Tuesday, April 19, 2011

A song I made up while toiling away at my dead end job!

Your Eyes. Your Eyes.
They are like two kites flying in the sky,
During a Texas desert storm.

Your Mind. Your Mind.
Is something I really can't understand,
Like a scientific math problem.

Your Face. Your Face.
Is like a huge dump I took one day,
So big I couldn't look away.

Your Taste. Your Taste.
Is pretty good and horrible as well,
Such the best Fish Taco I ever had.

Your Mace. Your Mace.
Burns me just like you telling me,
I can't follow you home anymore.

I can't believe that I have been working a factory job for the past three weeks and haven't flipped out yet. Ok well, I can believe it, I just am not positive that I can hang for much longer. I happen to zone out every hour and day dream. It's so difficult for me to focus on my basic and tedious tasks. So I start singing songs. Mostly because the other employees sing their songs in Spanish rather loudly all the time. I figure this is a good way to pass the time. Unfortunately for me, I don't know many popular songs by heart. Sometimes I sing some Rolling Stones songs.. Like I willl sing Under My Thumb, or like Time Is On My Side. I don't know many others. I make up lyrics. They always sound so stupid.

Thursday, February 3, 2011

and i call myself a writer?!

I was thinking to myself just now.. just a little while ago, that i could never call myself a writer. I automatically assumed that I had skipped a day. I thought today was the 4th already and I hadn't written anything yet. I am such a negative person! I was already ready to slander myself, and whip myself to death for not having written in the blog. Shameful. But it got the job done, because here I am, writing in it. There you are, doubters! (I am screaming at you)

I'm the main doubter. It keeps me motivated. I tell myself I'm never going to get it done so much that I am fed up with myself, and now I just have to. There isn't any other reason. No one else even wants me to do it. Just me! But there are people who want me to do it. As evident in the show hike I just went on amongst some very good friends. A hike that was just as much of a hang out session in the park, as it was a big of exercise. A bit of a stroll, a sigh of fresh air.

I am drinking tepid water right now, relaxing and thinking about what lies ahead. Definitely writing a bio tonight. I probably won't finish. I'll be haphazardly jotting things down while, before, during, and after the band's performance tonight. Between visits to the restroom, conversations with people, and meal breaks. (Meal breaks?! you're going to a concert, not a festival!) But yes, meal breaks.

I am also thinking how awesome it is that I have somehow surrounded myself with an entire community of extremely creative people. There are painters, musicians, designers, philosophers, photographers, writers, psychologists, and yet they are all very much artists in every last sense of the word. Every last vibration of what these people do somehow resonates the communal agreement that it was done for the sake of entertainment. Here's looking at you kid!

Its actually tepid tea I am drinking. I put some tea in the water. I just wanted to be honest.

Wednesday, February 2, 2011

3 months?!

Where have I been? Employed, for one. Going out a lot, for two. But most important, I haven't been writing a single thing. I mean I wasn't really going for a novel prior to my previous post, but at the same time I was doing a lot better than a THREE MONTH BREAK.

Considering that I have just been commissioned with the duty of writing a band biography, I figure I better start brushing up on basic writing skills, which for me is basically to rant and rave about why I haven't been writing. My family is full of them. My Mother a translator who is more of a technical writer. My Sisters are both creative brains who at time write at an amateur level, but (especially the older one) also write at a professional level. I think my Father is the only one in the family who doesn't write, but if there was a ghost-writer who could somehow record everything he says, there would be volumes of spectacular stories!

Writing a band bio is something that I have done in the past. I love doing them. I can write a bio for just about anyone other than me. Perhaps it is because I am much too self-deprecating for my own good. Perhaps it is because I can't make myself out to be more than I am in the general sense.

I excel at other's bios because I see people as always MUCH more than they appear to be. I am writing for a band that, to me, since its inception, has always been larger than life. Their sound is like an explosion that i don't want to run from, or close my ears because of. The member of the band are all incredibly lovable and personable people that, with the exception of the new drummer, I practically grew up with. If there was ever a band that I can say I've watched blossom, mature, and evolve, its this one.

So why am I stuck writing about them? Because I can't help but embellish the truth. I can't help making super humans out of mere mortals. I can't help writing a comic book about heroes that smoke pot and sling vicious looking guitar axes at their enemies to save the world from boring radio music. I want to create an entire world for them to be in, because watching them play is much like being in another world. I vaguely remember the term "space grunge" being used to describe them. I might want to use the word "universe grunge". But at the same time the music brings a sense of love and happiness. Things like this no one can ever imagine is found in the outer reaches of black space. Uninhabitable and deathly space is. The world is a much nicer place to live in right? With oxygen and plenty of green edibles.

No, this music transports you into another dimension. Sounds emanate from speakers that might make you feel like you are on a fast moving rocket engine, hurling through a black hole and not even being the least bit scared. Instead you are laughing, and smiling. You might think that this is because you took a massive hit of LSD and are now soaring like as if you were at a hippy rock concert. In fact you might have only had a beer or two, and this might be enough. In fact you may have just walked in off the street and caught the first glimpse of this band, stone cold sober and ready for anything. The music is freaky and funky. The music is loud, and barely audible. The music is FREE and captivating. The music is not even music anymore. It's become the soundtrack to your life.

Hello there, wake up. Here's a joint and a 40.. relax. It's all going to be alright!

Tuesday, November 2, 2010

Quick Cash

These states are the influential cause of every last motivator. They have given me the means, the wherewithal and the knowledge. They gave me the go-ahead run to continue doing whatever it is I end up doing. I've contributed as best I could, while maintaining a common denominator in morality, ethics, and normalcy. Most of what I have experienced I didn't quite ask for.

I am sitting in a Burger King. Caution: Wet Floor. Caution: 90's pop music. Caution: only one refill. I did choose to be here. I also had a choice to be in the McDonald's that is across the street. What I really wanted was a coffee and a place to charge my cell phone. The planter houses fake plastic leaves with accents of oceanic-like motifs. Pink waves, blue skies, and a semi-translucent plastic veneer. People sit and eat their last meals in quiet solitude, but no one is alone. In fact there is a variety of companionship to be found. Mother with child, some with child in womb. Meals are shared and distributed among friends fresh out of school, or on their way to ditch parties. It's Monday.

A woman enter the room in a hurry, pulling a container of garbage and chaos behind her as if she was about to move in, while speaking a rambled group of words that was an even mixture of jumbled vowels sprinkled with a few select English words. The only thing I could make out was the word "devil" as she entered the woman's bathroom in a blitz. She came out of the bathroom a few minutes later and sat down while waving off a woman and a child, calling them "hell's brethren" and warning me and another gentleman of our apparent camaraderie with the departing woman and child. I told the departing woman to leave the trash collector alone because she was in an obvious state of insanity. The trash collector looked at me and said that I was the one who was insane. I told her that everyone is "tripping" but that we should keep those things to oneself. The gentleman beside me started to speak but was quickly attacked by the woman's recurring theme: "Your are the devil, and belong in hell!" Is is then that I realized she openly targeting black people.

I don't feel like I need to defend anyone, but obviously this woman was out of line. She attempted to speak to me with compassion, but I told her that I didn't care about what she had to say. After a few short minutes, and a security guards stare, the woman left the same way she came in, uttering words in tongues.

Later 3 kids walk in and sit down at the Burger King table in front of me with a large container of aloe vera juice that was obviously NOT aloe vera juice, and rolled a joint while listening to hip hop loudly on their cell phone. No one told them to get lost.

Wednesday, October 20, 2010

Math and Computer Science

Part 1.

Everyone has a phone, that rings inside their minds.
It gyrates, it imitates, genuflects and then rewinds.
It's a random sound that greets you, and then says
goodbye. You never know, if it's OK to reply.

Everyone has an urge to wipe their butts with 2-ply.
Spent many years lurking behind the horrible evil eye.
Never knowing which way to run and to hide.
The bottoms up, top is down, no answer is justified.

Throw it out, keep it in, leave it alone, it's all the same.
The entire problem, the static sin, is inside your brain.
If anyone wants to stop and take this fun little ride,
Tell them that they're welcome to stand at the end of the line.

So what if those souped up pigs want to start a war?
The rules aren't always meant to reduce the death toll.
Doesn't anyone care about peace and love anymore?
The planet and its people, and animals know what's in store.

Part 2.

Worms, Worms, Worms.
Wriggly, Wiggly, Slimy, Dirty.
Recycle It, Eat It, Smell It!
Loosen It, Defecate, Lay It!

Bugs, Bugs, Bugs.
Creepy, Crawly, Grimy, Grizzly.
Sense It, Splice It, Reproduce!
Loosen It, Defecate, Lay It!

People, People, People.
Smelly, Surrogate, Feeble.
Tell It, Lie About It, Think It!
Loosen It, Defecate, Lay It!

Tuesday, August 31, 2010


The term headphones came up today. I thought I might write a little bit on the subject.

Headphones have always been an item that keeps what is personal, personal. I always enjoy seeing joggers running with headphones, because most of the time they just like fitness people. I rarely see a runner that "looks like a rapper" or a jogger that "might be into pavement". I wonder, what kind of music they might be listening to. For some reason when I see a bigger guy with a crew cut, I envision him listening to Metallica. When I see a short blonde girl, I think she might be listening to Alannis Morissete. Regardless, there is absolutely no way of telling what they could possibly be listening to. I've never seen a jogger running with a cowboy hat, so that I can distinguish him as a guy who listens to Garth Brooks or Vicente Fernandez.

On the other hand, lately at least, music has become more of a defining characteristic of a person's immediate persona. They emit music through every pore in their body. Their choice of glasses, choice of head wear, choice of footwear, and even choice of friends seems to revolve around music. These people use headphones too, but sometimes you can all too plainly, hear the music at a decibel that clearly is not meant for personal headphone use. Even car stereos are louder now, making them much less of a personal use item, and more of a public commercial for a particular musician or genre.

Matching cars with musical taste is somewhat easy to do too. A beat up Volvo is probably indie or some other sort of mainstream rock. Might even be obscure garage punk. A Beetle is probably a stoner who listens to psychedelia, but the new Beetles might be just a college girl who like top 40 music. I used to drive a beat up 80's Mercedes Diesel. This shoved me right into the slacker 20 something who was still caught somewhere in that "not leaving home yet, but far from home" stage and working on it.

Bicyclists are just cool.

But when the radio in the car is loudly heard by everyone on the street, the guessing game becomes an erratic free-for all! Anything goes! A Mini-Cooper should be playing the Smiths at a loud volume, but if you see one bumping Sean Combs, you may take a second glance. There may be Teen Pop blaring for the speakers of a VW-Bus, and then you may have to believe that someone is driving their stoned out Soccer Mom's Van. Who knows! There is always the Gangster Rap emanating from the beat up Nissan Sentra, but that's just someone who is living the hood life while being a "slacker 20 something who was still caught somewhere in that 'not leaving home yet, but far from home' stage and working on it" guy.

Simply put, keep your music to yourself. Unless you have a party, or throw an event, or have some people just groveling at your feet waiting for your musical opinion because you are a self proclaimed aficionado on an entire genre or you work for a trendy music magazine. Wait, you might be playing in a band or singing, then you should share that too.. but for goodness sake, turn the speakers err headphones down!

Sunday, August 29, 2010

Plaza Mexico! The Rip-offcot.

the past few days since being sequestered in my parent's house, i've had a double dosing of mainstream commercial america stuff. while waiting for my lil sis to get a manicure and pedicure, my pops and i went to a skateboarding store called s.o.b. sports, sears, petco, and toys r us. before that we went to cvs, and i asked for an application at a marshall's (which is like a thrift store for mijas, and what i mean by mijas, people who can't stand to wear used clothes and think the smell is similar to their grandparent's bedroom). as far as smell is concerned i have decided i will NEVER set foot into a nails salon ever again. when i worked in a mall, i recall there being a peculiar scent emanating from the nails salon as i walked past it, but i would have never thought that it smelled as BAD as it did.

in college i took a class called environmental racism. in this class the text-book went so far as to suggest that this job was practically dedicated to lower/middle class asian americans. basically the long hours, poor ventilation, and the close proximity to the chemicals ensured that an entire group of citizens were being toxified. i asked the couple who were running the front desk if they minded the smell (at this point i had my shirt over my nose), and they just smiled and said that they were used to it. i think i might have even been stricken with a slight headache. it went away, but i am sure if i worked there and had to stay there for longer than a few minutes, i'd have a permanent headache. eventually i suppose it would go away, sort of like that first high you get when you smoke a cigarette or take a hit of marijuana and then every eventual hit is not as potent as the last. or to some extent like you can never get as drunk as the first time you got drunk, no matter how much more you drink than that last time. i believe the word is called "chronic". in short i don't think chronic exposure to nail stripping chemicals is good for you. maybe for the dame that visits the joint for a quick pamper it's not so bad, but man i feel for those little asian ladies.

i also feel for the city of los angeles who gets the chance to visit "plaza mexico" in the great city of lynwood. apparently a korean man who lived in mexico for some time, came back to los angeles and decided that he needed to recreate an average city in mexico and splash a plethora of overpriced schlock shops and a few authentic mexican restaurants from different regions. now i am not saying that the mexican-americans who work here aren't doing a good job. we ate at Guelaguetza restaurant. they provided a oaxacan experience that was chock full of mole and delicious warm beverages. in fact the food was very tasty. it was something i could have made at home obviously. especially since i ordered a nopal salad, which was basically nopales, tomatoes, onions, and fresh cheese. which was very good. i mean i really couldn't complain. except for the fact that the music was LOUD for 9am, and it was all this horrible brand of spanish pop music that sounded like lady gaga singing japanese over a couple of sum 41 and/or miley cyrus music.

the town as a whole looked like a universal studios back lot. the buildings, statues, and tile floors all evoked the feeling of walking thru an authentic mexican downtown, except it all looked so fake. especially when you left and you saw the "backstage", which was comprised of grimy overgrown bushes, trash, and typical los angeles toddler scrawling, also known as graffiti.

there were absolutely no scruffy weather beaten salesmen, offering cotton candy or pinatas. there were no women selling artistry laid out on hand woven blankets. there were no kids running around with no parents in sight, chasing down wild dogs and asking for change. there WAS on the other hand, a mall.. which tired to look like a mexican mall SO bad that it actually sucked for trying. they were still selling juicy couture and nike shoes anyway. they were just doing it in a smaller space, and the aisles were more confined. mexican malls usually sold cheap knock offs of power ranger and hulk hogan toys, and a few "chorts" and "chirts" that resembled adidas brands. quite honestly the last time i went to a mexican mall IN MEXICO, it looked like an american mall, with all the bells and whistles. hooray for mall swapping! it seems as if california has traded its idea for the mall with mexico hands down. i feel as if mexico is getting the short end of the stick on this one.

before i left i also got a gander at the setting up of the event that was going to be taking place there later in the day. it was a verizon wireless promotion. apparently entering your name for a drawing where you can win a quinceanera of your dreams would guarantee you the chance to meet Jay Sean. who the hell is jay sean anyway? i looked him up and the first words i read were the names of his songs.. "ride it", "cry", "eyes on you". to make it all even more worthwhile, the quinceanera of your dreams would feature a performance by jay sean! to make it even more interesting, the guy's real name is Kamaljit Singh Jhooti and is British-Indian. i was thinking that enqrique iglesias was going to be there.

this my friends, could be the other reason why mexicana, the airliner, is going out of business. apparently you can get a taste of mexico by traveling to lynwood, ca. if i ever come up on a large amount of money i'm going to build a theme park somewhere, with a replica of austin, a fake version of new york city, and an even faker version of hollywood. i'm going to call it Cheesney's Rip-offcot center.