Slowly Coming Together

I actually really like writing. It used to be a bigger part of my life, back when I had a soul and felt somewhat "complete". However, over time I discovered that the only writing I was doing was for work (and my work is more boring than staring at the Blue Man Group fuck up colors for everyone). Anyways, as I slowly come back up for air, I think I need to warm up again. So here's a start: If I can't be happy, I want to at least be satisfied.

What Happened to This City?

I remember this city differently. When I first came to Los Angeles, I thought it would be different. Actually I was too young to really even know. It was like changing realities, as if the old was no longer an existing world. Who knows, maybe it wasn't. But anyways, as time passed, this city grew on me, the city, not the people. I learned that cultural diversity does not necessarily mean cultural equality, that people have no understanding of life, and that no matter what happens, if you have to bet for or against man, always bet against. All that aside this city is dying:

Apathy has set in like a dystrophic dew upon the hearts of men and women in this city. We name drop, drive fancy cars, live on credit, and pretend as if we are in the Hamptons. But really, is that what Los Angeles really is, a beach full of degenerates who use daddy's money to try and forget that daddy doesn't love us. I get it, fucking, drinking, and snorting beats wallowing in sadness. That doesn't mean that that's all that is out there. The existential life we are presented here doesn't have to be real, if we choose to change our reality. But that's the thing, we buy in, and with time the expense we've exhausted becomes too hard to walk away from. They know you now, you saw Dennis Rodman the other night, and you know every club owner. Why walk away from it when you're on top? 

That's probably why I can't stand the people here, because no one realizes that we're blessed with a curse. Everybody knows this fucking place. You go anywhere in the world and say you're from Los Angeles, and they hand you their first born so you can pass it along to Brangelina for a chance at a "real" life. But look around, how many of your friends, your family, your co-workers really believe the dream? Everywhere you look it's red carpet, glitz, glamour, high-class food, and fucking Paris. If I had to guess, I'd say her IQ matches her freshly minted breasts. But it doesn't matter, because we're dumber than her for buying in, looking around aimlessly until we're that bar hag or that wino in the corner reminicising about that time we saw Steven Spielberg and he said "hello". They're people, not demi-gods, not idols, not even pillars of humanity. Just people. We made them, because we can't help it. Maybe we don't have a Royal Family, so we need to create them; maybe we want to hype ourselves into believing we're part of the "scene"?

Nope, the answer is far sadder than that. You, maybe even we, can't be happy existing, the concept of "being" is not enough, we need some sort of definitive breakdown in order to compare ourselves to someone else. That is why Beverly Hills exists (shitty traffic, and constant air pollution), that is why Spago is popular (are you fucking kidding me?), and that is why Sunset is our Shangri-La (temple of sorrows, if anything). You people just don't get it, because on your death bed, when someone asks you if you're on team Jen or Angelina, I swear to you you'll either cry or deck someone. Oh well, to each his own, until you realize that Gretta Garbo, Frank Sinatra, and Marilyn Monroe where once Hollywood, and your parents idolized them.

Hendrix has a vodka, Che Guevara is on children's clothing, Carey Grant is hawking Coca Cola, and the philosophy of most Angelinos ends up at True Religion.

Oh, and fuck daddy...

Chronicles

We chronicle life based on experiences, emotions, senses, and external conversations. However, is it so hard to believe that none of these are first person accounts of what really is happening around us? If you are limited (being a finite being after all), what makes you consider yourself rational for following a flawed being (the human element)? 

My guess would be that we do the best we can. Some people follow parents, teachers, religion, sports, well not really sports as a lifestyle, but then again I have seen some people that would sacrifice an ear to play like Kobe (shitty Van Gogh reference optional). Other people follow themselves, whether through logic, reason, or "gut feelings". I propose we do none of the above. What if we just led life, instead of following after it. It's hypocritical of me to say because I work 55 hour weeks, but still, we should just be. Or to put it in other words, "just do it" (dear Nike, please send a self-addressed return envelope to my house and I will pay royalties on the term). 

Psychonaut

Here's the thing. Some people do drugs to run away, others do it because they're bored, still others hopes it will get them laid, or they'll be so toasted they won't even notice the difference. Kudos to all of you. You have all ruined a beautiful thing, and turned it into a black market for processed goods. As any psychonaut will tell you, there is much more to this world than a few moments of existential euphoria.

Consider the difference between eating an apple: simply put, just biting into it chomping away; and admiring the apple from all sides, realizing it's potential for being eaten and then slowly processing it through your taste buds noticing each bite. Might seem like a shitty observation. Well then, my friend, you might be a shitty explorer. That's the thing, if you do everything with a normal state of mind, you will be a normal person, noticing nothing, experiencing the bare minimum, and uncovering absolutely nothing of value. My suggestion... find yourself a quite spot, put on some classical music, bite into some "Soma", and see where your soul will take you.

Live to Work

At this point, I could have taken this one of two ways, I could have been responsible and reasonable, so that I could use this medium for more worthwhile causes and endeavors, or I can bitch and complain. Tough shit, I'm taking the latter.

Now onto the point... work is a bitch. Why? Because it a mind-numbing experiment to see how well you can do some repetitive task for a certain amount of years. If you do, they will give you a less repetitive, but still equally mind-numbing task. 50 years later you realize you're retiring to a 401(k) and absolutely no hobbies, interests, or passions other than work, which is now over. So I ask you, do we work to live, or do we live to work?

You Ever Get That Feeling

It's late, you're tired and a fucking Fourth Meal commercial comes on. And you wonder to yourself, dog-meat with lettuce in a crispy taco, hell yes! Well, not so much you as the alcohol secretly whispering that there's nothing more tantalizing than Taco Bell before dawn. So you go, you buy, you come home. You consume something that probably overall has maybe 2% natural vitamins. Then you wake up in the morning, hungover, wondering if you are part of bad Alien movie remake, or if that's just your stomach telling you it's leaving you, and taking the liner with it. I don't really know, all I know is, I haven't seen that chihuahua around... just saying.

Desperation

Often times we find ourselves wondering what went wrong? How could that idea have possibly turned into such a poor judgement? After all, we are creatures of nature more than reason, so shouldn't our very essence drive us to our purpose? I guess not. At least that's what she felt when she was moving up and down on a stranger, slowly trying to earn her three minute $20 "stimulus". I mean she used to wait tables at a local Applebee's, and found out really quickly that if you're part of the neighborhood, you're making a cool $7 an hour before taxes. So it doesn't take an MIT grad to calculate that you can't afford a McDonald's Big and Tasty meal in two hours worth of work. She considered moving back home, but her dad already called her a dirty disgrace of a whore, and her mother broke her good China against the door when she first left. G-d, it seemed like such hell when she left, the constant fights, the arguing over remedial matters, but now, it all seemed fine. She would even take back her older brother who was always a little too friendly to be family, but still anything would be better than this. Most people don't understand that Los Angeles is not any different of a city than anywhere else in the world. The rules don't magically change here, and you are no more at home here, than if you were anywhere else. If anything, at the end of the day, this city has a way of reminding you of your net worth when you're on top, and your gross worth when you're on the bottom. She didn't know all that in the beginning. She just knew that this was where Hollywood was, where Pam Anderson came from, and now protects the poor, defenseless minxes that get slaughtered every year for soft coats. She was even a little jealous, at least the minxes got to remain soft when they were skinned, whereas she was depleted. She was rough on all edges, having taken that Catholic high school education and followed in the path of countless priests in, namely, finding a way to whore out her innocence. It used to work, at least she would pull in wealthy Japanese business men, and retired connoisseurs who had no better place to spend their social security. But now, what was she to do. She stank of Los Angeles. There was no way out. She had decided to move back home, no matter how much shame she would have to endure. That was it, the final straw being when she realized she couldn't make her next months rent because there wasn't enough desperate horny men to pay for her to dance on them. Certainly leaving before she paid off her lease would affect her credit, but to be honest did it really matter? Did any of this really matter? "Sorry gentlemen, the two-for-one is over, but make sure to catch your next dance with one of these foxy young ladies". That was her cue, and she played it accordingly, "How about it cutie, how about one more?" Seems he was broke, "I guess they all are" she thought to herself. Hell, when they go for the topless only, they really can't afford much, can they? "Here you go sweetheart", the cashier said handing her 20 singles. They danced against the neon light flashing over them, as if disappearing and reappearing again, much like a David Copperfield performance, with just as much charisma and flash, and an equal amount of lies. "See you next week, Benny" she told the bouncer. She wasn't coming back, she just didn't want to make it apparent to everyone. "See you sweetheart", he yelled above the music. She took one last look at everyone as she threw on her coat and wondered, "Maybe dad would be more willing to take me back if I can buy him a big-screen before football season". Come to think about, it would only take her one more month of performing...