Like the pictures you see up top and in my gallery? Want to have your soul devoured by art in a relatively fun way? Well shoot me an e-mail.



Recent Entries

Garion born; thinking of doing video logs - 2012-09-01

I'm married, I'm a prospective father, wow I never update - 2012-05-22

Got the job at the NIA; mother complicates wedding plans - 2011-10-13

Scrawl - 2011-08-05

It's never been better - 2011-06-02


<<Autobiography>> <<Cast List>> <<Photography>> <<Donations>>

You can now read this journal on IE; Pining for the 90's sort of

2010-05-30 - 11:36 p.m.

EDIT: Would you like to guess why my diary has not been accessible by IE for years? ....... I had one too many head calls in the HTML. Ha ha ha ha. Oh IE, you are the old backwoods retard everyone can rely on for nothing. So now you can read this in Explorer This was all precipitated by a few folk mentioned down below...

It appears a substantial proportion of people (read: 2) who viddy this thing are--at the present time--unable to engage. My Matrix does not bring all the boys and girls to the yard. This has been an issue for roughly 3 years and unknown months. I last modified my template code when the Bush administration was roughly new. This journal is like a trailer home that way. Really a lot of ways actually. If Daath were a residence, there would be at least a dozen Corona bottles--only three with limes--perched on a metal railing that spanned the miniature deck. It would be in an "L" shape. Various letters would be formed by detritus. There would be the laziest black and tan dog in the universe sitting next to one of those fold-out beach chairs, and a Scottish terrier named Fritz. Obese white women would bust out their porch door and ask me about the Tetragrammaton and if Cheryl was fucking Donny again because the car's on fire and there ain't no driver at the wheel.

So I guess 'Daath' is Northern Exposure meets True Blood. Or some backwater chimera.

Anyway, I need to open the hood, drink a potion, and slip into the gears to see what all is occurring.

- - -

I just finished watching "The Big Lebowski" about 10 years after I first saw it. It's a funny film, obviously, but what strikes me most is the nostalgia. I ache for the 90's as a time. I was a young teenager in the era of Singles, Kurt Cobain, The Crow, and Bulletin Board Systems. It was the modern era but without the miasmatic tundra of technoshit that came and made life slightly more complicated. Back then, there was no internet so to speak, but autonomous collectives of locals that got together on occasion. I was shy, unsure of myself, and possessed by a very idiosynchratic belief system at the time. I would not get laid until I was 19. I wouldn't have a long-term relationship worthy of the term until I was 26. I did not sell Bibles. But I raised a fair, though very quiet, amount of hell in a good several dozen lives.

I would like to switch places with this younger model. I would like to go back in time and take Carmel up on her offer of being a male consort, or getting to know her friend Lonnie better. Keeping in touch with Kris, who perpetually comes to mind whenever "Come Back Down" from Bush comes on and that line about finding one's asshole brother beats through. Finding out whether Megan--who has always reminded me of Tasha, who have both reminded me that there's a reason non-bottle gingers make early graves--was ever serious, and if she ever joined the Marines. If Brad ever paid off his parking tickets and got out of trouble with the law. And wherever the fuck J.A.K. ended up, that dulcet Irishman who let me stay at his (girlfriend's) place by the beach those few times, and apparently went on to have a child and disappeared to gods know where.

It's. Happy. And sad when I think about it all. I barely appreciated it at the time. Ain't that a cliched bitch.

The entirety of my late teen years was, in retrospect, magic--literally in ways that would make no sense but did end with some evil people going insane via my machinations and figuratively.

I also associate the mid-90's with performance art going into higher, post-post-modern gear. I saw some of this in the shanty bars along that strip in Pittsburg when I was 16 and being dragged around by my now and then estranged father.

Comparatively, just about the whole of the 21st century has been oral-anal saturation with little ebbing of the tide. The country is going to hell over a mesquite fire slowly, the economy is increasingly possessed by quant whiz kids and the 3 piece arab straps that guide them in, and it is a monstrous endeavor to achieve more than approximations of human relationships due to the ubiquity of technology. Perhaps I never really learned how to do friendships analog. I had a cheap 24.4k baud rate modem when I was 15. I played video games damn near through my whole childhood. I was a geek/self-isolated/off before it became cool and then normative.

And having had this experience for a long time, I have to say: it was fun, it was constructive, but it was also bullshit. That's the Catholic trifecta of the deal. It was bullshit mostly because my interests made no sense to most people I knew. And so I got caught up in the worlds of several groups that just had something good to offer.

So while I can literally dance around the fact that I know some people at a club, or from my ex-program, or in my lab, there is a curious isolation to it all. It's the same one we all know. And we all figure: it's pretty good, there's just about enough drama, and this or that person occupies decently meaningful rolls.

But when I think back to then, and around now, I'm struck by something. It would be obvious to simply bemoan lost youth and friends. But I had little power then. I have a fair amount now, and as much as I'd like people to periodically call me up and drag me out rather than the other way around, there's an equal case for me saying that back then was cool but now is equally good.

It comes and goes.

That was masturbation. I and you need a hand towel. I'll be right back.

previous - next

Guestbook

Written and photographic content, 2001-2070, Gemini Inc., All rights reserved. Disclaimer.