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Dinosaur Johnson's Field Compendium for the Socio-political Demagogue [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]

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(no subject) [Jun. 25th, 2006|11:14 pm]
[Tags|, ]
[Current Location |Chicago]
[mood |Longing for the past]
[music |Neutral Milk Hotel]

Stacey and I looked at Wikipedia articles about our favorite childhood Nickelodeon shows.  We looked at Guts!, Salute Your Shorts, Are You Afraid of the Dark?, Double Dare, and many others.  I've felt this nostalgic only a few times in my life.

The word "nostalgia" comes from the Greek "nostos" meaning longing and "algos" meaning home, and thinking back to the days when I watched these shows with my brubby in the shelter of our home (when mom and dad were still, hmm, functionally numb) makes me miss my long-lost childhood and what-home-used-to-be terribly.  The music that's on isn't helping either.

Do we treat our children to this magical wonderland because we know that adulthood can't be as pure and enchanting, or do we just forget what it is to be carefree by the time we "mature"?  Politics and ethics and constant struggle for food and shelter: these are the constraints of my adult life. 

I have a cavity in my heart where playing in the woods all day used to sit.  I hope my daughter never feels the same way.

On a related note, Donkey Lips (real name: Michael Bower) is now a rapper, no joke.  ( www.myspace.com/mikeyrayrap )   He's okay.
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Crusties, gutter punks, and other single-celled organisms [Jun. 24th, 2006|01:13 am]
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[Current Location |Chicago]
[mood |Rubbed the wrong way]
[music |The Kinks, stuck in my head]

My policy when meeting new people is to give them a chance before I decide whether or not I like them- read some of the book and judge the contents with the cover.  I also try to avoid mass generalizations about types of people.  Today was no exception when I met these two crusties.

For my cleaner, less gritty friends, I refer to the "Dictionary of the Underground," which I just made up:

crusty, (n.): an individual who often enjoys punk rock and/or hardcore music, who is characterized both by excessive dirtiness and myriad facial/body piercings, and who usually engages in panhandling, train-hopping, hitchhiking, and heavy alcohol and drug use.

After talking to these kids for a few hours, mostly in intermitten spats while at work, I was really disheartened.  These kids, like most crusties, were only interested in travelling from city to city to get fucked up on a plethora of stimulants, depressants, opiates, hallucinogens, and barbituates, and they had no interest in improving anything that currently sucks.  No interest in politics, no interest in ethics, no interest in social unrest and change.

What upset me most, though, is that these kids were unabashedly racist and homophobic!  What the fuck kind of punk are you when you hate "fags" and "spics"?  What good can possibly come of such hatred?  Besides, isn't the very idea of punk- the very basis for the ENTIRE movement today- to do away with the bullshit and balderdash in American society and at large?  Aren't we working toward something better, some place where we can all live, toil, love, interact, and coexist WITHOUT hatred, violence, and bigotry?

This is not the first time I've encountered this attitude among Los Crustos either.  Many of you know that I spent a lot of time hitchhiking myself, though for different reasons than the crusties.  In my travels I met many a gutter punk, and I found their apathy and intoxicated disdain quite largely pathetic.  Disgusting, also.

This brings me to my conclusion.  I'll still give crusty gutter punks the benefit of the doubt, I'll shoot the shiznit with them, and I won't assume that they're all just lazy hobos in patches and lip-rings.  And even when I do meet kids who are like the two I met today, I'll continue to try my hardest to help them achieve something better and less hateful.

But for those unprogressive kids who call themselves "punks," and for those wayward sons and daughters who've turned their back on the world only to expect help from the hands they bite, and to the black-clad cesspools that poison our hopeful revolution with their hateful opinions and toxic bigotry, BURN IN HELL YOU GODDAMN SCUMFUCKERS!

Hugs and kisses!
Dino J
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How do we ride? Car-door side! [Jun. 23rd, 2006|12:36 am]
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[Current Location |Chicago]
[mood |Cheerfully in PAIN]
[music |Take a track stand against patriarchy- Colostomy Bag]

I started my job today at Hollywood Mirror on Belmont/Halsted. Putting aside the 30 minute ride in the rain this morning, my day was pretty flawless until this evening. My coworkers are awesome (especially L.B.), the job is easy and pays well enough, and I get to work near Stacey in a rather dashing area.

One of my coworkers named Arped got doored earlier this week and broke a finger. He and I now have something in common (other than being friends with Susan). I knew it was only a matter of time until I met head-on with an immovable car portal, and around 9:45 this evening my anticipation materialized with a giant thwack and PAIN.

Check out my tattered ass:

I feel like I've passed some kind of bikey ritual into adulthood. Also, The Richard Dean Anderson Experience is fine, after a bit of tinkering.
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Just damn. [Jun. 20th, 2006|03:18 pm]
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[Current Location |Chicago]
[mood |Outraged]
[music |the refrigerator humm]

I don't mean to trample this subject into the ground, but just after making my last post about kids (and the general state of neglect surrounding them), I saw a thing that horrified me.  Apparently, according to Stacey Marie, this isn't uncommon.  I guess my view has been pretty obscured by that rock I've been squatting under.

Thusly, I'll just let this picture say a thousand words for me:

In short, holy crap.  Are children really nothing more than pets now?  Sometimes, there aren't enough fists in the world.
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If it weren't for you meddling kids [Jun. 18th, 2006|10:13 am]
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[Current Location |Chicago]
[mood |Dejected and angry]

The El train makes me sad most times I ride it.  Several days ago I witnessed a bunch of kids coming home from summer school.  They got into a fight over "he my boyfriend, bitch," and "na-uh ho, he my fuckin' boyfriend!"  These kids were seriously no older than 12 or 13, and they genuinely wanted to kill each other.  I'm not big on authority, hell, I'm not even small on authority, but these kids could have definitely used some better parenting.  I'm not suggesting that they need discipline, but it saddens me to think that some parents don't spend any time with their children or teach their children anything about courtesy and kindness to others.

I also saw this tyrannical cunt slap her child in the face last night (again on the El).  What does this teach?  The poor little creature looked terrified, and so sad.  And what could I say?  "Hey, asshole, slapping your daughter is only making her fear and hate you.  If you want her to stop doing something, tell her it is bad and teach her why it's bad!"  No, I'm just a smelly, tattooed miscreant; I know nothing about good parenting.  Maybe it's that tattooed rogue in me that wants to grab hands that slap children, hands that think hitting is love and terror is kindness, and teach those fuckers a lesson or two.

We abuse our children, try to make them respect us through violence, we don't bother to teach them values or ethics, and we get them hooked early onto the Cathode Ray Nipple.  No goddamn wonder kids are so eager to kill each other these days.  Fuck.
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Deja vu, or "slow down time, you're outta your league" [Jun. 15th, 2006|10:18 pm]
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[Current Location |Chicago]
[mood |Ruminatin' 'bout stuff]

With the exception of my never ending aura of nostalgia, I am afflicted with only one recurring ailment in this life: deja vu.  According to my sources, who are varied and extremely well educated, deja vu roughly translates from French as "holy shit, this has happened before," or, more liberally, "haven't I done this already?".  Leave it to a well-trained throng of research-aardvarks to translate French.

Alas, all joking aside, deja vu really does seem to pop into my life a lot.  I'm not complaining, mind you, I think deja vu is hugely interesting and, if not a little disconcerting, it's pretty damn fun.  Having thought about why deja vu occurs to me so often, and what, exactly, deja vu is in the first place, I've come to a hypothetical solution which, as of now, has no defensible evidence to back it up.

In English: I have an idea about what might cause deja vu.

Now, some would say that I've been reading too much Dune lately.  I would tend to agree with them.  "Perhaps," they would continue, "you only have this idea because you've been reading Dune."  That might even be true, but I don't think that invalidates the idea itself.  So, without further impediment, my idea:

In Dune, Frank Herbert frequently discusses the idea of "genetic memory".  What he means by this is that there is inherent knowledge within each of us due to the collective memories and experiences of our ancestors.  Several of the more superhuman characters in the Dune series have the ability to recall ALL of the experiences their ancestors had in their past lives.  This is a little far-fetched, in my humble opinion, but stranger things have happened.

My point in mentioning all this is that I think there could be a subtle correlation between genetic memory and deja vu.  Why, you ask?  In my experience (and tell me if yours differs), deja vu is a feeling that something has happened before, perhaps many times.  My deja vu is particularly intense, stunningly vivid; it seems so real that it must have happened before.

But, in the tradition of rational philosophy (Socratic inquiry, etc.), I can't just assume that because something feels a certain way that it must literally be that way.  So, just because my deja vu makes me feel like things have happened before doesn't philosophically prove anything.  Why, then, does deja vu happen?  Could it be that deja vu occurs because we each have latent experiences in our "genetic memories"?  Think about it: you're walking down the street and someone says something that triggers deja vu.  Maybe at some point in the past one of your genetic ancestors was walking in a similar place and heard a similar thing, and, by entering into deja vu, your body is just "remembering" what's stored in your cells.

It's just a theory, of course, but the idea's very intriguing to me.

Then again, given an infinite universe (infinite in this sense meaning temporally unlimited, though not necessarily spatially unrestrained) , an infinite number of things can occur.  This, naturally, means that I could have lived this life several or countless times.  I've written a lot about the universe in tangible form, and I'll do my best to slap some of that shizznit on the old LJ.  But that's a discussion for another day entirely.

Sweet dreams, kids.
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Lucid dreams [Jun. 15th, 2006|01:52 pm]
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[Current Location |Chicago]
[mood |Pissed off, trudging forward]

I've been experimenting with lucid dreaming for some time now.  For those who don't know, lucid dreams are those in which you are consciously aware that you're dreaming, and as such you can control the nature of the dream.  There are a number of techniques experts suggest can help to achieve this, and although I've been pretty lax in my lucid dream exercises lately (due to some unsavory circumstances), I came close to having a lucid dream last night.  That is, I knew I was dreaming, but I couldn't quite control the dream yet.  It went a little something like this:

I was walking through an abandoned house in the middle of a dreary day.  The house was all white, every inch of it covered in and choked by vines, and had as many tiers as Escher's works.  The center of the house was very open, and as I stood there looking out a skylight, I (literally, physically) felt this tremendous sense of loneliness.  It wasn't the loneliness one feels in a mundane sense, but a loneliness tugging at the soul as if one is the last living being on any given planet- that lonely.  A wind blew through the house, rustled my hair, and then a beautiful woman and a very little boy entered the house on another level.  As I saw them walking, the woman gradually faded into nothing, while the boy, then, felt lost and lonely too.  He ran around looking for the woman, and, carelessly, came to an empty pool, teetered on the edge, and luckily, I grabbed him before he fell.  I then hoisted him up and held him close to me, while we looked for the woman together.  Eventually, she reappeared, but (and this is where it gets weird), as soon as she reappeared and thanked me for saving the little boy, the pool morphed into a vast ocean, the house a fortress, and pirates began attacking us from sturdy xebecs and hasty clippers.  Although the danger of cutlasses and flintlocks, and the booming sound of pirate cannons felt real, the little boy seemed happy to help me fight pirates, and the dream took on a game-like feel.  So he and I, backed up by our magically summoned allies, fought the pirates until all of their ships were destroyed or commandeered.  The dream ended with me hugging the boy, and then I woke.

I've had dreams that felt real before, but none as real as this one.  Sleep was never so much fun.  Night night, dreamers.
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People watching [Jun. 12th, 2006|09:39 pm]
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[Current Location |Chicago]
[mood |Thoughtful and bothered]

I began today by playing my guitar while laying on some unnaturally green grass.  Everything was going well, the day was bright and bold and beautiful, the cacaphonous twanging of too old guitar strings soothed the beast within, then the personification of everything sad in life came and sagged next to me.  I can't recall her name, but from what I could gather in between intoxicated burbles and slurs, she had just been thrashed by her husband for failing to bring in enough money from prostituting herself.  Seriously folks- damn.

I did what I could to comfort her, although this was made extremely difficult by her ceaseless groping and fondling of my tattooed parts.  I think she was subtly trying to seduce me, having not considered that I might not find her current predicament attractive.  Also, there were the track marks, bloody eye, and skeletal thin of her obviously neglected body.  I felt nothing but sorrow and pity for her, and I really wish I could've done more.  Not having a place to live myself, I couldn't offer her a room; not having any money, I couldn't give her that either.  What's more, I don't have the resources or people-power to go do battle with her husband the Puerto Rican druglord pimp.  Before I finally left with knees buckling under the pressure of not-knowing-what-to-do, I told her that in the same situation I would rather sleep on the street than go back to an abusive drug-peddling whoremonger (not exactly in those words, though).  She said that we menfolk just don't understand.  I thought I, manfolk, was honestly trying to give her helpful advice.

I guess I don't understand wanting to go back to that, or feeling like you can't escape something.  Most of my female friends are intelligent, strong anarcha-feminists whose best reaction to this situation- or any situation involving rape, sexism, abuse and violence- would be to kick the ass of this monstrous fucker.  I'm with 'em on that.  It hurts me more that this sad woman feels powerless to help herself and salvage her life from this ruinous bullshit and less that she is being abused.  It always hurts most to see people who don't believe in themselves, people who've totally hit bottom and have no confidence or courage to stand up to life's difficulties.  Then again, it must be hard to love yourself when you're made to feel worthless.

I left with a heart as heavy as her drooping drug-rag of a body.

This afternoon faded away in stark contrast to the morning's melancholy.  I sat for a long time by lake Michigan reflecting on the people I was watching.  I really enjoy watching people, with the exception, of course, of watching people do dumb things and/or hurt each other.  I especially love watching people here: cyclists, runners, rollerbladers, pedestrians, and the one insane berserker daring a dip in the lake [read: wavy icebox].  They all have their own unique cadences, accents, nuances, backgrounds, outfits: a plethora of diversity.

Some of these people come solely for leisure.  Others come to walk their companion animals, leaving brown-and-yellow placards announcing their journey to the soles of fellow passersby.  Others still come for legitimate exercise, while many come to flaunt their costly bikes and tawdry, unnecessary spandex.  It pleases me greatly to see these people all pushing themselves, striving to attain happiness, however quick and fleeting.  Seeing people compete fuels me too, and they're all competing: competing with the setting sun to enjoy the afternoon before it's too cold; competing to be the fastest, strongest, [insert superlative here]; competing with themselves for better health; competing to show off their wealth.  The Lakeshore Trail is a wonderful place, and it brings me a lot of joy.

Valete, amici.
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To kill a mockingbird... [Jun. 11th, 2006|06:40 pm]
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[Current Location |Chicago]
[mood |Vexed but hopeful]
[music |The sweet, soothing sound of silence]

Well, let's give this a second shot, shall we? It's been several days since I posted last, and quite a bit has happened since then, mostly undesireable. Due to the constant, unbelievable puerility of a particular "man" in my life, the road through this week has been a little more than rocky. It is refreshing to learn, however, that I have good friends in places unexpected (i.e.- mr_sunyata).  My thanks to you again, friend.   Irrespective of the bullshit, I've learned some valuable lessons this week that I soon hope to implement:

The first is a lesson learned long ago, although I still have a lot of work to do integrating it into my everyday practice.  I would say that I'm definitely a patient person.  I would also venture that I'm easily angered and easily calmed again.  However, in this beautiful mystery called life sometimes things happen that push one to one's limits, causing one to reevaluate and push the limits themselves.  A thing of this sort happened Wednsday night, stirring the most ancient and primal rage within me.  For those friends who've known me a long time and never encountered my temper, and for those brand spankin' new internet pals I've yet to meet, I am a horrible brute when I'm angry, and I tend to hit stuff.  Provoked by my current situation, goaded toward rage by His Royal and Most Magnificent Highness the Man-king of the Dismal Weeping, I pushed my fist through a very sharp and painful object last Wednsday night.  The lesson that lies herein is that I can't let the idiotic actions and words of others cloud my mind or influence me into hurting myself or damaging things.  It's hard to incorporate this into everyday routine when possessed by such anger, but I'm working on it.  At least it's things I'm hitting and not people, eh?

Well, after shattering this deadly cutter, my arm and hand were pretty covered in blood.  Some other thoughts occured to me then.  I'll tell you, friends, there's something in the sight of blood that trickles its way into your brain.  Maybe its the harsh red contrast to a world so covered in green, maybe its just that blood usually means pain.  One way or the other, blood makes me think, fuels my soul in a way only a few people can.  Of course, seeing one's own knuckle on the inside is pretty thought provoking too.  The point is, after breaking what I broke, I calmed down quickly, reassessed what had made me angry, and took control of myself.  I then apologized to those I had wronged, and went to sleep.

Thursday was filled with far less emotional discontent, but inspired some thoughts nonetheless.  Stacey and I went and saw the Lusty Revel Wenches with our friend Krystle at some dive bar in Wicker Park.  The show was pretty fun, though brief, and seeing it invoked mixed reactions in me.  Their music was a crapulous journey into gypsy-bacchanalia- fun and anachronistic at its best, intensely disharmonic and eristic at its worst- and I felt both pierced and limp by the dissonance, amused by their stage antics, and a little disappointed at the sloppy dwindling that ended their set.  I think the show would've been many times better if they hadn't been quite so fucked up.  The music was good, the lyrics and stage presense humorous, and the intoxicated ramblings and impromptu shouts into the mic obnoxious as hell.  Summary: I have high hopes for these kids if they can get their act together and focus on the music.

Friday I went and packed organic vegetables in a warehouse on the southside- ghetto fantastic!  I thoroughly enjoy this job.  There's not really a boss, I get paid well- in cash, tax free, and I can smuggle as much organic fruit and as many veggies into my bag as I want.  It's beautiful, really, but short lived: I start my job as a bike courier later this week.

Saturday was spent reading Children of Dune; by far the most talkative, longwinded, and action-dessicated Dune novel so far.  Goddamn, Frank Herbert, come on!  Anyway, with the exception of also having my person completely denigrated, reading pretty much took up the whole day.

And today, Sunday, has been mostly quiet.  Stacey Marie brought some concerns to my attention, and I understand and thank her for her insight.  I've considered these things well, in the past and at present, and I realize I still have a long way to go on my road to self-discovery and self-improvement.  I'm just glad I learned so many long years ago that the only way to improve oneself is to realize one's mistakes.  I hope some other, less positive people in this city can learn that lesson before it's too late. 

I conclude with a quote:

"A ship should not ride on a single anchor, nor life on a single hope." ~ Epictetus
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E-ville [Jun. 6th, 2006|02:26 pm]
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[Current Location |Chicago]
[mood |pensivepensive]
[music |none]

Ahh, 6/6/06, National Day of Slayer. With one deep, fulfilling breath after another I find myself utterly embroiled in the evil that is today. Everywhere I look another evil tree, evil bird, smiling evil child, evil septuagenarian pedestrian crossing the street on the arm of an evil boyscout! There's even an evil lake outside, just laying there in the lap of evil blue wateriness, plotting who knows what? Oh, what a deliciously wicked day this is! And it is now- on the blackest, darkest, most obsidian and abhorrent block of time called Slayer Day- that a new evil has entered my domain. An evil more evil than the evilest evil ever!

The tale of this evil begins thousands of years ago, in the primordial ooze of the early universe. The dark force of which I speak is a daemon that crawled forth from the stormy recesses of palest universe, having been born from the rank, vile putrescence of its devil-mother's icy sick womb. Since its horrible inception this beast has lain dormant, gathering its black strength for the prophesized battle to come. With every moment that passed, the beast grew a hundred times stronger, a hundred times deadlier, a hundred times more foul and terrific. And then came the ill-fated day, satiating the beast's hunger after thousands of years of wait and calm. That day was the very day we celebrate today, and it is on this, the Slayer Day, that the imp-horror beast made itself known to me.

Oh yes, friends, companions, brothers and sisters, I know of this beast, and I have battled it long and hard. But alas, let the troubadors sing that today, 6/6/06, is the day that your friend and articulate warrior-defender fell to the powers of this beast. Raging for a week, two weeks, a month, I put forth all of my strength to defend against the perils of this wretched monster, but to no avail. I lashed out constantly at this atrocity, the very sight of whom causes women to faint, warriors to run, screaming, and children to wet themselves in complete submissive acquiescence. Each limb I hacked off spawned seven more, each deadlier than the last, and I found myself bound hard and fast to a losing battle. And, oh, my loves, how I did lose.

Let it be proclaimed by bards fair and well sung, that on this day, Slayer Day, Alexander the Bold fell to the horrifying monstrocity called..... Live Journal!
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