POST80sProto90sMtvMorning

            I meant to wake my ass up early and get hecka little errands done. I woke up early, got a few things done then checked Facebook looking for a message from a friend about something not really important but time sensitive…I guess. Look, the point is a quick social network scan made me fall down a YouTube* vortex that temporarily disarmed my will power, determination, and constitution (it was about 55 minutes to be exact).

            What I watched was late 80s early 90s music videos. It’s my favorite era of videos because there is a freedom there where the performers don’t have to perform very hard and there is dogs running around and I like the goofy haircuts and probably because that’s when I watched Mtv. None of the videos were really that good, some of the songs were but after watching videos for 55 minutes I realized that all the videos are weird and full of non-sequitur shit and they switch it up with different film stocks and have dangling toys and go in and out of focus and show the film strip running out…all of them do this. All of the videos contain the same elements. Then I thought, “They’re all uncreative in exactly the same way.”

            Why? What they are doing is creative. They are interpreting (creative) a song (creative) by the band of floppy haired college dropouts who wrote it (creative) and they use creative elements (creative) and edit it (creative) to make a pleasurable viewing experience (creative) for the middle school kids that watch Mtv (uncreative).

            But turds are created as well, are they not?** I got the same feeling when I would look at Juxtapoz magazine. I’d see all these new artists, but their styles would be exactly like that of an artist from a year or two before that. I definitely saw this at my sister’s art school. You’re supposed to be an artist, not a copycat right? What pleasure is there in copying someone else’s work? Perhaps if you are one of many imitators you feel a brotherhood with your clones.*** You feel shielded by the “scene” that has materialized without permission of the original artist. You are warmed and protected by the hooded sweatshirt of unoriginality. I bet the newer and more original the artist you cop from, the warmer from the dryer you feel. I’m starting to feel like a sucker for not ripping people off.

            Ultimately, you don’t watch a Huey Lewis and The News video and say “goddamn this video is some derivative horse shit!” That’s because Huey has never faked being creative. The man doesn’t have an original bone in his body. He has clung to that double yellow line his whole life and it brought him incredible wealth and success. His dumb ugly band smiles and wears sunglasses on stage or the beach. That’s it. They come out, unzip the pleated khaki dockers of their souls, and whip their uncreativity out for all to see. But some people try and accessorize their unoriginal genitals. They dress them up with a little beret or buddy holly glasses or make their pubes into a rat tail or they pierce their sexy organs and dangle a little fixed gear bike from it. You might be happier and I might be less annoyed if everyone was as honest and open as Huey Lewis’ genitals.

*Hello friend. Glad to see you made it down here to visit me and my little asterisk bud. He gets so lonely sometimes. Anyways the point of this whole derailment is that at the point where I placed the asterisk in the original text I was inspired to look and see if there was a website entitled youtuba on which you could watch tuba videos or perhaps commission a painting of yourself playing a tuba or some such stupid idea. I can tell you right now that in fact that no it’s just some scam to get you to sign up for a free prize. Don’t do it bitch! Because I’m-a gonna win that tropical vacation! Hahahahaha.

** I ask as if you’d disagree with me, “good sir I must dispute your claims on turdlical creationism! Each fecal brick was in fact not crafted by some sort of benevolent creator lovingly extruding log after log, all as individual as snowflakes.”

***I’m pretty sure I would hate my clone.

Night Thoughts

All the nature and/or projected-future documentaries and articles I've been watching/reading/consuming/falling asleep to lately have been incredibly depressing. Like so depressing I want to avoid that kind of informative entertainment altogether. I just want to watch some shit on mysterious jungle pyramids or the reticulated spider snake or traditional Laplander mating gloves.

Am I the only one?

Should I just explode my TV and mailbox and computer? I think I'm going to send National Geographic a bill. I think I'm going to send you all bills. Expect them shortly. Pay the bill or pay the price. Either way I get my pay. Unless you exploded your mailbox by then, you magnificent bastard, you.

When am I gonna evolve already? I am so over being trapped in the stagnant jizz era of Homo Sapiens time ditch. I've been considering morphing into Homo Syrupiens or Robo Sapphieriens or Chrono Sabretooths. I can't believe I'm this old and I don't have a machine gun yet. I KINDA THINK WE WERE PROMISED MACHINE GUNS. When is the next 4th of July? The only day that the world makes sense is the 4th of July.

Shakespeare

For my Shakespeare class we were assigned to write an autobiography that intermingled our experiences with the bard and we had to include some of our favorite poetry. I was the only person who took this work seriously



Autobiographic Asphixiation
SWM seeks nice gal with good horse sense...oh wait. Bio. Hmmmmm. Bio, bio, bio...The year was 1923, the place was ANYTOWN USA (Anytown Usa is a small island in the Sandwich Island chain). My great great grand step uncle Cornelius "Niblets" O'McMactinez had just shot the island Postmistress General through the wig with a concealed crossbow after a dispute over who actually won the assistant sargeant-at-arms position in the Sandwich Islands Giant Turtle and Shakespeare Appreciation Society (SIGTSAS). Unkie Nibs escaped persecution by sneaking off in the night and hitching a ride on the back of a giant turtle to Tierra Del Fuego where he lived happily ever after until he was brutally murdered at the age of 17. But before Niblets died of multiple tusk wounds he found time to impregnate several of the ugliest Tierra Del Fuegons. My relatives bred and bred and bred and and bred and baked bread and had hecka kids and then at some point I was born from inside my mama's tum-tum out into the real world.

I spent my salad days on Tierra Del Fuego. That is to say as a child I toiled at whippoint in a Salad factory there. Then, when Ronald Reagan secretly made deals with Iranian terrorists to "free" hostages in exchange for weapons (the same weapons used to kill U.S. soldiers today) and financed these weapon purchases with money made from huge cocaine deals from central America (all of that coke came straight to Reagan's just-say-no America by the way {what a patriot that man was!}), the CIA hired me to help them invent a more addictive form of cocaine (so RR could give terrorists guns). More addictive form of cocaine? I said, you're asking me to build a better mousetrap. Get to work or get murdered by us, they said. And so it took me a couple of days but I did it. I invented crack. That's me. I'm "the crack dude." And honestly being the crack dude has been great and all but I just feel like it's time to move on. I kinda wanna be "the Shakespeare guy" or "Lil Shakespeare"...there's probably already a rapper named that. But I wanna be like totally Shakespeared out. I'll get my car done up Shakespeare style (put a bust of ol' Willy on my dash, license plate BARDMAN or 2BNOT2B, have a sword compartment instead of a glovebox, etc). I put in my paperwork to legally change my name to Shakespeare Shakespeareson earlier this week. What I want to get out of this class is that I want to memorize every word from every Shakepeare work even Cardenio.
 


This is me & yes, people do tell me I look like The Bard of Avon all the time thank you very much.

Here's a little taste of poetry. The poetry that speaks to me. The Poetry that moves me. That gets me out of bed every morning. I wake up, read poetry aloud at the top of my lungs for 15-20 hours (I call it "screading"), choke down a couple of Kids Cuisines, write several complaint letters to businesses I've never been to, and then I jump back into bed with my parents and sleep until the whole durn thing starts all over again. I have and will never read this poem that has been cut and pasted below, but I have FAITH in its power. It is a poem after all and I just love poetry so much I know it will be good.

There is another sky by Emily Dickinson
There is another sky,
Ever serene and fair,
And there is another sunshine,
blah blah blah toodly too
who cares
-1989


Bang bang. I put the A.K. in shAKespeare

White Fang is my favorite Shakespeare novel. No, I mean Shakespeare in love is probably my favorite Willy S book. No, I never saw that movie. I did see The Merchant of Venice though. I had no idea that Shylock was the villian. I thought he was the hero until they screw him in court and everyone is laughing and triumphant that they ruined that poor jew who they spit on and keep locked up in the ghetto and renege on their contract with. That was annoying but what compounded that is how dull the final third of this thing was and what's with the crossdressing and tricking? Not funny not compelling. He should have pinched that chunk of the play off and flushed it away. So much crossdressing. Who is so stupid that they don't recognize their own girlfriend with a fake moustache on? So much laughing and merriment and gaiety, no thanks. Shakesy baby let's stick to the everyone is stabbed or poisoned on the floor at the end thing.

I've had to read some of his more well known plays in middle school, high school and college jr. I've seen some film adaptations and seen some filmed performances. I struggle with it a lot of the time but I really like how he sort of reimagines language and messes it up and gets his point across better that way. I don't know how to explain it. I'm no Shakepeare. Not yet. Wait, no I take that back. I am Shakespeare. And I demand a neck ruff. and a flagon of something. and some royalty checks. NOW!