Adios con vayos, Chickdela

Man!

Can my mom fart up a storm! Seriously, it takes her five minutes just to finish up one. I wish I got it on video so I could youtube it. Oh well.

Anyhoo, I'm re-watching Buffy. Why? I don't know. I was hooked on this show when I was 9. It only lasted for a year though, before I got out of it. I should put it on my Netflix queue. I might find myself enjoying it again.

On to other more important news, Lady Gaga wore a hat made out of her own hair! Scary shit, I know!

I really have nothing to write until I get up to San Francisco, so until then...starve!

Crazy From The Heat

Even Evelyn Bill "The Real Deal" McNeal for a terminal case of villainy most chill pops occasional bottle of pills, keeps heat poppin' like bubbles in a still, full boil burnin in a kiln . Crazy From The Heat, no time for beauty/sleep, knows fo'real the deal, the score, the thrill, the feel of hors d'oeuvres milling through his pristine if not for nicotine grill. (grill grill grill gr-grill g-grill-grill)

Nobody's got me & I ain't got nobody, no one there to ever really ever really ever get me going, really get my heart to storing heat for the summer, heat for your mother, one among the others so we know that she'll be coming over like my car sounds turning over, got my tiger purring in her tank, as Batman warned ya - Papa Spank, Kevin's Daddy Drank, & Van Halen III extreme-mentally stank. And Nobody, not one, not a single body's got me like I was John Gotti draining flutefuls of Bacardi with some supermodel hotties at after-trial parties.

I, like my ass-bespandexed buddy David Lee, derived crazy ways from thermal heat, sub-dermally. Raised by the meanest of streets to be the beater of the choicest of meats, kept shiny, neat & white with my skeet. So hold your hat by the brim with one hand and grab some pants by the seat while my sanity drips to concrete. If you ever need me you can find me kicking up feet overseas like I'm Italy to Crete, bumping to bouncing & thumping Panamanian beats. (beats beats b-beats b-beats beats beat)

If you are hot for one teacher I can teach ya one lesson: confine your horizons or expand your directions. If you ain't old enough than you ain't dreamed enough - to massage until moist you don't need to rub a muff. If you're the ice-cream man better have a rockin' van, so no one can come a'knocking 'til boots're done a'knocking, bodies done unlocking & booties done &

Come on quit laming, enough with that sad straining Van Hagar shit, barely hardly even feign-braining it. Yo, we be the unchained, unnamed, whose unrestraining order's to corner all markets on marked-up mothers and daughters wearing matching lace garters and felonious fathers rocking cellblock corridors. ('orridors 'orridors 'orridors)

If you ain't crazy from the heat best get to cooking or I'm taking your pawns, rook and queen while you ain't looking. (look look a-looking)

A day in the life of Mary Ann Ramirez

Ok, so today I woke up and felt eye boogers in the corner of my eyes. So I took them out with my fingers, and boy they were crusty and big and gross. You should have seen it. They were HUGE. Then I brushed my teeth, my tongue and the side of my cheeks. I rinsed my mouth three times before gargling. Afterward I got dressed and put on my best jeans and my Joy Division shirt, and oh my God, I looked hot! I brushed my hair and after that I got static-y hair. Once I finished that I hopped into my car and drove to to BJ's and oh God, I was behind this slow idiot. He must have been going 25 in a 40 zone. And there was construction on the road, too. My CD kept skipping and it was on my favorite song too! Once I got to BJ's, I parked and waited for my friends to arrive and once they arrived, we had to wait for an HOUR before we got seated. AN HOUR! Ughhhh! Once we got seated I got a Pepsi, along two of my other friends. The other friend got a Root Beer. For ten minutes I was trying to figure out what to eat when I finally decided on a mini vegetarian deep dish pizza. It took 15 minutes before we got our food. Oh my God, I was so hungry! I inhaled the whole pizza in about five minutes. Afterward, I was ready for desert so two of my friends and I decided to split a trio of pizookies. They're pizza shaped cookies with ice cream on top. We got peanut butter, white macodamia nut and triple chocolate. Oh my goodness!!! They were soooo goood! It was like, Heaven in my mouth. Amazing stuff. Once we finished desert, all of us went outside and took pictures of ourselves. I must've looked horrible at that point. After that, I got into my car and drove home. Then I went into my brother's room and told him I was home. He said he wanted shakes, so I went to go take him. But before I drove him to McDonald's to get the shakes, I called my mom. I was on the phone with her for 15 minutes! We were just talking about her surgery next week and the kind of pills that make her sick. Then I drove my brother to McDonald's to get a shake and a side of fries. Then I came home, got into my jammies and started hanging out online. And now, here I am writing this entry. I'm sleepy, so I think I'm going to hit the hay. See you guys later!

Ah, Memories

-My dad was here the day one of the parachute ride jumpers, ya know, jumped. He was actually in line when it happened.
-No shitting? Did, did he see it?
-He said a bunch of people started screaming and then just the sickest sound he'd ever want to hear. You know how people say it's like a watermelon bursting. He said it really was exactly like that but loud. Real loud and then like literally dead silence. No one could speak. All the screamers were choking for breath. Everyone in the vicinity was losing their shit, running over to get a glimpse, which is so the opposite of right as far as I'm concerned but whatever. He said he didn't see anything though because ya had like 60-70 people in a big circle around the body. But he could never get that sound out of his head. Like, he could see and feel the sound. Pulp and bloody and everywhere.
-Damn. Just damn. Did the park close? Tell me they closed the park.
-I don't know. I figure it's a 50/50 chance. That's how they are. Maybe closed off half the park until the ambulance could come by, maybe sprayed a hose.
-No way, no way. If it was like the incident at Zoom, maybe but-
-What happened at Zoom?
-Oh, it wasn't that long back. A lady suffered an aneurysm as she was getting off. Collapsed right on dock and was probably dead before she hit the ground. Janet was telling me about it. They cleared the dock, cleared the queue, let the authorities come by to take the body and that was about it. Don't know if Zoom was closed all day but nothing else was effected. But that's the thing, it had nothing to do with the ride. Completely incidental so there wasn't anything potentially criminal or a need for investigation-
-And there's a hell of a difference between someone plummeting 200 feet and liquefying on contact, probably spitting bits of brain 10 yards away-
-Nice
-...and someone just keeling over. No fuss, no muss, no mess. Offer some counseling to the ROs on duty to cover their own asses, maybe slip a few complimentary tickets into the sob-soaked hands of the grieving family and...hey, did she have any family with her?
-Janet told me there was a husband. She was young too, from what I hear.
-...Sucks.
-Hey, now that you've brought it up, how many jumpers did Parachutes have?
-At least two. I'm pretty sure.
-'Cuz at the SEP meeting Joey was talking about being here for all 3 incidents. That covers Plunge, Zoom and Ghost. So what the hell?
-I don't think anyone died at Ghost. Someone got nailed in the face with a tree branch, I know that.
-Oh yeah. Huh. I wish we had this stuff in the employee manual. This is the important shit.
-For us, maybe, but not so much for the guests. Remember when Supervision heard whatzhizname...Roger when he was on the mic joking about dying.
-Hey, I don't joke. When someone asks me if anyone's died on ride I always say, super solemn-like: "Not on this one." And then I walk the fuck away.
-You're a good man. Noble.
-Seriously though, it's like I've heard so many conflicting stories about Plunge. If I ever get cross-trained over there I won't even know what to say. Because guests will ask, you know they will. I don't want to lie. After the thing with Xcel and then this belt thing with Zoom I'm getting nervous. I don't want it on my conscience that I, like...
-Led guests to their slaughter? With a smile?
-Exactly. I always joke with guests when they get frightened but, I mean, there is a fucking risk to this shit.
-Eh. There's a risk to getting up out of bed. I'm not worrying about it. You shouldn't either. You've been here too long to lose perspective.
-I've been here too long. I was hired same day as Roger, shared same intro class, trained together. And he was fired half a year ago. I only wanted to work here for Haunt. Somehow I've been here nearly two years. This is not good for my health, as the saying goes.
-Eh. What is? Life is misery, right. Shit, is that clock right?
-Time to get back. I hope Xcel is still down. I'm not in a mood to deal with anyone about anything right now.
-Oh that's a change of pace. Fuck this place.

What a procrastinator!

I'm leaving to San Francisco in less than a week, and I have barely started to pack. Hmmmm... I should probably make an attempt to pack tomorrow, otherwise it is going to be a long week.

Meanwhile, enjoy this nice picture of Clive Owen.


I think he translates better on the big screen. What do you think?

Introducing... RACHEL TREE!

Ghosts, an overview

GHOSTS FLOAT FREE, GHOSTS

lack solid grips on worlds inhabit. Ghosts manage sans solidity. Within every breath we breathe in & out souls of ancestors, ancient enemies, et al. We respire the evaporated remains of the dead. This is a fact of the world. Later facts may contradict.

Ghosts lack free-movement, lacking as they do basic motor function, musculature and a nervous system of real substance. No one knows if they can even conceive of movement or any concept at all conceivable for that matter or whether their solitary sojourn around and about the world is nothing more than a series of sensations. Brutest of realities. Sensum Sensorium of data. Greatest of our minds'll know one day as will we all. Experience: the best teacher. Same sayable of all tokens of post-experience which no past-experience can alter.

Ghosts have no memory, ever in want as they are of brain tissue. Each moment stands alone. What constitutes a moment? At present epochs unknown.

Enters the ghost, wafted inward He is and hither in the wake of the gleeful child. Now in a new home the ghost flails buffeted by a new storm. Ages spent lifeless, longer than lifespans of deathless bloodlines, outlasting the acoustic ripples of the breath of the humanity He loved when His thoughts were cogent and His heart was of flesh. Eyeless eternal eyefuls enjoys He of the best/worst His flock has blithely offered Him this latest infinity. His ethereal sensitivities have felt each curve of Earth. No thought put to how much longer His curse must last. This, His curse of love for these, His children, for these, these kids in this house, for this His world.

From creation until His birth He lofted along the winds of this at-that-point--on-an-epic-scale-truly--empty Earth. Betwixt patchworks of humanity lay eternities to scatter in the wind.

From Ascension onward He’s confronted life well and poorly lived and if His thoughts were graspable, by Him even, even in this state, they’d be troubled. For a week now He’s floated in the countless countermanding streams that circumscribe and contrascribe this exurban town. Today this is His home and once more He is static sensation.

A woman sits at a computer-desk in front of a computer. He’s seen many times this object and understands intuitively it without ever having the slightest awareness that such a thing exists. He’s seen such a thing thousands of times, has absorbed its electric essence as he has beheld and felt the hurricane-birthing disturbance of the furious tapping of the keys, rapidfire the flesh of these strangers He worships, even those that know him naught. He knows nothing of this, though. Currently He lacks a frontal cortex. Its physical imprint lay deep underground and far away. It itself has less a hold on existence than He Himself does in this cross-dimensional chemical-electric state. Some day, if He could think to Himself he would think, it will return. All of I will. But for now the ghost floats. A dog jumps through Him as through a fog and out this house He once more exits only to return through a kitchen window on the surf of a mid-day breeze shortly thereafter.

All life is eternal. It exists in a matter imperceptible but for its susceptibility to the air currents and magnetism and chemical electrical activity and gravity. But strangely each and every ghost “lives” in its own spatial-temporal dimension. To each ghost there is an identical earth. Each ghost wanders the world alone. If ghosts could feel they might care.

That fact of the world may have contradicted.

This ghost has no recollection of His creation, has no idea to what extent He played an active role in creation. He was born to a Semitic woman in what He will one day recall as being the Middle East, a name-phrase he has picked up oblivious to its import as much as to its object as much as to the touch of the sound of it on the electro-magnetic echo of His worm-devoured ear a hundred thousand times the past century. Upon His birth He recalled all history, syncretized what wisdom He could from the vast data collated in His being, and brought light to an en-shadowed people.

His next coming will be His first opportunity for regret.

The Holidays are over, bitches!

So get the fuck over it.

The Clown (I)...

has nothing to say but says it loudly. Boldly so. The clown is a mash-up of the trappings of society and the joy of our escape. Society's eventual abandonment. The clown is as pure as an implosion. To laugh at the clown is to laugh with the clown, which is to exult in gaudy doom and demonstrative deconstruction.

The Jester was the most honest figure in the court of the King. Voltaire was by far the most honest of the jesters.

If a derivative of chess were introduced with the jester available as a piece it would be playable nur (only) by children and the illiterate or the overly literate perhaps. The clown is a locus of disease and disgust. Job was the first clown, having finally elicited from God His first laugh.

The clown wears clothing two sizes too big so as better to catch the wind, be blown ever about by it and to grip free of hand the very air as if it were the ethereal manifestation of the glorious grail. Yet when the clown happens upon a stream or some such a body of water (a lake?) he flops in and prays his loose garments heavy enough to weigh him down to a mirthless death. Rather instead but of course as is the way of things, his pockets buoy him up and ever onward like a ghost flushed from his watery grave.

The clown shuffles as he walks for fear of being mistaken for a goose-stepper, a duck-traipser or an emu-gallivanter.

The clown doesn't tell jokes, he reveals them in reverse and revels in them and with his trumpet plays a brash reverie, revolving his torso all the while to this, his joke. And the clown's jokes aren't jokes in truth so much as sibilant whispers lisped upon the cheeks of the curious innocent. Follows forth a hearty guffah (HY'A)

The clown: an elemental force of nature, a deviant and a trickster-god and: know you this: he loves you madly.

If you're bored with your clown you're boring. 100 years from now devils and clowns will be warring. Age old story. True fact of the etherworld.

Clowns come in all shapes and sizes. Objects come in shapes and sizes too. Subjects come in shapes and sizes. Clowns mimic objects and subjects and shapes and sizes. Precisely just what a clown would do.

Beneath the veil of sensory experience there exists only a laugh. The thing in-itself is a loud, coarse rumbling, echoed laugh. Nothing was really real before Job. The clown granted uncertain permanence to God's daydream. Now there exists a laugh. And of and upon this laugh we all live, in a true factual way. We feed on this His ancient laugh. Maybe the laugh killed Him. Who's to say? Questions best left to the future minds of tomorrow. Why not?