I heard from my brother (Mysanthropist) that Starbucks[TRADEMARK!] and T-Mobile[TRADEMARK!] have joined corporate forces to charge customers for WiFi services ($19.99 a month or $10 for a day-pass).
You mean to tell me that two of the biggest corporations in the world are unable to afford complimentary WiFi?! And it is especially so when there is a small mom-and-pop coffeehouse down the block, with a fraction of the monetary clout that these two business leviathans possess, offering free wireless Internet.
*Inhale* Ahhh, I love the smell of unstoppable capitalism and bad coffee in the morning...
Friday, January 4, 2008
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Friday, December 7, 2007
Snowrrealism
A man? wakes up from the snow, naked.
There is blood in his footsteps.
Someone whistles a baroque tune in the background,
It happens to be the wind.
SHe carries a candle in His/er hand.
The whistling wind puts it out every time.
He pronounces the words of a poem
that speaks of oppression, by a peruvian
author: Cesar Vallejo.
The poem: Los Dados Eternos.
And the whistled song ceases:
God was whistling.
And as this naked being defies god,
with his petty candle in the cold,
he finds in his path a crown of thorns,
and wears it, for what is pain?
if not more pain? the candlewax
falls on his hands and solidifies on his skin,
he further walks, whispering the old poem,
feet bleeding, thorn crown cutting his forehead,
several shots are heard, a scream, he walks on,
he stops to look up at the sun and clouds,
then proceeds to walk into scene two,
where the lover is dead on the cold ground,
and red flowers bloom in his chest, one white rose
in the mouth, and two carnations make the eyes.
the palm lies, face up, the other palm covers the genitals,
the first person places the candle on the open palm,
and lies down beside death to die.
There is blood in his footsteps.
Someone whistles a baroque tune in the background,
It happens to be the wind.
SHe carries a candle in His/er hand.
The whistling wind puts it out every time.
He pronounces the words of a poem
that speaks of oppression, by a peruvian
author: Cesar Vallejo.
The poem: Los Dados Eternos.
And the whistled song ceases:
God was whistling.
And as this naked being defies god,
with his petty candle in the cold,
he finds in his path a crown of thorns,
and wears it, for what is pain?
if not more pain? the candlewax
falls on his hands and solidifies on his skin,
he further walks, whispering the old poem,
feet bleeding, thorn crown cutting his forehead,
several shots are heard, a scream, he walks on,
he stops to look up at the sun and clouds,
then proceeds to walk into scene two,
where the lover is dead on the cold ground,
and red flowers bloom in his chest, one white rose
in the mouth, and two carnations make the eyes.
the palm lies, face up, the other palm covers the genitals,
the first person places the candle on the open palm,
and lies down beside death to die.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Tonight is a night of insanity.
When my life is set against the length of time,
the entire length of time,
it becomes a particle... insignificant.
It is these instances when i could die
without regret.
--------------------
Of course, it is these instances my mind becomes detached
from reality. Reality states "you have to work tomorrow."
Reality always has a 'tomorrow' for you to consider.
But what is tomorrow? what exactly is tomorrow?
Tomorrow is both the dawn of a new day
and the digging of a thousand fresh new graves.
Tomorrow is the timid expression of Today.
And in passing, it is the dream of Yesterday.
It is nights like these when insanity
takes a twist of reality
and is gently poured into a cup, with ice.
It is a drink called "life on the rocks".
The universe drinks it. Slowly.
and when it gulps it,
some stir and weep, and scream
the word 'unfair'.
But is death a matter of justice?
only the sadists would like to think so
those who condemn at the twitch of an eyebrow
who fiddle with the buttons of their shirts
and curse in whispered, stuttered words.
It is unfair of this mind to think such things,
to negate and deny and doubt truths
to kill hopes and breastfeed uncertainty
into the mouths of the confused.
It is unfair of this mind to think...
and the television takes on a new dimension,
the faeces that flow from the t.v.
that people eat in spoonfuls, visually.
The eyes are two stones that reflect.
Yes. I see it all too clearly,
my eyes have accustomed to the dark.
The reflections on the wall
no longer seem so scary.
It is now tuesday morning,
the very early hours of the morning,
before the larks begin to pray.
Yes. It is a new day,
and I must sleep, and then
work.
When my life is set against the length of time,
the entire length of time,
it becomes a particle... insignificant.
It is these instances when i could die
without regret.
--------------------
Of course, it is these instances my mind becomes detached
from reality. Reality states "you have to work tomorrow."
Reality always has a 'tomorrow' for you to consider.
But what is tomorrow? what exactly is tomorrow?
Tomorrow is both the dawn of a new day
and the digging of a thousand fresh new graves.
Tomorrow is the timid expression of Today.
And in passing, it is the dream of Yesterday.
It is nights like these when insanity
takes a twist of reality
and is gently poured into a cup, with ice.
It is a drink called "life on the rocks".
The universe drinks it. Slowly.
and when it gulps it,
some stir and weep, and scream
the word 'unfair'.
But is death a matter of justice?
only the sadists would like to think so
those who condemn at the twitch of an eyebrow
who fiddle with the buttons of their shirts
and curse in whispered, stuttered words.
It is unfair of this mind to think such things,
to negate and deny and doubt truths
to kill hopes and breastfeed uncertainty
into the mouths of the confused.
It is unfair of this mind to think...
and the television takes on a new dimension,
the faeces that flow from the t.v.
that people eat in spoonfuls, visually.
The eyes are two stones that reflect.
Yes. I see it all too clearly,
my eyes have accustomed to the dark.
The reflections on the wall
no longer seem so scary.
It is now tuesday morning,
the very early hours of the morning,
before the larks begin to pray.
Yes. It is a new day,
and I must sleep, and then
work.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Pennies
"The total is 2 dollars, 91 cents." I hand the 5 dollar bill to her. She seizes it and as she stuffs it in the register I realize the huge mistake I had just made, and rush to tell her "I have a penn...!"- SHUT. She hands me four pennies and a nickel...
Years ago, they would have asked you, as a courtesy: "Do you happen to have a penny?" In order to save you the effort of having a shit load of copper weighing you down. The lady was quick: She knew that in this world, today, you can't give away all your nickels, dimes, and quarters; even when they don't own the money...
So here is what I'm gonna do: I'm gonna get as many pennies as I can, melt the copper, and fashion a gun out of it, which I will then use to let them know what wonderful things can be done with the unwanted pennies.
Years ago, they would have asked you, as a courtesy: "Do you happen to have a penny?" In order to save you the effort of having a shit load of copper weighing you down. The lady was quick: She knew that in this world, today, you can't give away all your nickels, dimes, and quarters; even when they don't own the money...
So here is what I'm gonna do: I'm gonna get as many pennies as I can, melt the copper, and fashion a gun out of it, which I will then use to let them know what wonderful things can be done with the unwanted pennies.
Friday, October 5, 2007
SUV jackasses, part 1
So, I arrived at this intersection the other day, having flicked on my left-turn signal half a block before like a good citizen and driver should, and waited for the traffic light to turn green.
The light goes green.
I'm waiting for that gap to make the turn when I immediately hear honking. Honking directed at me. Suddenly I'm thinking maybe my turn signal has fried itself out and the person behind me thinks I'm some moron merely holding up traffic. I later confirmed this had not been the case.
No. The case was that this douchebag in an SUV saw me as an inconvenience. Sorry, your holiness, if I'm being a splintery thorn in your self-entitled ass.
The light goes green.
I'm waiting for that gap to make the turn when I immediately hear honking. Honking directed at me. Suddenly I'm thinking maybe my turn signal has fried itself out and the person behind me thinks I'm some moron merely holding up traffic. I later confirmed this had not been the case.
No. The case was that this douchebag in an SUV saw me as an inconvenience. Sorry, your holiness, if I'm being a splintery thorn in your self-entitled ass.
Monday, September 24, 2007
I'm sitting in class today
an I.R. lecture,
the professor up there
figure of respect, or perhaps should be perceived as such
being a professor and all,
he's standing there, these two frat boys behind me
yapping about about some senseless nothing
noticing nothing outside there self contained bubbles
and on proceeds the professor with his lecture.
they run on in it, i ask them to be quiet,
they quiet up, but in that idiot manner
where giggles can be heard under their voices.
And almost instantly, right beside me,
a blonde, her phone in hand, begins atyping,
I sit there, with my push pen pressing,
replicating noises for her notice.
She doesn't notice, but continues pushing buttons,
clicking away at my right flank
I feel like chucking the f$cking phone down the aisle
and calling her out, like witches way back.
I hoped to take her phone and close it for her,
I felt like pulling out my own, and teaching her how to type,
I felt like reading her messages, so close she could hear me breathing
enough to feel harassed, and quickly leave the class,
and me content, notebook on my khakied lap,
writing away, a happy man in learning.
You see, the way i see it, is this ignorant Amerika spoils its children, what makes them thinK they are allowed to come to class and disrupt in such a fashion? Who do these people think they are? the two juggernauts could talk outside if need be, and she could meet her typing pal to settle that which they so disruptively beat around the bush for. Half the class could leave, because half the class cares not to learn, their parents pay for it all, and the loans pile up in dark bureaus. These people are privileged to have an opportunity to learn, but instead they opt to steal my own. Next time I will carry a can of tic tacs to shake when the time is right, and when the prof asks me "what's the ruckus?" I shall respond, "I'm just adding to the noise."
The quality of learning in this kuntree needs to rise. That is to say, the teachers do a great job, but some of the students... Some of these people don't even kno how to write. They sure know how to drink though. Impressive... the creative potential they have when it comes to inventing drinking games, or stylish ways of getting high, in order to finally be able to socialize, and get a 'piece of ass' to pass the night. They drink and smoke to forget their empty lives, the fact that many kultures means no kultures in the eyes of all those states within the map that have things to call their own.
I do not bark and bite on the decent peoples of this land. I am with them, a part of them, and they of mine. I keep in mind that gentle hearts jog upon this gracious earth, and smile, and speak, and laugh, and cry. They which i speak exist only in my mind and in the moments i witness these actions that i judge- those moments in which screams collect in the crevice of my throat then, finding no exit out my mouth pose their weights in my shoulders, and, in posture, of Atlas I remind the world i suffer.
an I.R. lecture,
the professor up there
figure of respect, or perhaps should be perceived as such
being a professor and all,
he's standing there, these two frat boys behind me
yapping about about some senseless nothing
noticing nothing outside there self contained bubbles
and on proceeds the professor with his lecture.
they run on in it, i ask them to be quiet,
they quiet up, but in that idiot manner
where giggles can be heard under their voices.
And almost instantly, right beside me,
a blonde, her phone in hand, begins atyping,
I sit there, with my push pen pressing,
replicating noises for her notice.
She doesn't notice, but continues pushing buttons,
clicking away at my right flank
I feel like chucking the f$cking phone down the aisle
and calling her out, like witches way back.
I hoped to take her phone and close it for her,
I felt like pulling out my own, and teaching her how to type,
I felt like reading her messages, so close she could hear me breathing
enough to feel harassed, and quickly leave the class,
and me content, notebook on my khakied lap,
writing away, a happy man in learning.
You see, the way i see it, is this ignorant Amerika spoils its children, what makes them thinK they are allowed to come to class and disrupt in such a fashion? Who do these people think they are? the two juggernauts could talk outside if need be, and she could meet her typing pal to settle that which they so disruptively beat around the bush for. Half the class could leave, because half the class cares not to learn, their parents pay for it all, and the loans pile up in dark bureaus. These people are privileged to have an opportunity to learn, but instead they opt to steal my own. Next time I will carry a can of tic tacs to shake when the time is right, and when the prof asks me "what's the ruckus?" I shall respond, "I'm just adding to the noise."
The quality of learning in this kuntree needs to rise. That is to say, the teachers do a great job, but some of the students... Some of these people don't even kno how to write. They sure know how to drink though. Impressive... the creative potential they have when it comes to inventing drinking games, or stylish ways of getting high, in order to finally be able to socialize, and get a 'piece of ass' to pass the night. They drink and smoke to forget their empty lives, the fact that many kultures means no kultures in the eyes of all those states within the map that have things to call their own.
I do not bark and bite on the decent peoples of this land. I am with them, a part of them, and they of mine. I keep in mind that gentle hearts jog upon this gracious earth, and smile, and speak, and laugh, and cry. They which i speak exist only in my mind and in the moments i witness these actions that i judge- those moments in which screams collect in the crevice of my throat then, finding no exit out my mouth pose their weights in my shoulders, and, in posture, of Atlas I remind the world i suffer.
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