My name is Miles, and this is my gallery of words.

If I’m gonna tell a real story, I’m gonna start with my name.
— Kendrick Lamar
Carlin's Tribute Part I:  The Back Row Corner Seat

Carlin's Tribute Part I: The Back Row Corner Seat

Write drunk, edit sober
— Definitely not Ernest Hemingway

That quote above?  Bullshit.  Bought a T-shirt with that exact quote and a cutesy drink-residue ring design; artistically made to look like some shit island off the coast of South America.  Either coast, pick one - fuck geography right now; I'm perturbed by my purchase.  I digress.  So I bought this T-shirt right?  Googled the actual quote again so I could use it in this very story.  Unbeknownst to me, it's bullshit.  Not on the same meter as something like chem-trails, or bigfoot, where deep down you hope they actually exist.  No.  Hemingway didn't say this shit.  Let us be honest though; I've never read anything from Ernest Hemingway.  So why should I feel cheated?  I cheated myself, purchasing a shirt with a quote that captured my fleeting imagination without having any actual connection to it.   I'm an intellectual poser grasping out for well-known names, akin to some wannabe actor wearing a shirt with Leonardo DeCaprio's face on it.  Still find it a bit funny he finally won his Oscar after grunting for like three hours and getting fucked up by a bear.  Not saying that I could do any better, but I again digress.  Fuck me, I'm wearing this shirt as I write this.  And...getting fucked up by a bear, Hollywood.  In the rural, forest sense. Not like, the unfortunate shady bathroom mouth-shaped urinal sense.  Holla.

Half of anything I believe in is both born and laid to rest in the late hours between "I'm fucking tired," and "One more Jager-bomb?"  The other half is split between driving and dreaming.  Drifting around in my car in the middle of the night; whichever assortment of vibrations booming through the speakers.  Everything feels a little less dire.  A little less busy.  A bit more, outlaw.  There is no forced scheduling with the muse, but if one had to set up a soulful, inspirational I.V. treatment - one would do best to do it during the quiet, cool hours of the world. 

I will admit.  I am prejudice.  I make mad assumptions about a person when they pronounce picture as "piture."  This is coming from a guy who throws an "N" into his annunciation of "pretzel."  Prentzel.  Sounds like the original word though.  "Piture?"  Too close to pitcher.  A completely unrelated thing.  You're taking letters out of the equation, I'm adding unnecessary yet phonetically related ones, boi.

While we're staying real, let's just get one truth out of the way:  Any dude that wears a turtleneck-sweater vest can't get his dick hard.  Call that shit Argyle Dysfunction.  Now I haven't done any research about this.  Haven't taken any polls, nor have I done any surveys, or questionnaires.  How does one even go about structuring such a test?  Double-blind study.  Pick one dude.  Some Tom Brady looking mother fucker with excellent bone structure, athleticism, good hair and dick-swangin' charisma.  Put him in two different trials in front of the same group of women.  In one trial, normal garb.  You know, the kind of shit any self respecting man would wear.  In the other trial, turtleneck-sweater vest.  I'm telling you right now, this guy will gorilla-fuck in normal clothes, and maybe send out a couple of innuendo texts in the turtleneck-sweater vest.  Guarantee you, 9 times out of 10 my theory will take effect.  Stop right there, I know what you're thinking!  "But Miles, what's the 1 out of 10 outlier?"  I'm glad you asked.  Placebos mother fucker.  The gentleman picked for this study would be bisexual!  Wild card bitch!  Every once in a while he just wouldn't be into the other participant.  This really serves no purpose toward the study and in fact discredits the whole thing, but fuck me it would be entertaining.

Inside every cynical person, there is a disappointed idealist.
— George Carlin

On a lighter note, who doesn't love swearing?  I'll tell you who; older folks still clinging on to days gone past, fuckboi's that wear turtleneck-sweater vests and pederasts.  Myself?  I learned from a young age the certain "je ne sais quoi" that a well executed "fuck" lends to a sentence.  That's why I get irritated when these magical sensory heightening words get tossed around willy-nilly.  A phrase that will always leave me giggling?  "What in the actual fuck."  I'm laughing just typing it out.  It might as well convey the meaning of life for me.  The first time I heard it left me feeling blinded with satisfaction like the cataract-ridden Ethiopians guarding the supposed Ark of The Covenant.  I don't even know if that last comparison is a real thing.  I just saw it in a YouTube video and thought it sounded like some real shit to draw comparisons from.

Trying to recollect past ideas while checking their foundations for relevance is a lot like gauging a building.  Old structures generally have some sort of inherit value be it through the materials and culture fused into them, or the comfort that comes from something that has just, existed.  At the same time, old buildings get torn down every day just as ideas do.  Not every one of them was worth saving and not every one of them was worth the time of renovation.  Just like ideas.  No matter how much you thought either would last forever. 

So, back row corner seats.

I fluctuate between that disappointed idealist and hopeless romantic; romanticized by both the potential and the folly of our situations.  Yeah...sounds tiresome just typing it.  An irrational being trying its best to rationalize reality for its fellow irrational.  The squinty eyed one confident in telling the blind to go left. 

And I will remember your name and face
on the day you were judged by the funhouse cast
And I will rejoice in your fall from grace
With a cane to the sky, like, “None shall pass.”
— Aesop Rock

Put me in any open auditorium, classroom, restaurant, training conference, some bull shit jury duty courtroom, or the sixth circle of inferno - I don't give a fuck.  My eyes are locked onto the same seat that will be situated furthest to the back corner, either side, relevant to the where the attention is drawn.  The back row corner seat.  Where I can witness everyone's bullshit while choosing when to showcase my own.  That is my throne.

I always want to contribute and I never want to contribute.  Hence craving the spot where you can oversee everything, yet not have the first glance cast upon you.  Free to be fed up with the nonsense and have the last word.  Similar to a lunar eclipse only occurring after moving into the Earth's shadow.  Very laissez faire.   Self-inflicted purgatory waiting for the scale to reach a balance.  At one point, you should really just tip the scale on either end and run with the weight.

Champion of the jungle.  Fearful of the plains.


Carlin's Tribute Part II: False Owl Gods

Carlin's Tribute Part II: False Owl Gods

An Ouroboros Society: Ripples and Restrooms

An Ouroboros Society: Ripples and Restrooms