Archive for August, 2008


Posted in Social Studies on August 27, 2008 by polarbearface

FUCK YOU AUSTIN: No ID, No Hand jobs.
That’s the rule.

In the last week, I’ve almost been hit by 4 different jackass assjackles. Why? Well, since the summer let up, the massive university that consumes Austin Texas, just became re-activated. Like a smelly switch in the dark, thousands of dick sticks are waiting for free handouts, beer, booze, and candid, yet tormenting nights full of Dave Matthews make out sessions.

As the big white trucks passes me blaring the hit song from 1998, “Satellite”, I am trying day and night, to stay alive on the road, while these bizarro-people maneauver the streets in their impossibly huge all-terrain vehicles. HOWEVER To be fair, they have some pretty interesting rides. And I do commend them for their efforts:

Moreover: there’s nothing wrong w/owning a large cock truck as long as you signal before turning or running over motorcyclists.

Okay Alright, I’ve said my peace. Hopefully I don’t die before I become famous. Because that would be rather counter-productive to my plans of having super children of whom will be trained to ride iron motor horses, own engraved six-shooters with the names of their lovely wives, and essentially reinvent the west, just as their dear father would have wanted; moving on…


Word of advice for anyone trying to work 3 jobs simultaneously: Do Not Attept: Unless you are absolutely willing to suffer the consequences.

Yes, it’s true, every day is full of work, work, and then working on the bottle. It’s only temporary, but every day I feel a little more like my father, sans confusing boy-children with weird prepubescent habits. When I’m not working on the other jobs, I’m working on the real day job: being a musical genius. It’s not often that I will admit such lies, but I think our band’s music has a good chance; more on that some other time:

This piece of art can be found in the men’s
bathroom facilities at the Hole in the Wall, in Austin, TX.

Alright…alright —- If you do attempt to have serious multi-functional work schedules, make sure that you have proper time management skills, and by that I mean, it is absolutely beyond important to make time for the intake of mind-altering substances, on a monthly if not bi-weekly basis. It is scientifically proven that by doing this, you in turn help configure your brain to the massive amount of information going in and out, by which you then begin to create a world of interesting ups and downs, that will surely help any struggling artist overcome his/her fear of being an actual artist in one of the worst economies of our time. Being said, I have a green and red date in 2 weeks (serious inquiries only).



Dream Tea

Posted in Dreams on August 19, 2008 by polarbearface

Late Payments and the After Life Specials

I’d prefer to be finicky whilst going over and over in my head, the reality of the situation concerning last night’s dreams. There was death, love, anger, passion, cold, hot, paint, dad, and physical exertion. I have no psychic energy left today, and the August heat fever that runs deep into my brain stem is due for a break: much akin to the snapping sound of a bright green broccoli stock.

Is More Is Better!?

In this dream, there was a procession for the recently deceased: grandmother/son, both casualties of social warfare, being carried off in their respective coffin units by dear and at the time, fascinated loved ones. While walking away from it all, there was someone by my side, a red affair of the past, vibrant and caustic energy, the kind that bounces or turns into a fine crimson mist, the exact kind you would find in the deep boiling heart of a midday summer. This someone, was close, available, and full of a mysterious chance by which I could not ever fully gather, but that she did in fact, have a sort of motherly chance that bestows great curiosity within the nature of my heart.

Day Care 1984

As we walked outside into the sort pale gray light that only French and/or British people can understand, the green tubular legs of a gigantic elevated train system consumed us both in shadows, almost as dark as night. It was here, where I decided that being frantically emotional was a good way to start a conversation. And it was here, where the line of the dream suddenly became — awkward, and then, out of absolutely no coercing on my part – reversed itself. If not a wild tangent of the subconscious, then I don’t know what it was; perhaps, it’s my conscious way of saying to myself that the emotionally psychotic episode didn’t happen, and that I imagined it so, within the imagination of my dream. In either case, this particular reverie was entitled to some blustering explanation.

Beethoven’s 9th.

After this weird sort of dream-rejection, my brain was then sent back to right before my chaotic and emotionally charged outburst, and then chose a different setting, one of the blue sun, flashing slightly, and lightly upon the nape of my neck, a warm curling sensation that could just well have been a moment covered in cold feathers. I was then suspended by the magical puppetry of the dreamworld.

Alas, all was good, all was okay, the night and the day, remained unobstructed by the self-defeating turmoil that plagues even the greatest of human dreamers.

“It was at this point, that I realized, my friends were not really who they claimed to be…”

Soon, before and after a black flash, I somehow found myself driving alongside my father in a truck, in Houston, TX 1983. It was likely that I, nor my father, had really aged from our current ages, and we were frustrated because the color was all off, and everything looked like a spotty polaroid photograph. Again, the crimson haze that seemed to cover everything in the late 70’s and early 80’s was indeed driving both of us insane. And it was at this point, that in the corner of my eye, I saw myself painting a huge graffiti mural of a black bunny with 10-year old girl arms protruding from the ribcage of this mystical creature. While I was dumbfounded and concerned for my safety, my father began to scream wildly at Me, the delinquent, and I was somehow more worried about where I would end up in the moment, than the fact that the cosmic operations of the dream implied that I was in fact, a twin.

Note: In the dream world, you may teleport to wherever you want, and this can be done voluntarily or involuntarily (mostly it’s the latter).

When I came to, I was suddenly and fantastically engaged in an uphill struggle during a light summer rain, carrying a huge, matte black wardrobe, which caused me great strife what with all of the splinters. To my right, was a good friend of mine, who was also carrying a wardrobe, though made of some kind of oak, mahogany, some heavy type of wood found only in the homes of people that perhaps make 80K a year and enjoy owning real assets (not that he is this way at all, and on behalf of my subconscious, I would like to add that he is indeed a stand up, stalwart fellow, who should be knighted for his excellence in his quotidian activities).


It was at this moment, where I could no longer carry this huge, ridiculous burden uphill, and decided that it was in my best interest to toss this useless piece of furniture off the side of the hill (suddenly there was a side and I noted that it was time to move on); my long time friend and then-dream associate, concluded that what I had just done, was in fact a mysterious blunder, but not that serious. In the process, I broke my already broke sunglasses. This angered me, deeply, because they were only previously broken at one of the arms (which could have been fixed); but now, they were broken in half. Fully, and excitedly, I managed to wake up to the sound of a blaring alarm clock radio. It was grey outside, and my room felt like the shell of a long ghost. If you can understand what that means, then I commend you.


Posted in Ennui on August 3, 2008 by polarbearface

This isn’t real. This isn’t real. This isn’t real…

I have a few questions for myself: Why. Would. You. Drop/Drugs. At 4am? Why? Who does that? I don’t know. There were so many reasons why I talked myself into doing this, that I realized, I am THAT GUY. “Hey, let’s be rockstars, and fuckin’ drop some DRUGS!” Perhaps the best part of it all has to do with the fact that I don’t do drugs. Like I had something to prove? Like I have something to give!?

Life Decisions 2008

Anyhow. After about 1 homemade pancake, 2 cups of coffee, 40-minute east Texas yearbook explorations and introspective thoughts as to why I should have grown up in either east Texas or Queens, like all of the other really wonderful people in my life, and a bike ride home that I will not soon forget, I feel substantial, relieved, and totally subconscious.

September 11th.

As I write this now, I am still pretty much aware that dropping 15-year old drugs at 4am while talking about how rockstar it is to be sooooo clueless yet sooo completely approachable; filled with adult beverages and memories that confuse even me; is all some hoax to get me out of doing my daily routine and fulfilling my civil responsibilities. I am left with one 2-part question: “How can I make this day, the weirdest day of my life; and if it came in musical format (which it does), what would it sound like?”