Trampoline Breath

Les Gens Démoniaques Décadents

polarbearface — Wed, 14 Mar 2012 17:07:04 +0000

I love my neighborhood: close friends, wonderful street, great community, a track near the house…. Life is good. I even live within walking distance to some bodacious bodegas + food spots. Life’s going pretty good in the hood.

Until 4 am rolls around, and I am awoken by the slobbering drunken banter of loud, obnoxious, “students” that live 2 doors down from me. And you know what I’M not getting old. It’s fucking Tuesday. I can’t explain to you the imagery that floods my head when abruptly awoken at that hour.

Most likely aged from 21-23, creative and somewhat educated, I assume they are aware of the basic concepts of sound-travel. For god-sakes, I’ve seen them in daylight. I’ve looked into their ironic eyes….

And they make me want to go out and shop exclusively at places like Old Navy. And come home and punch their house in the face.

While I would definitely like to order a Police Squad to educate them with a stern talking to, la police in this town can be suspiciously S-L-O-W at comprehending even their own job specifications. Trust me, this has happened once before in a story I shan’t go into detail here.

And you know, as neighbors, we dress similar, drink Lonestar, probably listen to the same music, and for all intensive purposes, are fairly similar folks.

But all of this changes when it’s 4:03 in the morning, and these volcano voices are pumping through the night, yelling, laughing, and speaking the mischievous language of bearded rapscallions.

Above all of this prickly blog-boner-talk, there is something else: I think someone, somewhere once statistically proved that most drunk-driving accidents occur in the early hours of the morning.

And this is where sarcasm turns into realistic consequence. What a terrible way to end a night of fun at your college-buddy’s sweet ass east-side backyard chimenea-pit, only to be pulled over by a rookie cop with a fistfull of handcuffs. OMG whatever

Ok…perhaps I should go over to the neighbors and just talk it out like a real person does. Act like a responsible, on-time-bill-paying adult. I think in the long run, that’s what future me would want present me to do.

Or…or — I could just follow them around wearing a disgusting bear suit, covered in what would look like several pints of coagulated blood. Haunt the hell out of them. HAUNT THEM IRL.

Kang! Boom

polarbearface — Mon, 12 Mar 2012 17:48:42 +0000

“Afrigggan Mainnaizzzze”

Oh SX’s in full effect. I haven’t seen Thom Yorke, The BOUSSE, or Charlie Sheen. Swag. But I’m thinking them crackerbarrels are gonna be drenching the streets with their golden bullshit. Swag. Woop. And I’m really wondering how that Amoda Laptop battle went…Woop. Swag. SwaG.

Upon walking up to the ATM yesterday, I noticed that someone forgot to collect their withdrawal receipt. Just for chips and pickles, I picked it up and looked at the balance. At first I thought, whay-whut? But yeah, there it was…a balance of $386,439. Withdrawal: $500. The maximum amount. I kept thinking, here I am, with an account that will probably NEVER see that kind of money.

Blood of the Young Zine

This summer, we’re going to Yellowstone National Park. Although I don’t own a toppola for my Saab 900s, I think we’ll nonetheless be able to manage some serious camping. You know, I’ve looked at those toppola’s and they cost more than what I paid for both of my Saabs together. Big bucks.com

I was talking with my drummer the other day, and he mentioned that I should indeed come hither to his fantastic domicile, located in the Texan hill country, and to bring some guns. I think that could be really enjoyable, seeing as indoor shooting ranges are really well…boring.

I haven’t had any scotch in probably a couple of months, but that’s ok. Because the gods have graced me with a sexified bottle of J&B in place of fine, single malt scotch. This forever reminds me of just a few months back when ye gods…my lady and I accidentally — and on a Sunday night at that — got TRASHED off of bottle of Bowmore. WHY? Why? I don’t know… Too. Much. Fun.

AWWWW C’MON!

I’m listening to Skrillex right now. Shutup. I’ve never really “listened” to him. I remember going to Weight in early 2008. I actually have to say, it was enjoyable. At times. Other times, I felt like I was in an underwater innertube-wind-tunnel. I always liked Bob Grommit. Also, I’m like, dude Skrillex, dude — ok you got some moves. BUT THESE GUYS GOT YOU BEAT.

Man I’m so hungry…And all I can think about is this avocado with a delicious poached egg inside of it. I’ve never thought to make this… I love both of these things, and for some reason they’ve never come together in my head. Until now.

Things Organized Neatly

A part of me is very happy that it’s raining/rainy for this year’s SX. I have to say, it kind of softens the blow of a massive media-hungry populace. Moreover, now would be the best time for a zombie-attack. JUST SAYING.

The Moon Is A Lightbulb Breaking

polarbearface — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 23:24:27 +0000

“Well, I try not to think about the general public since I have no idea what the general public is and I don’t think anybody does.” — Elliott Smith

I lived in a little town in northern France for what seemed like a long fucking time. I remember feeling distant and weird, strange enough to be the kind of person to play an acoustic guitar on a telephone. It was all before I realized alcohol was much easier.

I remember sitting at a little window that looked out onto an extremely boring parking lot. That was my view. I lived in France and that was my view: a boring parking lot next to a fence. I would sit at this window and eat the worst food, staring into the ground wishing it would die.

When I was younger I’d given myself so many ridiculous home-made tattoos. I don’t know, I really liked the way they looked. I was for a while, the only 12 year old with a tattoo. It was just an X that looked like a cross. Or maybe it was a cross. But I eventually changed it into what I’ve called it since I was a teen, Tie-Fighter-Bat.

“Irony’s a baby.”

On those foresty northern nights, I would go to sleep listening to Elliott Smith’s 2nd Opus. It was so eerily accurate, in that I would find myself trailing the ends of Yugo’s and old itty-bitty Renaults in between the cobble-stone nightmares that were the streets of Compiègne, FR.

I really was walking out into the darkness, high off the moon, and troubled by open skies. I’d try to make sense of the river between the past and the future, and all I would end up with was a magical still. I’d come apart at the parting of a path — between the stupid kids and the professional buildings.

I’d curl up like a cartoon, and think about war. I’d think about the strange colors or the Egyptians. I’d think about Joan D’Arc; I think about peace. I’d ride my bent bike up and down the sky-line, getting smoked by buses and cars alike. I was of course on the wrong side of the road.

So, so so. It was a long time ago, and I still gotta lotta places to see, work to do. You know. I know.

Grey Eyes On Four Velvets

polarbearface — Wed, 07 Mar 2012 19:12:04 +0000

“Change is the essential process of all existence.” - SPOCK, Star Trek: The Original Series, “Let That Be Your Last Battlefield”

Another day, another dinner. Another year, another SXSW. Austin is far past its prepubescent age, and now finally skimming past the cusp of a bitchy 21 year-old. Yet it has decades to go before it becomes the hardened diamond dump that is a Big Bad City.

But when something as murky and dense as an international festival pee-dances to your doorstep, you’re going to get a lot more than you asked for… And by that, I mean: overly saturated and played out free festival garbage, cocky a-holes with bare-knuckled brains; barf, pizza barf, taco grease, sweaty gropings, wacky car-burgling, wasted conversation, and over-the-top carnival-esque street acts. It’s going to be yet another riotous year.

“Do not pray for an easy life, pray for the strength to endure a difficult one.” — Bruce Lee

Alas, I miss the magic of cultural mystery. I miss traveling and seeing the world. I miss the world back when it was prone to actual talent… Meow it seems like the world is going through this weird, alarming cataclysmic time, where every other path becomes unlawful and unjust. It feels like we’re going back, undoing ourselves.

Off topic: so the misses and I have nearly finished setting up our studio space/office. It’s looking great so far! I’ve even got the old Quiet Deluxe in the middle of my desk, with a stack of fresh paper. I’m thinking — horror/mystery with a touch of mid-century style. I dunno, something gross and dangerous. Something with a bottle of J&B in every other chapter.

“Oh…I borrowed your razor…and, well…” – Dressed to Kill (1980)

It was 1991 and I was writing (on an electric typewriter nonetheless) about Lincoln’s assassination when I was suddenly sucked into this classy TV-edited film. I found it absolutely riveting. While I’d been used to the usual slasher film, this was different — this was ART. It’s led me to believe that I will always endear vintage horror films rather than the over-the-top CGI gore-porn shit that is pumped into the American youth these days. Submerging myself into classic Italian Giallo’s has proved just that.

“We all have such fateful objects – it may be a recurrent landscape, a number in another – carefully chosen by the gods to attract events of special significance for us…” – Vladimir Nabokav, Lolita (1955)

I love when people fly into Austin in the middle of March, and think it’s the most magical, beautiful place they’ve ever seen south of the Mason-Dixon (2,271 kilometers southwest from Latitude:N 39° 43′ 29.5707″ Longitude:W 80° 7′ 10.2521″ Latitude:N 39° 43.492845′

Longitude:W 80° 7.170868′ Latitude:39.724880753233414° Longitude:-80.11951446533203°, for our international folks). I doubt that enthusiasm will be as glorious from July – September, when the last goddam thing you want to hear about is how great Austin is…

As a closing statement — in many ways, the picture above is an accurate illustration of what happens to people when they experience too many South By’s. They turn into reclusive, home-bodies that want next to nothing to do with international diseases, such as grizzly bears.

Paese Dei Morti Viventi

polarbearface — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 19:10:59 +0000

Time travel is a serious matter, and should be taken seriously, when considering the unfolding of future events — which of course contain a blotted stamp of events passed. No, time travel isn’t “impossible”, it’s just ferociously improbable.

“I’m not crazy, you’re crazy.”

Lately, I’ve been entranced by America’s deepest dark eyes; America’s faintly fears; and America’s most troublesome predator: the Serial Killer. So many questions arise, so many labyrinthian avenues of thought and questioning coalesce like swampy Spanish moss…This time, I am the detective.

“”Hissing for the girls to follow me, I started up the driveway and rounded the turn to the house.” – Charles “Tex” Watson on the Tate killings.

I think of all of the things I’ve read, the Manson Family murders were the worst. I don’t know how to describe the feeling of reading Watson’s atrocious interaction with the greasy evil inside him…it’s too weird, it’s too inhuman and smells of acrid horror. This series of murders are the most inhuman to me…

And in the end, I come to this conclusion: In this world, there are people that do unspeakably terrible things…and they are among us!; and just as real as the banister upon which you are leaning. It’s a weird reminder that the fatal possibilities in this world are eerily endless.

I want to think that inside of that ball of hatred that exists deep within these killer-types, that somehow it could be changed, and pounded into something beyond evil. But to think that — to believe that rather, paints me as a naive ponderer, someone who knows not the ways of a blood-soaked werewolf.

You can’t go back and change what has happened. That’s where I was trying to go with all of this. You cannot undo that which has already been done. And you know what — I doubt that those thoughts go through the tormented heads of these walking nightmare-people. If such thoughts do exist, it’s well after the fact. And after the act.

At the end of the day, it’s odd to read the words of a killer, or listen to them even. In some cases, their words come across as weirdly apologetic, clueless, and proselytizing — as if we too, could make sense of their twisted spiritual path — their lonely quarrels with god’s unpredictable angels of the earth.