Fuck the Superbowl, I’m an Indie Kid Fighting Cancer Instead!

I heard the Superbowl was today. I don’t really care. I don’t like sports, Television or commercials. I went to an indie rock benefit concert instead.

Look at this great sign the promoters made for the event. I’m sure if Abe Vigoda saw this it would make him happy. That while 40% of all Americans with television sets were watching him and Betty White in a snickers commercial (1), we little Indie kids were busy fighting cancer instead.

I’m surprised that no one has updated Abe’s wikipedia page yet. Maybe I’ll take a few minutes and do that right now.

Update: 6:02 p.m.  I just updated the wikipedia page. It’s not the easiest task, they require that you be v v thorough and understand some coding.

The first band I saw play at the benefit show was the Cowabunga Babes and this girl I know who lives in Austin now was their drummer. I didn’t even know she played drums until I saw her sitting there in her cute flower print dress wearing a big happy grin on her face, which I caught on camera.

This guy standing in front of me was wearing these stellar Fred Perry shoes. I love Fred Perry. I had a Fred Perry jacket that I left at a party once. The girl who’s house it was stole it. I kept calling her to get it but she never called me back. It sucked. I really liked that jacket, like, a lot. I guess that’s what happens when you get drunk and forget your things places, which hasn’t happened to me in a very long time. Maybe it’s time to reward myself with a new Fred Perry jacket and matching shoes.

Hope you had a really awesome Superbowl Sunday! Here’s that clip of Abe Vigoda and Betty White in case you missed it.

References:

1.  SuperbowlMondays.com. A really weird site dedicated to making Superbowl Sunday a national Holiday. Becuase, you know, Haiti’s got a lot of support already and this is important too! Accessed Feb. 7th, 2010.

It’s Lame When Companies or Groups Try To Be Your Friend on Facebook.

You don’t give any interesting information posted, your website looks like it was made in the 1990s and you don’t know how to use Facebook to run a marketing campaign.

Your most recent status update says

Let us end the materialism and concepts of artificial value in the world by ending the monetary system!

Crazy talk, IMHO.

Sorry, but no thanks, I don’t want to be your friend.

I step over little wet puddles, that reflect the sky above. But the puddles, unlike the sky, are shallow.

I stand on my porch. The rain falls heavily, next to me. I stand on my stoop, the steps painted maroon. The paint has chipped away, from the rain, and the wind.

I go back inside, and reach for the phone. I listen to people tell stories, all day long. The rhythm of their voices, are all the same. They all rhyme, telling the same story in different ways.

I get ready to leave the house.

I step out of my house. I drive in the wet rain. I step out into the cold. I open my umbrella, and I take tiny little steps. I step over little wet puddles, that reflect the sky above. But the puddles, unlike the sky, are shallow.

I approach the entrance of the big building on the street. I look to the sky, it is quiet, and no voices from above have any advice to give to me. I stand in front of the building, alone. Yet, there are people all around.

A voice in the crowd reaches out to me. The timber is low, a voice that reaches deep into my soul. Deep into the depths, so deep there is seemingly no end. But that voice, it touches the bottom that I couldn’t have ever imagined, until then. And I can say nothing, for words will not come, they are not capable of speaking this foreign tongue. Truth is as deep as the sky above, but words, they are shallow, like the puddles, the tiny little puddles that I step in.

The doors open and we all rush into the building, the rain starts to fall harder and we hug each other to stay warm.

…………..

My life is one long poem, one long string of circumstances, strung together by one common thread. That thread, is me.

I don’t know where all these thoughts come from or where they begin. I think that perhaps they have no beginning, and they have no end.

This little essay, is just a story, just a reprieve, from life’s rigorous monotony. I should probably be spending my time, reading the LA Times, or watching Jersey Shore. Or watching underground bands on Youtube, or at least bands that are critically acclaimed by music snobs, or something. I think that’s what everyone else is doing. That’s what they all post on Facebook, so maybe I should do that too. And forget that I have these thoughts. These thoughts that I barely listen to.

Squalor in Los Angeles

So I live on this street called Normal Street.

I don’t have a grass lawn. I don’t really even have a lawn. But I do have this area outside of my front door that is filled with rocks on either side of my doorstep, which is a faded maroon. My neighbors all have potted plants. I, however, have one little plant that I inherited from the tenant before me. It’s a rosemary bush and it smells very nice.

A lot of people in the neighborhood have dogs. They walk their dogs and the dogs, they poop in the rocks by my door. I’m not sure why. It seems like a very uncomfortable place to poop. It seems like grass would be more comfortable to squat in, but I guess this isn’t true becuase there’s a lot of dog poop around my door, in the rocks, and it smells.

I don’t mind that it’s there, really. I guess I’ve just gotten used to it. What I mind is that other people who come visit mind, and they think it’s disgusting. And I don’t want people to think that I’m a disgusting person, so I try not to have people over. I should just clean it up, but then there will be more poop later in the week and I’ll have to clean it up again, and again and then the next week, again.

Also, there are lots of cats that breed in the back of my apartment complex and when they are in the middle of breeding they scream and hiss like they’re dying, but they’re not, that’s just the sound that cats make when they’re breeding. And they climb underneath the apartment and bang against the floor boards and hiss and growl and scream.

Then a little while later there are kittens.

I should mind that there are so many cats, and they poop too, just like the dogs. But I don’t mind. Perhaps I’ve gotten used to squalor.

I guess there’s no where but up from here.

click, a really fun word.

LICK IT? wait no.
PICK IT? um. still, no.
KICK IT? i don’t think so.
RICK ROLL IT? haha. no.
NICK IT? nick has nothing to do with this (and he’s sleeping anyway)
SICK IT? it’s pretty sick, but no that’s still not it.
TICK TICK TICK? yes, it’s the bomb, but still not it.
CLICK IT. why yes, that’s it. CLICK IT.   http://bit.ly/bTkCwv

much love, AND MUSIC, offered to you by the Do LaB, N.A.S.A. and bassnectar ♥ ♥ ♥

:::note:::
Click (defined): Phonetics. any one of a variety of ingressive, usually implosive, speech sounds, phonemic in some languages, produced by suction occlusion and plosive or affricative release.
:::note ends, have a good day, you deserve it:::

hello. it’s feb 2nd, twenty ten.

i’m  posting bc i haven’t in a few days and that makes me feel like i should.

i’m tired. i’m a little sick. i’m constantly trying to mind read when i talk to people. it never works. i’m learning to just ask questions instead if I’m wondering something.

If you don’t ask any questions how you gonna know anything?

Am I the only one who gets embarressed about not knowing certain givens in society? I remember being in a group SKYPE chat a couple years ago and people kept typing “idk” over and over throughout the conversation. Scared of being made fun of I asked anyway. As soon as I typed “I don’t know what idk means” and hit enter, I figured it out myself.

As soon as I asked the question it was answered.

The magic is in the asking. The answer isn’t the important part, it’s just icing on the cake.

Lupe Fiasco – Kick, Push

gum smeared on Starbucks mirror

Writing at starbucks, went to the bathroom, this was my experience.

gum smeared on the mirror at starbucks

I frequent Starbucks because they have great internet that never dies, gets overloaded with Youtubers and they have good deals on coffee.

I wish I had taken a picture

I noticed a man standing alone.

I noticed that he was older, about 55. His hair , silver. His face, crooked. His belly was robust, presumably from drinking fairly large portions of beer, fairly often, for the past 30 or so years. At first glance I could see nothing special about him. I couldn’t think of a single thing I would want to take from this man. From first glance he did not look like someone who could help me with love, finance or success in any way.

He looked startled when I approached him. “Oh, hello,” he replied and quickly looked away in an attempt to ignore me.

I stepped noticeably closer. Our feet are almost touching and his beer belly is inside of my personal space.

I began to ask him questions, talking loudly to be heard over the other people in the room. A room packed with people, all immersed in the same self-absorbed social errand – trying to meet the right people. Trying to meet the right people is like trying to play a game of checkers with yourself. It’s a pretty lonely game.

The man peered down at me (he was a good 10 inches taller than I) and, reluctantly, responded. I stood and listened to him tell me stories, my feet shifting every now and then to find a more comfortable stance, careful to match his gaze with my own. He told me about his obsession with Harley motorcycles. He told me about his quasi-famous friend with whom he attended the event with. He told me about a business idea he had. He again talked about his friend, who he obviously admired very much.

I made a comment about the beauty of friendship. His eyes lit up and he smiled a big smile.

I wish I had taken a picture.

the number 3

i’m staring into the mirror. my eyes are wide. They’re staring back at me. thoughts are running through my head like cats in heat, the way they tumble and growl over each other, and scream.

update 11:46: i took the picture below while i was sending out mail in santa monica. i love sending letters. i still have a Christmas package to send, however. three actually, i still have three packages to send.

post office in santa monica

111

1:11

11:1