Mixed Signals

"So you guys all work on the farm?"

The diverse crowd of young farmers, a term I never knew existed until I hooked up with one of them, stare at me flatly. I wasn't aware this was something you could study in college, let alone make a career of. The closest I'd been to farm life was a field trip in 2nd grade, but even then I was loathe to feed the unsanitary "cute" baby goats. One of the farmers speaks up.

"We work at different farms."

I pause for a moment, replay the inquiry in my mind, and realize how ridiculous it sounded.

"Ah, right, because there isn't one monolithic farm...that farmers...everywhere...collectively work at..."

They chuckle politely.

They're passionate about what they do, but their shortcoming lie in the fact that they can't relate it to the bigger picture. I indulge their conversations about fruits and berries, but I don't care. My sole interest is in fucking the girl with the athletes body. I excuse myself to go find her.

* * *

I stand on the balcony of the apartment with farmer girl.

“I don't want to send mix signals...” she says.

I'm under the impression we're out here to make out, but her averted eyes and trembling voice give the implication that the faggot she spent isolated moments with earlier was of some emotional consequence.

“I think you're great...”

Why is this whore that sucked my dick twice sitting here telling me we're just going to be friends. Why is my time being wasted? She rattles on with a few more euphemisms for, “I was drunk when we hooked up, it was a bad idea, I still want my boyfriend.” I tune out her apologetic soliliquoy and stare down at my car across the street making sure it hasn't been compromised in this gentrified low income neighborhood. However, being ever the gentleman I snap back to her words.

I simply nod and say, “Hey, we can still be friends.”

On my way out to my car, I notice a young Lou Diamond Phillips doppleganger playing the mandolin on the sidewalk. The cinematic nature of the scene I'm walking through aggrivates me further.

Drunk, angry, and baffled I drive home at 60 miles an hour hugging the corners of the winding roads of Pleasant Valley, New York. Genuinely indifferent to living or dying, I feel the impulse to swirve off the road into someone's house howl through my nervous system. Not despair, but not euphoria either. Simply a zero sum equation. Regardless, I think about the frakas that'd occur in the aftermath of my death and decide against it.

-- The Commodore

cocked

a cocked neck
to
the left allowing for a
more than careless
whisper to deliver a quip
designed to locate sexual
interest.

it was familar.
it was me.
she....

wiggles

And she got messy.
let her hair down
and washed away usual
with a few cute hip
wiggles
she knew max couldn't
resist.

this city

this City
When bars all had shitty 19" TVs with rabbit ears
And that trashy brunette
couldn't escape into a text message.

this city once had that
now the philosopher king sits
waiting for reason to take her
place.

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.