AUTHOR.CALHO: If I didn't write it, I would be hitch hiking cross country to Maine and then Alaska in that order. While taking frequent breaks to spread leaflets. And sit in diners. And write on things because I wasn't at a computer. I may still do that in a few years. Writing this also helps me forget about and better understand the limitations of being human, and keeps me busy enough to allow me no free time to burn the world down.

THEMATIC.ABOUT : Collapse often. The things that hold people together and hold them apart and scatter brains. The things that make thoughts go boom. The things that ooh and aah and [expletive deleted]. Sometimes poking around the margins where responsibility ends and the only one to look to is the Original Equipment Manufacturer and say "but, I already pressed 9 for more options and the menus are exactly the same. Can you just replace it?" The answer will be: "please hold." Sometimes hanging out in dark corners. Sometimes following the train tracks. Looking for ways out and ways in and all the while sharing the things seen and heard and done and drawn and written and scorched and healed and teased and caged and dreamed along the way.

5/16/10

hyper swagness

so i was thinking about the 90s and the ultimate male personalities that dominated it. Mchoughnehy (however the hell its spelled) was the ultimate slacker, or was that owen wilson. Sean Penn was the ultimate sad addict. Johnny Depp was the ultimate weirdo. Samuel L Jackson was the ultimate black guy. Michael Douglas was the ultimate white guy. Schwarz was the ultimate strong guy. Nicholson was the ultimate eccentric (not to be confused with the weirdo). but yeah... the 90s was a time of ultimate dudeness. there was so much cologne in the air you could smell it right through your tv and it was kinda gross.



Not that chicks were not also having their ultimate moment of girl power (right after the idea that every chick who was a feminist was probably also a lesbian and owned a suit with padded shoulders was beginning to fade from dominance) in which guys felt okay with them being important (mainly because they secretly believed that they were still several magnitudes more awesome than the most awesomest chick in a power suit and heels high enough to ruin her ankles for the later half of her life). but thats not the point... the point is

hyper swagness hit its maximum point of enviability in the late 90s. you wanna know how i know? because what passes for swagness now is so far away from anything any normal person who was not entirely wrapped up in generating the power ballading, mosh pitting, sucka busting, im-gonna-put-my-cigar-out-on-a-hookers-teat-and-then-burn-some-bales-of-hundred-dollar-bills-and-then-drive-my-lambo-off-a-peer-because-im-really-just-a-lonely-kid-who-never-grew-up-on-the-inside-but-have-the-weight-of-my-ridiculous-success-on-my-shoulders aura of the late 90s. i mean... not that ive been watching as much as its drifted across my eyes like the stink wind off a landfill... do you think any of the jersey shore people or the gottis or the other rich idiots would be so concerned with topping every exploit theyve ever done every day of their lives.

its not living life to the fullest. really... waaay deep down inside each person on the bleeding edge of insanity and free time is a tiny michael douglas in polished shoes at a desk a mile long with a fireplace big enough to put an entire family into and still have room for their pathetic assets, and he's puffing on a cigar that cost some poor child laborer in a third world country his soul to make just so he could buy shoes to go to school, and as he's tucking his solid platinum zippo into a chest pocket made of pure silk woven from the tears of crucified angels, he's smiling because he knows that he is it. the end.

hyper swagness is dead. burried under a mountain of modern gestures and frittered away inheritances in what amounts to putting speed holes and vinyl stickers and what was once a wondefully thoroughbred piece of automotive steel fit for the Guggenheim. which is incidentally where michael douglas had his 13th birthday. swagger.

///diplo - "money power respect" such a good song. its beat has the burliness thats reminiscent of night time street hustle, but then the string instrument kicks in with its low call that cranes like a tourists neck in manhattan when they realize just how big the city is and just how small the rest of the world is.
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