things on the internet

a picture of a guy jumping from the world trade center.

more like diving.

head down and falling.

130 mph.

zooming.

zoom zoom zoom

off into the wild blue yonder.

this guy.

who was he? i dunno

some guy. some unfortunate man.

just trying to pay the rent.

zooooom.

like a bullet.

a slow moving bullet. tracing it's path with a photog's lens.

windows whipping past, eating smoke and shattered glass.

motionless limbs emitting noise.

like a flag in high winds.

things have been written about this guy before.

i believe even a short doc.

but i didn't know about him until a few hours ago.

a 'google,' search that lead me to this guy.

a simple depression of some keys on my mac, and i see him.

a man suspended in air.

who died so many years ago.

a lifetime ago.

the alamo

uss maine

pearl harbor

zooooom.

he doesn't look like the others. those men and women holding hands; shoe-less joe jackson's, terrorized by...by...i can't say.

it's something foreign to me.

never been pushed so far.

so far as to jump from a building - 100s of feet up.

always had options.

remain behind a wall until the bullets stopped.

and there's no point in wondering what went through his mind in those moments.

they probably wouldn't make sense.

sense was gone, im sure.

just energy. reptilian brain waves and adrenaline.

i think.

on christmas

some pix of dear ole saint nick.

from: sketchysantas.com

and no, none of these men are sex offenders...

yet...

plus she said she was 18...

and she seemed to like it...

etc., etc.

enjoy.

Frank Rich sums it up

Tiger Woods, Person of the Year

seriosly considering...

getting a pooch.

a dog.

canis lupus familiaris.
visited the pound recently. nothing but black-eyed pitbull's waiting to clamp down on some unsuspecting mail-person.

or kid.

or me.

but i don't wanna to become one of those 'dog guys.'

walking their pure-bred german sheppard named diablo.

w/ a beer gut gleaned from speciality micro-brews.

and boneless chicken wings.

walking the coast in teva sandals.

scheduling my time around Laker games.

devoting weekends towards fantasy football,

and the current real-estate market.

i dont want to be that.

big calves.

profiles on eHarmony.

nights alone w/diablo, nooshing theatre-flavored popcorn.

diablo licking his nuts, then taking a popped kernel of corn from my mouth.

no.

but i do want a dog.

so when i'm gone, the pooch is guarding the compound.

barking @ the degenerate hoodlums that creep in the streets.

waiting for me to come home.

to sit.

and to smile.

- tail wagging, ears forward.

good boy...

trench art

kind of. or at least art conceived in the trenches.

reminds me of the stuff i used to sketch.

matter of fact, think i'll scan some of pissed off christoff's doodles soon.

but until then...

and sorry, don't know the artist (s).

found this

pretty interesting...

carl sagan

just started reading mr. sagan.

impressive.

what took me so long?

magnetic resonance imaging

had a mri today.

drove to the Long Beach VA, in the rain on a Saturday, to have my lower back and pelvis scanned.

so i lay down in this white tube for thirty minutes, as a rotund mexican pulled levers and pushed buttons behind a plexiglass wall.

he blasted jazz in the B.G.

it mighta been the blues.

muddy waters.

but i lay in this white tube and for a moment i became really tense.

extremely tense.

panic.

so i breathed deep. filling the aeolia with oxygen.

through the nose. out the mouth.

and i calmed down, started to think.

the mri buzzing, moaning, generating heat.

and i lay in this white tube, motionless. barely breathing. just dead and thinking...

maybe that's the afterlife. just dead and motionless and thinking about everything you've done.

everything you've seen.

everything you've thought.

and i got to thinking how fucked up that's gonna be for me.

how fucked up that's gonna be for many Vets.

and how great that's gonna be for the skim-milk jollies who've been loved and cherished and never taken a life or participated in questionable activities.

just lived a good life.

free of pain.

on a pale blue dot called Earth.

-been reading Carl Sagan...

anyway, the rotund mexican stopped the mri.

pulled me out.

smiled.

told me i did a good job - barely moved.

and i thanked him. shook his hand.

put my clothes back on and told the rotund mexican "adios amigo."

spilled into the VA - empty.

halls - empty.

smelling of bleach.

pine-sol and sloughed skin.

with those recruiting posters, memorials and American flags.

"freedom isn't free."

"the frozen chosin."

"all gave some, some gave all."

nevertheless, i walked for quite sometime.

it was raining like a sonofabitch outside.

walked all the way to the mental health ward - ghostly, vacant.

walked all the way to prosthetic wing - smelled like lubricating oil.

later, i drove home to san pedro, to my granddad's house, to my warm bedroom, and took some pills.

within a few minutes i began to nod off.

motionless. barely breathing. just dead and thinking.

green @ night

sometimes i wonder if the Marines/Soldiers killed in Iraq

wander the streets of Baghdad,

as if patrolling,

searching for a way home. but they're bound.

locked in.

perhaps they patrol @ night, after the sun goes down.

-hanging gardens cool and wet.

trying to find the insurgent that killed them;

that placed an IED inside a donkey's carcass;

or sniped them from a mosque.

but sometimes i wonder about all the civilians we killed.

because we did.

that's not debated.

that's a fact.

collateral damage, if you will.

and maybe these civilians and Marines, they search for the same thing.

lives cut short.

or maybe they just die. right there on the street. warm blood down the side of their leg.

thinking they've pissed themselves.

not even realizing these few moments:

the ant between their thumb and forefinger;

a weed, brown needing water;

spent cartridges - gleaming;

are the last bit of life they'll ever experience.

the Marines and Soldiers search the streets of Baghdad, trying to find a way home.

patrolling the empty alleyways

like vapor

or mist

as it rolls in off the Tigris

and covers the streets in haze

clem; rooster-type

its three in the morning and my rooster is crowing

its pitch black outside and this goddamn rooster is crowing

hes not crowing

hes screaming

saying fuck you chris mandia

im seriously considering throwing on some shoes

and strangling his ass

is that wrong?

because its three in the morning and my rooster is crowing

huh?

the sun is NOWHERE to be seen

NOWHERE

but this sonofabitch is screaming his lungs out

and he's only a banny

a midget chicken

with one hell of a shrill voice

it reminds of some hard-jawed militant feminist

calling for my castration

but he seems to have stopped

wait

wait

wait

yup.

there he goes...

this guy...he's good

Cornelius, my Rhode Island Red

laid her first eggs!

i know, i shouldn't be that excited, but i am.

medium-sized brown and hormone free.

basking in so-cal sun.

cracked corn eating;

free-ranging;

pooping machines.

and now, egg-laying.

good shit.

(cameo's by rusty the doxie)

word of the week

RANCOR

december 1st 2009

obama's sending more troops to afghanistan.

30,000 ground pounders/P.O.G.s.

shit

sandwich.

the facts