South American Chonicles: Being Bold

So here I am at the airport in Santiago, looking grizzly and feeling like death. I had gone way too hard in the proverbial paint over the course of the last few days and my body was hating me for it. I was just glad to have somehow managed to hang on to my passport through the whirlwind of booze and bars that I had saturated myself with over the past 48. I considered hitting the airport bar, and after a moment’s deliberation, I did. Bourbon please & touch of cola, I told him. He delivered. Money spent. Drink imbibed. Moving on. I said Goodbye to Tom Flynn at Gate 17 and made my way to the east wing of the building. And then, slam. There she is. Gearing up to check people in during pre-board. She’s drop dead stunning, perennial mountain stream beautiful, with twilight hair and sandy freckles. Full-bodied voluptuous, sporting the LAN Chile get up like a runway model on stewardess catalogue front cover parade. There was no way I wasn’t going to take some sort of shot at her. No way. I needed a moment to collect myself. I wouldn’t need to board for half an hour. I stumbled back to the bar. I’ll take another, sir. # 2: Imbibed. Feeling good, feeling bold. Was this the same woman whom I’d seen on my flight down? Had to be. She’d been working behind the rent-a-car counter as a liaison for the airport. But hell, that was three months ago. One more, please. I get to thinking, Hell, I could probably stay down here a few more days. It’s not like I have plans for when I get home. I mean there is a someone but she’s probably taken half the town to bed by now. Oh wait, she has. Because she told me she has. On the phone. Yesterday. Fuck. I hate whores. Moving on. I need flowers, a bear, anything. Something to pass off to this beautiful woman before I board that god forsaken plane that is going to drop me back in to a shitstorm I have seemingly transcended over the last couple of months. I find some complimentary candies and wrap them up as nicely as I can, with a note that has my contact information and the following message: “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.” I'm such a creep. But who gives. Time to be bold & here goes, Calling Group C now - -Moving forward.  Four away, now three, two away, Balls. I am next. Hi... this is for you I say – smiling genuinely, passing the note and candy off with collected ease. And Holy Mother. Her lips turn up in to a warm and loving smile, whispering how sweet to me. It all happens in the flash of a second. I am going ape shit. I walk down the switchback handicap ramp, turning up to look at her as I board the plane. A wave and a smile are there waiting for me. Victory, Churchill. Victory. When I get home some days later, I've got one of these 21^st century  love letters from her in my inbox. Storal of the mory: Be Bold. 

Bobby Darin - Mack The Knife 

Wed-nes-day?

Always had a hard time spelling Wednesday in my earlier elementary years. No biggie.

Golden Cage (Fred Falke Remix) *AWT

The Rolling Stones - Wild Horses

If You Love Me - BB King &Van Morrison

Garth Brooks - More Than A Memory

Carl Harding (D): Potter County

Standing in the Redford Conference Room at City Hall, Carl Harding thought quietly to himself: Not bad for a kid from Oyster Bay.  He was awaiting the outcome of the election, hand-in-hand with his wife, while scanning the room of constituents before him. His wife’s expression spoke confidently about her feelings on the matter. Addressing the Chrystal meth problem earlier that year had been a tactful public relations move, resulting in unwavering support from the community. His leadership on the case had earned him a reputation as a pragmatic and resourceful trial lawyer, something of a rarity in Potter County. His presence during the initial trial hearings had shown not only a strong vitality, but also an inclination for sensing when the truth was being told and when it wasn’t. He could see the quivering lip of a dishonest man on the stand just as easily as he could sense the truth in the tone of another’s voice. His profession was his identity, and he was one of the finest.

A young clerk brought him a delicately wrapped Remy Martin as he pulled a JL Salazar cigar from his suit pocket, placing it casually in to his mouth. He chose not to light it, knowing that it would breathe best once the results weren’t just statistical projections. He had been the odds-on favorite for the office of District Attorney during the majority of his campaign, even as a New York born Democrat. He stood calmly, trying not to shuffle in his Georgio Brutini’s as a string of local auto commercials made an obnoxious fuss on the television. The results were moments away from being announced over the air. He thought about his time at Denison and the foolishness that had consumed most of his undergraduate studies. He recalled the cavernous apartment in rural North Carolina, and the work he had done for the Outer Banks Monitor. He thought about the exhausting hours on the 2nd floor of the legal library at the University of Houston, and the massive volumes of terminology and court cases he had absorbed during those two short years. He remembered the time he had spent as a law clerk for a lawyer who was later convicted of embezzling money. He thought about the move to Amarillo and how the opportunity, while it had seemed bleak at first, had given him a home and a job as an Assistant District Attorney. It had also led him to his wife, whom had not only been a voice of support, but also rounded the image of his campaign. No, he thought, Not bad for a kid from Oyster Bay at all. As the county commissioner had the results placed before him by a floor member of the KAMM news team, Carl took note of all the people in the room, deciding that it would be most practical to begin thanking people in the left wing for their continuous support and belief in him. This was just the beginning, he thought. He had a skill, a profession, a passion, a wife who believed in him, and an image that was regarded highly by the voting public. He had what it took and he knew it. The commissioner congratulated both parties on their impressively put together campaigns and proceeded with the announcement. Both his name and that of his opposition were emboldened in the upper right corner of the television set. And as the commissioner’s expression shifted, the results were read aloud over the KAMM airwaves. Carl lit his Salazar and took down the Remy Martin. Anything, he thought. Anything. Anything to help numb him to this new wound, as Mike Martin (51% Winner) -----Carl Harding (49%) flickered endlessly upon the screen. 

Bob Schneider - Let The Light In

Foo Fighters - Walking After You

Sun Kil Moon -Glenn Tipton

Western Alchemy

This video knocked me out cold today. Haven't stopped watching & listening. Nothing better than the American West, the road and a little Van...

Even my best friends, Even my best friends;
They don't know
And I'm searching for, searching for
The Philosopher's Stone.

Thermodynamite and the Human Circuitry of Inspiration

Guest post from Seth Morgan, via South America:


"There are infinite means and methods, but with the best in every field energy is the constant."           - Henry Rollins

The first law of thermodynamics states that energy can neither be created nor destroyed, but only transformed from one state to another.  While this idea is typically applied to things like friction, heat transfer, and other scientific stuff I won't claim to be knowledgeable of, I started thinking about it with regards to creativity.  Since energy and matter can't be created or destroyed, maybe ideas work the same way.  There must be a finite amount of energy in the world and we can only take in so much before we send it back out into the world.  Sometimes it goes out unchanged from its previous state.  Other times it is transformed into a state not yet seen before.  Maybe thats what it means to be creative.  People of ingenuity aren't those that create new things, but rather those that take what is already there and present it in an entirely new way.

I used to think of human creation as an upside down pyramid.  There was a small base of information from which all ideas had come from, with people using the ideas before them to create new ones, expanding each level upwards and outwards.  I don't really view it like that anymore.  Instead, it seems more like a circuit.  There is a predetermined amount of energy cycling through humanity and we merely take this energy and transform it into something new.  We are but transformers on the great circuit of human ingenuity with the input being "inspiration" and the output being "art/philosophy/literature/etc..."  The poet takes in experience and transforms it into lyrics.  The musician takes in all he's listened to in the past and transforms it into his own sound.  All using ideas people have seen before and understand,  but presenting them in a new way

In keeping with the piece, I dont think my ideas are exactly new and I'm geussing some philosopher has said this much more eloquently than I have.  However, by actively putting something back into the world, I stand a better chance of influencing something in some way, as opposed to if I merely left them in my head.  I think what I really want to say is this:  Be greedy about energy.  Watch movies.  Listen to music. Read books.  Take in as much as you can but don't waste it.  One way or another that force is going back out into the world.  Why not send it back out different from the way it came in?  Give, do, move, transform.  Be active with your place in the circuit.

JAMES BLAKE - The Wilhelm Scream by Mat Gallet James Blake- The Wilhelm Scream

My Own Sinking Ship by Bill Silva Entertainment The Good Old War- My Own Sinking Ship

The Ephemeral Bluebell (V(eye)BES Remix) by V(eye)BES Bibio-The Ephemeral Bluebell; couldn't find the original so here's the next best thing