The Envy of a Pigeon's Sex Life

Dear Mr. Prime Minister Cameron:

I write this letter with angst from the lush banks of Loggins Park here in London. Without a doubt, the prettiest park in all of Cambridge; my simple park, the park I can see from the terrace of my building. This is the place where good-natured families, open families with day jobs and cultured night lives live out their greatest weekend picnic fantasies. Those of Chaucer and Dickens and Coleridge and Wordsworth under elms and oaks afoot; where paved paths provide passage to enjoy stretches of smoothly sanded sediment save where cracks in said tracks are raised roots spared only for history placed them here far before us. I can’t help myself but to dance pitter patter along these arbors and greens the city has kept so well groomed. The fountain, a Fragonard inspiration rumored of our famous oiled canvas “The Meeting.” Oh what a fond act that always is for sneaky lovers finding ones embrace in a floral garden. Vines creeping up the marble cherubs’ legs like soft butterflies’ fluttering wings in ascent, or fingertips. That was far worth its restoration. It came out shining ship shape like a vintage Aston Martin after a good waxing. Where the eyelids used to be blackened, and the toes corroded mossy green, now defined linear chisels and toenails soo supple and precious, you want to suck on them like you would a baby’s. I recall personally seeking help in such a matter, if I dare care to remember such a pavement pounding task, littering doorways with green fliers, brandishing a microphone and wearing a sign painted “SAVE LOGGINS PARK.” I paced the entrance of my building, calling out to neighbors “rally a few pounds, you will reap leaps and bounds!” That statue has remained polished as the day it was created. If I might whisper so cordially to you, in hopes of this being our little secret, that condition’s not disregarding my Monday midnight touch-ups in my green Hunter wellies with a sheer emery cloth, lacquer spraycan and moist towellette; what our solitary night security watch, Benjamin, misses on his eve off, won’t hurt him, and statues after all can’t talk. How else would the restoration remain so restored? How naïve people could be….I didn’t see anyone else asking that young assistant what he was applying to the cherub’s bum when they first began the project. To be so truthful, I can’t believe these young mothers, so hip and hop and quick with their prams, none of them even inquired of the outrageously staunch smell and whether we as locals, or even these poor unknowing babies in their luxury carts who have become part of mommy’s workout regimen to look fit and sexy to their over-the-shoulder staring glaring cleavage-loving bosses, and yet there they are, babies, breathing it in like some daft construction worker huffing dust onto stubbled fresh lips. My senses are quite fickle. They, like some demonic devil woman I accidentally cut in the Starbucks line, take no hesitation in reminding me when I’m overstaying my welcome in the great outdoors. Itches like a bad case of the you know whats. In this case, it was in fact lacquer. Oh, but I do so love the park, and it’s wonderful inhabitants, even the flower children and their Frisbee tossing antics that take up the entire length of the field “we’ve designated” as an active zone. “We”, I say "we" my darling Cameron, for I mention the informal committee I head that oversees the rules of engagement within the park. A very hush hush informal gathering it is, we just passed amendments to the park guidelines regarding noise levels of participants within. Although it was a difficult proposition, not knowing when to call out a neighbor for their boisterous banter, of course because it could just be a biting chuckle, or a tear-jerking adulterous break-up, but we leave it in a similar discretionary realm as that of a citizens arrest; it should really feel like the right thing to do. And personally, I’ll love you for it, especially if I’m not there to do it myself. I always prefer a teammate, if not two. If I’m not explaining it right, the stipulations posed and passed can be found at City Hall. Just walk right on up those steep cement stairs, past those Idi Amin looking lions, god I deplore those beasts, pardon my swearing, but they really are African jungle lions that would eat a woman if famished, biting, then licking, digesting, and then licking again. I get the whole king of the animal kingdom thing. The all knowing, wise harbinger in control of your life’s puny life, or death at such a moment of interview. Might as well put a hippo there. Two hippos at the top of the stairs, after all, they kill more humans than any creature on the planet. Who knows, I digress. When you walk inside, you’ll find Claudia at the information booth. If it’s not Claudia, it’s probably Harriet. Harriet's pretty much worthless unless you’re asking for the loo. Between you and I, that damned diversity in the workplace initiative has taken away some tit jobs for those better accomplished, but what are you gonna do? Bugger off, I suggest….why bother harping on moot points. That Claudia though, a glorious young woman with too pristine an education for a front desk job, and I’d a figured by now she’d have worked her figure on up the ranks save for the simple scar from her birthed cleft palette. She’ll tell anyone that story over a cup of tea. All you need’s a fireplace, a nip of brandy, and she warms right up. She’ll steer you to the Parks and Recreation Department. All the bylines are in a green two-ring vertical binder with those cute, helpful little fold-over clasps that bend down to secure the pages. "We" safely protected it behind a large repro James Audubon color-rendering of wild birds in aisle A section 127. Take a look when you get a chance, another one of our little secrets.

I apologize for such ramble, although let’s admit, it was informative you’ll agree. It took a lot of time to get the park where it is today, and I value my participation and advocacy in such things. My reason for writing is something of an embarrassing tickle on my tush, a feather flicking Adam’s protruding apples if you will. I do hope it is resolved, however discreetly the killing of animals could be. Yes, that might sound blunt, and yes, it actually is quite blunt, but if I could just let you into the visuals I have stuck in my mind from such feverish strutting, and stopping, and bending, and clawing, and shaking, and ewwww my gracious, the damn visuals. They make me queasy, you do understand…I hope you understand. These shitting little bobbing tramping rats with wings, there are little kids in the park for Pete’s sake, and little Sally’s sake. How cute these young ones are, I don’t think it’s just anyone’s place, whether creature, man, woman or child, or piss-ant pigeon, to be procuring provocative meetings with adamant fluffed up suitors for such services that absolutely are fruitless and only seconds long. They must be fruitless, I’ve never seen small baby pigeons. Where are all the baby pigeons, pray tell, if these awful mud puddle suckers are constantly getting it in? Feathered frickin harlots they are, circling around my fountain like hookers in spaghetti-string panties flaunting their famished fannies knowing damn well that these men can’t control themselves. They’re men for crying out loud. It’s eat, sleep and romp without reason. These breath-holding chest-beaters, puffed proud of their stock perpetually clickety-flicking the heels of his female prize, tracking them all around the fountain for minutes. I've seen one ants-in-the-pants suitor slaving away at her every whim, begging, dipping, breathing, and tippy-toes, tippy-toes.....flying up to the lamppost, shitting, flying down to the slate tile, advancing and dancing, twirling and staring back at one another for nearly an hour! They’re modern day stalkers. Sex addicts without conscience; they’d be put in jail if it were up to me. The first recipients of restraining orders and the backslapping topic of celebration when court-ordered, found guilty and hung by crooked nails through their shit-eating beaks around Piccadilly Square. Round and round the circle you could go staring, up at a chandelier of shame, loose to swing like rubber chickens from a fishing pole. I apologize, my language is just ferocious. Where are my manners? But these women, my God, these raunchy two-legged daylight squatters.....have a little dignity for once won’t you. They open shop for several persistent predators a day. Hunkering down so these fat dumplings of burden can claw their way onto the female's back, and swing their pigeon-pelvis' right round to insert in her bottom. I’ve seen the damned eye open up for a deposit hundreds of times; freakish pink dumpsters of scorn, I swear. A shimmy and a shake, and some jealousy from onlookers typically flying over to break up the union, if you could even call it that, and off he goes. Brazen, satisfied, and over it, he just walks away and leaves her to stew in his soil, the filthy rat. I’ve had enough of this pornography of others in public. It gets my hypothetical knickers in a pickle. My suggestion is a nighttime mass execution on a Monday. I will bring plenty of garbage bags and drag them out like stuffed animals replenishing a Crane game. Like a street sweeper leaves a wet trail, I want a path of skidding feathers. No two-winged doo-dropping terrorists will land in my groomed strip after seeing the streak of scorn heading out toward the dumpsters. They’ll know full well why their brethren will have evacuated. They’ll be irked to ever stop again at a fountain so pristine, so delightfully promiscuous and innocent. Oh no no no, the only eyes that will open to daylight in Loggins Park are those of my neighbors, and mine at midnight, depending what day of the week it is.

-Cheers, Your Friendly Neighborhood Guardian

Thanks for helping me move

These things, these fucking things...they can't be found anywhere. Gentlemen, men of gentle nature and things so ripe and delicious that their personalities blend together into an irridescent ooze similar to that of the Ghostbusters film where you touch the stuff and you're literally fucking Gisele, Marisa Miller and Miranda Kerr at the same time with some hydra three-headed cock. Thats the type of feeling the group creates when together. It's this aura that floats around the room and if you breathe it, you're done. Off you cruise into the subconscious cacophonous audio stream of sarcastic innuendo, a web of mussels in a seabed with their black mouths open, chattering about shit only hilarious motherfuckers love to cackle and bubble. These things, these fucking things...they can't be found anywhere.

We are the ultimate coffee klatch, showing up like writers to one big table, the philosphers of olde to discuss nothing more than pussy, because it all comes down to such a fickle sensitive bald beast of a locker. Our waitress will fill out her white doily blouse like she's ready to go in the back and pump. She'll bounce over to our hearth with hot capuccinos as our caps of Chivas and Jameson emerge from tin flasks inside our wool houndstooth overcoats. Toasting one another for shared nights rued with delight and fancy and Sharpies and wigs and miniature skateboards and rubber masks and broken rubbers and shattered bottles on road signs timed to diamond-cut precision-tossing or just luck of the retarded yet wicked double-bounce jump killer shatter blam who's your daddy mother fucking yea! That feeling is impossible to find, I'm telling you....like the ends of double rainbows and girls that love anal. We as a group are the most mesmerizing of personalities and ridiculous of humor and satire. I know if we were one fertilized egg there isn't a woman in the world who could give birth to us. Although she'd be the luckiest bitch alive to have done so, she must die in our honor while pushing us out. And out we would burst, a medusa whose face is so pure that it blinds only the nicest doctors and nurses forever. Each snake-like hair has its own Kevin, Chris, Mike, Tim, Noah, Joe and Justin head that spurts out dialogue harmonious and collaborative to all other tendril-yapping heads yipping words delivered rapid like raving lunatics with tourrets whom each just slammed three adderall apiece. These things, these fucking things...they can't be found anywhere.

My gentlemen, so gentlemanly in your ways, I wanted to thank you...to thank you in ways most original and awkward and fantasmagorical and fresh-to-the-taint like a models panties pulled straight off after hours on a tennis court, and ultimately for your efforts in my move. The help lingers long and the love runs deep, unlike the light switch chris swears Im hung by. And so I do hope each of you, my minions, equals, brothers and fellow comrades for the verbal beatings we do impose, call on me when you need an extra set of paws to rape a task too big for just one. No matter what the errand might be, if it surrounds itself with the wolf pack we are, then I'm in. I'm in for the memories, the sweat, the beers, the smiles, the stares, the laughs, the drives, the outfits, the jealous glares....the girls, the guys, the games, the dares, the golf, the cab rides, the guys trips and pregnancy scares....these things, these wonderful fucking things...they can't be found anywhere.

The Regular

The guy’s flat broke. He hits the same pizza place for lunch on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays because they offer a lunch special. You buy two plain slices of pizza, and choose any can of soda you would like, for $2.75. It’s a steal compared to the $7 soups at Hale & Hearty, or $10 salads at Amish. They have everything, from Dr. Pepper, to Coke Zero, to Stewart’s cream. There are fresh condiments and shakers next to the register. The pizza is cooked in traditional pizza ovens and the cheese tastes real. The best part about it though is that you can eat inside. There’s standing room against a green marble ledge that’s 5 inches off the wall and just barely fits a doubled-up paper plate. Picture a row of guys standing at a urinal. That's what it looks like. The heat gets a bit intense because of the ovens, but it sure beats standing in the cold.

Monday:

Reading his Esquire magazine, our regular can’t understand why this writer, Cal Fussman, gets to interview everyone. Every single page has "interviewed by Cal Fussman" at the top of it. Why should one man get to speak with all these talented celebrities and record their lives? What’s he done that someone else hasn’t?

The Regular: “Why this line” he whispers to himself while reading an interview by Cal. It’s an answers-only article that lists answers of random questions that Cal must've asked.

“Fuck em. Shortest prayer in the world” was one of the answers Cal wrote in the article.

“I don’t get it. It doesn’t lead up to anything but yet it’s taken out of context, and I don’t know what it’s there for” the regular says. “What am I supposed to like Gary Oldman now just because he curses? Who gives a shit.”

A discussion ensues next to him between a heated couple. A column in the wall separates them by a foot, maybe a foot and a half.

Guy: “I told ya bitch, git yo stawies straight. You go cawlin awl yall bitches to git dere opinion yet you and I bofe know, day be trippin on dere mans and don’t trust em fa shit.”

Girl: “So that means day dumb or sumpin? Day know’s dere men like I know mine, and day say all dere mens cheatin” she waves her hands in his face in small circles.

The regular sifts through the article for some cohesive sentiment and finds that he can relate to Gary’s mention of his children. He says they are his greatest achievement in life, but that parenting takes the act of “civilizing” scenarios that would never happen as an adult.

He reads Cal’s quotes that Gary gave him. “There’s no handbook to parenting. Kids will tip the coffee over and then finger paint on the table. At some point you must say, we’re gonna have to clean that up, after all, you can’t paint with coffee on the table.”

He laughs at the raw compromise of allowing for change and accepting that there can’t be none. The kids must play and where they choose is part of their creative outlet. It comes down to it being their life now, and not really yours.

Guy: “So then I’m cheatin? Just caws dese dumb mawfuckers don’t know how to keep day women in check, and treat em right, I fall into dere category? Dat shit’s fucked up bee…fuck you….straight up like, fuck youuuuu.”

Girl: “I aint sayin you’s cheatin without caws. Dis aint jus outta mid air, I heard through da grapevine you’s creepin and that I best be’s watchin my back” she turns her back towards him.

Guy: “Yea you best be’s watchin yo back because I’m bout to end dis shit. What good is ma word if you aint gone listen?”

Girl: “Oh I listen…you damn well know my ass is listenin.”

The regular begins laughing. Cal wrote a line he enjoyed and begins to reflect on some great personal memories that make the statement he read, oh so true.

Guy: “What da fuck you laughin at nigga” the guy says to the regular reading the article.

The regular knew right away that the guy was talking to him. At times like these the regular used to feel his heart drop and his lips go dry. He would freeze up and his heart would race, but not this time. For so many reasons, not this time. He turns and answers with a smirk.

The Regular: “It’s a great line.”

He holds his voice low and slow, and leans his head to the right.

Guy: “Fuck’s a great line? You smiley mawfucka, why don’t you mind yo bidness and keep yo mowff shut.

The Regular points down at his magazine but keeps his eyes thin and holds his stare toward the guy. His stare bore an expression like “who gives a shit about your fucking conversation.” He wore the stare like a mold; like a man with nothing to lose.

The Regular: “No. I said, it’s a great line.”

The guy looks down at the words of the best interviewer of all time. Cal Fussman’s puzzle, taken apart and re-assembled, with all lines like pieces splayed out in a box labeled “taken out of context, my apologies, my masterpiece.” He subconsciously beats you into submission, into loving Gary Oldman. The guy reads the line next to the regular's finger.

Guy: “A beautiful ass is a joy forever” he says lowly.

The regular smiles, and the guy re-reads the line again to be sure.

Guy: "A Beee-youuutiful ass is a joy foreva."

The guy howls when he's done and jumps back from his forward fighting lean.

Guy: “Holla!! Boy’s got it done right there! Nuttin betta kid.”

He steps back and looks at the regular and puts a clenched fist out now smiling. The regular winks and pounds fists with the guy.

Girl: “What? What’s it say?”

Guy: “Nuttin baby….nuttin” he says as a calm comes over him. “Less go.”

The guy puts his arm around his girl and walks toward the door as she looks back over her shoulder at the regular. He's reading again. A chill clears the air as the door shuts behind them.

Documentary Review: The Bridge

"The Bridge"

Fascinated at the thought that something so brutal and distgusting could only be Rated R, I would have thought NC-17 would have barely sufficed. Maybe because it’s the innocence in someone’s shape as they leap and how their body language describes their surety, or their hesitation. Maybe because it’s 4200 feet all the way down from a beautiful bridge we admire, or maybe it’s because we’ve all despaired and thought of such things, but never took it to the next level. That’s their moment and we’re exploiting the fact that they’re over it, and this place. I would say that someone could easily be reaching out by doing it in such a public space but the access to a place so high, so magnetic, and that landing in water just seems more pleasant than rocks at the bottom of a cliff or pavement at the bottom of a building, I suppose it makes more sense. The walk that these people take is like that of the plank on a ship where the crew wants their passenger to swim with the fishes. None of them are racing out to the middle of the bridge and just hurdling the shoulder-high fence to get it over with. They pace themselves, they wonder about what this life has brought them and why. One woman gets arrested three times as she stands so long at the precipice. It doesn’t help her cause that she wears the same style hat each time but in different colors because someone definitely calls the cops each time she’s there (we are left to wonder if it’s the cameraman the last two times). The main character in this work of panoramic discovery is Gene. He’s the exact person you think would jump off a bridge if you were walking by him that day. Long ratty black hair that whips around in the wind so uncontrollably that it slaps him silly. He has a tight leather black jacket and a defeated rocker look about him. His friends all say he talked about killing himself when you would ask a simple question like “what would you like for breakfast?” “To die” would be a typical answer. Gene is interesting because he’s tall, and his pale skin against his all black heavy metal guitarist ensemble looks angelic, or gothic. If the dialogue didn’t constantly lead up to his death, we might’ve thought he could walk away, but we did not want him too. By the end of this movie all you want to do is see people jump. I found myself concentrating so hard to see splashes in the water when they would show us the time lapse photography, and was let down when I didn’t see one. There’s something about seeing death and the disbelief that you’re watching it happen. It’s an experience unlike typical movies and TV, which are make believe and therefore it’s easy to shrug it off when someone gets killed, no matter how gory. Oddly enough, after the second jumper, it was easy to watch. Their trajectory, if they lept at the highest point, if they stepped over the ledge onto another ledge to await their decision, you start taking little notes to guess how serious they really were and you get a bit angry when they don’t do it, or are saved by a passerby. Yes, your heart races when you see them put their little hand onto that massive cable wire to lift themselves up onto the ledge. Their insignificance in size, space and time just drifts with the whipping clouds passing below them and the bridge. Since you as the viewer already know that what you’re watching is in the past, you’re willing to let happen what is completely out of your control, and that’s whether they live, or die. It’s probably the purest documentary out there because there’s no acting, no person signing a waiver letting a cameraman in their house to film what is absolutely the most intimate moment. You might think it’s also the most selfish documentary ever made, for the exposure of tainted minds and characters that could have somehow been helped and pulled back. I, however, do not agree with that sentiment. All these people wanted was to be noticed. To stand as high in front of the world as they could, screaming fuck you to the city that surrounded them and the sea below. Picking daylight as their perfect time to leap when we all know that the night is the worst and most feared for its loneliness. Because of their displays they are now known and remembered by me, and the thousands of others who have seen this. In light of popular yet sick ways to make a statement these days, they could have self-immolated in some tiny city in the hopes of spurning an Arab Spring. Would they have had any more purpose, or gusto then a guy pouring gasoline on himself?

Gene is the last in The Bridge to go, and that’s because he had the most dramatic fall and the best film footage from takeoff to landing. Instead of ruining with words what really is something terrifyingly quick but undeniably unforgettable, please take a look for yourself. And if not, there’ll be around 25 more people that will do it this year, and the next, and the year after that…after all, we’re a growing population. As sick as it sounds, I don’t look forward to a follow-up of The Bridge, but if there is one that comes out, I am bound to watch it.

Documentary Review: Buck

I used to date this girl that worked for Jaguar. She would be asked to attend these equestrian competitions, where Jaguar was a sponsor, and stand by the cars as a representative. She knew nothing about luxury cars but she looked amazing standing next to one.

The people who came to these events were the Bloomberg’s of the world, and Bloomberg. On display, besides for cars, were top bred horses jumping, strutting, walking shoe over shoe to the left, then to the right, back and then forward. Listening not so much to commands, they would trot along, grand in cadence and form, all by the movements of their rider’s body. I never knew this type of thing existed. You see horses jumping on TV, knocking over the bars as they leap too short over the Mercedes Benz rose fence, and you wonder if it hurts their legs to land so hard. You also assume some person perched atop these pristine yet innocent beasts is wealthy and ultimately proving their status by donning such a phallic black velvet helmet. Who knew these animals had heart, or in this case, a mind of their own to not want to be tamed and flaunted and on display. The documentary, “Buck” where our character Buck Brannaman is the horse whisperer of sorts, looks at first glance like some Disney happy-go-lucky-fest where horses share eyes and ears with a soothing-psychic cowboy. By the way, Buck is the real reason behind Robert Redford’s “The Horse Whisperer”. In the documentary however, it’s not until the brutal beatings and child exploitation of our manly Buck which he reveals to us about his childhood, do we realize this ain’t no dog and pony show. His pop would giddily whip his two young boys for any little mistake they might’ve made in the family rope-trick and talent show that they traveled around and performed for local towns. Once or twice, they made it on TV. When you’re hiding in your doghouse in 20-degree weather with snow on the ground, nuzzled up next to Fido for warmth because it’s a better option then being inside during one of dad’s dickhead binges, you know you’ve got no options.

To our eager expectation, we come to enjoy watching the stern demeanor and measured movements of Buck. When he’s taming a wild mare in the ring, we're confused at first because he takes what’s alien to us, and earns its trust, and makes it look so easy. Even if you know nothing about horses, you can tell by the astonished reactions in his seminars as he takes anyone’s horse that they bring from home where they’d been struggling for years to get through to the animal, he goes and “breaks it” in minutes. Give him a half hour and he’s saddling what no one could have thought was even able to ride. A turning point, or a parallel is drawn to our own lives in the movie when a troubled woman brings one of her “kids”, as she described him, to see Buck and she complains of the attacks and bones she’s shattered trying to raise this horse. She fears for her own life but also can’t come to grips with having to put the horse down since she saved the horse from near death during birth when it was starved for oxygen far too long before coming around. Sitting there watching, I couldn’t wait for Buck to win this challenge….to show this woman that nothing is out of his reach, after all, these are horses which heavily rely on humans to bring them their food, to wash and bathe them when they’re mucked up. This was the David meets Goliath moment, and we’re ready for David to fucking win.

There was something about the craze in the horse’s eyes that got you thinking. Burnt red against it’s ivory blond hair, and I mean bloodshot, haven’t slept in months, don’t talk to me, where’s my coffee, oops I burst a vessel manic fucking red. Buck’s assistant is next to the pen tying off a boot or wiping down a saddle, I don’t even remember because the guy never talked, but right then, the horse out of the side of the camera like a fish jumping from a pond, whamm! The horse swung its head down, mouth open, teeth born to chomp, and like wood clucking hollow wood, the horse shucked a chunk out of this poor guy’s head as onlookers screamed. We went from G-Rated Disney to blood gushing PG-13 in a millisecond. At first, Buck’s eyes turned to scorn for the woman for bringing the horse to the seminar, for raising the damned thing, but truly, it was his fault for attempting it. All of us react first instead of sitting down and mulling it over, and eventually, he did sit down and have a chat with the lady.

The film drew a fantastic juxtaposition on life, our own struggle with our conscience. This was a mother and her child, except that her child was mentally disabled. In our world you can’t solve the existence of a disabled human being with a lethal injection…. well, some might argue that. As the story always unfolds, it comes down to the fact that no matter what the animal is, human or horse, you could wash it, wax it, buff it and stand it on a pedestal to be viewed and admired, hell, it might look really good, but when you ask it a question, and try to gain some understanding beyond the physical, you’re bound to get an answer. It’s what you learn from that answer and how you approach a similar situation in the future that’s the truest test of your ability to do better. Buck still seems to be getting it, and getting better at getting it, even still.

Occupy My STreet

I think I should take a stroll down to Zuccotti Park, or wherever the hell these Phish lovers are squatting and tell them what type of commando guerillas they need to become if they're ever going to help their cause. You can't raise your hands to buildings and shout. Yes, I give them credit for what they're doing, or at least those that know what they're fighting for. Every party has a few assholes that show up, the key is to kick them out before the cool kids, or in this case the intelligent and informed ones, leave. These buildings that lease space on so called "Wall Street" consist of regular workers for companies having nothing to do with finance. The stock exchange is a ghost town; picture torn tickets blowing up and around a dead end street like that damn plastic bag in American Beauty. Banking has moved to the burbs. Ride your Vespa on over the GW Bridge and fill up for gas where the money rests....places like Greenwich, Alpine and Rye. Hit up the Hamptons, Aspen, Bel Air and Malibu for other players that rule the wary world of billions. There is practically no one walking around "Wall Street." That's why there's no restaurants, clubs or businesses there and you frankfurters can setup shop and somehow encamp without too much trouble. They're happy you're there. "Here, take your reservation...it's arid land, terrible for production and far from everyone so good, luck....setup a casino if you'd like." There's no way we can possibly make a difference when we're targeting a mass - you must target the individual. Hide in the fucking woods and ambush these guys. If you have a couple thousand of you, I don't care what their security looks like, you're going to have them by the balls. Do a quick search of those top hedge fund managers, check out Magnetar, research the CEO's of Blackstone, Bank of America, Citigroup, Goldman, Merrill, Morgan Stanley - all onshore firms, and see where they live. Type it into your google earth and pick up your sleeping bag, broom, hacky sack and ramen noodles, and walk briskly to their home. There's nothing these people want more than their privacy, and you can take that away by being adamant protesting paparazzi. You can instill such fear that it will sway them to enforce change for the detriment to their lifestyle and personal family's discomfort. They know they will be able to make money another way, and that comfort of theirs will have them leaning more towards some sort of concession, which at this point, you should be dying for. Make them miserable, and they'll change.

Our government will not be able to change the financial system drastically and I say that because it's the Atlas Shrugged scenario. If you regulate the industry too stringently, all the smart people in banking will just go where they can make money without Big Brother telling them what they can and can't do. Hedge funds and private equity firms are unregulated and every intelligent banker is going to tip his hat to the bureaucracy of federal government and bid them adieu if they start dabbling in their business. This isn't to say that they have many places to go where they too wouldn't be restricted, monitored or taxed. If they did decide to up and leave their country for their disinterest in paying into the economy where they enjoy all their success, then exile them. Exile them, scare the shit out of them to the point where they can't come back. We should not be afraid of losing big businesses, or banks or brainiacs. People are born every day in this country; there will be many more to help us along and the best damn schools in the world to assist in the matter. If big steel left us, they would lose a massive market share that would be made up by new companies sprouting here in the states; accessing mining zones herein and as well as allied countries worldwide. Limit foreign companies sales of goods to our citizens. Make it a mandatory requirement that at least 50% of the goods sold in America or to Americans from that company are made in-America. Have them invest in our country by having to build a factory or manufacturing plant to make the goods here. As long as their profit margin is high enough, of course companies would come. If not, we'd build it ourselves.

These Occupy Wall STreet Eeyore's, moping around with their donkey tails pinned, and their woe is me attitude isn't what the recent events of public political takeovers was like. No, I wasn't in Egypt or Libya when these protests were taking place, but I sure as hell saw the brutal coverage and take no prisoners heat in their eyes. Those people were fighting to disrobe and poke naked at the breast of dictators, the sores that they well earned and would love to transfer to men responsible for such distraught social division. And how did they achieve success? Those dictators feared for their fucking lives. It was a lynch mob of hundreds of thousands coming for your head. You're giving up when that's the thought you go to sleep with at night. Here in the states, we can turn in circles and point feverishly at anyone who has ever took in unemployment wages and say you're part of the problem, and someone who took a student loan and didn't pay it back. Any person purchasing a home who didn't read their mortgage and got knocked on the head when their fixed rate became variable after the fifth year. Or anyone who has ever earned a pension, anyone who has ever trusted someone in finance that got lied too, because even though they lost their money, they fed the flame of greed themselves and got taken. SOme of it is out of our hands, yes. We don't get to vote on stimulus nor would we know though how the hell to solve the issues of the banking world. I'd say let any business fail that's doomed to do so. If you cannot operate for a profit, then do not do it. Take away those companies receiving subsidies to operate, even the big transportation firms that are massive debtors. If you have to get to work, figure it out. Drive, ride your bike, I don't care - if the train is too expensive because we take away government subsidizing (which, by the way, is a root of socialism where government steps in to control big business in their country) then let them fail because no one shows up to take the train. Yes, a lot people that hold that company's debt or equity will then lose out, but the pain is a band-aid removal, quick and sharp - unlike the steady decline we're crawling toward which will make our rise too difficult to traverse. Once that train company goes bankrupt, good-bye, good luck. A firm will come in and buy the rails, the train cars, parts and find a way to operate the system efficiently without massive overhead or lifelong pensions and high ticket costs. If you can't afford the train, don't take it. It'll be a luxury of the rich or else disappear like every bad company until a new one can replace it or our tax money can replenish it.

Take away bankruptcy protection laws - all you're doing is having the back of some asshole that got too far in over his head, and those that followed the words of the preacher or nut-job that led the company, such as creditors, will have to suffer too. If I invest in a stock and it tanks, that's my fault for investing in it.

Tax everyone at the same rate. Get your actuaries together, formulate a plan on a good rate for everyone, and tax us all the same. We want fair, give everyone the same headache. Why do we offer tax write-offs? Pay your taxes and end of story. If you decide to donate, that's your prerogative, don't start asking for sympathy when you freely chose to give it away. If you're putting money back into your business, good for you...business must be good. No one asked you to do it, but you decided it will grow your business, well fantastic, go right ahead and invest in your own company...but don't think you're writing off your entire revenue stream for three years because you decided to grow your business to make more money. I would take away these incentives and the people will have to make due with what their own lifestyle, earning potential and financial comfort is.

Outside of my wild ideas and my sort of Darwinian fuck everyone attitude, for these campers, these rucksack nature dwelling Zuccotti spirits, they must target 6 individuals and make their lives a nightmare. Change the tides of our public view on someone by exposing them with grandeur, and you watch, whomever that wealthy baron typically donates to every 4 years during their campaigns, will be charging ahead with new ideas on how to solve this issue. It won't be easy, but it's a jog towards the finish, not a philosophical circle jerk between potheads and the unintelligible offspring of Wiley Coyote.

Art: Commercial, Accepted or Just Plain Ugly

So I'm watching this show the other day, "Next Best Artist" and I'm sitting thinking to myself, "I could be on this shit." They show a few really interesting, beautiful pieces and then some worthless trash you couldn't even find scouring a freeway flea market in the middle of Kansas. I must admit though, that distaste right there, is why some things artists make achieve the distinction of being effective. I on the other hand just don't like to think I'm being duped by some guy who pretends his clay-mation wizard the size of a Mr. Peanuts can, is a work of art worthy of national attention.

Let me divert for a second here because points will be made my friends. My disgruntled behavior towards work that's less deserving of praise than a soiled square of Puffs softest toilet tissue stapled to a canvas, all began when I first went to the Art Institute of Chicago. I walked up to my mother staring at a 60"x60" canvas of Cy Twombly's that had pencil scribblings dancing about, and then a stray crayon smudge or two, and I asked "is this a fucking joke?" I assumed he must have some disability and for him to have created this piece, it must have been a labor of love and a feat beyond my own comprehension. Instead of my mother telling me to keep it to myself or to accept that differences in opinion exist, she says "do they think I'm stupid or something?"

Of course I looked up Cy Twombly the next day with hatred for the fact that he'd been displayed so prominently in a national museum, only to truly appreciate his work and value those pieces he's made (not the one in particular though at the museum...still, no love). Funny how the tables turn even in your own perception just by reading a bio. That may actually be the reason why I am writing this. Your perception is what makes or breaks your love for the work; 95% of which is based on your respect for the artist.

Somewhere in the non-existent yet truly impenetrable laws of good art and bad art is the acceptance of the existence of subjectivity. Screw all of you that just said there is no such thing as bad art...get over your hippie self. Art is writing, composing, performing, speaking, creating, photographing....and within each of those lie bad versions. "Wow, that guy is a bad actor...." - well wouldn't that be subjective? When watching that show the other day, one of the judges said that this little clay-mation-looking wizard thing "spoke to her", whereas the other judges asked "well what does it say"? They too were upset that the work was a third grader's homework assignment they'd create with their eyes closed during a heated match of Cranium. Did the man get eliminated? Nope, and the reason being....someone sorta liked what he had done. The guy that did go was an artist whose work I would hang on my wall. He was sent home when the judges deemed him far too similar to another artist, and ultimately "commercial." Sooo...keep the clay-mation Gandolf puppeteer but not the artist that would resonate with the masses? Not having to assume anything, we the audience already know why this is. Clay-groping donkey douche who calls himself "The Sucklord," more like Suckload, had already earned the respect of the main host of the show. We were made aware of his successful art sales during the 1st episode of the show by our judge Mr. Simon De Pury. To believe that the respect he had already earned did not somehow play a role in the judge's belief that the piece "spoke to her", I find hard to swallow. Of course it's possible, but when the critique comes right down to "hey buddy, your art looks like something made to go on my wall...it's too commercial...it looks similar to a dead artist we have also come to respect (Keith Haring)...we've gotta let you go." I would say the likes of Willy Nelson's wife who said the lifeless sorcerer spoke to her should have kept her mouth shut just like she did throughout her cameos in Paranormal Activity's 1, 2, 21 and 87.

Yes, it's TV....they need good ratings, they need Suckload, I shouldn't take it so seriously.....well, I wouldn't I suppose if I too weren't trying to carve my own path into the art world. Something like this makes me shudder a bit because art has gone so far off in one direction that it's circling back around to the raw talent of Fine Art painters. That's at least what I believe because we're going to get so sick of trying to pretend some things are beautiful when they really might take zero talent whatsoever, and it's a good thing. It's tough to find traditional talent in art like it's impossible to see the beautiful difficulty of making a movie in the 1940's with a cast of 1000 extras and set designs beyond a decorator's wildest orgasm. You just don't see that type of effort and dedication anymore. We want results much quicker. At one point last year I read that the new art is digital art, and that if you're not using technology, you're going to be left behind. I nearly vomited at the thought. There's me hanging up a piece of art purely done through software and an inkjet printer, and I hurl down my velvet wallpaper. Why don't we start making clothes with materials like brown paper bags? Mmmmm, that wouldn't be cheap or effortless....I could just feel the soft paper cuts along my ankles.