You Say You Want A Revelation, Well Ya Know (another sick bastard bible selection)

On August 15, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn Uncategorized2 Comments

part one

The last one picked is the one no one really wants on the team and Revelations was the last one picked for the Bible. Coincidence? Maybe, or maybe Revelations was too fat, too slow, or too uncoordinated or no one liked it. Maybe it jut flat out sucked! Of course there’s only one way to find out. Investigation. So here it comes the Christian Scripture Investigators. The CSI team is here to find the DNA and other forensic tidbits hidden in the scriptures. Maybe even trace elements like epithelia’s, fingerprints, or secret documents to uncover the truth behind the book of all things. This episode we will investigate the truth behind the final frontier of the bible, revelations.
The main players in this tale of apocalyptic reckoning are somewhat questionable. Written by John of Pathos where he was known as the pathological prophet of Pathos. The story as he tells it includes the four headless horsemen of Sleepy Hollow, the Liar of Judah, angels, trumpeters, the beast, a dragon, a false prophet, an arched angel, and of course no bible story would be complete without a whore, this one straight outta Babylon.
The book of revelations is somewhat difficult to tell because its told in some unusual circumstances. The story was revealed to this tripped out dude John, who was locked up in prison in Pathos on a drug related beef. He was a prolific writer who had already had a number of stories published in the New Testament. A few under the epistle category, and a gospel song called Psalm 43 (The P has the right to remain silent). Many religious scholars say it was actually 3 different Johns but if I get into bible discrepancies I’ll never get to this investigation. The truth as he told it to me goes like this. One evening while studying in the prison library John had a visitor. A woman who looked alarming similar to Mary Magdalene though she denies it three times. This visitor had placed a very powerful tab or two of LSD (legal at that time) in her mouth and transferred it to Johns mouth in a disgusting public display of spit swapping French kisses. A face sucking tongue tangoing, snog toggle, The ultimate French kiss whose true purpose was to exchange the hallucinogenic treat. When John got back to his cell, and after his bulge subsided (Really don’t drop the soap now!!) he was visited and told a story by god. I had a similar reverse episode once, after ingesting a chemical mind tickler I learned that god took some acid and saw me! Another day.
So during his intense peeking (I think that’s what people on acid trips call it when the trip hit’s a crescendo), that was when god suddenly said to John, “Dude, you wanna hear about the future of mankind?” Stupid question, of course he did. He was tripping after all. So this story was how John best remembered the telling some 18 hours after the acid wore off. That’s some powerful shit there! This is the book of Reservations. Reverberation. Revolution. ….Sorry, The Book of Revelations!
Here it is in his very own paraphrased words as he told it to me one day back in the late 60’s:
“So Mary and I kissed and I could feel two tabs of something on her tongue. Yea I know she said it wasn’t her but she just didn’t want to end up on the front page of the Abraham Inquirer. An let me tell you the J-man was one lucky Jew she was one helluva kisser. Anyway She tells me to swallow, something you don’t normally wanna hear in prison, so I swallows the tab. Then she tells me I just took two tabs of Blue Cheer acid. Man I was stoked. I smiled all the way back to my cell knowing what was coming. I got to my cell and laid down on my stone cot. After about a half hour I hear this voice. I sit up an look around but there ain’t no one there. So I lays back down when the voice comes back, this time calling me by name. So I shout who’s that, who’s there? And the voice says ‘Its me John, God.’ Now I’m thinking it must be the acid kickin’ in right? I mean the voice was like soft and almost girly. Not the powerful deep voice you’d think God would have but he insists. ‘Really John, its me God’ Then he steps out from the shadows and sure enough it is God. Amazing how much Jesus looked like him. Spittin’ image. What else could I do? I sez, whats up God?”
“He walks through the bars, I mean right through, like they wasn’t even there. Then he sez, ‘John, I want to tell you a story. I want you to write it down and make sure everyone reads it.’ I sez to him, you mean like a bestseller or something? To which he replies, ‘yea, something like that. But first try and get the story into the bible, because this is the story of the beginning and the end.’ Now I’m really thinking the acid is slamming the insides of my brain but I figger I should like play along and sez yea yea sure Mr. Almighty, whatever you sez.”
“When I first created everything I had seven arch angels to watch over heaven and protect it. Six of these arches were cool, but one arch angel was just a real pain in the ba-donk-a-donk. Has to do everything his way and refused to follow my directions. Finally one day I caught him in bed with Gabriel’s teenage daughter and that was the last straw. I tossed his ass out and straight down to earth along with one third of the questionable residents of heaven. He went down to earth with them and they formed a gang calling themselves the Crypts. He goes to the garden of Eden and begins recruiting humans for his gang. So I had Gabriel, a very trusted angel form a gang up here because I knew there would someday be a major showdown. He formed the Bloods of my blood, after my sons prophecy. We call them the Bloods for short, and it created a rivalry that would be the mother of all rivalries. Positive vs. Negative, Life vs. Death, Good vs. Evil, Bloods vs. Crypts. One day we would have our gang lords get together for an epic showdown. This showdown will be called The Rapture.”
“Now I’m still tripping but I’m starting to think maybe this shit is real so I keep scraping away on my stones getting down his words so I could one day write the book for him. Being an ancient journalist of course I had questions, so I asks him to explain to me how this Rapture thing is gonna go down. Then something happens that may sound like a fairy tale or a hallucination. He floats up to the ceiling an sez come on up John it will be easier if I show you”
Now I’m flipping ya know? I’m like how the fuck am I supposed to get up there, but before I even thought about a strategy I was lifted off my feet and floating right next to him. Honest to god, from Gods mouth to my ear he whispers, ‘Watch this. These guys can really stir it up’ A light went on and I swear to you it looked like a giant flat screen TV in HD. The images seemed so real. There was a stage with seven musicians. Al Hirt,Loius Armstrong,Wynton Marsalas, Miles Davis,Chuck Mangione,Maynard Fererson, and Dizzy Gillespie. Not just ordinary musicians each stood with a trumpet in their hands. The seven Trumpeters. They jammed for about an hour and that’s when the real show started!”

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

On July 24, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

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.

The Nutcracker Not So Sweet

On July 19, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

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

On July 11, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

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

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

On July 2, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

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.

Samsung And Da-Liar, conclusion..(best read while mind is alrerady dirty)

On June 30, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

A Pillar Of The Community?
Da-Liar was not proud of what she had done. Well, not proud of betraying Samsung, but she wished the camera phone had been invented because she thought his hair looked fab. A mullet for the ages, Spinal Tap meets Dog The bounty hunter. Samsung however did not share her admiration for the new doo. So unhappy with his mangy mallet that he removed every follicle on his head. Samsung had chosen to go all skin, his head shining like a giant…..well actually with his big oblong head shaved clean he kinda looked like a walking penis, but one proud motherhumping shit strutting walking penis with huge bulging and somewhat pissed muscles ready to engage in revenge. First he would kill the filthy bacon eating Philly-Steens then go back and take care of Da-Liar. He made his first strategic decision and turned himself in to King Davy who was overjoyed to have the bald headed joke back in chains and arranged for a party for all to see his conquest.
Posters all over town inviting Philly-Steens to a pagan revival and sacrificial extravaganza this Saturday. Come to the Behemoth Beheading Gala at the Gaza, Saturday evening at the Temple. Featured will be the disembowelment of Israelite slaves and the castration and sacrificial beheading of Samsung. The mighty Hebrew Hope becomes the Hebrew joke as he loses both his heads. Fun and game for all, bring the whole family. I tell ya, these Philly-Steens sure loved their huge ornate celebrations and this promised to be the smash of the century.
Samsung sat in his prison and planned out his moves. Even the other slaves were calling him names now, feeling as though he had severely disappointed them. Samsung had become the laughing stock of the entire Fertile Crescent. But you can’t keep a good man down and Samsung was up. Up for over six hours which is the magic amount of hard time before calling a doctor which he did.
The doctor arrived at his cell, keeping slaves healthy before killing them was one of their main obligations. “What is the problem here slave?” Samsung lifted his loincloth revealing an almost inhumanly large stiff erection and pointed to it, “It’s been like this for over six hours and it won’t go down. I can’t fight like this. Can you release the pressure doc?” Of course the doctor didn’t want to touch that so he ordered the guard to have Samsung brought to his office where he could have his nurse do the deed.
Samsung made no effort to conceal his towering totem and the very second the nurse saw it she sized up the situation in her head and smiled. “Put him in there” as she pointed to the exam room. The nurse informed the doctor she knew just what to o to release the pressure but she needs be alone with him. The doctor ha no objection, if word got out that he had anything to do with releasing the fluid of a raging hard on it would ruin his career. And then it would destroy his family practice once it was discovered it was an Israelites salami he emptied of its contents. So off into the exam room walked Samsung, followed by the nurse with a smile as big as the joystick she was anticipating. She spared no time and placed her hand on his pulsing penis, “Anyone who says size doesn’t matter never held this marvel in her hands.” She began to stimulate the bulging log but Samsung had other idea’s. “It works much better if you’ll let me do some exploring” as he unbuttoned her gown she slipped out effortlessly and instantly allowed him to take the lead.
The two lovers went at it over and over. Over the exam table, over the waiting chair, over the cabinets, over just about everything they could find in the room. Samsungs talents brought the dazed nurse to four, count them, four incredible orgasms until he finally allowed himself to explode 2 quarts of pent up love juice between her thighs. During the explosive love making session Samsung, having learned from Sa-Liar, convinced the nurse to slip him a key to unlock his chains which he stored up his…..well you know where he hid it. He promised her he was going to use it to escape and come back for another pressure relieving episode.
With his ego inflated and his erection deflated he was returned to his cell where he would wait until Saturday when his big moment would arrive. He was fed well and tended to like the fattened calf preparing for a Pagan sacrifice. The town was abuzz in anticipation of a bloody and brutal family night out. Everyone was looking forward to the fiesta except for Da-Liar. Ashamed and heartbroken at betraying her lover Da-Liar wished none of this shit had happened. She sat in her room and sulked and sobbed angry at herself for losing Samsung. The only time she smiled was when she thought back to their love sessions the time she called him “My Sam Schlang” and they would both chuckle before making love again. She would no longer feel him swelling inside her, no more tender touches on her flesh, no more tongue bathing her from toe to head. Da-Liar could take it no longer. All the money and presents and material things no longer meant anything to her. No more thrill from her Ferrari chariot, the Veuve Clicoquot was a no, going to the boutique was weak, the feeling from Louis Vuitton….gone, and from her Prada, nada! Da-Liar couldn’t take the pain anymore, so she drank a bottle of champagne, and went into the bathroom to get some sleeping pills so she could rest. “Hmmm. Maybe I better take 2 or 3 tonight?” After struggling with it she opted to take 5, a very high dose but not one she hadn’t taken before. But when Da-Liar went to sleep, she would not ever wake up again. For some reason, perhaps it was a combination of not eating,drinking the champagne and the pills, or perhaps the pills were stronger than usual, or maybe she took more than he thought. No matter, she’s dead now and will never be able to answer those questions.
If Samsung had known that Da-Liar was gone he may have been sad, or he may have felt vindicated we’ll never know. What we can be sure of however is that on Saturday he was full of determination. He removed the hidden key and cleaned it off thoroughly before unlocking the chains. The prison guards rounded up the evenings sacrificial slaves and paraded them around the Temple as the Philly-Steens jeered and called them names. “Die you worthless penny miser” or “Eat shit and live for a little while”, and “It’s just a party, nothing to lose your head over.” The crowd had a special place in their hateful hearts for when Samsung was walked by. “yo dickhead, I got ya ham sandwich right here”, or “Hey ya bald pecker-head, lose ya Bah Mitzvah?” and “Bring that monster schlong over hear and do me one more time’ (The Nurse). But all of it just bounced of Samsung, he knew that in a short time all the revelers would be crushed by the stones of the temple they worshipped. When they walked him past the pillars that held together the place of Philly-Steen worship Samsung threw off his chains, ran up to the pillars wrapped the unlocked chains around them and pulled them down in a feat of strength even Hercules couldn’t pull off.. The Temple collapsed killing all the Philly-Steens and crushed the entire city of Gaza. Samsung was now the hero of the Israelites who were free now and he was able to put them on the family plan with a new invention he had dreamed up in prison using two cups and a string. All that was left now was taking out his vengeance on Da-Liar.
The second Samsung learned that Da-Liar was dead the anger exited his heart. He couldn’t stay mad at his lover and even began to miss her. He paced through her bedroom remembering their intense love making nights and began to feel sad. He opened a bottle of bubbly and began talking to himself out loud. “Oh man, why did it have to be like this? Only two women I have ever loved and who could satisfy me and both gone. Da-Liar dead and God only knows where Semedar is.” Samsung thought he felt someone in the room when a familiar voice answered him. “I’m here Samsung. After you destroyed the Philly-Steens I was no longer banished an I’m back. Maybe we could start over where…….Wait! What the fuck did you do to your head Samsung?” Semedar walked over to the stunned Samsung and gently put her arms around him. He looked at Semedar and was very angry at first, when suddenly she slowly gyrated her hips into his and that six hour menace threatened to return. Like most men when teased in the right spot Samsung relented and began grinding back. “It’s a long story Semedar, it’ll grow back. Everything grows back.” Words were replaced with moans and groans and the two once again found comfort in each others arms. And legs. And mouths. And….use your imagination.
So things were back to abnormal, the Israelites were free, the promised land was given back (sort of), and Samsung and Semedar lived in coital bliss for the rest of their days. Promising to be honest and to never betray him again, Semedar changed her ways. Burt before making the promise she had one last deceptive gesture she had to attend, so she poured the bottle of opium pills she had replaced with Da-Liars sleeping pills down the toilet. No one would ever know. No one that is except her little sister, Cleopatra.

My Brush With Racism

On June 27, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

It was the early 70’s and race relations were better than they had been in the 60’s yet still a bit strained. I was a hippie, which back then was code for stoner, and having grown up on Long Island I was a Jets fan. The area in which I lived was semi integrated at best with certain area’s known as “black” hangouts and others “white” hangouts. Emerson Boozer was a fullback for the New York Jets and had opened a bar in the next town over and Named it Em Boozers 32, which was his number. Having past it many time I was always curious if the man himself hung out at the pub like I don‘t know, maybe tosing the football around or something cool like that. One evening I decided to find out with the faint of possibly even seeing Broadway Joe Namath chilling there too.
The drinking age was 18 and so was I so I could legally go into a bar and get a cold beer which were my exact intentions on that moonless dark night. I pulled into the parking lot and could hear a boisterous crowd partying inside from all the way were I was. Friggen awesome man, my kind of place, lots of partying and music, slightly rowdy crowd, what could possibly go wrong? Of course it was what could bet be described as a little “seedy” and while I didn’t like stems and seeds, seedy was not a stranger to this hippie so off I ventured into Em Boozers 32 for an ice cold Budweiser.
As I opened the front door the decibel of revelry increased dramatically being driven by loud laughter, but as soon as I entered the bar became silent. Not a peaceful and serene happy calm silence, but a menacing pin dropping what the fuck kind of silence. Even the jukebox stared quietly in disbelief. I looked around and noticed that I was the only Caucasian in the entire pub. Instant paranoia shot up my spine and began dancing on my slightly weed numbed brain. What to do? Every single open eye was focused directly on me. That’s me in the mirror, that’s me in the spot -light, losing my composure.
I was shaking like tall skinny snowflake with vertigo but it was too late my legs had already made the decision to head to the bar and all I could do was follow. As I passed there were people sitting at tables, some dudes playing pool, and at the bar was an extremely large intimidating barkeep. With my optic nerves shivering wildly it was hard to focus clearly but it could’ve been Emerson himself, he was certainly big enough.
The silence morphed into whispering and not to sound narcissistic or anything but I was relatively certain the hushed conversations were all about me. But it was too late, my instincts had taken control which in retrospect was a good thing because if I just turned and ran I have no idea what may have occurred. So I walked up and with all the strength and determination I could muster up I walked directly to the imposing barkeep and in my most weak and pathetic voice stuttered , “B-B-Bud please” The barkeep glared at me, reached own under the bar and to my delight it was not a baseball bat or a shotgun but an ice cold bottle of Budweiser in his hand which he promptly placed in front of me asking, “You ant a glass with that….sir?” Noting a touch of sarcasm in his voice I defiantly mumbled in the same weak voice as before, “Um ,no thank you.”
I was beginning to regain my composure a bit and boldly I showed no fear or sign of uncomfortableness, looked directly at the imposing figure behind the bar and said “Cheers”. I lifted the bottle to my relatively steady lips and guzzled that beer like I was at a frat party with my fellow pledges urging me to swallow in a single gulp. I placed the now empty bottle on the bar, wiped my mouth with my sleeve and noticed the noise level had picked up from a whisper to a low murmur and now only about half of the open eyes were on me with many getting back to their own conversations. I turned toward the door and bravely and evenly walked slowly and methodically determined to make it look as though it had been my plan all along and I knew where I was. The second the door opened up I began to get a feeling of massive relief heading at warp speed to my car. As I turned the key I heard the noise level of the bar go back to what it was before except with an added amount of laughter which, perhaps egotistically, I’m guessing again was about yours truly.
I’m relatively certain they had much more of a laugh of it than I did and I imagined guys going home saying to their wives, “You shoulda seen the face on that white boy, he looked about ready to hit his pants. I never seen anyone drink a beer so damn fast. The boy sure could drink but what in the Hell was he thinking?” What the hell indeed, it just hadn’t occurred to me that I would feel unwelcome, and in the long run it wasn’t so much that I was unwelcome as it was unexpected. In the years since I have maintained my deep rooted belief in equality and stand by those convictions for everyone regaurle of looks or beliefs. In addition I spent more toime in those “black hangouts” and forged many great relationships based not on our differences but our commonalities (not the least of which was a love for good quality weed) But I have yet to meet anyone who claims to be at that bar on that dark moonless night I had my brush with racism and I’m sure anyone who was enjoying their evening at Em Boozers 32 that evening will never forget the time they were entertained for 45 seconds from shivering snowflake….PEACE

I’m On Top Of The World by The Woodworkers (A song parody)

On June 26, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Such a feelings coming over me
I feel vertigo in everything I see
Not a cloud in the sky, but some ashes in my eye
And I won’t be surprised if its your spleen

We burned just as soon as you were free
In a funeral pyre especially for me
And the reason you burn, is to fit you in this urn
It’s the nearest thing to heaven that you’ll find

I’m on the -top of the world looking
At your cremation and the only explanation I can find
Is this cheap urn that I found
Makes me feel like you’re around
I’ll put your ashes at the top of the world

Seems like in the wind I hear your name
I look at you I see you’re not the same
Your on the leaves of the tree’s and your blowing in the breeze
And that’s a pleasing sense of happiness for me

There is only one thing on my mind
When this day is through the urn I dropped I find
And tomorrow will be the end for you but not for me
All you had will be mine now that you’re free
I’m on the -top of the world looking
At your cremation and the only explanation I can find
Is this cheap urn that I found
Makes me feel like you’re around
I’ll put your ashes at the top of the world

The Man Behind The Curtain, Unraveling The Emerald City Mystery

On June 23, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

Prologue
I’ll See You On The Dark Side Of Oz

The wonderful wizard of Oz. If ever oh ever a wiz there was the Wizard of Oz is one because…If you can’t finish that in a capella then you need to check your pulse. Wizard Of Oz is not just a story or movie its an American institution. Nay, a global treasure. To many of us who grew up before the age of instant information and entertainment on demand viewing The Wizard of Oz was a ritual. Originally airing on Sunday evenings it was a movie so powerful it pre-empted such great shows as Lassie, Gunsmoke, and The Gale Storm Show. We had to wait to find out what happened to Timmy, if Hoss was able to save Little Joe, and what new mischief My Little Margie got into. Why? Because watching The Wizard Of Oz was a family night obligation where we all sat around the television set with buckets of popcorn and cuploads of soda. On Monday once we returned to grammar school our elementary minds engaged in deep discussions over the twisted tale and many a young boy could be seen doing his spot on imitation of the lollipop guild, or young lass showing off her Lullaby League ballerina skills.
The movie mesmerized and hypnotized us with some parts scaring the shit out of us, but helping each one of us to exercise our imaginations and dreams. As children we were intrigued and believed in the story in a somewhat literal sense. While it was a fantasy, it revolved around real lives. And to boot it left us with a beautiful message when it ended. We learned that its okay to dream but we need to face our fears head on if we want those reams to become real. We learned its best to fight as a team and rely on each other because each person has something to offer. We learned that evil is wrong and good will always win out in the end. We learned that “the grass always seems greener on the other side” but in the end “there’s no place like home.”
As a child I absorbed these and other not so clear messages from movies like a subliminal sponge. Absorbing all sorts of life lessons from movies, TV shows, books, fairy tales and children songs. But as I got older and more cynical I took on more of a culture of “nothing is ever really what it seems.” I began to read into and interpret things in search of truth. I wanted to know what was underneath so I interpreted underlying meanings in movies, stories, poems, and songs. A personal fascination for me was the underlying meaning in rock lyrics.
So before taking our journy into the more profound messages in Trhe Wizard Of Oz I want to explore some rock lyrics. Rock and roll is the beating rhythm of many a generation. I view the world through abstract eyes and as a writer I report what I see. But rock song lyrics more than anything get deconstructed by my jagged mind and then placed back in an order that might tell an entirely different story. Sometimes songs were written with a hidden meaning on purpose and that offered a challenge as in the case of Don McLean’s “American Pie.” As teens my friends and I spent hours digging in to the layers of lyrics in an attempt to extract the inner meaning of that tune. Even when I hear it played today I still think of all the symbolic references and allusions to various celebrities both famous an infamous. To rock events like The Beatles playing Shea or The Stones at Altamont, McLean had deftly hidden all sorts of innuendo and culturally iconic references and brilliantly he had masked the clues leaving it up to us to interpret. To me that was a stroke of genius, similar to the musings of the lyrical concepts of Bob Dylan, The Beatles and The Stones. Those young talents had intuitive understanding of life far beyond their years and successfully conveyed those ideas into words. Some lyrics are crystal clear, some seem to make no sense, and many are written so abstract its difficult to see through into the artists vision at all.
With many songwriting perhaps even the author doesn’t fully understand the complex structure of their own words. Maybe sub conscious or maybe totally unaware of what the brain is trying to express from them in such an abstract way they deny its very true underlying theme. I lay on you as an example the song “Space Oddity” written by the one and only David Bowie. Bowie himself claims it’s a song he wrote about space after seeing the movie “2001, A Space Odyssey” while he was stoned (I believe he called it out of his gourd) Both that movie and the moon landing were popular events at the time and he claims that was his inspiration. He even wrote a follow up or sequel to the tune called “Ashes To Ashes” in which his purported Major Tom reconnects with earth. I don’t buy it for a second. I look deeper into the embedded subliminal inspirations and I believe whether intentional or subliminal this song is about David’s very own struggle with his sexuality. Its pretty well known he went through what has been described as an androgynous stage and the song reeks of innuendo surrounding the freeing of ones sexual inhibitions. In a phrase it was David coming out of the closet and exploring his own sexual desires. Let me explore for, dare I call it, a deeper meaning.
Ground control to Major Tom, take your protein pills and put your helmet on. Okay, relatively obvious, semen and protein almost synonymous and a condom is the helmet to protect from disease. A common practice back at the time was to bolster the system with protein to increase a males sexual prowess and stamina. (Pre Viagra practice when ED was the name of a talking horse on TV) Ground control is his mind, and major Tom is, well lets just call him Major Woody. The papers want to know who’s shirt you wear or which team are you on. Are you with the hetero’s or the non hetero’s? Maybe he’s not sure himself! Now its time to leave the capsule if you dare. Here then is that closet I mentioned David leaving. As he steps through that door he is walking in a “most peculiar way“, two derogatory comments used at the time to describe a gay man. He walks funny, like a girl, and he is queer or peculiar. No wonder the stars look very different today! Planet earth is blue and there’s nothing he can do. Back at that time porn was described as “blue movies”, to him the world is obsessed with sex and there is not a thing he can do about these new feelings. Or is there? He’s past one hundred thousand miles (around the block with women) he’s feeling very still (no zip to his ship). But not to worry, his spaceship knows which way to go. His compass points to experimentations with the North Pole! Tell his wife he loves her very much, she knows(love is not just sexual). He is feeling sorry and a tad guilty for going off on a sexual excursion. She already knows because you can’t hide your real self forever and your partner will likely be the first to sense it. Now the circuits dead there’s something wrong. He has no sexual electricity any longer for his woman and he can’t understand why. So that’s my offbeat take on the tune. Or maybe its about an astronaut that was lost in space and cut off from Huston. Floating in a very peculiar way without gravity around. I merely offer an alternative view like the one I will give on the Wiz.
That’s what I do, I listen to words then try to make sense of what I hear in the more abstract fashion. I reconstruct words in search of the true meaning beneath the surface. I also enjoy using the same mental exercise in cinema and this interpretation is my reconstructive take on my all time favorite tale, The Wizard of Oz. The Wizard of Oz is not just a tale of young girl on an adventure but the story of finding your inner strength, learning that what truly matters is not how much gold and glitter you acquire but how much love you acquire. “A heart is not judged by how much you love, but by how much you are loved by others.” The underlying messages in the tale are important and a dynamic learning tool for children but there lies underneath it all a message intended for adults as well. At least I believe there is so that’s why I am looking deep into the story of Oz to find out what meaning it can have for us as presumed adults. Join me down the twisted path of an existential quirky mind to explore the underbelly of a time honored traditional story. If nothing else, you will have an opportunity to exercise your eyes and hopefully your imagination, and perhaps achieve a smile or two as well.

Samsung And Da-liar, episode 4..Rated IA (Immature Adult) Not recommened for ignorant prudes

On June 21, 2013June 21, 2013 By Terrapin - The JourneyIn UncategorizedLeave a comment

just a little off the top please
Da-Liar was at one time a true dominatrix with men she walked around on leashes, drinking vodka from bowls, and very often licking her boots. Samsung was different though, Samsung was the only man who had ever returned sexual pleasure to her without complete direction and much work. It was like he had a magic flute that played beautiful love tunes in her labia. His touch on her skin was so enticing her body fluids boiled over and stained the walls. Now however she was in a difficult position, in a pickle over his pickle. If she extracted the secret of his success he would be taken prisoner by King Davey and she would lose the most ardently skilled lover she had known. She had more orgasms from him in one night then she had previously gotten from anyone in fourscore. Although there was that one time when she was in a va-jay-jay jamboree with Trixie and Crystal, but that was one of her darker secrets. On the other hand, if she doesn’t break her stallion and turn him over she not only loses all the promised bounty but the non trustworthy king would surely take his anger out on her.
The constantly copulating couple had found a bed of bliss in Da-Liars bedroom and if the stained walls could talk they would blush as they described the explicit events which occurred within them. The walls woul be barely able to contain themselves. Samsung was not quite at the boot licking stage but he did feel the grip of the vulva wrench when she tightened her velvet glove on his one eyed monster and could be willing to give away trade secrets in the heat of heated moments. Reluctantly Da-Liar began using her never fail coital confession inducing tricks on the big guy. She spent a lot of time on dressing just right. Jet black strappy pumps with stiletto heels, an excruciatingly tight teddy that revealed every curve and muscle in her body, a heavy dose of eye make up and burning bright red lipstick. Samsungs gonads went ga-ga at the sight of her sexiness.
As if that wasn’t enough, in her hand was a bottle of very expensive champagne an two glasses. She walked up to Samsung gently allowing their groins to touch, peered up at him teasingly and asked him if he would like some champagne in bed. At the height of arousal his hardened giant redwood pointed the way in affirmation.
The moment they arrived at the love cushions she began to polish the purple helmet bringing Samsung to near vein popping ecstasy. “Slow down Da-Liar, I feel like I’m already about to explode.” Knowing she needed to stretch it out she let his muscle rest while she paid attention to other parts of his body. As soon as she had him at the breaking point again the bedroom talk began. “Oh my god Samsung, you are so big and strong, and wow what a lover. How is it you are so much stronger than any other man?” Samsung flipped her over and got ontop of her, “Oh I have been given a special steroid from God himself that gives me my strength.” Wham Bam thank you maam the jack hammering began and Da-Liar had difficulty staying on point. The harder he thrust the more she gave in to him and finally it was she who could take it no longer as she came to a screaming orgasm. Da-Liar collapsed in exhaustion both of their bodies throbbing, heaving, and pulsating. She knew she would have to continue her quest manually.
After regaining the ability to breath normally the two lovers finished the first bottle of champagne, then the next and one more after that. Sufficiently drunk Da-Liar began phase two of her sexual extraction. She skillfully reached down under the sheet and Samsung responded quickly. Not thirty seconds had passed and his soldier was once again at attention awaiting command. Da-Liar positioned herself so they could enjoy mutual exploration and as soon as she felt his pulse raise to the right point, and his breathing to increase to the right speed she made her move. Samsung laid in anticipation as Da-Liar used first her feet and next her hands bringing him once again to the breaking point. “Tell me Honey, someone told me you have another secret about your strength, that there is one way you can lose it. Is that true?” Her fingertips began working overtime and she placed her mouth close enough to his unit that he could feel her warm breath on his muscle sending goosebumps through his loins. Promise her anything but give her……ANYTHING!! Da-Liar kept the teasing to an all time Guinness record until Samsung couldn’t hold out any longer and as she finished him off he blurted out “Its my hair. My Mom said I can never cut my hair or I’ll lose my strengths!” Even though her lips were locked onto his throbbing phallus he still didn’t feel her lips curl up into a giant smile.
Unaware he had been infiltrated during infiltration Samsung returned the favor with an equally skilled hand and mouth combo until the couple once again collapsed wrapped together in a love embrace. When they had recuperated they finished off three more bottles of champagne, laughing, chatting, and what would one day be called drunk texting. They simultaneously either fell asleep or passed out from the excessive amount of alcohol and sex. Hours went by the walls hearing nothing but snoring now and Samsung slept so heavy he didn’t notice Da-Liar getting out of bed. It would be anther two hours before he woke up from his champagne and shag induced sleep.
When he did wake up he was feeling sick and hung-over. He reached to his nightstand in search of some aspirins and steroids but the steroids were missing. Frantically he jumped up and headed toward the bathroom not noticing the locks of curly hair strewn about. He made a bee line straight for the bathroom to look for the pills and the image in the mirror caught his eye. He stared at it curiously at first, then in confusion and mystification which descended rapidly into anger. It was at that point he realized the unfamiliar figure in the mirror he was looking at was his own image. “What the? Did she? What? That’s me? No! How could she? I can’t believe this……… she cut my hair into a mullet!! That bitch cut my beautiful golden locks into a God damn mullet! I’ll fucking kill her. Her and every fucking Philly-Steen I see. They’re dead! All of them! DEAD!!”
Never before had Samsung felt so much anger and rage. Betrayed twice by sexy beauties of the same family. That slutty Semedar and the God damn greedy Da-Liar. Samsung thought back to the lion he had slain and decided that was what he would be the fate of the entire Philly-Steen nation. But first he had to do something about the hideous haircut.

Terrapin – The Journey

Tag: satire