Tuesday, November 3, 2009

The Lot, Tossed

And so it has come to November in the Northwest, the trees turn hues of amber orange and crimson but burn not with the same spark as the Northeast. However, the environment, terrain, and regular parks to break up the concrete provide for a key environment for that outdoor running; I now get the runner's high in about seven minutes and it maintains for at least forty thereafter; my distance has improved. Concrete in Portland is for the most-part friendly to the wheels of my skateboard, although the needles of pine have ruined my favorite path through Alberta Park, those thoughtless bastards. Beyond this I, as per a successful self-nomination, am now a member of the board of the Concordia Neighborhood Association, hold the chair of economic development, and will be contributing to the Concordia Newspaper as a writer; responsibility, obligation, means to ends. Converging the community, economics, and politics together into a triumvirate of awesomeness is entirely my intention and to waffle upon such matters of import would be not at all sweet like syrup. The new novel has found its name, "Ginataan and the White Balls", or at least for now, chapters falling into place but not so quickly nor orderly as dominoes. Having pitched Drug-Land Security, my script, to Mark, a lawyer at Nike and my cousin, I've re-sold myself on the concept that I'd moved beyond and now machinations are back in gear in this regard. The Glimmer Train Press literary magazine has a competition called "family matters" in which I've entered my short story From Whence We Come; inspired by a picture I'd found of my grandfather and my 5-year-old self playing catch in the Cape, the violet bouncy-ball having left his hands, arcing, frozen in mid-air, towards my open and expectant arms; 31 Dec 09 will be the judge, the final day of the Zeroes. The secret to maintaining optimal condition is to always be in pursuit of impossible perfection; complacency and contentedness being counter-productive in nature; and I am, like silly, as you should too buddy. Rock and Roll

Monday, October 5, 2009

Spiffy Space-Cadets entering the Final Fall of the Zeroes

Rocketing and rocking on with life in Portland Oregon my current writing projects burn with blaring clouds of flame and smoke blasting onto the pad. At the moment I'm working on a press-release for my boy Ansel, for his band, wait for it... Ansel. This kid is a contender I tell ya, living on the waterfront so to speak in West LA at the moment. Check them out at www.bandcamp.com/ansel . Beyond this I've just begun a new novel, "White Balls and Kina'ta'An" the tentative title, a romantic drama of sorts juxtaposing the rise and fall of a relationship with the economy of the Zeroes while expressing the reality of cross-cultural relationships in contemporary American culture, in this instance between a Native Son (American born) and 2nd generation Filipina. The short story "A Sentimental Story about Family" is done, exploring the transitive and at times surrogate-like nature of family set against a decadent back-drop of a Portland OR drug-scene, email me and I will send you a copy, as well as "Panic Switch", a sort of criminal drama, and I'm working on a religious satirical allegory titled "Adam" exploring the origins of Adam, a creature of the visionarium nestled within the seventh belt of the thirteenth planet from the darkness. On the physical front I've breached five miles and am nearing the kick-flip, it's only a matter of my front foot placement man, front foot placement mastery, and I'm golden. The weather in the Northwest is a watered down iteration of the Northeast, although I must admit the kindling leaves and fall foliage is a welcome divergence from the evergreenery of SoCal. As the trees come alight in this final year of the Zeroes savor the burn and prepare for lift-off.

Monday, September 7, 2009

the Bi-Week Networking Endeavor

I've been in this here city of Portland for a period of five weeks, however, have been chilling within the Alberta Arts District for two. This sector of the city is to Portland as the Meat-Packing district is to NYC. And so, having posted on Craigslist in the strictly plutonic section that I was interested in watching "Weeds" with someone, I met Morgan, through whom I met Jason, through whom I met Micquael. This particular lady is a social nexus, having introduced me to Dusty, a southern boy with the charm to match dressed in flannel, Baisa, Caleb, Shyanna, Chrissy and Lex, Jason dos, the Cajun bartender Brandy, Mantas, a gentleman from Lithuania not unlike my paternal Grandmother with nice art skills, and Shah, a stylish hair sylist with panache, the latter two with whom I've become boys through a few hyper-silly nights of adventure, although Mantas has since moved to Seattle. Shah has lifted me out of the virtual world into the realness of friends, and I've crashed with his hospitable self since having signed the lease on my pad, suite-mating with Drew, an aspiring painter and likewise inquisitive mind that no doubt will inspire mutual creativity. The coming end of the final year of the Zeroes is looking up,and I've no problem with getting higher. Rock and Roll
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Monday, August 24, 2009

The Couch Surfing Community

So yeah there is this website known to the world as couchsurfing.com, in basic, in that it is global and everyone calls it that (ir?)regardless of what their native language is, as English is basically king considering England once had one that we were all like whatever to then busted out on our own and dominated; so it goes. Couchsurfing is a profile-based interactive community that enables one to solicit or provide for a roof over the dome of a traveller through online networking means. It is not driven by the forces of capitalism but rather those of karma, in that to give is to receive, pay it forward, and so on. I've utilized the site to provide for shelter for the last three sets of seven days here in Portland, as initially I had time to chillax and grow acclimated with the atmosphere, then having begun an apartment hunt in earnest eight days ago, have yet to find an ample abode. The housing market in Portland is inundated with renters; those with a pad hold what are essentially casting calls, interviewing exponentially people compared to the number of rooms they have, stacking humans atop one another as shipping containers spaced out evenly at fifteen minute intervals. This difficulty however is entirely acceptable, as it has forced me out of the renter's bubble for a moment and pushed me into a world of individuals as disparate as the elements man, travellers and drifters and philanthropic locals with surfaces to spare and a wish to care. My first contact to the site came through Mairead, a barista at the Bean Counter in my home town of Worcester MA as I was trying to sub-let her my apartment within which my sword and inventory rest still; check out my review for it on http://mjwesterman.yelp.com/ ; who upon checking out my apartment alongside her friend Eli I believe mentioned they'd heard of the site and known of individuals who'd sillied it up. I told my boy Rye-Guy. He said his ex girl from high school was a member in Portland just as I had given up my attempt to move to Puerto Rico and opened the triangle chart of movement locations: LA, San Francisco, or Portland. The final option came together and in short order I was upon the couch of Tamara and Alice in SE Portland. My forest green 5-speed 1990 BMW 535i was placed upon consignment with a dealer who is at this very moment defrauding me of my money after having sold it; used car dealers - yeah... Two weeks in passing there I shift to the couch of a guy named Guy with a wife named Jen a dog named Grrr and three chickens known as Original, Crispy and Extra Crispy. Five nights pass of kind hosting, a futon in a private study my place of rest. I met a young gentleman by the name of Serafim yesterday through a random call after a CS msg, picking me up on Alberta Street after having had tacos and checkout out a pad at a housing collective known as the Whale, who instructed me to call him "Chinky" although I refuse and through him a connection may be made as he is a nexus of personability. Tonight is unknown, a sort of out in the great wide open situation, under them skies of blue. Rock and Roll

Thursday, August 20, 2009

A La Calle - Ahora at least mehn...

Two weeks into the Portland experiment and my hypothesis of awesomeness continues. No longer crashing with my bro Ryan's ex girl, I sit beneath the stars upon a reclined chair of finished oak at Guy and Jen's house, a couple met online through couchsurfing.com, a community of wanderers using karma to keep one another's trips through this world flowing. Their dog's name, a wiry Wishbone-esque doggy dog, is "Grr". Word. To my right rests a garden bristling with staked and vined tomatoes as upright comrades at attention beside other herbs cultivated, to the left my wet, perhaps about dry, clothes hang upon lines similar to the rather retro clothes-line rack curiously in the attic of my Father's childhood house and former Worcester crash pad, as a result of an earlier laundry situation. A few feet farther still three chickens roost, awaiting the dawn, prepared to produce breakfast. In Portland it is legal to have up to three chickens on a private residence without a permit. Conscious of green, I release a breath ignite and inhale; it stimulates. Appreciating the stars I laugh, "I hadn't ever thought to consider that it was space that was moving"; a line I roughly recall from the new Star Trek flick, enjoyable; and recognize that while progressing within, it is at times necessary to sit back, chillax, and let the movement go on without. Rock and Roll MJW

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Wednesday

12-2am - 7pg paper on how The Passion of the Christ influences pop-culture's ideology regarding the narratives of the Bible, 2pg's on plea bargaining and the due process implications of Miranda Rights. 2-9am - sending the sheep to slaughter. 9-11am- awakening weirdness and wandering, adding 100wds to the cj paper as per a rewrite request. 12am- sushi, iced latte, lost my keys. 1pm - Resume dropped at Tin House literary magazine, met the managing editor. 1-3pm - wandering from NE Portland to SE Portland. 3pm- Resume drop at Glimmer Train Press, meet Linda and Susan, the owners/editors. 4pm - Interview at Mode Models, offer of representation, given I pay $100 for their photography session or just use my own photog. 5-pm - Wandering, jalapeno pineapple and cheddar pizza slice, drinking a few beers, joined by Alice and Tamara, skiball, maximum force. 9pm- short run. 10pm- witness a live jazz concert sax-ed by Joe, Tamara's boyfriend-type-thing, after which there is a beat-off, which despite its sexual undertones is actually, (unfortunately?) a remixing of the tunage by fourteen dj's; Wolverine is robbed like an elderly woman in pre-Guiliani central park. 12am-meet Yoni, a local musician and likewise creative type; we discuss how in SoCal people get together to get stoned and do nothing, while here they come together and get lifted while creating and collaborating. The Day after the First now begins, the woolly massacre ending at a late 1pm awakening mark.

Iosif Stalin had the night of the black limousines, Hitler had the night of the long daggers; I often wonder which generated more fear, the disappearance entirely of an associated being, or the discovery of their steel-pierced deflated bodies in the morning. Fear and mystique often go hand in hand, and should one rise, does the other one fall or perhaps diminish and dilute? These are important questions people, things those of us in the know simply must.

Wednesday, August 5, 2009

The Oregon Initiation

I fly, hesitant to take with me only a lighter. Upon landing I meet Alice, after meeting a rather friendly airport employee named Craig who offered to make me Filipino food, then like I said, I meet Alice, don't in any way inference the classic animated film, procure a lighter, and rise up from the airport into the city. At first I see a corporate absurdity, Best Buy Staples etc, but am quickly assured the only lame part is near the home of the airplanes. Coming to the neighborhood, I check out the pad, nice with an interesting flair, seven picture frames mounted upon the wall in an abstract pattern with only two having pictures, the others; empty... Skateboarding out onto Burnside I catch a wafting aroma in the air, one of glory, like napalm in the morning almost but not quite victorious. Tucan Samming it I follow my nose and come upon VooDoo donuts, apparently their satellite location in SE Portland, immediately killing a Butterfinger, chocolate cake donut with buttercream frosting topped in butterfinger chunks, and get a few to go, being sidetracked by a travelled lady by the name of Tricia who I follow to her apartment, from which she'd been locked out of, to observe and learn her skills at picking a lock; she was unable to do so but offered to buy me a beer; kind people here; but I had people to see, places, and so I had to go. Meeting Tamara for the first time the second time around, chilling, plagiarizing a paper on Jesus, and plotting the plan of tomorrow, the literary hunting and munchie opportunities. Blogging. Crashing. Unconsciously Rocking and Rolling.

Monday, August 3, 2009

A Much Shorter Story

"I'm a straight arrow..." "Really...?" she says. "...rather, I'm a crooked arrow with a straight shot." "Much better..." she says, stroking a lick of the lengthy blonde and mohagony fire of hair ablaze, alighting amber eyes, "...now I'm not disappointed in you."

A Swap of Consideration


His post was published in the artists section of the craigslist community, seeking a fellow writer within which to trade feedback, his work a scripted tale of a bedeviled bounty killer, hers a novella regarding emerging bisexuality. They exchange emails and quips, personalities seeming to click through the keys. Meeting in person, trading hard-copies, they share a joint. She is El-Salvadoran, late-twenties, coffee-tone lending a contemporary flavor to her 1950’s pin-up figure, lashes complemented by fully inviting lips. The ash burning halfway, there’s space between them, the joint extinguished, she sits nestled beneath his arm, head resting against his chest as she exhales the last gust of smoke.
“Fuck… I hate to say it, but I need to get to class… we’ll meet soon, see how the reading is coming.”
Deep brown glimmers with mutual reluctance as his green stare fades. Rising, shouldering a suede messenger bag, he takes her hand tenderly, helping her up.
“I’m busy until Friday, but I’ll call you, I’m excited to get started.” She says.
“No doubt on that. I’ll show you out.”
He does, holding doors, impressing her with quite unfamiliar expressions of gentlemanly behavior, as chivalry is oft dead, particularly considering the girl’s line of work.

Working on a piece his phone rings, recognizing the number, sensing an energy, answering.
“What up Kaera.”
“Hey You.”
She’s had a fight with her open-relationship boyfriend. Fucking strangers is acceptable. Fucking best-friends apparently is not. Obviously stressed, he offers a session to lift her spirits should it be desired. It is. She talks. He listens. They stop. They smile.
Moving in, they share the first embrace, tongues meeting, experiencing, adapting, flowing. Passion sparked, she mounts him, gyrating in a practiced professional rhythm. Pulling off his shirt, scratching down abdominals, red nails flutter as she unbuttons his jeans, likewise disrobed, foreplayed.
Slipping into intimacy they fade seamlessly between intense lust and an almost romantic synergy, their flows having synced powerfully.
Time having passed and the crescendo orchestrated they appreciate a moment in passing admiration. She bites her lip, he licks his.
Rising, he assists in clasping her black lingerie, watching admiringly as she slides on her pants, hopping with effort to slip them on. I pull up my jeans, zipping, buttoning, tightening the belt and clasping it. She helps him slip on his t-shirt and he does the same.

Strolling arm-in-arm outside the warm afternoon sun strikes their flesh, a cool breeze skittering past, rustling the trumpeting blossoms along the drive. She perks up onto her tippy-toes, sharing a last kiss, her lips remaining against his for the length of an indulgent blink. Stepping down she wraps herself around his midsection, cheek nestling against chest, his muscles first tensing, releasing as he feels the realness of her embrace, returning. Pressing hard, pulling reluctantly away, remaining in one another’s arms for a beat, bittersweet vibes exchanged through a gaze, they’ve come together in parting.

Westward Bind

My name is Michael, Jack, Michael John, but on the East Side it soon won't matter until it does across, as I'm about to peace out, be swayze, gone. I've been running three to four days a week, training at World Gym three, laughing my way up higher inclinations during midnight jaunts. The song "Summer's Almost Gone" by the Doors, live, enchanted me in May, persevered happily into June only to haunt me in July, pushing me over the edge of the decision precipice, free-falling I am no longer. On Tuesday I'll be landing upon Portland, the West Side once again the locale I've chosen for my residence. I've not yet been there, however "Paranoid Park" was illicitly good, VooDoo Donuts sounds ill, the skateboarders there are better than me so soon will be my skills as I thrash along, and Southern California felt too comfortable for me to be content in such a choice. I'm halfway through the smithing of four domers, the first of which shall be sparked as the wheels of my storm-trooper board touch down upon the black fields that never die cutting through downtown Portland. Literary internships, the Burnside Review, Open Spaces, Tin House, are to be taken on forthwith son, leading to literary connections building to the dominos of publication falling into notoriety as the ostensible path beckons. Rock and Roll.
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Tuesday, July 28, 2009

A Short Story

Complacent Denial: A Missed Connection
Ten blocks of downhill action marred by only one near collision with the careless driver of a rusted El Camino, I come to the end of Garnet Street, the business strip of the crunchy community of Pacific Beach, the boardwalk and beach a half-block ahead. Grinding wood upon pavement I clap the tail and catch the board as it rabbit-hops into the air, eyes rising ahead, that which aligns in my sights captivating me.
On the horizon the full orb of the sun has turned a charred orange, hovering seemingly a few inches above the gaping aquatic skyline. Her gait is that of a confident feminist, her body not unlike a lanky yet curvaceously blessed model who realized the benefits of pilates and proper nutrition. Bleached blonde hair with auburn roots, in a pink cherry-blossomed bikini-top and tan Hollister capris, the breeze lending motion to her stillness as she comes to a halt directly ahead of me as if coming against some invisible wall.
I continue walking forward, as silhouetted within the waning sun her head turns, blue eyes luminescent, sparkling akin to the sea while contrasting violently with the deep solar hue. Our eyes connect as I mutually come to a halt. A moment is shared, an unspoken introduction breaking the ice, silently tangible vibes flowing, drawing us together into the promise of what is to come. Curiosity breaks, a mood of blustering anticipation dawning as she turns her body to face me. Her right hand resting naturally upon her waist atop the curve of the hourglass, the left gently lifting and holding up her hair, rays of light twinkling through, sparking off a diamond earring as she shifts her weight to her lead leg, body flowing likewise at the movement.
As moonlight hitting a gargoyle I break the stone of my immobility and take a step forward, her eyes drawing me in. Thoughts interrupted I halt, a vibration followed by the echoing of Beethoven’s Ninth pulls my concentration away from the moment. Fuck. I mouth “sorry” and know she can’t see it. Turning to the side, answering the phone, it is a customer who I can’t afford to lose, Maddie, who similarly represents an opportunity at experience, her recent semester in Italy having refined her allure considerably. Out of the corner of my eye I see her gaze drift to the ground as she glares towards me then forward. Walking off to the left and out of my sight she waves a reluctant goodbye with dainty fingertips over her shoulder, manicured nails flashing in the light as I admire her gait, appreciating the half-heel on her sandals and how her calves and above are perked, noticing the lack of a tan-line anywhere upon her gently toned back.
Rushing through the requisite pleasantries the phone call finally ceases. I drop and hop onto my skateboard, propelling towards the boardwalk, busting a fakie ollie over the curb, sticking it and continuing on. Rolling south searching in vain, I halt at the ferris-wheel on Mission Beach, my eyes following the red, white, and blue bulbs of light as they circulate round, chasing one another so fast trails are left dancing amidst the air.
She’s disappeared and the wonder of the moment collapses around me, fleeting wonder rising up amidst the dust of fallen opportunity. I ignore an incoming call, feeling the last wireless lassoing to have prevented my running wild into a real-life experience, as I skate off in search of another down the boardwalk.
Handing off my skateboard with a grin and a glare alongside a twenty to the valet, I adjust the collar to my polo shirt, tuck my chain, and enter Level III, a trendy lounge with a glassed wall facing the beach. The bartender recognizes me from the gym with an inviting smile. She looks like Jennifer McCarthy only younger and without the silicone. I smile back and take a seat. Ordering a scotch on the rocks, I feel her warm gaze upon my back as I turn to take in the sunset. The first sip flows down my throat, warming my stomach as I absorb the blushing sky, the red sun sliding beneath the distant waves of the horizon as I turn and segue into conversation.

Tuesday, June 30, 2009

The Naked Reaction Index: an article preview

An article I've been pitching around is "The Naked Reaction Index", which involves the initial reaction one has upon seeing another nude for the first time, not entirely unlike the unwrapping of a present. Now there are reactions beneath those which I'll outline here, but if you have standards, those of the "eww" "ech" and "eek!" assortment will never be encountered.
*First off is that of a normal physique, acceptable, just better than average. "Oh."
*When the garbs drop to the floor and natural beauty alongside light but symmetrical muscular definition alongside body shape is revealed, one may be motivated to emit an "Oh My..."
*The final level is that of direct effort and subsequent achievement, when natural beauty is augmented by physical training, dieting, and superficial primping like keeping a tight trim, that of "Oh My God!"
... What level are you?

Business Farmers

In a recent discussion with a friend it became apparent to me the nature of sales through the word usage I've been pursuing in regards to my salesman friend's pursuit of his leads. A first meeting is considered to be a seed, in which the idea, the concept, of his product is planted within the minds of the soil, the people. Meetings following this initial introduction are to be considered watering the plant, which shall grow as the knowledge base and need recognition take root. The final process in sales as in farming is that of the harvest, when the client is closed, the plant turned into a commodity, and the sale made. And so while farming is a steadily dying industry in the domestic sense, at least we can take comfort in the fact that its concepts live on through the harvesting of profits from the crop of humans stomping upon and above the soil which was once cultivated.

Saturday, June 20, 2009

Make Kerouac Proud, Run and Live on the Road

Raindrops packing upon my skin as I stretch to completion, the recognition that a run is much like a life floods to the surface of my reality, a thought percolating throughout, words dripping later on as I begin to laugh for no reason, adrift in the nomad's high as I remove my shirt to appreciate the clearness of the sky contrasting the precipitation, finishing the final of four or so street miles. The campus of WPI was the playground for this particular late-night jaunt, wrought with uphill necessities and blessed by the opportunity at many more. I've learned two things through running: A-Taking the most difficult path comprehensible produces the greatest amount of satisfaction, results, and from a pain is pleasure perspective, is fucking tight; 2_When it feels as though another step is impossible it is time to throw caution to the weak and sprint all silly like, after which the previous pace is nothing, not of note, simple; 3, Listen, whatever, I lied get over it/ It's okay to get a bit lost here and there along the way, adventure is learning and knowledge is power children, so long as the pace is kept as time hasn't patience nor should we. MJW.
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Saturday, June 13, 2009

A Day in the Life

June the 13th. 12am: Arriving to my apartment having parlayed with my homie Ryan. I stretch. 12-12:35: I run three miles on the streets bathed in darkness while listening to my iPod shuffle, on shuffle, although coming upon "I'm looking through you" by the Beatles listen to it seven times while returning home. 12:35-12:45, showering, gripping and ripping. 12:55-1-45: Latino night at the boiler room, a RedBullandvodka, a song heard while at my barber shop that morning getting faded is played, the Spanish version of "Mrs. Officer" by Lil' Wayne essentially, but classic style. 1:50: I encounter a particularly striking African American girl, her name: Marcella. 1:55: Burning with Russ, I witness the outbreak of violence, the smack of the first strike landing upon teeth entirely audible. 2:15-11: Incandescent dreamy slumber. 11:30-1:30- A glorious work-out sesh at World Gym Worcester. 2-3: Submitting a Shady Transaction in Southern California to Anderbo, an online literary journal, and the Arch Literary Journal. 4-10: I assume the role of Jack to produce cash; he's a waiter. 10-x Pushing it to the limit. Rock and Roll. Sent via BlackBerry by AT&T

Wednesday, June 3, 2009

The Flow, Induced.

After midnight training is often essential. Eminem’s new cd Relapse is incredible. Track 12; “Stay Wide Awake”, his greatest lyrical delivery, ever: 5lbs in each hand I shadow-box. Track 8; “Same Song & Dance”, a haunting beat by Dre: Bokken (solid cherry-tree wood katana) training alongside nunchucks. Track 2; “3AM”, a unique flow and illustrative lyrics: Shinai (bamboo kendo sword) training, weightless shadowboxing, weighted, and without. Southpaw feels more comfortable but I train evenly nonetheless. Adequately flowing, a short jog is necessary. A cool off. A shower. A mental warm-up in the form of this blog, and ready to begin the continued crafting of the current piece of short fiction, The Recovery, through a bit of intense mental training, equally paramount and so tanta- to the physical. Rock and Roll.

Sunday, May 31, 2009

Learning Espanol, Thug Style.

Spanish is a subject studied for a number of years throughout both my public and transition into private school, however I'm by no means fluent nor even sufficient. To rectify this sad reality I must improve, become better, develop my skills. And so to this end I've decided that the most logical thing for me to do is to listen to mad amounts of Puerto Rican rap, memorize the lyrics, pronunciation, and meaning, then next thing I know after time, effort, and practice, I'll know the deal. What I'm wondering is if the parallel will hold true, in that should an individual not know English, then learn it by listening to 2Pac, 50, and Wu Tang, would they sound like a thug in the language? I hope so, and project that I'll be rocking and rolling Espanol silly like and all gangsta-ish as soon as I've internalized the flows. Mi lengua es Ingles porque yo estudio ahora, escucho con la reggatone porque es proximo de la hora. Now the real question is, should I learn from Nengo Flow or Conculluela, the feuding rappers in Puerto Rico who have brought about an East/West style division in their rap world, as should one be crushed, I'd woe my Spanish to taste of the losing lyricist/street soldier's style.

Saturday, May 16, 2009

Car Hurtling and the Moonlit Trails

Running after the twilight of sunset has become a contemporary practice of mine in these days of late, with the darkness presenting me with an alternative to the traditional sunny jaunts. The budding trees and sparse light of the street-bulbs flooding through above as I hug the yellow lines running in the center of the street, my body is a robot and my soul the ghost in the machine. My road-dog Ryan joined me last eve for a run which rose above the concrete into the wooded paths of Newton Hill, the ground and all around nearly pitch as one's vision turns black-and-white, dangling branches pushed away as others are crushed and cracked underfoot. Coming down and out of the woods, sprinting across a busy city street, headlights flashing, I realize I need something more, something beyond the norm. Cars are all over, impeding my progress as I duck and dodge, and suddenly realize, why go around when you can go over? And so the game is made, cars are given points in their order of difficulty, a sedan being 1, SUV 2, Truck 3, and so on, with multiple cars strung together creating a multiplier. For example, were I to trample over a car then leap onto the hood of a truck and then ground it, I'd be awarded 1+3 being 4, times 2 as a pair of vehicles were strung together, and thus 8 points total. I've achieved 1 thus far, Ryan 0, but I'm not worried about it, there is time, and the competition has only just begun.

Sunday, May 10, 2009

An Analogue Gentleman Going All Digitial

Seated up in the Bean Counter, a transcendental coffee shop with cupcakes that will melt your mind into an ocean of pleasurable waves, I type impatiently upon my laptop. For my gig as an academic ghost writer I've a six page paper to write upon how transactive memory affects one's performance upon the job, and more specifically, how it influences consensus and teamwork, and between reading I watch a video upon the Berrics Trickipedia of a pro boarder doing a kickflip like a god, learning for his form. The client needs three sources, specific articles to be sourced, and I've only one to download, in the form of a pdf. Drawing my Blackberry Curve, Maroon and leathered, I email my fill-in editor at the company, Kasra curiously not the man on the other end for a time, stating as such, that I've only so much time, so much access, and need the information right quick. Two minutes later a chi-gong sound effects goes off thrice. I check it. The information has arrived via a yousendit link which I download. Data, as with knowledge, is power, and so armed with my source arsenal proceed forth to load it up and fire off. Rock and Roll.

Tuesday, May 5, 2009

the California Core Training Routine & Lifestyle

My work-out routine and fit lifestyle, assembled through training with sun-bathing hedonists in Miami, football players in Boston, alongside surfers and boxers in California, will soon be a purchasable commodity, oh yes and no doubt, as decreed by the Fitness Fuhrer.In the form of a dvd series to be marketed to those who wish to be truly fit, torn up, fucking ripped, this lifestyle will spread, like the wildfires that made it snow ash during my first tenure on the Golden Coast. More to come as the endeavor develops; now scouting the set and asembling the marketing package with my boy and fitness disciple Ryan.

Monday, May 4, 2009

My Expatriate Theory

A reality I've considered is the fact that amongst the most powerful men to have walked this planet, the rulers, the dictators, the emperors, were not from the country over which they reigned. These three men, this triumvirate of titans, are those of Hitler, Stalin, and Napoleon. Hitler was born in Austria, and would eventually fight for Germany, evolving into her Fuhrer. Stalin was a Bolshevik terrorist from Georgia affiliated with Lenin who became the Gen Sec, the Boss, of his adopted Mother Russia. Napoleon was born upon the small island of Corsica off the coast of Italy, and in a similar fashion to Hitler, excelled in the military of his adopted country, to one day become the beloved emperor of France. This made me realize, should I one day fulfill my childhood aspiration of becoming the Emperor of America, the starting point, to follow the path of established historical successes, would have to be an abutting country. Mexico and Canada be warned or perhaps notified of a future honor, in that almost surely the launching of an American empire will use one of you as the pad.

Thursday, April 30, 2009

The Now Progression: Zeroed In.

Cavorting with a pair of comrades this evening we briefly discussed the progress of my novel, at which point I mentioned my “Now Updates”. Each of these will be followed by a number, from ’00-’09, providing a balance statement of sorts for that particular year. Those of us who have come up in the Zeroes have witnessed both immense progress and radical decline within a period less than half of most of our lives, technological and economic respectively. I can see the almost baroquely designed picture upon the cassette to Michael Jackson’s “Dangerous” vividly in my mind and remember the spilled mess of pasta upon the tape to “The Spaghetti Incident” from Guns’n’mfn’Roses well. Superman II and The Empire Strikes Back were VHS tapes watched so often as a small child I wore them out entirely, horizontal lines and gravel all that remains. “All Eyes on Me” from 2-Pac was the first CD I listened to in my personal CD Player, and afterwards pieced together a rap-library by borrowing and burning my friends music onto writable CD’s upon my custom-built and home-delivered Dell computer. That is, until at a speed of 56K I downloaded whatever music was necessary through first Napster, then Limewire and Bittorrent, until broadband and license certification swept in across the wireless networks used to jack my Vaio lap-top into the Net.

“Down for Whatever” by Ice Cube was the first song ever purchased legitimately upon iTunes, and I can assure you, given particular prerequisites, I most righteously am. My shelves filled with the new technology of DVD’s from across the globe, amassed through online purchases, as I wrecked Mario 3 with a raccoon-tail in 8 bits, stepped it up as Ken in Super Street Fighter at 16, double that and on to Tony Hawk II as I played Playstations and X-boxes, going full circle and stepping up to the next level as HD and Blu-Ray came into play. Ecstacy came and rolled off into the shadows. Marijuana is rapidly being decriminalized while tobacco is publicly demonized and same-sex marriage is banned after having been voted in to such progressive states as California, indicative of the contemporary conservative backlash, but a majority of that demographic is aging, and the tides are turning in our favor.

This is the last year of the Zeroes people, the progress that is made in the eternal and historic Now is all that matters. An acquaintance told me of a recurring dream she has, in which she’s hiding, trapped, within the musty walls of a great concrete building not unlike an elementary school amongst likewise distraught strangers, seeking refuge from a firefight outside between parties she neither knows nor cares to, hoping only to maintain safety within the uncomfortable, unfriendly environment. This is not the way to live and to think in such a way is tomfoolery, as it is a mandate of life to step outside, check out the scenario, pick a side or maybe create one, and start busting shots. One may only hit a target if they first have one, and my sights are on point.

Sunday, April 19, 2009

The Tissue Theory

Having options in all facets of life is pleasing; articles of contentment. Speaking to a friend today on the topic of the feminine potentials presenting themselves in these budding days of spring, he presented to me his "tissue theory". Take heed: this particular individual is involved in a serious relationship, is not nor ever was a player, sorry guy, but the validity and illustrative quality of the theory is nonetheless present.

"Girls are like tissues man. Use them once, and throw them away." He said.

Feeling a twinge of distaste at the statement, I consider, and present the question to a female acquantance, also on the scene. She smiles, a wry look spreading over her face as she glances to the left and down.

"Sure, I don't see a problem with it, as long as they get wet in the process." She said.

Such tasty dialogue is a treat not often found amidst otherwise common conversational fare, and experiencing the growing nastiness of some women, to me, is taboo, but nonetheless I encourage it. The tissue theory does present some insight into the minds of a niche demographic of misogynistic men, but given that it came from a hankerchief kind of guy, is to be taken with a grain of salt.

Tuesday, April 14, 2009

The William Decision

Within Generation Zero the protagonist, being fleshed out in quite contemporary times, was named Michael, however henceforth is to be represented as William. Feeling a distance necessary from the character to effectively verbally paint him, sharing the same name seemed untoward, not proper, unacceptable. A means of previewing the book is being considered, but in the interim the short of the first chapter is up here, http://www.worcestermagazine.com/content/view/2990/ check check it, and heed what I've just written as it is relevant. Rock and roll.

Saturday, April 4, 2009

Reverse Samson

I've chased the spectre of corn-rows twice now, reaching a curlish fro upon the first attempt and a Nero-esque Roman emperor front-comb the second, and have learned something of biblical proportions. Hair, to me, functions in a sort of inverse-Samson situation, in that the longer it grows, the weaker my mettle and on-pointedness becomes. I need worry not of some Delilah steeling into my quarters in the dead of night, taking care to walk and not run to my place of rest as the scissors are not the rounded-tip ilk and we know she's all careful like, only to take my hair and with it my power in some sort of perverse Highlander quickening. Rather, I simply need to ascertain that the razor and clippers of my often blunted barber touch down upon my dome every nine-eleven days. In these waning days of the zeroes as the spring ushers in a new energy, it is proper that one stay sharp.

Friday, April 3, 2009

Touching Down

Is it the peak of the trip that one remembers most vividly in the time after the fall, or is it the rise? What part of whatever act does one derive the greatest amount of glory? The length of the crescendo is what I'm driving at here, as in fucking, the moment of blast off may be quite pleasurable, however the time taken and momentum exerted to get there is what counts, the determinant of whether we have an Apollo or Challenger type situation on our hands. (one reached the moon, the other exploded on the pad; come now, a general knowledge of aeronautic history is after all essential to being a spaceman, in whatever form) One never knows where the peak is until after they've hit the pinnacle and either come down, or moved on to a different plateau altogether, only likely more on top than simply a bucket and a mop and that illustrated book concerning birds. The reality of the situation is, it's how you savor the trip that determines the satisfaction of whatever peaks may rise and fall along the illy journey. I considered the options of the military recently, inquiring as to the potential of a cash sign-on bonus and what benefits I may inure, being a university grad and relatively on point. Upon finding out eighteen months in a hot-zone is the bonus within the branches of primary interest, I considered whether it made sense economically and opportunistically, and said fuck it, got a skin-tight fade and line-up, hustled a glut of academic papers, copped the means to construct a conical fiery machine, and took off with my associates, as I am, after all, a rocket man. This extends to our generation, in that the century is increasingly ours; we've begun in the zeroes, and have no excuse nor possibility but to continue getting higher.

Tuesday, February 24, 2009

A Basic Sensation

When discussing the art of hooking up with a homie, one of those from back-in-the-day individuals, the topic of boyfriends came up, and whether or not they are a stop sign, an obstacle, or an afterthought when in pursuit of a fit hottie. Trudging through the subject my contemporary proudly stated that he'd gotten brains, to use a modern term, from some girl he knew in the parking lot of a pool house while her boyfriend waited inside. This act of oral pleasure was due to his having been extending a bit of that Miami sand, and her desire to get a dub off the top, a discount, a deal, but not quite a steal. Inquiring as to how he felt copping head in such a capitalistic fashion, he looked up and left, expression calming, stating, "It don't matter. I get my dick wet. I bust a nut. It feels good."

Monday, January 19, 2009

Work-Out Etiquette - Seriously.

So today I'm at the gym doing a bit of intensely variable cardio on the treadmill to warm up. Having raised it to the highest incline and sprinted all Drago-like, crunching the limit, I began my gradual descent, slowing from a dash to a casual jog. Having settled in to the mid-session chill-out, I feel a rather obtuse tap upon my shoulder. Looking to my left a porcine white man with a receding line of white hair is staring at me with a forced and rounded smile. "How much longer do you have?" I stare blankly for a moment, then scan to my left and right, taking care to make it obvious I'm noticing the many empty pieces of equipment as I remove my skullcandy ear-bud; "I'm not quite sure, I'm sort of in the midst of things here sir." I respond with an excessively friendly tone, trying to turn back, but he persists. "Well I like using this piece of equipment, so I'll wait. Thanks." The obese man who simply walks upon a treadmill for a half hour before resuming the gluttonous maintenance of his excess body-weight says, turkey-gobbler wobbling. "And thank you very much for interrupting my work-out, particularly considering how few pieces of equipment there are available. Have a nice day dude." Recognizing my distaste, he at first postures, hand searching in vain for a waist to place itself upon in indignation, "Well now, no need to get nasty, I was just askin-" "Yes, and I am just trying to work out. Again, have a nice day guy." Ear-buds back in he is forgotten and I take my time finishing the first act of what would be an epic training session.

The point: please do not interrupt someone in the midst of training, it is wrong, like a sort of induced blue-balling of the flow. Wrong.

Sunday, January 18, 2009

<[{ I'm "Swayze" }]> and Rap Evolution

A commonly used term in hip-hop, as in "When he drop, take his glock, and I'm Swayze", a statement made by the Notorious B.I.G. in regards to this storied and hopefully fictitious murder of an officer. I think Sublime's use of the "187 on a mutha fuckin' cop" line was rather distasteful in "April 29th, 1992", however given the topical nature and relation to the film's plot in the line's song of origin, "Deep Cover" by Snoop and Dre off the soundtrack to a film of the same name, was okay that time. Stepping back, this was a light-bulb-like meaning realization that blinged into my mind's eye that last time I heard "Swayze", and I finally realized what it means mehn! Oh my! It means to be gone, to be, like Patrick's most famous role, a Ghost. "Bust a nut and I'm Swayze" is the most commonly used iteration, although Tupac's version of the same statement, "After I nut I hit the highway" has more immediate impact, but less of a lasting effect and no deeper meaning, beyond the act itself described. Porch light.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

The Closing of the 00s.

This being the final year in the first decade of the new century, I've been irate with occasional curiosity in regards to what, exactly, this decade of the Zeroes is to be labelled in the history books of our contemporary future. The "roaring" 20s, the "swingin'" thirties, a break during the conflict, then seemingly the decades were no longer named but instead the people, the generations; baby-boomers, flower children, disco bastards, gen-x, whatever and so on. Those of us born into the materialism of the 80s, grown during the progressive heat of the 90s, and now coming up in the 00s are lacking in delineation, the title of this blog presenting potential, however, given the recession and economy something less than zero would be more affecting. While Method Man is a commercially successful rapper and surely has many great lyrics and tracks, his greatest singular achievement in music is the transcendental hook, "cash rules everything around me..." both in regards to meaning and execution, in the song aptly named after what it's all about, "...CREAM...", and the true necessity in today's world, "...get the money. Dolla' dolla' bills ya'll." Those of us coming up in The Now have the world at our finger-tips, as those within whose wrinkled hands it currently rests shall be off to retirement a short breath into the next decade, leaving us to draw in the void, consuming, scrambling, for all capital and power that becomes available. It is our prerogative, our duty, as the generation of Americans entering the summer of life as a huge segment of our citizens fall into winter, to take all we can but to never be satisfied, discontentment being a necessity of perpetual progress. What do you want? "Everything, and more."