/////THE NEWS/////////

February 2, 2010 // Costa Mesa, Calif.

The book I've written "everything about you was cute until you wouldn't fuck me anymore" is available for purchase on the shop page. CLICK HERE. I will also have some new shirts for purchase real soon! Broadcast these words...

Feeling better after being sick for almost two weeks. Probably longer... Smoking doesn't help but I'm addicted right now and really need to quit or be a victim of the obsession. Life is turning into new meanings and new things are taking shape. Some of it is unknown, in fact, all of it is because everytime I try to force my will upon anything it never works out the way I think it should so I've stopped fighting; I need to keep writing. The natural manifestation of things is in order, anything else is a farce.

/////FEATURED/////////

// Joel Bones // T. Dunaway // Martin Narrod // Jason Christopher

Share

Currently reading: Big Sur by Jack Kerouac & Tropic of Capricorn by Henry Miller.

Scroll down for the Nancy Spungen article with photos.

Music Page // Featured Band: Chron Gen. And killer links to some great Punk Rock Blogspots!! Make sure to check it out and get some of the best old school punk rock & HxC downloads ever!

Pinkel Biscuit Limited has released the HFL Discography on two CD's. 50 Songs total. Both CD's are available Exclusively at The Electric Chair in Huntington Beach. The CD's are also available on the shop page here at joelhendricks.com. ONLY $6 BUCKS EACH!! Pinkel Biscuit Limited will be releasing the infuse 6 song EP from 1999 within the next few weeks. For more info and music from Pinkel Biscuit Limited Click Here.

Sincerely, Joel Bull

JASON CHRISTOPHER

Jason Christopher is my favorite writer as far as a person I know and hangout with. All the other writers that I love are dead. I've been publishing Jason's words since I met him on myspace a few years back. His words are how we met. Or should I say that it was "one word" that got the ball rolling. Jason has a lot to say and what he says has a dark sense of humor in the vein of John Fante mixed with Bill Burr. What he conveys is the truth and I love it when people can't handle the pure and simple yet complex truth!

Click the link below for Jason's new blogspot.

Bleeding Internally Since 1971

Martin Narrod // Writer // Poet // Enthusiast

So I think this is the poem I wrote after reading your book for the first time(I still haven't ordered it, I don't have a credit card-I don't like them, so I'm not sure when I'll make it happen) I think, I enjoy this style and dabble in it. This is not the best thing I've written in this style but I do think it's the first. It's from a collection of poems I'm calling 28 Days of June, it's one of three books I have finished and would like to publish. I hope you enjoy seeing your book as an inspired poem.

6 5 07

there is some heat-stroke anxiety. maybe a typhoid drip or a fare flare flushing of larengitis. damn buzzards swarming my TB lips and cholera tongue. a bit of lethargy on my oak satirical drawings of labratory rats and carpet tunnel Picasso paintings. all vomited on the mind like a Pollack Bukkake, this turmoil is, arousing-sexual in nature and at the same, "time", organically displeasing. Wander here her. please. rapture and satiate, satisfy this Arizona pharma-neurosis dose of spiritual, physical, depleted disposition, the resistance all from Division Western to Foster Sheridan, Logan Square to Dempsters Chicago. Crumbling under Dextromethorphan rain and burning. witch, I might add is mathematically ungratifying. Hoarse yet tranquilly abhorred by carcinogens and Elliott Smith, bi-polar disorder and the Manson family, and Escapism and Afro-Cubano rock.
My sweatpants are laughing hysterically, the 70's lead has just come on stage looking for his love interest, the audience is vacant for the shoot, so he takes five for Brubeck, sits tight for playgrounds, and grazes over the lines on the white posterboards, losing himself in the I's and Do It's. Hysterically laughing, Posterboard, and a Scrabble game piece, a sandbox cement trap for teen idols worshipping beach side paradi.

I'm building an art empire. Oil on slick canvas, sheik wood. Where is that palate? Learning taste before texture. Imprematura, an ex- I no longer call. Before I make it big, I have to sweat out all the small stuff that's stagnant and maintainss frusterating combustibility. Work = a four-letter word. A forward motion caught in the rip tide. Tea kettle question marks finished in the thinkable. Having one, getting up to do so...Traditional Medicinals, mmmh. Throat coat life culture, petri-dish development, I'm rotating Chicago like a Jewish Satellite taking photographs with my sex drive and running off the road.

I talked you up Clockward Face, a working name? Perhaps. More a breast implant with closed eyes, forced to neglect, and a personal need for the approval of my peers. Red, Red with envy, and Blacked Out with rage. Angry sunshine, blew me off for a sailors morn. Where is my Homeland Flag, radio broadcast, and Symbolic day-time television weather interruption? Forgot about me?

DVD's writing a scripted life, I abort the frequency and speak in syllabic cultural affairs of the Time.

Man made wind running a cleansing gammit on the other side of the world, still Chinamen and cross walk, lights white in the glare I've put over the wants and revocations and ignorant naivite. Scratch and Sniff. Floaters float on, I'll see you later.

I'm still a dictionary junkie, but my hieroglyphic voice isn't heard here, talking about, the evening parambulations, brain excrement, and public miturations interest fewer and fewer. Where in the world is Carmen Sandiego?

I bless council for my personal effects: running, merit, energy, and breathing. Sleep soon to come, authentic reparations for the morals of the day.

He had one leg in a sling until he road his bike away, before hand I looked away, and I just lost the game, but no one to tell.

Whistling relief
to spare off the
boil order on the
ordinance, the
sounds are
crisp, redolent
roises, eccentric
Bar Mitzvah
inmates
and bedtime
Blondes and cell phone Leukemia, movie stars
and family trees
sittting face down with my head between my knees.

Contact Martin on Facebook

Gold Rush Tattoo Shop in Costa Mesa, California is host to some of the best tattoo artist in Southern California! When I got my first tattoo in 1985 at Twilight Fantasy in Anaheim, that was one of three tattoo shops in Orange County at that time. I soon found Goodtime Charlie's Tattooland and thus began my life long journey of getting tattooed. My second tattoo was from Jack Rudy, the third was from Mark Mahoney, and Mike Brown has tattooed me quite a bit. Fast forward to 2009. Gold Rush Tattoo is the place to go if you want quality ink! Every artist at Gold Rush is top notch! Joel Bones is working on completing my left arm and I couldn't be more stoked on what he is doing. His work is amazing!! Not to mention we went to highschool together; life long friends still here to tell the tale. Click the pics to access Gold Rush Tattoo.

From the time of her arrival in New York, Nancy used drugs to meet musicians. “She was blatantly honest about it: She bought drugs for the bands,” Polk says. “She was honest about being a prostitute as well, which I thought was refreshing. The punk scene, like any other scene, had its little hierarchies. There were groupies that had been around for a long time because of their looks. In order to be a groupie you had to be tall and skinny and have fashionable clothes. There were a bunch of girls like that on the scene. And then here comes Nancy. She’s not trying to be cute or charming. She wasn’t telling people she was a model or a dancer. She had mousy brown hair and she was a bit overweight. She basically said, ‘Yeah, I’m a prostitute, and I don’t care.’ ”
But Nancy was too extreme even for a movement centered on extremeness, and she never gained the acceptance she craved; she was an outcast among outcasts, nicknamed “Nauseating Nancy” behind her back. “It was jealousy,” says Roberta Bayley, who worked the door at CBGB. “There’s no more competitive thing than who can fuck these musicians. Maybe Pamela Des Barres tells the story of female solidarity, but there was a lot of backstabbing.” According to Polk, “The other girls shunned her and were mean to her. And that made Nancy worse. She became vengeful. She kind of reacted to them putting her down by doing even worse things. The only people who didn’t shun her were the guys that were getting drugs from her.”
By the spring of 1977, Nancy had “worn out her welcome,” says former Dead Boys guitarist Cheetah Chrome. She took off for London, following Heartbreakers Johnny Thunders and Jerry Nolan, but even her reliable targets were tiring of her. London scenester Bebe Buell says Nolan (who died in ’92) tried to shake Nancy: “I remember Jerry saying to me, ‘If this chick Nancy Spungen tries to find me, please don’t tell her where I’m staying.’ He was trying to dodge the bullet.”
Then Nancy found her twisted Romeo. Working-class, musically challenged, highly impressionable, and enamored of the New York punk scene, Sid Vicious was the bass player for the biggest band in England, and already the walking epitome of punk nihilism. “If Rotten is the voice of punk, then Vicious is the attitude,” Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren famously decreed. Both knew no limits. Photographer Bob Gruen accompanied the Pistols on their U.S. tour. “I remember talking to Sid on the bus, and he really seemed to care for her,” Gruen says. “He didn’t have any anger or hatred toward her. Sid very much loved Nancy. They seemed to communicate and connect.”
“I was there in a club when some girl offered Sid her number,” says Victor Colicchio. “Nancy said, ‘Push her down the stairs.’ And he did. He was a knight in rusty armor.”
But the Pistols broke up at the end of their American tour. Back in London, Sid attempted a solo career, with Nancy now calling herself his manager; by the end of August 1978, they returned to New York, moving into the Chelsea Hotel. “When she came back with Sid, it was like she had triumphed,” says Polk. “She had shown everybody that she really had what it took to become this famous groupie. Some people were outraged by it. They just couldn’t believe that she had succeeded in her quest.”
Victor Colicchio, an actor, screenwriter (Summer of Sam), and member of a short-lived seventies band called the Dead Squirrels, also lived at the Chelsea. He saw Nancy’s good side, despite her spiraling drug problem. “She was highly intelligent and very aware,” he says. “She could spot someone conning her a mile away. She had good insight into people. She was aware of phonies and fakes and users. She did display that wild, crazed behavior, but it wasn’t her total being. I saw both men and women pushing past her, not acknowledging her, talking to Sid. I think a lot of her nastiness and temper tantrums were rooted in that. I was there one night in a club where some girl offered Sid her number. Nancy said, ‘Push her down the stairs.’ And he did, without a second thought. He was a knight in rusty armor.”
By this time, the drugs were taking over. There’s a famous clip of Sid and Nancy from the 1980 documentary D.O.A. Sid’s nodding off, and Nancy’s snapping at him to wake up. “They’re like the Honeymooners,” says Roberta Bayley: “ ‘Wake up, you knucklehead! We’re on TV!’ It’s so sad, it’s funny.” Even the hard-core drug users began to avoid them. “Sid and Nancy as a couple were going down the toilet, and everybody could see it,” says Television guitarist Richard Lloyd. “To hang out with Nancy and Sid was to make a grievous mistake for your own health. I took lethal doses of everything known. You couldn’t call the kettle black. Mine was jaw-droppingly black. But I’m still here. They’re not.”

if i could
for all i would
give to live
i should.

live a little
give my all
try the cobbler
see the peach, in the picture, on the wall.

my friend John said, "man, don't you wonder how i do each day?"
"don't you ever wonder when im low, how full of wonder, it is to see
the color, in the Cosmos flowers, that grow on the patio."

Yeah, john. i wonder how you can drink like i do and still
go to work!? and i don't give a shit! that your old man always said: "you get up each day, wipe your ass and go eat life!" this fucking booze is killing me. Im not eating, wiping anything, or living any kind of life. Lisa, my last sober friend, said today--"you gotta go Tommy. "I love you too much to watch you die like this."

i got out of the car, and watched, as her tail lights disappeared around the corner. she was gone.
i pulled the half pint out of my breast pocket and wanted to break it on the ground, but i didn't;
i needed it. i guess i needed it more than i needed Lisa.

that night i had this dream, where i was standing in a garden. the soil was sandy; i was near the ocean.
a woman was planting this and that; flowers and herbs. as she was digging, she pulled some sea shells up in her hand; they were shells that her child-- her dead teenage son, who was killed recently in an accident-- had put there when he was younger. they would work together in the garden, when he was a very little boy, but he never would plant seeds. he would always play a pirate, and bury the shells like they were treasure.

now, she likes to spend hours with her hands in the soil. where he has gone, because it makes her feel close to him. she began to cry. it was like her whole body was crying. i had this feeling that she was younger than her eye's looked; that nothing can take away what happens to eyes that have seen too much.

then i awoke, or someone like me.

suddenly, i remembered the girl that i loved.
and, how i loved her even more, when she shut the door.
how i took the hit. i burned it all.

just once you told the truth whole.
i watched you sell your soul.
priceless, youth.

then, i awoke.

t. dunaway

words: joel bull // photo: Kamie Kovacks (inside City Lights Books SF)

JoJo the Great

written by John St. Laurent

JoJo was a magician.
Or at least, that’s what he wanted to be.
You see, JoJo wasn’t very good.
But he tried.
It made him happy.
He bought books on slight of hand.
Tapes showing the secrets of the pros.
But nothing seemed to help JoJo get any better.
Everyone told JoJo he was too big to be a magician.
They told him he had no finesse.
No grace.
They told him magicians had to be smooth as ice.
JoJo was not smooth as ice.
His shoulders were too broad.
His belly too round.
His fingers were too thick
He wasn’t double jointed.
And as much as he tried, he could never fit into that tuxedo.
But that wouldn’t stop him.
No mater how many hours he practiced in his dank basement, he still couldn’t shuffle a deck.
He couldn’t make the ball disappear under the cup.
The dove would never fly out from under his sleeve.
JoJo was about to give up.
Maybe everyone was right?
Maybe magic really wasn’t for him?
But then it hit him!
He realized what it was that made a magician truly great!
It wasn’t a winning smile.
It wasn’t a sparkle in the eye.
It wasn’t a sharp out fit, or a snappy sound and light show.

It was an assistant!

So JoJo went out into the night.
Then returned 3 hours later with an assistant.
He took her down into the basement and set her down on a chair.
She was bound and gagged but you needed to be theatrical.
Secrets of the Greats which he purchased mail order for $19.99 taught him that.
It wasn’t what the trick, but how you performed it that mattered.
JoJo went into his closet of tricks and removed his Magical Wicker Basket of Persia.
He set it in the center of the room. Directly under the yellow spot light that hung from a chain.
He straightened his bow tie, tightened his slightly stained gloves, and bowed to his audience.
He removed the lid of the basket with flair and intent.
And grinned a grin which made his assistant flush.
He picked her up, placed her inside and replaced the lid.
He spun the basket around.
Once...
Twice...
Thrice.
So that the audience knew it was no trick.
With a “SLING!” and a “SHING” he drew forth the six sabers.
He feigned cutting his finger on the tip which was customary.
He banged them together to prove their mettle.
He closed his eyes, focused hard, and drove the first blade through.
It slipped in easier than expected.
Smooth as ice.
As did the second and third blade, till all were securely piercing the basket.
As custom dictated he repeated by turning the basket around.
Once...
Twice...
Thrice.
And with all the excitement of a child at Christmas, he removed the lid, for all to see.
Arms raised in triumph, he closed his eyes and smiled.

But heard no applause.

He held his breath thinking the sheer impressiveness of JoJo’s feat had stunned them silent.
But time passed.
Still no applause.
JoJo cracked an eye and looked down into the basket...

JoJo went into the backyard and placed his assistant next to all the doves and rabbits that didn’t work anymore either.
It wasn’t my fault they weren’t magical, JoJo thought.
At least I’m good at making things disappear in other ways, he thought.
Shuffling he feet back into the house, he sat down, and picked up another magic book.
Maybe they're right, he thought.
Maybe magic wasn’t really for him.
“No.”
“I’ll just have to keep auditioning, to find the right assistant. “

Contact John St. Laurent // facebook

new moon in scorpio and them crooked vultures.

From The Diary of a Hollywood Mixtress

written by

THE LITTLE RED WRITER

my astral body is bleeding from the abdomen. my etheric ears burdened with the caterwaul of an army of spirits anxious to incarnate through my vessel. my tubes are tied by the illconcieved clamp and pinch of father time. my womb is not barren, but encumbered with the burn of an artists desire. my soul cries in a rubicund flood from my sacral chakra. a crimson flow in my auric field, the trail of tears left by an aborted life force. my head teeming with projects unmanifested. tadpoles of genius. larval neuro-hodgepodge. leftovers harvested from the realms of otherworldly vision. my mind swollen, mental maggot fest, pregnant and bustling with idea zygotes eager for material substantiation. they tango with electrical currents firing wildly off the walls in my cranial carapace. I curse my criminal hands! servile accomplices, aiding and abetting the insatiable felon who burglarizes my psychic goldmine. the unkempt animal aspect, addicted and lascivious, it's fat gorilla ass brazenly encroaching on the throne of my conscious attention. oh sweet luminary brain fairies incubate in my gray matter, tackle that molester of sanity, tickle my dendrites and come in orgasmic waves of epiphany! I invoke them, and those industrious do-gooders of light, they come. they gestate in my otherwise mortal mentation, and they expect that in effect I'll bear fruit from the inspiration. I must ignite their spark and extend their elevation, I must create something... but I backslide on my end of the bargain. I hoard stockpiles of unexpressed potential. the guilt of each lapse in integrity weighs heavy. everything I write is a seed spewn forth that now has a chance to inhabit, grow, and spearhead it's idiomatic lineage in the forever burgeoning crop of consciousness. giving life to the otherwise lost thoughts I'd drown in. each time I ignore the paroxysm of insight is a slight. each act of inauthenticity a stab at the embodiment of wholeness; an insult to the wisdom of my spirit. my vitality pours from these energetic lacerations. a slow death by a thousand scratches.

I'm calling back my soul from every mission embarked upon illegitimately; from every action coerced by anothers desires. I'm reclaiming every moment of truth I've cashed in and the power sacrificed to console anothers insecurity. I'm giving a bullhorn to each honest impulse abandoned to appease a man. forgiving the lies my skin has shared with other bodies; the forced affection in fear of abandonment; each day spent in treason against my true will; every unspoken word to avoid opposition. I'm unfolding the repressed blueprint and design of my higher self. I'm gathering the dispersed fragments of essence from every senseless egoistic exploit. clearing the haze of denial from my sight. freeing my feather light mind from the tethers of self denigration. reclaiming each piece of my heart ever compromised. apologizing to every instinct stifled to conform to the majority. I'm evoking my rights to immortality.

I usually spend the new moon evenings at an all-girls gathering where we smudge each other with sage, make prayer sticks, talk about the power the divine feminine and menstruation, and squat over a clay pot blowing smoke up our twats. these "new-edge" urban goddesses come outfitted in long flowing skirts and adorned in handmade jewelry. we indulge in home brewed kombucha and graze on a vegetarian pot-luck buffet. no boys and no alcohol allowed, but for the after hours sometimes the ladies toke it up a bit before calling it quits. this most recent new moon I opted to go to a concert at the roxy in hollywood with a friend instead. I wore furry rainbow leggings, neon yellow ruffle shorts, a glitter micro-mesh top depicting a screen printed head-shot of joseph stalin with "party animal" spelled out in rhinestones, and of course: metallic uni-lense reflector glasses. I also took my new pet rock, an apophyllite cluster gifted to me by jimmy b (the "mad wizard" of downtowns visionary artist movement). I clasped the crystal securely in my fist and massaged it's most salient stone feature as I danced and drank whiskey. the music was acoustic magic, but a good rock show just isn't enough to stimulate the sensory deficit angelinos and melomaniacs. almost every event in hollywood is a covert coke bash. people were tooting all over the place. I don't know who it was exactly, but I do know "coke- fart" when I smell it, that unmistakable scent of warm anal eruct, the foul ass breath of diarhettic gut rot.

after the semi-exclusive "after party" in an upstairs room with a dj and bar, my friend and I sojourned back through laurel canyon to noho where we jointly revealed our scorpio new moon intentions then disrobed of our falsely assumed selves. I dared my raw eye to look squarely into the face of such gentle candor, reveling in newness and vulnerability. we melted ice sculptures impeding our heart space, then built a t.h.c. infused blanket igloo and played like pubescent seamonkeys in an erotic petting zoo.

rudkis.

one individual

making many

moves...

HEK ONE // TATTOO ARTIST

Hek is a tattoo artist working out of HB Tattoo in Huntington Beach, California. Born in Los Angeles, wandered the states in his youth, then settled into Chino, California before making his way to Huntington Beach in 1995. Hek began his apprenticeship at HB Tattoo in 1999 and finished in 2001 where he still slings ink to this day. Hek is the one who tattooed the MC 59 on my fingers. He just touched them up last night, the day before what would have been Mike Conley's 50th birthday. He knows how much this tattoo means to me and told me so in an email this morning. For that, I am forever grateful! Friendships do not grow on trees... Hek is the real deal! A great tattoo artist, friend, father, husband, and hardcore Bad Brains enthusiast! Check out his website and if you need some ink, hit him up at HB Tattoo! Thanks Hek!!

HEKTATTOO.COM

HBTATTOO.COM

November 4, 2009 // Balboa Island, California:

Today was emotional, beautiful, celebratory. My girlfriend and I went to Balboa Island to have a picnic. I parked the car, then we walked out on the dock and sat down on a wooden bench facing each other... From a white plastic bag in her hand she pulled out a framed picture of Mike Conley, and a framed picture of her father, John Kovacks. She stood them both on the handrail next to us. It was a complete surprise, one I will never, ever, forget! We were having a picnic, all four of us! I started crying... Tears of sadness, joy, and elations... Nothing else mattered as we extolled two lives that mean so much to us... One of the best days of my life so far... Even with the losses, there is so much to be gained... John's bday is Nov. 5th & Mike's is Nov. 6th. Happy birthday to the both of you!! And thank you Kamie for being such an amazing woman, girlfriend, friend, and shining star in my life!! You are truly adored & Loved!!

diary of a hollywood mixtress

written by

The Little Red Writer

061809

I'm so full right now. full of homemade vegetable puree. full of south australian layer cake shiraz spiked soliloquies. immured by my best friend/worst enemy, my own mind. I must empty now before I explode! I must purge the pother of ebullient mentations. I must type NOW! I conjure the voice of the lychnobite mixtress:

if comfort food was hard grape juice it would be layer cake shiraz. this wine is my current idee fixe. I jones for it! I'm quaffing the last quarter bottle of it as I stare into the laser laptop glare...

henry miller is known to have said "write drunk, revise sober". most would attest to millers genius. the problem with this transcriptive practice is it's a bit antediluvian, having been stated before the advent of the internet. I often write drunk in the middle of the night and wake to find it all posted up on social networking sites and e-mailed to members of my coterie before I've soberly revised it.

I'm sore today after having worked a pretty wild shift last night. three bands played, but I thought the opening two were way better than the headliner. one of the members of the first band, drew, I happen to know from back in the day when I was actively into "electroclash". he has always swung more on the "mod" side of style, but superficial differences aside: we all frequented many of the same hollywood hotspots catering to "counter-culture". my friend danielle was casually hooking up with his mate max. max, drew and I all had honda metropolitans (a petite two tone 50 cc scooter modeled after the vintage vespas). they both had matching sky (light blue/white) colored models, while mine was in salsa (candy red/white). I saw drews scoot parked out in front of the club when I pulled up. as much as I loved my metro, I'm glad to say I've upgraded to the buddy black jack, a matt black 150 cc hellion. it's faster. ha ha! beep beep! vroom vroom! buh bye! but in all this reminiscing I digress... so I have this nasty discoloration all up and down my legs. physically measuring in full grown at a modest 4'11 and existing in a land of giants, I learned young to adapt. when unable to fly, climb. so without hesitation I use my arms to catapult me all over the counters and shelves to reach for the top-shelf liquors. with nimble and catlike reflexes I pounce and purple my knees. luckily break-dancing in high school conditioned me well for just this (the bruising and the odd contortions I'll contrive to make a cocktail). sometimes, while out and off the clock, when the flooring be permitting and coupled with a proper buzz (so my inhibitions are happily at bay) I'll shock fellow party-goers with a head-spin. yes a head-spin. singular. it's a disgrace to the consecutive three circumnavigations I could bust in my heyday, but even one head-spin is more than the average drunkard can pull off. although, any dancer who knows they're stuff wouldn't be impressed. if I could see myself through the eyes of my own previous teen incarnation, even I would scoff at the sad display and mourn the death of my forgone talent. which brings me to the another recent theme of fixation: what the hell am I doing with my life? will I remember this moment ten years from now in a moment of pain stricken nostalgia, asking myself the very same question as I compete with the rotting architecture of some old bar in LA for recognition as a historic landmark?

I'm almost twenty eight, I'm sitting up late at night drinking wine by myself boasting on this damned blog site about the fact that I can spin on my head. like, that's a major accomplishment and I'm not even that great at it. I spend many a-night assisting the willfully myopic in escapist habits. I spend my days obsessing over how I'm gonna make my way in the world. this is why most people opt out of the whole "create your own path" thing and just get a BA in business and sign on to a life of wage slavery. that's why on the eighth day god created firewater. after he was all rested up, bored with the duties of cosmic paternity and grafting ribs from adam, he distilled his fermented manna mash and put it in a snifter. then he just sat around in a dimly lit outhouse behind an ashram, sippin' n' shootin' the shit with shiva...until he blacked out. aside from genesis and excerpts here and there, I haven't read much of our mighty fathers holy scripture. but from what I gather, the old testament doesn't tell you much about the eighth day. and neither does the new testament for that matter. because both of them are antiquated, chauvinistic and censored. this is the contemporary testament, the continuation, the new story! the post-industrial/post-civil rights/post-post modern version...

ah fuck it! I'll settle for the rest of this layer cake and leave doctrine to the straight laced and those who have masters degrees. that's why god created me, to get all of them drunk. but I'm the one who's drunk now. henry miller would be proud.

Contact // TheLittleRedWriter

OBLIVION

From 'Solace'

by

Jason Thornberry

I awakened in slow motion from the mouth of a colossal void that was bigger than me, bigger than the hospital, and bigger than God, who didn’t dare visit while I lingered near death, procrastinating in oblivion. In fact, God was simply much too busy to call on any of the one hundred and twenty days that I lay in two hospitals. My coma was my own. But it was nothing like the Hollywood depiction of a prolonged unconsciousness. There was no bright light; no armies of violins or cosmic tunnels to emerge from like a newborn.
There was nothing.
St. Mary’s Medical Hospital in Long Beach, where the ambulance delivered me, was not unlike a waking dream – suspended in gelatin, hands floating, body pinwheeling slowly, the words of the doctors just stopping short of the layer of gauze and bandages. An astronaut hanging in space at the end of a cord, I heard the term “Brain Injury”. I heard about my brain stem; how I was beaten and kicked. None of it made sense. What was this name that they kept repeating?
In movies the coma is fulgurous and picturesque – as if the mind in this state is forever remembering. Skeletons peek, old lovers beckon from the hallway, long dead friends remind you of promises as people crowd your bed, their hands together in prayer (even the atheists). Movies treat comas like long naps. The movie coma is an ocean of memories; a long list of I should haves and I could haves. I’ve read about near death experiences in Readers Digest. They weren’t even close. My own near death experience was pitch black. I was an unperson – matter reacting imperspicuously to the wave of medications sent to various places in my body. And when I did open my eyes I went from dead to half dead.  But on the screen they come out of comas as though they’re awakening in an exotic time zone.
I opened my eyes – a bit, a fraction of a centimeter, hardly at all – eight days into my hospitalization, but wasn’t aware of the people around me for more than a month. Minimally conscious. Someone began aiming a flashlight into the crusty slits to check for a response and put saline drops in that kept them from getting dry. My mother talked to me, she touched my face, she brought my stereo in and blasted music. She played cds of the different groups that I had performed with; she invited my friends and encouraged them to talk to me as well. Anything she could. And she kept her own journal of the early part of my hospitalization, just after I technically “awoke”. She maintained a daytime vigil, put her job on hold and told her bosses that she’d be back whenever it was possible. Mum worked as a medical transcriptionist. Her employers understood how serious my case was. She didn’t know when or even if I would be all right, but that didn’t stop her from showing up every morning and leaving only to go home, make dinner for my stepfather and get a bit of rest. A legal pad was on a table next to where I lay, semiconscious, but usually consigned to the arms of Morpheus. Though she encouraged my visitors to write in it, nearly all of the entries were hers.

Copyright 2008 Jason Thornberry

Contact Jason Thornberry: myspace // facebook

sExuAl eXpReSSioN

written by

Sarah Dalton

Sex... in itself its a simple basic act.

Biologically, sex is a procreative function for survival and transcends species to species. Going beyond sex as a primary reproductive act is what differentiates humans and animals. Sex then develops a level of depth and thus becomes a mode of expression as it is individually motivated. Sex is interesting as it not only physically releases but it intertwines that with a mental and emotional release. External actions are exhibitions of the internal mind. As a basic biological function, it serves outside of its original purpose and has accessibility to internal thought... infusing it with various meaning. In fact, sexual expression can offer the most obvious cues of an individual.

Transcending expression through the act of sex can be a result of many factors. Sex, while basic, then becomes complex and it seems humans are drawn to complexity. On one end, it can provide a physical reenactment of emotion and feeling, derived from love and affection. It can also provide an outlet of release that is otherwise wrapped in another mental storage. How one expresses themselves through sex is colored by one's view on sex. It can either stem from an innate view (governed by ones natural personality), or a nurtured view (either through continuous outside influences or personal experiences). It could also be a conflict of the two.

Traditionally, sex is an expression of love between two individuals. An intimate connection that exhibits a physical action infused with feeling and emotion. Sex transcends far beyond this ideal and varies person to person. In contrast to expressing a closeness with another, it can also express independence and freedom. Promiscuity can display independence from emotion and commitment. It can serve as one's ability to conquer desires and needs without having to give emotion in return as it serves a sense of sexual freedom. A variety of partners adds to curiosity and adventure, an excitement that committal sex may not offer. Rebellion can also transcend through sexual expression. As a passive way to break society's implied rules, it can allow one to go against the majority's view of sexual intention and serve as one's way of fitting into the labeled "trouble maker", either in the choice of partner.. or the number of partners.

Self esteem and personal views also pour into sexual expression. It can display a sense of confidence as sex appeal becomes a desirable and sought out facade. Coming across as an ideal and object can reflect one's inner view on how they feel or what they would like to become. It can also reflect a need of being desired and wanted as it then counter-balances a poor personal view as they identify with their personal worth through sexual availability. It also seems those who are highly sexual often have a heightened need for expression... utilizing sex as a physical venue. A need for control can be expressed as sexual domination releases a sense of losing control in daily life... and same for submissive sex. Allowing another to relieve someone of control sexually can balance the level of control in their daily life.

Sexual expression varies person to person and can also vary within one individual. Often it seems that sexual phases run parallel with other phases within one's life. Sex is a popular venue for expression as it not only releases mentally... but the physical payoff adds to the euphoria and power sex can hold.

Sex. A basic biological function... until its broken down and infused with emotional complexity.

Contacting Sarah Dalton: BlogSpot // facebook

Samantha Ashli

Back for round two... I sit, watching you-tube provide a nesting place for disturbing behavior...one in peticular: a group of "adult men" have taught a five or six year old boy words like "stupid jew, fuck, and niggar" so, for your viewing pleasure, while they poke him with a long pole, he screams the hateful verbage without a clue as to what it means, simply imitating the only human interaction he knows. Maybe you've seen it...if you haven't, indulge. It's free, It's available from the comfort of your own home, or I can leave you a message on Myspace, Facebook or Twitter, you'll recieve the message through your Iphone, and immediately hit up the Safari to access...you can readily view our "freedom of mass media" from anywhere in the world, for a fee of course.

There will be a fee to activate the service of your iphone, a fee to access the internet, a one time fee for the download, a fee for looking at the content, a fee to stop looking at the content, and a long automated system before you can dispute any of those charges...but we're all willing to pay right?

I am disgusted, but not upset with the United States government. I think it's about time we asked ourselves who's fault is it really? Can we keep blaming the government, pushing all the guilt towards federally funded nouns?

I don't think so.

I do, however, ponder if it is even remotely plausible that I would ever bring another being into this existence, is it even humane that we still breed?

I interact daily with media violence, but to spank our children constitutes for a government agency to come knocking at the door with a word from a "witness" who happens to be your next-door-neighbor, you remember, the one that wanted to borrow the grill last August but it was in the back of the garage, and you just didn't feel like pulling it out...yeah. that one. No worries though, spanking won't be necessary after his third grade teacher determines he has ADHD and recommends he see a doctor. Timmy has been acting up alot lately, and with those long hours we all work it's getting harder and harder to tell if it's "normal".

Dr. Smith thinks it would be best if they run some tests, so the appointment is made (for a fee) but the clinic is reputable. Timmy is taken into a room. He will be asked a series of questions, but you aren't allowed. The results could be forfeited if you are present, so for an hour you wait.

Precious life clicking away, because your child has trouble concentrating on math on seventy degree days, or doesn't have the appropriate human interaction skills since he spends most afternoons alone at home, while you work those extra hours to pay for the cable, or maybe the third grade teacher was a "C" student in college, and doesn't have the capacity to communicate decimals, fractions, or division with the class, so your son wonders off as she stammers around for hours at a time.

ADHD medicine permanently alters the function of the human brain. The research needed to make this life-changing decision is underestimated, and unknown by most in our society. We know Susan's children take the medicine, and matter of fact, so does Brian from work, didn't they show something on CNN about ADHD medication and its widespread usage? Life is life I suppose, so at the end of the day you can pick up his prescription at your local Wal-Mart, or maybe you'd like it shipped to your home. Timmy's original personality substituted with a daily pill, he continues taking his medicine until he is fourteen or so, and then he can start selling it to his friends or maybe the neighbor to pay for the cable.

I am not willing to be a part of the vicious cycle of that meaningless life. To reproduce knowing that the only means of survival in modern American culture is for the ability to buy some endorsed version of basic nutrition or shelter. I am not about to accomodate conglomerate corporations exploiting a universal symbol of peace, and making millions of dollars MONTHLY, who feel that they have no need to ever lift a finger to help solve world issues...don't believe it? Try to buy something without a peace sign marking.

You are the consumer, YOU have the power. If you refuse to pay the fee, then the company has no power to charge it. If you refuse to watch the gore, the company has no power to broadcast. Stop pulling out your wallet to sponsor corporate bullshit, and there will be none. We are by choice, uneducated, dispassionate, impervious, unemotional, soulless drones...until we realize that, we can continue to charge carelessly into our graves one wholesale item at a time.

+++++++++++++

Story #1: I like to think that I was aborted from the seventies into the nineties. I am a forty year old lady, about to be divorced, fortunate enough to get stuck in a twenty year old body. My relationship was working out great when it was a constant trainwreck of drug use, backed by poverty, and fueled by teenage drama. My spouse has now joined the ranks of Uncle Sam, and we moved from the midwest to Cali, everything fell apart almost as soon as we hit the state line. I would someday like to claim more education, because as it stands I hate our society, our disgusting culture and our corrupt government. Not to mention the bullshit of daily activity which generally constitutes for a decent looking dead end job, allowing you enough money to demand middle class. That way, when you can get home, you can flip off your shoes and flop down onto your $400 IKEA couch to watch your 780 channels of digital, surround sound, xxL, flat screen, touch screen, LCD TV. Channels romanticizing murder, preaching gore and purging descriptive violence until you are perfectly desensitized, all the while consuming blinding amounts of precooked, prefrozen, microwaveable, saturated fat.

People think if we buy everything in the Sears Catalog our lives will be complete, and then wonder why we wake up every morning taking two Tylenol and heading off to another day at a job we hate. Families make a decent living but don't feel adequate because we all know how they need to keep up with their kids classmates, the neighbor, and everyone else in this numbing game of who's who. These people really do find happiness in tangible items instead of actually experiencing life...just knowing that at home their "stuff" patiently awaits their return is enough to get them through another brainless day. When their kids throw fits on Christmas because they didn't get what they wanted, instead of putting them in place, they feel inadequate. These are the people completely bound by societies standards of life. Afraid to spend time living for what they might miss out on buying. Mindlessly following the media's provoking sarcasm. While fanatics explain what God would want, by hanging obnoxious images of half-aborted fetuses out of clinics. Screaming to 12 year old girls about God's plan for them to abandon their dreams and help overpopulate the country with a child who will grow up disillusioned, unwanted, nonessential, beaten, sold for organs, or deformed forever, because the 'parents' were only teenagers and still experimenting with 'how-addicting-do-you-really-think-meth-is?' type of substances...Organized Religion as a whole disgusts me. 

THINK FOR YOURSELVES YOU SHEEP!
We are a sick culture, our generation has the flu. We aren't getting better... we are just learning to destroy things faster, and I firmly believe before the end of my lifetime we will begin to tear at the seams of our preservation, thread by thread we will rip apart the only place we have to inhabit, and we will kill each other in the unending search for merciless power.

So much for love. 
Bring on the violence!

Contact Samantha // Facebook