"We are here to laugh at the odds and live our lives so well that Death will tremble to take us."

(quote: Bukowski, video: Alice)


The other day I had this glorious bike wreck. I'd spent all night downtown buying rounds, in transit via my good friend's 'garbage' bike. And I did shots and paid covers and danced for three minutes at least, remembering my quote of the week. And then on my lonely pedal back I was so drunk I lost it. One of these landscaping rocks we use in the west to remind the citydwellers where they be at. At full tilt with that moment in my head where you think 'oh shit' and the camera zooms in and out like Adam West Batman is changing scenes. And I flew through the air maybe eight feet and landed on a damp pile of dirt like god's own drunk. The bike was destroyed, unridable, and I hiked it up on my unfazed shoulders dialing drunk friends on my phone. In the long morning next's hangover there was nothing left to do about it but laugh. And I laughed walking through the cemetery rain.

I haven't been posting as many blogs lately because I have been writing my joyous brains out And now I understand how much school obstructed the occurrence of real writing. Even when I tried to write there was always the huzz of anxiety . . .that some book needed to be read, some paper written. And now it's gone and I wake up earlier than you even want to hear and write for an hour and then bicycle to work and keep as dissociated as I can for 8 hours and come home and write another two or three. Or four. And then the weekend.

The weekend. The best thing the Man ever kicked down to us. There's no such thing as the American Dream, but whatever withered intention of it remains lives between Friday at 5pm and Sunday at midnight. And maybe if they let us work four days a week instead of five without risking bankruptcy by chest cold, the yeomen and -women could all have jobs even with less money to scrape by with. That extra day to read something, to work in your shop, to record a song, to make sure the TV is raising your kid alright.

Happiness comes and goes. And when you're up like that you might be best enjoying the sunshine and knocking it off with the questions. We're all addled now living in this alien camp and when it doesn't suit us we call it depression or ADD. And though no man on the street can even talk sense about the world leaving us behind, we think if our children get bored they must be lunatics, and if we don't want to get out of bed on some loveless, jobless morning we must be out of our goddamned minds. No one gets a say on the place they're born into, and I'm done judging this one except to say that I don't think my brain works the way that Web 2.0, or the Democratic Party, or marketing research says that it should. We're supposed to feel things, as hard as we try to contain all of that mess to television. And so when you do feel something, you're not alone. We're all hiding it, because that's what we think we're supposed to do. Unless you're happy, ecstatically happy, then you just have to be comfortable with people thinking you're high.