Sometimes Jimi will come on the radio at the right time and place and I pretty much have to pull over. This song blew me away this afternoon. It's not that I think I'm some kind of Voodoo Child and I "relate" to his music but what I hear is a man at his peak of excellence and execution. He's got the slow blues down perfectly and his playing is so clean but still sounds dirty and improvised. He's all over the neck but it comes together as neat composition. It's smoky late night bar room blues - but recorded in a studio. That is a hard thing to do, to summon that feeling of desperation and angst and inspiration when you're in a climate controlled room with lots of rich people surrounding you who would never follow you into a smoky bar room. It's a lie, but when I listen to this I hear the truth and I'm moved. That's magic. Thank you, Jimi.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Common Sense: Part 1 of 4: Oggy Goes to Zanzibar
Common Sense
By Oggy Bleacher
In 1992, I joined the Merchant Marines. My goal was to join the Seafarer’s Union and ship overseas to the Persian Gulf where two friends of mine were making $400 a day in hazard pay looking for undersea mines. I arrived in New Orleans with a fresh National Guard endorsement and went to the union hall only to learn the demand for sailors was non-existent and the demand for green deckhands was even less. Able Seamen and Mates were taking jobs as Deckhands. Captains were taking jobs as Mates. Chief Engineers were washing dishes to stay employed. I was welcome to pay the health fee and begin paying union dues but it was likely I’d be donating to someone else’s union benefits and would never ship out. “Try Houston or Los Angeles,” said the dispatcher.
By Oggy Bleacher
In 1992, I joined the Merchant Marines. My goal was to join the Seafarer’s Union and ship overseas to the Persian Gulf where two friends of mine were making $400 a day in hazard pay looking for undersea mines. I arrived in New Orleans with a fresh National Guard endorsement and went to the union hall only to learn the demand for sailors was non-existent and the demand for green deckhands was even less. Able Seamen and Mates were taking jobs as Deckhands. Captains were taking jobs as Mates. Chief Engineers were washing dishes to stay employed. I was welcome to pay the health fee and begin paying union dues but it was likely I’d be donating to someone else’s union benefits and would never ship out. “Try Houston or Los Angeles,” said the dispatcher.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Last Man Standing
Not to brag, but about 4 people have been fired from my Hockey merchandise gig and I got promoted to the "Walkie Rider" My feet still kill me from about 2 PM onward but at least I can accomplish more in the time I'm there.
I don't know what the secret to keeping this job is. I'm still pretty flaky and distracted but I've learned the computer interface and some of the secrets to boxing odd items. I do not like the job. I hate it pretty passionately, but that's normal. It's repulsive to me that some 11 year old American wants to buy a pair of shorts with a built in jock strap because he wants to be safe playing hockey. Well, after dealing with hockey equipment for 3 weeks I can say that hockey players are a bunch of fucking sissies. Knee pads? Elbow guards? Cock guards? Throat guards? Padded wrist guards? What's wrong? If the puck hits your wrist will you not be able to jerk off your boyfriend?
The thing is this...I'll keep it simple so you hockey players can keep up...WHEN MORE PEOPLE GET INJURED MAKING YOUR EQUIPMENT THAN PLAYING THE GAME THEN YOU ARE OFFICALLY MORE OF A SISSY THAN A 50 YEAR OLD ASIAN SEAMSTRESS.
I guess when a game requires so much equipment to protect you from getting hurt during the game and that game only involves a stick, a puck, and a net, then what the fuck? A pro hockey player couldn't make a single piece of his equipment. An Asian seamstress probably couldn't play hockey but I guarantee her job is more dangerous and taxing than playing hockey. I guarantee it. Hell, MY job is more taxing than playing hockey and I don't do shit compared to the seamstress in Thailand or China. Ooooh, three 20 minute periods. Wow! You could play your entire game during the time I take a break from my 12 hour job. Goalie equipment is like a NASA space suit. Why? So Mrs. Nancy Don't Hurt Me can stand directly between the puck and the goal. Uh....
Whatever. Hey, let's employ thousands of people so some guy can play hockey and not get bruised. That's a great idea. That makes sense. Maybe one day they'll promote me to the Rugby equipment department...oh, wait a second...the only equipment in Rugby is the ball.
Alright, enough hating.
I don't know what the secret to keeping this job is. I'm still pretty flaky and distracted but I've learned the computer interface and some of the secrets to boxing odd items. I do not like the job. I hate it pretty passionately, but that's normal. It's repulsive to me that some 11 year old American wants to buy a pair of shorts with a built in jock strap because he wants to be safe playing hockey. Well, after dealing with hockey equipment for 3 weeks I can say that hockey players are a bunch of fucking sissies. Knee pads? Elbow guards? Cock guards? Throat guards? Padded wrist guards? What's wrong? If the puck hits your wrist will you not be able to jerk off your boyfriend?
The thing is this...I'll keep it simple so you hockey players can keep up...WHEN MORE PEOPLE GET INJURED MAKING YOUR EQUIPMENT THAN PLAYING THE GAME THEN YOU ARE OFFICALLY MORE OF A SISSY THAN A 50 YEAR OLD ASIAN SEAMSTRESS.
I guess when a game requires so much equipment to protect you from getting hurt during the game and that game only involves a stick, a puck, and a net, then what the fuck? A pro hockey player couldn't make a single piece of his equipment. An Asian seamstress probably couldn't play hockey but I guarantee her job is more dangerous and taxing than playing hockey. I guarantee it. Hell, MY job is more taxing than playing hockey and I don't do shit compared to the seamstress in Thailand or China. Ooooh, three 20 minute periods. Wow! You could play your entire game during the time I take a break from my 12 hour job. Goalie equipment is like a NASA space suit. Why? So Mrs. Nancy Don't Hurt Me can stand directly between the puck and the goal. Uh....
Whatever. Hey, let's employ thousands of people so some guy can play hockey and not get bruised. That's a great idea. That makes sense. Maybe one day they'll promote me to the Rugby equipment department...oh, wait a second...the only equipment in Rugby is the ball.
Alright, enough hating.
Bleak Bleak Outlook
The mental junk that I digested today makes my head spin. I can't repeat it all here because if you watch television or get sucked into a lurid CNN Crime story then you know what I'm talking about. Death, cannibalism, rape, murder, war, pollution. Call me sensitive, but it's too much. I started laughing inappropriately during a "True Crimes" type piece on TV in the break room. "When we return," the commentator said, "We'll learn how this man raped his daughter every day for two years, faked his own death and then preyed on girls at a local high school after getting honorably discharged from the army..." I laughed out loud. It bordered on insane laughter (I think my sense of humor is returning after a 12 month absence) and everyone else just shook their heads. I was appalled of course, but the way it was presented as so intentionally macabre and then the very next image is a woman doing push ups. "Do you have flabby triceps? Well, you can firm up in less time than it takes to wash your hair!"
I laughed and laughed.
None of this adds up. I'm sorry for not adjusting or assimilating but it's not realistic anymore to ignore the culture I'm in. The culture is not insane, it's diabolically manipulative. There is no way in the world you would accidentally get a creepy story about a serial rapist sandwiched between a bunch of cheerful frozen pizza and Viagra ads. No. No way is that accidental. In Orwell's worst nightmare did he not imagine media would sink to the depths it is at right now.
I don't want to stick my head in the sand because this is a serious serious disease that's being inflicted on Americans. The price we are paying for free Simpson's episodes is our mental health. DO you understand? This is a mental health issue and it's national and in my opinion it has reached unacceptable status. It makes me feel like I can't really coexist with anyone who isn't deeply troubled. Are we that numbed? The worst part is that I worked for 12 hours and only had about 9 minutes of access to the world...and it still polluted my brain~!
So, I'm looking for answers. Yes, the news picks the most lurid and grotesque stories to cover. When a couple plays checkers on the couch and then goes to sleep...the news doesn't make a story about it. I get it. But holy Jesus do they have to scrape the absolute bottom of the human trough for content? It's a drug, plain and simple, to go from jaw dropping astonishment and horror of atrocities to "Happy Meal at McDonalds fills you up and makes you smile!"
You see? It's like, chemically, your brain wants to eat McDonalds as an antidote to the rape suicide sodomy story you just watched. AND CBS KNOWS THAT! Those motherfuckers! No chance can they plead innocent to this kind of mass manipulation. Rupert Murdoch, there is a special torture chamber in hell awaiting you. 1000 televisions will play Fox news while Larry King shits in your mouth. For eternity.
Sorry. I promised myself I would stay positive but I got excited. My apologies, Rupert. Keep up the good work!
Where was I? Oh, yeah...the thing is that when you turn your back on the media, which is something I recommend, then you will not be able to reach the people who are sucked into it. You have to plumb the depths to learn the secrets of the deep and map the way back out. I don't want to get spiritual on your ass but there is a chasm called Corporate Media and it is swallowing everyone's soul. The only way to solve the problem is to go to the source and return, leaving some bread crumbs so people can follow you out.
I don't mean that as a life goal. I mean that is something to do while I'm saving up money to move to Guatemala, where they worship some guy named Jesus.
Please, unplug and go outside. And while you are out there do not rape or cannibalize anyone. No exceptions! Please. By exiting this page you legally promise to behave yourself. Write a letter to your mother for god's sake!
I laughed and laughed.
None of this adds up. I'm sorry for not adjusting or assimilating but it's not realistic anymore to ignore the culture I'm in. The culture is not insane, it's diabolically manipulative. There is no way in the world you would accidentally get a creepy story about a serial rapist sandwiched between a bunch of cheerful frozen pizza and Viagra ads. No. No way is that accidental. In Orwell's worst nightmare did he not imagine media would sink to the depths it is at right now.
I don't want to stick my head in the sand because this is a serious serious disease that's being inflicted on Americans. The price we are paying for free Simpson's episodes is our mental health. DO you understand? This is a mental health issue and it's national and in my opinion it has reached unacceptable status. It makes me feel like I can't really coexist with anyone who isn't deeply troubled. Are we that numbed? The worst part is that I worked for 12 hours and only had about 9 minutes of access to the world...and it still polluted my brain~!
So, I'm looking for answers. Yes, the news picks the most lurid and grotesque stories to cover. When a couple plays checkers on the couch and then goes to sleep...the news doesn't make a story about it. I get it. But holy Jesus do they have to scrape the absolute bottom of the human trough for content? It's a drug, plain and simple, to go from jaw dropping astonishment and horror of atrocities to "Happy Meal at McDonalds fills you up and makes you smile!"
You see? It's like, chemically, your brain wants to eat McDonalds as an antidote to the rape suicide sodomy story you just watched. AND CBS KNOWS THAT! Those motherfuckers! No chance can they plead innocent to this kind of mass manipulation. Rupert Murdoch, there is a special torture chamber in hell awaiting you. 1000 televisions will play Fox news while Larry King shits in your mouth. For eternity.
Sorry. I promised myself I would stay positive but I got excited. My apologies, Rupert. Keep up the good work!
Where was I? Oh, yeah...the thing is that when you turn your back on the media, which is something I recommend, then you will not be able to reach the people who are sucked into it. You have to plumb the depths to learn the secrets of the deep and map the way back out. I don't want to get spiritual on your ass but there is a chasm called Corporate Media and it is swallowing everyone's soul. The only way to solve the problem is to go to the source and return, leaving some bread crumbs so people can follow you out.
I don't mean that as a life goal. I mean that is something to do while I'm saving up money to move to Guatemala, where they worship some guy named Jesus.
Please, unplug and go outside. And while you are out there do not rape or cannibalize anyone. No exceptions! Please. By exiting this page you legally promise to behave yourself. Write a letter to your mother for god's sake!
Saturday, May 29, 2010
Ode to an Unknown Seamstress
Chinese Lady with nimble slave fingers,
we are separated by 10,000 container ships of hockey pucks
an ocean of petroleum dildos
and toaster ovens
and microchips
I feel your presence in every youth size mesh practice jersey,
the goalie masks you tended with your beautiful hands
and passed down the road to me, your secret American lover.
Where do your thoughts go, lonely lady, when the 11th hour of your shift clicks off
and the silence of the assembly table becomes like a hum of angels and you can not focus?
Do you think of me in my cardboard kingdom, absently picking 44 delicious padded wrist guards for a sporting goods store in San Diego?
You placed them in a box with tender mercies and now I touch what your fingers touched. You can not pass a message across these oceans because
likely you would lose your job for acting independently. But I know you have thought about it.
What would you say to me?
What color are your eyes?
Where do you live, my love?
What are your dreams?
How can I help you?
I am here for you always and receive only the fullness of your love and desire for love in the tremendous volume of boxes filled with skate blade cozies and jock straps and roller blade stickers.
You focus on that needle pounding the goalie knee pads like a Samurai slicing the chaos away with his holy blade. I am your slave forever, Chinese lover.
Zhōngguó nǚ núlì yǔ língqiǎo de shǒuzhǐ,
Wǒmen xiānggé 10000 qūgùnqiú túlún jízhuāngxiāng chuán
1 Hǎiyáng shíyóu jiǎ yángjù
Kǎo lú hé kǎo miànbāo jī
Hé wēi xīnpiàn
Wǒ juéde měi yīgè qīngnián wǎng guīmó de zuòfǎ qiú yī nín de guānglín,
Shǒuményuán miànzhào nǐ hé nǐ dì měilì de shǒu wǎngwǎng
Bìng tōngguò le wǒ de dàolù shàng, nǐ de mìmì měiguó qíngrén.
Nǐ de xiǎngfǎ qù nǎlǐ, jìmò de nǚshì, dāng nǐ diǎnjī guānbì 11 xiǎoshí lúnbān
Hé jíhuì biǎo chénmò biàn de xiàng yīgè tiānshǐ, hēng hēng, nǐ bùnéng zhòngdiǎn shì shénme?
Nǐ xiǎngqǐ wǒ zài wǒ de zhǐbǎn wángguó, xīnbùzàiyān de tiāoxuǎn le yījiā tǐyù yòngpǐn shāngdiàn zài shèngdìyàgē 44 měiwèi de hù wàn diàn?
Nín fàngzhì zài yǔ cíbēi xiāng nèi, xiànzài nǐ de shǒuzhǐ chùmō wǒ gǎndòng. Nǐ kěyǐ bù tōngguò kuàyuè hǎiyáng de xiāoxi, yīnwèi zhèxiē
Nǐ kěnéng huì shīqù dúlì sīkǎo nǐ de gōngzuò. Dàn wǒ zhīdào nǐ shì xiǎng de.
Nǐ huì zěnme shuō wǒ ne?
Nǐ de yǎnjīng shì shénme yánsè?
Nǐ zhù zài nǎlǐ, wǒ de ài?
Wǒ zěnme bāng nǐ?
Wǒ zài zhèlǐ wéi nǐ shǐzhōng zhǐ néng shōu dào nǐ de ài hé duì zài yǔ huábǎn hé lúnhuá tiē zhǐ kē qí sī xiāng liàng hěn dà, chōngmǎn ài de kěwàng fēngmǎn.
Nǐ bǎ zhòngdiǎn fàng zài zhège chōngjí xiàng rìběn wǔshì dāo qiēpiàn yǔ tā de shénshèng de hǔnluàn líkāi shǒuményuán hùxī zhēn. Wǒ yǒngyuǎn shì nǐ de núlì, zhōngguó de qíngrén.
we are separated by 10,000 container ships of hockey pucks
an ocean of petroleum dildos
and toaster ovens
and microchips
I feel your presence in every youth size mesh practice jersey,
the goalie masks you tended with your beautiful hands
and passed down the road to me, your secret American lover.
Where do your thoughts go, lonely lady, when the 11th hour of your shift clicks off
and the silence of the assembly table becomes like a hum of angels and you can not focus?
Do you think of me in my cardboard kingdom, absently picking 44 delicious padded wrist guards for a sporting goods store in San Diego?
You placed them in a box with tender mercies and now I touch what your fingers touched. You can not pass a message across these oceans because
likely you would lose your job for acting independently. But I know you have thought about it.
What would you say to me?
What color are your eyes?
Where do you live, my love?
What are your dreams?
How can I help you?
I am here for you always and receive only the fullness of your love and desire for love in the tremendous volume of boxes filled with skate blade cozies and jock straps and roller blade stickers.
You focus on that needle pounding the goalie knee pads like a Samurai slicing the chaos away with his holy blade. I am your slave forever, Chinese lover.
Zhōngguó nǚ núlì yǔ língqiǎo de shǒuzhǐ,
Wǒmen xiānggé 10000 qūgùnqiú túlún jízhuāngxiāng chuán
1 Hǎiyáng shíyóu jiǎ yángjù
Kǎo lú hé kǎo miànbāo jī
Hé wēi xīnpiàn
Wǒ juéde měi yīgè qīngnián wǎng guīmó de zuòfǎ qiú yī nín de guānglín,
Shǒuményuán miànzhào nǐ hé nǐ dì měilì de shǒu wǎngwǎng
Bìng tōngguò le wǒ de dàolù shàng, nǐ de mìmì měiguó qíngrén.
Nǐ de xiǎngfǎ qù nǎlǐ, jìmò de nǚshì, dāng nǐ diǎnjī guānbì 11 xiǎoshí lúnbān
Hé jíhuì biǎo chénmò biàn de xiàng yīgè tiānshǐ, hēng hēng, nǐ bùnéng zhòngdiǎn shì shénme?
Nǐ xiǎngqǐ wǒ zài wǒ de zhǐbǎn wángguó, xīnbùzàiyān de tiāoxuǎn le yījiā tǐyù yòngpǐn shāngdiàn zài shèngdìyàgē 44 měiwèi de hù wàn diàn?
Nín fàngzhì zài yǔ cíbēi xiāng nèi, xiànzài nǐ de shǒuzhǐ chùmō wǒ gǎndòng. Nǐ kěyǐ bù tōngguò kuàyuè hǎiyáng de xiāoxi, yīnwèi zhèxiē
Nǐ kěnéng huì shīqù dúlì sīkǎo nǐ de gōngzuò. Dàn wǒ zhīdào nǐ shì xiǎng de.
Nǐ huì zěnme shuō wǒ ne?
Nǐ de yǎnjīng shì shénme yánsè?
Nǐ zhù zài nǎlǐ, wǒ de ài?
Wǒ zěnme bāng nǐ?
Wǒ zài zhèlǐ wéi nǐ shǐzhōng zhǐ néng shōu dào nǐ de ài hé duì zài yǔ huábǎn hé lúnhuá tiē zhǐ kē qí sī xiāng liàng hěn dà, chōngmǎn ài de kěwàng fēngmǎn.
Nǐ bǎ zhòngdiǎn fàng zài zhège chōngjí xiàng rìběn wǔshì dāo qiēpiàn yǔ tā de shénshèng de hǔnluàn líkāi shǒuményuán hùxī zhēn. Wǒ yǒngyuǎn shì nǐ de núlì, zhōngguó de qíngrén.
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