... down a hole.
 Seeing the Eminem drama on MTV last night reminded me of some time ago. It was the summer of 99' and I'd long since drank my first 6-pack and smoked my first dime. The novelty that summer was a job at the Four Seasons, valet parking cars. It was also the summer that Eminem was 'blowing up.' Hearing Eminem rap was the first time I became genuinely enthralled with hip-hop lyricism outside a passing fancy for Nas, Bone Thugs and Biggie. He was unique. He was white. I would listen to his songs playing in Bentleys, Ferraris, and Porsches and it wasn't long before I was mimicking him during "work." One day I got into an altercation with another valet. His name was Dave. I don't remember why we'd annoyed one another, but I do remember we had an audience. Dave hurled a couple of standard insults at me, backed by a few jeers from the crowd of valets. But then, out of the blue, I unleashed a most hellish, ass-ripping freestyle upon him that was so purely devastating, it not only resulted in the complete defamation of Dave's character, but the utter annihilation of his very soul. It went something like this: Dave you better behave I may wave but if you cross me I'll put you in a grave beat you so hard you'll cave become my slave for three days on your knees, serving me and my G's in a basement, you die I get a replacement, you lie by the furnace decomposing I'm supposing I could use your body to heat my house for a week don't fall asleep I'll creep into your room, with a broom, it's over soon you wake up your ass is swollen like somethings been inside you, POKING YOUR COLON! ...The valets went ape-shit, and I was lauded for the next six months. It was mini fame, or infamy. Either way, it felt good. It was genuine reverence, the most significant I'd experienced. I didn’t chase it though. I let it come and go. Those were the days. Ask Eminem. Last night, to a crowd in shock and awe, Slim Shady enjoyed a 'cup-a-tay' on MT-Vay, brewed fresh right in his mouth, with Bruno's bag. Sasha, you may be doing stuff Howard Stern did 20 years ago, but your timing, and aim, are much better. Of course, no stunt, like no 69, could go this well without the consent of both parties... Consumer report: 05/31/2009
In an effort to more thoroughly penetrate existing markets and outsell Chiquita, Dole has started an aggressive marketing campaign within a new partnership that has already led to shortages in many Asian countries, most notably South Korea and Japan.  The vivacious verbosity of voluptuous verse has vexed the vehement vindicators of veracity and vanquished the virtuoso verbality of a venturous verbalist vested in the villainous vicissitudes of verbiage void of verification. Thanks for the inspiration, V. Ben, a fantastically philosophical individual with oodles of intellectual merit, a person I’ve had the pleasure of corresponding with in merely one, concentrated session, has tastefully treated the marauding metaphor of “Chess And The Grand Master” with undue fluency and insight in the comments section and I am roused to recompense. He was absolutely correct to take the “mating” aspect of chess at metaphorical face value. But the concept of the ‘chess game’ extends to all competitive scenarios in which men find themselves in a fight for scarce resources of any kind, both tangible and intangible. Males may not coexist with other males without continually facing competitive scenarios in which they are forced to win or lose. Occasions of relative “peace” are merely the “calm before the storm” in which the savvy male prepares for confrontation. Peace is an illusion. Life is a constant, competitive struggle for survival. Society has merely formalized competition with the “rule of law,” rendering brains the competitive advantage over brawn. Of course many men will hesitate to acknowledge this reality. However, the luxury of apathy should never be mistaken for Utopia. A fact: certain men, just like their female counterparts, are in the process of being “check-mated;” they're enjoying a warm bath of complacency, one that will be brought to a death-bearing boil by the fire of their own ignorance :p Mental malnutrition at the digital trough 05/10/2009
 Nowadays, if we must, we favor uncomfortable truths by injection, on a fast stage, under heavy sedation of laughter, by comedians and the inspirationally endowed, self-appointed apostles of moral authority; gurus shrouded in mysticism professing knowledge of a future and offering a chance at pulling the strings. To ingest hard facts and metabolize truth a la carte, with no dessert, is simply too disquieting. To be a serious writer becomes laughable; he's a waylaid conjurer, more basically a salesman close to death; the magician in the attic whom is happily ignored until the requiem of death has us scrambling for the foulest potions of life. Keep in mind, subjects broached or botched at Brainbooger.com are fleeting, whimsical folly into a world of abstraction, a booger flickethed upon the. It's a torrid affair from then on, peculiar wisdom playing the uncompromising mistress. One must have guts to enjoy truth outside of convention, and be willing to maintain it in secrecy or face retribution. After ingesting a booger, either a new basis for philosophy and judgment will ultimately result, bringing some healthy chaos to the world, or else it ends in the round file after a poignant 'puh'. Whatever. Nevertheless, the stayed and marketed concepts of life, love, and the codes of conduct choking the vitality from human affairs need to be revised as the technologies that control our movements and orchestrate our thoughts are revised by the mad scientists. The rock-chucking whims of the horse and buggy age were chaperoned by the metaphorical magic of the 20th century artistic-historian, not the scientist. Now a new, young breed of intellectual and artist must take the reins—able to perceive without the beer-goggles of pop culture--to steer us happily through this age of neurotic self-absorption festering between the lines of decaying social contracts, disallowing technology to run the show and commute the drab manifestations of intellectual inferiority. Before ‘modern technology’ the affects of deception and dullness spread slower, with less penetration, and were largely avoidable by those whom chose to maintain a semblance of individual spirit in solidarity. Now it’s a circus; Britney Spears coos and 'bloggers' lament. Liars and cheaters still operate in relative secrecy, but these days our humanity is rarely spared the spectacle of lower natures blatantly exploited, yet the corruption of spirit is widely unrecognized due to artistic rendering, e.g. special effects; theatrical exhibitions of morally pernicious states are observed and repudiated as ‘merely’ entertainment are evidently the 'spoons full of sugar' that makes self-delusion go down. I live in America, our appetites are insatiable, and since sugar and salt make all manner of shit palatable, we're at the trough 24/7, and the brain buffet is always cooking. By the click of a mouse, the pilot lights of fear, greed and all the derivative social emotions are brought to full blaze and fueled for as long as we stay connected; the figurative, thereby the literal connection ferociously maintained, as separation anxiety is the groggy crash from habitual dependency on bi-minute status updates. Like pigs forced to live in feces and nosh on byproducts of other pigs, foot and mouth is rampant at the digital trough; severe cases often treated with legal retractions. Similar to a rapidly mutating and spreading virus, the dynamic manifestations of human ills dog our inability to adapt fast enough or avoid rapture from digital speed. So, there are small degrees of unnoticeable social mutations and disease being spread through ubiquitous and subversive 'social networks', resulting in future arcs of unknown and mass effect. We have created a world of hyper-social evolutionary pressure. What will be the outcome of the inevitable digital bottleneck? Time will tweet the updates. Chess and the grand master 04/26/2009
Men are forced by nature to compete. Society has institutionalized and intellectualized this burden. Dear April, 04/01/2009
 I'm sorry. I can be a sloppy, unrefined lout--my few redeeming qualities present merely to set a stage for the grand-showing of true, denatured apostrophe. Truth be told, I am not as smart as I or anyone else thinks I am, nor as charming. That would be impossible. Nevertheless, I was not attempting to use intellect nor charm to disrupt your existence in any way, despite my choice of songs. A scoundrel I may be, but I am also a man of my word; a word kept as I was temporarily sickened by virtue. Your righteousness can be genuinely contagious. When I met you, the magnetism of your act as a queen-bee disguising the highest order of insecurity set off a wild-fire on the baron wasteland of my masculinity, scorching my very soul; your personality and body is/are the perfect vestibules for excessive lust, a poetry I can barely repress. Through our conversations I found myself wanting nothing more than to curl up in your head and live there forever, never tiring of the endless variety of joy it would bring me to fuck with your mind. I eventually, and rather abruptly, contravened the possibility of achieving happiness in this vein by seeing you as a whore. You see, I have at times a fanciful imagination, and sometimes it’s intricacies and self-distorting tendencies get the better of my conscious control and I am left without clue or justification. Even so, there are many fabulous, fun and wonderful things inside my mind, as I'm positive there are within yours. We undoubtedly would have benefited from their synergy. Finding delicate and provocative people with literary flair is rare in these blathering times. I can spot them a mile a way. Whether you care to admit it or not, we are highly compatible, you and me. This letter is not a caricature of mood as my writing often is, it's an attempt to be clear and defining. I hope I've been obvious yet unobtrusive; not deferential, but candid without the quality of offensive; I may be culpable even when influenced by incompatible compounds. One day I will create a caricature of what I remember of you and your manner, it would surely be a compelling dimension of the appropriate joke. Sincerely yours, Fool Blackberries and bailouts 03/26/2009
 As we all know, the primary mechanism of capitalism is the drive for profit. Participants in capitalism strive to 'get ahead' of the competition by developing advantages over other players, in any way they can, The Wild West alive and well. Unless an advantage is preserved through legal--patents and politics--or monopolistic means, there is but a small window of opportunity to exploit said opportunity before the rest of the 'market' adapts, integrating the new innovation into the aggregate system. When the former advantage becomes ubiquitous, it becomes competitively moot, just another mundane, necessitating characteristic of our current way of life. Blackberries are now moot. Being wired 24/7 is no longer an advantage, it's the only way to stay alive in the frenzied pace of the modern rat race. Society has long exhibited the characteristics of a dog chasing it's tail, it now does it with more speed and bandwidth than ever before. The truth is, most of us never reap competitive advantage from the technologies we use, because by the time we're using them, everyone is. Paying for and using anything that doesn't result in an increase in profit simply results in higher expense, thus higher debt, increased credit demands, and eventually the need for bailouts. Our society is based on consumption; it's just that a relative few become wealthy from this phenomena. Why make others rich while escalating the chaos and speed of our lives consuming things that don't pay off? Lets put down the fucking Blackberries and start sending letters through the goddamn mail, the Post Office needs a bailout. The audacity of hope 01/22/2009
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? Inoculation day 2009 01/20/2009
 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. |  J.P. Fischer
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