are watching (because i post a god damn link to every tweet and typepad and facebook and all that other shit because i'm looking for something to come back at me) and i'm looking into taking up some meditation because over the last few weeks or month or more i've had those moments where i think i'm about to die - aka; a panic attack (so says that bald buy who isn't a doctor but says awesome shit about looking up a pig's ass for a pork sandwich) and it isn''t so great to not be able to breathe and feel your heart ripping out from the BLACK DEPTHS OF MY SOUL (its authorized) - right next the the shack of tender ponies and candyland champions - i know its a panic attack - but i've begun to wonder if it is something else and i'm considering doing some surfin' on the ole web m.d. which to me - is pretty much the most stupid god damned thing just about anybody with a question about panic attacks could do. seriously. its true. in fact, it's true with just about any malady - real or imagined. diagnosed or challenged. when you start looking on web m.d. you're pretty much fucked. and i won't do it.

all i know is that this little exorcise is going better than i expected. shit. just paused again thinking about or feeling bad about wanting to post this to my blog - then twitter for the glory of sex and territory (i'm not sure if i used that zinger already) but why does everybody hate the word blog and the class of fuckers who have been donned bloggers? what gives?

i have my ideas. oooooh weeee. i sure do. but i think people are pretty stupid sometimes. them and their hamburgers and pineapple holes and snazzy furniture. (proper use of the h instead of the erroneous w in relation to my ambition of getting things bang dead).

ok. pardon me. got lost. hold on a second. wait. ok. things have gotten good again. i am in the midst of a writers block. i don't want to talk about the writers block because when i start thinking about the writers (it needs an apostrophe) block i start doing shit like - well its the lingual equivalent of looking for a definitive answer to my malady on web m.d.

get lost. come on. i feel like an epic oh my god black woman with wonderful hair in front of one of those silver cadillac art deco microphones on a stand singing, "get lost- come on. yes. "get lost - come on". she's a hot one like macey or macy gray or grey. don't you even pretend you don't know what i'm talking about. i'll break a chunk of shut the fuck up off in you fool.

wow. that last one may have been one of the best random slurs i've come up with in a while. which bothers me. not that it has been a while for a slur like that. it bothers me because its taken a lot of those god damn slurs to get to trying to put down and express this thing i'm writing right here. (i just started to hit the backspace button to revise - forgive me). (at 1:45 p.m. i come back to this request for forgiveness and realize that this little stretch of letters is fucked) (i'm asking myself to forgive me). (and the seven people who may read this blog to forgive me) (or the seven people who may read this blog to just witness my forgiveness and forget that any of this ever happened - like that summer in desmondu kata hutu when i forgot to rinse the cup after brushing.)

doing it again.

the truth is i'm all backed up. i don't know how to do it anymore. i'm fucking frustrated as all hell and something is not right and i'm fighting hard not to get all little women about it (the movie version starring a very intense winona rider) (she's like a little shinobi angel with a sparkle in her eye) (in that one the heights went wwwwwuuu uu uuu tttt tttthhh thhh thhhhhh eeeerrrrrrr.) (shorthand = wuther - but the inflection and pronunciation is the piece de la resistance.)

i'm fighting hard not to get all little women on it and think about it too much (the writers block) and do the existential equivalent to searching for answers on web m.d. for the panic attacks i'm having and writing about now - which is weird don't you think - because this is where the web m.d. lurks to give the consumer aka: john Q public a nice dose of the terror - or a chance for someone who loves someone to do something active to help their loved one because; at times - i know - it gets really pretty horrible when nobody has answers (speaking of the doctors) and you feel completely and totally helpless.

i guess web m.d. isn't all that bad if you realize its web m.d. and that is what you are doing i guess giving the terror a chance has its benefits. i guess that i've spent another five hundred words (or more) talking about but not really getting to anything.

i just needed to do something. i needed to try. which i think is something that i've held onto back their in my ever loving fucking head was good enough to win the god damn pie eating contest and get the blue ribbon and the picture in the paper and the thumbs up next candy moore - the great american pimple that was never popped.

ok. hugs. love you. bye bye. adios.

love,

felix taco.
breakdancer.
suckerfish.
bombadier.

THE PHRASE MAY BE THE SAME

the
phrase may be the same but i’m not
trying to get one over on you.

the phrase may be the same. i may
repeat it but in repetition i find no
line in you.

the way i speak is the way i search. i slap
it up on the bathroom wall of the world
(aka: the internet) with the same hope that
comes when i’m lucky enough to have
your ear.

i say it from a distance or up close in some
chaotic place to see what lights up
like that scene in
that movie where a bunch of
italian kids watch a puppet
show and camera focuses
on their faces.

it is unforgettable.

more often than not the phrase comes
back at me in the form of some creature
with their proverbial finger jammed
up the nose of their day dream.

it has the tendency to make one feel
lonely.

even if it lights up sometimes its not my
kind of beautiful but my kind of play.

playfulness has a soft touch when
nothing touches me.

a theme can be gleamed but your reaction is all that matters.

and as this one gets slapped up on
the wall like the rest of them
i can’t help
but wonder what your face looks
like right now.

assuming you're looking, give a shit
and are looking.

4 TIGHTS, A BOWTIE, A CAMERA AND AN ART GALLERY.

10:40.   Wander downstairs to see what the fuss is about. 
10:40.   Arrive and sip from a red cup; awesomely. 
10:42.   Girl asks if the cat is mine.  Yes.   
10:43.   The cat isn’t mine.  Busted.       
11:44.   A pack of young animals kick around Xmas tree; awesomely. 
11:44.   I see a Mohawk and it’s thick like Jersey.
11:46.   A stranger lights my cigarette for friendship.
11:46.   A girl on crutches.  A boy talks about his imagination.
11:46.   I chair dance.  Legs only.  One of my strengths.   
11:46.   I think about enthusiasm.
11:46.   I accidentally type “moveable” instead of  “beautiful”.
11:49.   I put up my hood in honor of a stranger.
11:53.   I take off my hood in honor of a stranger.
11:54.   A girl in a fuzzy white jacket reaches over and touches a plant.
11:55.   The lady in the Kentucky Derby hat is in fact, not a lady.
11:57.   The guy with the goat tee watches EVERYTHING.  Like a Jesuit.
11:58.   I've officially spotted 5 pairs of tights.
11:59.   I’m out of beer.
12:01.   I embark on a journey of glib reconciliation. 
12:05.   I go upstairs into my apartment and open the fridge. 
                     A large block of time unaccounted for. 
2:36.    At home in my kingdom I listen to a musical selection with intention.
2:37.    Proximity.  Tights.  Mohawks. Awesome.

                                          Orbital Anthropology.
                     I was a better writer when I was hungry and fat. 

                   

THE LIVING ROOM DOZES AS BILLIE HOLIDAY SINGS AND I DRINK TECATE

feeling low but not beaten. 
working as hard as i can and as quick as i can
while i am lucid. 

sitting on the couch with nothing on but a
black beanie and red towel in the dark
with another beer. 

i’m trying to ignore the impulse to shave off
all my body hair. 

i don’t care how it looks but it gives me an
idea for what i’m going to paint next. 

ants.  one big gigantic mechanical stealthy
saturday morning decepticon transformer
motherfucker.  the kind that makes me jump
up naked in my bed and slap at nothing
with a bath towel then use my cell phone
as a torch to look for the glory of my
kill.  

there are limitations to my imagination.
i like my hair so i jumped in the shower.      

this kind of stuff used to bother me but
i’ve settled into an uncomfortable state of
ease with it where i can ash on the floor
and not sweat it because i know it can
be swept up.

we have tools to make this thing easy
and i’m working. 

i’m working as hard and as quickly as possible
because i have got the strange feeling that i’m
going to die this year.  never though much about
dying, not like this and i can’t explain it. 

time to pause dramatically. 

i think about this while sitting on the couch
in a black beanie naked save a red towel
listening to billie holiday getting ready
to paint an ant. 

and as the living room dozes her voice
drowns out everything.   

BRYAN PRICE; LOS ANGELES EYE AND HUNTER OF TIGHTS

Last night I went out into the public to see a friend play some music because she was in a band and that band made a record and that record was finished and this was the show that was like, "hey - our record" so I went.  They are fantastic. 

I got there kind of early.  My roots as a child actor takes call times very seriously because you don't want to piss of Henry Winkler (aka: Fonzi).  He was my boss once when I played Chan, the spunky little kid harvesting opium for General Truang.  I had a red hat (there was a plane crash of hazardous materials) and I was a story device. 

So, there I am.  Drinking a little beer.  Trying to look cool.  And I don't always like to make eye contact with people.  That's when you see the devil.  (kidding.  sort of.)  But I do do this thing where I live playfully in order to keep the paranoia at a nice comfortable state of entertainment.  I mean . . . if I'm being watched then . . . game on.

So, there I am - looking and not looking at people and I notice that there are a lot of ladies wearing tights.  Right now they are very fashionable.  In the spirit of paranoia, Henry Winkler and the devil I decided that my purpose for that night was to become The Tights Hunter. 

It was dark in there so I didn't get many useable kills but in the spirit of fashion, mythology and boredom I offer the following as evidence of what happens when you start noticing everybody driving around with the same car as you and black hoodie sweaters. 

EXHIBIT 1: 

ITEM #2:

EXHIBIT 3

(his name is rob - he's wearing a leather jacket.  i have one too.  so does my friend burke.  we like to go out and lean up against stuff and laugh emphatically as much as possible.  it draws attention.)

Well, friends . . . I  don't know how long I will be interested in tights.  I guess it's pretty much like anything you start to notice.  Like a purchase.  Like a new computer.  You get it.  You set it on the table.  The keys are all nice and pretty and you know that its new and it stays this way for a while.  Until it isn't. 

This was my night.  Tights night.  At the end of it I was escorted out by security.  It wasn't for being a pervert.  It was something else.  All you got to know is that I'm going to have to wait a minute before returning.  I'll have a new jacket or hat by then.  Hopefully I'll still be able to wear my gloves.

All the Best,

Maynard Wellsley
Founder and President of The Eastern Branch of Butter Manufacturers.