... down a hole.

 
 

His thankless eyes pierce the warm cradle: that fleshy promise of solace from a bitter cold... Some shuffling steps--imminence of joy and release--exhilaration mere moments-- GLORY UPON THY LOINS!!!… A flash of sky, seized by disbelief, the brandish of frozen ground across his back, hope banished as quickly as it was born.

How now brown cow?

 
 
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The Speech, as battling, freestyle rappers would decry, was "written."  It was prepped, plucked and powdered like a colonial wig, lacking that vital 'real-time' investment that ultimately reveals the true capital of the speaker. 

Obama delivered his written shtick with a teleprompter and few hiccups.  On the other hand,  he completely, utterly, excruciatingly, flubbed The Presidential Oath. 

When the replays surface, it may be noted Obama failed to utter a single verb in his oath, thus, it may be argued, he did not take an oath at all!  A technical violation no doubt. 

Reading Michelle's face during her husbands flabbergobber session, one can almost hear her thinking.  "WTF Bitch?  Massa got your tongue?" 

Addendum:  A few days after writing this I found out that Obama did indeed have to redo his oath.  His freestyle was, apparently, unacceptable.
 
 
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Unconsciously, San Francisco is as far north as any Southern Californian truly cares to travel, unless they're skiing.  After all, what's above it? 

Most have never even taken time to contemplate this invisible line in the beach-sand.  But we at Brainbooger make it a habit of surrounding ourselves with peculiar people.  Troy Park is such a person. 

An Asian, by trade, Troy has had a different upbringing than most Korean Americans, he therefore harbors a different view of the world through his tastefully slanted eyes. 

He's also a good friend and deep thinker who's above the pettiness of offense.  So I can talk shit about him.  Don’t try this at home however.  Making stereotypical remarks about races other than your own is often construed as “racism.”  God knows where that idea was spawned. 

It certainly wasn’t at the enlightened and inclusive Commune of Contemplation, Brainbooger.com.  Enough small talk, here’s Troy’s Revelation….

I had an epiphany last night, a realization of astounding proportions. The profoundness of my conclusion has a quality I can't name. Sheer poetry.

 Deep in my thoughts and words, a meta-world exists, which I could not comprehend until now. You as the psychologist know better than I.

San Francisco - a city of dreams. Unlike the vast parking lot we aptly call LA, it is a city like no other. 'Why?' I ask do I long for this place? A chump raised in the OC. Is it the architecture?  Am I gay?  Silicon Valley - 40 yr old virgins. Come on.  Is it the people?  No - a bunch of Chinks and fags cannot possibly it.  Diversity? That's a white man's term for sushi, burritos, and Asian pussy all in the same block. Culture? Another name for ugly people making ends meet trying to sell me shit I don't need.  The Golden Gate Bridge?  It’s just a piece of red metal. Food? God damn it.

I have no illusions.  I'm from SoCal - a place of money, cars, and pussy.  Like water and oil that repels,  I should be repelled.  My instincts won't allow it.  It's a thorn in my mind, never allowing a moment for clarity.

Instinct...

Basic Instinct.  The entire movie is shot in San Francisco.  When Sharon was young. No wrinkles.  A movie with tits and intelligence like none other.  Fucking in a beach home in Marin, fucking in Nob Hill, fucking in Pacific Heights.  Trying to kill Gecko with a Lotus in Mission. "Goodbye Nick. My book is done. I'll send you an autographed copy."  Brutal.  Crossing legs have never been such a mind-fuck. Ever. The only white woman I fell in love with.  She doesn't take anti-depressants.  She's not fat. She just does coke and men, in Danielle Steele's mansion, a true artist.

Basic Instinct.  Take off all the layers, and all you see is the abyss of our souls.  In our souls, only instincts remain, a quality without a name.  Cold.  Lucid.
....
  So. The answer, my friends, is the blowing wind and Sharon Stone’s twat. 

The fact is, Southern California is a land of unapologetic superficiality,  it's successful residents embrace this. 

To travel north of San Fran, or many other places for that matter, is to risk being affronted by a lame notion that a simple priority list designed to inspire jealousy and visceral thrills under a constant beam of sunshine and perfect weather while providing the trendiest of sustenance is in some way, remiss. 

That's a tough nut to swallow,  had better call Sharon Stone.
 
                                                                                                                                        -JPF
 
 
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I finally got it up!  Applause!

And being a year older & fresh off a couple bottles of champagne and a few scotch & sodas actually helped this?  Puzzling.  The New Year may be an impetus for change after all. 

After a 2 day hangover and in a state of semi-soberness I feel capable of forming overly verbose and unclear sentences--one foot in front of the other--so why not use this small window of opportunity to post the first piece (i before c) of schlock on this new & obscure bastion of banality, the one and only, Brainbooger.com?

First we address a matter of definition: what is a "brain-booger," exactly? 

You may have heard the term 'booger-brain' but that's something different, a judgment of quality perhaps.  To me it’s perfectly obvious what a brain-booger is, but as I was told by a very nice therapist, should not assume this to be the case of my peers, nor those that jump off them. 

My wish through this site is not only to define the opposite sex in the most rigid terms possible--if you're a woman, and able to laugh with me here, I love you... by force if necessary--but also to entertain all strata of The Literati as well as provoking snide, chuckle-luckery from the shirtless and austere. 

So, for the Intellectual Midget Peasantry--within this vast and magical dominion they are affectionately termed 'Imps'--I succumb to redundancy.  Besides, I'm always willing to beat a dead horse provided there's an audience that may enjoy it.

An aside: around here 'we' (inclusive, friendly, familiar, American) make up a lot of words and phrases, flipping a quick 'FU' to Webster as we go.  In 100 years a new language wil have ultimately spawned from this practice, until then you’ll just have to follow along with your fingers, sounding aloud. 

Anyway, back to the definition. 

Most of us think as we breathe, largely with little effort or consequence, that is until these continuous, autonomic actions result in an increasingly perceived yet easily dismissed aftereffect. 

Miraculously, from a simple and uncomplicated existence a rigid, crusty, protein-based structure and its anti-matter equivalent appear.  Eureka!  It’s true; the beginning of complex--and complicating--life on this planet was in fact, a booger. 

Whether a kernel of crusty protein and dust or a metaphor for an errant thought essential in material construction and destruction, by themselves boogers may seem practically useless, even offensive, to anyone but the harbinger. 

However, a boogers impact on life on this planet should not be underestimated.  Think of it as a snowball effect, i.e., The Booger Effect.  One booger by itself may seem insignificant, but as it rolls along, gathering other boogers, it miraculously reaches critical mass, then, WATCH OUT! 

Anyone who has been steamrolled by a giant mass of boogers intuitively heeds this warning. 

In short, a brain-booger is a metaphor for a thought.  Consider Brainbooger.com a place of boogers, a receptacle for the highest order of excrement, the human thought.


                                                                                                        -JPF