Wednesday, December 14, 2011

Wanted

Resemblance to Author purely coincidental
When it seems like the world is out to get you, remember that the layers of graffiti reflect the cultural maturity we've earned. Children mock what threatens them and burn bridges they are themselves afraid to cross. Do I strive for or profess perfection? When it's amusing to me I will, but mostly the work here is an attempt to communicate those opinions which have no market and are thus not valued, but which may allow me to satisfactorily complete my homeless manifesto. Madmen on the underground subway cars in San Francisco or Chicago announce similar views to commuters who would prefer to not hear them and take no joy in being a captive audience. The blog is a gallery of thoughts that allows me to practice entertaining myself under the guise of research. What I can't make up, I must instigate and usually society will accommodate me. Take it seriously at your peril, deface it as a substitute for a sheet metal fence. It's not low resource. It doesn't save paper. I've tried alternatives and that didn't work either. In the dead of night the universe will erase all moral equivalency test questions until the static ringing from my ears envelopes eternity.

Corporate media brands and owns children's opinions and behavior from the womb and I'm not going to participate in that kind of intellectual genocide. Call me crazy. There are enough glitches in the corporate program to allow for independent thought but it manifests as one form of graffiti or another because then it will be criminalized and labeled. What can't be labeled is what corporations fear the most because they can't classify it into a crime. "Failure to disperse, loitering, noncompliance, corrupting minors," these are efforts to define the independent brain struggling to manifest itself. Those who are content with a corporate bottle feeding their sheep are beyond influence. "Boycott Slave Cotton? Why? Sounds Unpatriotic to me." But mostly we are a discontent nation, discontent with wages, lifestyles, culture, law, justice, prices, environment, resources, medicine. Etc. We are discontent until an alternative is thrust into our park and ride parking lots and then we do an abrupt about face. "No no no no, that's not what I'm talking about. I'm totally content with parking lots being strictly for parking," they sputter. "Ah, so, you are discontent but only as long as nothing changes? Health Care must be reformed but parking lots are untouchable holy ground?"
Right.
Tea Party folks argue for radical changes, Occupy America hipsters argue for radical changes, Democrats and Republicans argue for radical changes, just as long as nothing radically changes and the Walmart prices on big bags of Doritos hangs steady at the same price as a gallon of North Dakota gas. Crates full of $1 round Christmas coke pints await early January shipment to Big Lots. It's the way of America and a puzzle with thousands of pieces missing or hidden by the manufacturers of the puzzle. So Oggy tries to find all the puzzle pieces or speculates what the pieces would look like. Because how else can he begin to reconstruct the puzzle? You reach an interstate off ramp. Signs:
We think those are our options. Waffle House is a little further than Wendy's so lets stop at Wendy's. Ok. They have good fries. But Oggy is the asshole if he lives in the Subway Parking lot for three weeks and cleans up their trash but then refuses to buy anything there because it's all picked by raped muchachas smuggled from Sinaloa to the Imperial Valley to pick onions for turkey subs so they can buy diapers for their orphaned kids. Ah! Oggy is the villain. HE belongs in the police blotter. There must be a piece of the puzzle that got dropped in the wilderness. "Go and find it," says Kipling.


I was addicted to Twilight Zone episodes in 5th grade. I watched them all day and night and when the New Years Eve TZ marathon came on I watched them all. So I got the episode book, a full description of each episode:
Businessman Arthur Curtis finds his phone dead. He is then surprised to hear a voice yell, "Cut!" and see that his office is just a set on a soundstage. Everyone tells him that he is Jerry Raigan, a drunken movie star on the decline, and "Arthur Curtis" is a character Raigan is playing. Curtis drives to where his home should be, but finds no evidence of his life. Raigan's agent, thinking his client is having a nervous breakdown, tells Curtis not to worry about returning to the set, the picture has been cancelled and the sets are being dismantled. Curtis, realizing the last link to his world is about to be destroyed, rushes to the set. Just in time, he arrives on the set and pleads not to be left in this uncaring place. Curtis finds himself back in his office, while the agent arrives on the set and finds Raigan has vanished.


It was escapism, escape from the grind of  Junior High School, involuntary erections, baseball losses, absentee parenting, expectations and hair growth. At least I had the Twilight Zone to distract me. Lately, I've been a character in my own movie length version of one episode. The premise being corporations pretend to give you a choice between Pepsi and Coke and we pretend to make a choice. And the hook is so firmly implanted in our cheeks that even this "choice" is recognized as not a choice but is still a choice we fervently defend. "Don't tell me to think for myself."

The background of the puzzle is missing but the little unimportant details (brands) are all provided and in the paint by numbers key they are labeled "the background". I've figured this out (in my unbroadcast episode of Twilight Zone) so the luster has been taken from everything. Cut through the aisles of Walmart to fill up my three year old glass water bottle? Navigate the staggering Downs Syndrome sweeper locking the doors in my face and the tattooed pallet smacker with crates of red Gummi bears teetering near Hannah Montana birth control pills...to suck water from a trickling fountain that dribbles like a clogged drain so that I must use a nearby broken Batman toy to divert the stream off the fountain platform and down a salvaged Conan sword into the water bottle, thus attracting an audience and the ire of the manager who subsequently kicks me out with a warning into the 20 degree night where brightly lit telephone poles cast their nuclear shine on my flat tires and bald patch...but I have half a glass of water which is not half empty but half full and the Puma shoes I found in a clothing patch full of Mexican immigrants fit comfortably when tied...and that water is enough to wash my cock and balls behind the fragments of my ego driven blizzard. CUT! shouts the director and ignores my Fox News boycott. Go to Detention where tough kids direct insecure hatred toward skinny Oggy through spitballs that turn to angry Lexus horn honks at mopeds in twenty years and anonymous blog comments after that. Fear? I know about fear. I'll etch what I know into a granite memorial to my own shortcomings long before the world trade centers are rebuilt in heaven. Fear to build or fear to destroy? That's the question.

I amuse myself, selfishly, and if my brain could retain the revelations I have in the hunger pangs of evening I could be a radio preacher giving hope to hundreds of rats in the doomed apartments of their shame. There can be no victory in a parking lot nation. We do all live in a Walmart Parking lot, processing fast food to survive long enough to complain about the texture of the mashed potatoes in our future long term care facility. "Dirty Bum, dirty bum, dirty bum!" yelled a woman in a wheel chair as I played Autumn Leaves. That's her salvation and her prayer to the world. I don't take myself seriously but I protect the squashed squirrels in their threatened landscape with my words. The seasons change and so do attitudes and alliances, mentors squash trust with idle facebook hands and build ice walls for comfort, the land hibernates and quasars leap to life, laughing at our urgent betrayals.

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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.