Streams of consciousness…oh, and Mark McGwire.


“Big Mac” on the left.

“What passes for hip cynical transcendence of sentiment is really some kind of fear of being really human, since to be really human […] is probably to be unavoidably sentimental and naïve and goo-prone and generally pathetic.”

David Foster Wallace

I’m listening to the birds outside and enjoying the Southern California sun, (it’s 81 degrees at I type this) and doing my typical routine of laughing at people who are freezing their collective asses off in cities where it’s snowing — and life is just generally miserable. (Hello New Jersey!) The vodka tonics have been swallowed, and in heroic fashion, I’m scheming and contemplating how I could possibly live in a disposable culture without having to be a miserable wage slave, when it hits me: whats up with that Mark McGwire guy? I mean, I knew what was UP, but it just seemed to me that the larger than life baseball player was kind of a futz when it came to his interests or personal life.  (C’mon, don’t judge. I mean, entertainment is just the opiate of the masses…or something like that.) After a quick bathroom break and zoning out session, I found out that this guy went to high school in La Verne, Ca. called Damien high.  (I am a child of the 80’s, so the first thing that charges through my cerebrum is the television show Laverne and Shirley, and the brilliant 1976 flick, “The Omen,” where the catalyst is a child of the anti-christ. This McGwire fellow is looking ALOT more interesting now…and wasn’t the culture of those times a bit more tactile than today?)

Movies and sports are ardently disposable, yet they create the most passionate disciples. Science has trumped GOD over and over again, but you don’t see people wearing t-shirts with some random fucking scientist on it, you see people thinking and talking about McGwire because he could do something arbitrary, yet entertaining. I don’t give a shit about the guy doing steroids: my main concern is what music he was listening to in 1981 while a senior in high school. Since he was a suburban jock living in a cultural void, he was probably listening to this:

All in all I was just trying to pull the veneer aside. (while tossing back a few) I was having an imaginary conversation with myself: you want a cigarette? (quaff)  Yes, I prefer menthol these days. (quaff)  Jesus fucking Christ, I hate bad tippers. (quaff) Ever notice how people don’t pay attention to a goddamn thing? (quaff) Acceptance is usually more a matter of fatigue than anything else.(quaff) People who tip bad do this because it isn’t to their immediate and unequivocal satisfaction. (quaff) ZZZZZZZZZZ


I like those 10 hours of static, but i’ll be damned if i made it through 20 seconds of it or maybe I did since the entire day and the one before this one and before that one all seem like static now. The pullman porter baggage man wears a belly ache laugh on his shoeshine face. Meanwhile the baron ordering him around grows a new wrinkle every second. That’s the funny or ironic thing of the wage slave thing. The ones on top seem so damn miserable and those carting boxes on their heads behave like a bunch of brothers playing hot foot in the bullpen because that’s exactly what they are or become..brothers in the bullpen. But I guess someone has to do everything until the machines take over.

You make a damn good point about life or movies being more tactile a few decades ago. All the gadgets and special effects have sucked dialogue right out form under out noses. Strike up a conversation with a stranger and they have no place to put their hands, but that’s no reason to stop talking.

A good ass kicking always helps. I enjoyed Black Flag’s Crass commercialism as a teenager and I enjoy it now because god dammit, there always is one foot on the banana peel and the other one in the grave and tomorrow might very well be the end of this all.

Thanks for the comments Steve. Sometimes I’m like “jesus christ….you put all those windbags in their place!” and other times, “SHUT UP you fucking art fag.”
I suppose it depends on the time, place, and inebriation. I never got into this to be a sports hack.
I’ve ALWAYS wanted to go to Montreal. Perhaps admiring you on the innernets is my reason to go there, We can toss back a few and ogle a gaggle of Canadian titties. Cheers.

Oh well, some people read Latin and shakespeare and like talking about pantameters or whatever and use big words and themes and what not and I have no idea what they’re talking about , but to each his own. I just try and cross the street and let them blow hot air. If it gets them off, who am I to judge their circle jerk since i of course have my own.

Yeh, montreal is a pretty down to earth place and like Milwaukee in that way. People are way too insecure and lack the necessary confidence to be pretentious assholes, but you’re right about the tits. I can’t figure it out..Maybe it’s the years of Catholic repression minus too many McDonalds plus 6 months of frigid air multiplied by that french chicks sexy look that makes the girls dripping with erotic flavor…especially for me because i’m from milwaukee where fashion for a girl is a triumph or scorpions wet t-shirt but that’s kind of nice too.

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