I’m You Venus, I’m Your Fire, What’s Your DESIRE?

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50 shades of Gray Matter. Sticky Gray Matter

Desire. A common bond everyone shares with each other. Not a person exits that doesn’t desire something. What exactly is desire? A philosophic and religious quandary before the word quandary even existed. Desire can raise you to the top of the power pyramid or topple you like a stupid Jenga move. It can get you kicked out of the garden of Eden, get you beaten by your wife with a golf club, or cause you to lose you your pulpit and have you defrocked. That right, the preacher that was frock-blocked and publicly humiliated admitting “I have sinned!” gave in to desire because he sinned. Of course he sinned, if you call sex a sin, he had strong desires. And sexual desire is the glue that binds all seven of the seven deadly sins.
Yes desire, that sweet sweeping feeling of anticipation of pleasure on the way. That marvelous feeling of bodily fluids creeping to the top of the roller coaster in anticipation of an explosive thrill ride. But what price are you willing to pay to fulfill your sexual desire? What will scratching that sensual itch that brings you to the edge of your sanity end up costing you? Everything has a price and desire can incur an array of costs. Reaching your desire makes you happy and although money can’t buy happiness you can pay to have your desires tended to. But they will only come back because you can‘t purchase a way to end your desire. Whether you desire a high octane thrills like the rush from bungee jumping, the status raising happiness of owning expensive clothes, or cars or whatever, it can all be bought. If you want sexual release you hire someone who works for the oldest profession. Want a feeling of euphoria? That too can be bought and paid for but once satisfied the rush is gone. Soon after we reach a climatic conclusion to desire we’re on the trail in search of another chance.
Desire can be achieved during a solo performance but its at its best when it involves more than one singular participant. Desire loves company but misery loves company too so its often accompanied by consequence. Eve desired the forbidden apple and Adam desired the forbidden fruit underneath the fig leaf and reaching for their desires got them a one way ticket out of the garden. Was it worth the consequence? Well if the pictures I’ve seen of Eve are accurate I have no doubt Adam would have proclaimed it was well worth it, and Eve had a major smile when she peered at the size of the talking serpent. For Adam and Eve the joys of sex were so intense it was absolutely worth the price of their exile an according to legend are till going at it today. Seems Adam had been overwhelmed by his horniness which intensified even deeper as it was discovered that Eve was skilled in the art of the tease. She coaxed not only the desires out of her mate but every ounce of human seminal fluid in the world.
Perhaps she learned of this technique as she engaged in a deep conversation with the serpent. Talking snake, lol! Of course we know there are no talking serpents so the snake is a metaphor for Adams writhing tubular appendage. Personally speaking if my own endowment were compared to that of a large cobra I would be quite flattered and other dude would have crazy penis envy. But Adam had no other male to compare his pole to so there was no envy. There was however a plethora of desire and Adam and Eve went at it like pros until Adams wallnuts were out of apple seeds. For the rest of us however the taming of his slippery pusillanimous one eyed slithering serpent is considered the fall of man. In truth I believe Eve was so hot and horny it was Adam who fell, head over heels, and to this day love and desire are a match made in heaven. They satisfied their desires on the grandest of scales. Tiger on the other hand didn’t fare so well.
Tiger had multiple desires which lead to multiple orgasms which once revealed to his wife lead to multiple shots to the head with a number 2 wood. Ironically, Woods was beaten with a wood for indiscretions involving placing his wood in someone elses golfbag during his midnight putting sessions. Elin effectively cleaned his balls by taking Tigers own tool and swinging Wood’s wood with a perfect swing and excellent follow through. She was so teed off she teed off on his noggin, metaphorically smashing both heads with the blows she leveled at him. Tiger paid tremendous consequences losing his wife and many of his endorsements. Mr. Woods has been off his game ever since. But the common bond that drove both men was sexual desire.
Sex. Sometimes a favorite subject and sometimes the pachyderm in the pantry. Taboo, illicit, underage, multiple partner, auto erotic, swapping, or orgies, the act of making love has been around since the dawn of time. Oral, anal, vaginal, or foreign object men have been sticking the snake in whatever orifices they can find since Adam did Eve. And a good thing too or none of us would be here to enjoy it. What is it about sex that makes us desire it so emphatically that many are willing to take chances just to get a little action? What causes us to toss aside inhibitions and engage in acts of pleasure that many others would wince at?
Its hard to pinpoint exactly because there are so many variations on traditional sex these days. There are more fetishes than you can shake a gag ball at ranging from quirky to downright disturbing. Furries, bestiality, acts involving human excrement, pony play, diaper diddling, and the list of the absurd goes on. Some fantasies are socially acceptable and harmless when practiced consensually involving dominants and submissive, voyeurism (not to be confused with stalking), various body parts like leg fetish or foot fetish, sexual role play, sexual fashion like bondage hoods and latex suits , and of course the most common, sex toys. There are legitimate stores that sell nothing other than adult sexual aids such a vibrators, handcuffs, rings, balls, and blow up dolls. There is a myriad of toys and ways to use them that will fulfill near every sexual desire imaginable, and some not yet considered. Whatever your sexual desire you can find someone or something to satisfy it. As long as both (or all if group therapy is your thing) of the participants consent to it then knock yourself out. (which ironically is also a fetish).
Sexual desire has gotten so ingrained into our society we even accept a condition which I refer to as being horny to (ahem) rise to the level of a disease. Not merely a strong desire to have sex but a medical condition that has them predisposed to need sex. A new market will soon open for medicinal debauchery because addicts can’t keep it IN their jeans so they blame it ON their genes. No coincidence it seems to effect celebrities and politicians more than other people. Maybe they really are driven uncontrollably, or maybe, just maybe, they are egotistical arrogant assholes who lack the awareness of anyone outside of themselves and their own all important desires. But in the end we need to do something with them.
So should we just send them to Sexaholics anonymous? “Hi, my mane is JT and I’m a sex addict. I‘ve been ejaculation free for one week now and I feel weak. I need a sponsor, preferably a younger redhead. I‘m just crazy about gingers” Sorry, I for one am not buying it. We all get horny but we also know right from wrong. I mean hell, why not say I have a bank robbing addiction, or an addiction to stealing expensive cars that goes back to my childhood? “It’s not my fault, if he didn’t want me stealing his Mercedes then why did they have to keep it in such sexy good condition. It’s my Dads fault for always making me wash his shitty Oldsmobile.”
This is what people like Jimmy Swaggart used as the excuse for committing the sin of sex or in his case hypocra-sex. Having sex after telling others they’ll go to hell for having it. Maybe he was trying to horde all the sex for himself. Guys who get caught with their pants down with their hose watering the wrong garden these days claim its an uncontrollable burning desire to relieve their sexual tensions. Its recognized as a medical condition. They suffer from chronic medical condition called Acute NonMeaCulpa, or “Not my fault.” That used to be something we said back in grade school before we actually knew right from wrong but now its an excuse to get someone off the hook for acting on something they knew was wrong. Don’t blame the one committing the illegal act, blame it on one of the seven deadly sins. Lust, Gluttony, Greed, Sloth, Wrath, Envy, and Pride. Or in a word, DESIRE.

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The Nutcracker Not So Sweet

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Life’s A Beach

Another typical Friday night in Huntington Village where things have been hopping all night. Bar hopping that is, one of our favorite sports back in 73. From Canterbury Ales to Chelsea Square Pub to Sportmans pub in the bowling alley. I think we hit just about every bar, even the “old man” bars and it was no longer Friday night, but early Saturday morning. What better way to finish all the revelry than by walking into straight into the Lions Cage. The one on New York Avenue that is where they make the best Harvey Wallbangers in town and may offer our last shot at “scoring“. Truth is I knew I wouldn’t be picking up anything but my tab and I was feeling pretty buzzed. Missed opportunities aside we were on a roll anyway when we heard that all too familiar phrase which effectively stalled our rambling conversations. “Last call for alcohol!”
“Damn, last call already?” It was the same thing Shadow said every time we heard that “time to get your ass home” two minute warning but tonight, I mean this morning, Shadow was seriously not ready to call it quits. “Guys, lets grab a bite at Colonial Diner then pick up a few brewski’s and head out to The Hampton’s.” The five of us looked at each other and knew in an instant what a bad idea that was. “I’m game.” “Me too, I’ll go”. Okay, maybe not all of us because so far Shadow, Mario, and T-Bone were ready to go for it and it was up to me and Willie to avoid the poor decision. “Far out let’s go. You in JT?” My lone voice of reason was all that was standing between five idiots driving out to The Hampton’s and making the rational decision to go home and avoid what would more than likely be a huge mistake. “Hell yea I’m in man, lets go for it.” Holy shit was that me that said that?
To late the bad judgment call was made so we ate, stopped off at 7/11 to fill up our cooler, swung by our homes to sneak out our bathing trunks and a towel, and headed for a weekend in The Hampton’s. Mario was behind the wheel of my car because he was a good driver an the least impaired. Actually that’s why we called him Mario, after Mario Andretti the racing car driver. Mario hung those curves like a damn surgeon even when he was, lets just call it impaired. Once we breezed past the Walt Whitman Mall I knew there was no turning back. Of course knowing better now we would have never even considered such a ride but back in those days bad decisions were all the rage.
We had a half baked plan to head out towards The Hampton Bays and find a discrete place to park so we could sneak off into the dunes to have a quick nightcap and grab a snooze. In the morning we would scour the beach for a party because The Hamptons was one big ass party on the beach. Each of us had a favorite place to go at night and sometime to night we would be on our mission to hit them all. Mario was a big fan of The Cave, probably for the ladies dancing in the cages. Willie loved the Barge which wa boring and made no sense to me but to each his own and of course Shadow was all about alcohol so we had to go to OBI East for the “Long Island Iced Tea’s.” T-Bone met this killer hot chick at The Mad Hatter last summer so he wants to go there hoping he’ll find her again. Me? My favorite place was Cat Ballou with the deck out back but to be honest The Mad Hatter was a close second. It was wall to wall bikinis in that place. We would try and hit them all in the hopes of seeing The Good Rats or Otter Creek. Both bands play the Hampton’s a lot so it wasn’t out of the realm of possibilities. Truth told the real reason any of us go there is for love and maybe a little sex. Okay mostly in the hope of sex but we were strapping young boys.
We cruised own the highway with Jim Cameron of WLIR radio promising some Santana and Canned Heat coming up next. “Hey man, crank it up when Canned heat comes on bro” I sat shotgun because it was my friggen car, and I would be more than happy to honor Willies request. “You got it Willie boy” Then I added a chorus of “Little Willie Willie wont,….go home” just cuz it pissed him off. I looke over at Mario who seemed almost sober as he got us to Sunrise Highway staring intensely ahead. The great thing about the overnight trip is so little traffic.Of course going home would be different, 495 would be on the Sunday evening Hampton evacuation crawl as so many tired and sun burnt people left weekend paradise to return back to their nine to five worlds in shades of mediocrity. Be we were almost there as the signs for East Quahog and The Hampton Bays faded behind us. Time to go local and find a place to stash the car.
It took about another twenty minutes but we finally found and old gas station, a run down Esso where Mario parked the car in the back among a bunch of other cars most of which were in even worse shape than my half dilapidated Simca. Willie was our resident analytic so he would have the street names committed to memory as we headed out with cooler in tow. We quietly negotiated the residential roads to find our sandy sanctuary while the beautiful early morning sound of waves tickling the shoreline set a placid tone. Once secure in the dunes we each had one beer then slipped off to sleep all snug in our sandy beds while visions of bikini clad ladies danced in our heads.
It was a beautiful Long Island summer morning and the sun had shaken off the last of the evenings darkness. I woke up hearing the commotion of people migrating towards the shore in search of their perfect spot to set up their blankets and chairs. But something else brought me rapidly alert. Something, or more accurately a bunch of something’s were biting my legs, arms and face. Horseflies! Holy shit there must have been a thousand of those bloodsucking flesh ripping winged pests nipping at my body with their murderous mandibles. I began a very spastic interpretive dance designed to quickly rid me of the parasitic miniature beasts. The boys also woke up to the annoying flies the size of bats. Okay, baby bats, but the suckers were big. And mean! I had brought a towel which had now become a weapon, Willie had tears in his eyes as he cried “Ow ow, ow.” I looked at Shadow’s interpretive dance just realizing how graceful he could be but when I saw T-Bone I nearly fainted. His bathing suit was a bit tight and was showing way too much for my virginal eyes. I pointed to his crotch and said, “T-Bone, either put that thing away or cover it up” T-Bone stared at me through groggy all night drinking confused eyes. Once he saw my finger he followed the trajectory to the image I was attempting to wash away and let out a blood curdling scream. He reached his down into his shorts and yanked out a live squirming snake which he sent airborne.
Instinctively the four of us grabbed our crotches and immediately began inspecting our trunks for any unwanted creepy crawlers. The wonderful sound of the Atlantic ocean waves crashing on the shore became overshadowed by loud giggles and some out and out laughter. I looked over still confused to the beach which was filled with those bikini clad images all pointing and laughing at five boys peppered with horsefly bites and each openly ravaging his own crotch. The blood shot up to my face accentuating the fly bites and coloring so deep red my embarrassment couldn’t possibly be mistaken for sunburn.
We enjoyed our day at the beach, some Frisbee and swimming, but it was hard to get past all the pointing and smiling as the story of the five clowns from Huntington circulated no doubt getting embellished at each retelling. Each of us had lost our dignity but we were in The Hamptons so who really cares. We did go out to some of the clubs, No Good Rats or Otter Creek, none of us scored but we all five had a great time anyway. At one point I was involved in a nice conversation with a gorgeous redhaired foxy babe and it was going pretty well until a friend of hers whispered in her ear and she politely told me she had to leave.
Oh well there always next time and next time we’ll be a lot wiser. Not smarter, more Budweiser because we are perfectionists o we keep repeating our mistakes until we get them perfect. None of us drink and drive now and if the weekend taught us anything its to be careful where you sleep and how you wake up because humiliation seldom results in sex. That there is much truth to the proverb you don’t get a second chance to make a first impression. Next time We’ll be prepared.

Their, There, They’re, Just Right About You’re Write to Right

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Tears Of An Abstract Artist

“You have to suffer for your art” I’ve heard that so many times before so maybe its worth considering. But what kind of suffering? Public ridicule, self mutilation, a good old fashioned ass kicking, exactly how should I suffer for my art? Some artists cut off their ears although I‘ve grown attached to my attachments, others go mad listening to the passengers in their heads (was that me that aid that?), some turn to drugs, and many go the route of heavy alcohol abuse. Maybe I’ll start at the drugs and alcohol and work my way up. Okay, that bullshit, that brushstroke dried on the canvass a long time ago, so if abusing drugs and alcohol are all that’s needed to suffer I’ve already suffered for years. But those aren’t acts of suffering they’re consequences of attempting to avoid the suffering. The suffering we bring on ourselves by being our own worst critics. Why? I believe its rooted in the fact that we tend to live our lives in the abstract and not in the conventional world that most “normal” people live in.
Artists think see and feel in the abstract. Even “normal” people experience abstract thought everything they sleep because our dreams are the inherently abstract. The brain functions for us when we’re awake but once REM sets in it’s the brain has free reign and great god almighty can it do abstract. That’s why our dreams can be unreal, surreal, or too real. Its like the brain likes to fuck with us while we’re lying defenseless in bed. It needs to keep itself occupied while we’re snoozing and its like “what the hell, might as well throw some weird ass shit out there that makes no sense” just to amuse its superior self and to keep us wondering. Sometimes I wake up and my first thought is WTF was that all about? Sometimes I wake up and think holy crap that was awesome, Ima try to get back to sleep and see some more. Other times I don’t even remember my dreams at all. More than likely a defense mechanism using selective recollection so I don‘t actually blow my own mind. But while our bodies are at rest our brains goes into an abstract state. That’s why dreams can seem so strange yet so real. Abstract is the normal state for an artist. Not much of a reach to label us “dreamers!”
At any rate I’m awake now and debatably lucid so allow me to define my concept of what an artist is. An artist is one who uses any or all of their senses to express their abstract manifestations in some form of expressive medium. We are familiar with the painters and sculptors because we can see their works Rodin, Michelangelo, Picasso, Van Gough, all the great works of the world expressed through colors and shapes and textures and committing their visions or images to canvas or marble. The same is done with a musician who hears sounds and then recreates those sounds using instruments, or anything that makes the sound they hear. Jimi Hendrix is the best example, using his guitar to express sounds we would never have been able to experience had he not been able to summon the abstract. The writer who puts random thoughts into words forming a recognizable pattern that expresses emotions. All of those abstract thinkers are artists but an artist is not limited to those more familiar mediums. I first began to understand this when I became a chef and learned to cook in the abstract.
I have always had the soul of an artist and it made me feel like I was just a tad different from others when I was young. I wanted to be some sort of an artist but it was frustrating. My best drawing are my stick figures o that was out. I loved and still do love music but I could never read it. I could read the note on paper but my mind and my hands failed to form the synergy necessary. I erroneously assumed without being able to read music I would never learn to play. I would have loved to get into acting but I suffered from chronic stage fright and rejection anxiety. I always wrote but never learned how to structure properly so only wrote for my self and my friends and even that was done sparingly due to that rejection anxiety. To make matters even worse I wrote a love poem for my first girlfriend and she laughed, effectively destroying both my elf sesteem and my self confidence while smiling. I suffered!
But working in restaurants is where I learned about artistry. I began washing pot and pans and quickly learned how to make salads, then simple deserts. I learned about food prep and eventually worked my way up to lead cook. But it was just a J-O-B, a way to make money for weed. A I got older I discovered I could make a living cooking so I worked hard and got pretty good at it, ultimately went to school for it. Once while I was working in a restaurant in midtown Manhattan as a line cook the chef took an interest in me. He is a talented chef from France and he saw something in me so he began to instruct me on his style of cooking. As time went by I spent many of my days off and after work hours working with him and he taught me so much. I quickly became not just a line cook but the best line cook, then the sous chef. My benefactor began teaching me how to not only cook, but how to give my dishes personality. I began to form my own style and every dish I created had a bit of my culinary DNA in it. That’s when I put it together. I wasn’t merely a cook, I was a culinary poet.
Cooking creatively is art. Performance art using a biodegradable edible format that is in the moment. It’s a fierce and fast paced performance balancing the demands of a hungry public and their discriminating taste buds. But the chef is responsible to reach every one of the senses with his creation. First it has too be appealing to the eye, it has to have a fresh and enticing aroma, it needs to feel good in the mouth and be at the proper temperature, It needs to incite a number of sounds from the diner (MMM, ahhhh), and most importantly, all the flavors have to come together in a harmonious taste sensation. During many of the performances I either cut or burned myself. I suffered!
But I had to man up because the show must go on and I was a culinary performer. An artist armed with an array of foods bearing different colors, shapes, textures, and tastes at my fingertips and they all required individual attention. Vegetables that need peeling or cutting, with different cooking times, meats and seafood’s that needed fabrication and storage, some in marinades, and also with varied cooking times. I also had to make decisions as to which methods of cooking would achieve the beat results. After that I take into consideration the variety of flavors of those components and arrange them using the various shapes, sizes, textures, and present them in a way that is appealing to the eye. And that’s done over and over with different dishes in rapid succession, each dish going out perfect. That’s Art!
I still think and breath in abstract and my life is one big improvisation which may be my strongest trait. I don’t have a structured life plan I approach just about everything in an abstract manner. If an inspiration hits me its only a seed, and what develops s from that seed is often totally different from what I originally had in mind. That’s how I roll. I’ve reached my pinnacle in restaurants and have refocused my creative efforts to baking and now that I’ve reached as far as I desire in the culinary world I continue to create desserts but I put more focus than ever on my first abstract love, writing. I’m not reaching for the stars with my words but there is much that I want to share to any open minds that enter the arena. I found my writing voice which not surprisingly sounds sarcastic, slightly cynical and its woven in a loom of dry humor that quite often no one gets but me. That’s okay, at least I’ll get the last laugh and besides I believe I have been steadily improving and I constantly pushing my boundaries to expand my parameters and write things I’m not comfortable with. Well not comfortable at first, but I adapt quickly. I’m happier with my words than ever before and it is incredibly self rewarding. I’ve even attempted to delve back into poetry a bit, still adding my trademark dry and sarcastic humor, and I’m digging the hell out of it. It has allowed to me further explore my philosophy of existentialism. Not suffering!
So my advice to any who have the fortune, or misfortune if you’re a sufferer, to read my ramblings, especially if you’re young, is never believe your thinking in the abstract makes you different in a bad way, but unique in a glorious way. If you need to make a living while honing your art do it, your family and personal life come before everything. Life spins by at lightning quick speed and while were are on this tiny twirling orb we need to take care of each other and save our abstract guilty pleasures for those moments when we need therapeutic assistance but can’t afford a shrink. Just never quit, and never give it up. You’ve got something to say and it should be heard….PEACE

It’s All right Ma, I’m Only Bleeding

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Like most every time one story out of millions captures the attention of the media and the masses. There was Casey Anthony, Scott Peterson, and who could forget the OJ trial? Now we’re at it again with the Trayvon Martin George Zimmerman case. There are so many elements we could focus on in this trial. The right to defend oneself, the right to walk freely in a neighborhood, the racial profile, or the fact that it seems acceptable for an untrained person on “Neighborhood Watch” to be carrying a loaded weapon. All of these things have been selected ,inspected, and dissected until they were infected and rejected and basically been talked about over and over so much that even the hardcore trial addicts are getting weary. That’s how we do it though, we pick out one story out of millions, the one that will spark the most polarizing effect and set people against each other and beat the shit out of the story.
There’s millions of other atrocities to choose from, pick a city and chances are good an innocent person has been killed within the last few days, but if it doesn’t capture the imagination of the argument hungry public it gets no airtime. The courts are full of rapists, murderers, and liars getting away with crimes but unless there are elements that can get us fighting no one gives a shit. Give us a story with teeth. WTF, that’s our nature I guess, the ancient Romans gathered in hordes to watch other people meet a violent end and we are doing the same thing only calling it civilized. We don’t actually watch the battle but our mouths froth for the aftermath so we can disagree with each other and add some real life drama to our lives, as if we don’t already have our fair share.
So all in all its really not a big surprise that we would focus on this case but this one has taken a disturbing and disconcerting turn. The case isn’t coming down to facts, not at all about right or wrong, or racism, or unnecessary use of a firearm, its come down to who’s Mom does the jury believe. A grieving Mom or a Mom fighting for her sons freedom. We‘ve heard from both. Mrs. Martin. Who doesn’t believe that she is sure in her heart that she heard the familiar cry of her son screaming for help? Mrs. Zimmerman, who doesn’t believe that she believes in her heart that she heard the scream of her son? If it was me I would be sure it was my son, because my love for him is so strong I would believe it no matter what. So is one mother lying? Putting the two mothers on the stand is an all time low as far as I’m concerned. Personally I believe them both. I believe them to be caring and loving mothers who would go to the mat, take a bullet, die for there children. Most of us would. But they are not on trial.
Why does it even matter who was creaming for help? What about the facts? A young boy was guilty of buying candy and being in a strange neighborhood. A young man is guilty of following this youth, with a firearm in a holster, and confronting him for whatever reason. This is the debate. Is Zimmerman a protector or a vigilante? Maybe they should leave the Moms out and stick to the facts. But then again, if they do that they may lose ratings, who wants to see reality on TV anyway?

The Scream Of The Butterfly

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Living in the Timothy Leary
Psychedelic ping pong theory
Turn on Tune In
All this shit makes me weary

The hard slam of the paddle
Causing gray matter rattle
Turn on Tune in
Your ass back in the saddle

The harder they hit the more you bounce back
Weathering every heart pounding attack
Turn on Tune in
Don’t come along if you don’t have the knack

Keep on with the game until it all ends
Booze pot and pills will help with the cleanse
Turn on Tune In
With a little help from my friends

So icy it chills right to the bone
The hurter the pain the louder the moan
Turn on Tune in
Why won’t you leave me alone

Lived my life like a ping pong ball, the harder they hit the harder and faster I bounced back, over and over. Over the net. Sometimes I tripped over the net, got knocked clear out of bounds, went over the line, but got up every time and I’m still in the game and ready to go. So keep on hitting me motherfucker as hard as you can but I will bounce back every time and look you straight in the eye. Even in the big sleep.

Red And White, Blue Suede Shoes

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Hippie Independence Day

A lot is said whenever these “patriotic” holidays come around about supporting the troops and thanking a soldier. That’s a great sentiment but waving a flag around, or making your social media avatar a bald eagle or the American flag, and making sure everyone knows how much this person———————> loves their country isn’t what make us patriots. It’s an honest and sincere belief that our country can be even better and more free. That’s why this year I’m asking you to not only thank the obvious defenders of freedom, but thank a hippie.
Sound sarcastic or ridiculous? Not when you stop to think about it. The Hippie movement has done so much to help move the country forward, but much of the accomplishments are diminished by the stigma of heavy drug use. Its true, drugs were an integral part of the movement but it wa more a celebration of experimenting and making the “Establishment” angry that weed was better than martini’s. If you look beyond the drug use you’ll see a group of young people who embodied the spirit of the founding fathers as much as any other patriotic people in our history. Its not easy having the guts to stand up to years and years of policy and say “We’re not gonna take it.” It was that spirit, in the face of tyranny to take a stand for decency and humanity. I‘m not saying everything done was right and as with any group there were some extremists who took it too far, but overall the hippie movement was one of peace, love, and rock and roll. It created a giant cultural swing that allowed future generations to stand up to power an call bullshit!
The entire globe is facing many challenges and human rights is at the forefront of so many battles in the struggle for equality but it’s a challenge that needs to be faced. I sincerely hope we are currently on the brink of a new emerging group of people like the hippies that won’t just complain about the way the country I being run but find the courage and fortitude to stand up to the worn out principles and replace it with modern and more effective principles of governing that address the concern of this new era. I hope the young people of our times have what it takes to bring our country further up the road. Hopefully they won’t need to use drugs to establish that being rebellious is not disrespect, but an honest desire to make the world a better place.
So on this holiday, July 4th, Independence Day, remember that we celebrate it not because it marks the day that we defeated the alien with the help of Will Smith, but a day in which a group of rebels believed that it is our inherent right to live our lives in peace and freedom on our terms, not the term of a tyrannical fascist. This year I’m asking you to thank a hippie. So when you see an old dude still rocking their hippie roots, thank them, give them a beer, and if ya got em, light em up. Because when you come down to it, some things never change. Peace

Is That A Rabid Rat On The Sidewalk Or Are You Just Ready To Attack Me

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The Answer My Friend, Is Blowin’ In The Wind

I was living and working in New York City as a line cook at a Midtown restaurant. It was a hot summer night an after busting my ass all night I was ready to get fired up at a happening club on the lower east side around the corner from CGBG’s. All night long I had been slicing, dicing, chopping, sautéing and frying while engaging in screaming matches with the expeditor who being French had the advantage of cursing me out with words I didn’t understand. I was some sort of “petty rast decayed-a-rrrrayso contingawn de merrrda” or some weird shit with cool “R” tongue rolls which a co-worker tells me means I am a sort of gay syphilis encrusted piece of shit. Those French, so descriptive, gotta love em for making insults sound so nice.. To be honest his French words flowed so sweetly to me like he was yelling “you sweet American hunk of a man your chopped onions could make a French women cry,” but it is what it is. Anyway, I was tired and ready to get amped up and find a lover that won’t drive me crazy. Unless of course that lover drives me crazy in bed.
At any rate, I left the 43rd street restaurant and since I didn’t make a ton of money slinging sauté pans for a living I chose to travel by foot. Besides, it was a nice summer night and I had some time to kill with not much happening in the city till around midnight. I walked the way most New Yorkers do, transverseing the streets. That is to say we walk in the path of least resistance negotiating the traffic. When cars prevent me from continuing south I head east a block or two until its clear again. This oddly normal way of walking led me directly into the path of Herald Square, a tiny little park where 6thAve and Broadway converge around 34th street. Herald Square is more of a triangle (an obtuse one for you math nerds) and I was prepared to go through this small triangular park when something caught me eye. Underneath the unoccupied benches played a bastion of rats all running and jumping right out there in the open, not afraid of a thing. At first the hippie in me thought “How cute, little rodents playing red rover or something” until a jolt of restaurant reality hit me. Rats are mortal enemies of both mice and men, especially when they choose to dine in the restaurant you work in.
That said, I decided I would ignore their usual enemy combatant status and indulge in a little herbal enhancement. This way I could amuse myself by watching them play for a little while. They just seemed like they were having so much fun and like I said, time to kill. Looking around like I was casing the street for a robbery attempt I carefully scanned the area for any blue suited “peoples friend” law enforcement officers who for whatever reason believed catching someone committing the heinous crime of getting high was keeping the rest of the world safe. The last thing the world should fear is a mellow stoned hippie and this weed was so good I would be stoned and mellow just lighting up. Not seeing any cops around I fired up a joint and enjoyed the Big Apple Rat Circus for a few minutes. They were quite agile, jumping over each other in games of leap-rat, or tag, or whatever rat games they play. I thought I may have even seen a few of them smiling, but like I said, it was primo weed. After I had taken three hits my memory bank played a rather unnecessary trick on me and withdrew the memory of the movie “Willard” which caused a shiver to reverberate from my prized Frye boots up to my red, white, and blue bandana. Suddenly the playful little rats once again became the ruthless menaces attempting to take over Manhattan one sewer at a time that I knew they were. Freaked out a tad and effected with PTSD (Pot Tokers Stress Disorder) I chose to walk the long way around Herald Square.
Around the park and on to the far side of 6th avenue I ventured avoiding those nasty disease carrying bastards. Now the memory of their game playing freaked me out, but what a gorgeous evening it was. Perfect summer weather, people out and about everywhere, and with the ratscapades now forgotten I put a big smile on my face as I continued on my journey to the hip new club. Up ahead about a city block away I saw something moving in the center of the sidewalk but couldn’t make out exactly what it was. As I got closer it became apparent that it was a sick animal and it may even be a rat. My stoned memory bank was still open so I made another withdrawal this time from much further back. Many years ago when I lived with my parents on Long Island I came home drunk one night only to find a rabid raccoon hissing and threatening me as I tried to sneak in the back door. Frightened and high I was not about to engage in battle with this masked bandit of a rodent that was foaming at the mouth. Begrudgingly I had to knock on the front door and wake my parents up because, well because the fucking thing was rabid! So I was busted for coming home not only late, but three, maybe even four or five sheets to the wind whatever the hell that means.
I digress, suffice is to say the memory of a very sick and dangerous Rocky Raccoon hissing and trying to scratch my eyes out or kill me weighed heavy on my mind as I sized up the sick animal ahead. I was convinced now that directly in my path ahead it was a rabid rat looking for something to attack. The moment of truth was approaching.
Time to summon up some composure. I looked around quick and there were a number of people on the East side of 6th avenue strolling casually totally unaware I was about to be confronted by this sick menace. I reckon I could have just crossed the street and warn people of the dangerous vermin but I didn’t want to look like a wuss. I’m not a whiney suburban boy anymore, I’m living and working in the big city. I am a New Yorker now God dammit and we fear nothing! I took a deep breath and headed straight towards the viscous killer preparing to kick that little fucker all the way across the sidewalk . I was fully aware of the other people around milling about and I was certain most of them could see me. Not willing to have them think I am anything less a fearless New Yorker I forged ahead ready willing and able to defend myself from King Rabid Rat. The very second he was at my feet a slight wind picked up as I reached my right foot back ready to put the full weight of my Frye boot into this sick rodents body it lunged at me. With full force I unleashed a Bruce Lee style kick and made a direct hit. Unfortunately as I looked down to watch the rat fly across the pavement I realized I had just kicked the shit out of a plastic bag that was blowing in an updraft from the subway grate. Oh yea, I put everything I had into kicking that bag and it made an obscenely loud whoosh which I was certain had caught the ear eye and attention of everyone within a three or four block radius.
Being a New Yorker now of course I had to save face. I had nearly lost my balance so I used that to my advantage and spun around, jumped up and did a two and a half spin, came down snapping my finger giving two arm twirls, did an about face move right into a strut/walk the rest of the way down the block repeating “We bad, we bad” like Richard Pryor and Gene Wilder.
I had done my best to save myself from a potentially embarrassing situation yet I heard some chuckles in the distance. When I think back I gotta admit it must have looked funny as Hell. Thing is, I’m not sure if they were laughing at the ridiculous attempt at a dance move from a stoned hippie, a stoned hippie freak on his way to Bellevue for a psychiatric assessment, or the fact that some stoned hippie just got busted for kicking the shit out of a defenseless plastic bag.