Just Saying Hi

Because that's really what we do, for the most part.

We say hi. We do it in different languages. We do it in different ways. Sometimes we smile. Sometimes we scowl. Sometimes we look at the ground. Sometimes we look away. Sometimes we smile, scowl, look away, and then wonder why.

We sometimes care when we say hi. We sometimes mean it. We want to be genuine, but how can we? Some people plan their days around hi. Some people talk shit about hi. Some people write blogs about hi.

Occasionally though, hi can get you places. Hi can get you high. It can mean more than you expected, and it in that respect, take on a meaning which is more powerful than the words you spoke. Sometimes you meet a girl or a guy. Sometimes, the door to stardom or power opens...just because you said hi.

Hi is powerful.

But the results of hi don't matter. Hi, should be hi because it's hi. It's about being in that moment. Smiling when you meet someone. Hi can be played with or left alone. But it should be said.

So say hi. Who knows where it goes beyond that moment, beyond a smile, but a hi is a hi is a hi. And that's all that matters.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LanCLS_hIo4

How To Write Your Own Self-Help Book & Save The World!

You gotta love the generation we grow up in, huh? It’s pretty amazing. Everyone is an expert. Thanks to the advent of Myspace and Facebook, Ipods and Iphones, Youtube and Youporn...just me?

We now have 156,000 ways to express ourselves through scandalous pictures and emoticons.

In fact, I think we should all write self-help books. We should. And don’t think writing a book is that difficult. Each of us can just compile all the information of our various online profiles into one tight manuscript, something just a little thinner than War and Peace or Bill Clinton’s, My Life.

And then, after we write it, just before it goes off to print…we do the world a favor. We say, “Fuck it.” And we don’t print it. Instead we go buy 19 kitchen magnets and post it right next to that crappy picture your 1st grader drew. Because just like that crappy picture your 1st grader drew, while you might think it’s a loving piece of inspiration, everyone else just thinks it’s a piece.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZJtbEZThWag (a special dedication to the la lifestyle)

A Comedy Called Dying: Part I

When I think about it, I pause. And I lose myself. In the train of thought that accompanies something unattached, distant, abstract and yet, absolute.

Death scares me. But more so, it makes me wonder. I wonder about the crazy events that lead up to now, and the fact that I can walk and talk and think. I wonder if I've lived another life or if I'm going to live another one -- if so, I'd prefer something near the Hamptons. I hear the Autumn there is to die for!

I think about this a lot. Usually, I'm alone in my boxers drinking a cold Coors Light. I know my Coors is cold because it is Cold Activated. When the mountains are blue, it means my beer is as cold as the Rockies. Thanks subversive marketing campaign...now I want to drink and possibly live out my golden years in the great state of Colorado.

It's amazing what we have here. And maybe it's more amazing on the other side? Or the next side? Or maybe there is nothing on the other side? Or...who created sides? Is there a God? Why does He watch me all the time? I do weird things.

But do these questions ever end? Who knows the answer? Should I just not think about it? Should I think about it? Should I go to Church? Because if the crazy dude with the megaphone and hat yelling on the Promenade is right then at least I'll be in the clear! I wonder what an acid trip would do for me? Maybe that crazy dude isn't so crazy after all? Can I even grow a crazy man's beard? Probably not, my facial hair is currently blonde and grows at the rate of a New Jersey lawn.

Though I know these questions don't ever seem to have a period, the one thing I'm quite confident in is the fact that I am sure as hell not the only one to ponder them. Way back when, now and 200 years from now, the same questions have, are and will be asked. 200 years from now, I may know a little more as to the answers.

I hear the phrase frequently, "live as today is your last" or "live in the moment" or variations of these. Is that possible to do? I mean, if I lived as if today was my last, I probably wouldn't wear pants. Anywhere. Just nude. At the grocery store, on my front porch. Not at the dog park. I see bad things happening there.

Really, though. You can't possibly live in the moment all the time, or most of the time. I mean, maybe. But you wouldn't be the most productive person. In fact, you'd have to be like my old roommate. Where the parents buttress your finances and weed and reality tv suction you to a dirty, torn up couch, so much so, that you can see the ass grooves in the middle cushion. True story.

So, I'm left with questions. But I have to have some resolution. Something, I can say, 'ok this is what I think and now I can go to sleep. Now, I can go run. Now, I can read the paper (or now, internet aggregators).' Now, I can go function in society because this little game I'm playing with life and death and living and dying, well, it is fickle and fragile and logic only gets me so far.

So, I resolve that questions are all I have.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eejRZaL9-LQ This song makes me want to dance awkwardly.

When There's Nothing Left

2 arms,
each in the 90 degree position,
in the 90 degree heat,
ranging of motion,
and in motion.

Faster and faster and faster.

Sweat droplets peddle from the back of shoulders toward one another,
progressing like a flip book they join and race down the spine together.

The heart's appetite starves for blood,
wanting it more and more,
slowly and quickly,
struggling,
stealing it using those powerful engines attached to the hips
from that

damned, neurotic bobble head,
that rabbid barking dog that won't turn itself off,
that won't shut up or shut off,
that despises boredom and the duldrums of nothingness,
that hates itself for holding the other parts of the machine back,
that won't stop worrying and planning and thinking and stifling action.
Creating dreams and restraining the physical body of making those dreams actuality.
Where do the subconscious and the conscious marry? Where do they divorce? Why can't they just be friends?

And round and round and round the questions spin around
the mind's kinetic race track.

Just be placid.
Like the nothingness of an evening lake in those Georgia summers.

As the lungs expand and contract and pulse and yearn.
Faster and Faster.

The blood drains away,
withering,
from the top,
to the bottom.

The body teams together with all its parts.
Functioning in complete harmony,
like a perfect wave, rising steadily,
until eventually,
it collapses.

The fire is out.
Just the white flag of smoke.

And when there's nothing left
you sit there,
you lay there,
on the ground,
the green grass,
the blue sky,
the black sky,
the clouds,
the stars,
the sun,
the moon.
You sit there.
With that 'been-there, done-that' smirk,
eye lids lazy,
red-face and flush,
shoulders and legs that moved so intensely, so aggravated, with purpose,
now slouch and droop and fall in line with gravity,
because the light has finally been shut off for a few minutes.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0QtNSJLkurk -- and you are in the moment.

Turf Wars at Bars: THE Pressing Issue of Our Time

I just came back from 90 West, a bar approximately 450 feet from my apartment. Why do I live 450 feet from a bar you may ask? Exactly.

But I did hear something that astounded me when I was at the bar a few minutes ago. First off, this bar is small and quaint, but has a very loyal following. It's kind of like the Moe's from The Simpsons. Same 8 people there. Same smell of skunked beer and arm pit. Oh, and this one dude, Chris (complete Type A personality, firm handshake, loud, probably obnoxious, my guess works in sales or retails douche bags as a side project) goes, "this beer tastes like ass." Ha Ha...how does that dude know what ass tastes like?* Probably the same guy who says, "lick my balls, faggot!" Contradiction of terms, possibly?

Anywho, so the female bartender (who'd I'd definitely bone) starts talking about why they don't serve hard liquor. Her theory was that they don't serve hard alcohol because it would start turf wars between bars. Basically, liquor gets you sicker. And if someone such as myself who is new to the bar shows up after a rowdy 90 West crowd is 8 shots-a-patron deep, I'd get my ass kicked.

Apparently, territory and turf isn't specific to just gangs out here. I don't get that. If the bartender's theory has any truth to it, I think it speaks to a greater truth about ourselves. A truth that is full of individualism. A truth that leads to ego, and eventually, to comments like, "this beer tastes like ass."

But there is another truth out there I think. A truth about our desire to help. A desire to see the parts work together for a greater whole. Just as negative begets negative, I believe the opposite is certainly true. I know the opposite is true in fact. Everytime somebody tells me they read this thing, I'm inspired more and more. We're designed to work and live and play and yes, fornicate, together.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f6J3OD4Z0UQ

*it tastes like maple syrup

My Dog Got Offered Sex This Morning

Seriously. The time was 7:14am. I was by the mulched area with the plants that enter the storage place next to my apartment. Seconds later, an Asian man appeared with 2 dogs. My dog pulled from me with strength, a habit she doesn't break when greeted by other animals. I pulled back in defiance. Or was it jealousy?

My daughter is Minna Cross. My pit bull mix. A 2-year-old renegade of a dog. She has energy, can be a hellion, but is sweet as can be. A truly beautiful animal. The 2 dogs walking by...also quite beautiful. The 1 animal was a brindle, just like mine. Kind of like the Cincinnati Bengals' Mascot.

The man and I exchanged kind, semi-awkward conversation, and after about 20 seconds of broken, unassertive Asian-accented conversation, the gentlemen asked if my dog was spade. I guess I said she was a she at some point during our brief encounter, or he had been eyeing up my animal for a while, watching me walk her on a regular schedule, following Minna during her daily routes to relieve herself, standing outside my shower. Who knows, really? Nonetheless, he jumped on it, and posed the statement, "I'm looking to breed my dog."

I awkwardly chuckled, and said something equally on-point, "Oh ok." Good work, comedian.

It took me a few seconds as I walked back to my apartment gate with animal feces wrapped in the LA Times newspaper until I realized this dude had just propositioned my Minna Cross for sex. I guess he didn't proposition her for himself. That'd just be way too Alabama. But he propositioned me - for Minna - for his dog. I wondered if somehow, with only 3 more degrees to go, we could connect this audacious proposition to Kevin Bacon.

Thinking back, I feel quite honored. I mean, Minna Cross is my kin. I did birth her. Or paid $100 from a kennel. Because, to own a good looking animal is a true feeling of pride.

PS- If this article didn't make you laugh, just take a brief look at the tag words I used.

Pop Music With Teeth

I saw this line in a blog I frequent. And sometimes when you read or hear or say a great line, a line that captures complex, ambiguous thoughts in a precise and succinct way, you're only left repeating it.

"Pop Music With Teeth."

"Dissection. Exploration."


And Layers.


Pop is a layer. A sometimes simple, yet necessary and seemingly complex layer to pull off well. A fun layer. A happy layer. A layer meant solely for entertainment. A layer to get caught up in and lose your brain for a few minutes when it starts running in circles.

Music With Teeth. A smart layer. A thoughtful layer. Deeper meaning. Thoughtful, insightfulness. Saying something that matters because pop and culture have a long ways to go before they meet in a harmonious and productive place.

This doesn't go just for music. This goes for everything. Especially art.

And I'm starting to fall in love with art. Music, comedy, even acting (the real acting--not the shit Vin Diesel does). Before, I liked art. I'd take it to a Chili's. Have a couple drinks. Maybe take it back to my place and see where things go. Now, I love it. Meaning now, I'd take it to The Olive Garden. Possibly caress its hair and pour it cheap Merlot before attempting an 11th grade-style finger bang.

But I love art. Above all, it truly is an exploration. An exploration that starts with the mind and flows through all the senses. It baffles me and fascinates me. It's like, that's what humans -- with all our grand and limited capacity -- were meant to do.