If you live in Walla Walla, I encourage you to go outside immediately and walk downtown. It would seem the population of the town that puts "Complete Lunacy" as their profession on a census are all out on Main Street at the same time. I was under the impression they only came out at night...hence the word "lunacy" to which I attribute the ad-hoc definition "driven boot-eatin' crazy by the devil-moon." Though I have no particular grudge against our celestial neighbor, it would seem that many people simply can't bear the sight of the sonofabitch without something in their brain snapping like a twig. I say "many people" but I now imagine that many of you probably don't have neighborhoods filled with colander-wearing "superheroes."
Walla Walla has the Washington State Penitentiary conveniently located right outside of town. When the term is up for the guys who had good enough grades to get accepted to WSP, they are let out into the community with nothing more than a change of clothes and a kick in the ass. That kick in the ass must be just swift and hard enough to land them right smack downtown to start climbing the streetlamps and besieging the hotdog vendors.
Perhaps you think I'm bashing on crazy people, but if you know me then you know that in some ways I envy them. I plan on sailing solo across the Pacific Ocean next year to achieve a kind of insanity straight out of The Ryme of the Ancient Mariner which has so far eluded me in my 21 years of existence.
8/5/05
8/4/05
My Life Part 1
It disappeared strangely, but I managed to get the puppy back online. My Life Part 1, session 2.
I came out of my mother's womb with a full head of hair and a tattoo of the Holy Virgin Mary on my back. The doctors said it 'twernt right for a babe to have a tattoo of the Holy Virgin Mary on it's back, and it should be removed. But my parents were poor and they could only afford one surgery; it was either the tattoo or a circumcision. I remember being in that doctors hands and thinking in my head, "You'd better not cut off my tattoo you sonofabitch." But being a baby I didn't have the words to get that idea out, and so I did the next best thing and began to cry.
At the age of 3 I began to read from the Encylopedia Britannica clearly and correctly, completely out of the blue. My first word was "Aa," which is a genus of orchid which grows in the Andes. Unfortunately I spoke with a rough Icelandic accent, which puzzled my parents because none of my neighbors, babysitters, or friends were of Icelandic origin. My invisible friend Ragnheidr stayed away after that...I supposed my parents quickly began to suspect his influence.
Around the time of my 8th birthday I climbed to the top of a large Oak tree in my front yard and quite clearly saw my closest neighbor, Mr. Goldstein, having a conversation with his Welsh Corgie who's name was Flamingo. I was surprised to see that Flamingo answered him in a baritone voice, a voice I had always attributed to Mr. Goldstein and never to Flamingo, who I saw only when he was being walked by Mr. Goldstein. As he went into and out of his house fetching food and toys for Flamingo, I soon realized that Mr. Goldstein was actually the puppet of his dog. The next time I saw them walking down the street I was playing with my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles action figure of Ace Duck. I stared at Flamingo and then started a rather engaging conversation with the animal about the artistic merits of the cartoon show in which my action figure character made only a brief guest appearance.
More to come...
I came out of my mother's womb with a full head of hair and a tattoo of the Holy Virgin Mary on my back. The doctors said it 'twernt right for a babe to have a tattoo of the Holy Virgin Mary on it's back, and it should be removed. But my parents were poor and they could only afford one surgery; it was either the tattoo or a circumcision. I remember being in that doctors hands and thinking in my head, "You'd better not cut off my tattoo you sonofabitch." But being a baby I didn't have the words to get that idea out, and so I did the next best thing and began to cry.
At the age of 3 I began to read from the Encylopedia Britannica clearly and correctly, completely out of the blue. My first word was "Aa," which is a genus of orchid which grows in the Andes. Unfortunately I spoke with a rough Icelandic accent, which puzzled my parents because none of my neighbors, babysitters, or friends were of Icelandic origin. My invisible friend Ragnheidr stayed away after that...I supposed my parents quickly began to suspect his influence.
Around the time of my 8th birthday I climbed to the top of a large Oak tree in my front yard and quite clearly saw my closest neighbor, Mr. Goldstein, having a conversation with his Welsh Corgie who's name was Flamingo. I was surprised to see that Flamingo answered him in a baritone voice, a voice I had always attributed to Mr. Goldstein and never to Flamingo, who I saw only when he was being walked by Mr. Goldstein. As he went into and out of his house fetching food and toys for Flamingo, I soon realized that Mr. Goldstein was actually the puppet of his dog. The next time I saw them walking down the street I was playing with my Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles action figure of Ace Duck. I stared at Flamingo and then started a rather engaging conversation with the animal about the artistic merits of the cartoon show in which my action figure character made only a brief guest appearance.
More to come...
What the hell
I hope someone out there has a cached copy of the website with "My Life Part 1" on it...for some weird reason it has gone missing...What the hell???
Portrait Series
A portrait of Mr. David Varagic in the Walla Walla wheatfields. The only person I've ever known to go watch the sunset and face the wrong direction. Shortly after this shot was taken Clark Blumenstein hefted his Corgie Annabelle into the air at David and struck him dead. Annabelle went straight to work digging the grave in the soft, tilled soil. It would seem Annabelle was not new to being a murder weapon.
7/27/05
!!!
Brandon, world. World, Brandon. I find it strange that Brandon requested more pictures on my blog, and now he is the subject of his own request. He probably even took the damn picture. He probably KNEW I would put the picture up if he sent it to me. Brandon is a deep person, and probably had this planned months in advance, if not IN THE WOMB BEFORE HE WAS EVEN BORN! If anyone else sends me a picture, I will also post it, but only after extensive Photoshop modification to make you look like a jackass.
7/26/05
The Sands of Time
A story dedicated to Aaron Mandel
As I sit in my room trying my best to not go blind from staring at a computer screen, I see myself in 20 years staring at the same screen, having accomplished nothing more than perhaps making some credit card company all the richer. I think about how I could spend every day as it was my last, and all the other bullshit motivational quotes that people slap onto a poster with a bald eagle or a crew team. Every day I lament the passing time, and yet every day I wake up and waste it again, like the lessons of the previous day were somehow lost in the depths of sleep. Perhaps that is the price of dreaming. Perhaps when I dream about scaling a mountain, the price I pay is losing the time to scale that mountain during my waking hours. Perhaps each man can only experience some things once, and if those things are dreamt then it is lost to you forever.
What if I dream of a red ocean? If I dream of things not in reality, does that mean that somewhere, someplace, there is red ocean yet to be discovered by a man, not in his dreams, but with his eyes? I take a small amount of solitude in this idea. There are many joys that I visit in my sleep, and to know that these things may be real to a man sometime in the future or at some point in the past means that something I have or will live has only been dreamt of by some men, after long hours in front of their computer screens has made them too tired to work.
As I sit in my room trying my best to not go blind from staring at a computer screen, I see myself in 20 years staring at the same screen, having accomplished nothing more than perhaps making some credit card company all the richer. I think about how I could spend every day as it was my last, and all the other bullshit motivational quotes that people slap onto a poster with a bald eagle or a crew team. Every day I lament the passing time, and yet every day I wake up and waste it again, like the lessons of the previous day were somehow lost in the depths of sleep. Perhaps that is the price of dreaming. Perhaps when I dream about scaling a mountain, the price I pay is losing the time to scale that mountain during my waking hours. Perhaps each man can only experience some things once, and if those things are dreamt then it is lost to you forever.
What if I dream of a red ocean? If I dream of things not in reality, does that mean that somewhere, someplace, there is red ocean yet to be discovered by a man, not in his dreams, but with his eyes? I take a small amount of solitude in this idea. There are many joys that I visit in my sleep, and to know that these things may be real to a man sometime in the future or at some point in the past means that something I have or will live has only been dreamt of by some men, after long hours in front of their computer screens has made them too tired to work.
7/25/05
Like A Freaking Parrot
Since June 6th I have been taking a pottery class at the Walla Walla Community College. I have heard it said of WWCC that "if you aren't drooling on yourself you can graduate." This was related to me by a former student of that institution, so I cannot say that I know more than they do about the general population of students, but let me give you my impression.
The majority of my class is filled with bitter middle-aged women who openly bash males as if I am somehow cannot hear their annoying parrot-like screeches from across the room. There is this one woman with a gnarly set of teeth that constantly says "that's just like a man to do this, that's just like a man to do that." She usually says this in response to some absent-minded thing that the class instructor does. Nevermind that he's 80 fucking years old, I'm sure he forgot to pick up a toothbrush because he's got a penis between his legs and it's his tendancy to forget things as a result. She keeps talking about a mystical husband who she's supposedly divorcing sometime in the near future, but the date keeps getting pushed back. I think it's the "my girlfriend lives in Oklahoma, and she's a model" routine myself, considering the set of chompers that I described earlier.
I am influenced by the media arround me, and I am currently watching the HBO western Deadwood, so I keep wishing that some old miner will walk into the pottery classroom and point to the woman, saying "You killed my brother!" and then...Well, there ain't no laws in Deadwood.
The majority of my class is filled with bitter middle-aged women who openly bash males as if I am somehow cannot hear their annoying parrot-like screeches from across the room. There is this one woman with a gnarly set of teeth that constantly says "that's just like a man to do this, that's just like a man to do that." She usually says this in response to some absent-minded thing that the class instructor does. Nevermind that he's 80 fucking years old, I'm sure he forgot to pick up a toothbrush because he's got a penis between his legs and it's his tendancy to forget things as a result. She keeps talking about a mystical husband who she's supposedly divorcing sometime in the near future, but the date keeps getting pushed back. I think it's the "my girlfriend lives in Oklahoma, and she's a model" routine myself, considering the set of chompers that I described earlier.
I am influenced by the media arround me, and I am currently watching the HBO western Deadwood, so I keep wishing that some old miner will walk into the pottery classroom and point to the woman, saying "You killed my brother!" and then...Well, there ain't no laws in Deadwood.
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