Kill Your Family

Who can I call at 3:18AM? Not that I have anything to talk about, but who will pick up? Why would they even pick up? People used to answer my calls in the middle of the night, especially before a cell phone could stop its ring with the push of a button.

Were my drunken calls more important than my calls of clarity? Maybe I would saw something more worthwhile than calling the person on the other end of the phone names and then asking them how they got this number, or slur some sexist or obscene epitaph before hanging up in their sleepy ear.

Not that I am much better. I barely answer my phone when it’s daytime. Unless it’s a really odd hour like 9AM or 11AM, then maybe I would answer just to pretend that I wasn’t sleeping.

This is the first movement in a larger overall piece.

This is a song & video I wrote, produced, performed, recorded, shot, directed, wardrobe-styled and edited about repeating the Third Grade from 11:22PM (09/01/08) until 4:47AM (09/02/08). I never actually had to repeat the Third Grade, but I think it’s apparent why I wrote it.

DJ Alder is on the faux-scratch emulator machine.

Directed by: The Whoopie Boys

Hank Senior

L. Cohen

I have to go away for a little while, maybe a long while. After 10 years of being here I’m leaving California, the Wild West, and I have nothing to say right now. I would like to find my very own famous blue raincoat since where I’m going it actually rains.

In the fourth Quarter of the Orwellian year of Anno Domini 1984, two competing films were released. They were both science fiction tales. One had a multi-million dollar budget. A world renowned author as both director and writer. A leading actor with credits spanning the past fifteen years and it also had a member of KISS in a co-starring role.

On the other hand, the corresponding film had a budget of less than 7 million dollars. A new writer/director attached and starred an ex-Champion body builder with few credits to his name.

Let us visit the trailers and let us guess which film reigned supreme in that year of our Lord, 1984.

I’m going to spend today with my Mum. Better than what I had planned. Well what I had planned did ALSO involve culture & working-out, but it also had some negative elements to my day.

On my drive home I felt inspired to write something tonight and then it left me. It was going to be one of those third person entries that people think is about me, but they aren’t. Sorry to disappoint or to lie if anyone truly believes it is about them or about me.

I pine for the future, a return to things that haven’t even happened yet. I don’t want to go back to the time when my cousin Dwayne and I were jumping on a trampoline and running about the neighborhood barefoot. I don’t want to go back to when his older brother Jason could still beat me up (he always did it with love). I don’t want to go back to High School. That time of great confusion and experimentation when I just grew my locks long and put up a front so less people would pick on me and more people would think I was cool. The time when I threw a rubbish tin at some idiot’s head in a fight. The time when I changed the way I dressed, so my Father would be at peace thinking no one would think I were a “gangsta” or a “thug” in the foreign state of California. I don’t even want to go back to the time when I really found out who I was, inside and out.

I just want the future. Give me the fucking rocket house, give me the meal-in-a-pill. Give me Judy Jetson. Give me Elroy. I would nurture his intelligence and keep the bullies away from him, so he could grow up into a witty, hyper-intelligent robot scientist who everyone wants at parties because when he gets drunk he sings old Bob Dylan songs he’s translated into Vulcan, shirtless on the hor’devour table hunching with the ice sculpture that my friend and I stole just to class this joint up. They’ll all chant, “Go, Elroy. Go, Elroy. Go, Elroy,” and I’ll know I did a good job. Astro will be long gone or maybe he’ll be a robot. I wouldn’t know.

Why did I learn to play the saxophone in the 90s? I missed my chance.

This was taken from Life magazine where the picture was first published in 1947. Evelyn McHale’s note read, “He is much better off without me … I wouldn’t make a good wife for anybody,” then she crossed out her own words and jumped to her death from atop the Empire State Building.

That is 102 stories of Art Deco architecture flown past eyes with tears in them and hands with flowers clutched tightly in them. Floors and windows darting past a body filled with emotion and surging with adrenaline. She landed with grace, beauty, peacefulness, and with not a hair out of place. She didn’t even get blood on her white gloves. She made her own sepulcher, except instead of stone she chose steel. Her eyes are closed as if in a dream and her mouth is open just slightly to release what remained of her soul into the sky.

She ripped her stockings and lost her shoes, but where she went she didn’t need shoes.

I found this in a drawer: ‘He’ writes from the future, “I know you wouldn’t have made a ‘good’ wife, Evelyn. You would’ve made the perfect wife. Your faults completed me as a person. Anywhere you faltered I felt completed by you and I felt my faults and strengths could hold you up as well.

After all of these years, I keep thinking how it would’ve been to spend the rest of my life with you. I miss you Evie. In an attempt to never lie to you again I must admit, on that day, all I could think was, ‘Does my car insurance cover this God awful mess?’ Then I sipped my Tom Collins. That I apologize for. I’m an asshole, in the most traditional sense. I also apologize for my vulgar words because you are and were always a lady. “

It’s all tumbling down and all he hears is the dirty talk. The talk of hope, change, sex, and drugs.

Blowing coke up the ass of a certain political candidate can’t be the only way to make a living. We need something better for ourselves. Something more gratifying than begrudgingly tip-toeing around the back window of a pet store, just to hear the breathing of a hundred animals as they sleep, wishing we could sleep with that much purity. Then when we do sleep, with our evilness, it’s for most of the day and part of the evening in intervals only partitioned for munching food…

If he had a tee ball bat he’d use it on that snotty girl at the bookstore. If she existed, he’d ask her, “Hey, yo, do you like have that one freakin’ book about, ummm, fuckin’ cars and shit?” Then she’d turn to snicker and he’d lay into her. The first three hits are the hardest to accomplish. The first one wasn’t even full strength, but it floored her. The second one made the beginnings of a Kadinsky painting about two feet away from her stupid skull. The third one is the kicker. That’s the one where the screaming turns into gurgling. That’s the one where her eyes open a third of the way. That’s the one where her face turns a precious shade of blue. That’s the one where her eyes can just be plucked from her arrogant face. After that he never bothered to even keep count. Who cares after the Holy Trinity of skull hits?

She’ll never dirty talk again. Her lips will never purse in that way. The way he knew meant sex…sex.

He didn’t check, but he hoped she wasn’t dead. He just wanted to hurt her as much as she hurt him, but he just couldn’t be as mentally taxing as she was, hence the bat.

1 Van
2 Friends Together
3 Body Building Trophies
4 Dollars
5 Pounds of Protein Powder
6 Pounds of Beef Jerky
7 Butler Poltergeists