So NASA has concluded that the white substance they’ve found on Mars must have been ice.
Okay… I’ll buy that.
What this also means is that there may be a frozen Martian in those ice chunks.
Let’s send Pauly Shore up there to dig it up. Then we can film Encino Man Two, Life on Mars.
We now officially found the presence of water — one planet over, in our own solar system — the ultimate harbinger of life. I think it’s safe to conclude that this means there are thousands and thousands of planets out there with the potential for water.
And you know what that means?
Yep, the possible existence of Annete Funicello movies on other planets.
I could go with a little Beach Blanket Bingo myself today.
There’s something I find terribly tiring and cliche about complaining about the weather, it’s so predictable in its country bumpkin way; but damn, it’s hot as a witch’s yeast infection!
It was 109 in Sherman Oaks yesterday! Almost as scorching today.
My buddy was arguing that it was only 105 yesterday. Even though it said otherwise on yahoo — as if he could somehow detect the difference of four degrees and was more of an expert than the meteorologists on the news with their Doppler gadgets and combed-over expertise!
It’s funny when stupid people think they’re smart.
There’s a guy who makes art with nothing else than a stick. Draws lines in the sand. At beaches and dry lake beds. Mind-blowing forms and shapes, giant in size.
His name is Jim Denevan.
He does it all by his eyeball. It lasts as long as the Earth lets it.
The resulting sand drawing is made entirely freehand w/ no measuring aids whatsoever. From the ground, these drawn environments are experienced as places. Places to explore and be, and to see relation and distance. For a time these tangible specific places exist in the indeterminate environment of ocean shore. From high above the marks are seen as isolated phenomena, much like clouds, rivers or buildings. Soon after Jim’s motions and marks are completed water moves over and through, leaving nothing.
It’s pretty amazing. I recommend you check out more.
Life is fluid and we better get with it…
I pound on the keyboard and squeeze the mouse like a trout to get my ideas to take shape on the screen, to illuminate the pixels like a hyper-modern love affair. Like a Welsh Pop-punk band. I want to wear shorts from Target while I denounce Capitalism like a one man dunce cap — broadcasted souls screaming through the air, choked up with myspace pages and cell phone calls — while I sit on my IKEA couch and hold a beer from Belgium, praising Individualism.
I want to breath in white noise and exhale slogans and jingles all mashed together like a trash compactor for old advertising campaigns. Where’s the beef? Man, have it your way!
It’s all mixed together like a chemical cocktail of commercialism. My shirt is from the Gap.
I want to be a modern disposable poem, made of plastic. I want to contradict myself.
A million dollar Banksy in the flesh. Art of Funny Starving.
I went to the Silver Lake Lounge the other night and had a crappy time.
Somehow it was appropriate — as if it’s not really cool to enjoy yourself anymore. They overcharged at the door and at the bar and the AC was pitiful and the bartenders surly.
It wasn’t the bands’ fault everyone was miserable. They were good. Somber. Long bangs. Bashful guitarists. Female keyboardists.
All of sudden every band has a cute chick on keys.
It was hot, like I said before, blistering hot.
The musicians kept making jokes about the heat. Jokes that weren’t helping.
It wasn’t a night for fun.
Lately, I’ve been obsessed with lately.
Always trying to take a Polaroid of the present. And there is no such thing. There’s always a delay, a ghost. Cultural Feedback. You feel it most when you least suspect. That feeling. I’ve been here before. Or, someone like me has been here before. Some other me, before me.
You get the feeling of one fluid, human emotion, transcending time, reading Richard Brautigan.
The whiskey had made us mud-puddly at the edges of our bodies and the edges of our minds.
“This is delightful,” Vida said.
Books that are over thirty years old, about the same things you’re feeling right now, remind you that there has always been one big pang and one big heartache in the world. And you realize that 5 dollar gas and George Bush doesn’t make us any more oppressed or put-upon or complicit and broken than Richard Nixon or Truman.
You realize the man on the moon does not grace his romantic charms on you and your lover alone, but upon a thousand, million, lovers, sitting in the night blossom jasmine scented porches of forever.
And you realize the ocean has always called the lost.
And it brings you a certain joy — knowing you’re not alone in your aloneness.
My mind is a very crowded place.
Packer Dulce once wrote:
A cult is started when a scientist dies…
The crowd pushes forward, up to my eyes, for a better view.
Art of Starving: Emotional Graffiti
— The heart weighs three pounds, or is that the brain?