Friday, May 9, 2008


Soon I stand to stack some lettuce at the Northwest Folk Life Festival. Folk Life is a gathering in Seattle that I look forward to all year because I meet up with old acquaintances, see awesome buskers, lovely ladies and all in all the winter gloom has worn off and it is a quintessential early summer experience. What I plan on doing with the money I make performing at Folk Life for my first time ever is another matter. Don Scobie, the leader of our band, who has played Folk Life many times, says that it will be fun and lucrative. At this point I am considering a couple of options.

A. Stay in Seattle, buy a camcorder, and start making my own movies and filming my own monologues.

B. Go to South East Asia.

This passport is burning a hole in my pocket. I haven't had one since I lost my previous one eight years ago.

I got distracted from my plan to go to Thailand by moving into my new place. The woman who manages the house I live in is from Brazil and she almost had me convinced that I should go to Rio. But after a spate of experiences and much deliberation I have resolved that if I travel internationally, it is going to be to either a Buddhist or Hindu country. I do love Mexico, and I am not totally opposed to visiting a Catholic country again, sometime. But not now. Sure, the majority of the most dangerous countries on the planet are Islamic, but any Abrahemic country is going to have it's issues, and Catholicism has not mixed well with third world countries in my opinion. If I am going to be immersed in poverty, I want the state religion of the country I am visiting to be based on tenets of peace, not guilt, dogma, and violence.

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

Barefoot Worship

Well, it seems as though someone has beaten me to the punch. Or the kick I should say. I'll get to the point of this first paragraph, but first I need to recap on my journey up until now, starting at when my right brain was a sperm and my left brain was an egg, before they were joined I mean. Kidding.

I spent years trying to reclaim my connection to nature, but something always held me back. There was always a nagging feeling of disconnection that ran deeper than simply my being raised as a member of a very concrete and brick square civilization. There was a missing factor in my quest to go back to the land, no matter how many cords of wood I chopped of how many frigid rivers I jumped into naked while my nuts shrank to the size of peas.

I dabbled with going barefoot over the years, but never really connected the dots. Now that I have, and if I didn't know better, it would be very easy for me to get caught up in a dogmatic belief system where nature is the only church and going barefoot is the only way to worship. I mean, I spent many summers practicing primitive skills, dancing in drum circles and tripping on mushrooms, and while I had some amazing experiences, there was always a barrier left after the high wore off. I never realized that the barrier was simply my thick rubber soles that prevented me from feeling the ground beneath my tarsals and metatarsals.

The beating to the punch, or kick, of this post comes in the form of a barefooter who has combined Christianity with going unshod. It really is an easy association, though one I would never in a million years make. Sure, I silently chuckle to myself when I am out walking at the futility of hikers and walkers and joggers who are out in the fresh air on a bright sunny day with their feet bound up two sweaty damp caves, or worse, moldy cramped mobile homes. In a sense, getting out of the car and on two feet seems almost worthless if we keep our feet inside. But I am not a Christian, specifically for the reason that dogma and authority are a load of bullshit. And my reasons for being what I suppose could be equated with atheism but is more like a weak agnosticism negate any move I could make towards a dogmatic belief system.

Anyways, here he is the Christian bare foot runner, ERSKIEN. That dude is a trip.

And now for bare foot worship of another kind. Women bare foot? MAJOR turn on. Check this youtube video. Now I am not coming out of the foot fetish closet or anything. I mean what's a good pair of feet that isn't attached to a fine set of legs. And what's a fine set of legs that doesn't round off at the top in to a get the point. But women going barefoot is a turn on because it takes guts to go barefoot and in this day and age there seems to be an inundation of scared little princesses who were raised anything but brave and assertive. Barefoot is a state of mind. Too bad there's not enough of us to create our own dating personals.

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

The Gospel of Consumption

And the better future we left behind

by Jeffrey Kaplan

PRIVATE CARS WERE RELATIVELY SCARCE in 1919 and horse-drawn conveyances were still common. In residential districts, electric streetlights had not yet replaced many of the old gaslights. And within the home, electricity remained largely a luxury item for the wealthy.

Just ten years later things looked very different. Cars dominated the streets and most urban homes had electric lights, electric flat irons, and vacuum cleaners. In upper-middle-class houses, washing machines, refrigerators, toasters, curling irons, percolators, heating pads, and popcorn poppers were becoming commonplace. And although the first commercial radio station didn’t begin broadcasting until 1920, the American public, with an adult population of about 122 million people, bought 4,438,000 radios in the year 1929 alone.

But despite the apparent tidal wave of new consumer goods and what appeared to be a healthy appetite for their consumption among the well-to-do, industrialists were worried. They feared that the frugal habits maintained by most American families would be difficult to break. Perhaps even more threatening was the fact that the industrial capacity for turning out goods seemed to be increasing at a pace greater than people’s sense that they needed them.

Article continues here...

Saturday, May 3, 2008

New Horizons: Seattle

Yesterday my neighbor Damien brought home a waif like heroin junkie. I called him from my side of the duplex and he said, "Why don't you get over here."

I went over to his side and there she was, very thin, but attractive. She had dark features and was half Puerto Rican. On the corner of her mouth was a giant hepatitis sore. She monopolized the computer, bending over the keyboard with her small nearly emaciated bottom pressing close to my crotch, fully aware of her space and where her extremities where directed. Her body was like a twelve year old girl's, but her personality was fully developed.

She insistently showed us videos on youtube and myspace. She had a slide show on myspace showing pictures of her when she was healthier and more filled out. Some of them featured her in self made Star Wars costumes, including a Princess Lea Jabba slave bikini. Geeks have been getting sexier by the year and after my first few episodes of Attack of The Show on G4 network I was hip to the talent pool of fandom, and this young aficionado of all things Force reiterated nerd potential for me. Too bad I am more Folk Life Festival than Sci Fi Con. There is just too much of a rift between nature and pop culture, but I have learned not to typecast myself that way. One never knows who is waiting in the wings to share the stage of life.

Our new friend was a charmer to no end. She played music on the computer and danced a little in her seat and on the kitchen floor and was just adorable all around. My captain save-a-ho instincts were seething through my brain. I wanted to take her under my wing and nurture her, to spoon fork her.

It is a very primal thing, the attraction between man and downtrodden prostitute. Who can blame Jesus for loving Mary Magdalene? I once tried to write a song called Fragile Dolls. It was great in theory but never got past the title. I wanted to sing about how the toughest, most street smartest chicas are also the ones who have experienced the darkest life has to offer, lived to tell the tale, broken, and how it is all part of their mystique and appeal.

Against my better judgement I drove her down to Bell Town to get her fix. On the way there I gave her, in only so many words, the basic "you're way to hot to be fucked up on that shit" lecture. The unfairness of life was not lost on me, there, in the car, saddened at beauty gone to waste. I mean, she could be doing more productive things with her time, like breeding for crying out loud. No, she was more than just a good pair of genes. She could tailor her own jeans and that means she would make a great partner in crime. But what was unfair is that had she been homely the conditions of her despair, and no one can claim this young woman was not in despair, would have seemed more fitting.

She proclaimed that she was unhappy sober, and she cried. I couldn't tell if it was a fake cry. Women will fake an orgasm and they can fake tears, sometimes both at the same time if they really have game. And who can blame them. They are faced with a bottomless well of douche bags in the world. Too bad I don't have time to get to all the girls. Because I'm superman.

"I'm not superman." I told her.

"I know, I know," she said.

When she spoke she spoke in flail speak, street language that was up tempo, full of double entendres and ambiguity and far too abstract to recreate here. I could understand her but not comprehend her when she asserted nothing and stated vague fleeting facts. Do I surround myself with these types of people to fill some void? Is it that I want to feel sane by being immersed in crazy geniuses or that I just feel like I can be myself, unjudged and content?

I didn't have the time or resources to sponsor a junkie, even if she did treat me like her savior and share my bed. It's a good way to ruin a career, getting involved with a woman. Guys who through nepotism or luck manage to have a torrid love affair while simultaneously amassing their fortune are few and far between. Any guy who still excuses his infatuations with interesting women, women who by default and sheer charisma demand attention will often point to those lucky blokes who balance money and vagina. But the examples given as evidence are often older more traditional men who had traditional women. The modern relationship is a different breed entirely, taking the form of a friendship rather than a top down male lead bureaucracy, a model which if possessing few good qualities is at least conducive to the cut throat and dominative world of capitalism and business . If a guy like myself happens to fall in love with a modern woman who is not as driven or ambitious in similar artistic and creative fields as I, I'm bogged down, and my time is diverted, enslaved by the fascinating layers of a woman while my career potential fades. That would be tragic, because I have a lot of potential, and realizing that potential would open up my access to more interesting and creative women.

Before I dropped her off, she asked for my number, cute as a button. I gave her my acting business card with my picture on it. That way she can remember my name and face combined.

I went home and waited for her to call. I felt like a puppy but didn't sleep like one.