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[Blister in the sun] [24th March 2014|10:33am]
Violent Femmes
Say Something.

[14th February 2014|11:50pm]
Born in a cellar... and living in a garret.

Samuel Foote
Say Something.

[an epoch is an instant in time chosen as the origin of a particular era.] [9th April 2013|05:21pm]
umwelt (plural: umwelten; from the German Umwelt meaning "environment" or "surroundings") is the "biological foundations that lie at the very epicenter of the study of both communication and signification in the human [and non-human] animal."[citation needed] The term is usually translated as "self-centered world"

semiotics (n.)
study of signs and symbols with special regard to function and origin, 1880, from semiotic; also see -ics.

Umwelt also unites all the semiotic processes of an organism into a whole

Say Something.

[Its Tuesday again...] [9th April 2013|04:55pm]
[ mood | indescribable ]

Ethics (n.) The Science of Morals
Moral (adj.) Pertaining to the Character or Temperament - Manners
Manners (n.) External behavior (especially polite behavior) in social Intercourse
Intercourse (n.) Communication to and fro
Communication (n.) To make Common
Common (adj.) Belonging to all, General
General (n.) Whole class of things or persons
Whole (n.) entire body or company; the full amount
Entire (adj.) Integer, unbroken, intact, complete
Integer (n.) "not" (see in- (1)) + root of tangere "to touch" (see tangent)
Tangent (adj.) meeting at a point without intersecting
Point (n.) minute amount, single item in a whole; sharp end of a sword, etc.

Say Something.

[Prentice] [30th November 2012|07:32am]
I stood in the lobby of the Santa Fe Building waiting for the fate of my third architecture competition. "The Buildings are sleeping, you should go and wake them up, she says." These words stood on the wall as The Chicago Architecture Club of Chicago unveiled the winners of the Prentice Women's Hospital preservation competition. "How poetic", I thought to myself sarcastically. I had spent the last couple of months working on an entry, thinking of ways to save this building. Losing the competition didn't really bother me as much as the news I was about to receive that night. The Prentice discussion had become so disappointing. Before the winners were announced, Martin Felsen from Urbanlab relayed the drastic news that Mayor Emmanual had approved the demolition of Prentice. He explained that this news had reached the jury during the deciding process. Fate had been reached. I walked to the train in the brisk cold weather, and lit a cigarette wondering to myself if it was all really over.

Many other factors played into the decision of Prentice's future existence. The building has been dormant since the creation of the new Prentice Women's hospital which now located on 250 East Superior Street. It is owned by Northwestern University, who has future plans to extend their campus research labs downtown. Hospital design has become extremely stringent and regulated in the past couple of years, it is very rare that any hospital will build in concrete these days considering the growth of technology and the need to house and switch machines. The old Prentice was built in the seventies when codes weren't as stringent. The issue this presented and that Northwestern had come to conclude was that this building could not be renovated and store all the new equipment needed for the new research labs and thus needed to be torn down.
It is not as though Northwestern lacks the land to build these research labs, they own a parking lot just south of Prentice and could easily decide to put the research labs there. Their reasoning for wanting Prentice gone is that it's "their" prime real estate and they should be able to use it when they want to. I disagree. Prentice and its architect, Bertrand Goldberg have long been icons to Chicago culture. I don't mean this only architecturally.

Over the summer, I took a healthcare studio. My professor introduced us to evidence based design which give us real facts and statistics that backed up nature's healing powers. We learned how much environments affect human emotions. We got to visit a lot of new hospitals designed recently and saw how much they were willing to invest into creating calming and healing environments. If you take a look at the new Rush hospital located on the south side of the Eisenhower express way, it's hard not to see a resemblance to Prentice. The organic form and four stocks were created to allow nurses to have a visual access to more rooms of patients.

I wonder how much precedent Prentice played on Rush's new hospital. It is evident that they clearly have a similar form. What if Prentice had never been built, would Rush's new hospital still mimic this form? There is something I find so calming in this form, the way the buildings curves tighten and release along the fa?ade, the small oblong windows that follow these curves in rhythm. This is a very rare building, what is even rarer is the fact that it got built. Northwestern was once upon a time inspired by Goldberg's vision, inspired enough to make it a reality. Now it stands before our skyline, hovered by taller and grander skyscrapers. You don't ever see it until you approach the building or come across it from the window of one of these taller and grander skyscrapers. But still, every time you get a peek at it. Your eye lingers because even though this building isn't grand or shiny, it has a distinct character you have never seen before.

My studio partner Kyle and I had gone to the site of Prentice to take pictures for the competition, we met an older lady who began to tell us how she walked by Prentice every day after living three blocks from it for the past twenty years. She told us how upset she was that anyone would think to tear down this building, commended us for caring, and proclaimed Prentice a diamond in the rough. It was inspiring to see that others cared, there was a validation that what we were doing with this competition would go towards saving Prentice.

The competition received lots of hype; many architects would claim that Prentice was just an old eyesore, believing no reason to preserve its existence. As more entries from the competition were released, it became apparent that many designers shared this view. This is something I have come to refer to as "the designer's ego". Designers get caught up in their own worlds and began to believe that their point of view is the best. This makes it very easy for them to ignore the works of their architectural forefathers. I try to avoid thinking like this as it is very one sided.

After looking at IIT Professor Tim Brown's entry, irritation grew inside of me. How could he so easily make a mockery of the demolition of old Prentice? I had sat through a lecture of his about La Tourette and remember how much he knew about this building, how much he admired the work of detail. Remembering even the slightest atmospheres the building created. He once showed a picture of an old shack, and told us, "This is bad architecture and should be torn down." I couldn't help but wonder if he felt the same way about Prentice. My heart began to weigh down as more entries followed this derision. The more irritated I became.

At this moment, I realized that I was in love with Prentice. I was in love with an old concrete building and I didn't know how to make it stop. I kept thinking, "What am I going to do when it is gone, just move on?" This building is special in so many ways. It is special in the way it was constructed; high engineered molds were made and pulled up after pouring one floor at a time. It by no means was a discounted shack of a building. A lot of thought and care went into making Old Prentice. The design was by no means something that was just stumbled upon, it was based on natural and intuitive relations to nature. The movement and life of this building was unexplainably attractive. Needless to say, it was clear Bertrand Goldberg had been inspired. What if I wanted to see it, to run my eyes over its carefully formed curves? As I sought consolidation from a fellow friend and peer, he told me to just look at a picture. Just look at a picture? A picture wasn't going to do it justice. My heart was breaking.

No one fully has control over the things they fall in love with, these things just happen. Old Prentice teased me throughout my years in architecture school, always providing solace that not all buildings had to look the same, that there was room for our dreams to become realities. What a loss for future architecture students, will they even know that this building once existed? I saw a part of myself in that building and I was just an admirer from afar. I wonder how many babies were born there, how many had grown up and had a sense of pride of being conceived in such an iconic looking building. How would they deal with the grief of losing part of that identity?

I am now filled with uncertainty, I don't know what to make out of all these questions. I also am confronted with the question of why I care so much. No other competition has affected me as much as this one. I have never been put in the position that Old Prentice has put me in. I have never cared this much. The first competition I ever participated in was the Aids Memorial Park in New York City's Greenwich Village. It was placed across the street from St. Vincent's hospital which was going to be renovated into lofts, to be given a new life. The second competition was a reuse of the site that the Pruitt Igoe homes had once sat on, now those where cheap buildings and were long gone before I began to think about them. But Old Prentice, a building I am in love with, one whose existence I thought would always be a prevalent part of Chicago's history is now on the chopping block. Everyone who claimed to care before has seemingly lost interest.

So the holder of the wrecking ball is ready to rid themselves of Old Prentice, to build a generic building that will mean nothing to the culture of our city. So now I ask you, when the land the Parthenon sits on begins to take up too much prime real estate, are our architects and critics are going to say, just tear it down? When looking at Picasso's paintings gets old, are our art curators just going to throw them away? When something prevalent that happened in history doesn't fit our needs anymore, should we just ignore it? Or do we change it, rework it and bridge the old with the new? As Jane Jacobs said, "Old ideas can sometimes use new buildings. New ideas must use old buildings." The only thing I know for sure is that with the demolition of Old Prentice, we are losing not only a building but an inspiration and identity of our culture. "If you don't know where you've come from, you don't know where you are." -James Burke.
Say Something.

[Since feeling is first] [14th October 2012|03:59pm]
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while spring is in the world...
Say Something.

[17th September 2012|12:18am]
Everyone's got to face down the demons
Maybe today you can put the past away.
Say Something.

[19th August 2012|07:10am]

Woolf: "My own brain is to me the most unaccountable of machinery - always buzzing, humming, soaring roaring diving, and then buried in mud. And why? What's this passion for?"

The INFP must consciously tell himself/herself that an opinion that does not concede with their own is not an indictment of their entire character.
Say Something.

[19th August 2012|12:57am]
The Erikson life-stage virtues, in the order of the eight stages, in which they may be acquired, are:
Basic trust vs. basic mistrust - This stage covers the period of infancy. 0-1 year of age. - Whether or not the baby develops basic trust or basic mistrust is not merely a matter of nurture. It is multi-faceted and has strong social components. It depends on the quality of the maternal relationship. The mother carries out and reflects their inner perceptions of trustworthiness, a sense of personal meaning, etc. on the child. If successful in this, the baby develops a sense of trust, which ?forms the basis in the child for a sense of identity?.
Autonomy vs. Shame - Covers early childhood - Introduces the concept of autonomy vs. shame and doubt. During this stage the child is trying to master toilet training.
Purpose - Initiative vs. Guilt - Preschool / 3?6 years - Does the child have the ability to or do things on their own, such as dress him or herself? If "guilty" about making his or her own choices, the child will not function well. Erikson has a positive outlook on this stage, saying that most guilt is quickly compensated by a sense of accomplishment.
Competence - Industry vs. Inferiority - School-age / 6-11. Child comparing self worth to others (such as in a classroom environment). Child can recognize major disparities in personal abilities relative to other children. Erikson places some emphasis on the teacher, who should ensure that children do not feel inferior.
Fidelity - Identity vs. Role Confusion - Adolescent / 12 years till 20. Questioning of self. Who am I, how do I fit in? Where am I going in life? Erikson believes, that if the parents allow the child to explore, they will conclude their own identity. However, if the parents continually push him/her to conform to their views, the teen will face identity confusion.
Intimacy vs. isolation - This is the first stage of adult development. This development usually happens during young adulthood, which is between the ages of 20 to 24. Dating, marriage, family and friendships are important during the stage in their life. By successfully forming loving relationships with other people, individuals are able to experience love and intimacy. Those who fail to form lasting relationships may feel isolated and alone.
Generativity vs. stagnation is the second stage of adulthood and happens between the ages of 25-64. During this time people are normally settled in their life and know what is important to them. A person is either making progress in their career or treading lightly in their career and unsure if this is what they want to do for the rest of their working lives. Also during this time, a person is enjoying raising their children and participating in activities, that gives them a sense of purpose. If a person is not comfortable with the way their life is progressing, they're usually regretful about the decisions and feel a sense of uselessness.
Ego integrity vs. despair. This stage affects the age group of 65 and on. During this time you have reached the last chapter in your life and retirement is approaching or has already taken place. Many people, who have achieved what was important to them, look back on their lives and feel great accomplishment and a sense of integrity. Conversely, those who had a difficult time during middle adulthood may look back and feel a sense of despair.
Say Something.

[18th May 2012|05:03pm]
The Friend Zone Episode 5: From Russia With Indifference - 30 (Worth)

Date: 2012-05-18, 4:22PM CDT
Reply to: gbxs3-3023883659@pers.craigslist.org

Rod Serling: You walk into this relationship at your own risk, because it leads to the future. Not a future that will be, but one that might be. This is not a new vagina, it's simply an extension of what began in vaginas past. It has patterned itself after every pussy that has ever planted the ripping imprint of a boot on the neck of man since the beginning of time. It has refinements, pleasures. . .and a more sophisticated approach to the destruction of a man's psyche. But like every one of the vaginas that preceded it, it has one iron rule; logic is an enemy and truth is a menace. Any female, any entity, any ideology that fails to recognize the worth and dignity of a man's desire to be in a one dick relationship, that woman is obsolete. A case to be filed under 'W' for 'Who-er'. . .in The Friend Zone.

Which brings me to my most recent. . .whatever, from Craigslist. I suppose I can find a problem with anybody, and since I've been lucky enough in my life to have only dated hot women, each hot in their own different way of course, I've found that good looking women can take things for granted. For instance, most hot women don't like being told how beautiful they are; which puts a crimp in my romantistick. I'm a wordsmith, that's kinda what I do; and in the seven kingdoms you'd be hard pressed to find a man who's better at pitching woo than me. The problem with that is, in order for my woo-isms to be effective; I need a woman who's receptive to them. And 9 out of 10 hot chicks aren't because they THINK they've heard it all before. Not that they've necessarily heard the same things I might say, but they're used to men trying to get in their pants by any means, and in a weird way they've come to expect it.

And it's not only my words that roll off of them like piss in a rain storm, its actions as well; hot chicks EXPECT you to open doors for them. Hell, in my experience I've gone on dates with beautiful women who don't even reach out their hand to open a door because they're so used to men doing it for them. Sometimes I have half a mind to not open it, and see if they walk into it like a bird flying into a window. Pull out a chair, light their cigarette, compliment their stunning beauty when they first show up at the restaurant. . .it all goes unnoticed and unappreciated. So how do I stand out? I be funny, that's how.

Since I can't use romance, and manners don't count for shit, the only tool I have to set me apart from the handsome but dumb football players whom most of these chicks think they deserve. . .is humor. Just vile, derogatory, invasive, and offensive humor; it throws them off. Of everything they're expecting, dick jokes is not one. And they love it because someone is talking to them like an adult and not a Faberge egg with a vagina. The problem with using humor to get my foot in the door is that it has to be mixed JUST right with humility and romance. If I just make fun of people all the time, she's gonna think I'm an asshole, which means I have to throw in some self deprecation, but not TOO much because NO woman digs a guy with low self esteem; it has to be played right so she KNOWS I'm joking. Next, I have to know when to be funny and know when to slam home a compliment. If she doesn't see it coming, and it's worded just right, it actually gets through the armor enough to make a dent. The formula is "Joke, Joke, self deprecation, joke, compliment!" and BOOM! She's on the ropes. She didn't see that coming and NOW, I'm a sexual threat. You have to know when and how to stop joking long enough to become a sexual threat, otherwise you end up in that dreaded place. . .The Friend Zone.

Now much like the bad dog owner from this story, the yoga instructor, and the stripper from stories past, some of the hot chicks I've dated have personality flaws that run so deep that the Marianas trench gets queasy looking down on them. Be it narcissism, anger issues, or addictions; my penis doesn't give a shit HOW hot a woman is because there has to be a mixture of beauty AND humility. Unfortunately some women are so well put together, so intelligent and strong. . .that they don't need me as anything other than a fucking court jester. Fuck, this game is such a pain in the ass sometimes.

The second email I got late last month came from a woman who called herself Irene. She'd read something I wrote on Craigslist and asked me: "Why do men feel they need to fix things?", and a correspondence erupted between the two of us which told me that she was smart, well thought out, and witty. I was so engrossed in her emails that I never even thought to ask for a picture or to ask her anything about her looks. I was just enjoying. . .her. However, like all women, after her questions were answered she wrote the typical line at the end of her email: "Good luck with your search!" Fuck that, this one I need to know more about.

We exchanged phone numbers and began texting each other frequently. It was during these texts that I came to learn 'Irene' was actually 'Irena' and she moved to Chicago from the Ukraine eleven years ago. This revelation presented a problem for me as I've never been a fan of accents, especially Eastern European ones. Plus I don't have a unibrow or own any tracksuits. Anytime I tell a man that I don't like accents, he thinks I'm fucking crazy because apparently, other dudes find this hot. Well they can deal with it, I just can't get behind a woman who can neither talk in the correct tense nor use prepositions. "I going to store yesterday". . .GIT the fuck outta here with that shit.

I told her of my accent trepidations, and she assured me that her accent wasn't too bad, after all, she'd been in America for 11 years. However, the text that she told that to me in read like this: "Accent not being bad" Bitch, you TEXT in an accent, don't tell me your accent isn't bad. Plus, I hadn't seen a picture of her yet and I kept imagining one of those big Russian broads with huge titties and a hairy gut who wrestles bears or some shit. That's just my luck on Craigslist, but as I've said; Life is like a post on Craigslist. . .you never know what you're gonna get.

As much as women with accents have annoyed me in the past, Irena's voice was not only comforting, but relaxing as well. It sounded sweet, like a mandolin and her accent made every sentence sound like a slow song. It wasn't bad at all. On top of that, she was incredibly smart. We talked about Russian history and she told me about the Ukraine as I asked her about the differences between our two countries. Maybe it's not accents that I don't like as much as the stupidity that usually comes with them; I admit to having a low tolerance to stupidity, and Irena wasn't stupid in any way. In fact, as we got to know each other better, or rather as SHE got to know ME better, she began giving me advice which I would normally find super annoying. However, HER advice was poignant, realistic, and informed. I found myself not only NOT being annoyed by it, but asking for more.

I forgot about asking for a picture or even caring what she looked like as I grew to look forward to our conversations over the next week. A mistake to be sure, but one I would not come to regret. . .for once. Now, it should be noted at this point that Irena, like the bad dog owner a few weeks before, told me that she wasn't looking to be in a relationship. She told me that she was fulfilled in her life at the moment and didn't feel that she needed a man to complete her. Once again. . .The mother fuckin' god damned Friend Zone.

But that didn't really matter to me at this point as I wasn't really thinking of fucking Irena. To be honest, I didn't know much about her, I was just having fun talking to her, and I was enjoying the shit out of her voice as we did. She didn't offer up much information about herself, instead she philosophized and talked about my writing while asking questions about me. Now, don't think me rude, I DID ask her a ton of questions about her, but other than ancillary stuff about getting her nails done and cultural things about the Ukraine. . .she just wasn't that forthcoming.

After a week of this, my curiosity got the better of me and I asked her out on a date. She didn't want to call it a date, but whatever. Again, if you don't want to go on a DATE with me, then don't tell me how wonderful you think my stories are. I'm pretty fucking clear in ALL of them that I WANT TO GO ON A FUCKING DATE with a woman who doesn't make me want to jam a shrimp fork in my eye. Did you get that? I WANT TO GO ON A DATE! Let me give you MY definition of a date so we're PERFECTLY clear on this point.

A DATE is a function in which the two of us go out somewhere, be it dinner or a bar or cow tipping; whatever, and the POSSABILITY exists for fucking. I don't expect anything, I don't even WANT anything, and you'll never feel pressure from me in that way. BUT, before you leave your house to meet me, you're of a mind set in which you are open to a relationship and me flopping around on top of you at some point. If you're saying to yourself "I just got out of a bad relationship and JUST want to fuck". . .then we don't need to go on a date. JUST come over here and fuck me and I'll leave 20 dollars on the dresser before you leave. . .because you're a who-er. I'm sick of wasting my god damned time on women who have their minds made up before they even leave the house. So if you're reading this right now, you're laughing your ass off, and you're thinking "I've gotta get to know this guy better", do it; but understand what I'M looking for, otherwise you won't be laughing when you read the NEXT chapter of my dating life titled "The Filthy Godless Who-er". Got it? Good; let's move on.

So Irena and I went out. She told me to meet her at a Jamaican bar on West Chicago Avenue in the city called "Mr. Browns Lounge". It's in the Ukrainian village so I just assumed she lived down there somewhere. When I parked down the street from the bar I couldn't believe where I was at. No bullshit, the apartment building I parked RIGHT in front of was the SAME one that the stripper from "How I Came to Have My Joint Copped By a Stripper" gave me half a blowjob in front of two years ago. High five to West Chicago Avenue.

Irena wasn't there yet, so I went into the bar and ordered a Red Stripe. I love trying new things, and this place was awesome. I was the only white guy in the joint, but they had some Reggae rap music playing and the black guys on either side of me were eating Jamaican food that smelled fan-fucking-tastic. It was 930 at night and I hadn't eaten all day because I didn't want to be all farty in case the beast with two backs were to make an appearance. Again, I wasn't expecting sex but I always like to be prepared. Before I left my place I did the manscaping, shaving my balls bear and trimming the cock fro, and I even cleaned the shit out of my apartment to avoid the embarrassment of shit caked on the back side of my toilet JUST in case we went back there later.

After my third beer, I was feeling pretty good. I was talking with a large black gentleman at the bar who was eating a goat leg as grease ran down his chin. His date sat next to him at the bar and I felt bad for ALL of the women there on dates. Every plate of Jamaican food I saw was full of cabbage and beans, not to mention that most of the dishes were 'curry' this and 'curry' that. I was surprised the bar didn't smell like one big fart. I wanted to fart just looking at that shit. Dude gave me a piece of his goat leg to try after I told him I'd never had goat, and the shit was fucking delicious. My phone vibrated with a text message, and as Irena entered the bar. . .my hunger pangs dissipated into a desire I haven't felt in a long mother fucking time. Which made the 'nervous farts' come on regardless of my empty stomach.

Now, Irena later told me that she HATES it when guys tell her how beautiful she is, and I imagine that when a girl looks like that. . .she get's A LOT of compliments; knowing this, I try to keep my compliments to a minimum when I first meet a beautiful woman. Plus if you overly compliment any woman she's just gonna think you're full of shit. Actions speak louder than words; but although she's probably gonna read this, fuck her; this is my story.

As she sidled up to me at the bar, the first thing I thought was "Fuck, THIS chick is never going find ME attractive." This was the HOTTEST woman I've ever seen in real life. What I mean by that is; sure, Scarlet Johansson and Beyonce are hotter, but fuck me, this was a level of hotness I've never seen up close. Irena stood about 5'2" and she was wearing a little leather coat with a scarf and a Frank Sinatra hat. She couldn't have weighed more than 105 pounds. I'm a face guy more than anything else, and her face was flawless; blue eyes that drank in the light around us and lips that could make an angel weep. Her hair was dyed blonde with black roots and it came flowing out from under her hat to rest on her shoulders. When she spoke to me, the picture I've just painted coupled with the voice I described earlier sent a shiver of desire down my spine as goose bumps formed on my forearms. This. . .this was too good to be true.

I offered her a drink and she refused, which took me aback. Why the fuck meet me at a bar if you're not going to drink? I felt like an ass because I'd ALREADY been drinking. One of my 'date' rules is "You never drink more than your date". It's just rude and I know from experience that sober people don't find drunk people as charming as they think they're being: and I was already half in the bag. After an hour she ordered herself a big ass Jamaican rum drink of some kind and spent the rest of our time at Mr. Browns slowly drinking it. To be fair, the glass it came in was almost as big as she was.

Periodically we'd go outside to smoke which offered us the opportunity to hear each other as we talked. She was great, and she didn't seem to be as uninterested in me as I thought she would be. At around 1230, I suggested we try another bar and she agreed. Because I had been drinking and she only had the one, she suggested that SHE drive us to "Exit". I hopped in her BMW and off we went.

Irena had never been to Exit, but since I'm comfortable there I thought she might like it. However, I forgot that it was Thursday night. . .and Thursday night is "bondage night" at Exit. We went upstairs after going in, where a man was chained to the floor to ceiling chain link fence on the dance floor while his exposed back was being whipped by overweight chicks in leather and chains. Irena didn't seem to mind, although you could tell she was a bit thrown by the sight. We sat at the bar as I apologized for bringing her there and asked if she wanted to leave. She said that she didn't mind and I had another drink. We talked for another hour, occasionally bringing the bar tenders into our conversation. Irena laughed and it seemed that we could be engrossed in each other no matter the surroundings. Fuck. . .her laugh is almost as beautiful as she is.

At one point while at Exit, we went outside to smoke. In front of the building, there was a fat guy in his mid forties being dominated by one of the dominatrix chicks who was also smoking. He was a heavy set man with coke bottle glasses and zits all over his face. I would think he owns cats and every season of Buffy the Vampire Slayer on DVD. This guy was enamored and beholden to the dom and did everything she told him too as Irena and I watched on. "Get on your knees" she said, barely paying attention to him; and he did. "Smack yourself" she said indifferently; and he did. . .hard. "Lie on your back between my legs and stick out your tongue", again; he did as he was bid. With her legs spread above him, the dom squatted down as if to piss on him. . .and used his mouth as an ashtray for her cigarette. The old dude was LOVING it. . .I was disgusted.

Look, God bless whatever makes some fat dude in a Foghat concert t-shirt happy outside of a bar. But all I could think about as this beautiful Ukrainian woman stood beside me, was "there, but for the grace of God, go I." How many more fruitless internet dates will I go on before I become this man? How many years before my search becomes too tiring, before my patience gives out and I fold my loneliness inside a cocoon of desperation? Will my failures force me to give up as this man has obviously done? To become cuckold at the thought of humiliation just to have the attentions of a woman? Have I been doing this all along, although not to this extreme? Just then a homeless man tapped me on the shoulder and brought me back to reality. "Can I have a smoke?" he asked. "GIT the fuck outta here!" I lashed out hiding my fear behind anger. Irena and I went back inside as I tried to shake off the dystopian feeling of dread that the sight of that man lying on his back with a cigarette butt poking out of his mouth, brought on within me.

Irena and I left Exit at around 2AM and she drove me back to my car. On the way, I told her to pull over and she did, parallel parking on a narrow city street. Maybe it was the fat guy outside of Exit, or maybe it was just her voice and how the street lights reflected off the rearview mirror into her eyes. . .but I had to kiss her. I couldn't wait one second more to feel her in my mouth, to touch her face, to peel back the layers of indecision which have always plagued me and reveal the man I want, fuck. . .NEED to be. This was my stand, and this was the woman I wanted to make that stand with.

To Irena, I'm sure it was just a kiss; another handsy fat guy making a clumsy pass at her on a starless city night. But to me it was more, it was proof that I wasn't that guy, it was proof that I still had a chance; with her, with ANYBODY. And as she kissed me back, my soul bloomed like a flower. Not out of love or desire, but it was a proud moment of grabbing life by the horns and making it suck my cock. Making 'Life' suck my cock by the way. . .I'm not NEARLY bold enough to have pushed Irena's head into my lap.

After a while, she drove us back to my car and parked behind it. While we sat there under the city street lights casting their cold lonely glow on empty sidewalks and store fronts, Irena began to reveal to me snippets of her life; never divulging too much information and explaining that away to my frustration as a fear of getting close to someone by letting them too deeply into her life. Unfortunatly. . .this just made me want her more. I'll be honest, I was a tad drunk still, but I remembered her telling me that she was married and that her husband had left her, moving back to the Ukraine three years ago. Jesus. . .what kind of pussy was THIS guy getting that he left HER? As is usually the case, the battle of sleepiness waged on within my body, bringing out a more slap happy and silly Mike. My conversation topics became more bold and the subject of sex soon came up. Irena told me that she'd never fucked an American which actually put a bit of pressure on me as the hopeful future American ambassador to her vagina. Then, after I'd made a joke about condoms. . .Irena dropped a bomb. "I do not like for man to wear condom". . .MARRY ME!

I hate condoms. . .HATE them. To be honest though, I would have NO issue wearing one if they came in MORE than TWO fucking sizes; 'slightly above average' and "AH! GOZIRRA!". I mean, if 90 percent of men's dinguses are average, why do ALL condoms overshoot the size 'medium'? And you know what's TRULY sad, NONE of us can complain because that would be ADMITTING that we're average! I call for ALL men to complain, 14 dudes on the planet have a HUGE cock so why am I suffering from LCPS (Loose fitting condom syndrome) just so THEY can fit comfortably into these airport wind testers? It's embarrassing when every fucking sexual experience I have ends the same way; with me fumbling 3 fingers deep inside her vagina looking for the condom that fell off like I'm trying to find car keys that fell under the couch. My only other option is to wear one of those thumb rubbers that people who sew use. And there's nothing more awkward than when I have to ask the chick at the Wal-Mart pharmacy while wearing a trench coat, hat and sunglasses and disguising my voice; "Yah. . .uh, can I get a gross of those Tom Thumb rubbers?" And then she looks at me like I just said "Can I stick my finger in your asshole" and sais "WHAT?" super loud. Then I have to say "Sorry, I mean Magnums, just gimme the Magnums. . .a gross of them, I'm gonna fuck a lot" Then she smiles and daintily goes to get them while I stand there dreading my next three finger Jacque Cousteau excursion into the cape of lost Trojans. I mean what man can buy anything BUT magnums? They need to either STOP making them, or STOP hiring hot chicks to work the checkout counter at places that sell condoms. Not wanting to wear a condom is why I've become SUCH a good bullshitter over the years. I'm like Kurt Russell in Used Cars with birth control. I'm a human 'the pill' pamphlet.

That being said, I ALWAYS wear condoms because of a certain event that took place in my life back in '98. So if you'll allow me to, I'd like to pause the story of the beautiful Irena for a moment, and share with you this haunting tale of STD's and loose women, think of it as a flashback if you will.

For those of you who read my six part auto biographical series titled "Heroland", you'll remember the tale of Action Jim and Sara A. It was a sordid affair to be sure; one which started because Action Jim took advantage of my indecision. . .however, there's a little more to that story. If you'll recall, I fooled around with Sara A., but never fucked her; opting only for oral stimulation as I tried to decide if I could deal with her as a 'girlfriend'. Action Jim seized an opportunity to fuck Sara A. after he brought her, uninvited, to a party I was attending. Sara A. got drunk and Action Jim drove her home. . .making a pit stop at a hotel to bang her; taking the decision of whether or not I could DATE Sara A., out of my hands.

About a week after I learned the truth of their drunken one night stand. Sara A. came to my mother's condo crying, and told me that she had Chlamydia. She didn't know if she got it from ME or from Action Jim. . .so just to be safe, she told me, we should both get tested. I didn't know what the fuck Chlamydia was, but it sounded nasty. I was pretty sure it was Action Jim because he'd banged more skanks than Scott Baio at a Playboy Bunny party where the hors devours are just roofies. But just to be sure. . .we both needed to piss into a cup, or so I thought. Man, the things we don't know in our youth, huh?

I called Action Jim and although he wasn't any happier about the situation than I was, he agreed to go with me to the Markham courthouse's free sex clinic. First of all, never go to a 'FREE' anything in the basement of a courthouse. Free Hoot-a nanny, free cookie class, free 'how to make a rainbow come out of your ass' seminar. . .It's ALL bad in the basement of a courthouse. At the free courthouse basement clinic just remember that you're gonna have your dork out of your pants about 30 feet away from a jail cell holding a man who's been booked on suspicion of raping a badger.

When we got there, the FIRST thing they made us do was disrobe. WHY? It's only my dick you're interested in, not EVEN my dick, but what comes OUT of my dick. I can't go into a bathroom and piss into a jar or something? No. We had to take our clothes off. As it turned out, no matter WHAT you're at the clinic for, you're getting an A.I.D.S. test. No choice, they're taking blood. Fine. I went through that.

Then they sent me into another room, past the waiting room in a fucking paper nighty. I had to do a 'walk of shame' past some of the meanest black women and scary looking black men I'd ever seen. I got to the door and pushed it open. At a desk a few feet into the room sat a disheveled and disinterested Indian man writing some notes on a pad of paper. I could tell that the ONLY reason that guy was there was because he was convicted of stealing a police boat or harvesting organs and he could either do community service as the dick doctor at the Markham Courthouse Basement Sex Clinic, or be in a cell next to the badger fucker. Either way, this guy was NOT into his job.

I walked up to the desk, holding the back of my paper nighty closed so the nurse in the room couldn't see my fat ass, and the Indian doctor told me come closer. He told me in a threatening voice, with a heavy Indian accent, without looking up at me "Don't just stand there, lift it up." This is an awkward situation for ANY man to find himself in, but wanting to get it over with, I did as I was told. Now, I had NO fucking clue what was going on here. Nobody told me what an STD test consisted of. I genuinely thought I was just supposed to piss in a cup; and as the doctor took my cock in his cold rubber gloved hand, I assumed he was just going to examine it, maybe laugh at it a little. As he brought his face close to the tip of my dick, he reached over to his side without looking, and grabbed what I thought was a coat rack beside his desk when I first walked in. I started to say "what are you gonna do with. . .." when he made a concentrated face like a man straining to take a particularly nasty shit, and JAMMED this canoe paddle into my pee hole.

Imagine trying to shit a hot air balloon out. This was the most fearsome pain I've ever felt in my life. I let out a scream. . .silent at first as all the air had rushed out of my lungs. I sounded like Costello when he's trying to tell Abbot that he saw a ghost (hehpepep-hehpepep-a ghhhhghhhhghhh, a ghhhhghhhhghhhh hehpepep) Then as I inhaled I let out a loud and screechy scream like a thousand twelve year old girls with freshly skinned knees being concentrated into a bull horn that's hooked up to speakers stacked on top of every sky scraper in New York City. Action Jim told me later that when they heard that scream, half the people in the waiting room threw down their 'Jet' magazines, said "Fuck THIS.", and broke the fuck out of that place.

As I screamed, I grabbed the doctor's shoulder and clenched with the p.s.i. of an alligator bite. The doctor, in pain himself now, RIPPED the cotton tipped softball bat out of my cock. This was even MORE excruciating. He pulled it out so fast that he gave me a rug burn inside my urethra. I couldn't piss for 3 days after. I dropped to the ground like someone just took a switchblade to my Achilles tendon. The nurse and a security guard came into the room and dragged me out on my knees as my balls dragged along the cold tiled floor while still clutching my recently skewered cock, through the now half empty waiting room and into the room where I'd disrobed earlier.

I got dressed and sat down to wait for the results. Jim, apparently unfazed by HIS experience, sat next to me after a while. He must have a urethra with a six inch diameter because he seemed positively refreshed. We waited for about an hour when the nurse finally called us back to the examination room. As Jim and I uncomfortably shuffled our feet on the floor, the nurse stood there ignoring us and writing into her notepad. I broke the silence and asked her "so which one of us has it?" She looked up at us, with 50's style nurse Ratchet glasses, and said "Oh, there's no way to tell if MEN have Chlamydia, there're no symptoms in men, they just carry it. So take this pill just in case and you'll be fine."

"What the fuck?" I said as Action Jim and I looked at each other in shock. "So I didn't HAVE to have a baton from 'American Gladiators' shoved up my dick hole by Dr. Hindu Giggles in there?" The nurse put her pad down and told us that in order for us to get the pill, we had to be tested. FUCKING State run shit. Is it ever easy? How the fuck can people sleep at night knowing that they're MAKING a man take a pummel horse up his cock hole for a non narcotic pill that they could gave JUST fucking given him when he walked in?

As it turned out, Sara A. simply had a yeast infection. . .and she KNEW she only had a yeast infection. But because she was bitter at me for ignoring her advances after she fucked Action Jim, and mad at Action Jim for having fucked her. . .she concocted a story to get revenge on us both. Crazy bitch. (By the way, if you DIDN'T read about Action Jim and Sara A. in "Heroland", he didn't rape her or anything that night, what he did was MIND rape her for the five years they dated soon after this event.)

Anyway, because of that incident, and because I NEVER want be subjected to urethral rape again. . .I ALWAYS wear a condom, as much as I hate them. But from what I could tell, Irena had only been with ONE man in eleven years. . .and if she preferred that I didn't wear a rain coat on my dingus? Well, I'm only a gentleman after all. I have to oblige a lady.

Rod Serling: One time in a million, a coin will land on its edge, but all it takes to knock it over is a vaginal breeze, a gust of pussy or a trembling blow job. Michael A. hempen, a human coin, on edge for too long. . .in the Friend zone.

(If you liked this episode of The Friend Zone, let me know and I'll send you a link to the 3 season, 9 episode story on my blog.)
Say Something.

[17th May 2012|12:15pm]
kidsos. we are your friends. sebastian ingrosso. until one
Say Something.

[blue] [16th May 2012|02:07am]
eiffel 65

Say Something.

[urbanplanningsmall and large] [13th May 2012|02:03am]
hapax legonemon
[a chapter onlight
nycaidsmemorial camera lucida,obscura, periscope
periscope(letting light into dark areas) detail study]
[a study on sound
whispering chamber

the book will be the infinity symbol with hapax in the middle, where the infinity sign touches the book will tie ideas back to each other and at the end
Say Something.

[12th May 2012|09:07am]
It takes courage to grow up and become who you really are.
e.e. cummings
Say Something.

[11th May 2012|02:06pm]
Never say goodbye
because goodbye means going away
and going away means forgetting
- peter pan

Love grows by giving. The love we give away is the only love we keep. The only way to retain love is to give it away.
-- Elbert Hubbard
Say Something.

[here we go] [11th May 2012|03:33am]
Prove yourself
You are the move you make
Take your chances win or loser

See yourself
You are the steps you take
You and you - and that's the only way

Shake - shake yourself
You're every move you make
So the story goes

Owner of a lonely heart
Owner of a lonely heart
Much better than - a
Owner of a broken heart
Owner of a lonely heart
Say - you don't want to chance it
You've been hurt so before

Watch it now
The eagle in the sky
How he dancin' one and only
You - lose yourself
No not for pity's sake
There's no real reason to be lonely
Be yourself
Give your free will a chance
You've got to want to succeed
Owner of a lonely heart
Owner of a lonely heart
Much better than - a
Owner of a broken heart
Owner of a lonely heart

Owner of a lonely heart

After my own decision
They confused me so
My love said never question your will at all
In the end you've got to go
Look before you leap
And don't you hesitate at all - no no
Owner of a lonely heart
Owner of a lonely heart

Owner of a lonely heart
Owner of a lonely heart
Much better than - a
Owner of a broken heart
Owner of a lonely heart

Owner of a lonely heart
Sooner or later each conclusion
Will decide the lonely heart
It will excite it will delight
It will give a better start

Owner of a lonely heart
Owner of a lonely heart

Don't deceive your free will at all
Don't deceive your free will at all
Don't deceive your free will at all
Just receive it

Owner of a lonely heart
Say Something.

[9th May 2012|06:51pm]
Do the right thing. It will gratify some people and astonish the rest.
Mark Twain

Design is not making beauty, beauty emerges from selection, affinities, integration, love.
Louis Kahn
Say Something.

[alone with everyone] [4th May 2012|12:44am]
the flesh covers the bone
and they put a mind
in there and
sometimes a soul,
and the women break
vases against the walls
and the men drink too
and nobody finds the
but keep
crawling in and out
of beds.
flesh covers
the bone and the
flesh searches
for more than

there's no chance
at all:
we are all trapped
by a singular

nobody ever finds
the one.

the city dumps fill
the junkyards fill
the madhouses fill
the hospitals fill
the graveyards fill

nothing else
Say Something.

[t.s. eliot] [4th May 2012|12:34am]
Macavity's a Mystery Cat: he's called the Hidden Paw--
For he's the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He's the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad's despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there's no on like Macavity,
He's broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime--Macavity's not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air--
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity's not there!

Macavity's a ginger cat, he's very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he's half asleep, he's always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macavity,
For he's a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square--
But when a crime's discovered, then Macavity's not there!

He's outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard's.
And when the larder's looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke's been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair--
Ay, there's the wonder of the thing! Macavity's not there!

And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty's gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair--
But it's useless of investigate--Macavity's not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
"It must have been Macavity!"--but he's a mile away.
You'll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there's no one like Macacity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibit, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place--MACAVITY WASN'T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!
Say Something.

[The end brings new beginnings.] [30th April 2012|01:20am]
?Here's what I think, Mr. Wind-Up Bird," said May Kasahara. "Everybody's born with some different thing at the core of their existence. And that thing, whatever it is, becomes like a heat source that runs each person from the inside. I have one too, of course. Like everybody else. But sometimes it gets out of hand. It swells or shrinks inside me, and it shakes me up. What I'd really like to do is find a way to communicate that feeling to another person. But I can't seem to do it. They just don't get it. Of course, the problem could be that I'm not explaining it very well, but I think it's because they're not listening very well. They pretend to be listening, but they're not, really. So I get worked up sometimes, and I do some crazy things.?
? Haruki Murakami, The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle
Say Something.

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