American Flag

"Hey buddy, my daddy died for that flag."
"Really? I bought mine. Yeah, they sell 'em at K-Mart."
"He died in Korea!"
"Wow, what a coincidence. Mine was made in Korea."

-Bill Hicks

It's always good to start with a quote. Why? It's a little easier to get people to agree with you when someone else's opinion leads the way. Do I need your opinion to agree with mine? No. Wow, I guess I really blew my opening. Since posting this video I have had people tell me they hope my cat, Zion, gets hit by a car, hope also that I get hit by a car or hope that I burn in a fire. Well, I'm glad because "hope" is a perfect thing to feel when you know you have no control over a situation. You just sit in your little ignorant houses and hope the war works out, hope that you don't find yourself a victim in a drug war, hope terrorism doesn't come to your neighborhood, hope your vote counts, or maybe hope that discrimination won't turn out too poorly in your favor. Sometimes you need to get a rise out of people to get them to think.

My "American Flag" video was taken down from break.com, it got flagged. I did not intend to have to write an artist's statement for this piece, but considering the circumstances, I am now. On break.com my video got around 3oo views with 14 comments. The comments were great and I appreciate everyone who posted them. Those comments are gone now, so please post here your opinions good or bad and we'll see how long they stay.

What I love about this video is the three distinctive symbols that get my point across. It's simple:

1. American Flag: symbol of the United States government
2. Zion: my cat, symbol of me, United States citizen
3. Catnip: symbol of drugs in the United States

In controlling the situation I was able to establish my feelings on the issue of the cannabis plant being illegal to be grown, possessed or inhaled by anyone, excluding medicinal (in some cases), within the United States. My feelings:

1. Anger
2. Laughter

I love this country, I love all countries. We are in this together not as a nation, but as a world called, Earth. People have also expressed that I'm lucky I live in a country where I can desecrate the flag in an act of protest. I am not lucky. It has nothing to do with luck. Are the times that sad where it's considered "lucky" to be free to express my opinion? Obviously, we do. Let's not hope any longer. Let's act. It's as simple as pulling together symbols from the collective consciousness and getting people to talk about the issues. If we and by we I mean; the poor, discriminated, minorities, sheep are able to sway headlines based on our short attention spans let's sway them on issues that provoke change and not on what is wanted from us, which is ignorance. One change I would like to see is innocent people being freed from jail on charges related to the cannibis plant. It's a law put there to put minorities in jail. It's a law put there to keep a large part of America from rising up and getting a piece of the pie we all deserve. I want us all to be equal, which is what our constitution is all about. Sometimes it takes great love to criticize. Saddest of all is the argument that it's wrong to use American flag in an act of protest because that suggests that the object is infallible, that the American government is infallible. Nothing created by humanity is infallible.

http://norml.org/
http://www.fbi.gov/ucr/cius2006/index.html
http://www.billhicks.com/
http://www.esquilax.com/flag/
http://www.freedomforum.org

Cabbage Patch Kids and the New Social Order

I love medicated chap stick. I love medicated chap stick because it smells like cabbage patch kids. That new plastic mixed with baby powder. Olfactory reception is said to be the strongest sense of memory. So, while applying medicated chap stick to my lips, breathing in the vapors, nosetalgia hit. My first cabbage patch doll was named, Sue, after my mom. Sue was a tough kid, I had to beat her a lot to get her to behave. My grandmom had one named, Thomas, who was younger than Sue. I was never allowed to play with Thomas. "He's not for playing." He had the cutest little sweat suit with bright white gym shoes. Finally, I got my own bald cabbage patch, his name was Tyler. Way more precious than Thomas and younger too. Sue was getting to be too much to handle and eventually I made her sleep in my parents bedroom until my mom let me throw her out. Then there were preemies.

I remember the commercial when they first came out. They were in those adorable plastic incubators! The nurses gently picked the petite baby up and put them in the little girls arms saying, "Be careful. Preemies need extra love and attention." Maybe my memory is skewed, but I swear that little girl was crying from happiness. I couldn't wait to have my own preemie. I never got one. I suspected my parents were a little out of touch with the cabbage patch scene. I was glad though because my friends who had them were so obsessed with caring for their preemies their lives fell apart. First, it was the endless boring conversations at lunch, "My preemie this, my preemie that." Next, their grades started slipping. Ultimately, you never saw your friend again. It wasn't until, out of curiosity, I read the side of my dad's pack of Camels that I realized a bigger issue was at stake.

"Surgeon General's Warning: Smoking By Pregnant Women May Result in Premature Birth, And Low Birth Weight." (No wonder it's called, "Being on the patch.") I was so confused. I thought that preemies were desirable, so why was this doctor army "warning" pregnant women. Wouldn't you want your baby to be cute? It was explained to me later that premature birth was not good. My world was then turned upside down. I decided to further investigate this whole cabbage patch operation. What was this Mr.X up to? He obviously had been lying about the cabbage patch. I may have been young, but I certainly wasn't born yesterday. Babies aren't grown in fields.

If I had a choice I would have cut up Sue first, but she was long gone by then. Tyler had to be sacrificed. It's still hard for me to talk about. What I found, wasn't cute. Tyler wasn't put together very well. Just six knots of thread located on the elbows, knees, upper thigh and buttocks. All the rest was stuffing. What were my parents paying for? I talked to the other kids at school. I tried to explain to them that premature birth is caused by smoking and not by an early harvest. I also told them that the C.P.K.'s were actually just cheaply put together dolls taken from mother's who smoked cigarettes. My friends all knew about the discipline problems I had with Sue and how it would make sense that this was because her mom was a smoker, but they refused to believe me. The C.P.K.'s had brain washed them. I was too late. I hadn't given up, I just needed more proof.

I spent over a month watching C.P.K. commercials only to find out that the people in the commercials were actors, not real people. I followed the C.P.K.'s in the news. On the surface it all looked very impressive, everyone wanted them. In 1985, one C.P.K. by the name of, Christopher Xavier, became the first of his kind to travel into space! I thought to myself, "This is getting out of hand."

In conclusion, I came to understand that C.P.K.'s themselves were not real, pretend. It was their concept that was reality. They were more than just dolls, they were examples of us: homeless and desperate for love, validated by their looks and material possessions. Birth certificates with trendy names verify their existence. Raised by children who are lead by a society promoting cyclical development, like for instance; creating a doll that makes sickness seem appealing.

And what did my parents say when they were me:
"You may say that I'm a dreamer.
But I'm not the only one."

Elizabeth Bathory:The Blood Countess

I enjoy reading horrible books. Very badly written books. I'm not alone. Anything to do with vampires, people who morph into animals, sex, murder, pregnancy and the south - I'm in. The trick to reading them is to pretend you are on a date and you just want to have sex. Like when the person is talking about their dull life, they're just so uninteresting, you nod and smile and just hope that their penis is really big or if you're into girls, just hope she doesn't have too much cellulite on her ass, that really grosses you out.
The good parts. Once you get to the good parts, take your time. Read over your favorite paragraphs. Don't be shy. This is what you came for, enjoy it.
As far as character development goes, don't feel bad about not investing too much. Just pick one and stick with that, it's enough. A good bad writer knows this and probably overdeveloped one character to a point where you can't even pay attention to the other characters. When they talk, you're like, "Wait. What was that? I really shouldn't be drunk while I'm reading this."
The plot. In order to follow a very badly written plot, keep in mind, self indulgence will lead you nowhere. Sure, the plot is what keeps you reading, but don't expect any results. In the end it will only disappoint you. Once you finish reading a bad book you must wait at least 30 days reading something useful before you start another. It might make you sick to read two bad books back to back! If you turn reading into a mindless, shallow act it will undoubtedly become less fulfilling. Eventually, you won't even remember the last book you read! Books will begin to all look the same to you, just a fuzzy merging of titles and cheap illustrations. Obviously, I speak from personal experience and I feel fortunate none of the authors have my phone number.
Lastly, please remember to wear a condom. You don't want to get any sexually transmitted denouements!

Excerpt from good bad book I'm reading now:

Elizabeth Bathory: The Blood Countess
"Slipping swiftly behind her like a knife blade into a deerskin sheath, the puppeteer said,"Your devoted slave is here, Countess." Without speaking a word, Johannes, still holding her hand, bent over the outer rim of the fountain. He wore a short tunic that barely covered his behind, and velvet leggings just like Elizabeth's. The Gypsy pulled these down, revealing the boy's white buttocks. He then undid his cloak and guided something that looked to Elizabeth like a small roast between Johannes's buttocks. She was still holding Johannes's hand when he tightened it over hers so hard she thought it would break. She reached for the Gypsy's round flesh with her other hand. It was warm, covered with fine velvety skin, finer than the texture of her tights. She parted the slit at the top of it, and a drop of thick, slippery substance met her finger. She rubbed it between thumb and forefinger. She then felt under Johannes's robe and drew the tip of her wet finger around the tiny puckered flower at the center of his buttocks. She then guided the Gypsy's manhood to the place and held on to it until it slipped between her fingers and buried itself into the boy. The sensation of touching the two boys made Elizabeth very warm, as if a small flame, beginning at the center of her spine, had shut suddenly upward, filling her brain. Her mouth was dry, and her boyish tights clung to her legs with her own wetness. At the center of this delicious sensation there was also a thought: if this is what I can make happen because I am Countess Bathory, think of all that I may experience in the future. I am only eleven years old now, and I know very little about pleasure."

Your welcome. I read this last night in my bedroom, with the lights on!
Elizabeth Bathory is a bad ass, literately.

How to Skip Church by Beth Heinly (F-)

1. When leaving the house say good bye to parents. Do not look
them in eye, they might know what you're up to.

2. Walk in the general direction of church.

3. While walking to church, think of areas around church you could hide out for an hour.
Somewhere safe and secluded where no adults would be suspicious of your activity.
ie: park, train tracks, parking lot

4. Make sure you bring a book to read or if you were unable to smuggle one out of the house
try to think of things you can day dream about for an hour. Preferably, for day dreaming, go
to a park with streams of water. You can stare at streams of water and throw rocks into them.

5. Approximately 45 minutes into your hiding, you need to head back to the church.

6. Sneak in quietly. If you made it back at the perfect time there will be music and people
rushing out. If not, I suggest waiting out front until you hear this. This distraction is vital.

7. By the door there will be pamphlets covered in advertisements for local businesses. This may
seem insignificant to you, but it is your alibi. Grab one!

8. On your walk home try to think of masses you went to before. Remember the homily? This
is something your parents will ask you about as you hand them the pamphlet.

9. For those of you who are stumped and can not make up a gospel. Use this one, it works
every time. And remember these key words, "New Testament". THE HOMILY IS ALWAYS
FROM THE NEW TESTAMENT. Knowing this fact will avoid any further interrogation no
matter what bullshit story you make up from the bible. AND here is my favorite I use:
"From the book of John. 'Jesus is the light and the grass and the streams. He is everywhere
all around us. So, there's really no need to go to church. Those who truly live through me
are conscious everyday and could die at any moment.' Amen."
*But I would only use this one for your last day at church.

10. If by some chance you chicken out, do not sit down. Stand in the back the entire time.
Try to walk in and out during mass. Their are usually rooms with pamphlets and candles.
The pamphlets are humorous reading, very entertaining. The candles are pretty to look
at. While looking at them, make up stories like, "How to Make a Saint With Fake Miracles".

11. If approached by a priest complaining about, "How you're not sitting down and you keep
walking in and out of church during mass." Just tell him, "Jesus doesn't want you to be
sitting down. And he wants you to come and go as you please." If he says, "I don't believe
you.", say,"I completely understand how you feel."
*But I would only use this one for your last day at church.

12. Lastly, the most important thing you need to know about, "How to Skip Church" is:
For the rest of your life, always remember, "You're going to hell."

Who's the Boss?

"Time has nothing to do with life, but it's full of it." This ran through my head while watching "Who's the Boss?". A show I had no idea I watched so much of until on a quest for nostalgia I sat on the couch and turned on the T.V.
In a flash, the entire "Who's the Boss?" synopsis came back to me. It hit me, I watched "Who's the Boss?" when I was little, a lot. Angela and Tony are two extremely attractive people that seem, if the opportunity arose, would have the worst sex in the history of time. So, they never have sex and when they finally do, their show gets canceled, the world ends. I remember, it was 1992 and I was eleven, "What the Fuck?". Of course, the lines of time are somewhat construed because of syndication, but I know in high school and my later years in grade school, my nightly time slots were taken by "Fresh Prince of Bel-Air" and "Dawson's Creek", that's right. So here I am at 26 and I had no idea my brain was full of all this worthless information about "Who's the Boss?". That's when that thought about time rang in my ear. While I was busy being middle class (white trash) watching television I could have been reading. I could have been playing. I feel dumb. I feel stupid. How the fuck do I know so much about "Who's the Boss?"? There's cartoons there too. Growing Pains, Facts of Life. And Full House. Are you kidding? That house was huge. They had plants in their hallway. I even watched "The Andy Griffith Show" because I watched Nickelodeon, which lead to Nick at Nite. That's two mother fucking abbreviated words. "Talk about your double speak." When I die, one of the last electric pulses released into nothing will be a snippet of a Tony and Angela make-out scene mixed in with Angela's mom, Mona and her old lady boobs, gross. Though I really hope Babar is there, what a nice elephant.
And now in my disgusted and depressed state I am writing a "blog". I've planned to end with, read a book, but FUCK. FUCK. This is not some random old person year, 1912. This is 2008, mother fuckers. This subject is as tired as 1912, fuck that. We are all just animals being molded by each other in some dim fate that some are born into power and some are not. Read a book.
I saw a pro-life bumper sticker: "Life is a gift, not a choice." It's funny because, wow, life is not a choice and time is money and knowledge is power.


Genius.

"Last Thought"
Who is the boss?

AOA

A.O.A. stands for Accent on Animals. A pet store where I buy cat food and kitty litter that's made from recycled newspaper, the kitty litter. I have no idea what's in the cat food. There's an old man who works there that I like enough to feel guilty calling him an old man. He tells me about the weather while waiting for my debit card to be approved. Moments that always seem longer than they should, waiting to be accepted. Calmly, waiting, the old man tells me what the weather will be like and he never picks the same day. Sometimes it's tomorrow or Tuesday. Sometimes as far as into the following week, but he never says if it's good or bad weather, which is nice. Last Wednesday I went to A.O.A. and the old man met me at the counter, swiped my card and looked down at me. He told me it was supposed to sleet and snow later in the day. And I looked up at him and said, "No, it's not. That was yesterday."

Pine Cones

We live in a cuntry where at least 3 times a year you will see a glass bowl full of pine cones. The thrift store. It's a process, it takes time. Rummaging though isles and isles of junk. So much you have to squeeze and push just to pull an item out for inspection, but why pay full price for something you'll be tired of a year from now. Why pay when you can't. Sweaters. Around the corner there's an old lady by the shower curtains trying on red pumps. Shopping carts, we are all smushed together, excuse me, excuse me. I found two good sweaters. I try to look for the most ridiculous ones and then I scale down to normal from there to look like everyone else who wants to look like me, sections. While I'm classifying sweaters I swear to myself. A t-shirt. Now this is complicated. The good ones are usually found in the long sleeve/blouse isle. I am certain the employees of the thrift store do this on purpose. I can hear them disliking me in spanish. I found one in between two sweaters and I look up to see one short, tan woman smirking at me, she knows she hid it. Ha ha, I found it. A faded Bambi t-shirt. Bambi in the fog. It is Disney and I am against Disney. I also hate people who like Bambi, but this is a thrift store, I have to admit a descent find and it's $1.95, large. I always feel fat. Fuck. Well, the color's good and you can really hardly even see Bambi, so. Eagles t-shirts, bad season. Pink nylon frilly thing, a year earlier there's a woman purchasing this shirt going, "Why am I buying this?" or maybe it was a man learning how to be a woman and he didn't know. Somewhere at Target there's a person whose job it is market to these two distinct demographics. Shoes. You know you've been in the game long when buying used shoes has somehow made cents to you. I want velcro sneakers because it reminds me of retarded people or mentally ill adults. There's one on my bus route, mentally ill adult, and he always steps on his own feet, like on purpose. I think it's so cute, I want velcro sneakers! If I think about them long enough and hard enough I will find them. Still a Virgin! (this is an old t-shirt) Hawaii Actively Single Lucky Charms Hollister 22. I bent down to pick up a shirt that had fallen and found someone had drawn hearts on the floor. Fucking life is so gay.