Boom, Pow, Gym, Suck My Balls

My gym has the worst music.  Without any doubt, I will hear some fucking Weeknd song while I am in there.  It’s not conducive, whatsoever, to working out.  Sometimes, when I hear something incredibly annoying, or something catchy, I google the lyrics.  I Discovered that one of the worst songs I had ever heard was a Taylor Swift song.  I don’t even want to write about it here because it will start to creep into my thoughts.  If you’re looking for it, it’s the one with the anti climatic hook like some disney princess thinking about her true love.  Swift is really a disney princess.

I have an ex who’s sister tries to be a disney princess, but that’s not for here and now. Let’s start spiraling to a point:  when I was locked up in reception, the week was split into days of which a race group controlled the television.  The CDCR provides access to radio stations through the television.  Truly radio on the television.

 One or two days a week, on white day, they’d play all the hits from the 90’s.  It was an MTV rerun from when I was a freshman in high school.  The other white day was country, which really modern country is the equivalent to modern pop.  Pure basura.  Sometimes I we got hit with Christian music and that is the absolute worst.  Paisa/Southerner day was Mexican style but late night they’d play these eclectic soul jams.  I gotta say the scariest thought I ever had while I was in prison was one night I was sitting on my bunk in cell 138, nodding my head to some soul jam, thinking “this isn’t so bad……”

But mostly I remember the black channel.  It wasn’t exclusively black artists. But it was a cavalcade of garbage nonetheless.

“You used to call me on your cell phone” aka Drake, “Hotline Bling” and “0 – 100”.  That assbag should be silenced.  But the worst part of it?  PEOPLE LOVE THE FUCK OUT OF THOSE SONGS.  It’s true, you cannot buy good taste and apparently it’s not a common genetic feature of our species.  

But Drake isn’t really to blame.  It’s Kanye’s fault.  He brought that sort of Emo rap out to the forefront for the majority of rap listeners.  White guys were doing it for a while before, (eg. Anticon) but Kanye is the one responsible for bringing that mainline train to the station  He made that song with Rhianna and McCartney, “Four five seconds”.  Holy shit.  What a cacophony of dumpster fire.  Now Kanye is saying he’s 53 million in debt and is e-panhandling on twitter to get Suckerberg to bail him out.  *


Taylor Swift was played on the black channel when I was in the pen.  If only my memory wasn’t shit, I could remember the channels call sign.  At any rate, she also plays on my gyms station non stop.  The main culprit is that song “Wildest Dreams” with the most garbage ass anti climatic sigh I have ever fucking heard.  Seriously, how do people eat this stuff up?  Why is she so rich when her music is such boring garbage?  Why do they have to play it on repeat at my gym?  I know I said I wouldn’t talk about this but I had to.


Carly Rae Jepson is to me what Taylor Swift is to the world.  Her album E*Mo*Tion is a highly underrated 80’s throwback album.  Shit, her song “Gimmie Love” uses that sort of doe eyed love sigh that Tswift was going for in “Wildest Dreams” except Carly hits out of the park.  I’m endlessly mocked for my enjoyment of this album, but you know what?  I don’t give a fuck.  This shit is tight.  There are a few jams that are way too sugar coated to deal with, namely “Really Like you”.  But no one’s perfect.  Plus Jepson had an allstar lineup of cats co-writing her album with her.  So did Twsift but obviously Jepsons crew made the right decisions.  You can never really go wrong having Sia Furler co-write a song with you.  That chick’s got chops.



Another white girl pop song that makes me want to put a screw driver in my inner ear is a song by Ellie Goulding called “Why I got you on my mind”.  Seriously, this song has one of THE WORST hooks I’ve ever heard.  The chorus is choppy like a robot that chants in Mandarin while dicing broccoli.  Then there’s the drop and she robotically chants “I think I could’ve really liked you.”  


There’s a common denominator here between Twsifts and Gouldings songs.  That lowest common denominator is Swedish writer/producer Max Martin.  Thanks Max, you fucking truck, for your aural pollution on a global scale.  May your kharma never be forgiven.  


Then there’s Adele.  Look, if you have any sort of musical inclination, you have to respect her.  She’s got some admirable pipes and range.  Same with that Florence chick from the Machine.  They’re both exceptional singers, but I cannot abide by Adele.  I gave that new album of hers a listen through, or well I tried.  But it’s all about the unmanageability of her feelings and relationships.  It’s a steady whine and cryin fest and it’s painfully hard to listen to this chick.  I’m not saying it’s bad per se.  I’m just saying it’s tough to listen this gal carry on when she should probably be celebrating being able to get laid.


Ever tried to be a fat guy and try to get laid?  The types that are willing to bed down a fat guy are few and far between and the quality of said types are dismal at best.  But a fat gal? Shit she deserves the next Adonis no less and he better not smoke.  Fucking hell it’s miserable being a fat person.  Miserable on the inside and miserable on the outside.

But guess what?  I’m not actually complaining about that.  I’m complaining about the garbage ass music that’s being played at my gym while I try to remedy my fatness.  Yeah that’s right, this is a rant about shitty gym music, not about the difficulties of acquiring any pussy, let alone quality pussy.

See, people discriminate against fat people on a visceral level.  They don’t consciously do it, but a fat person is a gross and keen example of a lack of self respect.  So people will have unconscious body language that says they think the fat person is less than human.  Fat people do it too. Because deep down, people don’t like fat people.  

So it’s hard.  It’s hard to be a fat person.  It’s hard to be a fat person at the gym.  It’s hard to be a fat person at the gym lifting to a shitty music station.  It’s hard to be a fat person lifting at the gym to a shitty music station that reminds him of prison. But I keep doing it.


And I haven’t even started on how hard it is to deal with that assbag of a cunt Arianna Grande.


Stay up fat guys, you’ll get there, just keep lifting and eat clean.


* I wrote this in February so I’m a bit behind on publishing this shit.  Sorry not sorry, motivation sometimes sinks deep in these couch cushions. I’m not on a couch.


No, I’ve Never Been Much of Dancer

Around the end of Summer in 2013, Chromeo was scheduled to play a local concert in Chavez park.  Chromeo isn’t in my top 10, or even top 20, but I’ve dug their jams, and I know that chicks dig them entirely.  Thus I bought my ticket online, 45$ for one day I believe, and tried to enlist some friends to go.


I ended up going alone.  As pussy is the fuel for the rocket in my pocket, I fretted over what I was going to wear to this event.  Being overweight, drinking daily, and occasionally getting smacked out, I wasn’t the brightest star in the sky.  I buckled up a short sleeve dress shirt, threw on a serious pair of what I consider, bro jeans, and a pair of aviators.  I used my favorite pomade, Cock Grease XXX to slick my hair into the comb over style I was rocking.  Then, against all rational thinking, I ate two of my homemade ganja cookies.


Some of you might be thinking, well what’s wrong with that?  Let me tell you.  I make, and am known to make, extremely powerful ganja food.  The kind where I put my friends Mom into a 36 hour coma like trance on accident.  That’s not really the problem.  The problem is the cerebral nature of the high.  If I eat ONE of my cookies, within 2 hours I will be drooling on my guitar with music dancing between my ears.  I will also be conversationally and socially dead to the world.


I’m already a painful introvert who will stand in the shadows and disassemble everyone’s body language, chime in one or two times, and mostly stick to himself.  All while feeling the buzzing electricity of social anxiety course through my veins.  Don’t ask me, it’s something I’ve always had and I am working on loosening its grip on my trachea.  I can evade its crippling grip by consuming copious amounts of alcohol, but then I’m an entirely different monster and not myself.  Thus, by getting high as giraffe pussy, which I was destined to do at this point, I would be stuck miles inside my head and my sociability would be nonexistent.


This wouldn’t be a bad thing, and really isn’t.  Getting bombed and drifting off into the imagination while listening to some live music is excellent.  But if you didn’t notice earlier, no one wanted to go with me, or they were too broke to do so.  Also, this all day show was BOUND to be packed to the brim with young, nubile, college aged girls.  Davis is right down the road from Sacto, and like I said, chicks dig Chromeo.  I was hoping to meet some new people, gals in particular.  


I went to Chavez park a little later in the day missing a few of the opening acts.  This is a total dick move on my part because I am almost ALWAYS one of the opening acts if I’m playing a show.  But I was too busy waiting to get catapulted in the stratosphere by these fucking cookies and worrying if these pants made me look too hipster.  I think they were these smooth like denim kenneth cole things I picked up at the 2nd hand store.  


Whenever I get as high as I was that day, it’s always like a minor psychedelic trip.  I feel in sync with the world, yet I am pulled back as an observer.  So even though I have the first person view of the day through my own eyes, I have almost a 3rd person view of the events as well.  Yes, I have an active imagination, and no I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, yet.  I had my mirrored aviators on because my eyes were cherry tomatoes amongst a red bearded sea of whiteness.  I did remember to put on sunscreen.  I would’ve been boned hard if I neglected that.


At any rate, I don’t remember a whole lot about some of the first acts I saw, but there is one particular act and one particular moment that stand out to me from the experience.  One of which gives me an icky, wish I did different feeling inside the pit of my stomach.  This band Grouplove was playing and with the day getting on in age, the crowd was bigger than before. They’re a hodgepodge group of cats who met at some sort of camping abroad thing.  I don’t know but they play this happy innocent like music with harmonies that sound like the chipmunks (check out an example of GroupLove here).  They’re not bad.  


Their live show, however, is pretty darn good.  I had never heard these cats before and made a mental note to check them out because they got down.  As their set started picking up steam, I started moving a little bit to the music.  As you might assume, being stricken with cosmic anxiety makes my movement a little rigid and I’ve never been much of dancer.  But I do move when moved to do so.  I’m drifting side to side, to and fro, and maybe a head nod here and there.  There’s a little room in front of me and people are packed in all around.  


At one point I feel two small hands grip my shoulders and move me side to side with the beat.  I turn slowly turn around and it’s this cute little blonde gal.  I don’t even smile.  It’s too fucking much for me at this point with all the fucking people, the loud ass music, the level of highness at which I was experiencing.  I turned back around.  I still get douche tingles to this day over that shit.  Listening to some jams today  this song starts playing and I relive that moment.  Regret for what you didn’t do.  I should’ve grabbed that sweet young thing by her hands, swung her around and started dancing with her.  That would have been smooth.  But at the time, as I am often am, I was a bumbling lurch on a grassy dancefloor.  


Why did that come up for me?  Because I feel shame around that level of social ineptitude.  Are you a better person than me for being without social anxiety?  Fuck no.  You just have an easier time dealing with people.  I’m not the only cat on the block who deals with this issue.  But I don’t remember all my war stories, even some of the good ones.  Some stick out though. Those are the ones to hold onto and learn something.  


So I’d be a bit different if that situation ever happened again.  At least I hope I would.  See there are few cats who write truly about their strike outs. This wasn’t even a strikeout.  I didn’t get out of the batter’s box.  One thing my offensive coordinator has asked me to stop doing is analyzing people’s body language.  It’s a tool I developed and can use still at a gut level.  But when I consciously go around and get all FBI sleuth on motherfuckers, I take myself out of the moment.  For a cat like me, being in the moment is the best place to be because there I am whole, there I am myself, there I am without reservation.

Coffee Shop Meditations

The reason for the Season.

I just want to note right now, that I am high as fucking giraffe pussy, straight posted at the coffee shop I frequent almost daily during the work week. I did this because that is the shop I am most comfortable with and well, being this ripped and at a new place would trip me up. I mean this place will as well because… well I don’t have a fucking excuse. When I go out and interact with people, it’s like a new ball game every time. It feels like a place that is brand new. Of course it feels brand new right now because I have more than efficiently severed the connection between my short term and long term memory, thus everything is brand new, thanks to the half of the retardedly strong ganja cookie I ingested about an hour ago.  I feel like my dog. I want to watch everything going on and I want to hear what people are talking about. But I figure it’s a few things they talk about; school related, work related, money related, pussy related, god related. Haha! Who am I kidding? I don’t know what the fuck people are talking about. Looking someone in the eyes seems a heinous crime sometimes. But it’s a comfort zone rupture I am going for so just sitting out here in this heat in the shade with an iced coffee and a slight hangover, David Hasslehoof ripped, is a fucking ordeal. Next time I will post up in a new coffee shop and not be as fucking high.


Truth is, I figured it might be a good time to post up at my local joint and actually get to chill outside for a change. I am always, 5 days a week, boxed up in a closet outside a closet. No gateway to Narnia, no stargate tower. I used to believe in the boogeyman. He had a white horse nose that came to a point. His face looked like a stretched joker from Tim Burton’s Batman. Jack Nicholson. He had hoofed feet, white fur, and he wore a purple blazer. He used to freak me the fuck out, but he really looked like the boogey man off the 80’s Ghostbuster cartoon “The Real Ghostbusters.” I was terrified that he would come out of my closet when I was asleep.  His lair was one crazy Alice in Wonderland through the rabbit hole nonsense and the walls were covered with doors that opened to bedroom closets.  His whole purpose was to terrorize children because he fed off their fear.  I’m sure I gave him a good meal or two.   I would line up the stuffed animals I had to stand guard. But they weren’t only standing guard against the boogey man. They were standing guard against the possibility of creatures of netherfield searching through the portal underneath my bed. I was just that tasty and yes, I had stuffed animals. I named them. I still have one that I was given when I was just one, I guess. I named him Doggie.

I remember one night I was sleeping and the boogey man came out of the closet, because that’s where you get to his world. His world was animated too. If I wanted to make my dream even more terrifying, I would apply today’s special effects. It would be an animated character, but he would have an electrostatic aura about him. He would glitch in and out quickly like a television antennae coming into focus. Or it would be the visual equivalent of a cd skipping, only he’d be moving forward. All cartoon on reality. Like when the chick came out of the television on the ring. At any rate, I was dreaming under the covers asleep on my pillow. Mister Boogey came out grabbed me by my hands and started dragging me to his lair. I felt my lip being dragged against my bed sheets. When I woke up I was completely opposite my original sleeping position. I was on my stomach, on top of the covers with my feet where my head was supposed to be. True story.

The Bogeyman

The Boogey / Bogey Man. Yes they had two different spellings.

An ass just walked by so nice that it made me want a cigarette. I don’t understand the correlation. However I cannot have a cigarette right here, because this joint doesn’t allow smoking on it’s porch, plus there’s a dude and his daughter chomping it up right next to me. I hate smoking around kids, I won’t do it. Just get away from me. Sometimes I find myself in a situation where I will be doing my damnedest to get out of some area, away from anyone under 18, to have a fucking smoke and lo-and behold, there I am with some droolbucket huffing my second hand destruction. That’s something I hate.

I was thinking about things I hate and I couldn’t come up with much.  Even the lady who hassled the land manager to get my moving truck out of her parking spot when I moved into this joint and he turned to me when she left and said, “She ain’t got a car right now.” Nice. I don’t hate her either. She’s getting a 30 day notice for being a crazy bitch. Apparently, she has super sensitive hearing, I’m sure there’s a word for that, hearing that only mutes out her own voice and actions. Her intolerance of my neighbors slight music making, in the afternoon, offends her so much, she has to throw a tantrum the equivalent of a tiny child that has teeth coming in. Just pissed the fuck off. I don’t hate her, she’s just a racist.

I hate bad dog owners.  That shit grinds my gears like no other.

Pictures of little kids. Save them for someone who cares.

That feeling when you sit down to show someone a song, riff, or something, and they immediately tune out and don’t listen. I hate that feeling. (Also, I am inherently guilty of the doing the same thing.)

I definitely need to explore more coffee shops around here.  This place has no talent. Funny though, as I say that, someone who belongs in the “Coffee Shop Caf-fiend Chronicles” the High Duchess of Falootingtonshire, here for a serving of the queen’s royal pudding, who is a mind reader, or something, shows up, tea in hand, pinky finger extended.  She seems like a talented individual.  She definitely believes she has an audience. One day she said the name of someone I was thinking about right as I was thinking about it. Tripped me up for a second, then she explained I looked like some guy who had that name. Not me.

High as goddamn giraffe pussy. Retarded son.

The High Duchess of Falootingtonshire is lecturing her servants, or parishioners  or giving a historical account of the courts back in her hometown.

And I just sat here for about 10 minutes not writing a goddamn thing. Time to walk the dog.