A description of The Language of the Gods:

A glossolalia in which individual words hold a plethora of meanings which necessarily vary according to what the listener wants or needs to hear.

too many ways out
four days wandering unlit tunnels
would be more fun if i had some company
but what i really need is a ladder

You know whats awesome? "Fuck You!" That's what's awesome.

One compelling reason why I make an effort to ride a bicycle:

Everyday, right now even, perfectly innocent people are dying on behalf of the refined petroleum sloshing around in my gas tank.

Forego the title. Launch directly into subjectmatter. Names and titles give the consumer too much power. Names are for my own private amusement and for the organization of my work. Not for prying eyes. I shall remove all names and all titles unless they are an integrated part of the work.

A calculated attempt towards planning has been abandoned in favor of the tried and true method of simply stating what is on the mind.

Crawling up out of the sewer as an amphibian or a human. Like a teenage mutant ninja turtle, but darker. Dark is to the movie as the movie is to the cartoon. Like Batman. The Tim Burton Batman.

What happens after post-modernism has worn itself out?

These are the thoughts I have running through my head as I walk out the door of this office trailer for the last time. I get on a bicycle and make a record for the slowest ride home ever. Not due to laziness, necessarily. More like a mood to take in the scenery. It's all down hill from here. Sometimes I race the bus and usually I win, but today I roll by slow and look at the faces on the movie advertisements. They are people I know but don't know. They are the friends that are all around me but that I've never met them in person. Me and the bus play leap-frog for a few stops and then I finally say goodbye to my two-dimensional friends as they drift away beyond the red light and the intersection and the cars going by.

By far, the silliest moment in Rock and Roll belongs to the fifth track on Abbey Road. The crowning achievement of Rock and Roll resides on the entire second side of that same record.

I'm getting closer to home now, and I'm flipping off some automobile driver that didn't feel like giving me the right of way that I certainly deserved. I'm amazed that I even bothered to notice his transgression. Usually I just meet and pass by some such an obstacle without thinking that it could have been any other way. I'm not sure which reaction is better, but I do know that this way I have something to write about. I'm making a last minute U-turn over the Gold Line tracks to try a new way home, which might be a tiny bit faster or much, much longer. I don't know my neighborhood very well and given the terrain, one wrong turn could easily put me on the wrong side of a mountain, which is annoying in a car and heartbreaking on a bicycle.

Some people say that Time is moving faster now, but even if it is I don't know how one might notice the difference without jumping out of it and looking back to see.

I've made the correct turn and not only have I shaved a couple of minutes off my commute (I think), but I no longer have to fend off the homocidal cars, buses and pedestrians that frequent Figueroa in the afternoons. I look at trees and little old houses as I pass through a neighborhood called Hermon, where I think I'd like to live as an old man or a little boy.

On the radio news they talk about what the President says and does, and what people say and do about him. It makes me think for a moment that I'm aware of what is happening in the world, but I soon remember that I'm only hearing the stories of some little king.

From now on, the skies are filled with mud and my teeth glow like halloween. I leave my house early in the morning and ride my bicycle to work because I'm sick of scrubbing the bloody oil from my hands. It's slow riding, but it will certainly help me towards killer abs, and I wont even have to quit drinking beer.

Dance. Dance? Dance!!

Like you've got no feet!

Though you hear no beat!

Waggle like a bumblebee with a hot honey tip!

Boo-Ya!

Funkadelic:

noun.

Someone from Carolina who encountered eternity on LSD and vowed to contain it in a groove.