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Valentines Day

I bitch and moan about a thousand missed opportunities for love. Scornful and filled with an awkward mixture of Sake and cheap beer, I involuntarily sway to the orchestrated stomping of several black girls towards the end of the platform. They create a storm of rhythm that even the old white man in his 60s cannot resist, grabbing his sweetheart for a late night dance. I move towards the impromptu step group.

“Excuse me, I'm with the noise complaint division of the MTA...” I trail off, letting them marinate in fear for a moment. I can't keep a straight face as they stare at me in horror.

“Just kidding,” I finally offer them.

Relief washes over the group and they laugh louder than they were stomping. I wander away thinking to myself, "Did I really look like a figure of authority?

On Analog Beauty

What about the girl who has a high-definition camera studying her skin like a microscope? Can we expect to have rational females in our lives that live with this curse hanging over them?

In the Analog era, in a time of restraint and physicality, their was a limit to how much we could see. One might say it was enough. But as we blindly march forth under the false notion of technological advancement (Blu-Ray, HD, Digital TV, etc), our expectations of real have become unreal.

On Mass Culture

To hell with mass culture, the term itself has no relevance in an age of niche markets and consumer controlled entertainment. Moreover, psychologically it (along with consumer electronics) encourage us to consume more, when we need to be consuming right.

Why don't we need mass culture? Why is it bad for our cultural health? It, like a massive battleship, is too burdened with itself to move quickly enough to address dire local issues. It crushes the beating heart of New York that needs to find expression.

It overlooks the dangers--and the beauty that stands outside our souls. Mass Culture does not serves us. It serves a nebulous bottom line of internationally held media conglomerates.

Analog Stoicism #1

Analog Culture puts people back in touch with the good things in life the digital age has clouded. It's inherent physicality keeps us grounded in reality in a world polluted by artificiality. The crackling scratch of vinyl against needle, the creak of light impressing upon film, and the snap of a typekey against paper--these seemingly mundane actions are anchors telling our brain that what we are doing is undeniably real.

Given the barrage of messages and visual stimuli we are confronted with daily, the distinction between falsification and truth (which is at the heart of any philosophical discourse) becomes dire.

- The Commodore


I stay up 'til Seven
Go to Sleep at One
Struggle to keep my eyes open,
and feel like a bum.

I drink bristol creme
and It tastes too sugary sweet,
but its all I can afford
to give solace a treat.

Apathetic Lesbians

A few more swigs of Jim Beam and a PBR later I notice two women enter who resemble Tegan and Sara. A short Italian man and his Indian companion attempt to make small talk but the duo dismiss them. The two men are commonly dressed and stand out amongst the deep v-neck tee shirts and pointy leather boots the other patrons wear. I wait a few moments to give the illusion that I'm uninterested in the dismissive women before trying my hand at penetrating their sapphic wall.

I approach the bar to order another drink and stand beside the two women that I believe to be a couple. They sip their cocktails without emotion and this perturbs me. Why so serious, my darlings?

“You guys look excited.” I observe, with a sheepish smile.

One simply turns her head to stare out the window and the other wordlessly stares at the apex of my flat top. They tacitly acknowledge one another's exasperation. Disgusted, the lesbians move to gather their belongings and leave having been hit on by three different men within 10 minutes of entering the bar.

I'm not bothered, but the distinct memory of having sex with a girl in Boston who now exclusively dates women flashes in my mind.

What a breed.

From the Diary of an Analog Bachelor by The Commodore