Shit

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
Fuck

If the rich could hire someone else to die for them, the poor would make a wonderful living -Jewish Proverb

Howdy Comrades!
Truth rides a dead pony, but the Doctor of Love walks. Right into your hearts! If I had anymore passion they would call me "The Smooth Machine" as it is they call me "Butt-Ass"

Shit. I have been reading some papers on the old Freewill/Determinism debate. I am going to have to side with the old Captain Beefheart Spinoza when he says: "Those therefore, who believe that they speak, are silent, or do anything from the free decision of the mind, dream with their eyes open."

Think well upon the dream reference my friends. Think well indeed. For the only convincing argument I've ever heard that supports a belief in freewill, is the seeming experience thereof. That is, it sure as hell seems like one freely chooses what to do, eat, and whatnot. Yet, we also have this same experience of choosing when we dream; which is a mode of thinking not often considered free. For example, when chased by a dream monster, it feels like you choose which way to run, to fight, to piss yourself and so on. But no one really thinks in your dreams that your free will is engaged in deliberation. I mean shit, we all do crazy things in our dreams that we would never do while awake. For many of my readers this means having gay sex. The point is, the experience of free choice exists even when we do not believe we exercise it--like in our dream judgments and decisions. Spinoza asks then, are we to believe in two modes of decision? One fanciful and one free and real? Or rather is it possible that all experiences of freedom can be traced to the same phenomena- a lack of knowledge of the causes of our actions and thoughts. Maybe. How else can we explain someone choosing to listen to Jeff Stinko and Simple Plan?

What time is it? 4:30. Its not late. Its early!

We, only for the sake of beauty. A fellow man. My Fellow! Share in a joy and companionship? Can we not? For together, the beaten trails and the meandering through cool meadows. Bring to me the forest, and I shall impart the rain. A picnic of cucumber sandwiches and sweet red wine. A sun beam, warming the hearts of plenty. Fear not the terminus, for the pastoral holds naught but tranquility. Let the leaves rustle and the breeze caress the skin. Let the moment be. Your childhood dances through the minds of your elders, giving them a hope that you cannot share. Your hope is elsewhere. Your hope. Shape the wine in a glass. Shape it whole and drink deeply. There are always others. A soft violence embraces it all, as time eats the children. And always, the banquet brings forth second helpings. I hope it brings some tacos.

Building Tents? No. Pitching Tents.

Last night I was in a very fancy hotel pitching tents in the lobby. What? Yeah thats right. I found myself wearing French clothes from 1900, and constructing lattice work in a race against time. Why? I don't know. But in the end many rich people where sampling fine food, while I "sampled" an excessive amount of fine wine. I was supposed to stamp the guests as the entered, and for awhile I handled this job like a pro. Soon however the wine took charge and I was multi-stamping, slurring, and leaning on a door for dear life. Never fear true believers, even with my swerve on I kept everyone secure. I also ate a shit load of cream puffs.

And as each day we slightly fade a little more...we say "We are happy" and let it go at that...

T.S. Eliot

The last basketball post?

Okay here is the deal. The NBA playoffs are about to end. In the traditional best of seven contest to see who is the greatest basketball team in the world (America is the world) we are going to witness a rare game seven. That is, both teams are so evenly matched they each have won three of six. After 24 playoff games it all comes down to this. Detroit has done the impossible, winning a difficult game six in San Antonio (a place they haven't won in the previous 10 years). They need to do it again. The game is on thursday and it is for all the bananas. It is in San Antonio. It is on ABC at 8:00 central. Will this year's champs be a bunch of sissy assholes, or will it be the team that brought America the worst rumble in sports history (the Indiana/Detroit riot in November)? Get the beer ready and watch the final basketball game of the year, for after the game I will join all of you, my friends in the disavowal of sport interest, and get back to the hobby that made me famous--jacking off.

Stay outa the way of a big tuff guy

Danger is my calling and the phone line is often busy. When the moon calls--it gets my forwarded address. Can dreams slumber? Can they awaken? Why are my sandwiches often dry and crusty? Nap time ladies. Nap time. The evening brings a change of temperature and change for the bills. Paper becomes iron and the muddied past, crystal. Sometimes a moment returns, exchanged for a tinge of pride. Sometimes the pride is disgust. Nightly, one becomes corn flakes, tried again for the first time. In any court and in any hearing one must question the authority of the judge. One must.

hats, n labor

My Zady had this theory regarding a possible means to a national economic recovery. He was a very old man (86) and remembered how Kennedy was the first president to go about without a hat. Suddenly, because of Kennedy, it became acceptable for a well dressed man to be hatless. This lead to the eventual demise of the hat industry. A once essential accessory became a device for a costume. Zady estimated that this fashionable end of the hat trade was responsible for the loss of thousands of jobs. His solution: He sent a letter to every president after Kennedy requesting that the president appear wearing a hat at the next diplomatic/press function. What is interesting to me, isn't just the oddity of the hat issue, but also the suggested value of wastefulness in a healthy economy. How does hat making, and hat wearing result in a higher productivity? It seems like it must because people used to work on hats, and people made a living building the damn things. Were those earning from the hat trade acting as parasites--taking wealth from those who produced something essential (like spatulas), while producing nothing of real value in return? Or is it really true, that no matter how stupid the labor, if someone pays for it, it contributes to the economic strength of the country? It all inspires me to start my own pyramid scheme. I will spend money I don't have and when people ask for it, I'll say, "and here's your hat" and smash the wolf over the head with a manhole cover.

Dip him in the river that loves water.

This blog entry is inspired by an unwanted discussion I had with a local radical dude at a local coffee shop. This guy was all about protests, vegetarianism, being pro-choice, anti-bush, organic anti-consumerism, and what not. He also had alot of cool pins on his backpack (even though he was my age). Dudes who wear their radicalism on their shoulder always rub me the wrong way. In fact, I find the radical preachy ass lifestyle to be as empty and vacant as the culture it strives so hard to run counter to.
Why should I be more impressed with this moron and his naive moralism than with a pro-Bush business dude and his shallow materialism? Granted the pro-christian, pro-suburb people are far more frightening to me because they actually have power, and our disagreements actually affect my life, but still, does anyone really think this country would function better if women studies majors ran things? I don't mean to be apologetic for mainstream America and republican politics, but given the vanguard of the "enlightened" opposition, I am left disgusted with both. This brings me to my actual point. The problem with the dumb ass protesters is that they have no idea what is to be done to stop whatever disaster they seek to avert...be it economic, environmental, human rights related and so on. All they really have to offer is the fact they care. Wow. They care.

"What do people really want? We say justice, but blush when it is bloody. We say charity but acquiesce when its administration is denied. It is only pity that we demand without fear or qualification, a pity without magnitude and a pity without value. "

I found this written in one of my old notebooks from my army days. I think now I would change the word "people" to "moralists". Anyway I bring this up because it reminds me of something I recently read in Spinoza's (my hero's) work. Check out his much better quote: "Pity in a man who lives under the guidance of reason is in itself bad and useless"

Hell yeah. All that the fashionable radicalism of today has to offer is a support group for people to express their concern and pity. If any rad dude has a policy solution to any of the worlds ills, I'll be glad to hear it. If it sounds good, I'll even support the sweet struggle to see it implemented. Otherwise shut the fuck up, stop "educating" me with your bullshit, educate yourself instead (this means read an entire book instead of an Amnesty International pamphlet), and give some money to poor people while being kind to your fellow man. That way your values and concern may actually amount to something that I could appreciate and I won't have to call you "needle dick" in my blog. Needle dick.

Always be ready to speak your mind, and a base man will avoid you

Woo!
The Professor of Sympathy is here, ready to take part in the emotional beinghood of all my readers. I am here for you my friends. I am here, chock full of awe and sympathetic caring.
What's that? You hate work? I feel for you. What else ails you my friends? Tired of the meaningless drudgery of day to day existence? I hear you loud and clear. My passionate pity is gushing. May the warmth and beauty of this world cheer you. Look at an insect. Tear apart a leaf. Bark at a squirrel. Maybe tear apart the insect? I hear you are also scared of fish. Well, thats just crazy. Eat some fish. Show the fish who is the boss. Suppress a needless reference to the t.v. show. Feel the love. Me? I'm gonna do some push ups.

I am a handsome man.

Today, after taking a big shit I happened across my image in the mirror. Wow! For a second there I thought I might be gay. I couldn’t believe the sexy face staring back at me. Those dreamy eyes! The porcelain cheeks! But before I seriously started to question my sexual orientation I realized I was looking at myself. I am so handsome! Seriously, how do you people manage to talk to me without drooling all over yourselves? What a glorious sight I am to behold! If only I had a full body mirror in my house. As it is I have to jump up and down to try to look at my shlong. But damn. Even with the limited perspective I can see that I am beautiful. What pleasure I must give to the people of this world. If only I could be on the outside looking in. Then I could spend all day looking at my perfect face instead of having to look out on to you ugly sacks of shit. What eyesores!

Balls of Justice.

I was sitting down bustin’ out some of that old school science when my head became light and the world began lose its focus. There I was, sitting on my couch, expanding my knowledge, reading n’ shit and I almost passed out. I thought maybe I was suffering from a brain aneurism or something. I thought perhaps I was going to die.

Yes, I know that seems like quite a leap to make. To go from “Hey, I think I am passing out” to “Hey I think I am going to die” is rather unfounded. Maybe my poor reasoning was due to the fact that I was (without any explanation) losing consciousness. Anyway, as my eyes rolled back to look at my brain, I confronted death. This wasn’t our first meeting mind you. While not buddies or anything, death and I used to hang with the same group of friends. So I wasn’t all that unfamiliar with his can-do pluck and persistence. I was actually kind of happy to see him. We weren’t able to sit and chat though, because I quickly became aware that I wasn’t dying, and hell I wasn’t even going to completely faint. Soon our whole meeting seemed illusory and fake. Would I really be happy to die? Or would I fight for life with all of my uncanny powers? Who can say? I know only this: I eat confrontations with mortality for breakfast.

2003 German Reisling. The best? You better believe!

Howdy Y'all

I read in one of the "city happenings" magazines that the 2003 German Reisling is the best since 1540. According to the article the brutal 2003 heat wave in Europe not only killed a bunch of people, but also produced a special yield of grapes. These 2003 grapes were plump and juicy and full of a sweetness that hadn't been seen since...1540. Wow! These grapes must be good. So good in fact, that people feel justified in making an absolutely fucking unsupportable arbitrary claim. 1540? Who the fuck knows what wine tasted like in 1540? Who knows what it tasted like in 1546? 1642? 1539? Am I to believe that the 1540 wine was so tasty that even if the current wine dominates all other wines, it is simply absurd to even compare it with the 1540? Shit! Did the 1540 taste so awesome that by 1541 everyone was like, "What the hell happened? The 1540 wine was so great! This 1541 wine is shit. Thank god the earth is flat. Lets use scientifically recognized methods to record our wine tasting data so in generations to come wine tasting assholes can speak about changes in wine quality without hyperbole--let us also continue to bleed our sick and transmute lead into gold!".

I bought a bottle of 2003 German Reisling anyway. It was really sweet but still tasty. I say it is the best fucking wine of all time. Since creation itself no man has ever tasted a sweeter wine. All other wines are piss compared to its sweetness. The wine that Zeus and Jesus, and all the other gods drink tastes like the squeezed poop droppings of a wild ape compared to this wine. My god! Can a wine be better? Answer: No. I am an idiot

I can be stopped? I can’t be stopped

A lot of rumors have been swirling around lately about me being stopped. Wrong again, assholes—this bird still flies. I am like the Juggernaut. Once I start moving no group of rag tag mutants can steal my thunder. This party can’t stop rolling. This party shan’t stop rolling. I can’t be stopped.

But what about the rumors, you ask? Well, people say a lot of things. Like “mortality”. Like “fatigue”. But go try another phone line sister—cos this cat ain’t dialing out. Slow me down? Yeah right. Stop me? Impossible. I am like a wolf with worms. Kill the wolf then the maggots get you. Even if I lose I win! And the loss itself is impossible.

My enemies should tremble, and my friends rejoice! Who could stop me? Some fatso? Some god? Some fatso fatty god? I say to hell with fatsos and to hell with gods. I say lots of things.

Rappin' and Pappin'

Howdy friends!
A cool light shines upon the morning dew, as the Professor of Passion explodes on to the scene. Ladies and Gents, the dream machine has arisen, and the ruckus invariably ensues. Ten times ten, the amount of justice pressed upon a world, worlding in worldhood. Six times six, the screaming babes, crying at their mother's teat, clutching vainly for compassion. Greater and greater, the strength of the wisdom, breaking upon all who question the one holy truth. Seek and you shall be sought, wake and waken, wank and be wanked. Peace out

Its raining, its pouring, the old man? He is snoring

As you well know I live in New Orleans. The past two days it has rained like a mother. A rainy mother. Seriously. Where does all this water come from? The sky? There is so much rain moses would be wet. Hell, if it rained anymore, Frank would be wet. Frank is a guy I know that is usually dry but on account of all this rain who can say? Maybe he is wet? Awesome! Look at all this rain! Pat Pat Pat Pit Pat Pit Pat. And thunder. KA KOW! BLAMM! It is not blue thunder because the sky is grey. That reminds me. If water is blue, and the sky is blue, how come when it rains the sky is grey? And full of lightening? Its a mystery! Man, if my parents call and ask, "how is the weather?" I can say, "Mysterious and Awesome! KA KOW!"

The wolves at the door.

Oh man, O- man-o-shevitz!
For all of you who could not care less about basketball, I recommend you watch Monday night’s game 7 between the Pistons and the Heat.

“But Dan, basketball is retarded and possibly gay. Why should I watch a bunch of muscular ebony gods throw balls into holes?”

This is a great question. A great great question. And honestly I have no answer. Just be secure in your manhood (or chickhood as I know the ladies love this site), grab a six of beers, and sit down and watch. This game is going to be great. The most badass team ever assembled (since Detroit 89-91) against perhaps the two greatest players in the league (Shaq, and Wade). The series is tied 3 games apiece. The loser of this game will be eliminated, while the winner moves on to the championship. Rasheed Wallace has already been fined 20,000 dollars for comments made during the series. Wade may play with broken ribs, and Ben Wallace will probably have his ‘fro out. So my friends, gather all of your jock essence, order a pizza, get drunk, and tune into the game. You will not be disappointed. Unless, of course, Detroit loses. Should this happen, wail unto the godless sky and embrace the void that is your life.

Freedom Tacos

Carrot Juice is the best juice ever. I think carrot juice may be the best food ever. Why not carrot liquor? I would drink it. I would drink as much of it as I could if it tasted like carrot juice.

That’s not all my friends.. Here is an entertaining phone call that was inspired by an argument I had with my French roommate. It starts like this. I, being an impressive source of wisdom, told Frenchie that America had two-dollar bills just like the Europeans have a two-Euro coin but after a few years America realized that a double unit bill was stupid. She did not believe me. Being even more impressive I proved her ignorant ass wrong and pulled a two-dollar bill right out of my wallet. I shoved it in her face and said, “See, you idiot. I told you there were two-dollar bills. Fuck, you’re stupid. You’re a stupid idiot.” Even after this display of showmanship she doubted that my two-dollar bill would be accepted anywhere except for a bank. I was shocked. “What the fuck are you talking about? I could spend this son of bitch anywhere. I could even use this bill to buy tacos at Taco Bell.” Then I grimaced. She still did not believe. The only thing to do at this point (aside from giving her a French Press) was to call Taco Bell and ask them if I could buy tacos with a two-dollar bill. The conversation went like this:

Taco Bell: Taco Bell, how can I help you?
Me: I really need some tacos but I only have a two-dollar bill. Can I buy tacos from you with my two-dollar bill?
Taco Bell: Uh, it’s a two-dollar bill?
Me: Yeah. It’s the double-decker taco of money.
Taco Bell: Hold on
Pause
Taco Bell: My manager says its fine.
Me: Great. This bill is kinda rare though. You think I could get some extra tacos for it?
Taco Bell: Hold on…No.
Me: Oh… Could I get double-decker tacos?
Taco Bell: Two dollars can get you a double-decker taco.
Me: I’m gonna use my two dollar bill to get two tacos!
Taco Bell: (…..)
Me: WOOO!

I think this is a great phone call to make. It is probably even greater outside of New Orleans. To be honest, in this city I can’t really understand what the hell the taco bell employee is saying. It sounds like crazy talk.

Stone upon stone

I was throwing weights again this morning and some dude said, “Hey you mind if I work a set in between yours? Yeah I fucking mind. I don’t want your sweaty balls waiting near my face as I grunt and groan. Worse yet, the guy started talking to me. He is all, “Man, I really gotta work my pecs hard. I heard if you rotate the blah blah blah…then blah blah blah” FUCK! The only reason I workout is for the hope that one day I can kill you with my bare hands. Why are you talking? Do I look like I need a friend in a muscle shirt? Did I wink at you? Perhaps I made my suspicions in regard to his sexual preferences too clear, as he quickly changed the subject and pointed out that a chick in the gym was “hot”. The chick was pregnant.