Wednesday, September 2, 2009

To the girl with the mustard shoes

Who are you girl, with shoes like the sun?
Are you more of the same, just like everyone?
Or are you interesting, exciting, intriguing and fun?
As vibrant as your shoes that look like the sun?

Do we listen to the same music and read the same books?
Do you notice in class when I give you those looks?
Do you think if we talked we would get along?
Maybe connect over a favorite song?

The reason I ask, is you seem very sweet;
the kind of girl I'd like to meet.
So I hope you don't mind, or think it too forward to ask
if I could meet you for coffee after class.

(written on a scrap torn from the back of a syllabus, awaiting its writer to grow a pair and pass it on.)

Tuesday, September 1, 2009


Today I saw the most beautiful girl,
and I let her pass without a word.

Sunday, August 30, 2009

On loneliness

The world is lonely, really fucking lonely. We are all just looking for some form of connection. We are like desperate little creatures extending long and numerous feelers in an attempt to just touch someone and be touched, to find some form of kindness or friendship or compassion. We put ourselves out there and get rejected and become self-conscious. Our self-esteem gets low, and we convince ourselves we're not good enough for one another; not pretty enough, not cool enough, not skinny enough, not fit enough, not interesting enough, not smart enough, not charming enough, not successful enough, not funny nor witty nor stylish enough. Eventually, we get so tired of trying to glean even a modicum of interest or love out of others, we become bitter. We are all just looking for love, and I think if everyone recognized that in each other, we would cease to get in each other's way, in our own way, and find that true connection we long for on a second to second basis. We're all just looking for love, and we're the only ones stopping ourselves from finding it.

Bohemian Dandy

On Love

I sit on the seventh story balcony, working out some outlines of several writing projects I hope to embark on, when I am suddenly distracted by a girl in the building across from me. She is changing out of her clothes into her sleepwear. She shut the blinds but from my angle, I can still see through. The female figure is a beautiful thing. A lot of people find nudity vulgar or somehow obscene. I've never shared this sentiment. I find it fascinating that you can get sensually aroused by the mere image of it. She turns off the light and forces my focus back to my writing. A few minutes pass and my eyes gaze downward to a couple by the bike racks, intertwined with each other, lip-locked and immersed in passion. The girl is straddling the guy and they are really going at it. They are weary of passersby, but from my aerial perch, I have an undetected bird's eye view of it all. The very cute girl behind her laptop on the balcony with me snidely mutters, "get a room." This is the typical response to such a public display of affection. It is so apparent on the passersby that do witness the couple, they may as well have though bubbles floating above their heads. This is a sentiment that I used to empathize with, and have often been conflicted about, but sitting here, watching these two go at each other with fiery passion, I can't help but feel happy for them. This is one of the happiest moments of this guy's life, and the girl seems hypnotized with lust. Now, I don't know if this is a one-night stand, the beginning of an epic romance, or if they have been in love for years. All I know is that they are overwhelmingly wrapped in bliss, and despite the slight tinge of jealousy for it not being me, (the same envy that I think drives people to so vehemently reject the sight) I can feel nothing but joy for these two lovers, because in this life, day to day, there are so few moments that take your breath away, so few experiences that blast you out of the mundane, how can you feel anything but happiness when you see it happening right in front of you?

Star Trekking

This city is vivid. It's alive in a way that no other place on Earth can match. San Francisco is a playground for artists, aristocrats, vagabonds, bohemians, refugees, and a wide assortment of only the most interesting people. Oscar Wilde once noted, "It's an odd thing, but anyone who disappears is said to be seen in San Francisco. It must be a delightful city and possess all the attractions of the next world" And it's true, even to this day. If you have dream of art and love, sin and fun, culture and history, San Francisco is your final destination.

Intending to only stay a few hours, I was sucked into a wild weekend of adventure and true living, complete with twists and turns and rugged discomfort in true beatnik spirit.

Friday morning I woke, making modest plans of a quiet weekend in my Berkeley dorm, studying and reading Chaucer and Aristotle, and maybe even get started on a short story I've been playing in my head for a while. The day progressed and I planned to have a little jam session with my friend, Travis, and listen to some vinyls. It was shaping up to be a nice, low-key weekend of books and music.

Imagine my surprise when my old friend, Hank, gives me a ring and tells me that, no more that a few hours ago, he moved into his new dorm at the Academy of Art in San Francisco, and wants me to come visit. I'm obliged to ditch out of prior engagements and buy a ticket, round trip (planning on a short stay), for the next BART train to the City.

Once there, we shared a grand ol' huge fitting of reunited friends, and trekked around union square until we got a call from our friend Jenni, demanding we trek on over to the theater for a free screening of Star Trek. Afterward, we trekked (stopping now, by the way) about the city for a while, eventually stumbling into a hole in the wall call Pearl's Diner, which holds the honorary title of "best burger in San Francisco," and, by god, were they not kidding. The mini deluxe with blue cheese put me in a state of savory coma, only to be exacerbated by this original 50s style malt that I chased it with. The meal knocked me on my ass with a charbroiled 1-2 punch. We then headed to Union Square for a smoke; Bali Shags to be precise; damn good rolling tobacco. We smoked our freshly rolled cigarettes and shot electric speech at one another with that hip, young, art student vibe, that we all love so much. All potential and all future, and nothing stopping us; the night was ours. After some time, most of the gang called it quits and retired to their respective apartments, slowly branching off, one by one, from the collective group. Eventually, it was just Hank and me, and we trekked under the starry sky for another hour or so. We talked excitedly of plans for the year now that we were both in this most exciting of places. Finally, after miles of sidewalk passed, we arrived Hank's building. Visiting policy is strict, so I would have to play it smooth to get passed the security booth. I feigned panicked ignorance and naivete of a lowly freshman, confused and frightened by his first night in the city. They asked my floor, I guessed the safe number of three, and I was let pass. I somehow fell asleep despite my meager bed (a blanket and pillow, tossed to me out of pity, on the floor).

The next day, Hank and I woke up to a ringing phone with Jenni on the other end. She made plans to trek (am I still going on with that?) to the coast for a day under the sun. Her friend Anna would be joining us. Now, there are two things you have to know about Anna, the first is that she is here for a month on vacation from Germany, and the second is that she is very beautiful.

We caught a bus and paid two dollars each (for tickets we would use the rest of the day, well after expiration to get from one destination to the next) and we were on our way.

The beach was phenomenal; exponentially more beautiful than even the most pristine beach in southern California, that is, if you don't mind the ball-shrinkingly cold water that will simultaneously rape you of your manhood while dragging you out like a rag doll to the deep blue, all the while crashing wave after wave atop your sub-zero body. It had been quite some time sing I've been t the coast, and even longer (never) since I've been to this particular spot. I had the time of my life splashing around in the waves next to the majestic cliffs and charmingly out-of-place steampunk style windmill. Also, the only bath I had prior was in the sink of Hank's half-bathroom back at his dorm. After a few hours of soaking up the warm San Francisco rays, we trekked back to the street to catch a bus to Haight-Ashbury. We quickly flashed our tickets and hit that sweet spot of time (long enough for the driver to recognize that they were, indeed, tickets, yet short enough to elude his detection of the expiration time.) perfectly.

Once on Haight street, we immediately saw one of the notoriously interesting (hooray euphemisms!) people Haight has to offer. A staggeringly tall and intimidatingly large man emerged from the anarchist haven we like to call Golden Gate park. Oh yeah, and he was wearing body armor, head to toe. Clearly not about to just let such a thing go unquestioned, I held back from the group slightly and asked the gentlemen what exactly he's preparing for. The armored giant brushed his long black hair from his eyes, looked me straight in the eye and said with grave precision, "The end of your world," and then he walked away focused and ready to wage war against the four horsemen when they arrive. Laughing hysterically (mostly to cover that feeling in our gut that the end was nigh) we grabbed a slice from Escape From New York Pizza. Now, if you've never been to Escape From New York Pizza, I can not stress enough how much of a fool this makes you. Afterward we shopped around a bit, tried on ridiculous outfits, and grew bored and caught a bus back to union square.

We eventually reached Jenni's apartment, only after a fabulous dinner of Thai food at some hip place at around midnight, where we had a few friends over and chatted the night away. The best part was smoking on the fire escape watching the city's fog swirl all around me. It was an indescribably beautiful experience that I hope to have again very soon, and often after that. I planned to crash on the floor of the apartment, and ended up scoring a bed. And to make things better, I would rinse off in a shower, one lacking any form of visible soap, but it was nice all the same.

I would return to Berkeley the following morning, but not before grabbing a bagel with lox, and a coffee to drink, from this amazing cafe on Jones street. I would smell of where I've been (body odor), and my hair would shoot off in all directions, gelled by its own grease. I would be exhausted, unkempt, filthy, and in need of several day's sleep and a nice long shower, but it would be the result of an unforgettable weekend.

If this is any indication of how this year will continue, I can only express undying gratitude for the life I have, and all the living, the true living, that is to come.

Bohemian Dandy

What's your latest obsession?

Hank Moody: "Just the fact that people seem to be getting dumber and dumber. You know, I mean we have all this amazing technology and yet computers have turned into basically four figure wank machines. The internet was supposed to set us free, democratize us, but all it's really given us is Howard Dean's aborted candidacy and 24 hour a day access to kiddie porn. People... they don't write anymore, they blog. Instead of talking, they text, no punctuation, no grammar: LOL this and LMFAO that. You know, it just seems to me it's just a bunch of stupid people pseudo-communicating with a bunch of other stupid people at a proto-language that resembles more what cavemen used to speak than the King's English."

Radio show host: "Yet you're part of the problem."

Hank Moody: "Hence my self-loathing."

So, this blog has been dead for quite some time, mostly because I've taken the aforementioned little bit from Californication to heart, and I've actually been pressing pen to paper instead of worrying about keeping up this thing. It seemed superfluous and self-serving. But, after some deliberation, I figured there are some things I'd like to back-up and preserve, because who knows what could happen to my trusty moleskine. So, fuck it. As a good friend once said (which, I'm fairly certain she stole borrowed from Stefan Sagmeister: "Do it without thinking of critics."

So, the show will, nay, must go on. For memories sake, for writing's sake, and, goddammit, for my sake. I like this blog, premature as it may be, and I like getting my thoughts out there, for the few (if any) people that do read it. Thus far it's just a collection of random, largely unimportant thoughts or occurrences, but maybe they will be important one day. Maybe everything will start to make sense, and all these seemingly obscure and random entries will synthesize into a grand tale, and then again, maybe not. But for now, I keep going. I keep digging through this ugly little thing called life in search of sensation and meaning.

Much more to come,

Bohemian Dandy

Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Life is...good?, I've found myself with very little to write lately. I've felt rather uninspired. This has actually been really bothering me lately. So, after much thought on the subject (primarily comprised of testing the durability of my wooden desk with my head) I figured out why my muse has sudden fluttered away.

Well, you see, my muse is less of a majestic, mythical creature as it is an evil, conniving adrenaline junkie who likes to inspire utter chaos and panic for her own amusement, and is essentially schadenfreude embodied. It's also apparently severely bipolar as it enjoys beauty about as much as that creepy kid in American Beauty..

Yes you, you weird fuck.

So, it seems that I can only write in the midst of extreme tragedy or euphoria. I've never been so good at minutiae. Maybe Virginia Woolf could teach me a thing or two...or perhaps I shouldn't take advice from someone who began to hear voices and consequently filled her coat with rocks and walked into the River Ouse.

I digress.

Anyway, as for my lack of inspiration, I think I'm going to try a more Woolf-esque approach. Stay tuned for possibly embarrassing attempts at elevating the mundane.

Still writing,

Bohemian Dandy

Monday, July 20, 2009


Come one! Come all! To see the chaotic extravaganza! IT'S THE END OF THE WORLD! MUAHAHAHA!!!!

It's dog eat dog out there in the big bad world. Knives are being stuck into the backs of all men, by all men. It's utter pandemonium! Who do you trust? Who CAN you trust? No one! Nobody! They're all out to get you. You can't even trust your fucking self!

"There's a hole in the world like a great black pit, and the vermin of the world inhabit it, and it's filled with people who are filled with shit, and its morals aren't worth what a pig could spit!"

So bear arms with me brothers, those who call yourselves brothers (but are all descendants of Brutus himself) and let's wage war against one another. All you Benedict Arnolds, all you ladies in red, all you hypocrites and seducers, come one, come all! Burn it down, burn it all down. The world is going straight to hell. Rapture cometh! But there are no angels to spare you, no winged saviors to take you away to paradise, for all of you are undeserving! Oh, we self-serving loathsome wretches. "We all deserve to die, even you, even I!" We will all have to face Minos, and he will send us all to our appropriate circles of Hell!

So watch, as the river Nile turns to the river Styx, Amazon to Acheron! Watch as serpents rise to strangle you all and inject their venom into your already poisoned souls! Watch as Cerberus snarls and barks, and as the Minotaur rages. You are all destined to wear gilded cloaks of lead and writhe in eternal fatigue!

"It's the end of the world as we know it, and I feel fine...
It's time I had some time alone."

Your doomsayer,

Bohemian Dandy

Sunday, July 19, 2009

Black and White

Life is simple, that's not to say it's easy. There are clear paths, simple right and wrong. Contrary to popular belief, the world is black and white. You're the one that adds color. You are the artist. There's a path you can take, the "right" path, the moral path, and on it, you can stroll all the way to the end of your life completely unaffected. And for some reason, every time I hit that fork in the road, I'll always take the path lined with willow trees, howls in the night, and lightning strikes.

Because how boring the path is that shines so bright, with the sun that smiles down on you and with all the fucking tire swings. I've fought my whole life against the mundane, the banal, the boring. But, is it really so bad? A simple life with simple pleasures. A moral life without the drama. A perfectly and contently boring existence without constant pandemonium. I'm not too sure anymore. I think it would be a nice change of pace.

So, cheers, to settling down, to making good decisions, to not fucking up, to growing up.

Really, my life plays out a bit like Trainspotting (you know, minus the whole bit about heroin addiction).

[First lines]
"Choose Life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family. Choose a fucking big television, choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol, and dental insurance. Choose fixed interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisurewear and matching luggage. Choose a three-piece suite on hire purchase in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on Sunday morning. Choose sitting on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up brats you spawned to replace yourselves. Choose your future. Choose life... But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons."

I used revel in those words (smart yeah, the rationalized words of a fucked up heroin junkie), but yeah, that's how I used to view life. Hell, that's probably still how I view it. But I'm trying, I'm trying real hard to make it to those last lines.

[Last lines]
Now I've justified this to myself in all sorts of ways. It wasn't a big deal, just a minor betrayal. Or we'd outgrown each other, you know, that sort of thing. But let's face it, I ripped them off - my so called mates. But Begbie, I couldn't give a shit about him. And Sick Boy, well he'd done the same to me, if he'd only thought of it first. And Spud, well okay, I felt sorry for Spud - he never hurt anybody. So why did I do it? I could offer a million answers - all false. The truth is that I'm a bad person. But, that's gonna change - I'm going to change. This is the last of that sort of thing. Now I'm cleaning up and I'm moving on, going straight and choosing life. I'm looking forward to it already. I'm gonna be just like you. The job, the family, the fucking big television. The washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electric tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisure wear, luggage, three piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing gutters, getting by, looking ahead, the day you die."

Lost and trying,

-Bohemian Dandy

Thursday, July 16, 2009

Dear Penny Lane,

In bed, sometimes, I'm apt to think of you.
The times we had, so young, so fun, so true.
But truth turns lie in so short a time,
And love and loss becomes our passionate crime,
And those three days of wine and cheese and grapes,
impromptu plot of glorious escape,
Seems now more like a tragic mistake,
two fools too lust-drunken to wake.
So dear, I wish I could have been your William,
But lo, all that I touch turns to bedlam.

With 20/20 hindsight,
Regretfully yours,

Russel Hammond

Things Desired

A cool swim, a Sigur Ros concert in Iceland, death by Hafsol, sneaking out and sneaking in, new beginnings, a smoke on the front lawn, a few good beers (Newcastle's not bad), a blood red moon, cool summer night air, the green glow of the dashboard, the rev of an engine redefining the speed limit, all to the [dead] sound of The Raveonettes.

Summer, you're all right.

On Love, Future, and Ativan

The minutes ooze by like molasses, the clock ticks heavy. Void days lead to sleepless nights. Time bleeds together. My mind is on fire, manic with thought, but the days, the days reflect nothing of that. One listless day, after another, wasting, wasted, gone. My dad asks if I've been beaten up, and where I got the two shiners. I look at him through bloodshot eyes, and I say, "I wish it were that easy, pop."

It's no wonder one mid-afternoon after lethargically dragging myself out of bed and tripping into the warm water of the shower, I begin to halfheartedly sing Minus The Bear's "Get Me Naked 2: Electric Boogaloo." Silly name, relevant subject:

"Try to get some rest,
count backward from ten.
You've gone too long without sleep
I know you won't rest stressed, so give up, just give up.

And don't say no to pills,
Ativan won't kill.

You said, 'My life's like a bad movie,'
And I said, 'It's true of all us.'
You said, you said, 'I've got to wake up so fucking early,'
And I said, 'Maybe the directors turned on us.'

Outside the five sounds like the ocean,
relax, don't keep your eyes open.
Don't look at the clock,
your brain will never stop.

You said, 'My life's like a bad movie,'
And I said, 'That's true of all us.'
You said, you said, 'I've got to wake up so fucking early,'
And I said, 'Maybe the directors turned on us.'

Don't say no to pills,
Ativan won't kill."

I was going crazy. I needed to get out. A trip to the Getty Art Museum would do me some good.

With a Sigur Ros CD and a short drive south, I arrived at my cultural destination. Having frequented the Getty (there's not a whole hell of a lot else to do 'round these parts) there weren't too many new surprises. The French Bronze sculptures were refreshing, but other than that, it was the same ol' trip to the impressionism room, spewing pretentiousness at a high school art history level. However, an unexpected stroll two floors beneath Van Gogh's "Waterlilies", and Renoir's "Le Promenade" led me to a fantastic photography exhibit.

Two photographers: Paul Outerbridge and Jo Ann Callis. The former didn't impress me too much, mostly commercial bullshit, but Callis, really wonderful stuff. Among her many other masterpieces, she went through this tri-picture stage, in which she would juxtapose three seemingly different object, and show how similar they really are. They all, in fact, had uniting factors, light and fluffy, sleek and shiny, etc.

"Cake, Hat, Pillow"

"Glove, Balloon, Shoehorn."

You get the picture (no pun intended).

So, I got to thinking, if I had a series like this, what would I include. Well, this is where the title is relevant. Why can't I sleep, why am I always so fucking anxious? The answers:



and the cure


"In a world where certainties are wonder Ativan is prescribed by so many caring clinicians."

Ah, must be nice, but it's the easy way out. I gotta take this thing head on, look it straight in the eyes, and...well, enjoy some more insomnia. So, come thought, come brainstorm, and for the love of all things good, come sun, come morning doves, so I can finally rest my head, and drift out of consciousness. But until then, with a fire in my eyes, and bags down to my cheeks, I'll linger on past, present, and future, and sing the Electric Boogaloo.

-Bohemian Dandy.

Monday, July 13, 2009

In Preparation for the Zombie Apocalypse

We slipped on our boots, zipped up our vests, loaded our clips, and prepared for battle.

Two groups: Spec Ops v. S.W.A.T.

We fired our AK47s and MP5s at one another, inducing 400+ fps stings in each other's skin. Hours of all-out, close quarters, urban tactical assault. Why, you ask? Why shoot plastic bb's at each other in the wee hours of the night until the sun rises to signal battle's end? Because, there is a day, rest assured, one little square on that calendar of yours, that marks the day, Z-Day. And with a single phone call, and two simple words: "It's on!" We'll gear up, lock and load, and pump round after round into the skulls of the walking dead.

"Unthinkable," you say. "Impossible, stupid, juvenile," you say...or at least you hope. Read this:

Brain Parasites, neurotoxins, the rage virus, neurogenesis, nanobots. It's coming, just you wait. THE END IS EXTREMELY FUCKING NIGH!

And we, we will be humanity's last line of defense against the zombie hordes.

And remember kids:

1. Organize before they rise!
2. They feel no fear, why should you?
3. Use your head: cut off theirs.
4. Blades don't need reloading.
5. Ideal protection = tight clothes, short hair.
6. Get up the staircase, then destroy it.
7. Get out of the car, get onto the bike.
8. Keep moving, keep low, keep quiet, keep alert!
9. No place is safe, only safer.
10. The zombie may be gone, but the threat lives on.

Thursday, June 18, 2009

Life is Worth Losing

My favorite Comedian, and a personal hero of mine, died last year in late June. George Carlin was a genius of our time, a revolutionary. He was a man enlightened. A savant of comedy for the way he infused his art with political activism, philosophical awareness, and satire of human absurdity. This is a quote from one of his shows. Rest assured, there will very likely be more to come, as this only covers the political side of things, but a better critique on contemporary politics, I have yet to find.

"There's a reason that education sucks, and it’s the same reason it will never ever ever be fixed. It’s never going to get any better, don’t look for it. Be happy with what you’ve got. Because the owners of this country don’t want that. I’m talking about the real owners now, the big, wealthy, business interests that control all things and make the big decisions.

Forget the politicians, they’re irrelevant.

Politicians are put there to give you that idea that you have freedom of choice. You don’t. You have no choice. You have owners. They own you. They own everything. They own all the important land, they own and control the corporations, and they’ve long since bought and paid for the Senate, the Congress, the State Houses, and the City Halls. They’ve got the judges in their back pockets. And they own all the big media companies so they control just about all the news and information you get to hear.

They’ve got you by the balls.

They spend billions of dollars every year lobbying to get what they want. Well, we know what they want; they want more for themselves and less for everybody else. But I’ll tell you what they don’t want—they don’t want a population of citizens capable of critical thinking. They don’t want well informed, well educated people capable of critical thinking. They’re not interested in that. That doesn’t help them. That’s against their interest. You know something, they don’t want people that are smart enough to sit around their kitchen table and figure out how badly they’re getting fucked by a system that threw them overboard 30 fucking years ago.

They don’t want that, you know what they want?

They want obedient workers, obedient workers. People who are just smart enough to run the machines and do the paperwork and just dumb enough to passively accept all these increasingly shittier jobs with the lower pay, the longer hours, the reduced benefits, the end of overtime and the vanishing pension that disappears the minute you go to collect it.

And now they’re coming for your social security money.

They want your fucking retirement money; they want it back so they can give it to their criminal friends on Wall Street. And you know something? They’ll get it. They’ll get it all from you sooner or later because they own this fucking place. It’s a big club and you ain’t in it! You and I are not in the Big Club. By the way, it’s the same big club they use to beat you in the head with all day long when they tell you what to believe. All day long beating you over the head with their media telling you what to believe, what to believe, what to think and what to buy.

The table is tilted folks, the game is rigged.

Nobody seems to notice, nobody seems to care. Good honest hard working people, white collar, blue collar, it doesn’t matter what color shirt you have on. Good honest hard working people continue, these are people of modest means, continue to elect these rich cocksuckers who don’t give a fuck about them. They don’t give a fuck about you. They don’t give a fuck about…give a fuck about you! They don’t care about you at all, at all, at all.

And nobody seems to notice, nobody seems to care.

That’s what the owners count on, the fact that Americans are and will probably remain willfully ignorant of the big red, white, and blue dick that’s being jammed up their assholes everyday. Because the owners of this country know the truth, it’s called the American Dream, because you have to be asleep to believe it."


Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.

As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.

With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

-Max Ehrmann

Thursday, June 11, 2009

Theory of the Leisure Class

Thorsten Veblen had one, but I think I prefer the Richard Yates/Sam Mendes variation.
It starts with a dance:

“What do you do?”

“I’m a longshoreman.”

“No, I mean really.”

“I mean really, too.”

“Starting Monday, though, I’ve got a better job. Night cashier in the cafeteria.”

“Well, but I don’t mean things like that. I mean, what are you interested in?”

“Honey─” (And he was still young enough so that the audacity of saying “Honey” on such short acquaintance made him blush) “─Honey, if I had the answer to that one, I bet I’d bore us both to death in half an hour.”

I moves to a fight:

"So now I'm crazy because I don't love you, right? Is that the point?"
"No! Wrong! You're not crazy, and you do love me. That's the point, April."
"But I don't. I hate you. You were just some boy who made me laugh at a party once, and now I loathe the sight of you. In fact, if you come any closer, if you touch me or anything, I think I'll scream."

"Oh, come on, stop this April."
[He touches her for an instant and she screams at the top of her lungs before walking away. He chases after her]
"Fuck you, April! Fuck you and all your hateful, goddamn - "
[He breaks a chair against a wall]
"What are you going to do now? Are you going to hit me? To show me how much you love me?
"Don't worry, I can't be bothered! You're not worth the trouble it would take to hit you! You're not worth the powder it would take to blow you up. You are an empty, empty, hollow shell of a woman. I mean, what the hell are you doing in my house if you hate me so much? Why the hell are you married to me? What the hell are you doing carrying my child? I mean, why didn't you just get rid of it when you had the chance? Because listen to me, listen to me, I got news for you - I wish to God that you had!"

You did it to yourself, man, you should have gone to Paris. "It takes backbone to lead the life you want, Frank."

Sam, Mendes, you are a god at capturing the hopeless emptiness of suburbia.

"Hopeless emptiness. Now you've said it. Plenty of people are onto the emptiness, but it takes real guts to see the hopelessness."

Remember this little gem?

My hat goes off to you Mendes

-Bohemian Dandy

Tuesday, June 2, 2009

Life in the Fourth Dimension

Everything is happening all at once. I am me, and I am me, and I am a million different me's, simultaneously, living the same life through different eyes. I want everything in life, and that's a contradiction. Life through paradox is the only way I know how. I am Dorian Gray in Bohemia, a vagabond with a top hat; I am me, and I am me, and I am a million different me's, all circumventing an esoteric core.

"Where are you going?" "What are you doing with your life?" "Choose a life, one life, and live it until your last breath escapes you." I refuse. There is too much to experience and so little time. To live this life right, to see and do everything you can possibly do, you have to be more than one person. I reject singularity, I reject linearity. I am the epicenter from which a million different me's are sprouting. I am the Bohemian, the Dandy, the Rockstar, the Romantic, the Rebel, the Philosopher; I am me, and I am me, and I am a million different me's. Together, I'll live life to the fullest, like people only dream. Stay with me, as I venture down the rabbit hole.

-Bohemian Dandy

"There is no future. There is no past. Do you see? Time is simultaneous, an intricately structured jewel that humans insist on viewing one edge at a time, when the whole design is visible in every facet." - Dr. Manhattan


A boy born from far beyond,
betwixt Bohemia and Babylon,
A binary brother of both bombast and brevity
a bipolar being both beatnik and dandy
a bachelor of badinage,
A bastion of bedlam,
A bacchanal of Bordeaux and bourbon
Currently bridled, but bound to burgeon
A believer in things both classic and beautiful
Bound with every breath to a life bountiful
A beacon of light in this bourgeois banality
Bonjour my brethren,
-Bohemian Dandy