The Point of Science

The point of science

The point of science is to open something up, and pull it's guts onto the table. From here you fondle the goo, pulling out all the little bits, proving they are your friends. Scientists are the bravest member s of society--after the gays. If you can prove these facts, then you must be a scientist yourself.

So go forth with this mentality into the world. Disect it for your own knowledge. Disect your friends without them even knowing it. Disect the mail lady; ask her how her husband is doing. Disect a tree, disect a book, disect an emotion. Don't worry about putting anything back together: a real scientist never cleans up their own mess.

The point of science is to prove the existence of an ultimate truth. Love, hate, truth, denial, time, space, among others, are all eternal. We can prove this by destroying everything and letting someone else put it back together. Go forth my monkey slaves, and annihilate.

Altered States in Teenage Slumber Parties

Everybody hates you cause nobody loves you cause all you do is mean things to people you flirt with the peoples you steal from the peoples you cry to the uncaring and now nobody likes you feel sorry for wet eyeballs the drugs keep you hyper till sun comes over buildings the morning makes you happy then anxiety is gone and you sleep under city trees police walk right by because this place has no crack heads and somebody likes you for that time you made them breakfast with vegan ingredients and then you masturbated to pictures on face book cause nobody takes you to New York for Sonic Youth shows and that’s why the Pulitzer doesn’t mean a thing on cocaine and sleep is for boring people with careers and little babies when you’re famous you think they like you but more people don’t like you and they only want you to fail so the best thing to do is be as weird as possible.

Taking my ego for a walk

Sometimes I take my ego for a walk
Just let it roam free
Accusing the sun of joy
Nesting with birds on stone cold windows

Sometimes I let my ego dance
Without attachment
I don’t laugh, I don’t cry
No future, no past

Nothing gets done
So I keep the leash attached
Oh ego I love you
And all the things you do

Without you I would never write
Never play guitar
Stay home on Friday night
Sex is meaningless

Happy, sad, angry
I’m not even sure what ego is
But I take it for a walk
We are good friends, or not

Fuck you, I love you

Coffee Shop

Coffee Shop

People drinking coffee, staring

Some are having tea

Non fat milk

Man in camouflage, erection under pants

One woman, still obsessed with Dinosaurs

Drinking, sucking the hot liquids

Caffeine, replacing testosterone, estrogen

Mini society within the coffee shop

Baristas want to go home, watch Lost on ABC

Yell at their cheating boyfriend in the street

Where everybody can hear

Hopped up on caffeine, non-fat chai latte

Girl wants someone to pick her up

But when people talk, she acts uninterested

Old guy has dandruff, all over his black sports coat

He doesn’t care, he fought in Vietnam

He needs Earl Grey

Young student spells out the evils of consumerism

Nobody is listening, so he gets louder

One Asian girl finds this attractive

He might be her alpha male

But nobody is talking to her, because she’s ugly

Dance mix 99 on the stereo

Who listens to this crap?

Slurp back more caffeine, getting agitated

Thump, thump, thump, thump

Party time in the coffee shop

Yeah bitch. I swear in my head

Fuck yeah!

I can swear in my head in the coffee shop

Piss shit fuck slut whore pimp!

I’m rocking out to dance mix 99 on caffeine

With the woman dreaming about dinosaurs

And the horny guy in army fatigues

And the lonely girl

And the anarchist student

And the bored baristas

We are all in the coffee shop

Fuck yeah!

And I can swear in my fucking head bitch shit fag

Because unless there are psychics in here, nobody can hear me

And the sun is going down

People are all hopped up, ready to go home

Log onto face book

Only to stop and empty their bladders of caffeine

Before going out to get drunk, and attempt to mate

Except for the ugly ones, they don’t like to go out

They just go for coffee, sometimes caffeine free apple cider

Like little sissies, fuck shit bitch asshole pimp-hand yeah!

This is my coffee shop

And I can swear in my head

Living The Dream

Living the dream

What does it mean to “Live the dream?”

I’ve had many jobs, in several different trades. I’ve been a gas station clerk, a furnace repair man, a warehouse slave, a music store geek, a dishwasher, a telemarketer, a freelance writer, a cook, a film and television background performer, an audio video/home theater technician, student, dating coach, and a pot dealer.

Guess what, I still haven’t figured out what to do with my life. I suppose at some point in space-time, during a moment of blinding clarity it will all come together and my uber career will materialize. Or not.

This is what I’ve come to realize about dreams…they are fluid, changing, and strange. In your sleep you journey from abstraction to oddity, bouncing wherever your subconscious moves to venture.

“I have a dream!” Yelled a famous man. He’s dead.

Imagine striving your entire life for material possessions: going to the same school, the same job, married to the same spouse, for the rest of your life. If you’re lucky enough to have a decent paying gig, you might get two weeks, or a month vacation a year to adventure and pretend you don’t despise your boring existence.

Society needs hard working, unquestioning types. If the whole of society consisted of free spirited, artistic vagabonds, the system would collapse. Look what happened in the 60’s. Well, I wasn’t there, so I don’t know anything but what the books, cinema and TV shows tell me.

Being guilt free and lazy, is that a dream come true? A Utopia of leisurely pleasure, where we can indulge our senses on whim, surrounded by beauty and art and love.

Or what if a computer system scanned your genetic code, maybe even your soul, and realized for you, your ultimate place of productivity within society. A position that would bring out the best of your prolific and passionate personality. Your drive to succeed. Things would get done.

The thing about dreams; they can morph into nightmares. Go live your dream, and make it a good one.

Success is easy for us rich westerners

It’s hard to find creativity when you work at a dead end job, selling diabetic test strips over the telephone. When I get home from work, I’m fucking exhausted. I keep telling myself at work that I’m going to write more songs, write more stories, work on a book, get into photography, find a new girlfriend, and so forth. Instead, I play on the Internet, send a few emails, watch a few videos, eat some food, and fall asleep with my dick in my hand.

In our rich society, upward movement isn’t limited by war, poverty, disease, famine, politics. Well, not so much. Then the only thing stopping you from becoming rich, powerful, famous, in love, or whatever else you desire, is your own ability to get up and DO IT.

People are moved by action. Like this blog, writing it makes me feel accomplished. The thought that someone might read it, and enjoy the crazy shit that comes out of my head…that makes me feel happy.

Doing things….do it.

Yes, I had a psychic ufo experience...so what?

My story is somewhat unique in being not just an unexplained sighting; but a paranormal experience.

It was the summer of 1995 in Penticton BC, Canada; a quiet tourist town just north of the Washington border. I had just finished my dishwashing shift around 11 pm, and was heading out for a fun night with three friends.

In order to understand the uniqueness of my story, you should get to know Kris. Kris is the charismatic older brother of my good friend Ricky. Earlier that year Kris, following a nervous breakdown, slipped into a coma and was hospitalized for several months.

Kris awoke to a new reality; he wasn’t the same person. He’d tell stories about being lost in his dreams, and his ability to see ghosts, aliens, ufo’s, and all other nonsense. We took our time talking with him, comforting and reassuring his normalcy; it was sad to see how for he had slipped towards madness.

One lazy summer evening I watched him through our window as he leapt madly around the yard, thrusting his finger to the sky and yelping this and that about ufo’s and other jibberish. We would look, see nothing, and laugh it off --Crazy Kris.

Then we saw them. This is the weird part of my story. Believe what you will, I don’t really care--this happened.

The sky was starry, the night warm and silent. I was chatting with Kris as he went on about his usual random spiritual nonsense that was so out of character for him, when he froze, stopped walking and stared at me blankly. “What?” I asked.

“I feel like somebody’s watching me.” He replied. Without looking, he swung his finger to the sky and said, “There!”

I looked up and saw three distinct lights, traveling together in formation. They looked like really bright white stars. But then they stopped, and began to spin in arcing circles, change direction, shoot and dart quickly, hover and basically float around silently. From my experience as an amateur pilot in the air cadets, I would say they were at least 20 or more thousand feet up, but it’s hard to say. They were not conventional aircraft.

Kris started freaking out yelling, “Kris is crazy! Kris sees aliens! That ain’t no f@^#ing satellite!”

No they weren’t satellites.

Our jaws were on the floor. There were four of us witnessing this event, one of which is my best friend to this day and corroborates my story. I called him a few months ago, just to make sure I wasn’t making this memory up.

The story gets better. When we arrived home, I ran into the living room where a large group of friends were having a party. There was a lot of noise about the ufo sighting. Apparently that night, a group of about thirty were at a bush party and had seen more than a dozen of these dancing lights.

After awhile, I ceased to think on the event. That was ten years ago. It’s only recently with the waves of sightings around the world, that I decided to write down the story that I’ve told friends and lovers so many times.

For me the amazing part of my story is not seeing the ufos myself, but the manner in which I was shown the phenomenon. Sure Kris could have spotted the ufo and then pretended to have a psychic connection, but I remember distinctly how he said, “There!” and swung his hand towards the sky, without averting his eyes from mine. I’ll never forget that.

Could they have been military? Maybe…but I doubt it. Is Kris a psychic? Who knows, anything is possible.

Well, suppose they are psychic. Maybe the insane are really just in-tune with something we aren’t. Our society’s unwillingness to seek the truth is the real insanity.

Most people don’t want to know that we aren’t alone in the universe. Our ego would hardly allow the concept of a beta existence, under god that is. Our entire notion of “God” would be put into question.

Yes. We are clueless.