Young practitioners being happy to infuse common sense into the chronically inficious nature of grown-ups’ fraught clutches of illogic. This is enhanced life-coping skills you may agree.
Yes, leave it to the young to mesh ancient standards of truth with modern rigor of discipline to proactively solve problems mano a braino.
Friday, September 29, 2006
Posted by LordSomber at 6:18 PM
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Friday, September 22, 2006
Kissing butt inevitably becomes a self-consuming task: Second Fiddle Frustration eats its host away, like Uroborus gulping away at its own existence.
Peripheral characters who suck the life essence off of Those Who Matter end up getting drained of their own fame-by-proxy, bystanderist gloat by the very public to whom they pander.
Injury is added to insult after Stage Door Joanie has dropped all the names... and is left holding none, with which no arms to hold...
Posted by LordSomber at 5:37 PM
Monday, September 18, 2006
Such is the natural determinism of the varieties of squalus. But does the gene predict all? Fie upon thee who claim the real is a construct. And fie upon thee who project false dichotomy upon homo sapiens. The world is not black, nor white.
Posted by LordSomber at 6:00 PM
Every town square has a rich history of being the community’s stage, soapbox, showcase and sanctuary... a veritable spectrum of municipal mores and happenstance, played out for the public to peruse.
But what of our fair town? Yes, there’s the spiffy, the scruffy, the down-to-earth, and the nutty. But for any downtown fixture that simply doodles a squiggle, thumps a paint can in a drum circle, or spouts self-centered autistic verse, the local culturati reflexively laud as benedictive artistic do-goodery. In light of this, one must take pause, look around, and genuinely suss up this ‘magical artistry that graces our streets.’
And what do we see?
Nihilistic squirmers doodling squiggles, drum circle jerks, and verbal busybodies spouting verse.
Which is nothing new. Nothing ‘magical.’ Nothing that ‘graces’ anything. Thus forcing us to redefine people’s “social schtick” in a way that may conflate the concepts of ‘local color’ and ‘village idiot’ ...demanding us to ‘call a spade a spade.’
A reliance on outward displays often betrays an inner insecurity that whines, “I’m unique -- just like everyone else!” In this case, begging for acknowledgement is tantamount to a metaphysical handout -- an ignis fatuus foisted upon passers-by; gaudy façades are the empty vessels of parched egos.
Eye contact should be avoided.
Posted by LordSomber at 5:05 PM
Friday, September 15, 2006
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
The first swing of the wrecking ball shatters the fiberglass façade of red, green and gold
chipped mortar and pulverized sheetrock
rain gravel with a dusty fog
Another swing and as much more crumbles
dozers tamp down debris in the rusted blue landbarge.
For over three decades, a bastion of guo tieh, Happy Family, and (some would say) stale fortunes. A cavernous shrine with aromas analeptic... sizzling sounds of hustle and bustle, yet allaying in its accordant ambience. Dependable with dispatch, too, as one could rely on prompt deliveries of Kung Pao standbys, General Tso’s MRE’s, and the annual Chūnjíe faux-bamboo freebie calendar -- a decorative touch for any kitchen.
Most famously perhaps, was the B-52–inspiring Flaming Volcano, a convivial adult libation known to foster musical bonds.
Such was the prime pith of Baxter Street, actualized.
But today, under the hazy late summer sun,
beyond the overgrown weeds and cracked asphalt,
a lonely demolition
subtle history passes
rubble without witness
Húnán fànguăn zŏule, wŏ hĕn nánguò...
Posted by LordSomber at 3:17 PM