Sunday, July 23, 2006

Do You Realize?

Saturday, July 22, 2006, Greek Theatre, Berkeley, Calif., Flaming Lips

Doooooo You Realize

that you have the most beautiful face

Do You Realize -

we're floating in space

Do You Realize -

that happiness makes you cry

Do You Realize -

that everyone you know someday will die

And instead of saying all of your goodbyes -

let them know

You realize that life goes fast

It's hard to make the good things last

You realize the sun doesn't go down

It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round

Do You Realize -

Do You Realize -

that everyone you know

Someday will die

And instead of saying all of your goodbyes -

let them know

You realize that life goes fast

It's hard to make the good things last

You realize the sun doesn't go down

It's just an illusion caused by the world spinning round

Do You Realize -

that you have the most beautiful face

Do You Realize?

No Suicide Solution

I've been listening to a fair amount of Elliot Smith lately.
i would say i listen to him more now that he's dead.
Death has a funny way of changing the way you listen to an artist's music.
Knowing that he'll never record anything more (well, Tupac, notwithstanding...), a finite canon of material.
I'm not exactly sure why i'm listening to Elliot Smith more.
just like i don't know why i always want to spell Eliot with two t's, like 'elliott'.
i seem to consistently type it with one L and two T's.
Kinda like when you spell Graffiti, there's hesitation..."is graffiti two f's and one t or vice versa?"

how the fuck do you kill yourself by stabbing yourself in the chest, as Mr. Smith did?
i've thought about the possibility of suicide, not because i would ever actually want to kill myself (are you kidding? there's always happiness after the shittiest of periods, i have learned that in my years on this planet), but just thought about it purely from the 'what if' point of view.

since i'm not much for pain (this, despite having a rather lengthy list of injuries my body has incurred in my life), i absolutely could not stick a knife in my chest.
that has to fucking hurt before death.
i'd prefer something quick, instant, where the pain is but a fleeting moment.
sure, decapitation is a sure and fast way, but that's not something that one could really plan.
unless i rented out a limo and hung out in the moon roof while wearing stilts.
um, no.

shotgun to the head, like mr. cobain, among others (a former high school classmate, for example).
but then you pretty much destroy your formerly pretty face.
and your mom might not like that so much.
everybody likes an open casket.
i mean, come on. we all want to see what this person looks like, this person you knew as alive, to be dead and laying there in a stiff, freakishly odd position, hands carefully folded over one's belly.
lips sewn together.
eyelids sewn shut.
makeup on the face.
maybe shooting one's face off is the answer, if that's what you're going for.
one last dig at your so-called loved ones.
'i'll show those fuckers. not only am i depriving them of my continued presence, they won't even be able to show me off in front of proud relatives.'
kinda mean.

there's the always tried-and-true hanging.
but that isn't exactly a quick death either.
see, i'm all about pain avoidance.

plus, with things like hangings or a gun to one's head, there's this feeling that you should leave a suicide note, some last thing to relay to whoever finds your sorry-ass corpse, letting them know why. Because of course, people always ask 'why? why would he/she do this? he/she had so much to live for.'
yes, right, so much to live for.
we've all had those days when we question why the fuck we continue to go on? why we even bother with it all, that this whole life thing is bullshit and we're just burning up the time, on our eventual journey to glorious Heaven for all eternity.
yeah, so much to live we can continue in some form of existence FOREVER.

a wise man named Prince Rogers Nelson once said
Dearly beloved
We are gathered here today
2 get through this thing called life

Electric word life
It means forever and that's a mighty long time
But I'm here 2 tell u
There's something else
The afterworld

A world of never ending happiness
U can always see the sun, day or night

i don't know about you, but eternity scares the shit out of me.
how is that possible?
and why am i so special, that being a human being and simply surviving life, reaps the reward of eternal life?

maybe my cat has done more for humanity than i have. why can't she get in on that eternal life shit?

hence...why i've never really bought all that hoo-ha.
to me, that kind of talk is yet another way we humans attempt to make some sense of having a finite existence.

i don't completely discount the possibility that there actually IS some sort of post-life life (from an idealistic standpoint, i try to keep all options open, since, i'll never know the answer), but if it does, i'm fully confident that my lowly human brain can't even begin to comprehend how this actually happens.


Dousing yourself with lighter fluid or some other flammable substance and lighting up is another way to end it all.
but again, pain...
burns just fucking suck.
burning alive...not really something i'd be into.
plus you can't really donate any of those organs.
in fact...i can never understand people that say things like 'i'm not giving up any of my organs. i want every part of me to be buried with me.'
like you're going to fucking know.
you're dead.
your time is over.
what the fuck do you care? letting them rot away into maggot malt-o-meal underground is the more proper way?
it's highly doubtful there's going to be a way to bring back the dead in the near-future, so if you're holding on for that possible chance, that the Future Holds the Key to extended life, give up that pipe dream.


we were talking about more important things...potential ways to kill yourself.

here in the Bay Area, there's been a rash of people walking in front of the Caltrain. That's definitely instant death. But it seems so violent...and frankly, pretty fucking selfish.

You end up fucking up people's commute by your selfish decision to let society take care of your sorry ass.
look, i'm not being callous here (well, maybe i am), but if you're contemplating suicide, do everyone else a favor and do it in your own space and time.
We're sorry you wanted to kill yourself, but why put us through misery just because you can't deal.

There's been much talk of putting up suicide barriers along both the Caltrain tracks and the Golden Gate Bridge.
Jumping off the Golden Gate, now there's a spectacular way to go out.
I feel bad for the people that lost loved ones to the lure of the GG, i do, but putting up suicide barriers is just plain stupid.
you're not going to stop the people that want to kill themselves. they will just find another way. humans tend to do that.
Blaming an inanimate object for your suffering does no one any good.
There would be some pain involved with jumping off the GG.
The San Francisco Chronicle did a big series on this very subject last year and it made for an interesting read.

I think the easiest way to off yourself is probably by carbon monoxide poisoning, you know, the ol' shut the garage door, turn on the car, and fall asleep.
But apparently, with improvements in auto exhaust systems, that one isn't so tried and true anymore.
there was a woman on my newspaper route who was a teacher at my elementary school, mrs. brown, who did that.
apparently she had been diagnosed with terminal cancer a few months, frankly, i don't really blame her.
actually, oddly enough, i've had several teachers from my elementary and high school years that have died.

The most noteworthy has to be Mr. Loby, Philip Loby.
He was my teacher in 5th Grade. He was a great teacher, as i recall. Tough but fair.
He challenged us.
I was in a class that was a combination of 5th and 6th graders.
The 5th graders in the class were outnumbered 3 to 1 by the meaner 6th graders.
Especially since this was one of those classes for 'gifted students,' meaning all of us already-suffering brainacs had to also deal with being placed in a our own subgroup, thereby ostracizing us from the rest of our 5th grade classmates who were in the 'normal' classrooms.
But Mr. Loby was good.
he was smart, too smart to be teaching in a smallish suburban elementary school.
i was in his class in 1979-80. yeah, i'm dating myself.
but it was an interesting time, when the american hostages were kidnapped by Iranian 'students' in November 1979.
i remember discussing this at length in mr. loby's class.
We even had a tote board that was updated by various students from day to day, counting the number of days Americans had been held captive.

he was worldly. he was jewish -- with an unruly near-afro, wire-frame glasses, and a geekish demeanor -- which came up from time to time in class.
like, say, the time he told us he was not going to be there the following Monday because he was observing Yom Kippur, a day of atonement and one of the most important Jewish holidays.
I, being the curious kid that i am, raised my hand and asked innocently 'what's yom kippur?'
that turned into a fairly lengthy discussion about what it was about, why he found it important, and why we should at least be aware of it.
pretty heady stuff for a 5th/6th grade class, but seeing as how i grew up in a predominantly white suburb dominated by catholics and various protestant affiliations, it was all new to me.
i had never known any jewish people before.
mr. Loby was just different.
He actually gave a shit.

So, in turn, most of us in his class responded eagerly to his passion. we wanted to know more. he made learning fun, not a chore, not a requirement.
i remember getting in trouble with him once. i called this kid next to me a 'Virgin' and pretty loudly.
this, was, of course, during class.
he pulled me out into the hall, which was like the worst thing that could possibly happen to me at that moment, and had a talk with me.
"now Tim, what did you call Tom?"
"a virgin."
"why did you call tom a virgin?"
"i don't know. we were just messing around."
"i saw. tim, do you even know what a virgin is?"
(in a hushed, embarrassed voice, i answer) "um, it's someone that hasn't had sex?"
"that's right. but why would you call Tom that?"
"I don't know. I'm sorry."
"Ok, well, let's try to reign it in a bit while we're in class, OK? Calling someone a virgin in class is not appropriate behavior. I don't want this to happen again, understood?"
"Yes," i said sheepishly.


i don't know why i remember that exchange, but i do. i was mortified i had to be taken out to the hall for a talking-to.
i was always deathly afraid of getting in trouble in school.
the single time i skipped class, in 10th grade, when i was hanging out with my 'bad' friend Tim and who encouraged me to skip with him, i, of course, got caught and ended up receiving an in-house suspension for two days (it was supposed to be three days but for some reason, they said i only had to do two days).
basically, in-house suspension consisted of sitting in a room at an empty desk, with nothing to read, staring at the wall.
the mean old woman 'guarding' me in said room only gave me have some paper and pencil, whereupon i had to wrote furiously about my plight, which included remprimanding myself for doing something so stupid and to never let it happen again.
oh wait...i had to write an 1000-word essay to explain why skipping class was wrong, what i learned from my mistake and so on.
that was it.

yeah...i padded the shit out of that essay to get 1000 words.
shit, that's a lot of words to write (sidenote: on impulse, i just copied this entire entry and pasted it into MS Word to get a word count and as of the word 'write' before this sidenote, we are at 2097 words).
but i'm good at piling on the bullshit, especially when writing.


my report cards from Mr. Loby were always blanketed with comments like "Tim learns quickly and is a lively student, but he tends to talk too much in class."
"Tim consistently scores in the top percentile of his class, but i wish he'd focus more in class."
it's a good thing i've shed that behavior in my adulthood, to become the very focused, disciplined individual that i am today.

anyway....Mr. Loby.
He was a cool guy.
I felt lucky to have had as a teacher. He had an impact.
A definite sign that he gave a shit.


you have to understand my profound bewilderment and sadness when i learned that Mr. Loby had killed himself a few years ago, maybe five?

Apparently, Mr. Loby never left the Comstock Park school system for the remainder of his teaching career, which was a good 25-30 years as i recall.

It gets crazier.
Mr. Loby decided to retire from teaching rather suddenly.
My mom told me that he told people in May, about a month before school was over, that he was retiring and not coming back.
impromptu send-offs and retirement parties were hastily arranged to celebrate Mr. Loby's contributions to the students of Comstock Park.

then a couple of weeks later, i get a phone call from my mom, telling me that Mr. Loby had killed himself, shot himself in the head, within days of his retirement party.
Basically, as soon as school was finished for the year.

It didn't make any sense...and still doesn't.
How could someone i had respected and looked up to do this?
I mean....i knew absolutely nothing about his personal life and what may have happened to him that would result in him killing himself.
Who the hell knows why anybody chooses suicide.

And it wasn't like i was THAT affected when hearing the news.
it's tough to quantify my exact feelings.

i guess it just saddens me a little bit to know that he's not out there in the world, influencing more young, impressionable minds.

Mr. Loby was an asset to humanity.

He made a difference.

I guess i wish i would have told him all these things.

i know this all sounds kind of cheesy or trite, but i don't care.

i can't help how i feel.



the only other potential suicide option that isn't so harsh would be overdosing on sleeping pills or something like that.

another one of those in which you just fall asleep. and not wake up.


but whatever.
fuck all that.

there's simply no chance i would do it (unless i'm diagnosed with a horribly painful terminal illness with zero chance of survival and wasting away to nothingness...and then i'd have to only consider it as an option).

i like being here.
here and now.
this. existence.
all of it.
the good and the bad.

just being.
is it.


and on that note, i didn't want to end this obviously dark post on a negative.
As the Andrews Sisters say, it's important to Ac-Cent-Tchu-Ate The Positive.

So i want to end this by saying that not all suicide is bad.
i mean, the suicide girls are pretty hot.
definitely not a bad thing.

Monday, July 17, 2006

A Telltale Tale About Hair

I've been bleaching my hair for a good while now.
My natural color has more of a boring, brown vibe.

i let the brown come back in from time to time.

But i prefer blond.
Strangely, so do my parents.

They actually prefer me in blond hair.
Not my natural color.

Last year, i had let most of my brown hair return. i went home for the holidays.
Within five minutes after my arrival, my mom says, "So, what happened to your blond hair? i like you as a blond."

Even my dad, the rather stoic, non-expressive fella that he is, made a comment. "boy, you look a lot different without the blond. why'd you get rid of it?"

This is the same person who used to give me such grief as a teenager for letting my hair grow long in back (yes, i had a mullet. it was the 80s in the midwest. I was a rocker. it had to be done).
"you look like a girl," he'd say to me, gritting his teeth with exasperation.

Whatever, dad. go back out to your beloved garage and fix another used car you got on the cheap.

See, as a kid, i had me some blond hair.

It started getting darker in middle/high school, but my hair always maintained elements of the blond, especially in the summer.

I went through various stages of my hair, eventually letting it grow super long when i was in my early and mid-20s, just because i had always wanted to have long hair. to be able to put my hair in an actual pony tail, now wouldn't that be something.

But it became annoying. a bother. i had to attend to it too much. it became a chore.
sure, i looked cool while rocking out, but by that time, i had moved on from metal and all that.

In fact, toward the end, it was almost constantly pulled back, with me wearing a backwards newsboy cap whenever i didn't wash it.

This foray into long-hair land, this time is now known as the underachieving portion of my life.

Post-college. not many jobs, not very motivated, back in the town i grew up in. i was freelancing at the local paper and working at my friend's coffeehouse, smoking lots of cigarettes, drinking way too much coffee, and growing increasingly embittered. about what, i'm not entirely sure.

But then, lo and behold, i got a job at the fort wayne journal gazette in Indiana.

OK, so it wasn't exactly like scoring a job at a magazine in New York, but hell, it was something.

I was moving to another state, living alone in my very own apartment, for a cool job that actually paid for my medical benefits, something i had never had before.

Time for change.
New beginnings. all that shit.

cut the hair.

I remember trying to describe to the stylist what exactly i wanted it to look like. she wasn't getting it.

Finally, i found a gossip magazine at the salon with an older picture of scott weiland, lead singer of Stone Temple Pilots and pre-heroin emaciation era, sporting what was then known as a 'caesar cut.' basically, really short, bleached blond, pushed forward.

'oh, ok, i see,' she said as she eyed the picture skeptically.
"Are you sure you want to do this? are you sure you want to cut your hair?"
exactly what i didn't need to hear at that moment.
but this was coming from a worn-out rocker chick wearing way too much eye makeup, desperately clinging to her bygone '80s look.

Rocker chick thought i was insane for wanting to cut it.
Which, did make me pause to ponder for a moment.
but then...clarity.

"Fuck it, i'm doing it. Cut it off!"

And so she did.

i recall watching my hair fall to the floor and feeling a bit unsure again.

What the fuck am i doing?
Oh yeah, this is a good thing.

She did an ok bleaching job. This brightened her up some. Maybe it was because she had experience. She had obviously tried every potential dye in her hair, now a mass of chemically-altered brownish brittle split ends and dull, lifeless body.

How the hell was this woman working in a hair salon?
but whatever.

After impatiently waiting for the bleach to do its thing, she washed the chemicals out, tossed in some mousse (yes, mousse. do they even make that shit anymore?), and voila! the new me.

i was freaked.
i looked nothing like the person that arrived there.
it was beyond weird.

but exciting!
whoo hoo!

all my friends flipped out when they saw me. couldn't believe it was me. blah blah blah. the usual schtick.

my parents, of course, loved it immediately.

my mom said i looked 'sharp', while my dad gave me a nod of affirmation and then went back to the garage to fix something.

when my brother got married, my mom even asked me to make sure and get my hair cut and colored before the wedding so i'd look good for the wedding pictures.

back to the blond.

and that's where i've stayed ever since.

sure, i've tried growing the brown back out, or let my roots get so long i look like i have blond tips (mainly due to extreme laziness in making an appointment).

but i always drift back to my beloved blond.

in fact, when Sig cut my hair earlier this year, she cut off pretty much all the blond.
she even gave me an out.
"ok timmmii, most of your blond is going to be gone. Are you ready?"

yeah, sure.
change is good, right?
do it.

for two whole days, i was sporting the real me, the brown.
boring ass brown.

i felt deflated.

i hated it.

i felt uncomfortable. not right.
i looked ... just, somehow wrong.

even sig, who suggested i cut off the blond in the first place, looked at me a day after cutting it and said, "you know, timmmii, the blond hair, it suits you. something just doesn't seem right with this. maybe you should bleach your hair."

exactly what i was thinking.

back to the bottle. back to the blond.

admittedly, i realize it's weird to have to rely on chemicals to make me feel ok about my hair.

and ok, my hairline is receding and the blond hair does somehow make it less obvious that it's going to be gone someday.
that said, i wouldn't bleach my hair just for the sake of vanity (well...), and i see plenty of guys with receding hairlines who try to cover it up by bleaching it and look ridiculous.

but for me...more than anything else...i just like it. i like it on me.

since i had natural blond hair for so long, it doesn't seem wrong.
i have fair skin, which also plays a role.
on me, it doesn't have the air of desperation like it does on some guys.

actually, i feel lucky to still have as much hair on my head as i do.
my dad was pretty much bald by his mid-20s, as were all of his brothers.
yes, i know the baldness gene comes from your mom's side. yes, i know it supposedly skips a generation. i've heard it all.
my deceased grandfather was bald...but then again, he was 89 years old when he died.
my mom said good ol' grumpy Earle had hair throughout her childhood and her teen years.
all of her brothers still have hair.

so yeah....that's it.
the true story about my reliance on the bottle.

what this means, i have no idea.

i can't believe i wrote this much nonsense about my fucking hair.

now don't you feel oh so enlightened?

Happy Days Are Here Again

It's Monday! Start of a brand new week.
And what's happening in the world on this fine day?
Let's see...

Gunmen kill 56 in sectarian attack on Iraqi market town

Deadly Tsunami Strikes Indonesia Coast, Killing at Least 100

Oh yeah, Lebanon and Israel are bombing the shit out of each other

Happy fun time for all, huh?

So, with all this crazy fucked up shit going down her on our lovely planet, which of these horrible stories is of prime importance to viewers and readers of

Bush's open mike captures him using the word 'Shit' in a sentence
Here's the video
Fucking ridiculous. CNN thinks Bush swearing is the most important story of the day.
Appalling, actually.

Ezra Klein says what needs to be said about the sad state of American media and how this story was covered
Things That Make Me Proud To Be A Journalist

yay for america!

Feeding the Meter

here i am, awake late at night when i should be asleep.
but i'm not asleep.
lately, i've been having way irregular sleep patterns.
super tired. super awake. drowsy but unable to actually hit the REM scene.

i'm not sure why.
maybe i know why.
i don't know.
or i do know.
it's all complex, complicated, multifaceted, multi-everything.

times are indeed new and different now.
new people. new faces. new interests. old interests rekindled.
old interests brushed aside.
new outlook. old outlook. evolved outlook.

everything is there and here and wherever and nowherever.
talking in abstracts is fun.

what am i talking about?
good question.

i can't get comfortable.
i was sitting up just now.
that was then, this is now (and also the title of a judy blume novel, which i read long ago, before the porpoises came).

now i'm sitting on my belly.
i like to sit this way.
i tend to sleep more on my belly than my back.

i holler in my head right now, even though it's dead quiet (i could holla too but that would be different).
the only sound being the low airy hum of my laptop and my two kitty friends hanging out near me.
but still, i yell. i scream. i shout.
in my mind.
even in my mind, i am a loud human being.
a roommate of mine told me i was a loud human being once.
i couldn't argue.

everything is a jumbled mess.
everything is perfect.
everything is occurring exactly the way it was supposed to.
everything makes sense.

a total cliche, what i'm about to say, but i can't help it:
my life is a movie, i'm just following the continuously unlikely script.

but i also know that isn't completely true.
not true?

yes, reality has a way of showing up now.
that voice in my head that says, "you still choose your own destiny, you make conscious decisions, you can't just chalk up the negative shit as a 'oh well, it was what was supposed to happen.'"

someone recently told me that she doesn't believe in excuses.
that someone is wise.
remembering that is important.

nothing is clear-cut.
there isn't an exacto knife for life.
maybe there should be.
it would have to be sizeable, and precise.
then you could cut out parts you want and parts you don't.

i'm in a good place.
my life isn't at all bad right now.
i've been much worse off, before.

yet, i can't

i have to analyze, ponder, discuss, study, extract, pontificate, elaborate, enunciate, fabricate, fornicate, radiate, collaborate, alleviate, and chortle.
chortling is an especially good thing to do.
hmmm, i almost lapsed into copping words from an INXS song right there.
Good thing i ended with a hearty chortle.

this internal dialogue i'm spewing just made me think of a conversation i had friday night a guy at a party i was at with Em.
we were both Libras, he and i.
of course, i can't remember his name.
he said he hadn't met that many libras, maybe five, he said, in the past few years.
i don't think to ask most people when their birthday is.
closer friends, yes, but even so...not really something to dwell on.

we two libras bonded while discussing the idea that we were both people pleasers.
we're more concerned about the welfare of the people around us than ourselves.
we both concurred that we like to take on the middleman role, the mediator, ensuring happiness and tranquility are the dominant forces around us as much as possible.

we don't like confrontation.
we're idealistic.
Sometimes compromising.
we like harmony.

it was both strange and comforting.


the song title 'let forever be' just popped into my head.

i should let forever be.

i already know the answer to all these thoughts i've posed.

it was said to me in a specific context.

"Just relax."

Yes, relax.


I love happy endings.

Sunday, July 16, 2006

Things Learned

I can tolerate melon-flavored crap gum in a pinch.

Not wearing underwear with fairly snug jeans is ok.

Staring at a computer screen isn't always a bad thing.

Cats can be comforting.

Complicated negotiations are always complicated.

Not answering my cell phone can be OK.

Fizzy water isn't so good when the fizz goes away.

I can drive pretty well in stop-and-go traffic while distracted.

My persona is public domain.

I need to quit smoking -- AGAIN.

Vices can be bothersome.

I can project my voice without a microphone in a crowded bar when introducing a drag queen performance.

I will never be a good parallel parker.

I will never be taller.

Not wearing an earring in one's ear for a month makes the hole smaller.

Aqua Teen is a fucking funny cartoon.

Mitch Hedberg was fucking funny.

I need new clothing.

I have way too much shit on my desk right now.

A good breakfast place in San Francisco that hasn't been overrun by hipsters still exists.

Half Moon Bay is worth the trip.

I doubt i'll ever be able to open a bottle with a lighter.

Playing music for people has never felt so right.

Being in a constant state of confusion is inescapable.

I will always be better at explaining myself in writing.

Wearing polka dot boxer shorts is pretty cool.

Time continues to be slippin', slippin', slippin', into the future.

Life is never going to be simple.

I am able to eat mushrooms when hungry.

Getting your automobile cleaned can be done.

Nearly everything i say is a digression.

I say the word 'playa' too often.

Cutting dairy out of my diet is possible.

Not tripping about stuff should be easier than it is.

I still don't like olives very much.

My friends should be horse-whipped.

I so need to a buy a brand-new bed.

Taylor Dayne is still alive.

I say 'sorry' too much.

My torso and legs are basically proportional.

I will never be a major motion picture actor.

Some Swedish people think I'm Finnish.

Putting lotion on my hands on a semi-regular basis will improve my cuticles.

Good people never cease to amaze me.

It's likely i will never grow wings.

I'm not a huge fan of punch.

I'm not as afraid of ghosts as i used to be.

Being morbid is not a bad thing.

I still don't have tentacles.

The first thing i read in the Sunday NY Times is Frank Rich's column.

I will never be an oil baron.

I've never made any pottery.

Proclaiming that you're an anarchist is never a good thing.

Meeting new people never gets old.

Nobody puts Baby in a corner.

Grunge is making a comeback.

Wine is fine but liquor is quicker.

Never underestimate the power and majesty of oceans.

It's entirely possible that astrology isn't total bunk.

Tomorrow doesn't exist.

I can dream about Santa Claus.

Free will is relative.

Sometimes, it's hard out here for a timmmii.

Wednesday, July 12, 2006

The Zone is my Friend

i wrote the following a few days before venturing out to the desert. since then, my life has been altered, i am permanently not the tim i was when i wrote this.... i was dreaming when i wrote this, forgive me if it goes astray...

ever since this past weekend, i've been in the zone dj-wise.
most of my life consists of me fighting off near-constant random thoughts about pretty much every thing i encounter on a daily basis.
yes, when i dj, i have the ability to focus better and more intensely than any other time i devote to creative ventures.
it's the one time in which i, incredibly, can take all of my scattered brain cells and shove them into one zone.
even if for a while.
it's my escape.
honestly, NOTHING else really matters much to me when i'm DJing.
hence, it's my basis, my trueness, my everything.
music is my lifeblood.

this kind of mindset is where i need to be all of the time.
or at least the large majority of my time.

right, i have a point here.
so ever since this last weekend, i've been primed, focused, excited, gearing up, and playing music more than i have in months. at the very least, this dedicated.

so tonight was a GREAT warm-up to the much-much larger main event this weekend, as i travel eastward from my wonderful homeland to spend some excellent QT with fellow overthinkers, revelers, and freakballs.

june 29, 2006, 12:56 am PST


back to now

well, good readers of children's booklets, i must tell you, beforeTim (that would be me in the past, who is a different creature you see), was spot on.

the creativity has increased. i am a fucking golden god.
ok, i copped that shit from robert plant, but it's a fucking good quote.
and i like to say fucking.'s me, i'm here, it's all happening (and yes, that's a quote too, bitches), and it's all allright with me, you see.

i am doing fine.
well, fine is a relative term.

let's see what else i have now.

my emotions are a pool of hot gelatin right now.
i'm always this way after the playa.
up, down, sideways, slantways, thatways, thisways, ergoways...

i contemplate too much shit.
i analayze too much.
i am a overthinker dammit.

i am a overthinker, yes yes yes.

it's a constant struggle

the playa was good for me
the playa was bad for me
the playa was me
the playa was the real me
the playa was the faux me
the playa was a fucking mindfuck
the playa fucked my mind
the playa fucked me
i fucked the playa

and so it is (thanks linda ellerbee)

i am confusion
i am mass
i am mass confusia
i am confuscious
i need to get ready to leave this place
this place that i am currently dwelling
not leave the place for permanence
but to leave this place for the thing i am about to do
that thing
the thing
the things i do

i can't tell you how difficult is.

ok, here are my sets.
this one is ambient fucked weirdness strange cry in the corner mix
you will dig.

ambient chillits demo for your grandma's chicken

and this one is glitchy, tense, intense, not so tense, treacly.

glitchy fuckface mix