The Free Lance Existentialist

It was December 31, 2084. Alex and his friends had gathered in their usual New Year's spot--Alex's East Hampton beach house. Although the earlier part of the century's insatiable thirst for commercialism had sprouted up shopping malls, Apple stores, and Outback Steakhouses in much of the Hamptons--severely reducing its classic, elite charm--there were still those spots a bit further north towards Montawk where the rich could play separately, and enjoy their mansions on the beach. Such were the pleasures of Alex, Michael and their friends.

Alex and Michael were free lance philosophers. This was a profession that started early on in the 2000s. Initially it was not much more then a gag, or a ploy. People would employ these philosophers the way they would employ psychiatrists and therapists. Clients all had their own unique issues, and for whatever reason, they retained something from the Greek Philosophy 101 class they took freshmen year at their liberal arts university. It wasn't something profound, something that they could use on their own merit to apply to their life's problems, more something that seemed to say to them: "Hey, maybe that Pluto guy had an answer for this. I remember him being pretty 'on the money.'"

So that "something" that these people lacked, was provided by the free lance philosopher. The client would enter their mahogany decorated offices and see volumes upon volumes of ancient texts. They would then describe their problem, and the free lance philosopher would go to his bookshelf and find just the right text for his client's discrepancy. They would read select passages from it, and then explain it, in lay-man's terms of course, so that the client could understand it profundity. They would thus leave the office with their own sense of profundity. Perhaps, if the free lancer was very good, they would exit with a temporary sense of enlightenment as well. Now of course the descriptions of these texts were always swayed this way and that so that there would be some "real life" applications, not merely hypothetical ones. That is after all what the client wanted.

Since the many problems of the world and its population are varied, each free lance philosopher specified in an area of philosophy. If you were having a moral dilemma you would consult the free lance Ethicist. If you lost your faith in God, you would go to see the free lance Meta-physicist. Poets and artists who lost their creative inspiration would see people like Alex's friend Michael, the free lance Aesthete. People who had felt like they lost their identity, had been leading a false life, or felt overcome by immense despair would see Alex, the free lance Existentialist.

Somewhere around the mid 50's, it seemed not just most people but nearly the world over had, what existentialists refer to as a crisis of self. Anything really could have been the cause. The world had been growing steadily smaller since the end of the 20th century. Lines were blurring, the analog life was replaced by the digital. Families spent quality time over video chats and books were read on pockets sized touch pads. Maybe this mind of the Earth finally separated itself wholly from its body and became lost in the cosmos. Whatever the reason, the demand for free lance philosophers sky rocketed. And admits this great increase in want of substance, knowledge, and understanding, the free lance Existentialists rose straight to the top. Their advice was sought after by celebrities, athletes, and world leaders.

Alex loved his job. Yes, he had grown up loving Camus and Sartre and the like, but what he really loved was the high, and sense of entitlement he got by starting of sentences to our president which phrases like "Now if you are to full realize your will to power, nay, this country's natural will to power...", or, "You see Mr. President, the truth the edifies..." Alex loved his job. And he was quite good at it. He was the most request free lance Existentialist in country, working on the world.

So this New Years their was much to celebrate. Philosophy had, after centuries of what felt like harsh neglect, fought back to the top of the world. Alex was at the top of the top. He had an upper east side penthouse, and beautiful wife, beautiful children, and his perfectly decorated (right down to the kitchen curtains) beach house in East Hampton. He, his friend Michael the Aesthete, and the Ethicists, Empiricists, Rationalists, and Meta-physicists were joyously celebrating as the evening got later and the clock faster approached midnight.

Considering himself a cultured man, Alex liked to partake in the Spanish tradition of eating grapes at New Years. One for each gong of the clock. He had visited Spain and a teenager and this had always stuck with him. So this year, like every other year, a large bowl of grapes was brought out around 11:50pm in anticipation of the ceremony. Ten minutes later the first gong came and Alex and his friends started inhaling the grapes. One gong after another proceeded, each time the next closer to the last, moving faster and faster. Intent on eating a grape per gong, and not missing but one, Alex stuffed grape after grape into his mouth.

The final gong came and everyone joyously shouted "Happy New Year!" The music came on and everyone hugged and kissed each other. Alex, collapsed to his knees, clutching his throat. His faced turned a purple similar to the color of the grapes he had just been inhaling. Amidst their jubilation, and caught up in their own intellects, his philosopher companions failed to notice his gasps at breath. Just before losing the consciousness he so highly valued, Alex had what he believed was a quintessential existential moment. Time stood still. His mind became clear, and he thought of his wife and children and the immense love he had for them. Then he looked around at Michael and his friends and thought of the companionship and joy they had brought him throughout life. He then looked around at his East Hampton house. His foyer, his living room. He thought of the six marble bathrooms. He looked over his shoulder at the curtains hanging above the kitchen sink. With that image in his mind, Alex smiled a big, happy smile, and laid his head down.

Philosophy and the iPod

The iPod is part of the family of the modern man. We instantly recognize it where ever we are. But what exactly do we recognize- shape, color, coolness factor. There's a huge difference between the iPod wheel to the iTouch screen. Also, why do we come so accustomed to the damn things. We all belong to the family of Steve's greatest gift. The iPod is a rapidly changing beast - amphetic change almost bi-annually. Comparing the original block with a wheel that collects grime to what we have now - touch sensitive screen - with which we can wear globes to keep the screen spotless and smudge free.


We are still recognizing the ipod- no matter how drastic the change. A guaranteed quality and style that always changes yet remains the same thing that makes us in the family of the ipod-ness hovering over the world. How do you define an iPod? By screen, by wheel, or maybe by white ear phones.
The creation of a definiton seems impossible. Rather than hunt for the perfect definition, we must find what family it belongs to. We need to look for connections and over laps not some eternal defining thing, as the iPod changes every other week. A shuffle has click wheel, a iTouch has a screen, the classic has both, and the new Nano is a new smaller sleek version of the classic. The classic, I think, is the fundamental essential form, from which all other forms of the iPod evovle into different paths. What is the iPodness that makes the iPod. One standing in an Apple store will find that they are inexplicably drawn to the hardware, the surface, the interface and texture. It's kind of like the friend you made in college you can instantly sync with, such is our relationship with the ipod.

Now we can flow through covers as if the records are weightless, LPs sliding like water under your fingertips. But this is an impossibility--- yet cover-flow feels soo right. Might it be related to the way in which humans relate to the world? I do not know. The floating seas of LP's (something of which only people of holy Steve's generation can remember) shows me the future of music familiarity, an effortless slide of the finger tip over hundreds of cover art stopping where ever you like, or where ever the highest star ratting (made by you the user) is.

Within this iPod, familiarity is effortless. You can make you ipod familiar with your PC and seamlessly syn the device. Someone might be able to imagine a future when all our devices become"familiar" with each other - even make the entire world familiar to each other. As long as you have you eye pod you have a familiar song scape on which to rely on. Wherever you are the iPod can make an environment familiar. Put on the white buds and stick to you predefined play-lists. Ready made familiarity makes the world more distant yet ourselves more comfortable. We all turn up our foreign song-scapes and forget the environments around us. And this behavior is everywher ; the iPod is used by American farmers as well as Russian middle managers - sold in airports and even vending machines. Join the family of the ipod, making you familiar to the iPod and the system behind it. Rating songs and genius play lists even makes the iPod more familiar with you the user. scary... Agency in the machine. Can you trust the shuffle button? Should you trust the shuffle button? Enter into the iPods sentient world. The iPod is hard wired to become friendly with you. Connecting you to the Apple store, to "top songs," or "listeners also bought." The more you use the iPod the more you become familiar to the iPod, but really maybe the iPod is becoming more familiar to you. =))

The world always looks brighter from behind a smile.

While the WASPs might be experiencing a triumphant decline, as with anything that rises and falls. However, there are some things that never change. Certain things that, not matter what happens, will always have value in the human eye. Like the human smile. It can be said with a level of truth that spans eons that there is no substitute for a healthy smile.

Failed Facebook Groups

Dude, my group was just about to become an internet phenomenon and now the socialist Supreme Court is trying to rain on my parade.

Despair

First thing is first (as always) and this post must start off with some music.



This post originates from the existential consumer choice I am faced with to upgrade my regular cell phone (especially when it finally reaches the end of its life) to a Smart-Phone. That is I join the club with an iPhone or Android – I must adapt to survive (Thanks Darwin), and these things are everywhere, young and old (well get to that latter).

90 percent of America lies between the east and west coasts (a fact which each respective coast will deny or at least acts as if it weren’t true) something that makes me unbearably sad, full of dread and angst. I will embed a video made by two girls (I am going to say are from the mid-west for this post) in which they smoke cigarettes and take pictures of themselves to make a stop motion music video to Rudimentary Peni song, “Nothing but a Nightmare.” Don’t worry, they are gonna get a boat and crew and help out the BP oil Slick, I hear they have great pay for you and the crew.



In some respects this post can be boiled down to wanting to die in order to escape the unbearable sadness of knowing I'm small and weak and selfish and going, without doubt, to die with empty immensity. I want everyone to suffer the same marrow-level dread of the Smart-Phone revolution I feel. The despair of the pixel gaze as a primordial nada, bottomless depths inhabited by tragedy and death rising angelically toward you. I feel as if I am trapped in a performance art piece entitled Interior Scroll.

Now now now, don’t worry, I have been investigating job opportunities at WONDERFUL places like Dice.com, Craigslist and even UAT Game Degrees. However, I cannot help but watch the debt clock go on and on as credit cards zip through auto-dealer ships, Wall-Marts and Apple stores.

Not even the post-modern pieces such as 4’33 can bring me the joy they once did. It seems these technological abysses being sold at record numbers are providing people with a much needed "vacation". A vacation is a respite from unpleasantness, and since consciousness of death and decay are unpleasant, it should seem deeply despairing that the ultimate American fantasy vacation involves being hypnotized down in an enormous primordial stew of death and decay with the use of the Android, iPhone, iPad, Kin, Kindle, Nook, PalmPre …ect). But on a Smart-Phone, we are skillfully enabled in the construction of various fantasies, with the help of Apps and down-loadable content, of triumph over just this death and decay. One way to "triumph" is via the rigors of self-improvement (diet books, exercise books, self-help books and information on cosmetic surgery). Even the ability to attend, virtually, time-management seminars –thanks iPhone4, to which the corporations amphetaminic upkeep of the products is Unstoppable. But there's another way out, too: not titivation but titillation; not hard work but hard play. With e-social-networks growing as rapidly as they are, they have invaded every website on the net. (It’s hard not to find a web page with a Facebook, twitter, or e-mail sharing function.) Commercials for Kin phones targeted at girls on their way to the next trendy concert make me nauseous. This hypnotic gaze into the primordial abyss of death and decay with 3g or even 4g technologies is deeply disturbing.

Having watched too much TV, I have heard political figures questioned again and again on how to solve difficult problems like national deficit, nuclear arms, and global starvation – and repeatedly their answer is the growing support in the upcoming youth of America. Something tells me the voyeuristic gaze is more entrancing than grappling with real issue to fulfill these high expectation that political figures have for us. Our eyes on the pixel abyss – talking heads that just Babylon (haha get it) tragedy after tragedy filling our spiraling eye sockets with decay– murder, poisoned children, death death death- decay. Pixel junkies, that when tragedy comes to their minds its like a kind of drug fix. There is this need to watch tragedy and decay from a plastic screen distance as the rest of the world suffers for the entrainment news. Now I am not immune to this analysis, I need my TV too and I won’t lie. But Smart Phones freak the living shit out of me. No need to see your environment, its being told to you on live WiFi or 4g feed. Vicariously living while the whole world dies and the users immediate environment ignored and treated as irrelevant.

After purchasing one of these high-tech gizmos your troublesome capacities for choice, error, regret, dissatisfaction, and despair will be removed from the equation. You will be able-finally, for once to relax, as the ads promise, because you will have no choice. Your pleasure will, for the length of the products life (or at least till the newer model comes out), be precisely and efficiently managed. Whenever I go out of the house to Wal-mart or McDonalds or even the (ugh)MALL, there's a huge mass clicking sound from all the Smart-Phones and Side-Kicks as heads face downward into everybody's Palm. I haven't bought any sort of Smart-Phone and feel a perverse pride about this. Now feeling this way only leads me to the despair of the theory of Natural Selection, where not the fittest creatures are the most likely to survive, but the ones most able to adapt to their environment. Now my environment in Jupiter FL is retiree-ville USA. On a side note, this has lead me to the very important conclusion that men after a certain age simply should not wear shorts; the skin seems denuded and practically crying out for hair, particularly on the calves. It's just about the only body area where you actually want more hair on older men. As I went to my local grocery store this week to purchase goods, a couple of these glabrous-calved guys were whipping clean their iPhones with military expertise. I see no escape.

Young or Old, Smart-Phones have landed. And it’s “Nothing but a Nightmare.”



Cheers, Senators.

Photos from the Mini-Reunion!

Daddy and The Senator met up in the Babylonian Bedlam and had a ball offering our services to the unemployed friends of our fine institution. The skies wept late in the evening but a little water couldn't ruin The Senator's night!! He hadn't had this much fun since the last Chris and the Gentle Dicks last reunion tour!! Luckily I took some photos of The Senator and his lovely new tattoos.

5pm

6pm



8pm

Next time drinks on me, Senators!

I too find words empty and meaningless

First thing is first, and that means my fellow American Citizens and Senators (children of Google and YouTube) must watch this video.

Now I understand if you want to giggle and move on or just ignore the rest of the post as you are sick om my ability (or should I say inalienable right) to embed clips into my blog posts. However, I wish to take this one step further by taking one step back and thinking about how the lovely country of North Korea can actually understand how much we make fun of them as they don't have the luxury of the intarwebs the way we do. As I lay on the bathroom floor after waking up from a good nights sleep on a bed made of fluffy Target brand towels with the water running to make sure I do not get disturbed, it hit me. They still get to watch their team play in the World Cup. This means that the only way to let them know how much we make fun of them is to use signs in the crowd. Now, now, now don't think I mean a single person holding a limp poster board with sharpie writing they can't understand. I am thinking of synchronized flipping of color panels that when done on a large enough scale can become a YouTube window. For a better understanding of what I am talking about please watch this video about a dudes trip to North Korea as a tourist, or just skip to the last 2 minutes about the "mass games."

View this movie at cultureunplugged.com

With a little imagination it is not hard to see what I have in mind, but I will explain it anyways. When the US plays North Korea in the World Cup we must enlist unemployed recent College graduates to make the man made YouTube monitor. I have embedded some useful propaganda to aid in recruiting (I mean comon, this is North Korea we are talking about).

Now if all this goes according to plan, the lyrics of "Needle in the Hay" will stop playing endlessly in my head as I shower/meditate fetal and naked every new day.


Cheers, Senators!

The Future- Part 2

Get Ready!

Chris was closing up the bar at the Milky Spigot, the year is 2030. Collette, six years old and the youngest of Chris's four daughters, dangled her legs from the top of a stool. She had red curled hair and had lost interest in the plastic lighters her Uncle John built into little log cabins on the bar. Lake Michigan sat on the other side of the parking lot. All the lights went out in the town of Manitowoc, Wisconsin after 10:45 and it was 11:30.


Uncle John tried to tell the six year old about his own daughter, who was twenty and lived in an apartment above a former bowling alley in Detroit. She lived with her boyfriend, Fed Wilsen, who wanted to get his nursing license. Collette fell asleep hunched over on the bar stool.

Finished cleaning up, Chris flipped out the lights and came out from behind the bar. With some effort he picked up his daughter, Uncle John noticed the sinking ship tattooed on Chris's forearm.

Walking to the car, Chris struggled to get a cigarette to his mouth without waking the girl. Uncle John tried to help by lighting the cigarette, but one of the men shuffled too far. Fire sizzled up and stank, as Collette's long curls burned. Chris grabbed at the flame, putting it out, but burned his hand on melted hair. Collette screeched and flailed like a snared rabbit.

Standing in the car's headlights-- Chris knelt consoling the girl as Uncle John cut off, as delicately as he could, the burnt hair with his pocket knife. After, while Collette shook and sobbed against the headlights, Uncle John looked off toward Lake Michigan and put a lock of melted hair in his pocket. The exhausted little girl fell asleep in the back seat as Chris and John drove to their cabin at the edge of town in silence.

The Future- Part 1

Eyes and Ears:





Get Ready!

Two gentlemen named John and Chris sit on a park bench, the year is 2040. The Philadelphia state capital building rises behind them. John adjusts the hemp rope which serves as a belt, girdling up urine soaked khaki shorts which poorly disguise his trash bag underwear escaping out the right pant-leg. Chris wears nothing but a series of bedsheets and duvet covers, twined together in the semblance of a cross stitch, wrapt about his kindling frame- stains of various colours pock the fabrics. Chris's mole rat penis hangs unaware beneath his crossed legs.

It is three thirty in the afternoon and not far across the street, small children walk home from school. The children are well fed and clean kept by loving parents, they have no wants. Their parents watch a healthy amount of quality television programs that they discuss with their co-workers. From time to time the children's fathers take the office stairs rather than the elevator to get some exercise. The parents' sex lives are average, but from time to time they try to mix things up.

It is 4 o'clock in the morning, John and Chris have not left their bench- it would not seem they've moved much either. The police never give them much hassle and the locals aren't worried for their children on the account of these men. Rather, the locals gossip amongst themselves about who these gentlemen must have been. Some say they're former diplomats, others swear them to be displaced war veterans, the grocer's life partner claim's they were once rich foreigners who fled unjust persecution abroad.

Around seven o'clock, young aids begin trickling past to get an early start at work. One young man, with very strong political ideals, is reading the Wall Street Journal on his Kindle while walking to the state house (he likes to consider all angles on the issues). He unwittingly bumps into one of the gentlemen's leg and he is startled from his newspaper. He politely apologizes and continues his way to the state house steps. John doesn't say a word, his face shriveled in hate. Chris idly masturbates.

A Plea

The Seat-Stealer in his natural element

Dear Man Who Always Takes My Seat at the Public Library,

I understand why you don't like books as much as you love watching Lil' Jon videos on youtube for hours at a time. I also understand --at least hypothetically-- why you don't like using deodorant. However, WHY MUST YOU LOVE stealing my corner seat? Everyone knows that it allows one to be shielded from the smell of Guy Who Loves Staring At His Crotch and the noise of Woman Who Brings The Whole Town's Recycling With Her but COME THE FUCK ON, you can watch Lil' Jon videos IN ANY OTHER SEAT but you continue to steal the only one where my charger reaches the outlet so thus forcing me to use the seedbed soaked public computers once mine dies. Please just go back to Bulgaria with that girl that was into Nero that one summer. (wait, was she Romanian?)

Love,

Daddy

The only thing in life achieved without effort is failure.

Oil Slick

“The eyes are the mirror of the soul” - Yiddish proverb



Our philosophy should be immanent , and not soar to supramundane things, but be content with gaining a thorough grasp of the world of experience.



The Internet "browser"... is the piece of software that puts a message on your computer screen informing you that the Internet is currently busy and you should try again later.



A serious and good philosophical work could be written consisting entirely of jokes.



Without music, life would be a mistake... - Nietzsche


The Internet is just a world passing around notes in a classroom. ~Jon Stewart

Eternal Spring: On An Old Horse

Grab your gun Johnny to the barricades!

Get power. If you can't get power, get blood. If you can't get blood, get money. If you can't get money, get thinking. If you can't think, get drinking.
Everybody can get drunk.

Grab your bottle Johnny to the barricades!

Get land. If you can't get land, get a job. If you can't get a job, get paid. If you can't get paid, get laid. If you can't get laid, get mad. If you can't get mad, get drinking.
Everyone can get mad and drunk.

Grab your keys Johnny and get outta here!

Get Yours. If you can't get yours, get theirs. If you can't get theirs, take mine. If you can't take it, grab the keys get outta here. Everybody can drive.

Grab your armor, grab your gun-- it's time to get outta here!

Tabloid Infinate Recursion

It seems that the opposed ideas of excellence and diversity, are nothing but that, ideas and concepts. Being one's own fascist and scraping the washboards to chase out the (real or imaginary) neighbors dog's seems, at first, to provide some temporary liberation. But the truth is, and I quote French Philosopher Blaise Pascal *the famous wager maker* and he says "All human evil comes from a single cause, man's inability to sit still in a room."

Now I take us too the check-out line at the local grocery store, or better yet the local Wallmart with a Subway sandwich stall by the entrance. Instead of grabbing my cheap baloney, miracle whip, kool-aide and wonder bread and hurrying through the sliding exit doors; I pause before all the beeping bar-code scanners and gaze with relaxed eyes at the tabloids. The faces, so symmetrical and doctored seem to all flow into a breathing pattern. I stand in front of the isles and the screaming babies and beeping checkout booths seem to blurr, like the faces on the tabloids, into one giant hummmm. And for a moment it's like the feeling you get when playing Rockband for one too many hours and the outside world ceases to exist.

We take off into the cosmos, ready for anything - - solitude, hardship, exhaustion, death. We're proud of ourselves. But when you think about it, our enthusiasm's a sham. We don't want other worlds; we want mirrors.

Now where this leaves us .... I haven't a clue. But this video seems appropriate.



These yelping dogs seem endless, and the tied up stallions of spring are never to be broken. What has been said stands true; To be free is to be one's own fascist. Spill the wine Senators, and dream ....


Eric Burdon & War - Spill The Wine

Blues Ain't Nothin But a Heart Disease

I woke early this morning to the dog's yelping. Still in bed I heard someone raking furiously at a washboard in attempts to drive the animal away. I turned back asleep.
Apparently, so I am told, none of these things happened. What's the difference? I'm sitting on a chair crawling with earwigs, I just blew three off the arm rest and flicked a beetle away with my lighter.

Midnight. Fresh Newport 1oos and Corona.



Diversity versus Excellence

Take aside their aspects and look at the concepts. Democratic diversity of ideas opposed to the hierarchical excellence of an idea. It's a small world, there isn't room for everyone. The single voice's significance exists only in proportion, more means less. More voices and they are heard less. Sustainability means consolidation, to save the tree prune the dead branches.
Unspoke necessities. Easy to nip the neighbor's stray bushes along the property line, easy to shoot someone else's kids. Just grab the beetles by the antenna and throw them off your monitor.
We're hardwired to make new little people, you try pulling that well-greased revolver on the beach and shooting tied up stallions in spring. Tides will turn over black stains on the sand, but try washing blank black eyes--
no one disagrees but we all do it anyway.

To be free is to be one's own fascist.
Grab your washboards, chase out your dogs.

News of two senators at large!!

Facebook tells us of the latest Senate adventures:

Senator Cipolla ’09 is in Saratoga, working for Skidmore’s media services as a lab tech. His real area of expertise is audio recording and editing, and he hopes to one day compose and record music for film, software, and TV. Currently, he plays piano weekly at the Wine Bar in downtown Saratoga.

Senator Sunkin ’09 is interning for the summer in Boston, after which he will attend law school. He is considering a career in bioethics, an interest he has held since his freshman year at Skidmore when he took a Scribner Seminar on biotechnology. Eventually, Senator Sunkin aims to move to California and work with stem cells or GMOs. He concludes, “I am really excited about my future and feel like Skidmore has provided for me, socially and academically, the best tools for the upcoming challenges ahead.”

such fantastic news calls for a celebration (if possible, try to play that with this playing at the same time).

transient time for a transient mind

Forgive my absence Senators, and world.

The times of the Post Modern have been obstructed of late.

Obstructed - abstracted - Absurded.

Life, in its infinite menageries, seems always intent on casting you into this one or that one, putting you here or there until your idea of self is lost in its relation to itself and has no choice but to relate to another self. This confusion of self within this self or that self strays the mind and body far into bizarre realms where demons lay in wait on brooding rocks and bows and arrows fly through the air cast away with fury by the fiery heads of their wretched slayers. Sometimes those demons fight back with swords, battle axes, and maces spiked with the tits of super models (pointy bastards). But more often then not we find ourselves growing older as the years diminish into that infinite spectrum of objectivity, and our concept of self becomes transienter and transienter - Mr. Rabbit - and at once we become this person, or that being, or that God or that Demon. And for all their V-neck Black Wire Framed Slick Backed Hair Coke Canned Blonde Jean Short Members Only Sandal Vonnegut City MFA Studio Space Condom Wearing (or Lack There Of) Alcoholic Hallucinating and otherwise Confused Rantings Contemplations Philosophizing Spitting Talking Discussing and Typing of these bizarre words onto these bizarre screens (death to all paper), we still Senators and WORLD, are lost. Lost in ourselves, our ethics, and our selves.

DESPAIR!

Or not.

Find answers where you can. Rotate your crops. Lead by example, as Senator does:

Senator

gilgamesh

4 more days and i become immortal

Post-Moderner

your reading gilgamesh?

Senator

no

im becomin immortal

Post-Moderner

you are gilgamesh?

Senator

if he is immortal then yes

he made it 6 days then fell asleep

i will make it all 7 to become immortal

Post-Moderner

you wont

Senator

you say that now

just you wait

got the sleep jitters

hallusinations

Post-Moderner

hallusinations you say

Senator

yez

halloozinasion

Post-Moderner

of what may i ask

Senator

colors

sounds

throbbing earth

dead relatives trying to straggle me

regular stuff

day 5 is wen the goods stuff beigans i hear

Post-Moderner

thats when zion appears and the devil himself comes flying down atop a black pegasus with wings of fire to whisk you off to the nether world...fortunately worcester isnt a long trek from you're humble abode

Senator

though

i swear if i see my penis blossom like a daisey while im pissing im gonna lose it

Post-Moderner

hold on for i hear that once you pass the perennial penal sprout that the immortal juice flows not far behind from the hose of heaven's alley

Senator

look up the indian guru who hasnt eatten or drunken water in 15 years

he says he sustains himself through a crack in the roof of his mouth

where the goddesses necter drips onto his tongue

The True Self is out there. Go find it.

the only true art

performance art of the best kind. let's all be like marina and re-enact such beautiful art.

The Senate as a second Skin

Tennessee Williams said "We are all sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins, for life." And this meeting of Senate is a means to shed our solitary confinement, and not by means of Scientology, Mormonism or intravenous drugs. Through the fruits of the intarwebs. We must mix the melting pot of fleshlights, youtubes, facebook and even the beloved 4chan to break these bonds of biological confinement. We must become keyboard Samurai ready to meditate on death daily, yet also ready to make the best of this Miley Cyrus generation. It is said that what is called the Spirit of an Age is something to which one cannot return. That this spirit gradually dissipates is due to the world's coming to an end. In the same way, a single year does not have just spring or summer. A single day, too, is the same. For this reason, although one would like to change today's world back to the spirit of one hundred years or more ago, it cannot be done. Thus it is important to make the best out of every generation. And make the best we must. I call upon all Senators to speak out and give a Walt Whitman Barbaric Yelp to cultivate the second blogging Senate skin that is immortal. I love you senators as I love the pillars of the Octopus and the Elephant that stand so phallic and stoic, they are more stable than the marble floor of the Roman senate. Cheers, gentlemen and I will see you all again.

"I Would Like to Invoke My Right to Remain Silent"

Reuters

"Aint got a care in world, but got plenty of beer
Aint got no money in my pocket, but Im already here
Now, the dudes are lining up cause they hear we got swagger
But we kick em to the curb unless they look like Mick Jagger."

“Is adult entertainment killing our children? or is killing our children entertaining our adults?”

This gift to extend our full support to the Deep Horizon Crusade against the Shamballies, is a luxury of the intarwebs. The land of the blog (as I imagine the the second world of Agharta) is the strongest form of Magic known to man. And I don’t trust blogs – unless you have the nerve to put it on paper and print and publish, you should be critical of what’s being said. People write what they write on blogs with the luxury of knowing it won’t have any effect and therefore it can be more polemic. But that doesn't mean we stop the support! I say let the torrents of tomorrow rain down in a great flood. No chance of diluting the BP oil slick, but necessity is the mother of all invention. Some say pelican's are flying again and again to the BP "Gulf Resort" to have their feathers nurtured by the blood of the Shamballies. The effects of this second earths life form blood supply upon our own biological systems is not clear. Further testing is necessary. Maybe a Jonah-esqe trip in the belly of a whale might hold untold benefits such as a cure for autism! Also speaking of colonial contracts, my viewing of the eleventeenth and a half season of the real world leads me to think that maybe, in this graceful yet brutal subworld we could install cameras with live web feeds for Senators and other privileged internet gremlins.



If one delves into the studying of the "hollow earth" or sub world of the Agharta, one is quick to pick up on the supposed importance of the five fingered monkey's running weapons deals and mass genocide. You see, and I quote, "The stone of completion {the top stone missing from the ancient ruins all over the world} is missing. Hence the stone of completion is the unification of man with the creator of the fifth dimension - being God." Now I am not trying to dive into the realm of theology here.. Purely technological. There are openings at the North and South pole of the earth to enter the inner earth. And come June 16th there will be a Gulf hyper passage which will hold untold glory. The point that I am driving at is the infinite reality television and hipster recursion that we are trapped in until the West crumbles under Miley Cyrus's next hit single, can be completely reversed if we can put these hollow earth beings on film and broadcast it globally. The oil spill, as fellow Senator has exclaimed, is an all you can eat buffet!

Now I move on to one of my most favourite artists, Thom Yorke - who has graciously written and recently released a song called Hollow Earth. The lyrics follow the Senator's rantings quite well.

"Without a conscience, a hollow ring
Lost in a maze, and forgetting
Throwing firecrackers and dancing
Lost in a maze a hollow ring

A dereliction (Whooooaa) of duty
A pitiful (whooooooo) display
Stamping the hollow earth (Whoaaaaa)
A pity
And throwing firecrackers (Whooooooo)
Hopelessly"



Just to make sure that "we stop playing and keep it moving"



Cheers, Senators and may the sun shine warmly upon your face.

All You Can Eat Buffet

Gentlemen, we have the greatest opportunity of any generation of humankind.
The Senate's brother organizations, the Washington Mystic 8 Circle and the Bilderburg Group headed by Grand Wizard Barrack Obama, have finished the preparation stages of Operation: "Deep Horizon."

And congratulations are in order gentlemen.

At 11:00 AM on June 16th, 4 nuclear devices that are currently being lowered into "BP's" "oil wells" will be detonated and the grand crusade will finally begin.


Contrary to public knowledge there is no more of an "oil spill" than there is a naturally occurring resource called "oil." In fact, the fruits of a long waged information campaign are only now about to be tasted.

It is a carefully guarded fact that there is a second earth inside of our planet, called Agharta. Powered by its own sun this reclusive sub-world has always slept beneath our surface, inhabited by the brutal yet graceful race of Shamballies.

Perhaps it will surprise some members of the "outer races" that we have been engaged in tentative racial warfare with the Shamballies since 1859. Some might be even more surprised to hear that the Shamballies' blood is a viscous black liquid, which public information campaigns long ago dubbed "oil".

World Government Scientists discovered in 1912 that the dim central sun of the Agharta world is responsible for the environmental side-effect of the Shamballies' "oil" blood. After numerous botched attempts, on June 16th 2010, four nuclear devices will blow a permanent passage between the two worlds in the vicinity of Agharta's capital city Shamballah and our Gulf Coast.


World Government reports project that depleted blood reserves will be restored by the inevitable colonization conflict with Agharta's indigenous race and carefully structured breeding programs promise to ensure that the Shamballie blood supply stabilizes.

This should prove the greatest opportunity for amassing personal fortunes in recorded history. Gentlemen of the Senate, given our privileged access to power- we've been informed of these impending events before the public. I recommend we make use of this gift and extend our full support to the Deep Horizon Crusade against the Shamballies.
I smell colonial contracts in the wind.

happy birthday

i always loved you in collared shirts