Girls & Monsters

I wanna write about monsters but end up writing about girls. Again. "I dunno, maybe they're the sa—" "Oh how dare you!" cuts in another.

The Song's Working Title Was "Why Did It Die?"

Though I might try I can not write what was just recently thrown away. First it must drown. Rot. Suffer. Decay. Wither in absence of the one who let go. Then I'll gaze at that death preserved, some voodoo shrunken head at which I can piss on in great relief.

Until I tinkle, in apropos of the current hurt (yay) I'll leave it best to the Beatles to sing For No One.

Once Best Friend

This song was written upon request. She's a good friend; I happily obliged. The theme is hers. JBoy taught me the chorus chords just yesterday morning. Verse chords are part of my fondly go-to's.

Strum -> Gibberish -> Strum -> Wordflow -> Strum -> Write down -> Strum w/Words -> Done

The throat is a wreck caught from a house sharing sickness. Open the windows yo, drink some [gin &?] juice. Yeahm I like mah teas. But for now, this recording stands.

Once Best Friend

Were best friends

We know this

To go across, it must end

Our time line

it unwinds

though I loved you I too must live

Can't be there

If you're not there

Deeper than what I wanted

So Stateside

My plane ride

I find a life worth living

You know, you know

you're too far away

from me, from me

To be together

So go, so go

and leave me be

alone, alone

Tears shed

I'm wasted

But they won't fill an ocean

I just crossed

So instead

I move on right on ahead

You play games

once best friend

But I've already gone ahead

Here Stateside

I live life

Without one love I once had

You know, you know

you're too far away

from me, from me

To be together

So go, so go

and leave me be

alone, alone

'Cause I'm happy

Without you I'm already happy

Out with the Video, In with the Prose

With the Tellybox up on the home page, I've decided to take down the "Video" tab. There's no need for it now with a YouTube playlist embed showcasing a bunch of videos all available on one screen and should I singsong in front of a camera again, I could just put it up there. In its place is a "Prose" tab that will link to some past writing focused on prose pieces. These were lost through posts then months in a year  under a daunting blog archive and it was a cumbersome affair to find a particular bit of writing that I personally thought might be an interesting read. Not anymore. Now you can simply see a set of titles on a page and click on something that might catch your eye.

I looked back to what I wrote on my old MySpace blog looking for one entry about a car ride that I wanted to add to the prose page. Found it (read it here). While searching I also found others that were engaging, to my surprise. Now they too are linked all under "Offsite Selections". They're weird and angry. Crude and sad. Sometimes funny. I read a few of the entries. It's strange to meet your past self's emotions grocery packed in sentences. Watching the reel go back on times forgotten is like viewing a foreign movie, subtitled to help you along -- oh, that's what it means! -- but still, it's a different area with different people doing different things.

Strange things

See for yourself, along with the usual mess here at He Who Lacks, in prose.



on a side note: The blog system on MySpace blows, organization consisting of throwing everything at you in one lump sum. Hard to believe there was a time when I refused to move my blogging activities from there, with MySpace as the one and only blog. Currently? I no longer post on MySpace. It's all but abandoned.

Of a Record Keeper

Since Sunday my computer has been sitting out. Faulty charger. That's twice. Though I burn creative it is kept achingly cool by the lack of a record keeper. I am sullen with the realization that I can't commit to concrete the thoughts that still run in my head. Computer down, know it. Computer down.

I Walk Around This Life Frightened

I walk around this life frightened

Absolutely frightened

Of the things I put forth and

don't receive in kind return

Of the sweet girl for whom I hurrah'd

But answered back with a nuh-uh!!

Of the eyes open when I wake

Seeing another god damn day

Of committing an act in innocence

But am seen as a complete terrorist

Of uncomfortably wearing a chipper mood

So as not to distress the party

Of looking in the mirror, horrified

by the broken, ugly mess before me

Of checking the wallet embarrassingly

For cash I do not have (but plenty of fucking coins)

Of wearing what I wear but knowing full well

You can't hide living 300 pound shit

Of being called out by someone

"Yes, you are a worthless bum"

Of not yet having shot myself

With the revolver in the closet

Of not being the success that my friends are

Yes, yes so successful they are

Of crying the apparent woe

When truth is I just suck

Of wasting time typing words

I foolishly think will live beyond me

I walk around this life frightened

Absolutely frightened

I am absolutely frightened

Xxplosive Possibility

"Hello lady. My name is Justin Fernandez. Oh you like what I'm wearing? You know I make it do what it do. Oh the pimp cane? That's for regulation purposes and hopefully I need not use it on you, darling. You are . . . a nice girl, right?"

[This is what I'd say if my public social confidence equaled the swagger I have typing away word after word after word after . . .]

Yowza. hah . . .

Memory for Memory

Do know to be experiencing these fine times there is a connected concern that such memories may move out what I need to remember most: That Santa Barbara Sound.

A Volunteer at the Ball

I haven't the juevos to actually do it but I've been playing with the idea of posting a particularly lewd Facebook Status:

I don't see such statements on Facebook (not with people I'm connected with anyways) and figure it would be a good laugh. What reactions would I get? If any? Does it matter? Maybe the point is: Facebook is all a front, yeah? What people put up on their accounts is what they want everyone to see them as? That's easy enough. To post a status update like that throws a wrench in the system of that masked perception. It's like some Grand Ball where everyone tries to look their best. But you know what? "I am not what you see. I am me - despite what my profile says." Or doesn't say. I'm at the Ball as well. My tuxedo and shiny shoes consists of not filling in "education information" and "work information." I am by many definitions a bum and I'm being coy about it on Facebook. Watch me take a bow.

Yes I realize the "volunteer" comment is a reflection of me. Admitted. Certainly the idea behind the statement isn't wholly embraced within myself but it's an aspect that exists or relates, however minuscule.

So who am I?

Not what you think you know.

It's past midnight, Cinderella.

There are many things I have kept from writing. Things of a similar vain to that seen above. They are amusements - just like everything I write - amusements nuh-uh PG-13. My mind has been dancing ballroom steps to the rhythm of "do I or don't I?" I stuttered on a step once because the moment was there and it stayed there when I left it.

You're welcome. Enjoy your fruit punch.

Now let's move on . . .

but do I or don't I?

Since Recorded, Not Forgotten Strum Strum Strum!!

I recorded some strummy junk last night thinking "Aye, it could work."

I listened to it this morning and you know what?

"Aye, it could work." =)

Woohoo!!

I'm gonna have to slam lyrics on the newfound strum, yayo.

Gosh darn it, I checked past recent recordings and found that I backburner'd two worthwhile strummy bits. Gonna have to pick up and find something to write with those two, yoohoo.

Writing songs?!

Here we go!!! 8P

The Man Who Came To Write

What is writing to me?

It is both friend & enemy.

It is the di di mau,

the gun to the head.

It is the rescue chopper

flying over head.

Tortured, I scream

"Them damn rats

gone eat my legs."

Write

I wither as withered,

better to pen cripple

than to get bet on

with a 'volver to the head.

BOOM!

I am not (yet) dead.

Still I write,

I write

of being (when) dead.

BOOM!

I am not (no) dead.

Yes I write,

I write

of living a life

sentence.

For write do I do

'Tis the voice

I

may or may not have.

Just read these words

and learn me

and learn what life is seen

through the di di mau

now slowed down,

for it is written.

I write.

I am not yet dead.

So friend.

So enemy.

In my stead.

Exist beyond the simple touch of pen.

What is writing to me?

It is to live

beyond

being dead.

So friend.

So enemy.

Go on.

Eat my mind's legs.

Go ahead.

Rescue thought chopper

fly overhead.

Both matter not

for I write.

And it is written.

And it is written.

BOOM!

I am not (will never be) dead.

Go Fly Good Deed

For she departs this night yet I am not on the same flight. To the Philippines she flies. The original plan destroyed by a now known LIE. Let it now be KNOWN TO ALL that yes oh yes this was to be the night of my return to where I am truly happy and that through tears were words said that were all but promised, words that would bring me back to my mind's fortune. As tears dry and are forgotten so are the pat-pat good deed possibilities offered by men. Or mothers.

'Tis easy to say that good will be done.

But proven on this night.

Proven on this missed flight.

Proven by what I now fucking write . . .

to commit to the good deed said shows the true nature of a man. Or mother.

To break the good deed all but promised shows the deteriorated nature of a man. Or mother.

Let it be KNOWN TO ALL that YES this was to be the night of my return flight to my mind's fortune.

Keep in mind folks these words of how to commit to the good deed:

Say what you mean and mean what you say.

Life on a lie is a lie of a life.



Now who the fuck are you?

Have you promised to make one fly? Or do you tease the mere chance of flight and laugh at crushed hope? Crush on you fucking cunts for I NOW KNOW there indeed exists . . .

PEOPLE MORE BROKEN THAN I.

For I WRITE what I mean and mean what I WRITE
Although I am not on this night's flight
When I write
I FLY, FLY, FLY!

And you can't crush that.

Neither man.

Nor mother.

Fuckers.

Where ever you are. Where ever you may be. Enjoy your flight.

Pick Jacker-Upper Writes 3

Hi and hello, Lackeys.

Sunday, Monday, Tuesday saw the birth of 3 - count 'em THREE! - new songs. They are (in the daily order written):

Kumamaru (a.k.a. Pretty Mindball Breaker)

Pulelehua Moke

Be Wary o ye Bridge Jumper

Yes they were recorded immediately after the basic structure was set for the sake of remembering. My memory is so shot that if I sweep the floor or eat a bag of Cheetos or some other non-consequential activity I'll forget how the song is actually played. The rhythm is lost. As is the melody. The post-forgotten strumming is a mad kah-chuck, kah-chucking! in desperation to find what was lost. My face gets contorted,

I stomp a foot. A few "Ah fucks" are thrown around. Don't bring all the little childins around when I lose a song . . . it ain't PG. =P

Now on to strumming. In the release of frustrations to the intended tune the process goes from brain (garr!) down to the arm (jahh!) to the fingers (hahhh!) to pick to string (ARGHH!). So string is strung and the bomb is out. I don't claim to play the guitar. Nope. I strum the guitar. Yup.

And I tend to strum hard.

The red pick to the left is what a "normal" guitar pick looks like. The pink guitar pick to the right is what is left after a couple of weeks of strum-diggity-cha-cha ARGHH! Whittled away, bombed out degraded, the pink plucky is left with a sad, sore stub. It is so short that sometimes the fingernail on my index finger catches a string and is pulled away in ragged pain during a hard chugging rhythm. Yow. What's the opposite of the joyous expression Woohoo? Hoowoo . . . that's it. Fingernail tearing is Hoowoo.

So three more songs down, more stuff written. All is well. Aside from the cold overcast weather. I want to be lounging outside in the backyard again with the bright, warm sun shining upon my fat, flabby ass and my favorite music rushing loudly out of the playroom speakers.

"Come on SUN! Out wit it, mang!!"

Those clouds are total assholes.

To Do Oh To Do

There's a a life to live when there are things to do.

Write ideas.

Write poetry.

Write stories.

Write songs.

Corresponding and connecting with various persons.

Contributing to a greater whole.

These are the things that I do. C'est la vie. Woohoo!!

The NOTES: [042811] Capitol Drive-In Flea Market

In lieu of not pumping out a proper piece about today's flea market a-go-go, I've present to you The NOTES written down about what I remembered about the morning walkabout amongst used and not-so-used items. This is actually the third consecutive trip I've been smacked enough ideas to write a ditty about. So here it is: Flea Market the Third.

Mark Eliot

-----Told him he reminds me of Maynard James Keenan

Mark Johnson

(5'8" baseball cap dark green shirt/jeans/sneakers)

(Dad Johnson was an awesome glider pilot, once interviewed by Pat Sajak)

-----Frank Zappa

---Bought his print copy of Zappa drawing

---200 Motels

---Saw him perform: one recent/ one hidden intermittent in the shadows with Jimmy Carl Black

-----Horror movies the local tv horror show

-----

-----Wacky movies

---Firesign Theater

--J-Men

--Nick Cage

---The Monkees movie Head

---Ernie Kovacs

---Woody Allen's "What's Up, Tiger Lily?

---Things To Come (bought by sunglassed,capped mexican guy with daughter)

---W.C. Fields!! NEVER GIVE A SUCKER AN EVEN BREAK

Two college kids

----- sold me an acoustic guitar

-----one short-haired (buzz) caucasian/ other a curly-haired slightly toasted tanned dude who owned the guitar

Pretty girls

----- 3 filipina siblings

-----6'5" slender long-haired blonde with slightly shorter brunette pretty friend

----- 5'3" fair vietnamese girl wearing a military green cardigan and thick black eyeglass frames

Alone Writing for a Change

"While everyone else was out I was changing the world."

-- Leonard Lacking

The 20th Blog Post Achieved on April 2011

I've just now seen that I've been more productive writing-wise in this April month of 2011 than I have been in my previously most productive years - 2008 and 2011.

Year 2008 ---------- 19 posts

Year 2010 ---------- 19 posts

APRIL 2011 -------- 20 posts

What is the record-breaking topic to mark the 20th succesful run?

The Death Nostalgia.

A rather somber post about offing myself. Celebrate.

I truly am Lacking.

[. . . LOOP] The East Side Circus Presents: Clown & Toothless! [LOOP . . .]

I was in the backyard photoshopping J Buddha's picture. The weather was chilly but the sun was out and I tried to take in as much as I could of the yellow glory. Took a look at the green grass, and the vision of it pops, never failing to perk my mind. Out through the backyard door soon teetered and stumbled a Drunken Clown, a rising smoke-massive lit cigarette held between his bullshit lips, one hand holding a phone to his ear to hear feedback on his bullshit and in the other hand a bullshit-enhancing beer can.

Keystone Light: The Choice For All Moronic Alcoholics.

It's like steroids except instead of making you bigger and better it makes you less comprehensible and far more irritating. If you drink enough of the stupid-water - overdose - you just might piss yourself silly. Proof? This Drunken Clown has the stains to show for it. For multiple occasions.

If you sit on the brown long couch where the Clown sleeps at night you've just been inducted as a proud new member of the "I Got Drunken Clown Piss All Over My Ass" Club.

Congratulations. Being a member of I.G.D.C.P.A.O.M.A. is far more prestigious than going to the Mystery Spot of Santa Cruz. Sorry, there aren't bumper stickers yet available but feel free to take an empty semi-crushed beer can with you on your way out.

There are plenty.

In the backyard I was taking notice of the Clown stumbling his way over to a chair over to the right of me. I kept on photoshopping, not wanting the stench of beer sweats to drown me out of my creative endeavor. The J Buddha picture was in its final clicks. I looked at it thinking she won't be content with it but oh well, art is a subjective matter. J Buddha has seen the pictures on my Facebook and that's that. The process of clicking through to find the image is enough reason for me to do it and was very enjoyable indeed. Drunken Clown sat and continued his bitching and moaning and bullshitting to whomever was unfortunate enough to be on the receiving end. It was the Clown's aunt, poor thing. Drunken Clown bitched on and on and on about how much of a fuck-up his Toothless Meth-Head brother was, telling of a story about how Toothless went to the Philippines to continue being a complete fuck-up over there, completely fucking up his sister's and mistress' lives in tandem.

I, ever enraged by the simple mention of the addict apparent, chimed into Clown's dissertation on Toothless' Shabu Adventures in the Pearl of the Orient, to which he claimed Toothless Meth-Head was better off on U.S. soil . . .

"Well he was a total fuck-up here in the States too. He's a fuck-up there? He's a fuck-up everywhere" I reply, disgusted.

The Drunken Clown heard this and stumble-spun in his chair facing me.

"SHUT UP" the Clown said with a face of sluggish unease, too sluggish, impaired to give a decent expression. You know? Like the kind sober people can contribute? Or the kind that toddlers are able to portray?

There is no pause and I answer him straight "Well I was the one out here first if you don't like it go somewhere else."

Go be a Drunken Clown elsewhere.

I hear the Philippines is a nice place for fuck-ups.

The Clown no-sold it and continued with the bitching over the phone. Toothless this and Toothless that. Yes, I already know how thoroughly shabu-addicted Toothless and another brother - Magic Meth-Head - really are. So much so that they dollar-vulture every home with the same surname. Some bums beg for money. Other bums have complacent family members.

I prepped my computer, cane and tea [you know damn sure why I drink tea instead of . . .] to go back inside the playroom where my beloved music emanated from. A personally-created playlist entitled "Dig It" played on through shelf speakers. What is the source? An mp3 player that I cherish, containing feelings and memories I felt in absence of the the important life skill of socializing with people, in my long and still on-going time without friends. You have your buddies and I have the Typical Cats. You've got a night out with friends and I've just written a Cliche.

Minutes later I made my way to the kitchen where the Drunken Clown now sat at the dinner table, still bitching and bullshitting to the poor old lady aunt on the other end of the line. Clown looked me with a shit-faced smile and said

"OOhhkay . . . one more. .! . .?" referring to me retrieving for him another can of bullshit-enhancer from the garage fridge. He's easily over 5 cans in.

I stand stoic.

I stand stoic and tell him, "Nope, no more. I'm not gonna do it."

If Drunken Clown wants to overdose and further bless the holy piss couch with pure fuckin' alcohol stumble-flying from his flaccid nicotine & diabetic-debilitated penis he can do it of his own accord. There's NO way I'll be there for the assist.

I'd rather go to Mystery Spot. What is it like over there? I've never been. Does it stink of beer sweats like

[Whoa! Time-out! . . . I just scrolled up to check my writing and with what I saw I instantly realize that I am seeing the very same image, same few seconds in a dream I had nearly a year ago!!! I saw myself writing this exact piece! Okay. Play ball. Spiritual Freak-Out Time over.]

the home-base of the I.G.D.C.P.A.O.M.A. Club?

I rounded my way towards the kitchen and looked at Nick the Slick & Donna-Ninja's water bowl out of habit making sure their bowls are filled. There was water in the bowl but to drive the point home I picked up the water bowl and mentioned "Nick, you need more water" then proceeded to replenish it with fresh H2O.

What is the point?

I would rather serve water to a dog than to serve alcohol to an alcoholic.

Soon after I went back into the playroom where my treasured music and super-important-write-write-station netbook computer was located.

I sat down, logged on to my blogger.com account and began typing . . .

I was in the backyard photoshopping J Buddha's picture. The weather was . . .

A Writer's Joy

For the past couple of weeks I've been content; sadness kicked out the door those 2 weeks ago, kicked by the boots of writing and perhaps because of the cookie as well. It is a strange thing to see this world through different eyes. I've pulled a 180. What frowns that kept me down since leaving the Philippines 3 years ago are now replaced by motivations to do something great. Grand. Glorious.

I wish to write more. Oh so more.

May I keep the wondrous vision I currently possess and not be dragged down by the demons of darker days.

Amen . ? . . .

Bukowski on Writing

Charles Bukowski

"What do you do? How do you write, create?" You don't, I told them. You don't try. That's very important: not to try, either for Cadillacs, creation or immortality. You wait, and if nothing happens, you wait some more. It's like a bug high on the wall. You wait for it to come to you. When it gets close enough you reach out, slap out and kill it. Or if you like its looks you make a pet out of it."





I need something to slap. There are a couple of topics to tackle but beyond that? Who knows. A man without a life is a man with nothing to write. Bukowski had his drudgery, I got shit.