Here's something you might be interested in.
December is here. Time for our silly winter and chilly wave-filled Christmas. Silly and chilly, that's me and ever grateful, ever still so thankful for 'thanks' & 'giving'. Thankful for you. Thankful for the loose change, the plastic and aluminum, the smile, the unexpected hot morning bagel or cup of java when I'm broke and thankful for the couch, porch, or garage, when there is a rare So-Cal rain. I am ever grateful for the tour de bongage that I have been blessed into and the emerald and crystal green nuggets that offer a perceptional otherness that accompanies one thru the altered states criss-crossing with all daily.
You folks are always telling me that I give plenty back with my smile or presence but this year I wanna give more. I wonder... Can another loose thread stitch together a blanket of wonders straightly, with only a mere needle eye of consciousness weaving between fabricated dreamscapes? Can a blossom know its day in 4th dimensional still life? My Christmas present to all of you is a warm blanket of wonders for all the beachy warmth you've supplied I. So it's no 'quilted totality' without at least one paranoid schizophrenic. You remember how grandma would always throw that oddball patch into the mix and it stick out like a borderline personality? Let's keep stitching shall we...
Stitch #9- The miniature 'GI-JOE", the paranoid schizophrenic edition... Now available on paths traveled near you... Is reasonably intelligent, articulate to an irrational point (his), before he begins shouting angrily and also conspiratorially well-read. Convinced of the infallability of his thoughts, the beauty of this mental illness is that it assures one of their own grandiosity. It's all pretty easy when you have mini-cameras implanted in your beady Amin eyes and 'THEY' are analyzing the 'data' that 'THEY" see through them. At least this is how our psycho-action hero see's it.
Picture a delusional Fred Flintstone with Rocky Balboa bulging biceps gunning down the sidewalk sporting Pluto's (from Popeye's) 5 o'clock shadow. You see, the devil really is in the details and this dude is really much more than a stitch. He's an intricate Aztec weaving. He will park his extended white van-bus just around a said corner near Newport and fall out carrying a large green duffel bag that weighs over 60 pounds. Mission???, you ask? He wants you to think that he lives on the street and he'll walk around OB all day pretending he does. He's gathering data you see... He loves to mingle with the 'Rainbow-Kids', travelers, and local homeless. These interactions usually only last long enough for them to let him feed them and then they are gone. They know he's posing and it's fairly easy because he wears a fresh new set of clothes everyday, sports a high speed blackberrying cellular, and has the postal like reliability of a check(disability), hence the cash to shop in Peoples nearly every evening for the best in organics, which he doesn't mind sharing.
What they do not know is that he is taping every single word from every single sordid conversation he has throughout the day. Yes... Our 'GI-JOE' is WIRED! Wired for sound... Wired for live audio... Are you beginning to get the 'Bedrocked' scenario?
I can vouch for this. I got 'captured' by an invitation to help myself to some dark chocolate and ruby ripe red strawberries. Who's gonna turn that combo down when you're negotiating things with a plastic bottle and aluminized budget. I once walked into the Starbucks restroom after our 'spy' had forgotten to lock it. Given his rather lofty heights of paranoia, this was a tad surprising. In that awkward moment of entering while I needed to exit, I was very, very astounded to hear myself talking outloud. Their was just one flabbergasted problem, my mouth wasn't moving and I'd missed ventriloquism 101 somewhere along the journey! Was I delusional? Nah... GI-JOE and I had just shared a few words earlier and now this dude was rewinding and playing, from a teeny voice recorder, everything I'd said.
I just looked at him. He tried smiling back all Abby, ABBY-NORMAL that is, and I slowly backed away, letting the door close before running for my homeless and happy life. Our conversation you ask? It had gone a lot like an algebraic equation... 'THEY' needed him to supply x. 'THEY' knew y and z. 'THEY' just needed him to supply x. If 'THEY' knew y and z. Why then, couldn't he find x? Do you follow? Neither could I, so lets keep sewing...
Stitch #10- Ross the Groper... is the Angel of devilish hugs and squeezes, and pats on the asses of virtually every OB female either not in the know, naive, brave, or kinkily thrilled enough to go the distance with young Ross. A hug from this big kid borders on a illicit pornographic mugging. He's built like a fire hydrant and thus Herculean strong. UNDERSTAND THIS... You are not escaping from his vice-like pawing without, and as of now, an uncategorized sex crime occurring. Once Ross figures out how to pull this off and get 'it' out of his pants at the same time, the prententious women of OB are in for some trouble or a novel undiscriminatory spontaneity. Either way Ross will be doing them a favor and smiling like a cheshire PERV through the whole very pressing exchange.
Supposedly 'suffering' from a biologically non-conforming chromosomal challenge, hence 'Down's Syndrome', I know Ross to be only divinely blessed. With his high functioning abilities, this guy is getting way more than those dudes calling each other 'bro', imitating NFL handshakes and uttering, "OOO... Fk that bitch...", after once again waking up alone on Sunday morning.
Ross grew up on Newport Ave. Word is he lives with his grandma and a trust fund. That's enough right there to warrant a lifetstyle of mad groping. Alot of restraunts on Newport have a montly pre-paid account with Ross and the dude merely has to waltz in, smile mischievously, order, usually calzones when there was a Theo's and prowl the vicinity for a woman or plural to compress.
As far as I'm concerned Ross is living the Dream. If he can manage to remain 'mentally challenged', thus seemingly harmless, he'll continue to enjoy one lustful OB day after another.
Stitch #11- The 40 Year Old Virgin Air Guitarist... is very similar to the Bermuda Triangle. He is out there, in the wide open, with his head set on, his juke box hero guitar stance and of course, his priceless air guitar. In plain view everyday, jamming his skinny ass off, the kid rocks. Despite this highly visible and consistent display he remains a real Rock 'n' Roll OB mystery.
What kind of music is he listening too? Does he ever take the headset off, or shut the CD player down? Does he ever run out of energy? Was he an inspiration for Angus Young or perhaps, like the Dalai Lama lineage, a reincarnated Jimmy Hendrix playing off past Karmic indulging debts? Where are the groupies?...
Like Ross the Groper, our Virgin Air Guitarist is labeled 'mentally challenged' but again, he sure seems to be enjoying himself every single day as he Van Halen solo's down the sidewalk. This Buddy Holly looker lives an MTV music video and also serves as living proof that yes, we can all be rock stars as long as were slightly off, possess a few triple AAA batteries, a CD player and allow our imaginations or lack of rationality to dictate the moments of our day...
Stitch #12- The Electric Chair Girls Orchestra... This catty re-retroed conglomeration of symphonic chatty Kathy's and their magnolia tatted skin and brightly dyed hair like to divide every conversation they have with the ol 'How-Long-Have-You-Lived-In-OB' factor. All of this, in between the hung over day dreamy snaps of their scissors. When they are not calculating demographics outloud, LOUDLY, the busy bees mouths are circulating rumours through OB quicker than the overpriced conditioner they rub through their customers hair and as steady as the rideable waves that vibrate into our sunny shores.
A caravan of them, like voluptuos circus elephants criss-crossing the 30 and 40 year old marks and denying it badly every step of the way are clear evidence that NO... UGHZ boots DO NOT GO WITH EVERYTHING. They parade into Starbucks Main Ring nearly every morning, not for a grande or venti, but a double tall, non fat, temperature 140, double latte with a shot of expresso and a extra shot of BS and blah, blah, blah...
While waiting, they wallow, blab and spew like a Mt. Rush Limbaugh about errant hair appointments penciled in that are inevitably going to cut into future Oprah time or later text messaging. If you have an unruly acquaintance, who you feel deserves the death penalty then send them to the ELECTRIC CHAIR. It's a shockingly Dali surreal 'styling' in a motor-mouthed tradition with cheesy art.
December is here. Time for our silly winter and chilly wave-filled Christmas. Silly and chilly, that's me and ever grateful, ever still so thankful for 'thanks' & 'giving'. Thankful for you. Thankful for the loose change, the plastic and aluminum, the smile, the unexpected hot morning bagel or cup of java when I'm broke and thankful for the couch, porch, or garage, when there is a rare So-Cal rain. I am ever grateful for the tour de bongage that I have been blessed into and the emerald and crystal green nuggets that offer a perceptional otherness that accompanies one thru the altered states criss-crossing with all daily.
You folks are always telling me that I give plenty back with my smile or presence but this year I wanna give more. I wonder... Can another loose thread stitch together a blanket of wonders straightly, with only a mere needle eye of consciousness weaving between fabricated dreamscapes? Can a blossom know its day in 4th dimensional still life? My Christmas present to all of you is a warm blanket of wonders for all the beachy warmth you've supplied I. So it's no 'quilted totality' without at least one paranoid schizophrenic. You remember how grandma would always throw that oddball patch into the mix and it stick out like a borderline personality? Let's keep stitching shall we...
Stitch #9- The miniature 'GI-JOE", the paranoid schizophrenic edition... Now available on paths traveled near you... Is reasonably intelligent, articulate to an irrational point (his), before he begins shouting angrily and also conspiratorially well-read. Convinced of the infallability of his thoughts, the beauty of this mental illness is that it assures one of their own grandiosity. It's all pretty easy when you have mini-cameras implanted in your beady Amin eyes and 'THEY' are analyzing the 'data' that 'THEY" see through them. At least this is how our psycho-action hero see's it.
Picture a delusional Fred Flintstone with Rocky Balboa bulging biceps gunning down the sidewalk sporting Pluto's (from Popeye's) 5 o'clock shadow. You see, the devil really is in the details and this dude is really much more than a stitch. He's an intricate Aztec weaving. He will park his extended white van-bus just around a said corner near Newport and fall out carrying a large green duffel bag that weighs over 60 pounds. Mission???, you ask? He wants you to think that he lives on the street and he'll walk around OB all day pretending he does. He's gathering data you see... He loves to mingle with the 'Rainbow-Kids', travelers, and local homeless. These interactions usually only last long enough for them to let him feed them and then they are gone. They know he's posing and it's fairly easy because he wears a fresh new set of clothes everyday, sports a high speed blackberrying cellular, and has the postal like reliability of a check(disability), hence the cash to shop in Peoples nearly every evening for the best in organics, which he doesn't mind sharing.
What they do not know is that he is taping every single word from every single sordid conversation he has throughout the day. Yes... Our 'GI-JOE' is WIRED! Wired for sound... Wired for live audio... Are you beginning to get the 'Bedrocked' scenario?
I can vouch for this. I got 'captured' by an invitation to help myself to some dark chocolate and ruby ripe red strawberries. Who's gonna turn that combo down when you're negotiating things with a plastic bottle and aluminized budget. I once walked into the Starbucks restroom after our 'spy' had forgotten to lock it. Given his rather lofty heights of paranoia, this was a tad surprising. In that awkward moment of entering while I needed to exit, I was very, very astounded to hear myself talking outloud. Their was just one flabbergasted problem, my mouth wasn't moving and I'd missed ventriloquism 101 somewhere along the journey! Was I delusional? Nah... GI-JOE and I had just shared a few words earlier and now this dude was rewinding and playing, from a teeny voice recorder, everything I'd said.
I just looked at him. He tried smiling back all Abby, ABBY-NORMAL that is, and I slowly backed away, letting the door close before running for my homeless and happy life. Our conversation you ask? It had gone a lot like an algebraic equation... 'THEY' needed him to supply x. 'THEY' knew y and z. 'THEY' just needed him to supply x. If 'THEY' knew y and z. Why then, couldn't he find x? Do you follow? Neither could I, so lets keep sewing...
Stitch #10- Ross the Groper... is the Angel of devilish hugs and squeezes, and pats on the asses of virtually every OB female either not in the know, naive, brave, or kinkily thrilled enough to go the distance with young Ross. A hug from this big kid borders on a illicit pornographic mugging. He's built like a fire hydrant and thus Herculean strong. UNDERSTAND THIS... You are not escaping from his vice-like pawing without, and as of now, an uncategorized sex crime occurring. Once Ross figures out how to pull this off and get 'it' out of his pants at the same time, the prententious women of OB are in for some trouble or a novel undiscriminatory spontaneity. Either way Ross will be doing them a favor and smiling like a cheshire PERV through the whole very pressing exchange.
Supposedly 'suffering' from a biologically non-conforming chromosomal challenge, hence 'Down's Syndrome', I know Ross to be only divinely blessed. With his high functioning abilities, this guy is getting way more than those dudes calling each other 'bro', imitating NFL handshakes and uttering, "OOO... Fk that bitch...", after once again waking up alone on Sunday morning.
Ross grew up on Newport Ave. Word is he lives with his grandma and a trust fund. That's enough right there to warrant a lifetstyle of mad groping. Alot of restraunts on Newport have a montly pre-paid account with Ross and the dude merely has to waltz in, smile mischievously, order, usually calzones when there was a Theo's and prowl the vicinity for a woman or plural to compress.
As far as I'm concerned Ross is living the Dream. If he can manage to remain 'mentally challenged', thus seemingly harmless, he'll continue to enjoy one lustful OB day after another.
Stitch #11- The 40 Year Old Virgin Air Guitarist... is very similar to the Bermuda Triangle. He is out there, in the wide open, with his head set on, his juke box hero guitar stance and of course, his priceless air guitar. In plain view everyday, jamming his skinny ass off, the kid rocks. Despite this highly visible and consistent display he remains a real Rock 'n' Roll OB mystery.
What kind of music is he listening too? Does he ever take the headset off, or shut the CD player down? Does he ever run out of energy? Was he an inspiration for Angus Young or perhaps, like the Dalai Lama lineage, a reincarnated Jimmy Hendrix playing off past Karmic indulging debts? Where are the groupies?...
Like Ross the Groper, our Virgin Air Guitarist is labeled 'mentally challenged' but again, he sure seems to be enjoying himself every single day as he Van Halen solo's down the sidewalk. This Buddy Holly looker lives an MTV music video and also serves as living proof that yes, we can all be rock stars as long as were slightly off, possess a few triple AAA batteries, a CD player and allow our imaginations or lack of rationality to dictate the moments of our day...
Stitch #12- The Electric Chair Girls Orchestra... This catty re-retroed conglomeration of symphonic chatty Kathy's and their magnolia tatted skin and brightly dyed hair like to divide every conversation they have with the ol 'How-Long-Have-You-Lived-In-OB' factor. All of this, in between the hung over day dreamy snaps of their scissors. When they are not calculating demographics outloud, LOUDLY, the busy bees mouths are circulating rumours through OB quicker than the overpriced conditioner they rub through their customers hair and as steady as the rideable waves that vibrate into our sunny shores.
A caravan of them, like voluptuos circus elephants criss-crossing the 30 and 40 year old marks and denying it badly every step of the way are clear evidence that NO... UGHZ boots DO NOT GO WITH EVERYTHING. They parade into Starbucks Main Ring nearly every morning, not for a grande or venti, but a double tall, non fat, temperature 140, double latte with a shot of expresso and a extra shot of BS and blah, blah, blah...
While waiting, they wallow, blab and spew like a Mt. Rush Limbaugh about errant hair appointments penciled in that are inevitably going to cut into future Oprah time or later text messaging. If you have an unruly acquaintance, who you feel deserves the death penalty then send them to the ELECTRIC CHAIR. It's a shockingly Dali surreal 'styling' in a motor-mouthed tradition with cheesy art.