FEEL IT ALL AROUND from Northern Lights on Vimeo.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Friday, February 19, 2010
Welcome To The Monkey House
Given my current situation of living in my father’s house with him, his pregnant twenty-something year old girlfriend, and their sixteen month love child I decided the only way to survive the ridiculousness of them is to document and quote them as much as I can. I should have thought of this idea a really long time ago. Most of the people who know me know how ridiculous these two people are, and not in a “fun loving” sort of way more so a “sad and depressing but let’s make light of the situation” kind of way. To accurately present this I feel as though I should paint a picture.
My father is a middle aged man far beyond the brinks of mid-life crisis. His life has been stuck in a perpetual crisis; he just has now reached the middle part of it. He is big fellow, probably more wide than he is tall due to the mass amounts of steroids he has taken over thirty years. He also loves to partake in recreational drug use. I once caught him snorting ecstasy off a cutting board in the kitchen. He owns several “legitimate” businesses along the east coast. If you Googled him you’d have a pretty good chuckle. He has six children with three different women. Like every good business man he sets up franchises.
His recent business endeavor is a half retarded college dropout from upstate New York. Like every middle aged man he needs to plant his dysfunctional seed in a young fertile woman incapable of taking care of children.
It is super bowl Sunday and my father wants me to attend his friend’s party to celebrate the occasion. He gracefully approaches me.
“You want to go to Jason’s party with us?” he asks, more of a demand than a question.
“No, not really,” I say.
“Why not man?” He gets closer to me. “Come on dude, it’ll be fun.” He playfully punches me in the chest, something he has perfected. “We’ll play beer pong!”
“Dad I don’t want to play beer pong at a house with a bunch of pregnant women and children.” I say in all honesty because 90 percent of the attendees are in fact pregnant or children, despite the fact that playing beer pong with my father doesn’t sound all that appealing anyway and honestly a little depressing. He looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.
“Why?” he asks, followed by an uncomfortable pause where I start to walk away. “Is that not professional?”
My father is a middle aged man far beyond the brinks of mid-life crisis. His life has been stuck in a perpetual crisis; he just has now reached the middle part of it. He is big fellow, probably more wide than he is tall due to the mass amounts of steroids he has taken over thirty years. He also loves to partake in recreational drug use. I once caught him snorting ecstasy off a cutting board in the kitchen. He owns several “legitimate” businesses along the east coast. If you Googled him you’d have a pretty good chuckle. He has six children with three different women. Like every good business man he sets up franchises.
His recent business endeavor is a half retarded college dropout from upstate New York. Like every middle aged man he needs to plant his dysfunctional seed in a young fertile woman incapable of taking care of children.
It is super bowl Sunday and my father wants me to attend his friend’s party to celebrate the occasion. He gracefully approaches me.
“You want to go to Jason’s party with us?” he asks, more of a demand than a question.
“No, not really,” I say.
“Why not man?” He gets closer to me. “Come on dude, it’ll be fun.” He playfully punches me in the chest, something he has perfected. “We’ll play beer pong!”
“Dad I don’t want to play beer pong at a house with a bunch of pregnant women and children.” I say in all honesty because 90 percent of the attendees are in fact pregnant or children, despite the fact that playing beer pong with my father doesn’t sound all that appealing anyway and honestly a little depressing. He looks at me and shrugs his shoulders.
“Why?” he asks, followed by an uncomfortable pause where I start to walk away. “Is that not professional?”
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
Letter To The Senator
Dear senator,
I just want you to know that I haven’t died yet. I’ve been huffin’ gas and glue across this great nation of ours. The good ol’ U.S. of A supplies me with such ingenuities to be so free. I’ve been living on a park bench in the natural forest that is this great city. Which city? you may ask, all of them, every single one. I know things have been rough for you. You know, with all the diseases and natural disasters running amok. All you need to do is just remember that the real world sneaks in there sometimes. Backs ache, teeth clenched, the IRS waving hello to you. All of these contribute to the assassination of your future happiness. The middle of the night, orange moons, tears of rain, everybody tucked into their beds with sweet dreams of adultery, this isn’t for you.
The world has left you to wander in it alone, as have I. The whore that is the world wants more and more and in return flashes a glare of false sympathy and that monotonous noise of mourning. Normality, the cool calmness, there is no such thing for us. For we both know, through collective experience, that the seasons leaves holes for us to fall into. The forest leaves branches for us to trip over. I know, my verse is weak, my words as unworthy as the burden I carry onto this great nation. My words used to carry the truth! Now they carry only the echoes of my weathered old mind and the fleeting sense of feeling in my right arm. Righty tighty and the left is still loose as a goose. But dear lady, know that I still love you and that the only way I can conjure up good feelings for you is by huffin’ gas and glue. I love you.
Love, Me.
I just want you to know that I haven’t died yet. I’ve been huffin’ gas and glue across this great nation of ours. The good ol’ U.S. of A supplies me with such ingenuities to be so free. I’ve been living on a park bench in the natural forest that is this great city. Which city? you may ask, all of them, every single one. I know things have been rough for you. You know, with all the diseases and natural disasters running amok. All you need to do is just remember that the real world sneaks in there sometimes. Backs ache, teeth clenched, the IRS waving hello to you. All of these contribute to the assassination of your future happiness. The middle of the night, orange moons, tears of rain, everybody tucked into their beds with sweet dreams of adultery, this isn’t for you.
The world has left you to wander in it alone, as have I. The whore that is the world wants more and more and in return flashes a glare of false sympathy and that monotonous noise of mourning. Normality, the cool calmness, there is no such thing for us. For we both know, through collective experience, that the seasons leaves holes for us to fall into. The forest leaves branches for us to trip over. I know, my verse is weak, my words as unworthy as the burden I carry onto this great nation. My words used to carry the truth! Now they carry only the echoes of my weathered old mind and the fleeting sense of feeling in my right arm. Righty tighty and the left is still loose as a goose. But dear lady, know that I still love you and that the only way I can conjure up good feelings for you is by huffin’ gas and glue. I love you.
Love, Me.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Fever Ray Acceptance Speech
A statement for the acid terrorism against women in Pakistan or just a brilliantly bizarre moment brought to you by Karin Dreijer Andersson? Eat your heart out Lady Gaga.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Sunday, February 7, 2010
I watch it for the tits, well tit
"Are you going to watch the superbowel?"
"Yes," I said.
"Every night," I said.
"Yes," I said.
"Every night," I said.
Thursday, February 4, 2010
No One Belongs Here More Than You
Your demon eyes never fail
to seep their way
into my pants
and finger poke
and prod
at my bible belt.
Your demon face
will never leave this place.
Your putrid skin
left me begging
for the gasoline
to clean
the scene
you stole from me.
In the roster of women
to be kinfolk
to my sorry sulking heart
I’d rather suck the head off of a bat
than to see you breathing again.
Hanging up the heart
of the determined mime
to find the fun
in watching you
swallow pills
that make you more ill
than the shallow
sacred smoke
we love to toke.
Delicate face,
you made a mess
of this place.
to seep their way
into my pants
and finger poke
and prod
at my bible belt.
Your demon face
will never leave this place.
Your putrid skin
left me begging
for the gasoline
to clean
the scene
you stole from me.
In the roster of women
to be kinfolk
to my sorry sulking heart
I’d rather suck the head off of a bat
than to see you breathing again.
Hanging up the heart
of the determined mime
to find the fun
in watching you
swallow pills
that make you more ill
than the shallow
sacred smoke
we love to toke.
Delicate face,
you made a mess
of this place.
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