the following is an illustration of what i see as the 'seattle attitude' mixed with the 'chicago attitude'. this is a true story.
I WENT to my most local bar, that is, the closest bar to my front door, down to the foot, for one beer. i was tired and there was a pretty annoying open mic, which didn't help much. i brought a book, as this particular bar is an easy place to read in, and the general noise level usually drowns out the marginally talented performer anyways. i took the last seat at the bar, which is only significant because a couple kept reaching past me to get drinks, often hitting my arm, which i didn't care much about. i eventually scooted over, gave them more room, and the folks next to me eventually left and gave up their seats to the couple.
I PAID, finished my beer, and upon getting up from my bar stool the drunk yet well dressed man (of the couple) asked me "what you reading?" i politely showed him the book, which he replied "can i see it?" i let him see it, which he immediately asked about the author, sam mcpheeters, who i gave a brief introduction to. i was obviously on my way out. he then opened the book, but in the way that bends the front page back and opens the spine, you know? THAT way. i only asked asked him to not do that because it was a book that my friend had loaned me (it was new to her), and i knew she wanted me to keep it in good condition.
I ASKED him politely, yet loudly due to the bar noise, to please not open the pages that far, because it ruins the book. i explained that it was a book that i had borrowed, so i was taking very good care of it ("i haven't even opened it that far myself yet, to be honest," i stated to him). he continued to open it, saying "you care more about the book, or the content," accusingly. i said, "i actually don't usually care either way, but i care about my friend and wish to respect the way she cares for books, because it's her book." he asked if he could read the first page, i consented. i think he read the first sentence and gave it back to me: "so that's how it is?" i said "yup," and walked out the door after taking the book from his hand.
I KNOW i was slightly rude, but it was for good reason. i honestly felt like i could have easily punched him in his fucking face. perhaps if the seattle/chicago spectrum was more to the east, i would have done so. perhaps this was because the book is about an angry man who is neurologically incapable of any emotion but rage. anyways, that guy was a fucking drunk idiot, and i have no sympathies for him and feel sorry for his poor girlfriend. now my friend's book cover bends slightly up when placed on it's back. i'm only one man.
(a slight dramatization of the seattle/chicago split, but i feel it draws a nice, real-life picture.)
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Wednesday, January 11, 2012
struck by
"struck by deadly rhythm! of the production line!" maching g g g g g g g g b u z z z z z z z z z z z z t t h h - http://youtu.be/8clGuSJLP5w - w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w w
copy paste enter repeat, between the dashes. upon personal retrospective of my time loving the refused, a sweedish hardcore outfit that changed my ears and my heart, no doubt. they're playing a couple reunion coachella shows, and goddamnit i want to go. as their songs used to fan my flames of discontent, i've stopped listening as of the years and have become enslaved in routine, likely story. upon re-listen for the first time in at least a couple years:
we are, i am, struck by deadly rhythm, of the production line. the refused sing post-punk ballads of alienation, a marxist critique of our daily lives run by machines, technology, the rote repetition of tasks that feed our capitalist ideal, that which is fucked and unsustainable and "organized crime, and we are all the victims." i've always been conscious of working machines, or my lack thereof, and how my hands connect to things, and i've stayed away. though machines are not machines, our selective and seductive services are our sector, our rote words, our repeated thoughts, our over and over actions, are what we sell in our lives for money, our minds labor rather than our bodies, and our existence as a whole is lagging behind our manipulative technology, as it skyrockets to a point beyond our imaginable sight. that said: WE ARE NOT MEANT TO DO THE SAME TASKS OVER AND OVER. WE ARE NOT TICKING CLOCKS, WE ARE FUCKING FLESH, WE ARE WONDERING AND CURIOUS AND LOVERS. AS WE FORCE OUR MINDS TO THINK THE SAME THOUGHT OVER AND OVER, TO PUSH THE SAME REGISTER BUTTON OVER AND OVER, TO TYPE THE SAME REPORT OVER AND OVER FOR NEW CLIENTS, TO MEASURE GROWTH BY YEARS IN A COMPANY, TO FIGHT FOR SIMPLE WORDS TO COME OUT THAT MAKE US HAPPY, WE CANNOT SAY THINGS WE MEAN WHEN WE WANT TO SAY THEM, WE FIGHT FOR WORDS AT PLACE AND TIME? (we creatively collapse). WE ARE MEANT TO CREATE AND BE CREATIVE, TO FLOURISH AS THE MIND DESIRES. TRAPPED IN CLOSETS OF TIME AND OCCUPATION JUST DOES NOT FUCKING CUT IT. the refused are fucking dead, as to mean, we are alive. (i'd rather be alive).
"We are meant to be here // without an answer // with love and with fear", under ourselves, we are meant to awaken and change this.
i remember and consider having a refused shirt, which i wore when i got arrested in 2001, the only time i've been arrested, for shoplifting. i remember some hispanic dude in there, who i didn't know, who talked to his lawyer for a while, and came back, and then i talked to that same lawyer and saw the hispanic guy's case papers, which had "refused" written all over it, with a star, the same star that was on my refused shirt. i think it was a direct reference. i scraped my name, and the word "refused", with my nail, into the paint on the door in the holding cell. i also played tic/tac/toe with a guy who i knew who'd also been arrested that day, who i played poker with a year before that. i had paint in my nail and it kind of hurt, but it felt really good to do, and i knew i had to do it.
[This is laden with many refused quotes and references, but that quote in the second to last paragraph was from Brian Gianelli - RIP.]
copy paste enter repeat, between the dashes. upon personal retrospective of my time loving the refused, a sweedish hardcore outfit that changed my ears and my heart, no doubt. they're playing a couple reunion coachella shows, and goddamnit i want to go. as their songs used to fan my flames of discontent, i've stopped listening as of the years and have become enslaved in routine, likely story. upon re-listen for the first time in at least a couple years:
we are, i am, struck by deadly rhythm, of the production line. the refused sing post-punk ballads of alienation, a marxist critique of our daily lives run by machines, technology, the rote repetition of tasks that feed our capitalist ideal, that which is fucked and unsustainable and "organized crime, and we are all the victims." i've always been conscious of working machines, or my lack thereof, and how my hands connect to things, and i've stayed away. though machines are not machines, our selective and seductive services are our sector, our rote words, our repeated thoughts, our over and over actions, are what we sell in our lives for money, our minds labor rather than our bodies, and our existence as a whole is lagging behind our manipulative technology, as it skyrockets to a point beyond our imaginable sight. that said: WE ARE NOT MEANT TO DO THE SAME TASKS OVER AND OVER. WE ARE NOT TICKING CLOCKS, WE ARE FUCKING FLESH, WE ARE WONDERING AND CURIOUS AND LOVERS. AS WE FORCE OUR MINDS TO THINK THE SAME THOUGHT OVER AND OVER, TO PUSH THE SAME REGISTER BUTTON OVER AND OVER, TO TYPE THE SAME REPORT OVER AND OVER FOR NEW CLIENTS, TO MEASURE GROWTH BY YEARS IN A COMPANY, TO FIGHT FOR SIMPLE WORDS TO COME OUT THAT MAKE US HAPPY, WE CANNOT SAY THINGS WE MEAN WHEN WE WANT TO SAY THEM, WE FIGHT FOR WORDS AT PLACE AND TIME? (we creatively collapse). WE ARE MEANT TO CREATE AND BE CREATIVE, TO FLOURISH AS THE MIND DESIRES. TRAPPED IN CLOSETS OF TIME AND OCCUPATION JUST DOES NOT FUCKING CUT IT. the refused are fucking dead, as to mean, we are alive. (i'd rather be alive).
"We are meant to be here // without an answer // with love and with fear", under ourselves, we are meant to awaken and change this.
i remember and consider having a refused shirt, which i wore when i got arrested in 2001, the only time i've been arrested, for shoplifting. i remember some hispanic dude in there, who i didn't know, who talked to his lawyer for a while, and came back, and then i talked to that same lawyer and saw the hispanic guy's case papers, which had "refused" written all over it, with a star, the same star that was on my refused shirt. i think it was a direct reference. i scraped my name, and the word "refused", with my nail, into the paint on the door in the holding cell. i also played tic/tac/toe with a guy who i knew who'd also been arrested that day, who i played poker with a year before that. i had paint in my nail and it kind of hurt, but it felt really good to do, and i knew i had to do it.
[This is laden with many refused quotes and references, but that quote in the second to last paragraph was from Brian Gianelli - RIP.]
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