Looking down from a plane

Looking down we appear no more than lights and roads and fields. Toiling for the necessities of life, and for the motions of what is done. Why so we do what we do; to perpetuate itself? That seems a poor reason to do anything. Looking down from a plane is no the best thing one can do for one’s ego!
If we’re all Turing Machines, what does emotion serve as a modifier of states? It seems that they would have to serve some purpose. If we are made angry, and we vent this anger by yelling, hitting, screaming, profanities… is this to get rid of anger through our modification of the environs outside of us? Or perhaps is it a simple means of getting rid of energy to even us out on the inside? Profilers seem adapt at analyzing what drives us, so we can’t all be unique free wills with magical flights of fancy and wonder floating through us. But then, too, I don’t think we’re just a bunch of complicated pinballs careening off of light-up rubber pins. If we’re all just ‘meat’ puppets, then why is there a zeitgeist? How can the exceptional inspire or invent? Are these people just more complicated strings of 1s and 0s on a roll of ticker-tape reaching into the heavens? Or, thanks to miniaturization, a few pounds of microchips?
The exceptional are commonplace. Even 0.1% gives us over a quarter of a million distinguished folks right here in the US of A. The best we can hope for is to be one of the truly amazing. In practical terms, this means being the best you possibly can, and then having the opportunity or motivation to bring that goodness fully to the world.
I’m living life a little cheese dick here. My passions fizzle like matches, bright but limited. My mind is a glow-in-the-dark toy you get in the vending machine: not too intense, but in it for the long haul. How do I make the world a better place on my own time, with my own skills? Do I have to go around keeping kids from falling through the ice who happen to grow up to become Medal of Honor winners for saving troop transports from WWII kamikaze fighters?
I have my own beliefs which guide me, but I don’t act on them. I’m not making myself into a tool to advance my cares and loves. I don’t care enough to do so. Cheese dick.
I am pretty sure veganism (to the extent I do it) appeals to me because it’s a way of life to adhere to. I don’t adhere to god or sports or hatred of minorities (except, of course, for gypsies, pygmies, japs, gooks, towel-heads, slant-eyes, koons, fags, hippies, kanucks, Eskimos, red-skins, jocks, red-necks, factory workers, Microsoft employees, Republicans, PETA members, vegans, Catholics, Protestants, Buddhists, Muslims, Jews, wiccans, niggers, members of the Armed Forces, and bakers.) I almost included Mormons, but they actually do bug the shit out of me. As a concept that is, one-on-one I’ve never had a complaint. Magic glasses? Gospel chapters in America? It’s a fucking joke, but because of good grass-roots campaigning and a populace (humans in general) who want someone else to bear the burden of thought and judgment, they are gaining rapidly. I need to learn more, then I’d probably be less judgmental. Probably.
Man, Boston/Newton was beautiful! Charles River, the old-school buildings & churches. Damn! Even the people in general seemed more attractive! I wonder where my id and my ego split their dominion over me. It’s a conundrum, to be sure.

Newton, MA

Am I living my life correctly? My imagination soars at every glance of beauty, and yet there is none that I seek to grab hold of. Ideals, professions, women, goals. I do my best only when driven by guilt. Is that a good way to live? It worked for Lancelot, but then I’m no knight. I’d rather be chasing joy than running from sorrow.
But that’s no reason to stop running, only a reason to start chasing. My heart quickens at a sidelong glance from pretty eyes; and again when the waves lap against the sunlight. So where does my precocious heart find a ground? Wherein lies the middle path?

I’m full on bread and salad, who’s to eat my butternut squash ravioli!?! I need to make butternut squash!!! It tastes like burnt sweet cinnamon! The Mondovi Pinot Noir is excellent, too. Light in character, it has legs, and tastes of alcohol in a pleasant fashion. Not too harsh. This has been the least vegan meal I’ve had in months. Unadvertised, it came covered in cream sauce. Much like in life, we don’t get to know people from a casual conversation or a polite one. We have to order them up and nibble or feast. Afternoon in the sun, a long talk over coffee & a fire, these would be my ideal portions. Now, how does one order? From where does one find the means to look at a menu? For lust this is easy. For love or hope, this is proving to be most difficult.

“I’ll Know” – Guys & Dolls. How do Broadway musicals define me so much?
Speaking of definitions, I do realize that my utter conviction to be ‘Anthony’ and not one fo the ‘little kids’ is directly related to my urge to distinguish my internal motives. Thanks, Erin!
It is this distinguishing that makes me want to love a soul and not lust for skin and curves. But desire is desire, no? I’m an Atheist, a lover, a dreamer, and a giver. Which of these is me and which is a reaction to my environment? According to that definition, is there a me? Oh, logical imperatives! To that fate I owe my atheism! Sucks to your ass-mar, C.S. Lewis!

I wish I was beautiful. I wish I could express to all who are beautiful what I feel. And have it believed! Ay, there’s the rub. But what is beauty contained in the eyes and the hair and the light against a shimmering thigh compared to the beauty in a person’s soul? Where can we gauge compassion? A little meter over the head ala D&D? Alas, no. I guess you have to order off the menu before you realize if it’s vegan or not.
Dress it up as I do, you’d think I did not feel desire as others do. I’m its slave just as much as the next guy, but I’ve sublimated it to something romantic and ‘clean’. I know I’m doing it, and yet I feel my Hamletesque musings preferable to the “Domino Effect Effect” guy. (David Cross, my friend.) And yet I admire balls-to-the-wall heavy-handedness, simply for its honesty. Am I honest? Not yet, I think. Working on it!

Stream of Unconsciousness

For what am I doing all this? No hope for a better life through practice of happiness fulfilled. Hot red fox jumping over lazy moon. Spoon & fork accomplices. Fee Fie Fo Fum, I doubt the veganism of English Muffins. Insane ramping up of hostels on oil rigs is going to be the bane of Ted Turner's future empire. Eagles were for the Romans, who fell to the hubris of a ruler's petty & stupid sons. George Sr. still was a blow-hard. W. can go choke on an ostrich egg.

Compulsive Mary Steenburgen and her lack of torso-mounted lasers. With her on our side I'm afraid that the resistance will be slowed to a grinding halt. The gravity of the matter makes me think that the Hamburgler will never be defeated. Fortunately for hypodermic needles, I might add! Unicorns and rainbows: the only thing at place in a little girl's sandbox and The Sandbox: biggest gay club in all of Papa New Guinea.

Death is for the living, but Kool-Aid is for the Undead. Stanislavski + The Brothers Karamazov + Vodka + Yuri Gellar equals a lot of Cold War tension & method Bullshit. Method Man queries: "Who just saw some titties?" Damn straight! I did yesterday, albeit over a doctor's shoulder who made them. Made? Perhaps modified? Perhaps that as well.

Stew: It's The Country's Best Venison & Potato flavored yogurt. I never doubt the veganism of venison. Deer are chemically man-made like the Teenage Mutant Plaster Folk Musicians! I've seen Fire and I've seen Pain… I've got Georgia [the mob-controlled Russian state] on my mind. What the hell is that guy's name? John something? I'll call him Tobey - Tobey the Gut-swollen. Dudes gotta stop eating puppies. That's what Ferdinand Magellan is for. Magellan: King of Rum-soaked Rice Cakes. Forget not the power of pineapple juice in a Wop.

If I can only bench 100 lbs. does that make me less of a man? Or does it just make me a lame man? How does one measure a man? Cubits? Fathoms? By-the-pound, I'm more of a man than most biblical animals. Camels definitely not included. Damn, they're hung like camels! If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended: "You just saw some titties!" Method Man v. the Bard… unless he gets his sorcerer spells, Method Man beats the hell out of him. Is that like forgiveness if "Hell" is beaten out of you? Happiness is a warm Nun.

Would the Buddha like flan? Only Hispanic reincarnation will tell! Forensic evidence tells us that Fred Flintstone was a terrible bowler.

Damn shoes making the man! Shoes never make the man well, they always focus too much on feet and not on other important things like the head or rib marrow. Ears are on the head, and everyone knows that shoes hate ears. Why else would a kick to the head hurt so much? I think if we could solve the aural/pods conflict, Israel/Candyland/Tir na nOg peace would be close at hand. Like drinking some mouthwash after a heavy night of lantern-fuel abuse.

What the fuck is taupe? A color, or something that greeting card companies thought up to sell more cards and taupe dolls. It's like that Californication song, but about sex instead of melatonin and hubris.

I would have voted for Fievel. That motherfucker went west! Corncob pipe and a little monocle are the shit over a top-hat and cane. Put all 4 together with anthropomorphism, and soon all the Pulitzer & Nobel people are fighting over who gets to suck you off. What happened to art?

Blood soaked apricots taste like hopeful Prisoners of War. All full of optimistic sweetness and yet the smell of death hangs over them like a smog of simile.

Toothbrush, Tusk brush, Mouse Brush, Muse Brush. Koosh ball, cheese ball, please ball, police ball. No man can do for the first time what all men have done! Too much grammatical inaccuracy. Forsooth. Is that a word? Frankincense and myrrh get to be real, why not forsooth? Same thing with Narnia. No, wait. I hate poorly veiled subconscious endorsements of blind yet knowingly ignorant faith. But turning shit to stone is cool. I give it an "Elevellow". Eleven and Yellow made love, and this love made a monster. This monster now prowls the docks at night looking for vigilante justice and salted corn chips. All on the next episode of "Baywatch Nights: Shame of the Illuminati." If I was real and everything else was fake, fuck it. I'm eating Fried Ice Cream and Tequila shots at every meal.

I do not endorse endorsements.
I endorse a middle way concerning endorsements.
If GE McCokeDisney offered me money to sell my soul, I'd spend it all on hookers and cocaine. 'Cause what the hell, no soul. Myrrh has no soul. Mir doesn't either.

Carson Daly is the reason that anything is possible. He is the ultimate fake celebrity. Paris is at least hot, mean and skanky. Heck, even the hairy guy from He-Man was an early AIDS advocate. Before he became an early Mad-Cow victim.

Remember Plumpy the Plumpa Troll from Candyland? I hate that guy. But whenever I'm feeling lonely I think of how it felt to draw the card with his face on it and I know that it could be worse. Lolly the Lollipop thundercunt was almost as bad, but somehow she was above derision. What the hell? More proof that chicks have it candy-ass easy.

Tabloids steal the hearts and minds of the very weakest. The slightly wiser fall victim to Fox News and Greenpeace. And PETA and the 700 Club. At the very top of the chain are the intellectuals who read books not by Dan Brown. It can be a collection of Penthouse Forum articles as long as it wasn't by Dan Brown or his porn star moniker: Condalessa "I have sex for money" Rice.