Ahead of Time


I think we underestimate the technologically advanced society that is/was/will be our world without hyper-relative clocks. Those tick-tockin’ sumbitches that produce arbitrary nonsense like 3:27, 2143 or the hyper-gay ‘half past ten.’ Imagine these pedantic-ass robots gone, our knowledge of ‘em gone too. Imagine the No Man’s Sky-like experience perceiving the world would be! Nights would last forever. No constant reminder of how close we are from sunset, sunrise. We could just take it easy. The light will show itself eventually, as will the dark, and even THEN we STILL got a’few more MOMENTS until ‘absolute either’ takes over/goes away.

I think this dynamic led to feats of engineering like what we see above. They relished in moments, gradients of light and dark; two deeply connected states. But for some reason we weren’t satisfied with gradual. Perhaps the space, the scope overwhelmed us so we went and broke it up into a’buncha hardline foolishness. Now we deal with shit like waiting for a bus that leaves at 6:54. 6:54???!!! Such an exact-ass time. Makes sense though. We gotta be at an exact-ass place at an EXACT-ass time.

This is the ‘exacting’ world we’ve created for ourselves: A series of relative points scattered about the globe and us incessantly counting how many ‘beats‘ we can squeeze in-between them.

You guys are a’buncha dicks…


There is a curious distance maintained between the hetero male fan and the athlete. The athlete seems to be providing a service to the fan. And because of this he can’t REALLY be considered an equal. But that’s the SAFE reason. There’s another more uncomfortable reason. One so-called ‘straight’ dudes don’t like talking about and that is the element in this picture. Most dudes ain’t walkin’ around lookin’ like Mr. Edwards, but on the professional (and NOW even college) football field damn near every last one of these cats look like fitness models! These men are PHYSICALLY what most of the aging, dream-deferred, out-of-shape, couch-stricken, bitter-as-fuck men WISH they could be. This creates an uncomfortable situation for them…

    “I don’t know if I’m sexually attracted to his body or if I simply desire it for myself…and for myself I mean for it to be mine…not like MINE…like you would say MY girl, but I want his body. Shit. Not WANT like I want my girl’s body. I want to LOOK like him…so that girls WANT me….and so that guys WANT to LOOK like ME. In other words: I want to be confused, but act like I’m not. Now it’s time to go punch somebody in the face… Oh, over there, his face looks punchable…… Hey you, in the orange, why are you light-skinned with model features and blue eyes*? No seriously, why YOU and NOT me? Why can’t I be beautiful? I WANT to be BEAUTIFUL too!… Damn. I bet a LOTTA girls probably like you. Eh. No worries, I’ll just find some reasons why they shouldn’t and hide my jealous confusion behind them. Whew. That almost got weird.”

This confusion leads to the distance which leads to the weird love/hate relationship ‘straight’ guys have with male athletes. You’ll see this infatuated/jilted lover dynamic play out on your feeds, ESPN and sports talk radio. The athlete MUST be an ‘other.’ Some naturally gifted, PED-fueled freak-of-nature. A primal beast who needs to just shut the hell up and amuse us. He CANNOT be smart, outspoken or arrogant though. The middle-aged white dudes who control the popular narrative of professional sports act all funny then. ESPECIALLY if he’s unabashedly cocky. They hate that shit…
Continue reading ‘You guys are a’buncha dicks…’


    The conversation they have while on their way to Sac is classic. I remember having the same heated discussions after games. Good-ass times.

Sometimes the skill-sets of ridiculously talented players do not align with the sensibilities of the professional leagues in which they aspire to play. The league’s just don’t ‘get’ these postmodern players. They don’t know how to fit them into the (imposed and enforced) rigid structures of their leagues. And because of this they miss opportunities to be ahead of the curve. Speaking of which, just peep how the ‘new-style‘ play of today’s created player-esque NBA guards and forwards line up with the stuff the And1 cats were doing. Really dig Alimoe‘s perspective here. Just found out he passed, crazy, dude was ‘nice’ and seemed like a nice dude.
Continue reading ‘+1′



During tax time I came across a Facebook post for a well-known tax-preparation company and the vast majority of the commentary that followed reduced to this: “They charge too much. It’s cheaper to prepare your own taxes. And you get more money back.” which meant that instead of merely ‘liking’ the first instance of this popular opinion people felt compelled to offer up ad nauseum cover versions of it. This is a phenomenon you will see under damn near every popular article on the web. Very little banter, just over-eager parrots. But why do we do this?

Maybe it has something to do with the Leaning Tower of Pisa.
Continue reading ‘Leaning’

TimeView addiction is no laughing matter…

    “WHERE ARE YOU MOM???!!! I must find you! I miss you so much! The Face Book record said you were supposed to be by the statue. Right there! Where are you mom?! I wanna SEE you! I miss you so much! You’re supposed to be right there! Right NOW!!!!! MOM!!!!!! WHERE ARE YOU???????!!!!!!!”

    Ursula Gray, 87

Don’t let the people you love become addicted to TimeView. Intervention isn’t being nosy, it’s being necessary.

Anarchy. Over-and-over again. Why? The situation breeds it. The tension is always there. Frustration permeates. There’s never enough. Always gotta pull stunts to make ends meet. Aggressive narcissism follows when you gotta ‘resort’ to that. It’s you against the whole world then. Fellow man be damned. Imagine this resolve–like a cancer–spreading through a people generation after generation.

I’ll leave you with the words of the renowned black American writer Dr. Jamison T. Bailey. The following passage is from his seminal 1964 book The Modern Negro
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“my savior”

my savior

“She was a for-real, on-the-stroll, twenty-inch heels an’ fishnet stockin’ wearin,’ John collectin,’ ruthless-pimp havin’ ho. She walked back-and-forth, up-and-down streets all over this country–and a couple around the world–for many, many years. But now–now she’s in a totally different world. Square job. Nice house. Luxury sedan out front. She’s doin’ all right for herself. She really values what she has too. She tells me she doesn’t miss her old life at all. She said it had its moments–the best were what she calls the fun-scary moments. Speaking of which…
Continue reading ‘“my savior”’

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