Posted in Social Studies on October 20, 2008 by polarbearface

“Papi, why you hurt mi like dat?”

It’s been a while, a long, while, full of long, and interesting events that I can’t believe I’m about to divulge. For starters, I worked on my buddy’s truck the other day, just helpin’ a brother out. Changing some oil, etc. etc. Well, there’s this weird thing that happened when I was reading the manual to his car. I just forgot to read it. And so, in my stupidity, and in that doltish innocence that takes over as did when I was a small child helping out my dear father with his car maintenance,… eh, I sort of drained his tranmission dry of its red, globby fluid. Gasp. And then, I said, “Fuck.”


I’ve been in university for the last two months, and all I have to say is this: “Oh, the joy.” Of homework. Being a grown adult and having homework. Why didn’t I just finish this goddam undergrad when I was 21? Oh… that’s right, I was too busy working and reading Robert Jordan’s inescapable Wheel of Time series. If you’ve never been into fantasy, or have a serious problem with imagination, then this series is plainly not for you. If you want to escape the turmoil of a young life gone awry, have no need to drink heavily at the same bar, need some QT&RNR, or want to feel like you can unlock the power of the true Source (WOT reference, you’ll get it when you read it) within you, then go to your local bookstore, and pick up the first of this behemoth series, The Eye of the World. You will not be disappointed, and you very well might lose any and all of the inner agitations concerning the direction of your life.

“Drink and Ride 2008”

In other news, ever since I got a motorcycle, I haven’t really been riding my bicycle. Which I might add is a lovely number (fixed gear, sunshine yellow, easy to ride, easy to carry, easy to look at…. hard as shit to ride up hill for 6 months straight). Bah — I can get around a lot easier with this 2-wheeled motorized driving contraption. And there’s something to be said about going 93 miles an hour down a large stretch of melting pavement. And those words are: “Don’t Die.” The are simultaneously the same words that keep running through my head, every time I get on the damn thing; jaw clenched, my being in a practically horizontal position, eyes completely focused, hearing nothing but the booming wind and hammering clout of steel pistons. Manly madness… and all the while, my bikes screams to me, Yes! No more bicycle riding 39 miles a day in the heat of a hot Texan day. However, I can also hear the thoughts of my fellow man-pears, “Douche with a motorcycle, a loud, blatantly obvious metaphor for his lacking manhood, and predilections of self-importance. God. Damn I wish I had one…”


This week promises to be interesting and quite the upper because of this quality freelance job I’ve been working on since the dawn of my Austinite rebirth. Working for the man, has never been this much fun. But because I am constantly online, investing in my vehicular ineptitude, practicing my youtube watching, and studying for 5 hours out of the day, I’ve just not had it in me to write…and I owe my dear imprisoned cousin about 5 past due letters.



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?”

Writing on Scrolls

Posted in Ennui on July 7, 2008 by polarbearface

Please love me again

Dull moments.

When I change the brain chemistry of my mind, and experience a fully different reality (even if it’s for a short while), I am challenged, propositioned rather, to become aware of the love that exists between myself and others. In detail, I believe the ability to compromise the feeling with the action of love and being loved is performed solely through what can only be called the lively hood of moments passed. Or sometimes, lost. Memory of mind. Glass thoughts; a single shard that portrays itself more like a ghost of the very recently deceased painter, or musician who undertook the weight of love as a distinct function of a working reality. By which the creator proper, is still the loving, and thereby still the main focus of my attention.

You can\'t stop what\'s coming.

You cannot stop what has already come.

In these blind, and weightlessly, long nights, that seem to go nowhere and everywhere (but mostly nowhere), I find myself flying towards the bottomless light, the ending that hasn’t arrived just yet. And I wonder why not, why it hasn’t come to be, through the many dangers that I’ve lived and the many more I’ve loved. Out of all the worlds that I’ve come to know, why has my principal fate not yet been sealed? Perhaps more importantly, why do these questions still pester me without forgiveness, or pity? I must admit, many ceilings have seen my open eyes…

And then it came to me

Your Dexterity

And in these connected affirmations, it would be wildly presumptuous to recall the visions that I’ve had and labeled them as being wrought through the boisterous powers of deduction; it would be incredulous of me to place the power of belief towards the endless middle vision (thoughts that cannot be controlled, attenuated, but thoughts that come to me freely without restraint, as is when my body has made love with another), that owns and betroths me to my own ideas of what a supplicated existence should truly mean. But through these creations of the creator within me, and during those brain changing moments, my instinctual qualities are somehow memorized through the patterns of a vast layer of subsystems that my brain has been using for any number of years — because there inside of this world is an answer to every question that I’ve ever had. And it all comes down to this:

Come back home

Living and Dying. A memoir of the mouth. A series of pale diagrams that explain nothing too deep that the mind can’t follow, yet full of well composed and fully rounded questions. My middle mind sees a bowl of bent swords and pierced plates of enamored armor, all of which recall the memory of when I was truly invincible and impregnable against the normalities of this embodied life. Living and Dying: a stand that the creator makes within that given lifetime to become worth more than s/he was before their fortuitous entrance into this world of wonders.

I suppose that alongside it all, this life has been a thunderstorm of ironic and semi-calculated observations, all of which have payed tribute during these last few months. And maybe it seems as though this fate, has been sealed; and the insight of a becoming, hundred-year light, can finally fill my heart without the conflict of moral decay. It can be noted that the actions that have led me to this point, have indeed made their shapes clear to me, by which the night indeed rolls on, far into the azure mist and its deep morning secrets. Alas, I await the toppings of a sleep that must be had.

Those Were The Days

Posted in Ennui on June 27, 2008 by polarbearface

Hi, uh is, Sarita there?

Who this?

Hey! It’s me. I was thinking maybe you know, we could, go get a bite to eat
maybe check out that new Rambo mov–

– Seriously. Who this?
I know you?

It’s uh…it’s me Howarde (with an e), from two nights ago.
Do you remember, me?

Oh right. Yeah. I remember you. Hey listen…about that. The other night.
I had a lot of fun. You’re a cool guy. (Sighhh) But I just ain’t ready for this shit.
You know gettin’ serious. I’m sorry… Goodbye uh…

It’s, Howarde.

Howardde… Yeah.
..sorry, bye..


I, think
it’s over…

Ahhh.. Man, don’t worry about her… You’re a good guy.

Yeah, but I was really into her. I felt, something.

Now – now wait. You just wait, you’re an awesome guy. A fun guy!
And a damn good man. A whole lotta’ people can attest to that.
Hay. You know what?


It just so happens that while running my Bar, I run into a lotta’ ladies
looking for a good man — could maybe introduce you.

Hey, that’d be really great! Do you know anyone in mind?

I sure as hell do buddy — name’s Akiko Takahashi. She’d be just perfect for you!
Gotta a nice pair a’, you know — way up your alley man… yes sir —

– Well, I want serious relationships — no one-time thing.
I’m tired of the games..

Would I, your best buddy, ever in a million billion years,
screw you like that? C’mon, man – You’re my boy!

Thanks…man thanks.
For everything.

It’s Like, You know, a Social Thing

Posted in Social Studies on June 24, 2008 by polarbearface

Sleep it off Caruso. Sleep it off.

David, Ally and I are both disappointed in you.

Many people over the times have been confused by things they do not readily understand. When you read Proust, Nabokov, Dickens, or I don’t know, Charlotte Brontë on a cool, summer day, you might have to read through it a bit slower than say, People Magazine. Unfortunately, this is our culture. For instance, when you read Lolita, for the first time, it’s perhaps unlikely that you will completely understand ALL of the impressive literary references. These days, things have changed. And although I’m certainly no Mozart of the English language, I do know talent whence my eyes hath feast upon it. It is at this point, I would like to request a thought towards the best writers in our digital age, those of the Interwebs. (Everyone that’s anyone uses, this very specific and boring terminology.) Many people use the Internet for writing. I am one of them. And like you, who surely writes as you do breathe the fine air of this planet, I find it enchanting to throw in several of the slightest literary and newsworthy references from time to time. Or as the Franch would say, la recherche du temps en temps.

Place of Where They Make You Better

Moving on, towards the individual’s instinct to write, draw, scribble, and doodle, dare I say, is it possible, that our visual cortex has or is being reformatted to write better through the screen of a computer, rather than that of the pencil and paper? Is this one single step forward in our evolution! Are we being entirely abused by the ease of typing, word font, the fitting cliche terminology, etc. etc.? Why, I dare say we are. I wonder what human evolution has to say about this… Moreover, I wonder what Detective Caruso would say about this.

Explain this to me...

An interesting part about this blog is that after you read it, you will suddenly feel as though you’ve…done this, before. Or that you’ve, had a moment of strong coincidence… I assure you, it’s likely that this is because I’ve somehow tapped into your consciousness. Because I have an ability to see into people’s words, feel their presence, know what they’re thinking before they know I know, and how to adjust accordingly to their body temperature because that’s what I was taught… Or maybe I don’t have said, magical powers. It’s not like I’ve evolved any different from the next guy.


Papi, why u do dis to me?

You know, a lot of people have asked me this in the last 4 days: what is your blog about? Or, I love it. So, what’s it abo— Stop. Just stop. I’m going to ‘splain this to you right now. Clear this up. My blog, is about, being a 14 year old girl who just wants to fall in love all over again, and not with that ugly boy at summer camp. It’s about being a 23 year old boy, who just wants to write to no one, because he has everyone to talk to, and sing to, and be appreciated by, etc. etc.


What what, in da butt

It’s about being a 10 year old dog, plainly wondering what life is about, why his fur is falling out, why his eyes can’t see as well, and why his food tastes like cardboard. It’s about you. It’s about being together in this crazy world, together, you and me. The author and the audience. Your reaction, and my reaction to your reaction. It’s about us, and them. It’s about this:

I can’t stand how you eat. Like one of those goddam polar bears.
What’s it to you? You didn’t seem to mind when we were together.


So, just because I eat like a polar – I can’t even say it…that’s low. That’s below the belt.
It’s the truth. You’re a slob. Just look at Blinkie’s friend, hey you. Hey!
What’s your name?
“Blast Off.”
What? the fu-?
Your name Dude. Blast Off? Seriously?
“Yes, my mother was Three, Two One.”
“My father was Bomb’s Away.”

Oh my god, oh…wow. WOW.