Consistency

Consistency, thats the key. I've been thinking lately that I wanted to generate traffic for this blog. Hmm. How do we do that? Be consistent. Create characters. People like to read the journals of people they know, not weird strangers. I am a weird stranger on this blog. That's why I created it. I've lately felt compelled to do a post everyday I can (meaning, everyday I'm at work) just in virtue of the fact that the blogger bots might notice and refer more people to my page. The blog has also gone to crap since then because I'm not working from inspration but compulsion. I write when I don't feel like writing, and good ideas become crap fodder.

Today I woke up without a hangover and went to work, late as usual. Not much else. Hung out in some house and read the newspaper while the ADT guy finished installing the alarm system. Signed his form and stuff. Wee Howdy Dee.

Tomorrow I'm going to a place called skooby's to see a band play. What fun and joy it is.

april 25 - may 1

Did you know that it is tv turn-off week?

I Am Tired

Another day, another hangover.

I am tired of being dried out by alcohol.

I want to get out of bed in the morning on the first try.

I'm done. I'm giving up. I'm sorry.

I quit.

there is a little rainbow icon at the very bottom of this page. click on it. it will tell you how much traffic this page gets.

what is worse

If you are reading this, then you probably have a mother. If you don't, then you are probably a search-engine bot, and in that case: sex, teens, blowjob, anal, facial, hardcore, xxx, etc.

But seriously, if you have ever forgotten your mothers birthday, then you know what an ass it can make you feel like. Last year I missed it by one day. Luckily, I happened to drop by just to say hello and my memory jogged. Even luckier, my brother had not yet remembered, so I was still comparatively thoughtful. I was able to give her a belated birthday hug, live and in person. I didn't feel so bad.

This year was different. I knew it was coming up, so I called my brother to see what the exact date was. He said it was the 19th or something. Okay. Then I forget again. Now it's the 21st and suddenly I remember. I rush to the florist. Rush to Mom's house. She wonders what the flowers are for. Turns out, not only was I late for what I thought was my Mom's birthday, I was late for the entirely wrong day. Its May 19th, not April 19th. So technically I was early, but who gives a fuck. I clearly have no idea what my Mom's birthday is, and even the date I thought it was I couldn't make on time. Fucking fuck.

Consoloation? I have really good taste in flowers - so good, I should be gay. They were really pretty. Birds of paradise and some other stuff in a trippy glass vase. My mom liked them, even though they were a symbol of her son's questionable mental state.

Now, do I still need to get her a present on her actual birthday? Hmm...

Waiting for the sugar and caffiene to kick in.

Fortunately or not, they are the best drugs within reach.

Last weekend feels more like last year.

If it wasn't for Jimi Hendrix,

Life would make no sense at all.

Participating

Today I made an edit in the Wikipedia, quite possibly my favorite thing about the web. I don't use it much, but I absolutely love the concept. Here is the sentence I added:

"Aside from strict academics, Professor Searle was also the first tenured professor to join the Free Speech Movement at UC Berkeley."

I could have said more, but I don't have an incredible amount of patience for internet doings. I was a student of Professor Searle's, and for one reason or another I looked him up. Noticed that the article only explained philosophical stuff, and thought that his activism was worth mention, even if he isn't much of an activist anymore.

If you care, you can see the whole article here:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/John_Searle

My Resume

(i actually posted this on craigs list. someobody actually replied.)

you should give me money (highland park)

Reply to: matthewkates@gmail.com
Date: 2005-04-21, 11:53AM PDT

You should give me money so that i can move out of my fathers house and start getting laid again. I've got my eye on a one-bedroom in highland park. It's only $650 and its near the gold line.

If you need me to do anything in return for the money you give me, that might be arranged. Keep in mind that i prefer walking and/or public trans. over driving.

If you want me to do smart-person type things, i can handle that. I graduated from the highest ranked public university in the nation with a 3.5 gpa just because i felt like it. I can be smart.

If you need someone to do manual-labor type things, i can do that too. I worked for a mechanic in high school. In college i built a hydroponic grow chamber which i used to develop medical-grade marijuana. I have good hands and i know how lots of things work.

If you need me to sell things to people, i can try. I should warn you that im not much of a capitalist, so my heart may not be in it.

Another warning, im an artist first and foremost. Take that as you will.

Thank you for your time. Cash preferred.

this is in or around highland park
yes -- it's ok to contact this poster if you are a potential employer or other principal
no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests
yes -- ok to transmit this posting into outer space
69002732

Don't Forget the Funny Man

Honesty, honestly, is dead. I like to think that this is just a clever turn of phrase. I also like bland cereals like Kashi.

Last week I went for a hike to a place called Inspiration Point (aka, Mt. Cliche). Once at the top, I could see all of Los Angeles in an impressive panorama, covered in a thick layer of haze. Seriously, I couldn't see a fucking thing other than the city of Altadena which lay directly at the foot of the mountain. What a drag. But that couldn't get me down. I'm a trooper. The archetypal urban sprawl lay at my feet. What now? I whip it out, work up an erection and beat off all over the ground. It was late in the day. I was alone. No sane person would be 2 hours deep into the San Gabriel National Forest at sundown. All I had to worry about was someone in the valley below looking up at me through some kind of telescope. And if they were? Good for them.

A funny thing happened on the way back down the mountain, though. I saw the eye of God looking down on me. No shit. The sun had been set for a good while and the lights of the city below shone through the haze, displaying the true beauty of Los Angeles, man-made though it may be. I passed through the ruins of Echo Mountain Resort, a mountain-top getaway circa the early 1900's. I lamented the passing of man's creations back into nature, and continued down the hill with my path lit by the yellow streetlights below and the white moon above. Stopped in my tracks. Thin white clouds created a black oval with the moon shining brightly in the middle. I made the rest of the way without falling off of some cliff or attracting the attention of some large and hungry wild animal. Hit the liquor store for a couple of tall-boys. Watched an old Hitchcock film. Passed out with headphones on and lightbulb burning. Peaceful.

Vile, Evil, Terrible

This post is here simply to generate traffic. I figured out that blogger puts you in rotation on the NEXT BLOG button if you write a new post. I am vile and evil and terrible. Don't let that stop you from reading more, or commenting, even.

It's all crap, unless it's clearly not.

That is my new theory of art in a nutshell.

I was looking at a page on David Byrne's website, http://www.davidbyrne.com/art/index.php
and I noticed that some of what I was looking at was interesting, but on average it just looked like a bunch of stuff that he made. Not exactly what I expected from a resepected and successful artist like Mr. Byrne.

It may seem like I'm talkin' shit.

I'm not. I'm trying to make a point.

When I See or Hear or otherwise Experience some Art, my reaction is usually: "Hmm. That is some art. Yep. There it is."

Until now I thought that this was because I had no sense as far as aesthetics go. Occasionally, a piece of work would stand out dramatically in a positive or negative light, but I have never had a very good understanding of what exactly this positive or negative light was or where it came from. What David Byrne accidently helped me see was that my blah-zey reactions have most likely been justified, because the vast majority of created art is necessarily mediocre. When a strong reaction is elicited, that's just good (or bad) art doing its thing. If a unit of art completely fails to ellicit some kind of positive reaction, it may as well not exist at all. It is no more than a symbol of wasted time, space, and energy. Therefore it is Crap.

And now a logical question:

If most art is mediocre crap, then what possible justification could there be for the constantly growing stinkpile? Why should anyone invest themselves into making all of this garbage?

Because every once in a while, they hit the truth dead in the eye and make a whole damned life worth living. The stinkpile turns to roses. The world is new.

So go on home now. Nothing more to see here. I wrote this column in order to articulate my own little thought. It's clever and informative at best. At worst it's boring and self-indulgent.

Almost certainly it's mediocre.

every road into l.a. is a desert.

except the ocean maybe,

depending on your concept of "road".

and if you want to reach for it,

the ocean is kind of like a desert, too.