BlogNote 79

Okay. It ia another sweltering night in the city of daemons ... Big D ... and here is a blog I wrote this morning, but am going to submit right now ...
Am getting into the latest issue of the Dallas Observer, the only tearsheet NOT controlled by BELO Corporation [I think], but just skimming the surface, as I am also attempting to throw my spirit lightly back into the Coliseum pit otherwise known as THE JOB. The last couple of days, my aural pallete has been subjugated to Rob Zombie's Educated Horses, T.I.'s King, Nappy Roots' Wooden Leather, Mark Ronson's Here Comes The Fuzz, Astronautalis' The Mighty Ocean & Nine Dark Theaters, News Travels Fast!'s Push Up Daisies, any Angelique Kidjo and Kanye West's doubleheaders, The College Dropout and Late Registration, along with the banter of office noise, chatter, minor gossip/ rumours and idle chitchat. The air conditioner is humming efficiently along in a low register and the sunlight beams forcefully through badly tinted windows, competing for heat against the illumination of flourescent lighting tubes overhead. I often sit in my corner cubicle with the fucked up grey and stained [with more than coke or java, I can assume] carpet and the exposed electrical outlet and wonder, do the ants and flies have any deep, philisophical or psychoanalytical thought? Do insects dream? If so, what do they dream of? Probably not. And probably nothing.
For the last couple of humid days, I have been playing a copy of Antiques Roadshow, filmed from Tampa, I think, on a generic, .79 cent Wal Mart tape. Only because the rest of the summer lineup on the four major networks are piss poor pap. Less than pap. YouTube.com has better entertainment in Ask A Ninja episodes than the whole reality crap combined. And if you don't have Com (Con) Cast or Dish Direct (To Your Wallet), then the Net seems to be the only entertainment currently worth burning a few non alcoholic, wasted brain cells.

This part is in honor of 2007 Dallas city running contender, Zac Crain :

There are alot of reasons to dislike Dallas. It is a figurative smile on an ugly chick that tells you " your a bad sexual partner, " when you know for a fact the last time she got laid, Reagan was above ground. Dallas promotes pomposity, racism, caste system-like gaul and fake southern hospitality that would make Minnie Pearl spin and puke in her coffin. How fake? The old adage is that it will " smile at you while stabbing you in the back ". It rewards substandard behaviour, secondguessing and stupidity. Backstabbing/biting, gossip and greed are the norms of the day, standards and norms [ha! thought I would say pours, eh?] of this quagmire, this abyssmal slagheap of a Faustian nightmare of gargantuan porportions. It's like watching a very bad Greek tragedy, worse than local access sports entertainment "wrasslin'" shows. McMansions, Hummers, Ozone Hazard Days and Trophy Wives aside, its like Hollywood, if it whored itself [more than usual] completely to Neo Nazis and was screened through the used nylons of countless Nielsen Ratings systemized by Klan members, Al Qaeda leaders and guerrila militia from Guyana ... Hollywood Land, as visualized briefly on the 90s movie, Rocketeer.

At work I am dealing with exceptionally manipulative spouses, asking why we call and who we represent. I explain what I am forced to relay, but I can tell by that sarcastic, smirking response on the other side of the telephone call, they think I am full of it. The day seems to be dragging out, much to the chagrin of those who work with me. They go on about guys and gals I only know from one sided hearsay, my hands typing, dialing my 'park' on individual calls and going on to the next call on an automated, cold dialer, multitasking my life into compartamental units of wasted, eternally grueling timespans, like timesharing Purgatory [Or Key West, Florida], if only the Catholics still believed in the parking lot for the spiritually delayed, like long lines of Wal Mart shoppers with more than ten items. To my left is the latest Pod Cast of The Devil's Mischief, a comedy hour of " carnal comedy clips and netherworld novelty numbers " carefully crafted by Bill M in a cohesive gadgetry, as it were, of side to side gut laughing, adding the occasional honorarium to a lost, forgotten or immortal comic/commedienne of times past. On this Office Depot CD-R 52x700 MB, Episode 148 is a tribute to Doodles Weaver, a former member of Spike Jones' band [the band that influenced Peter Sellers and Monty Python] ... I am setting my mind to concentration mode, to start up again on Chapter of this novella of the damned [lol] I have been crafting [Note : My blogging tonight and installation of better antivirus softward delayed the fuck out of that]. I realize that it's no longer a case of writer's block, just simple procrastination. My night may just be silent and walled in white, cheap stucco, but I am determined to explore life more. To get out and about. To fly beyond the self imposed boundaries I set myself. The last twenty four hours, I have given my mind over to Demon Days by the Gorrilaz. Finding out songs I prefer and don't. I need to get back to art and singing and poetry, I realize. And finish my book.