Sunday 19may24

Here I am with another smoke again, the fifth of which I smoke on my lawn chair. A fitting whisky, aged dry, and some weird long and tired gaze toward the charming California sunset. 

I haven’t written in weeks. I haven’t called. I haven’t slept. 

I’ve been thinking about girls, booze, and my workload. I get loaded, howl at the moon and return to my cave. Every night. 

A lovely day was today. Woken by morning street cleaners and the echoing sound of traffic, my head pounds with concentrated sugar from the night before, laying here stripped of oxygen and mead in my bed. I don’t feel the bugs, the liquor bugs, like I feel before I sleep, yet tonight might be the same fate. Or it could be different. 

I think important work is sitting down at the type and letting a calculated stream of consciousness flow from your fingertips. But this is not that. This is rambling and terrible. 

You go, on your drive around your subtly crazy town, thinking about the ways you are to structure this next blurt of shit, returning home to spit it out. 

That's how it worked last month.

It's not working that way anymore. 

There are people in the world with strategy, yet I have none.

Sunday hits after a weeks-long endeavor to recall a method long gone, only to find that every little sentence I can physically write about the knuckleheads at Columbia, suck, and I'm just the idiot chasing the blank flag.

But I see the lights fade like they do in pictures taken deep into the night. Swirling round’ and round’ me, and these caked makeup glossy rich big bright and beautiful faces from last Friday, kiss me and drag me down into the hellion sea the ferryman braces the waves under. I see the outlines of dancers, of people, of buildings all casted by gray and weird visions out beyond the reach of god, nearing devils roaring midnight hour. I feel the crisp burn of ash and tobacco on my lungs and the flow of salted barley wine down the back of my throat, I feel it again, again and again. Clunking next to me and this vivid view of her black shoes and her white socks, hiked high up her legs and the smell of stale cigarettes, in orange, in green, in blue light, all casted around the impending infinite darkness of a downtown sky. All faded round’ me these lights are, and so I am the swirling man on such a wild string of weekends. I feel. I feel these nights be the ones that would have kept me fueled for today behind the paper. 

but nothing. And that's okay.

 Chops…/500, roll em.

“In the first place, God made idiots. That was for practice. Then he made school boards.”

- Mark Twain

There are angels in New York, credence in expelling evil of the world, and a bunch of Americans who think they have the answers to it all.

The dawn of April 17th has caused for a great insurrection among the students at Columbia University. Amidst the lengthy year’s long conflict waged along the Gaza strip — a fortnight, and a massive and nasty righteous call. The main lawn of the university sits jam-packed with activists and Palestinian supporters, erecting tents to span the length of the field and signs to cover the wide variety of injustices that need be fixed. Loudly, contemptuously, and

angrily, these students demand the President of the University justify her stance against Palestine and do so with silver-bullet honesty in front of Congress.

While having the roots of some sit-in conjured by photographs of Washington during the Vietnam war, this protest seems to be nothing more than the ideas of activism poisoned with social image. The idea of this ‘Anti-Semitic’ rallying, according to The Post, is to freely express the ideas suppressed by the College’s council, who have repeatedly shut down the idea of turning Columbia University into Woodstock ’74.

On the sides of good and evil, right and wrong, Israel and Palestine, Columbia University and its student body have the red thumb of the world. Ready to stick up the ass of true injustice.

One could note the hypocrisy of the entire thing. Relying on the fact that a bunch of rich, soon-to-be branch managers and corporate drain heads have completely gone head-over about some place in the world you couldn’t pay em’ a million dollars to live in. Who mimic the ways of old activism only to be shown on the television as a novelty, a “Say Jerry, doesn’t this remind you of ‘72?” And who in mass, really only have about less than a dozen people who know what the fuck is going on in the joint.

That is also to mention the hypocrisy of the ‘Moral Barometer’ responsible for the whole freak out, being Columbia University’s council. The folks who have suppressed this imminent demonstration to its boil-over. Strangely enough, Columbia University sits in the echelon of schools with a majority liberal consensus, proudly, but isn’t allowing the press near the roaring

outcry.

“For every one conservative student, there are roughly 5.6 liberal students.”

- College Pulse, an article surveying the 2024 election.

The only fathomable explanation to all of this lies in the identity politics these two entities exist in. One, the student body, farther extreme, roots for the underling, and believes that big brother being the campus has gone beyond the constitutional law to zip, tape, and slap the mouths of its protestors. The other, the school, less extreme, roots on the side of its primary beneficiary, and sees the whole thing as bad press. Especially considering that the radical and moderates on the left side of the house haven’t agreed with each other since the whole 'Battle in the Desert' shebang kicked off.

Columbia University, now Super Bowl of world politics, is the weird and anxious terrarium of rich westerners.

 

• The  orthopedic oncologic surgeon  of 

Philadelphia, Pennsylvania. 

In any strange case concerning the beheading of fathers, mothers, relatives, and friends, a gruesome and twisted individual is to blame, carrying a forty-five millimeter political motive—packed six rounds and sights aimed. Any man capable of such animalistic acts, should indeed blame his incoherent mental suffering on the foundation’s his forefathers paved. In doing so, he encapsulates a majority of the less important insane-o, whackjob conspiracy theory, while tackling the small caveats in our diminished democracy left unturned. A man points his finger broadly at the government—yes,  but he has accurately predicted the trajectory of the bomb, due to drop, headfirst on America’s newspapers and the wild, waste-landic freedom of the press.

The man being Justin Mohn and the killing of his Army Father. 

There’s never a bright day in the virtue chase, in fact, America hasn’t seen a puppy-saving hero on the Sunday Morning in decades. This is the generation of shock, the scared, and horrified. Who love the show, who kill for it too. 

White picket, sports-talking Americans are dead, gratefully. Remaining are the evolved-from generational urchins who suck the living life out of the accessible media;

Television, paper, hearsay.  

As debatable as criticizing the ‘Informed American’ may be, the truth of the claim lies in the evolution advertising; Specifically to an audience so infatuated with it all—the harsh reality of how desperate for attention it has all become. 

The killer on television is the magnificent star to a lesser bloom of depraved American citizen, but in a morally gray sense. He is always accountable for his actions, which in this horrible sense could be the killing of man, but his story leaves a door wide open for the opinion, the movement, the enemy of it all. 

To consider the less invested viewer who chews and spits his popcorn at the sight of the nightly news replicating the staunch and graphic fiction he has consumed, the desensitized novices who only know bad news, and the folk among the same genus that really agree with the guy. Ripe around all edges for anyone who may turn the television on, made just that way for any viewer, and America just loves the shit. 

Critiquing the poorly tamed animal is wrong. Any man will tell you that his animal bites because he starved it, he yelled at it, and it sleeps outside. You cannot blame the animal. 

But in the case of the animal being the American, the man brought the animal inside and ate others of his kind in front of him. Telling him that the food was exactly to its shape, its figure, its resemblance to his kind, every night. 

After month’s worth of coming inside, hungry, to watch his owner do this, the animal eats his kind. As if it was normal to do so. The dog doesn’t bite, but he completely disregards the life of his kind. I blame the man who has done this to his animal. 

In pursuit of finding who the culprit is for exhibiting the cannibalistic behaviors of man, it is easily—and I mean easily discoverable by just turning the damn television on. It’s in most cases, the larger outlets exemplifying the hedonism; CNN, the Post, Time, but the small runtish local broadcast stations could be held just as accountable for greatly desensitizing the idiot. Formulaic is such a small way to explain the giant equations these seemingly small organizations push towards an audience. But the credit, where credit is due, is definitely not given to these lesser ranking organizations. These formulas come from bigger shouts, and this monkey-see-monkey-do way of garnering a viewer’s attention comes from the much bigger reactionary behaviors America has exhibited over the last three decades, to tragedy, to conflict, to shock. We as people turn the Television on, when tragedy has struck, almost as a defensive mechanism. But the highs of anger and embellishment September eleventh has given to America, don’t happen every day. They happen few and far between. Years, months, in fact. 

But with viewing polls like these, as an organization, why wouldn’t you make a September eleventh every week. 

“At the end of the night, Nielsen estimated that at least 80 million Americans watched the evening news.” 

So, watch the correspondents run for this specific story, to Justin, and this freaked out ‘Call-to-arms’  Like flies to shit, in a wild chase to exaggerate the thing beyond the eyes of god. Each report inflating the story tellfold, as ‘new’ and breaking details unearth. As if every instance of a substanceless interview is a complete disregard for the yellow tape on a fresh crime scene. This has been done, repeatedly, for the last several days without any hesitation on making the tragedy of the event—forefront, on any headline. Instead? The brash and nasty coverage of the entrails covering Justin’s home and his odd ramblings, as any man would spout after mutilating a living human being. 

The catch in the ambulance chasing game isn’t the death or the accident, it's the romance of the story, and how this week’s car accident or shooting varies so differently from last week’s. The viewer wants Dickens and you can only read David Copperfield so many times. 

Yet in today’s industrialized journalistic economy, the heaps of trash, credibly published, sit almost indistinguishable from one pile to the next. Believe me, it wouldn’t take you but five minutes to sort.  In doing just about the bare minimum examination on any three reports, a reader could be perfectly set in the nature of the story told by his locally trusted press. As in good faith, they could be telling the same true story, or they could be telling the exact fucking same story altogether.

Police said the more than 14-minute long YouTube video, titled "Mohn's Militia - Call to Arms for American Patriots," showed Justin Mohn picking up his father's decapitated head and identifying him by name. Police said it appeared Mohn was reading from a script as he railed about the government

Sharifa Jackson, 6abc Digital Staff, Corey Davis, and Walter Perezz 

Wednesday, January 31, 2024 3:47PM

 

 

 

Police said the more than 14-minute-long YouTube video, titled "Mohn's Militia - Call to Arms for American Patriots," showed Justin Mohn picking up his father's decapitated head and identifying him by name. Police said it appeared Mohn was reading from a script as he railed about the government.

David Goldman, CNN, CNNWire

Wednesday, January 31, 2024 9:35AM

Outlets hire one thousand freshly graduated and doomed journalists, a fiscal quarter, who adhere to the dark and rotten side of the mind that craves an illustrious killing and the storybook reasoning on why so. Explaining rat blowouts like these, where two of the fuckers walk away with the same bone. The absolute absurdity of the plagiarism issue going on at ‘6-ABC’  is definitely due to the fact that it has gone completely unnoticed and plenty of these hodunk, folks-y establishments catered to the morning news consumption, get away with it all the time. Not a single eye would bat at the sight of duplicates, but nobody’s checking and nobody cares – even if articles shamelessly label the authors, the collective and the journalistic publication. The Associated Press, an organization founded on the idea that journalistic works should be ripped, duped, and replicated to high hell, must be scratching their heads at phenomena like this. 

If a writer plays with the ideas of morality, expending them to his will, deciding who the villains and the heroes are, he has written fiction. Yet, if his story is chronicled manifold, he has written history.

 Charter man Jack and fishing on a Wednesday. 

Early is to rise on a Wednesday morning like today. The tide low, angular to the particular pattern of the wind, eyes sharp for the swimming prize—The ‘score’ the ‘get’

We press off the dock in stages, the first being the mettled wake breaking trot down the alley of the docks and once under the bridge, secondly, a cannon-like shoot off into the open domain. 

The waves are rough out here, the prawn surely feel it too. But this little fifteen foot boat equipped with a one-hundred and fifty horse power engine soars over just about any interrupting wave. 

It’s got its charm, fishing in this neck of the woods. Surrounded by this giant infrastructure of privatized home building, with two sixty year old men who have just about seen it all. Their gripes, complaints about the whole thing keep the trip interesting. These men are fishermen. 

This old log we ride on is not the fanciest boat in the harbor. But it carriers this confidence of some kind of Cop Boat or Pirate Sloop. Something ready to pounce on any pretentious little fuck that might be out here today, stealing the wake, the spot… the fish. 

It has its beauty though. It’s pearl white, minus kisses from the sea, and just big enough for a couple guys my size to make a decent fishing day out of. 

We cast into the bellies of the rich, right underneath the one million dollar boat. There are Snook here. They will bite. 

The spot hasn’t changed, it seems, potentially the land owner solely—Or the city entirely. 

But beckoned, the men ensure that they bite here like they had used to. Back in the seventies. When I’m sure all of this shit cluttered in and out of the water wasn’t here. 

But contrary to my view on it, I’ve felt big bites underneath the shade of the dock. Big ones that jerk you forward, laugh, and reassure your crew that you are after ‘em. 

 TIME TO LOOK ALIVE, GRAB IT BY THE THROAT

YOUR AMERICAN INSIGHT, DETRIMENTALLY,

MY DEAREST COUSIN.

In all great expanses, around the world in which we have so desperately traveled, I have found myself back in the cradle, the shit of the thing, Saint Petersburg Florida. The seemingly sundown villa of the world, surrounded by newer highrises and the despairingly lost fellowships. The world does not stop here, but in the timely manner that it does, would be completely contingent on the man you write about. The man desperate to voice his surroundings, a man so greatly impacted by where he will end up. 

May our rent be high, unreasonable, may our landlord be the one to sip dietary margaritas and wear polyester linings, but may we never let the newer age encompass our ability to see our world as we once knew it to be. The truth you harp, is what we know, never what we will know.

The air is thick, full of metals and sounds that do not resonate with you and I. In the weeks that I have been surrounded by the elaborate reconstruction of my home, I have grown angry at the complacency of our citizens. The folks that once yelled at the homeless for a quick look back and forth, and spit and drank for evening ball games. Morality of the herd relied on the independence of the man in the junked town, who fought for his home, his wage, his family. The lack of want for a gritty beachtown to remain a place where drinks cost sub-ten and parking didn’t require a third of an hourly wage, is more evident than ever, leaving a calling and reason to return. 

Lion’s Paw on Central Avenue is open from Wednesday to Saturday. Defying all ability to remain a rightfully open business. Its success is now contingent on the city's property tax, its traffic flow. Once a monument to the city; ran by an Armenian fashion junkie, is now the city's way of showing its regiment of tourists a good time halfway through the week. Encouraging the slow march of wallet-fulls and fat-asses to walk happily through the town, at certain hours, on certain days. The businesses all along central are faced with this fate, puppets of the city. Just a quirky little stop made for a resident with no idea of the historical significance of the small businesses that once made the city what it is. 

There’s your little thing to get mad at. 

                                          We’ll make it here. 

Jack.

 In strong favor of burning my W-2.

The endless war waged on the highway; Bumper-to-bumper, metal grinding, name-calling, middle-finger fucking, way to start the day. Loud engines, louder people with big and nasty faces ready at any moment to rip mouth to the ass of any human being behind the wheel. 

Drivers from all parts near southern San Diego jump early on metal tide, taking the surf roughly forty miles in no-time. Partly due to the fact that the speed limit is determined by the perpetrator and the course is determined by the hand of god and the fifty-fifty chance at death. 

Speeders, bikers, and racecar drivers heave and ho through the constantly changing traffic patterns. Changing lanes with haste and bravery, only to be found miles ahead squashed like a bug by the opposite in nature they challenge; The hyper unaware teenage driver. 

Throughout the Fifteen South, life, liberty, and the pursuit of making this month’s rent come to a crashing halt for the over zealous types and adrenaline addicts. 

So does this transportation, blood-thirsty fever junked up in every west coaster’s mind rival some kind of equally just and true force? The idea of gangs of White Knights ready to enforce law and spit and slay those who do such a disservice to tax-paying California citizens? The answers lie in the eyes of the beholder, unfortunately, with any case involving the California Penal Code of Justice. Any man could easily say that the gold medal Olympiad for traffic offenses goes to speeding; Yet any time 

I'm truly dug deep into the rat race, the only enforcing seen is between the law and the dead. 

Mailman brought the advertisements today. Between the ruck is paperwork from the state government, telling me I've gone way too fast. Worded so delicately, in the case I stick a straight face through reading the shit. Two hundred and twenty dollars for driving under the cameras, stuck above the lane free of the five-in-the-afternoon clutter, the one you’ve got to pay for.

And I’m guessing that this money I owe the IRS is for the speeding.

 

finding this was as if i had found a dead body in my closet. real and honest writing from the time that i truly thought i was going to hell for no reason. I like it. This remains completely unedited aside from a few spelling corrections.

 

june 24th 2022

I think the round edges of the glass table distracted me

And very few coffee table books to look at.

As my mind so desperately wanders away from the thought of eating. 

I stare at these passing people with opportunity to ask 

If they had any money. 

I’ve always had too much confidence for that. 

I’d sit here and starve before I ask a soul for 

Anything. 

But there’s a night,

I'm laying on my bed and all of this blood is coming from my thighs.

My dead eyes watch me. Watch my hands move autonomously. 

Like I was born to do this. 

The less I ate the more the blood would

Look more like blood. 

The vascularity of my veins would let it pour out

Faster on an empty stomach.

And my starch enemy was this fan blowing cold air all over my fresh cuts.

So work became this game,

Of how sad and hungry I could get 

Before I was surrounded by the ghosts and no-one 

In my home.

I was always snapping in and out consideration 

Of my health, and if the scissors really hurt.

But it was never worth debating for too long. 

I’d always prove myself wrong.

And I was so hungry,

And I was soaked 

Until euphoria allowed me to see you-bring me

Towels and food, walking to me, greeting me.

But I’d just woken up on Thursday morning.