M.T.A. Musings…

My sentiments exactly. That'll do dog, that'll do.

Today I drown in a raucous, black current of vehemence..

Apparently,there is a nuclear fallout in progress –  or perhaps that’s the fire house alarm.

Trying predicaments seem to follow me like a starved junkyard mutt.

In harsh times, such as these, I find it difficult to abstain from screeching until my eyes bleed out.

I am unable to bask in fluffy bliss on these awkwardly comfortable, turquoise, transit easy chairs.

A piggy little fellow, northwest of me, has been consistently gnawing at his nails, spitting out the earthy shards, like sunflower seeds, onto the icky floor shimmering with a natural lacquer: derived from dried out caffeinated concoctions.

He’s been going at it for the past 30 minutes without rest.

I have this primal urge to punch him square in the gullet: so that he may choke on the jagged bits of  keratin lined with fecal matter and die slowly by infection.

Hey pal. Garbage water is for stinkin’: not for drinkin’.

—

There is an inadequate mother, about 10 seats back, attempting to control her horde of whaling,whining, bastard offspring . Their piercing sobs perfectly harmonize with the obnoxious hip-hop ringtones chiming from various cellphones, nearby.

—

No sir! You may not sit next to me. Why not rest your keester on the empty seat, across the way. The open spot to my immediate left is reserved for my satchel.

Oh, and I see you have a plastic to-go container stuffed with various salad bar delights. I’d rather not inhale it’s escaping perfume, chock full of undefinable, nostril singeing aromas. No thank you.

—

Look out! He’s got a gun!

…………………………………….

Hook, line, and Kerouac…

Here’s a  ticket to the highway of less begotten knaves.

Captain Hook never understood what it was like to be a mermaid wishing upon a star for a lost boy that resembled Pinocchio.

Why else would he be so moody? Maybe it’s due to his handle bar mustache? It must make his skin crawl.

As he lies asleep, on his effeminate canopy bed, with smelly old Smee by his side; does he drift into darkened waters cornered by his past, full of nastiness and abusive pirate parents?

All he ever wanted to do was fly like Peter. Peter was the son he never had. The child he never coddled. The bee that never stung.

Now all he is left with is a Croc. A croc of a life. A croc of shit. A croc pot full of croc meat with no one to share it with but his, hardly reliable, benefactor.

The crocodile didn’t tear away his hand at the wrist; a false message spread by confused teenage warriors.

The captain sawed off his hand at a moment of weakness. A moment of desperation. A moment of clarity. A moment that would be spoken about for generations. Handed down from Native to native. Pauper to Pauper. Darling to Darling.

He created his own legacy because of a futile attempt at suicide.

A masochist at heart. A buccaneer for life.

The Doctor is in…side of you.

Treat Her Right.

Allow yourself to enter  the perverse  mind of an average, well maybe not average, but fairly run of the mill 20 something, male sex ego.

Sego.

My Sego is a relentless beast of burden that foams at the mouth after he catches a glimpse of an exposed manicured foot ( red toe nail polish always get’s me), a firm, and nearly nude, posterior that is barely covered by a thin layer of black leggings ( I am loving the new trend ladies), and lastly, without forgetting other scantily clad fashion trends: painted on, ass hugging jeans complete with  black leather boots. I would have never conceived that certain fashion quirks would awaken my stifled loins. Go figure.

Sex, fucking, fornication, bumping uglies, is all well and good. However, the anticipation before the inevitable act of coitus is worth it’s weight in adamantium <– (ex: see loser);more precious than gold. The time frame preceding the lucky woman’s examination with “Dr. Kenneth Noisewater” is enough to make both parties’ blood percolate.When all is said and done, whatever your symptoms ladies, the outcome with me, is a constant. Diagnosis: pleasure.

Foreplay is something that is often rushed through. Tsk ,Tsk, gentlemen. Yes men, I am directing this towards you now. Selfish bastards. Are we sixteen year olds, compadres? I didn’t think so. Listen, nothing snuffs out a woman’s sexual flame like awkward foreplay or lack thereof. I understand. We all are eager to shove our  throbbing “meat puppet” into her respective “meat mitten”. I mean, why keep this perfect pair separate any longer? Nonetheless, sex, lacking alluring foreplay is like devouring an oreo cookie without  pairing it with a hefty glass of 2%. Sure, you accomplished the ultimate goal; cookie consumption, but alas, you have to dunk that cookie son! You must get that shit moist and vulnerable in order to fully enjoy that precious moment; when both of you  bask in a pleasure  packed “snack time”, that is sure to accommodate her most particular, sexual appetite.

I’ll end my sexual rant with the following:

Five Absolute Foreplay Protocols(Utilize your lips)

1. Kiss her on and off for about 20 minutes. Experiment with a multitude of kissing techniques. Don’t just force your tongue down her soft gullet!

2. Trace your fingers up and down her nude body while smooching every inch of her.

3. Kiss her inner thigh, bordering her sweet spot, but do not  engage in cunnilingus just yet.

4. Don’t forget the boobies. Please guys. Most of us obsess about them on an hourly basis, yet we decide to avoid the mountains of fortitude during the act and take the level path. Be sure to kiss, caress, and suck her breasts. Plus, slightly, and I mean SLIGHTLY, nibble on the nipple. Trust me, she’ll be tantalized.

5. Finally. Engage in cunninglingus.Be gentle and do not concentrate on the bald man in the boat too much. He’s a highly sensitive fellow.

One more important point to remember: practice sexual karma. Fantastic sex relies on  pleasuring the other person and not yourself. Therefore,  be giving. Believe me, conscious reciprocation is imminent.

Note: Thanks to Hannah Miet and Mr.Condescending. You’re collective sexual musings inspired this post.

Tantric Dissidents

The scarcely lit basement has collected every insatiable bit of blind indifference for the past year.

Your  patience is wearing thin and all you can wrap your head around is the ideal. An ideal that spins, bends and collapses into itself.

So you dispell your crimson affection onto new territory.A dirty sanctuary is reached despite the distressed terrain; where one can trip over witty words and decaying sprouts of new beginnings.

The damp mud appeared to be stable enough, depending on the length of time you stood there in a reminiscent state.

You begin to sink slowly into what appears to be a welcoming smile; a distinct spark of quirky beauty that follows your lead.

Kneeling down, you extend helping hands, pentetrating the mossy clay. Molding. Modeling. Remodeling. Playing with commitment.

Sometimes it pays to get a little dirty to get ahead.

Ahead of the pack.

The brightly lit basement will collect every insatiable bit of blind hope until the next year.

Come Uppins’ with Cheer!

I feel ya Chuck.

For the past 24 hours I have looked everywhere imaginable for my wallet, which contained 200 big ones, that I happened to misplace two nights ago. Kudos to my temperament however. Typically, in unfortunate situations such as these, I would react as my former self, with inextinguishable rage. In this case, I followed the “Joe Cool” approach. There may have been a moment where I channelled Pacino…,but alas, my fury cooly subsided soon after. Now I have to stop living in denial.

Today I have come to terms with my loss and began to  put all the pieces back together one at a time [1.Replace Debit Card, 2. Replace License, 3....Replace Social Security Card* (I know, I know!)] . Truth be told, this sorry affair comes warranted by past actions.

I feel as if I may have deserved this wicked slap of karma to the face. I guess “the faits” didn’t appreciate the recent diatribe  of unsavory remarks I made towards a ” rebound brawd” via text. If I recall correctly.. ” I hope you get pregnant and fall down a flight of stairs”, was peppered somewhere within our shared sentiments. Ouch… meh, she deserved it.

“Nothing takes the taste out of peanut butter quite like unrequited love.”

- Charles Brown

On an entirely unrelated aside; Which one of you can still appreciate the simplistic yet wholesome comedy that is present in a Charlie Brown Christmas?  The sound of Snoopy falling apart with laughter fills me with infantile glee every time.

Speaking of Christmas flicks, the following are my top five:

1. A Muppets Christmas Carol ( Gonzo: “I’m here to tell the story.” Rizzo: ” And I’m here for the food.”)

2. It’s A Wonderful Life ( ” Zuzu Petals?!”)

3. Christmas Vacation ( “Hallelujah, holy shit! Where’s the Tylenol?”)

4. Jingle All The Way (“Put that cookie down!”)

5. Home Alone 2 ( Waiter: “Two scoops sir?” Kevin: ” Two? Make it three. I’m not driving”)

So how bout it? Did I go too far with my unsavory  remarks? Or, have you ever lost something valuable? And finally, and most importantly, name some of your favorite holiday epics. Come on you chumps. Don’t jerk me around here.

Omnipotent

Here is nonsense.

Senses are deceiving. If I were to rely on anything at all, it would be my gut.

The gut knows all.

If I were to tell you that what matters most in life is to smile would you reciprocate likewise?

To me justice surrounds us. We are choked by justice. Yet none of that matters to me.

I am an eternal dreamer. Dreaming about what is forever present ; chance.

Enforcing something that seems unttainable, like chance, makes life a fantastic challange.

I want to reach out between the curvatures of a rough wind and pull back an echo of my past. I would then look at several episodes and disect each one individually. I would scold my former impulses and rough house with my pre-teen ideals.

I had this reoccurring dream for the longest time: I was still attending highschool but I knew I had already graduated. All my friends were there. However, they were all taking advanced classes and I was not. I was far behind. I kept missing my 8th period history class and had multiple incompletes in my 9th period english class. In one particular reoccurrence I was the starring role in a highschool production with cast members I didn’t recognize. The director of the show was the late and great Mr.A. I was completely prepared for the role yet Mr.A kept pausing the show during  high points of my performance and gave me notes as the audience watched in complete disgust.

I’ve been boiling all of this down to a mere vapor. Inhaling the sticky mist with remorse and regurgitating the crude remains of my childhood.

There are no senses. Senses are deceiving. If I were to rely on anything at all, it would be my gut.

30,000 Should Do it.

Buck up cadet.

The important decision on what to do with the quagmire that is the “war” in Afghanistan has finally been made. After 10 meetings with his security team in the Situation Room of the White House, which took place over the past several months, Obama and his national security advisors  have decided to deploy 30,000 troops into Afghanistan. Here’s the catch: Just 18 months after their deployment, our boys will come home with bells on and our government will be handing over whatever is left of Afghanistan, and it’s people, to the Afghan government. That is only after The Taliban has been dismantled and eradicated once and for all….again.

Right-On Obama! Way to go ahead and separate yourself from many past presidents by doing something unique; taking the middle-ground approach. Let’s just hope all goes according to plan.

Unfortunately both the right and the left responded cooly to this sentient plan of action. Which is what Obama aimed to do. He wasn’t out to please either side. He took his time to deduce a military strategy  reinforced politically. As opposed to the other way around.(G.W.)

If both sides are distraught, well then, it is for good reason and it means that the president developed a great compromise. For all you history buffs out there, Henry Clay was known as “the great compromiser”. Clay is best remembered for his leadership in passing the Missouri Compromise of 1820 and the Compromise of 1850 that helped avert a civil war. He is also remembered for his famous statement “I would rather be right than President.” He was nominated for President three times, and came very close once, in 1844. Consider Obama Henry Clay the II…except for the whole black thing.

An act of war should be carried out with a healthy balance of wits and stones. And don’t concern yourself with the name calling Obama. Words will never hurt you.

Quick Note: Skip to 2:45 and observe until the scene  in the car is over. I’ll allow  Larry David to elaborate.

Bordeaux

 

Thanksgiving can go two ways. You either have an amazing time enjoying your family’s company or the misery that consumes some of your family members, exudes from their being and chokes you to an inevitable breaking point; The bloody urge to fillet your eyes out of your noggin with an electric carving knife.

My experience was the latter.

Gobble, gobble everyone.

“Please do not offer my God a peanut”

Devious Bastards.

Kudos to the titanium stomach lining of Indian-Americans. Last night was the first time I indulged in authentic Indian cuisine at a nearby eatery.  I sunk  my teeth into what could best be described as a chunky lamb chili of sorts with a coconut after taste. Rice and Garlic Naan (Indian Flat Bread) are the accouterment which typically accompany the main course. And I ate it all up with a ignorant grin on my face and washed it down with several glasses of cabernet; unaware of the unapologetic trials and tribulations my poor digestive system would come to endure.

Not an hour later,the routine act of digestion, began to ferociously take it’s toll on my wee tummy. It felt as if I was trying to metabolize fresh cement. And I’m sure you’re saying to yourselves’ ” Of course you’re going to feel like shit soon after eating Indian food. What the hell did you expect?”. Well, what I didn’t expect were hang-over like side effects as my body fought tirelessly  to rid my nervous system of the spicy evil within. I guess I’m a light weight. Cold sweats,  the shakes, gas which could annihilate a whole village of slum dog toddlers ,  and a foggy sense of self, which I’m just beginning to break out of, were some of the after effects. And all of you  thought the consequences of eating Mexican food was the utmost punishment for the digestive process.

Despite what I went through, I can honestly say that I would most definitely gorge upon Indian chow in the near future. After the first bite, my palette, for some odd reason, was indefinitely addicted to the  potpourri of spices that are infused in every Indian dish. See the trick is to mentally and physically prepare for a feast this discouraging, days in advance.

It was well worth the pain however. Besides, I can use the culture.

Hiatus

Possibly the best tag ever.

This picture was taken via my camera phone, (3.0 mega pixs!..meh not too shabby), right outside the Brooklyn Brewery I visited not  1 month ago. That was the day of my first mid-day hangover. Not recommended.

After that elongated and fuzzy outing, I came upon the signature of the one they call ( on the street), ” Horse Jesus.” This “nick name” of sorts, could possibly be one of the most intriguing and some-what humorous pairing of words I have yet to see.

Who is this “Horse Jesus”? And if you are half steed  and half messiah as you claim to be then why is the only proof of your existence  a mere mustard colored “ethnic signature”. And why scribe it  just outside of a happening hang-out?

Or perhaps you aren’t a holy pony! Perhaps you are just another trashed and trippy hipster who thought both the name and the “comic-sans-esc” quality of the tag would both confuse and captivate an audience of other trashed and trippy hipsters alike or.. OR.. those who consider myself…themselves, quasi-hipster.

The answer is out there. And so the search begins for the one they call…”Horse  Jesus.”

 

And yes, I may have recently drank too much wine.