Hey You Get Off My Cloud!

My pastel stinky foot breath cloud. I don't want any of you louts coming around here anymore!

Beware Of Free Stuff!

Free stuff is never really free. You may not pay for something with money but there's always strings attached. Remember that. The pushers of free stuff want your attention and affection in return. They are love hungry wolves in sheep's clothing.

In other news. Here's an mp3 of a song called 'Duermes Guapamente' I made this weekend FOR FREE!!!

In order to make this I saturated myself with that Bertolucci move 'The Dreamers' ( thanks Morgan! ) and Alice Coltrane albums ( thanks Abe! ) all day Friday and Saturday. My friend Kyle brought over a movie about bugs Saturday night. I don't remember the name exactly, it was called 'Microcosmos' or something along those lines. It was the sweetest of eye candy. Then I went to a show in Providence and flirted with dozens of cute girls, listened to some cool bands, danced like a total jerk and chatted with nearly all of my friends. Then I slept at my parent's house and when I woke up this song fell out of me. I guess I digested all the great stuff of the weekend and this is the byproduct.

Check back in a couple of weeks if you like it I have others in the same style. After I polish them to a shine they're going to be compiled into an album called 'Music For Napping With Girls'. It's part of a trilogy, along with 'Music For Yardwork With Dad', and 'Music For Vacuuming The Rug'.

Sweded Movie - 'This is Wafflehaus'

So I spent Friday and Saturday at MIT attending this years Mystery Hunt. One of the puzzles required each team to create a 'sweded' version of a movie and upload it to YouTube. If you've seen 'Please Be Kind Rewind' you know what I'm talking about. If you haven't, 'sweding' a movie is basically creating a low budget abbreviated version of a movie. My team 'Wafflehaus' was assigned 'Spinal Tap' to 'swede'. I played the role of Nigel Tufnel and I made the cardboard amplifier, the skeleton tanktop, and Def Lepard style japanese headband. It took maybe two hours to make the props, and film and edit.

I also made bogus album covers for 'Shark Sandwich', 'The Gospel According to Spinal Tap', 'Intravenus DeMilo', and 'Smell The Glove'. Unfortunately we had to cut the scene where you get to see them because we were given a four minute time limit and that scene was pretty slow.

Spinal Tap doesn't really have a strong plot so we just remade our favorite scenes. I went to the screening of the other teams movies and some of them were really fun because they could retell the plot in an ultra simplified, skeletal form. You can really be clever and have fun with that restriction. The second sweded 'Godfather' was great at this hitting ALL the essential plot points.

Anyway it was a lot of fun making this. I don't think it's entertaining to a general audience I get the feeling that the only people who will laugh at this is the people who made it and my parents, but I want to put this up here so other people don't find my dirty little YouTube secret a year from now or worse ten years from now when I'm running for mayor.

The Third Person

I've been reading a lot of fiction lately. Last night I realized how strange stories told in the third person actually are. Basically a story is being narrated by some omniscient being that can see what everyone sees and feel the emotions that all the characters and he reports these sensations to the reader in a detached 'this is how it happened sort of manner'. You're being told a story by a schizophrenic. I guess God with a capital G is a schizo.

Anyway, I just envisioned this falconer guy as being the archetypical third person. He uses the falcon to get the zoomed out everywhere at the same time sensations used to construct the story. The two are joined through a very special human-bird mind meld. The matador in the foreground is the classic first person, passionate, single-minded, and lovable.

The shirtless boy is a shirtless boy, the writer of the future. Interpreting the experiences impressed on him by his surroundings and beaming them back to the rest of humanity through his electrotactile network interface.

What Memories Are Made Of

Ahh yes the business of storing memories. We have entire industries that scrape shit out of the earth to build technology that allow us to store our personal memories. Men have made fortunes allowing the sentimental make more and better sentiment.

I'm using that technology right now. Yes, we've come a long way from chipping lines into stones to communicate the past into the future. Everybody seems to take it for granted that this is an entirely positive endeavor. But should we have all these memories stored?

There are benefits undoubtedly. But I've learned that benefits always come with unforeseen costs. The two can never be decoupled. One thing I've learned is that surrounding yourself with sentimental artifacts makes overcoming emotional trauma more difficult. The cliche movie scene of throwing the ex lover's photo into a fire illustrates this idea well.

It seems to me having these constant glimpses into the past makes it more difficult for individuals to live in the present. It makes it harder to move on from unpleasant events. I've noticed from my own experience that when I'm out in nature away from any human creation away from anything symbolic I can just be. I can turn off my memory and my imagination and I feel peaceful and accepting of whatever happens.

I wonder if the goose getting its titty honked in front of all the readers of Hairy Doodle will come back here one day and be reminded of the moment that began his downward spiral of self destruction.

Bonus question: Are the sentimental more prone to psychological problems? Is this their own doing? Can an individual change this?

MP3 For PowerPillFist

PowerPillFist: Here's a downloadable mp3 version of 'Jung Jip Jim Jeree' made fresh to order.

He Can't Know

Here's a song I made with my friend, Abe. If you like sloppy, fuzzy, weird, pop tunes you should download it. Warning: it's really fuzzy. Audio fidelity wasn't a concern.

"He Can't Know" is the song name, we called ourselves "Junk Blondes" because "Adam and Abe" and "Abe and Adam" both sound lame and lead to ego battles about whose name should come first.

And if you're curious what words I'm crooning here are the lyrics.

go inside
we can't play
momma said
we gotta go

ain't nothin' here
nothin' at all
leave us alone
we can't play

daddy's comin' soon
we gotta go
can't be here
when he gets home

oh he'll be mad
momma will cry
but he can't know
so if he asks you gotta lie

Check out Abe's blog by the way. He's like a musical Indiana Jones who graciously shares his exotic treasures.

Italo Calvino Impersonation - The Walled City

Here's my attempt at writing like Italo Calvino. Anybody who's grown up in a decaying industrial town in the Northeast should be able to understand what I'm saying. This is called the 'Walled City'.

The gate at the entrance to the city is rusted. There's a plaque that reads, 'May all those who enter find peace'. The massive stone buildings and smokestacks are withering monuments to the mountains that were leveled to construct them.

The inhabitants of this city rarely leave. They are stuck there by an attractive force that they cannot see and can barely comprehend. The young inhabitants all talk about the force and how to avoid it. They vainly search for its source. Some falsely believe it radiates from the city's center and keeps the citizens in irregular orbits, a belt of human asteroids with crossing paths that inevitably lead to violent collisions. The wisest of the city's youth know its source is unknowable just that it must be escaped.

Only a few can escape the force's pull and venture beyond the city walls. They have been fortunate to find wings tossed into the city by those who have fled it. Once they've learned how to fly they can break free from the force's pull. Some become like albatrosses, constantly in flight, fearing they might land in another walled city. Others become like swifts who only return at night to their spot in the cave, which in its perfect darkness appears to be a very accommodating home, the piles of guano, the cockroaches, and the eyeless lizards all hidden under night's twinkling blanket.

Some have given up the search for wings and burrow underground and only return to the surface out of necessity. But once they see the vacant stone buildings and the living skeletons that shuffle along the roads, they return to their private underworld, this time burrowing deeper hoping to avoid the horrors that scrape the surface. Some have dug so deep they can no longer leave the warm blackness of their dens.

Only a handful of the cheeriest inhabitants stroll the city's streets. They are ridiculed; the others believing they have not found freedom but out of desperation have learned to love their prison. They smell like barber shops, bakeries, hot spices and dry leaves. They gather together in plain sight. They pat each other on the back and ask how the other is doing. They recall their day, say prayers for the citizens alone in their dens underground, and together they radiate an opposing force which keeps them in perfect synchronized orbits, a combination of love and fear.

Ladies, Join the Resistance Against Domestication! You Deserve To!

This is my mantra:
Live wild. Live free.
Drink often. Fuck often.
Forget responsibility.

Spend! Spend! Spend!
Grease the economy's wheels.
Buy that Louis Vuitton jacket.
And another pair of high heels!

Discipline? Who needs it.
There's adventure out there.
Be a monk if you want.
Wear a robe. Cut your hair.

I want to sip Mai Tai's in Fiji.
Hell, I want to experience it all!
I went to the Riviera last year
So maybe it'll be Italy this Fall

Settle down… humph!
Go ahead! You join the townies!
I'll take nights in a big city.
You can stay at home and bake brownies.

Hey the world is crowded already
Planet Earth's future is dark.
I can't bring a new life into this
And I don't want the stretch marks.

I'll fuck my boss and my pool boy
With equal zest.
I'll match my shoes to my purse.
I'll stuff plastic into my chest.

I'll be ninety and still party.
I'll wear support hose and tube tops.
I'll mix Metamucil with Bacardi.
I'll never be a Mom to any Pops.

Bio Cam

Pretentious Art Professor: It's man's battle with his own mortality which is the mother of true artistic expression. The process of birth and death is creation. True art mirrors this natural cycle. Without mortality man is cut off from art's essence and will disappear into the mechanical logic of an indifferent clockwork universe.

Insightful Lunkhead: Yeah! Art would just be all circles and cubes and shit.

Writer Of This Nonsense: I'm ready for winter to be over so I can get out of my head and back into the world.

It's Not So Hard

You can do it while practicing but when it's time to show the town your new tricks will you choke? Don't think because we support you that you've let us down if your performance is less than perfect. Remember perfection is the enemy of the good!

Luxury-Time-Desire-Dimension

Oh the things we want! Yes we want objects that are the embodiment of other people's time. The giant emerald encrusted globe doesn't do anything useful. It wasn't anyone's labor of love. It's just a symbol of power and coercion. It's other men's focused energy, and that's the appeal. The owner of the globe can impose his will on the world of men, and yeah that's kind of sexy.

We want to be close to the people with power. Power is a shortcut to having people dependent on you in a relatively clean and simple manner, the alternative being the messy confusion of emotions and love. Power builds nations and love only tribes. You can't have a king without a crown. Walt Disney used to make movies about this sort of thing while simultaneously building his nation in a Florida swamp.

Oh It's Overwhelming

You can isolate yourself all you want. Live in your ivory tower. But are you prepared to deal with the loneliness? Are you strong enough to live convictions that no one else around you shares? Will you succumb? Go with the flow? Will you become another self medicating, comfort at any expense seeking, self destructive American slob? I sure hope not. I hope you can live your ideals and find the people who share them. They're out there somewhere.

I have noticed I lose friends once I start holding myself to a higher standard. This isn't imaginary. It's a real social dynamic. The man with the most friends is the one who is most accepting of other people's flaws and doesn't mind being dragged through the muck with them. And if you don't have your health and friends what do you have? Hmmmm tricky. How do you balance this situation?