10 October 2011
Good evening beautiful friends and sexy loves.
The smell of family recipe cookies wafts (or way-fts for our Swedish readers) through our apartment as I sit almost too tired to move from the couch. I’m paralyzed by early mornings and late nights and a perpetual motion of mental activity.
I am listening to “Graceland” and thinking life is the best thing since sliced bread and one day we all “will be received down in Graceland.” I’m taken by simply knowing “losing love is like a window in your heart. Everybody sees you’re blown apart. Everybody sees the wind blow.”
Today I walked through the park on the way home and stood with the occupants of Occupy DC and realized that life is changing. Old fucks and their ways will die and be washed away and will only be stories nostalgic parents tell their incredulous children.
When dancing at bars and clubs, does anyone go to just dance or must one be on display, dancing to lure and gyrating to capture the attention of “crashing bores”?
Thanks to a friend who is incredibly talented, I had the opportunity to be in a short film that was beautifully shot and ended up winning two awards at the 72 Hour Film Fest.
Life is what it is and it is mine.
As they say, “What a fine day for a parade.”
9 August 2011
I remember my brother and I getting a Nintendo Entertainment System (NES) with two games (combination game with Super Mario Bros./Duck Hunt and separate game with Kung Fu) one Christmas. The two of us were quite young and were at the time living with my mom and stepdad in his doublewide trailer (a step up from our singlewide).
I miss my stepdad sometimes. I remember him making chicken ‘n’ dumplins like no other (except for Memaw’s recipe). I remember rolling on the bed with him and my brother (were we in a hotel room at Walt Disney World?) in a rocking motion all yelling out “we’re rockin and a-rollin” while my mom recorded us using the massive video camera we purchased from my uncle Chuck. Chuck gave us Rogaine infomercial VHS tapes to record our memories on. From follicle to fond memory.
My hometown of Irwinton (technically McIntyre, but who is counting?) was perhaps a bit behind on the internet boom. Our service provider, Accucomm, gave us all free webpages. Mine had verses from the bible and midi versions of songs like Green Day’s “Walking Contradiction” and Metallica’s “Master of Puppets.”
So, when people tell me I am part of the Millennial Generation I say [interminable sound of modem trying to connect to dial-up if only someone would GET OFF THE LINE SO YOU CAN FUCKING GET INTO THE CHATROOM USING THE HANDLE OF SKAPUNK AND TALK ABOUT CHRISTIAN RAP WITH UNKNOWN CHRISTIAN GIRLS WHO LIVE IN EXOTIC PLACES LIKE PENNSYLVANIA AND NORTH CAROLINA and you eventually start sending snail mail to one and she is Sailor Moon and you are Tuxedo Mask and you are so fucking desperate for a connection but then she sends you a Beanie baby giraffe and a picture of herself and you realize you are not ready for commitment] NOOOOOO1001. I am not a Millennial. I am a podunk redneck from Middle Georgia who barely grew up playing Doom and Quake and Duke Nukem and online Monopoly with my friends.
I refuse to identify myself as Millennial. Millennials, to me, are anyone born after 1985 who were not born in a small town. Millennials are city kids. East Coast kids. Hip kids. I’m a poser, a coward, a wimp, an asshole and sometimes a zealot during competitions but I am not a Millennial.
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