THE HONEYED MOUTH

7/3/2011 Ride from Cambridge to Amherst

2011-07-06T08:08:00.000-05:00

<p>&amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyride.com/routes/view/39810756"&amp;gt;A ride mapped on 07/03/2011&amp;lt;/a&amp;gt; and more rides in Cambridge, MA on MapMyRIDE. &amp;lt;a href="http://www.mapmyride.com"&amp;gt;Find ride&amp;lt;/a&amp;gt;</p>

Meathead Renaissance Logo

2011-02-03T14:25:00.001-05:00

Harvard's commitment to blood, sweat, tears, and sustainability.

Canadian Public Works Typeface for Airports

2010-10-12T15:34:00.002-05:00

Paving Detail

2010-10-12T14:36:00.003-05:00

Meathead Renaissance

2010-10-07T11:24:00.000-05:00

Join in my ongoing campaign to maintain dignity, intellectual, and physical freedom whilst thrust into the fetters of a staggering office-induced malaise. If only for entertainment, take notice!

Paradox

2010-04-22T13:35:00.006-05:00

onAsphalt

2010-04-08T15:28:00.000-05:00

onAsphalt is a Harvard Grad School of Design project that explores the many uses of asphalt. The project portfolio content sheds light on the omnipresence of asphalt throughout our urban environments.

Denver Broncos Stadium (Denver, CO)

Tar Art

Pogotopy 1

Pogotopy 2

Computer Badge

2010-03-25T09:15:00.003-05:00

Emblem for Tosomok laptop frontage, making a DJ premier appearance in Allston tomorrow @ a late-night dubstep throw-down.

Violions Night Music

2010-02-17T17:32:00.003-05:00

Violions Night Musics by Tosomok

Tosomok Produkt - Wizurquk

2010-02-15T13:02:00.001-05:00

Wizurquk by Tosomok

808/909 dubchill progression for a Sunday afternoon

Valentine's Day Card

2010-02-11T14:02:00.002-05:00

MAN HAS NO TIME TO BE ANYTHING BUT MACHINE

2010-02-04T23:45:00.000-05:00

Artwork by Ben Myers and Alex Lennon-Simon

Quote from Thoreau's "Walden"

Don't Let It Bring You Down - Tosomok Remix

2010-02-04T12:32:00.000-05:00

Don't Let It Bring You Down - Tosomok Remix by Tosomok

Remix of the remake of the original Neil Young classic "Don't Let It Bring You Down" with vocals by Annie Lennox. (Click for direct link)

Mass Transit Demo Set

2010-02-01T11:55:00.000-05:00

Mass Transit Demo by Tosomok

Mass Transit Demo Set I - percussive tunes and hipster-friendly anthems blend to establish a bold foundation for good times. Generous contributions from Ratatat, RJD2, Beats Antique, Bassnectar, et. al. Also includes original breaks/infills/and misc clippings.

*Cheers

Demise of the Midway Atoll Albatross

2010-01-27T10:42:00.001-05:00

Visual artist and photographer Chris Jordan has documented the suffering and death of remote albatross populations on the Midway Atoll, in the North Pacific, 2000 miles from the nearest continent. His photos are a striking reminder of our abstracted coexistence with remote animal populations and the ubiquity of our expanding ecological footprint.

The remaining photos, complete description of the project, as well as links to the artists body of work are available at chrisjordan.com

*

Tosomok Product @ Soundcloud

2010-01-22T13:47:00.002-05:00

Tosomok Product posted @ soundcloud.

Bravado Heart by Tosomok

Trabanchula by Tosomok

Out of Time by Tosomok

Brynn's Kombucha

2010-01-21T20:30:00.000-05:00

SCOBY = Symbiotic Colony Of Bacteria and Yeast

Ellis Chandelier

2010-01-19T14:06:00.001-05:00

MLK OBEY Print

2010-01-18T12:58:00.001-05:00

A 2005 MLK portrait from Shepard Fairey's Obey Giant Poster Archives. The archives are teaming with iconic reverse propaganda designs -- including the "Duality of Humanity" series which depicts the “human struggle between good and bad, hope and fear.” The series was inspired by The Joker character of Stanley Kubrick's Full Metal Jacket.

Some of the DOH series:

APOCALYPTIC DUBSTEP II - dj umb

2010-01-14T14:31:00.005-05:00

Found wallet, found keys, found phone, found disturbingly awesome dubstep groove that threatens to wobble your lunkus to the brink of braindancing steplash.

DJ Umb has created a (free) mixer for your listening engagement.

01 APOCALYPTIC DUBSTEP II - THE PREQUEL, by djumb

mp3 is available here

::Tracklist ::

1. Masia Mara -Youngsta & Seven
2. Get Down – Vaski
3. Baghdad – David Starfire
4. Hexed & Perplexed – Liquid Stranger
5. Kashmir (Angry Pig Remix) – Led Zeppelin
6. Kashmir (David Starfire Remix) – Led Zeppelin
7. Viva Tibet – Bassnectar & Frequent Nasty.
8. World On Fire – Vaski
9. Kaliyuga – Engine Earz
10. Good 15001 – Supreme Selecta
11. Gizmo – Datsik
12. Streets Of Rage – Flux Pavillion
13. Voodoo (Bert On Beats Remix) – The Prodigy
14. Bad Boy Bass (Liquid Stranger Remix) – Gaudi
15. You’re Men Are Already Dead – Supreme Selecta
16. Air Raid – Flux Pavillion.

Animal Collective :: Brothersport

2010-01-12T21:26:00.004-05:00

The FB will not allow video/flash elements to import from my blog, so, for anyone wondering what Animal Collective :: Brothersport is all about, here's a direct link.

I'm not even going to attempt to explain what's going on in the video. Only that it's the most thought provoking media I've consumed today, aside from a convincing argument asserting the claim that government contractors, and specifically mercenary groups (i.e. Blackwater) are sustaining the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan because without these private companies supplementing our force, the draft would be reinstated. Thenceforth, our government would begin extracting our youngest adults from peaceful citizenry and education in order to wage war upon a distant, faceless foes. There would be outrage, protests, (anarchy?) -- certainly political upheaval. In short, the people would initiate a reclamation of THEIR military, and begin to reign-in the sprawling military industrial complex that has become an American trademark.

Trabanchula on YouTube

2010-01-08T10:29:00.000-05:00

Direct Link

Trabanchula

2010-01-06T22:42:00.005-05:00

Hungarian alternative mid-80s pop music provides the foundation for Trabanchula -- the latest composition/proposition from Tosomok HQ.

(MP3 Download)

Remember the Hungarian Jam Band?

Watchful Eyes

2010-01-05T19:54:00.000-05:00

This Blog is Carbon Free

2010-01-05T16:26:00.002-05:00

(Download Original Illustration)

Based on the latest International Energy Agency statistics, the average per capita annual cabon dioxide production per person, per year is approximately 19 metric tons (42,000 pounds)*.

* Honeyed Mouth is an IBSCC Certified Carbon Free Blog

Worms 2

2010-01-04T08:34:00.002-05:00

The worms of Worms Armageddon were rediscovered this past week, in all their ninja roping glory. These brave, boneless pink warriors have risen from their castings to take all kinds. They will trounce the antagonizing squid, stomp the beefing slug, and devastate creeping sea anemones with a diverse arsenal including holy hand grenades, skunks, and flying sheep.

To the victor, the spoils!

Mumfordian Technics

2009-12-31T08:58:00.002-05:00

Technics :: The wishes, habits, ideas, goals, and technical processes of a society.

Technology is a singular aspect of the larger field of technics. Interdisciplinary, multi-vocational, crossing cultural schisms, technics implies a pooling of information. Lewis Mumford describes technics in detail. A critic of typical inorganic urban sprawl, Mumford writes, "The physical design of cities and their economic functions are secondary to their relationship to the natural environment and to the spiritual values of human community."

Indeed.

He also writes:

The emphasis in the future must be, not upon speed and immediate practical conquest, but upon exhaustiveness, inter-relationship and integration. The coordination and adjustment of our technical effort... is more important than extravagant advances along special lines, and equally extravagant retardations along others, with a disastrous lack of balance between the various parts.

Here's to more exhaustive, integrative, and sustainable efforts in 2010.

Happy New Year!!!

Other honorable Mumfordian musing:

Forget the damned motor car and build the cities for lovers and friends.

Restore human legs as a means of travel. Pedestrians rely on food for fuel and need no special parking facilities.

The chief function of the city is to convert power into form, energy into culture, dead matter into the living symbols of art, biological reproduction into social creativity.

New York is the perfect model of a city, not the model of a perfect city.

Our national flower is the concrete cloverleaf.

Eiffel's Drawings :: Details, Ensembles, Goussets

2009-12-26T11:45:00.001-05:00

"La Tour Eiffel" has posted original plans for the 300 Meter Tower.

Once the ideas of a late 19th century dude, now the iconic symbol of Paris.

Details and ensembles metallique, down to the very last gousset.

(see entire collection here)

Dub Step Schematic

2009-12-24T11:11:00.001-05:00

(click for larger image)

Oh, but Love grows where my Rosemary goes

2009-12-24T08:50:00.000-05:00

And nobody knows like me

(apologies in advance...)

Edison Lighthouse (c. 1970)

Google Drop-Down Menus and A Logical Conclusion

2009-12-22T17:25:00.009-05:00

Google Screen Shots:

I am assuming that the content of Google drop-down

menus is determined by the most frequent inquiries.

Based on this logic, I rationally conclude

that it is statistically probable that one or more of these

character-types exist:

(1) Overweight, oversexed stoners

looking for Chuck Norris videos

(2) Freshly tattooed Erin Andrews fans

desperately seeking zhu zhu pets and

a cold sore remedy

(3) Angst-ridden, vainglorious teenage parolees
practicing unsafe sex --
searching for a cheap plane ticket to escape abroad,
while learning how to kiss (online) and speak Spanish

Mag+

2009-12-22T09:40:00.002-05:00

Innovative Swedish design firm Bonnier is developing the Mag+.

2008-2009 Projects

2009-12-17T08:45:00.002-05:00

view larger [800px]

Found Deli Schematic in Abandoned Kitchen

2009-12-16T12:09:00.002-05:00

Sphinx 9 x 12 Jute Clasp Manila Envelope (Back)

Sharpie Permanent Marker

This Year's Holiday Card

2009-12-14T11:50:00.004-05:00

OUTSIDE VIEW

INSIDE VIEW

... keep calm and carry on.

Friday's Thoreau Excerpt

2009-12-11T08:22:00.001-05:00

Society is commonly too cheap. We meet at very short intervals, not having had time to acquire any new value for each other. We meet at meals three times a day, and give each other a new taste of that old musty cheese that we are. We have had to agree on a certain set of rules, called etiquette and politeness, to make this frequent meeting tolerable and that we need not come to open war. We meet at the post-office, and at the sociable, and about the fireside every night; we live thick and are in each other's way, and stumble over one another, and I think that we thus lose some respect for one another.

- Thoreau's Walden (c. 1854)

First Album Cover

2009-12-04T14:50:00.000-05:00

Release Date 12/25/2009

More Tosomok... (There's Still Time)

2009-12-02T20:53:00.004-05:00

Welcome and thanks for visiting. I've rushed production here, trying to post material before the year end. Jumping head-long into another track, and some other projects before we retire 2009.

Twenty Ten draws near. Goodluck to all you folks looking for decent love, friendship, and employment.

You're Running Out of TIme

2009-11-30T21:28:00.009-05:00

Salvador Dali, The Persistence of Memory

A dose of Dali, followed by a fresh slice of soundlab, the Tosomok project continues:

Chainsaws, Choppers, and Moo-Moos

2009-11-30T12:34:00.001-05:00

It's easy to become preoccupied with agriculture, incorporation, and religion while spending a Thanksgiving holiday in the mountains of western North Carolina. Chainsaws, Choppers and Moo Moos populate the Swannanoa soundtrack.

We worship the lord ("thy" christ, "thy" savior) at the local church and feast on beef slaughtered in the backyard. The picture above, taken near the Swannanoa exit on I-40 is as terrifically bible-beltish as another sign nearby that reads, "Smile! Your mother chose life."

All hail the rough and tumble sublimity of country living -- discovered in the enclaves of the Blue Mountains -- beneath the Catawba falls, spilling like a bridle veil into pools that once supported Cherokee encampments. We will vanish. The trees will sway and the falls will spill, for time immemorial.

*blip*

Thanksgiving, Wareheim & SVP

2009-11-25T09:03:00.000-05:00

In the early hours of the morning, before the travel frenzy, from the quiet seat of an anonymous office park shrouded in fog, I say -- Happy Thanksgiving friends! This one will be spent in the Blue Mountains.

Anticipating another friendly return to southern hospitality --

a restorative romp among the pastures, springs, and family of Western North Carolina.

Kurtz and Shore were in the city for Bukowski's charm, bass womps, alien noises, and Eric Wareheim music videos (warning: this link may be unsuitable for squares, conservatives, medium regulars, and the faint of humor). Charming, no?

Buddy Bagley is back from Reno, where he was settling some unfinished business with the law. He writes:

The night soon found Gary and myself stomping to the intersection of Mill and Wells St. outside of downtown reno. An alleyway bar named "The Broken Spoke" was a burn-friendly establishment filled with Reno's most decorated motorheads. Their females were that special, familiar brand of piece garnished with double nose piercings, half-shaved heads and dusty black boots. After Gary smoked 4 rednecks in pool, it was time for a brisk exit and and a dash back to Silver Legacy for craps and free brew. I've known for some time now I am no card player, and prefer taking my chances in the mountains where the pay-offs amount to spiritual fortunes...

Tinkering in the sound lab continues... mixed with spurts of urban environmental leadership. In practicing a stream of consciousnesses wiki hunt, rummaging yielded a gem: John Ernst Worrell Keely, an inventor and alleged scam artist that invented a motor that runs on a newfangled form of energy derived from Sympathetic Vibratory Physics (SVP). Delving deeper, one is introduced to the able pen of Keely the artist. John never produced his motor, or definitively proved the legitimacy of SVP. He did, however, maintain his investors -- probably by producing these enigmatic sketches:

Demo Set :: Lonely Breaks and Scraps

2009-11-20T22:26:00.012-05:00

Tosomok :: To Jump Headlong Into (sustaining the music project)

Undaunted courage, the thunderous silence. Lonely breaks and distorted scrap metal clutters the air, alas, the Tosomok project is afoot. Here are some clumsy transitions complemented nicely by cannibalized 1990s break beats, concluding with some original dub step / crunchy cream cheese rhythms. The medium is unconventional. Bear with the "Spektor-derived" drowsy beginning -- the tempo increases to a healthy stride following the lullaby.

Dig it? Here is the link to the mp3.

::: CREDITS :::

and

TICKERISH

and

Living Building Challenge 2.0

2009-11-19T15:49:00.000-05:00

Living Building Challenge 2.0 is a cohesive standard – pulling together the most progressive thinking from the worlds of architecture, engineering, planning, landscape design and policy.

It challenges us to ask the question: What if every single act of design and construction made the world a better place?

What if every intervention resulted in greater biodiversity; increased soil health; additional outlets for beauty and personal expression; a deeper understanding of climate, culture and place; a realignment of our food and transportation systems; and a more profound sense of what it means to be a citizen of a planet where resources and opportunities are provided fairly and equitably?

Indeed, “Living Building Challenge” is not a merely a noun that defines the character of a particular solution for development, but more relevant if classified as a series of verbs – calls for action that describe not only the ‘building’ of all of humanity’s longest lasting artifacts, but also of the relationships and broader sense of community and connectivity they engender. It is a challenge to immerse ourselves in such a pursuit - and many refer to the ability to do so as a “paradigm shift”.

The Living Building Challenge is comprised of seven performance areas, or ‘Petals’: Site, Water, Energy, Health, Materials, Equity and Beauty. Petals are subdivided into a total of twenty Imperatives, each of which focuses on a specific sphere of influence. Download the complete document to learn more.

Environmental Justice Lit Review

2009-11-18T08:35:00.002-05:00

The Convergence of Architectural Practice with the Interests of Environmental Justice

Environmental Justice

Urban Environmental Leadership

Lesley University

Fall 2009

Tosomok :: Cream Cheese

2009-11-16T10:43:00.014-05:00

It's real dullard stuff - cold, dark, pasty, lacking depth and spread thin on a stale wheat bagel. C, F, G, typical chord transitions with a bland bridge. It's the Neufchatel lite stuff I suffered through as a child. Wrapped in 32 bits, packaged as an mp3, served without a smile by a waitress fond of Marlboro Reds and ardent spirits.

Dig It!

Public Works Administration (PWA) Public Housing Poster

2009-11-15T14:19:00.004-05:00

"Eliminating Crime in the Slums through Housing"

PWA Housing Poster (c. 1937)

(AND MUSIC)

Violions Night Musics by Tosomok

Wizurquk by Tosomok

Hungarian Jam Band

2009-11-14T12:30:00.001-05:00

The Three Eggs Diagram

2009-11-12T15:18:00.002-05:00

(click for larger view)

Concept by Cedric Price

Rendered by Ben Myers

2009 Tosomok Production

Defragging Dub featuring Mia

2009-10-21T07:59:00.005-05:00

Soundlab 2.0

Tosomok Productions
Special Thanks to Mia

Tosomok :: To Jump Headlong Into (more music stuff)

2009-10-19T10:44:00.002-05:00

Soundlab 2.0

Tosomok Productions
Special Thanks to Aretha Franklin

Restyled :: KRS One (The Blastmaster) Visits the Soundlab

2009-10-15T07:15:00.004-05:00

KRS-One 'Speech' restyled & rebirthed over organic PHSL product in the soundlab last night.

Wobble, Crush, Restyle, Urban Renewal.

The solar followed by the lunar
Followed by the solar
Followed by McDonalds and Coke Cola
The point is that
Whatever the outcome of the battle
the battle goes on with more french fries and soda
So I say...

Me never never never cross over
Me never never never never go commercial

- KRS-One

Cicada Skates

2009-10-05T10:15:00.001-05:00

The Lab Rat Linguist :: Zingen on Yiddish

2009-09-18T06:53:00.005-05:00

Zingen
9-18-09

Letter from Zingen::

Dearest haimesh ponems (friendly faces),

I should begin with a disclaimer that I have IVs in both arms and A LOT of time on my hands. Sometimes, we make strange choices in life, and I am in the midst of one of those times. No need to worry, just learning a bit and participating in a research study- while taking this opportunity to perform a little research of my own, in regards to the Yiddish language. I would like to share some of my findings with you all.

First of all, growing up, we were all aware of some of mom's endearing, strange ways. Always a creative, loving person with a sharp tongue, mom would call us some of the most bizarre nicknames, such as Toad Wort or Pill Nick. We also, of course, had to say "foof", "shush up", and "tuches" instead of the harsher alternatives which all our friends blurted out with reckless abandon.

It did not occur to me until two days ago that several of mom's words are, in fact, Yiddish. I was chatting with my roommate, Kindra, and said that I was being a "nudje". She had never heard that word before. For us, being called "nudniks" throughout our childhoods, it seems that everyone would understand the term to mean "pesty nagger, nuisance, badgerer, bore". The term "paskudnik" means "ugly, revolting, evil person". Using this general language rule of ending words in "udnik", Mameleh, being quite a creative individual, often referred to us as "no-good-niks"... which I am pretty sure is a word that she made up all on her own.

All in all, it was a great childhood, full of kvetching, noshing, shlepping ourselves around, and having mom roughly rub the schmutz off our faces with her own saliva-coated thumb... And before I get all farklempt, or start to ramble on like a yenteh, I'll admit that some of this blood loss and boredom may be going to my head. Basically, I am just thinking of you all fondly and wanted to share some of my free-time-induced findings with the family.

Zol zein gezunt! (Be well!)

Love,

Zingen (Yiddish for "to sing")

P.S. Darf min gehn in kollegj? (For this I went to college?)

Recent Design Projects

2009-08-20T07:50:00.008-05:00

Warm, fresh, moist, delivered to your door...

Boston Cookie Brigade

FYI :: Data suggests 'moist' is one of the least phonetically appealing words in the English language. Linguists attribute this widespread repulsion to the 'oi' sound, as in 'joist' or 'oy vey', oy.

Warm, fresh, moist, organic funktronica, delivered to your cortex.

Prospect Hill Soundlab

FYI :: Made on equipment that also processes peanuts.

Go Deeper

opus ab intra (now available)

2009-08-07T12:26:00.006-05:00

opus ab intra @ http://www.benmyers.org/prospecthillsoundlab.html

organic, home grown, spaghetti funktronica

Man-Child, Mr. Bagley, and Thug Slug

2009-08-03T08:58:00.004-05:00

I am returned, reluctantly, to relatively routine business after a three day jaunt along the Carter-Moriah ridgeline in the wooded White Mountains. Man-Child, Mr. Bagley, and Thug Slug were the order of the trail which skirted the Wild River Wilderness surrounding the magnificence of Mount Washington.

I am returned, reluctantly, to the faceless, synthetic computer. The stick of pine sap residuals clinging beneath the fingernails. Fingernail hygiene has never been my forte.

The fresh memory of a saturated forest hemmoraging moisture. Rich, wet, organic -- pure. Smelling of the teaming micronutrients populating the puddle pools.

The purpose of a hike in stark relief with the purpose of desk work. The former yielding immediate and continuous reward; the latter, a seemingly perpetual habit of editing, authorizing, and budgeting various manifesto.

Man-Child, Mr. Bagley, and Thug Slug :: returned, reluctantly to Boston, refreshed.

A shared sentiment expressed by the brilliant words of Étienne de La Boétie:

"There are always a few, better endowed than others, who feel the weight of the yoke and cannot restrain themselves from attempting to shake it off: these are the men who never become tamed under subjection and who always, like Ulysses on land and sea constantly seeking the smoke of his chimney, cannot prevent themselves from peering about for their natural privileges and from remembering their ancestors and their former ways. These are in fact the men who, possessed of clear minds and far-sighted spirit, are not satisfied, like the brutish mass, to see only what is at their feet, but rather look about them, behind and before, and even recall the things of the past in order to judge those of the future, and compare both with their present condition. These are the ones who, having good minds of their own, have further trained them by study and learning. Even if liberty had entirely perished from the earth, such men would invent it. For them slavery has no satisfactions, no matter how well disguised.”

PHSL Public Service Announcement

2009-04-29T10:00:00.003-05:00

Prospect Hill Soundlab

Presents

PHSL PSA

Click for Audio

Editor's Note: As economic recovery is realized, the Honeyed Mouth will return to routine activity -- what little routine this blog has reluctantly assumed. Thank you for your enduring patience. We hope you enjoy the music.

Magnum Opus - Mid April '09

2009-04-13T14:54:00.006-05:00

4.13.2009
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE

The elves of 27 Boston Street continue their tinkering in the Prospect Hill Soundlab. These are productive times, ripe for paradiddles, djembe rhythms, and sweep-phasing of watery bass. Atop the crack, thwap and thunder, the Vocoder R3 supplies ample mid-to-low-range stimuli. Father music ponders a minor 5th, while the chief soundlab engineer tweeks the lower registers of the dynamic equalizer.

We are organic farmers of home grown music.

As part of the ongoing campaign to keep folks apprised of Prospect Hill Soundlab progress, we solicit your undivided attention, et c'est tout! Please checkout the April Version of Magnum Opus. While taking it in, one must consider the ongoing effort to expand, reform, and deliberately funkify the arrangement.

Your input, contribution, and general state of being are most appreciated. Link to Magnus Opus is also available at benmyers.org.

Cheers,

Ben
Soundlab Consumer Relations

Walkin' Ain't Crowded: A Retrospective in Miniature

2009-03-18T08:57:00.006-05:00

A quick survey of the forearms reveals red lashes, scars, and pine tar stains. The lumberjack life is a welcome departure from Somerville's chemical sunrise. Liberation is a single healing breath of the damp saturated air rising from the depths of Davidson mountain spring. I’m gloriously returned to Western North Carolina country roots, christened by sweat – ordained upon the fierce briar thicket churning in the shade of old growth white pines. A leaf of dried field grass swings from the edge of my lip.

Arrived by plane a week ago. Mounted a puddle jumper from Newark, commanded delicately by sweet Mahogany. Industrial landscapes relinquished dominance at the Pennsylvania border, surrendering to hardwood forests of red oak and locust. All of us originating from Newark and beyond, landed beneath a blue mountain ridge surrounded by hilly terrain. My family occupies one of these hills, yonder west several miles in a region irrigated by the Swannanoa river.

When they told me my baggage was lost, I was relieved.

When my phone battery expired, I smiled.

Fuzzy Gargid consumes the hemlock spur shoots, or so I’m told. Hemlock, the poison parsley of Socrates fate, the same Devil’s porridge is food for other bioorganisms. My grandfather limps into the airport cursing Wooly Adelgid, his sciatic pains, and the ongoing drought. A comforting habit of his is cursing these recurring irritations.

We file a delayed baggage claim with Malcom, a real southern-type with a chaw-stained collar. He's convinced that the young women of Buncome County are all smoking dope.

An ongoing debate regarding Swannanoa’s bureaucratic paradigm, or lack thereof, marks the zeitgeist. The need for organized tax structure, law enforcement, and development controls is met by a population thuroughly consigned to anti-government tactics. A crooked bumper sticker on my Grandfathers F-150s advocates “NO TO INCORPORATION.” Change is in the air, and with it as always, stern opposition.

We drive out over the hills of Warren Wilson College, an academic refuge for the agriculturally inclined neo-hippies and trustafarians. The campus is a stretch of lush valley filling a void in the Blue Mountains. Pastures and plantings skirt the fluctuating banks of the river which teams with trout during early autumn cool spells. Fertile red clay erupts from the scarified terrain, announcing its rich iron to the backdrop of pale blue sky. With the windows down we’re blasted with the penetrating odor of freshly spread manure. The organic synthesis prompts uncontrollable salivation.

Awaiting our arrival is Leon Fox, a local hero/mechanic with eleven children. He’s sitting proudly in his tow rig. Gramps asks him to join us for breakfast up at the house. He pauses.

“Let’s go” says Gramps, “Walkin’ ain’t crowded.” With this, we lurch ahead up the hill to a warm kitchen scented with bacon grease. Two pots on the stove are filled with grits and eggs, an authentic breakfast designed for the ambitious lumberjack.

Flynn: The Renaissance Rugger-Cellist

2009-03-04T09:13:00.007-05:00

Fluency in a bow-stringed instrument is a prerequisite for the position of scrum half.

blogmuffin

2009-03-04T08:59:00.005-05:00

christian vice

introducing benmyers.org

2009-02-27T11:58:00.002-05:00

rolling out benmyers.org

The intended function of this web page is relatively unclear. BenMyers.org (if you're more comfortable with caps) more readily lends itself to dysfunction. Perhaps this is some tech-psych-post-modern manifest destiny that brings me to the web. This personal website is an abstraction of the nesting impulse. I suppose the wayward web surfer is eventually overcome with the urge to settle down and build his or her own domain. I hope to use this portal in lieu of a banal business card, unkempt myspace page, or bland mission statement. This is the mission statement: benmyers.org: ben on the web.

In hindsight...

2009-02-22T18:12:00.003-05:00

In hindsight, this will have been an epic period.

Cambridge is a prime sanctuary for the disenchanted twenty-somethings. Guided by Memorial Drive and Massachusetts Avenue, there is such a rich culture thriving beside the Charles River. Cross the river and all bets are off. Caveat Emptor!

The latest satori was a group of BU undergrads dancing to an impromptu jam session staged beneath the Park Street T Station. These seven young females, in sexual full throttle, danced the night away among an amused audience rife with colorful members of the entire cross section of Boston's population. With complete disregard for their arriving train, hips continued to shake Shakira-style while hands formed hindi inspired postures into the early morning air trapped under the pavement. Later it was discovered that this was a birthday celebration, the only logical excuse for such decadence.

A skinny man with a tight-curled black pony tail in a purple business suit and gangster hat sat upon a wooden box, which served as both his seat and drum. A saxophonist in worn jeans and sportcoat danced side-to-side, ascending and descending blues scales with rhythmic precision; a guitarist completed the trio, taller than the other two with a full head of long gray hair and Greatful Dead demeanor. Not one was the presumed ring leader -- each broght it hard with their own unique contribution, essential to the success of the ensemble.

The girls danced, the band played on, all the time the crowd smiling -- frozen in mid-stride to gaze upon the spectacular happenings. The volume of the crowd perpetually waning and waxing with arriving and departing trains. Performance artists reigned supreme beneath the city, without contracts or incentives - other than a buck or two from the noble.

The young dancers were full frenzy at the climax of a Jack Johnson tune when a T employee turned to me and said, "Well, now I've seen it all." As if music required another testament to its glory. There have been few brilliantly spontaneous exchanges in Boston that rival this dance session. Only fortuitous Bostonians were in attendance - the tourists long retired to their stale hotel sheets.

Check it Out: Ambiguous Animation on Public Walls

2008-11-29T11:18:00.003-05:00

The artist Blu has created a film titled Muto in which his spray can artwork comes to life. Too sweet not to share.

Click here for a taste.

http://www.blublu.org/sito/video/muto.htm

The Blackberry PDA is a Chastity Belt for the Mind

2008-11-12T21:48:00.001-05:00

The
Blackberry PDA
is a
Chastity Belt
for the
Mind

HFC, ICE, GBC & Other Lazy Anacronyms

2008-11-12T20:40:00.007-05:00

Hyrogen, two vagabond moochers in need, damaged goods to the protonic core, join as enablers -- need persists, high on oxygen becomes a liquid asset: water. Split them again, Hydrogen deprived - fiending charge, selfishly pursues the insatiable thirst for stability, seeks out cathodes with proton exchanging ambitions. Electrons flank left. The power drivers charging through copper highways, harvested by humans, relegated to doing the dirty work of materialistic mammals. Mammals fear the reptiles hunting in the swampland, mammals fear the fear, escape by internal combustion engines straped to rubber feet with radial velocity. Linear accelerations to the vigorous beat of history, archs and delineates until electron cannons reveal black holes.

Behold the hydrogen fuel cell. Elecrolysis breeds batteries - megawatts become gigawatts, we learn methods of perpetuating bad habits. Frenzied fanatics crowd the gambling table - voyeurs eat at the buffet, the cocktail waitresses smell big tips. Is this really all about the Benjamins?

A vehicle in traffic swerves right, into the bike lane. A biker is passing at a higher rate of speed. The biker swerves right, narrowly avoiding the vehicle. The biker pulls up beside the vehicle, stuck in traffic, and says, "Figure it Out!" then rides on. The moral of this story is that the vehicle had no response.

Keeping it safe with surfboard friends, plan a ski bum lifestyle for the winter months. Brew pots of potent coffee with Japhy in February. Make a bed of grass, live the monkish ideal, with a bag of flour grain, rice and a rucksack. The field mice ascend the elevations of Yellowstone as the humans migrate to urban centers.

Living souls with rigamortis need not innovate, innovation they not need. The inventors arch and delineate, creating erudite artwork, steel fitting artisans crafting process piping from 1/4" stainles stock -- seamless. Art cars deliver satoris, nirvana to samsara, Playa crossing messianic monsters - some spewing fireballs from propane nostrils. Terrifying, different, exciting.

Juggle that for a minute, and meet me at the stage of conflagration. We're reopening the red folder. See you soon.

"If you stand there like a statue, Jack you dead!"
- Joe Jackson

Clipped by Lonely Wrought Iron

2008-10-10T09:51:00.004-05:00

Atop the fortified granite block tower,
under American flag pride in the night,
our hilltop vantage point --
the lookout we sport aimless,
our forbearers tracked the British from these very monolithic footholds,
us breaking laughter and corks
break beats for dorks,
overlooking the expanse of Boston waterfront.
Somervillains we become - endemic to the night.

A sip of whiskey.
A slug of beer. Sipping and slugging away the saturated midnight breeze off the bay.
Cannot walk, so we run.
Cannot run, so we fly.

Motivating downhill.
Into the industrial parks -
and playgrounds
monkeybars and cargo canvas,
sippy straws and sliding poles -
this is change we can believe in.
Greasing the wheels
for smooth rollie-pollie-madness!

The improvised terrain
a developed landfill
atop the gurgling seas of saline Scandanavian tongues
Norse gods fear our Anglo Saxon resolve
turning more adeptly to Buddhist nirvanic trance
the satoris of this samsara --
distance from dullards and that
MEDIUM REGULAR COW SLOP
bring us one step closer,
to the perfection of nothing.

Perfect though,
this moment,
because it is,
yet we cannot recognize the perfection --
survival instincts pervail;
stymie enlightenment --
warrior testicles have us chasing the invisible dragon
over foothills,
into virgin forests of frozen fir -
warm villas of field mice
beyond the swales of fertile moss
no home for shotgun wielding gray beards.

Clipped by lonely wrought iron,
we fall into the wood chips
writhing in sweet agony.

An October morning Buddha insists the Spiritual Currency Market remains unaffected.

Radical Self-reliance

2008-09-04T08:25:00.006-05:00

The laughter never so sincere, the trance never so dirty - a meticulously contrived affront to American republican archetype (see those nervous fat bodied elephants sweating filthy oil profusely while cheering, clapping, and grinning like doped apes eating fried chicken, see those greasy greedy spin doctors basking in the gravy, see them on CSPAN, embarrassing.)

On the playa, the peaceful masses hold hands in anti-structured solidarity, rocking out with cocks and breasts out alike, meditating in huddles around wind chimes, riding out the American Dream amid the spontaneous combustion of gargantuan fireballs.

This is the omnipotent mind fuck the aimless souls seek, and the rigidly conservative fear. The community is a brother and sisterhood of radically self-reliant free-thinking rebels with good taste. The art created is ubiquitous, boundless in every sense of the word: the interaction of human beings, the human beings disguised as animals, the animals on wheels rolling cross the playa, the playa itself lit by faux full moon and lasers, the lasers a ceiling under which the human beings dance - rage - embrace.

Each one finds his or her own reality.

Biscuits, gravy, and home brew during a sandstorm white-out. Over-sexed and under-nourished, fifty-thousand pleasure-seeking manic-pacifists wearing goggles smile on bicycles as fine silty clays cake upon their gums. A raving harlot exchanges a marble for a silver charm, French Canadians offer pancakes and Margaritas to passers-by, old Reno hippies tour the badlands shirt-cocking teenage girls, we all become cognizant of the Native American tragedy.

Mutually understood, mutually beneficial, the vast landscape is home to a die-hard crowd jaded by default existence. Showmen they are not. The blowhard tuba operator spewing flames and low C without an audience is healing. The petite blond adorned in a billowing Victorian era gown maneuvers her BMX between the dunes with complete indifference toward the twenty servants dressed in white robes ritualistically transporting one hundred oil lit lanterns to the foot of the temple. A man dances alone by a street sign in the dark - understanding the nirvanic nature of selflessness.

Reclaimed telephone poles underpin a structure predestined for a fiery demise. The hot pink hue of the sun rise accents the skirting hills naturally while the artificial LED-lit profile of the man echoes natures pigment. The mountainous fringes, the sun above, the man, and those objects organic and inorganic, sent spinning in orbit, were fabricated as one.

Sandstorms blew with a vengeance- peppered naked skin and cast whole tents aloft! Oh ye wrathful mechanism of nature! But the storms only gave strength to the heathen fire worshipers.

Ah but when the sun set the winds died and lights danced, leaving traces and trails streaking across the desert. A UFO crashed after purple sundown. Aliens emerged and spun breakbeats for the sweaty masses, all covered in dayglow body paint.

A 300 ft duck equipped with laser eyes and a mohawk made of flamethrowers roamed the playa looking for victims. Numerous pirate ships bathed in ghostly light sailed the psychedelic seas blasting 300,000 watts of acid-trance, making hostages of all who beheld their sound systems.

Topless French-Canadian girls stomped in the dirt, elaborate goggles fastened to their elegant heads to proctect them from the bite of the wind.

Pure liquid were the days- the closing of eyes revealing rainbows of new sensoriums and dancing geometric shapes folding like origami to the beat of mystic alien rhythms. The sense fields would spontaneously split in half and drift beyond the peripheries of perception, spilling sun-like wisdom into the skull, flooding it with primordial color.

The biggest party on earth and by far the most profound. A time to make new art, new music, new words, new love... a renewed faith in humanity. Burn it all!

Charanara Sama Ti Ta Hee.

Words on Boston

2008-08-12T22:06:00.002-05:00

Broken fingers,
malicious at times
large and unseasoned,
without callouses
mapped in thin white scars,
not yet arthritic,
flex a troubled verse immortal –
insatiable and teething.

The girth of these same digits
deterred a rogue five-mississippi rusher
bearing down on Crutch -
ankles strained,
aligning the body -
between aggressor and main protagonist,
bootlegging beyond the margins,
intercepting fervent flesh.

The same grinning gaze remains,
the one of wanton boyhood dawn,
behind the veil of thin-rimmed black sunglasses,
disgusted by corporate greed perversions,
beckoning truth,
surf-casting for spirituality,
in muffs of pubic hair.

The natural,
primordial state of Dzogchen,
transcendental simplification --
the self-aware mental alchemist,
summon from the subconscious,
a fleeting concern -
finite and vivid;
stirring with the warmer thoughts above -
spume forth a brackish froth,
during epileptic convulsions of enlightenment.

Exposing the immaterial qualities of thought,
mixing, melding, and fusing nature,
discarding dogma and pontification,
disrobing the semantics and rhetoric –
the mind detached,
understands more.

A pure moment:
She lies in the dirt and grass under the timeless moonshine,
a peaceful smirk by nocturnal light revealed,
shapely lips and perfect teeth.
outside the Eastern Tabernacle of the Cambridge Meeting House,
Lamas in the breeze –
Effortlessly allow false desires to pass as the clouds.

This enthralling habitat is the toxicity of the urban environment,
the captivating flavor of tuna fish chocolate bars.
A quilted comforter at a craft fair,
an amalgam of myriad fabrics,
salvaged and on sale,
but far too rich to take home.

Reeling squirm junkies buzz about:
The superfluous academia of The Peoples’ Republic,
Back Bay hipsters with esoteric magazines,
the raw fraternity of Savin Hill’s Street Dogs,
Alston’s counter-culture rebellious spirit,
Brookline’s Russian food shops and Indian lunch buffets,
impervious pretentious gates of the Harvard institution,
mysterious underworld of MIT laboratories,
open-source learning on Massachusetts Avenue.

Each has his domain.
In Plato’s Republic,
Whitman’s infatuating characters --
move about with eyes to the fire.

Behold the esteemed forest spirit of Japanese legend --
Bagley writes of a white mountain adventure highlighted by a moose encounter:

“Saw a massive black moose on the trail this weekend. It's hard to imagine their physical scope and effortless mastery of the dense, borreal terrain on which they roam until you see their dark head and broad, sweeping antlers rise from the fern brush with almost mythical grace. Head-on, their piercing glance and wild crown would appear demonic if it wasn't for their passive nature and guardian-like presence in the otherwise isolated forested ridgelines south of Mount Washington.”

The venerable four-legged organic master,
a guardian of alien terrain,
seldom vexed
by the intrusion of infidels,
nods his head,
snorts,
and keeps moving.

Outside, Dorchester is happening on a Friday evening.
Crouched cabals lurk in dark corners of the T-station tracks making arrangements and prophetic statements under the din of passing red trains –
periodic episodes of clamorous clickety-clacking
launch ice blue sparks into the thicket.

Audible sirens resound,
magnified by decrepit masonry squalor,
signaling the arrival of a SWAT team --
weapons drawn from holsters,
their cue,
an alleged pharmacy thief,
with weaponry of his own -
purportedly brandished for immediate,
unprovoked,
discharge.

Bystanders gather beyond the caution-tape,
each one intrigued by the speculation of death.
Boston Police Department blind beyond the usual suspects –
inspecting routine stops,
with routine coffees,
(medium-regular coffees)
and routine thoughts,
business as usual.

All survive to live another day,
thanks to fine police work,
and the young men –
dying horrifically in Afghanistan.

Saturday morning is the smell of eggs crackling in bacon grease,
from the brown bits congealing in the grille trough --
to the nostrils of passers-by,
euphoric olfactory stimuli,
waft gently from the thickly caked Mckenna's grease duct exhaust--
The whole neighborhood
united by the smell of griddle cakes and syrup.

A single, unifying truth:
the appeal of griddle cakes and syrup,
on Saturday morning.

I can smell it from the alpine zone of Pierce Mountain,
overlooking Crawford Notch
and Mount Washington to the North.
The smell mingles with electrons and sulfur –
as ominous t-storm cells roll over the back of Eisenhower,
more intimidating than SWAT,
forming an intense cyclonic huddle around Washington’s proud summit.

The ambiance changes from friendly to fierce in a matter of minutes.

Burning Man or bust!
The man burns in 18 days…
The American Dream is Alive

GREEN duckie

2008-08-08T14:06:00.003-05:00

Free Tech Support by Myers

2008-08-01T07:24:00.006-05:00

Mike McSoley has written again for technical support. McSoley is a reformed concrete flat-worker, construction superintendent theologian, naval veteran, and Dad. He has many guns, and likes to discuss complex issues using the Socratic method. Dare I say Mike is a Hunter S Thompsonesque amalgam of guns, an affinity for well-informed argument and general aversion to political correctness. He's part objectivist, part deconstructionist, part mechanic -- a wholly unique renaissance man of construction.

Letter from Mike:

7/27/2008

Good morning...

Yet again, I have a problem with my laptop, a Dell Latitude D620 (I don't know if you need that info). Recently, about Friday of last week, my screen does not fill the entire area. I have a 1'' margin on the right and left sides of the display. I click the maximum icon but nothing changes. I did not find any answers using the help icon. I'm certain it is a pretty easy fix for people who know but I am not one of those people.Please help before I'm forced to call customer service in Calcutta...

Thanks in advance.

Regards,

Michael J.

Letter from Myers Tech Support:

8/1/2008

Hey Mike --

Here's how you fix your computer:

A) Right click on your desktop
B) A drop-down menu should appear
C) Choose "Properties"
D) Choose the tab "Settings"
E) Change the screen resolution back to the default
F) If you do not know the default resolution setting, try 640x480
G) If that does not work, keep trying different resolution settings until you succeed
H) If that does not work, calmly unplug the machine and do one of the following:

1) Dismember the bitch key by key from Esc to Ctrl
2) Bring it with you next time to the shooting range for a "brogan adjustment" (nod to Pauly, The Sopranos)
3) Pack a carry-on bag (save yourself the $15 baggage check fee) complete with said Dell Latitude D620 and fly to Calcutta. Tell them first-hand what you think of their piece-of-sht machine. Go on to explain the cancer that is American outsourcing of jobs overseas. This hostile rant should continue unabated for the greater part of an hour, alternating between the Dell corporation's ineptitude and your proclivity for firearms.
4) Buy a mac

Please share your results.

Sincerely,

Ben

Memory of the South Amherst Common

2008-07-18T19:01:00.005-05:00

In the late haze of Summer-slow, we would call on our counterparts to join in a game of tackle football on the South Amherst common. Come one, come all, if ye dare! Matt Crutch took the lead -- his persuasive capabilities superior to the others. Ten, Twelve, even Fifteen, were summoned by a spontaneous phone tree of eager youth ready to do battle.

At the crossroads of Shays, Middle and Southeast streets, a constrained pasture of hearty sod is where we convened. The timeworn pitch reckoned the memories of farmers grazing livestock as the masses spilled from the South congregational church. About the perimeter stood old Yankee houses sheathed in clapboards saw cut by hand in local mills and lathered with decades of layered paint. Their resident voyeurs would stand austerely cautious behind the shaded windows as our energetic souls snowballed rebellious, spouting profanity unafraid.

The field was a oblong rectangle lined with teeshirts marking fifteen yard first downs. The first order of business was establishing the field. No shortage of dispute would ensue. The older boys, represented by Brian Crutch, Matt's older brother, had the final say. After the dimensions of the surface were agreed, the rules would follow.

Some rules were standard and to argue their merit was futile speculation. These were the basic stipulations subject to minor variation:

1) Four downs per possession
2) First down every fifteen yards
3) Two completions is a first down
4) Live kickoffs
5) Five-Mississippi rush
6) Three-men on the line of scrimmage

Only rules three and four occasionally generated dissent, the stronger argument championed by the older players. The elders opted for two completions on account of their longer arms and legs. Live kickoffs were an issue of safety -- and members from both sides, no matter how reckless, would carefully consider the risky nature of head-on collisions at fifty-meter pace. The game of pickup tackle football is wrought with injury. So long as the game transpired, so too did the countdown to a broken bone or bloodied face.

The games were this and that and everything. We band of suburban thugs were center-stage of the neighborhood. The wise-comic Tim Levy would raise his reliable hands and retrieve the regulation-sized youth football from the humid summer air. A backfield recluse would fold him in-half mid-air, but it was too late. The victorious party would join him in the endzone for a brief laugh -- then position themselves for the impending live kickoff. A firm boot, a hasty sprint, a rough tackle, flailing legs skyward bound, the blur of a moments opportunity vanished -- then the rallying offense would huddle to discuss strategy.

It was not uncommon for passers-by in automobiles to slow to a near halt upon regarding the mayhem. A few narrowly avoided collisions with other distracted drivers.

Plays were devised by the Crutch brothers. Each brother commanded his squadrons of willing combatants with relative calm. This was a proving ground, and every young man sought his opportunity. Whether constrained to the offensive line, faking a handoff and running a short curl, or navigating the deep post, the fervent constituents were all operating under the assumption that their particular responsibility potentially impacted a favorable result. This was evident in the twitch of their toes. This was realized by their unyielding resolve to compete. This was marked by their incessant modest focus. The boys had arrived with a bone of some sort to pick.

Showing up was enough to garner respect, dilettantes and professionals alike. All participants understood the crude stakes. Derision met only those that remained absent, and they would suffer condemnation within the middle school halls during Monday's reunion. They would be chastised for homosexual tendencies and softness. The most athletic no-shows always received the brunt of the heckling.

And show up they did. Zack Tompson, Nick Eely, Jason Grazeidei, Mike Hannigan, Tony Volpe, John Ozereko... Ten, Twelve, even Fifteen were in attendance!

The Crutch brothers were pickup ball geniuses. They possessed an arsenal of calculated allusions crafted with the purpose of misguiding the defense. Matt was Brett Favres delinquent pupil. He was a master of timing the fake hand-off, rolling out with superbly fluid form which transitioned to a mid-stride release of a ball guided directly for the intended recipient. His gestures were naturally calculated and meticulous as a fine flint-lock rifle upon horseback.

We would gallivant warrior style into the darkness until between the night sky and the ball there was no prejudice and catches were acts of God himself. The scores were always close. Neither team would concede defeat even when the score proved otherwise. This is the way all members preferred it.

We'd give daps and part ways. Each having accomplished his own personal victory of sorts.

As the mud death-spiraled the periphery of the drain, in the shower I would recall then as I do now that these remarkable occasions are so simply perfect.

A Boating Escapade, or Dick Cheney the Dinkus

2008-07-17T23:19:00.003-05:00

Aging military outposts fortify the coastline, concrete memoirs of wars past. Here we defended X from Y and built Z to kill them faster. U is where our scientists developed V to wage war on W. We troll the waters of an abandoned naval yard tempting fatboy stripers scudding along the rusting structures forty feet below. Captain Chambers is at the helm.

The boat engine sputters watered down ethanol infused gasoline, gasping for air in-between coughing fits. Wide open and she purrs smooth. We follow the doom path stretch of black water shimmering under a ghost moon. At peak velocity, the broad trim collides with perpendicular wakes, spraying a mist of brine that tastes like Dragon Creek oysters.

The waterfront of Boston’s harbor towers above the landfill underpinnings, there’s a thin line dividing the man-made environment from the sea that threatens to swallow it whole. Our dwelling appears majestically on the knife’s edge.

Even in the perilous eye of a magnifying glass, the ants do not concede their hole.

Wars are fought on foreign soil and polar bears are drowning more frequently. The grubstakers foreclose on faulty mortgages while living room gangsters and CNN politicians speculate by plasma screen. Lost boys need an agenda, lost ambassadors exchange fierce rhetoric and lost boys take up weapons in their stead. No matter the weather, battle cries ring out.

War. War. War. I cannot write without harking its condemnation! All the maladies of our homeland, and none vex me quite like our ultra-military complex. We, the embarrassed superpower, are sinking into middle-eastern quicksand while the Iraqi leadership asks when we plan to leave.

Cheney, you Judge Holden of modern, formally surrender your silence and be a fucking man. Cheney, the stakes are too high for your consciousness. Your heart will fail soon, your body will die, and generations of the living will wade through the reverberations of your ignorance. What your CIA calls blowback is a force far more complex and indeterminate. Sometimes apparent, more often elusive, the organized organic mass that is humanity is destined to achieve a peaceful balance – but not so long as those with your conflict resolution techniques remain in control. Your legacy is no more than a pothole in the spring; a bump in the road, a flat tire, a last minute swerve. In time, the Cheney memory will be a darkened scar barely distinguishable from the common asphault.

Otherwise, all is quite well – quite well indeed! Crises watch is BORING. Cheney is boring.

Summer’s mystery is unfolding in the streets. Bring your friends.

Rapt Seafarer Under the Full Moon Dawn

2008-07-16T08:08:00.006-05:00

The commonality of human beings is an innate inclination to admire nature -- even temperamental lesbians have an affinity for tomato plants.

BTM
7/16/2008

Boston Legal Rugby Logo

2008-07-15T15:23:00.002-05:00

BOSTON LEGAL BRAND IMAGE
by
TEAM AWESOME

(c) 2008 Team Awesome Associates, Inc.

GET USED TO THE FEAR

2008-07-15T15:10:00.003-05:00

PROPOSED TEE SHIRT DESIGN
by
TEAM AWESOME

(c) 2008 Team Awesome Associates, Inc.

One Page of Cormac McCarthy's Blood Meridian

2008-06-24T11:48:00.003-05:00

or On the Evening Redness in the West

Steve and Pete:

We may be the three animals left in the caballado, or the Mexican riding out on his third horse in so many days. We may also be three white schmucks living in Cambridge. In any case, thanks is due for insisting McCarthy's Blood Meridian is the balls. I have read it; your claims now confirmed.

I offer the transcription of page 111, not a word more or less. This passage extols the virtues of Cormac's masterpiece -- and will surely return you to the apocalyptic wastelands with which you were once familiar.*

*Gypsy Bar and Faneuil Hall not included.

PAGE 111

They rode all day upon a pale gastine sparsely grown with saltbush and panicgrass. In the evening they entrained upon a hollow ground that rang so roundly under the horses' hooves that they stepped and sidled and rolled their eyes like circus animals and that night as they lay in that ground each heard, all heard, the dull boom of rock falling somewhere far below them in the awful darkness inside the world.

On the day that followed they crossed a lake of gypsum so fine the ponies left no track upon it. The riders wore masks of boneblack smeared about their eyes and some had blacked the eyes of their horses. The sun reflected off the pan burned the undersides of their faces and shadow of hourse and rider alike were painted upon the fine white powder in purest indigo. Far out on the desert to the north dustspouts rose wobbling and augured the earth and some said they'd heard of pilgrims borne aloft like dervishes in those mindless coils to be dropped broken and bleeding upon the desert again and there perhaps to watch the thing that had destroyed them lurch onward like some drunken djinn and resolve itself once more into the elements from which it sprang. Out of that whirlwind no voice spoke and the pilgrim lying in his broken bones may cry out and in his anguish he may rage, but rage at what? And if the dried and blackened shell of him is found among the sands by travelers to come yet who can discover the engine of his ruin?

That night they sat at the fire like ghosts in their dusty beards and clothing, rapt, pyrolatrous. The fires dies and small coals scampered down the plain and sand crept past in the dark all night like armies of lice on the move. In the night some of the horses began to scream and daybreak found several so crazed with snowblindness they required to be shot. When they rode out the Mexican they called McGill was on his third horse in as many days. He could not have blacked the eyes of the pony he'd ridden coming up from the dry lake short of muzzling it like a dog and the horse he now rode was wilder yet and there were only three animals left in the caballado.

Letter from Former Student Turned Christian Zealot

2008-06-12T06:41:00.002-05:00

The clear agenda of Christian missions in China is thriving. The catholic church in particular, has a presence in the cities and surroundings. A young woman with the English name Ada was one of students and has recently (within the past year) been affected by the robed pontiffs armed with proverbial rhetoric and ancient parables. In recent correspondence, her nascent relationship with the church pervades any meaningful depiction of her experience. If this "Lord Jesus" character weren't endorsed so heavily by our state, I might think him the leader of some unhealthy cult engaged in clandestine rituals -- perhaps involving human sacrifice and consumption of blood.

Letter from Ada, 6/12 (sic):

Hi,my best and great teacher,

I can't tell you how surprised and excited to hear from you. Thank Jesus!

I'm full of excitement, i've got an empty mind.hahah...

Luckily,there were none of my relatives affected in the earthquake,but thank you for your careness.

You are right,shanghai is a big city and it's hard to live here,but everthing goes well with me for i have Lord Jesus with me. Few days later i'll to Chengdu,maybe you can do me a favor:can you help me with my resume,how to make it attractive and strong? It's better to give me an example.

I hope you spare some time to read Bible and attend the Sunday service,Jesus is the only one and true God.I'm serious. I hope you won't be offended with my suggestion.

Ok, it's nice talking to you and thank you for your time!

Best regards!

Ada

TAXI!

2008-05-13T22:39:00.001-05:00

HELP I'm losing my mind

2008-05-07T19:37:00.005-05:00

The parable of my life must incorporate the horrid machine before me. Darwinism provides for natural selection against I long before computers become the predatory species they are alas. Seizing from Men their manhood, dislocating animals from the rich minerals of planet earth -- they are winning their ubiquitous campaign waged against our instincts. It's a coalition of the virtual time sink.

The parable of my life is cognizance of technology's impermanence. Ever changing, fluid, in permanent flux, these machines are not the stock of inconstible reality. They, these machines, are a false promise of efficiency. Efficiency being the primary objective of our day, these cursed machines are the "tools" that chant the flawed mantra flouting patience while hailing production.

The parable of my life is the polemic against modern corporate doctrines. I'm a construction man. There is warm blood in these veins. The envy of architecture and the thrill of building are unmatched sensory experiences. The affinity for both are the underpinnings upon which my professional life rests. Right actions, true endeavors are important to one's dignity -- and here; in the dirt, concrete, steel, wood and wire, I've discovered mine.

Observeth the tangible symptoms of the built environment:

an excavator operating laboriously in the cold bright silence of spring breezes
buckets of earth spilling off the blade of a Gradeall.
compacting dense grade with a diesel roller
the confident aroma of wet concrete curing under the afternoon sun
the scraping of a steel trowel over a stubborn, recently-kicked slab
the click-clack of swaying aluminum pump jack staging
wafting powdery air of gypsum and joint compound
stinging chemicals and cleaning agents with hazmat classification
fresh paint
the symbols of inventive design brought forth by ambitious souls

Ignore the passion and a:

Gentle, well meaning spirit

finds a cubicle and call list

soliciting business

recalls the fervent study

brought upon by procrastination

a Sunday evening coffee

to stimulate the will --

engage the erudite spirit;

revel in the comfort of words and numbers.

Samaratin policy for police?

Deriving true power from words and numbers?

These never happen.

The samaratins go unheard

muffled by the noise of braindead power

projecting figurative fireballs with projected digits

spitting up directions and litigious nonsense

while the altruistic mutes

cannot work a microphone.

Design a robot

with actuating forearms

pneumatic shoulders

and hammer fists

to knock out the myriad pundits

making their livings

regurgitating conventional

didactic rhetoric

scared of individual thought.

Migrate to a placewhere the curvature of history

results in justice

and We The People

means what it means

us.

A place where we are not monkeys for media.

A place where we implement the cognitive surplus for change.

Barack and Roll!

f-it

2008-05-02T09:29:00.002-05:00

Faust. Part 1 -- I HAVE, alas! Philosophy,
Medicine, Jurisprudence too,
And to my cost Theology,
With ardent labour, studied through.
And here I stand, with all my lore,
Poor fool, no wiser than before.
Magister, doctor styled, indeed,
Already these ten years I lead,
Up, down, across, and to and fro,
My pupils by the nose,—and learn,
That we in truth can nothing know! Goethe (1749-1842)

Yes Sirs, Big Sur and Beyond

2008-04-25T18:50:00.003-05:00

Contact Improvisation is the lifestyle of lunatics without corporate guidance. Migrating hither-tither, meandering the parks of Golden Gate, the little puppies taunt the gatekeeper, nipping at his ankles. Hippies, Hipsters, Gutter Punks, and the like camp in half-dome tents, draining pints of promise as the sun sets. "Get Up, Stand Up: Stand Up for Your Rights!" Conga circles under yonder mountain breed smiling carelessness on a warm spring evening. The minds. THE MINDS! Not one better than the next, some sicker than others, it takes all kinds.

Shall I disclose the mystery of Big Sur? Is a human being qualified to provide an account of heaven? The hilly terrain south of San Francisco rambles on for hundreds of miles along the pacific ocean. A region of the sprawl is identified as Big Sur, and as the name suggests, it is big. The size of Big Sur has yet to be officially identified. The locals maintain that this ambiguity is essential to the myth of these world class rolling wild chunks of earth. Movie stars and meth heads escape civilization to camp along the fringes of an unknown organic masterpiece. The RV can go no further, the wary wonder no deeper, the meek turn around, but only after furnishing binoculars. Here the wide-eyed are swallowed by the Ventana wilderness. Here Jack English builds a hut in the pine valley. He is 80 years old. His wife has died. He goes to the woods to wait for death, alone. The woods can indeed end the beginning. For the same reasons she is beautiful, she is also deadly.

From China Camp, a 30 mile journey terminates at Sykes Hot Springs. Heated water primes the olfactory glands with the pungent aroma of sulfur spritzers. A soak in the hot springs at 6 am revives the soul while revealing the brilliance of nature. For the rest of the day, Toots and Maytals sways the redwood boughs as cold-blooded slithering creepers emerge from their burrows to catch some rays between the yucuma. We are the hot-blooded Americans, alert to the foreshadowing of rattle snakes. Cautiously armed with a rhythmic swagger, we pray for the worst, and receive the best.

Soul-filled making the final charge to Pine Ridge. Herein lies the diversity of nature's copious bounty. Flora and fauna, cacti and reptiles, edible miner's lettuce and poisonous snakes. Rodent cowpaths line the decay of eroding sandstone hillsides. We thread our way through 7 miles of overgrown drainage trail -- a dense thicket of thorn and various sharp edged leaf matter. The legs and forearms are scraped raw not long before the blood flows ruby red.

Cessation of suffering, the focus, not allowing the suffering to stymie peace. With the suffering of others on the brain, personal loathing dissipates. There is power in forgetting self. And thus, an element of selflessness is ironically selfish. Here, in this frame, compassion is possible.

Days pass, we leave the Ventana Wilderness for the edge of infinity, the Pacific Ocean. A cold beer, a rest on the rocks, building a fire while watching the kite surfers dance with air and water, alternating between one and the other, pleasing both. I sleep with admiration for the skill evoked by the untroubled mind. It is the relaxed that does most benevolence.

Yes Sirs, Big Sur and Beyond, Boston bound but not before a rugby match. When the first whistle blows tomorrow morning moments after dawn, just before the bodies hit the floor, I will be at the edge of infinity, smirking at the unknown unknowns.

Cheers Friends! Put off living for no one and nothing.

Free

2008-04-03T16:43:00.003-05:00

I am the enslaved driver of a Ford Taurus on the freeway, jealous of the runners breaking a 6 am sweat. Liberated limbs and lungs inhaling the bracing morning Atlantic air, these are the free men; I am on my way to free. Free as the Cossacks, slaughtering Russian nationals, living on the cheap.

Arriving at an airport without a plane ticket, I'm repulsed by the gluttons lining up for extra value meals. I, not them, become the subject of ridicule; I am the boss, but yet, I'm not free -- far from it. The freemen are post baggage check, seated on an Airbuses slated for exotic locations unknown. The freemen are locked away in dingy hovels detailing the margins of dollar bills with their madness. The freemen, the truly freemen, ignore the loud applause and make their own for others. They listen to the silence beyond the noise.

I'm getting closer to being free.

A freeman would not have a cell phone. If he had a Ford Taurus, it would run on funk music, and the morning runners would boogie-woogie to the break-beats. If a freeman saw a free-er man, he would drop everything and join him.

Tomorrow I will be free. Yes, that must be the plan. Tomorrow, I will wake up and say, "Young man, be free."

Cheers

Allow me to reintroduce myself...

2008-03-11T21:59:00.004-05:00

Please excuse our absence and any resultant service interruptions. Honeyed Mouth productions has taken a brief vacation. We thank you for your understanding.

During the month of March, the CEO of absolutely nothing has been skiing the white pow of New Hampshire, playing rugby, climbing the austere white mountains and building restaurants. The CEO told the CFO to F-OFF, so the accountants walked-out. The criminals operated unimpeded, significant funds were embezzled. The lawyers arrived in groves to argue causality. Rhetoric was everywhere.

Thanks for chillaxin, lougin for a minute until I set it off. Ya herd? Get familiar with this.

Which reminds me of an aggravated letter I received from a distressed Mike McSoley. He's a reformed concrete flat-worker. He's a construction superintendent theologan. He has many guns, and likes to discuss complex issues using the Socratic method. His guns, and general aversion to political correctness make him the most honest gentleman I know. He's part objectivist, part deconstructionist, part mechanic.

Mike's letter follows:

3/10/08

Ben -

You Know more about the English language and good writing than anyone I have met in my lifetime. But enough with the ass kissing...

Over the last few years I have noticed in both the spoken and written words an increased usage of the structure "be" verb-"ing". An example, "I will be going to the store" rather than "I will go to the store." The latter sounds correct but it is it? If not proper, how and when did it become a part of our lexicon? In much the same way, "ax" seems an acceptable alternative to "ask" and the plural of shrimp is "shrimps." Is this case of the boulder choosing the path of least resistance, that is downhill over uphill?

I am certain I sound like an old man and an angry one to boot. In society, business, and all places in between, a big vocabulary and good talking skills affect how one is viewed. Am I the only person who notices this improper grammar? Am I the only one who cares? If the answer is "yes" to both questions, what does this say about American society as a whole? Have we swung so far in our aim not to judge that we accept the wrong as right? By doing so, aren't we clearing the path for that boulder?

This started as a simple question. I am not a bigot, even if your Cambridge intellectuals might call me a "Redneck!"

I did not intend to go on like this. Mull it over and get back to me.

Michael J.

Mike's correspondence arrived unprovoked. It was out of line and intriguing. His questions were legitimate, and deserved some reply, no matter how half-assed.

My reckless response follows:

3/11/08

Mike,

My first reaction to your email was crippling fear and I remain almost insurmountably afraid that my reply will qualify as advice columnist material. Of all stinking media professions, advice column writers are the dregs.

The short answer to your inquiry is that English is not longer English. The perverted language spoken today should be called Post Modern Bastardized American English (PMBAE). It's a newfangled linguistic form that boasts an array of grammatical mishaps. The evolution of PMBAE was made possible by a coalition of liberals that condoned a lack of education. You'll remember a period during the mid-90s when the country fervently debated whether or not to recognize Ebonics. I'm not sure what the official outcome was, but it seems that the Ebonics proponents won. How's that for a Redneck response!

And it's not only Ebonics... This didn't begin with Dude, or Radical, or Awesome. This didn't begin with Fo-Shizzle, Homeboy, or Axin' Me Sump-n'. Evolution takes time. The word "slang" comes from the old French term 'sale langue' which in English means "dirty language." The French, seemingly, are not as forgiving as Americans when it comes to linguistic transgression. You might get along with the French after all, no matter how vehemently you would deny this commonality.

In my day, 1982 forward, the most obvious answer to your inquiry is actually three answers:

1) People stopped reading the classics
2) Public school teachers are under qualified
3) The ubiquity of technology allows for instantaneous communication: written, spoken, videotaped or otherwise. The routine simplicity of firing-off a email, sending a text message, or making a phone call, is not conducive to meticulous revision.

I'd like to continue with the third idea. My Grandfather writes me every month or so. The content is usually something like this: Our sports team kicked the crap out of your sports team; so clearly, the South (North Carolina) is better than the North (You Damn Yanks). His writing style is eloquent, and matched by masterful antiquated hand-written pen stroke. The delivery of his argument is impressive, and seldom do I believe that I have won in my endeavor to redeem the North in my subsequent rebuttal.

My Grandfather was trained by nuns, really tough nuns. Judging by the stories told at Christmas time, these women were not to be reckoned with. Their teaching style, or rather fear mongering, inspired many a young boy to finish his grammar lesson. After serving in WWII, my Grandfather went to college under the GI bill. Had he not served in the Navy, he probably would have ended up in jail or worse. Having earned his eligibility for GI bill scholarship, he viewed college as a privilege, in stark contrast to taking college for granted as so many do these days. My Grandfather devoted himself to his agricultural studies and my Grandmother (or so the romantic version maintains). It was an intrinsic work ethic and instilled respect for education that transformed by Grandfather, innately Neanderthalistic, into a man of letters.

The more I write, the more I realize the immensity of your question. If you're interested in the subject of modern linguistics, your boy Noam Chomsky has a thing or two worth reading. His liberal rhetoric thrives in this Cambridgian sanctuary I call home.

Perhaps I've provided no answers, but I've given you something to consider aside from concrete, steel, wood, mechanical systems, gypsum board, flooring, millwork and paint.

Regards,

Ben

Take care, and live the dream.

V-day Vocab Riddle (for nerds)

2008-02-13T19:14:00.003-05:00

What is both indelible and ineffable?

Love.

Happy Valentine's Day

Monday Night

2008-02-12T07:56:00.000-05:00

Ecumenical savages,
high on whoknowswhat,
barking in the living room
crashing on my couch

Derision abounds,
the bracing arctic northerlies
cast from the living room
onto sleeping ears

The disheveled revelers, wasted
belligerent and long-toothed,
be them the anarchists --
knocking on my door?

"We're thriving, brother!"
Peace and warmth in here --
a suction-cupped boondoggle,
harmless vagina hugs

sadness demands company

2008-01-21T21:03:00.000-05:00

View of Boston from the BU Bridge

“What if I were to die, right now? What would you do?”

This was a question Tickerish asked more than once. On one of these occasions we were crossing the bridge that connects Cambridge with the section of Commonwealth Avenue dominated by Boston University. As so, we called this rusty truss the BU Bridge. We chanced upon this bridge on a cold December morning. There was a foot of snow on the ground, recently plowed to form barricades between the pedestrian walks and the road.

“What would I do?” I replied, buying myself time to generate a clever answer. I surveyed the possibilities, but no such answer came. “I would try to save your life. And if I were unsuccessful, I’d weigh you down and throw you in the river.” Tickerish appeared amused, but offered no reply. I assumed this answer to her tragic inquiry would suffice.

Then I asked, “What would you do if I were to die, right here, right now?”

Her answer was one I’ll never forget. “I’d sit down with you on the sidewalk and cry. I’d just hold you, and cry.”

The snow has since melted; Tickerish left me; and I’m thawing alone on the BU Bridge.

Reborn, Ben, Bodhisattva to Buddha.

The Plan

2008-01-21T11:19:00.001-05:00

Calling for her, a cry for help, she continues walking away -- down the boardwalk of my imagination. Her white robes shine brilliant hue under the blinding sun of southern French dreams. This is not a test. This time, she's really gone forever. I am the child that wanted constant attention. She is the mother that would not lend.

Now I am the man, idly watching her leave -- observing another failure. The strong silent type, rendered useless. Numb. Effortless. Walking the boardwalk in the opposite direction, admiring the indifference of the sea, soaring with the gulls for a moment, brought down to earth with the crash of the waves. Intrigued by the limitless bounds of the future, the posture of my soul is restored. I am the child at the lemonade stand all grown up. I have a plan for success, sweet and syrupy.

The plan is nothing really. Redemption may be found within this cup of tea. Delivered from sleep, to clumsily dance around the apartment in my socks. Out into the cold, unnaked, helping Liu Da, the elderly woman next door, deliver newspapers to Chinese Americans. They must know about the war crimes cataloged by the nine commentaries. They should have a plan too, and what better inspiration than war crime?

The plan is to read the good words, listen to the good music, and ignore the missed calls. It's nothing really. The plan is to have a laugh, learn something useful, and avoid the slavery of vice. The plan is to stay warm, make instant garlic mashed potatoes, make sweet love, and assist the delivery of propaganda newspapers. The plan is to run 10 miles in the bracing air of Boston winter and return to a warm shower.

The plan is to speak using only profanity, even to babies. The plan is to commit to a certain set of rules for only eighty minutes, then leave those rules behind for civil living. The legal system is not the plan. War is not the plan. America would be the plan, were it not for politicians, and the war they prescribe.

The plan is a few keystrokes and a cross-town jaunt. The plan is to be carried out by the innaction figure, myself. The plan is nothing really, wu wei, nothing really repetitious.

TEAM AWESOME

2008-01-14T15:08:00.001-05:00

Gentlemen of Team Awesome,

All sacred establishments demand an enduring logo. The hammer and sickle in communist Russia, the swastika in Nazi Germany, and the Redsox Nation "B" in contemporary Boston are fine examples of timeless icons. The idea is realized by an image. What would the Christians be without the cross?

It is time we commercialize. I humbly submit this logo for Team Awesome. It is a powerful demonstration of our solidarity. Furthermore, it represents our disregard for conformity, and stubborn unification among the tumultuous chaos waged upon the hallowed grounds of UMass.

I entrust to you the dissemination of this image to members that have fallen off the grid. We must ensure the continued participation of all members and honorary inductees who have spent considerable time exploring the mystical nature of the universe with us in the pursuit of knowledge, adventure, enlightenment and rebellion.

Vive la Revolucion!

Ben Myers
4 Newton St.
Cambridge, MA.
January 14th, 2008

The Result of Good Intentions

2008-01-14T14:18:00.000-05:00

The Result of Good Intentions: Summiting Moosilauke, 1/13/2008

Working from a sprawling condo,
in the borough of Queens,
a post menopausal woman drags a mouse cursor
across a broad LCD monitor.
Designing the built environment,
to green standards,
considering fenestration and air movement -
the architect leverages nature.
Aspires to thrill her peers,
provoke their envy,
provide cause for celebration -
recognition of innovation,
the result of good intentions.

Practicing football on a battered pitch,
body sheathed in sporting armour,
a young male conditions his physique.
Preventative maintenance,
weightroom strengthening,
hedonistic circuit training,
for a more successful Friday night.
No beer, no smokes, the game prevails.
His spirit is brilliant;
his progress routine.
Driven to defeat an opponent,
leverage mind and body,
victory at the final whistle,
the result of good intentions.

In the heart of Tikrit city,
an adolescent on the verge of manhood
runs supplies by convoy to Baghdad outposts.
His intention's luster fading,
was it worthwhile invading?
Enemy evading,
waiting only,
a roadside bomb.
Heartbroken by foreign policy,
made bitter,
the soldier restless in the dark of night,
waking cyclically to reality disenchanting,
this,
the result of good intentions.

May the architect impress,
the boy succeed,
the soldier live.

You are Welcome

2008-01-10T16:51:00.001-05:00

WELCOME TO A BLOG OF LIES.

THE MYRIAD UNTRUISMS OF DECEPTIVE WORDS, ALL LIES.

THAT WHICH IS WORTH WRITING ABOUT IS SELDOM WRITTEN.

THAT'S THE FIRST LIE.

THERE ARE MORE.

INSIDE.

WELCOME

VISIONS OF SHAWARMA

2007-12-29T23:44:00.002-05:00

Seated within the entryway of the 1369 coffee shop is Stevo Bagz, the buddy bad boy of team awesome. Frequenting the confines along Massachusetts avenue in Cambridge, he fills his senses with Central Square culture. He is the acting urban welcoming committee of street folk with a thirst for gourmet coffee, tea, and if peakish, a scone or muffin. This has become his custom, extended sessions spent reading and conversing among the people. It’s the people that legitimize the text, and the text that reflects the people. Wherever he goes, America or abroad, Stevo finds the same quaint coffee shop, with the same aroma of beans, a rebel’s hermitage.

His philosophy and existence are simple. A book worth reading is provided with the necessary days to read it. A mountain worth skiing is provided with the necessary days to ski it. A girl worth seeing is provided with the necessary days to see it.

He glances away from Catch 22 and looks towards the counter, pulling his head deep from the pages, coming up for oxygen. An elderly paranoid schizophrenic woman dressed in rags enters the premises. Stevo grants a reverent nod, acknowledging that she knows something he does not. This woman, this psychological eccentricity is another patron of 1369 that has become a familiar face, her rags unchanging year-round.

The unfortunate schizophrenic has spent the brutally cold night sleeping within the covered entrance of the Harvard Cooperative bookstore. She has journeyed to appease her old cold bones with hot java. She passes Stevo without acknowledging his existance and mumbles two words. They are ‘cosmos’ and ‘energy.’ The cosmos and energy were often the subjects of her extemporaneous rants. Evidently, these were concepts worth recognition.

Stevo thinks about cosmos and energy; he sips his tea; he confirms that the old woman is fucking insane.

Adam Londino, the extroverted reformed punk known as, ‘the Mayor of Central Square,’ prepares a stout, steaming coffee for the schizophrenic. He looks up at Stevo while pouring rich been broth and howls like a wolf. “Owwwwwoooooooohhhhhh!”

Naturally, Stevo reciprocates, “Owwwwwooooooooh!” His howl is an agreement. An ‘I’m with you bro’ to Londino’s ‘who’s feeling it?’ The caffeine quaffing customers remain calm, wired, reading, typing away; all of them unshaken by the animal noises and Jimmy Hendrix solos. Their tranquility is the transcendentalism of 1369 realized. This One reads Nietzsche and agrees that tragedy is the affirmation of life. That One types an email nervously to his girlfriend studying abroad in Ireland. The Third One considers returning to graduate school, but cannot decide where to go, or what to study.

Stevo ponders the repercussions of early human experimentation with LSD that occurred during the 1960s. He imagines himself as one of Uncle Charlie’s Harvard Square posse. He adds Johnny Dimasi to their crew, and pictures him tripping while fishing off the coast of P-town, illegally long-lining for cod. Stevo recalls the Arizona desert near monument valley and the elegant force of a red mustang as it claws the road. He picks up and runs with a memory from the prior night. The memory is an amalgamation of steeping mushroom tea and Tickerish’s ideas, the philosoph muse reincarnated.

“There’s part of me in each of them. Wherever they go, part of me is with them. Like just the other day, a couple Kyrgyz girls went on exchange to Germany. So part of me is in Germany.” Tickerish Manimana was getting comfortable on the couch. She had been lecturing to a submissive audience of two. She was attempting to fully disclose a phenomenon called ‘the web.’ Recurring fits of laughter precluded any thorough analysis; though she was hardly discouraged by the interruptions. She collected herself and continued, “They talk about the web in all kinds of books.”

“What books?” Stevo had inquired.

“Charlotte’s web,” she replied with a smile, and reached for her tea.

The daydream ends, Hendrix exclaims, “Hallelujah!” with his guitar, the paranoid schizophrenic emerges from the bathroom, and the scene remains surprisingly static. At the adjacent table is The Third, a neatly packaged petite blond considering graduate school for no apparent reason, without finite ambition. She’s a provocative creature with droopy sex eyes, well groomed and artistic, clearly broke but making the most of it. Stevo wants to share some of his poetry with her, but not before a lunch of chicken shawarma at the falafel palace.

IN THE JUNGLE...

2007-12-14T22:31:00.001-05:00

In the jungle, the mighty jungle,
The lion sleeps tonight.
In the jungle the mighty jungle,
The lion sleeps tonight.

- The Lion Sleeps Tonight

** you may want to skip this section

SELECTED LIST OF RECORDED VERSIONS**

Mbube Recordings

* 1939 Mbube - Solomon Linda's Original Evening Birds (South African hit)
* 1960 Mbube - Miriam Makeba
* 1988 Mbube - Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Coming to America soundtrack
* 1993 Mbube - Mahotella Queens, Women of the World
* 1999 Mbube - Ladysmith Black Mambazo, In Harmony
* 2006 Mbube - Mahotella Queens, Reign & Shine
* 2006 Mbube - Ladysmith Black Mambazo, Long Walk to Freedom

as "Wimoweh"

* 1952 Wimoweh - The Weavers US #6
* 1952 Wimoweh - Jimmy Dorsey
* 1952 Wimoweh - Yma Sumac
* 1957 Wimoweh - The Weavers on live Carnegie Hall album
* 1959 Wimoweh - The Kingston Trio
* 1961 Wimoweh - Karl Denver Trio UK #4 (1962 release)
* 1993 Wimoweh - Nanci Griffith with Odetta, on Other Voices, Other Rooms

{edit } The Lion Sleeps Tonight

* 1961 The Tokens US #1, UK #11
* 1962 Henri Salvador (French language version "Le lion est mort ce soir") French #1 ...Salvador also recorded a version in German as "Der Löwe Schläft Heut' Nacht (The Lion Sleeps Tonight)".
* 1965 The New Christy Minstrels
* 1971 Eric Donaldson
* 1972 Robert John US #3
* 1972 Dave Newman UK #34 (sound-a-like/cover of the then-current Robert John US version)
* 1974 Ras Michael and the Sons of Negus (as "Rise Jah Jah Children")
* 1975 Brian Eno
* 1975 Bamse (Flemming Jørgensen) (Danish language version "Vimmersvej")
* 1982 Tight Fit UK #1
* 1982 The Nylons
* 1989 Sandra Bernhard (recorded October, 1988)
* 1992 name tk Japanese #1
* 1992 They Might Be Giants with Laura Cantrell as "The Guitar (The Lion Sleeps Tonight)"
* 1993 Pow woW French #1 (Cover of "Le lion est mort ce soir)
* 1993 R.E.M. (B-side track on the single release of "The Sidewinder Sleeps Tonite", which itself references "The Lion Sleeps Tonight")
* 1994 Film and 1997 Broadway versions of The Lion King ...Broadway Cast version by Lebo M
* 1997 *NSYNC
* 2000 Helmut Lotti and Golden Symphonic Orchestra in "Out of Africa"
* 2000 Laurie Berkner on "Whaddaya Think of That?" CD
* 2001 Caribbean group Baha Men sampled the song on their own single, "You All Dat".
* 2003 Morgan Arons ...Morgan was accompanied by Jay Siegel (of the Tokens) on her recording

Yo!

Snow has fallen upon the jungle, Marley’s ‘concrete jungle’ buried in brown slushy salts.

The beasts are migrating west. Stevo Bagz and Londino travelled west; the former to find mountains, the latter to find the desert. The one that found the mountains strapped slick boards to his feet, leaped from its summit, and called this skiing. He derived great happiness from this activity. The one that found the desert had people waiting there that found him. They smoked marijuana spliffs among the red sandstones of Utah, traversed the remote canyonlands, and called this an adventure. He derived great happiness from this activity.

Londino is, ‘amped up son!’ and Stevo Bags speaks only in wolf howls.

Tickersh Manimana migrated to the other ocean, and so too the end of the world for many Americans. A proud member of the Cambridge rock trio went on tour with displaced Eastern Eurpoeans, chillaxed with Malibu Barbie in Hollywood, and called this traveling. She derived great happiness from this activity.

Great happiness abounds.

The collective spirit fuels my atheistically Buddhist rambling. The ana-deistic me, not faithless me; I have faith in you and I, and them, sometimes. All with their own ambitions, the collective tracks have but one direction. Infinite tracks, one direction. One takes off her clothes for complete strangers and calls this the exotic dance service. Another finds travel destinations for the dependently wealthy and calls this travel service. Still another finds a football game in between commercials and calls this watching TV. Some provide services, some exploit services, some have services thrust upon them. Infinite tracks, one direction.

L.A. is a culture unto its own, as is Boston. We hearty New Englanders speculate that it must have something to do with the water, or weather that brings it to us. The masochist provokes the sadist, 3 time zones away. The Patriots, the New England Patriots, are playing an undefeated season of football.

In Boston, great happiness abounds.

I sit here, writing, and call this word service. That’s all it is. The services of vowels and consonants.

Go migrate. I dare you.

GMAIL Prose: The American Dream

2007-12-06T17:07:00.000-05:00

Sipping coffee in a fresh pressed shirt. Selecting a necktie to harmonize the ensemble and tying to form the perfect depressed divot beneath the knot. Finding the most flamboyant, scuffless shoes in the back of my closet and giving them a spit shined gloss. Circulating clean socks and underwear. Brushing regularly with crest whitening toothpaste. Smelling good. Driving to work.

Behold the Lunk's contribution. Above is an excerpt from my resume that encompasses the time period 'a week ago to present.' I'm becoming an expert at these activities. I take them seriously.

I just disclosed my money making secret, at no charge. This is the simplified version of the American Dream. If it is true that the nail that sticks-out gets hammered down, then I am the air surrounding the hammer.

Using personal email while on the clock is part of this American Dream. I take this seriously too. Perhaps my resume is incomplete. Here is today's conversation with Dan. His alias is deisenst. Don't get confused. He's living the American Dream in San Francisco.

deisenst: Ben?
Sent at 4:53 PM on Thursday
me: yo
what's up man?
deisenst: how you been?
Sent at 4:57 PM on Thursday
me: good... I was out in AZ and UT. Now I'm back in MA, trying to work and stuff.
deisenst: ok, I took a look at some of those pics
me: good
what's happening around your area?
I'm spinning my wheels a little now
deisenst: been doing well, going out working same same
yeah I have been using that phrase at work quite a bit
Sent at 5:00 PM on Thursday
me: same same
so long as I get paid...
I will put up with this for the time being
deisenst: yea I am trying to get terminated so I can collect unemployment
me: haha
deisenst: can't quit
me: I know you mean that
deisenst: need to get terminanted
me: make it happen
deisenst: very true i shit you not
gmail is great for that
me: for getting terminated
deisenst: yes

A Thanksgiving Reunion

2007-11-27T10:16:00.000-05:00

I returned home for Thanksgiving to run into the usual suspects during the frenzied exchange of 2-minute bios. This is called catching up. My high school archnemesis, Kate, appeared before me with her typical 'Wow, you're still alive?' smirk.

'Hello Kate, how are you?' I replied with some forced grace.

'Good. Where are you hanging your hat these days Mr. Myers?' The smirk continued.

'I'm in Cambridge.'

'Ooooh,' she interrupted, the 'Ooooh' being shorthand for: 'I didn't know they let your kind roam that area.'

'And where are you these days? I made my compulsory reply.

'I'm at UMass.'

'In Boston?'

'No. Here in Amherst. It's really great, you know, the professors pay so much attention. I never felt like they cared so much at Yale.'

'That's because the students at UMass aren't relying on entitlement,' I concluded, and successfully ended the conversation.

I was vexed by her authoritarian sanction of state schooling. Her demeanor was seething with pretentiousness. She spoke as though she had descended from an elite position to join the middle class ranks, and in doing so had been pleasantly amused by the unsuspected capabilities of the other half.

On all other counts the reunion was charming. The aging acquaintances seem healthy and happy (and drunk). The interaction with Kate has had a lasting effect; I still suffer from her condescending smirk.

She remains my archnemesis.

Notes from the Middle Passage (Part I)

2007-11-20T13:51:00.000-05:00

Life is a gift of energetic currency from strangers we call parents. How much or how little we are given depends on how the gift is invested. The range of secular interest groups that will tell you how to invest energetic currency is infinite. There are no official rules that govern how one should spend the gift. The people have created their own rules.

One important rule:

1) Don’t spend it all in one place.

NOVEMBER, 07

Oh Fortuna! Spin your wheel.
Never knowing what you have in store.
Your flock
running round-and-round,
the circle within the circle.

Good fortune abounds,
its supply endless.

11/5

A town deserted in the western foothills – looks like:
Skeletal remains of old factories
Gutted masonry structures – feels like:
Death. Ominous, haunting the backdrop of dying leaves – smells like:
Decay. Vibrancy diminished, a forlorn economy passed recently.

Must Escape. Gas money stashed in the trunk. Pocket dough for incidentals.

Be Well,
Do Good Work,
And Keep In Touch…

11/6

Wake to eastern sun emerging
over level expanse on Indianan agriculture –
Flat surfaces in all directions, in all distances,
contrast the spherical globe.
Refreshingly desolate – not trying to be, is.
The rules have already changed.

Six-point buck crosses the I70 median – reckless.
Perhaps not so reckless as I.
Animal smiles at vehicles zipping by,
then bows.
Acknowledging the fastest,
deadliest,
shiniest animals of the woods:
us.

Existential rest.
Booneville, Missouri.
A small tavern, The Mill, where grain elevator operators gather for libations,
Chuckles from sweaty brows,
Filthy hands grip filthy glasses.
Practically nowhere – the boonies formalized,
Everything they should be.

11/7

Taking a nap roadside to the soothing refrain of a bovine chorus.
Perforated aluminum infill panels hang from the steel frame of a tractor-trailer
forming a cage;
and I know how the caged cow sings.
Groaning beef from the stockyards to the slaughter house –
To a Mcdonald’s near you,
a groaning stomach.

On the highway:
serving hard time behind golden arches –
paying fossil fuel child support at hourly intervals,
ducking big brother and breakdown lanes.

A minority among the 6-axled army of commerce,
marching to the rhythm of a country music ballad
love lost and simple living.
Pervasive in these parts are the
nostalgic anthems of helpless melodrama.

Unmitigated respect for the amber waves of grain,
toil and rigor of the American farmer.
Arriving at a roadway junction surrounded by Kansas nothingness.
Low and behold, an army base.
The aesthetic disrupted, the conscious intrigued.

11/8

‘WE SUPPORT OUR BOYS’

At the junction,
where nothing much runs into nothing much,
A population of volunteer soldiers
train for war.

The collision of nothing much and nothing much yields an army base.

The base is supported by these services:

1) An Army Supply Retail Store
2) Several Gas Stations
3) Several Liquor Stores
4) Several Gun Vendors
5) Several Bail Bondsmen

Methinks this is a natural progression.

6) A Stripclub
7) A Tobacconist
8) A Life Insurance Company
9) A Burger Stand
10) An ignored aspect of the American Dream

11/9 through 20

In progress…

Go It Alone

2007-10-11T20:01:00.000-05:00

A better way to make decisions, when choosing between either “A or B,” is to flip a coin. It’s too easy. Start by assigning A or B to each side (e.g. heads or tails) then flip the coin. Decisions should be made based on which side you were hoping would land face-up.

Life is living deliberately. Safety is simply too safe; and virtue is evasion of the comfort zone, complete departure from it, reunion with it, awe-stricken perspective. No longer blind, seeing the Medium-Regulars are everywhere, man and woman liberated upon realising the system's need for milk cows.

Asking the tough questions, relying on the Socratic method as it may be applied to deconstruct the folds of Eastern Buddhistic non-rhetoric - listing to Lama Surya Das is a rebel meeting house on the outskirts of a disenchanted city - the city busy not giving a fuck, living its lies. The Lama doesn't preach, pontificate, or persuade. The Lama is easy to listen to, requiring little critique, because he's censored false-truths long ago, 30 years ago, somewhere in India. He explains that life was a lot simpler before the beginning of time.

The central square community drinks away the days while the Cambridge sophists intellectualize by the banks of the Charles river. These quaint suburbs of outer Boston are a jungle filled with tree forts, books, and Volvo station-wagons. There are Samuel Adams hellos and Mojito goodbyes down in the depths of the social thicket.

Wi-Fi escape artists take refuge at the local Starbucks. The criminal mind in unfamiliar with these regions. Unspeaking, plugged-in minds pervade the pungent premises. They are wired, scruffy electronic maggots. These are the advanced species of the 'Medium-Reguar' populace. I-pod, laptop, coffee: fill the ears with noise, eyes with sights, body with stimulants and mind with not much at all. The stimulants are effective only so far as to ward off permanent damage potentially sustained during the onslaught of a streaming unadulterated amalgamation of media. These are not, however, the great escape artists of our recent times.

Harry Houdini exhibitionist provocateurs, returning for the grande finale show, every show, invariably with bigger chains, bigger locks, suspended higher and higher above the voyeuristic masses. Men, Women, Kids; Fathers, Mothers Children: all gathered to observe a man making what could be his final stand. The collective mind is nervous, excited, flirting with neurosis, as Harry slides into his shackles. He is having a good chuckle at their expense.

Chuckling with deep belly ironic sadness at the ongoing pyrrhic episodes. The savagery of it. The wide spectrum of perceived success; the Men, the Women, the Kids, looking for the clues. Harry cannot wait until tomorrow; he lacks the hedonistic patience.

The heavyset announcer, spouting intermittent whiskey-induced chuckling, counts down from ten before releasing Harry's surrogate coffin into the frigid waters below. The collective mind gasps. The magical contortionist smiles, his final solliliquy: the recitation of a pleasant passage from Boethius' Consolation of Philosophy:

... for this reason a wise man should never complain, whenever he is brought into strife with fortune; just as a brave man cannot be properly disgusted whenever the noise of battle is heard, since for both of them their very difficulty is their opportunity, for the brave man of increasing his glory, for the wise man of confirming his wisdom.

The hoist releases. Harry is airborne and taking the deepest breath of his life.

Meanwhile, A Boat Left the Dock in Brazil

2007-08-28T18:01:00.000-05:00

we know not what it is
only that it gets wilder
more vast
more void
more something
more nothing
more Tao

approaching the limit and the limit moves further away
limits leapfrogging directionless
the means - not the end
running in stillness to the invisible finish line
being just that kind of machine
a crowd of souls cheer in silence
never lonely in the limelight of their applause
fasting of the heart
seeing the bellstand in the tree
the exalted work of spirits
is yours to explain to no one
but the ones who ask the foolish questions
and stop time to question the slightest mistakes
revisionist creatures make changes for benefit
non-action, inaction, require care
to nurture nothing
is to understand everything
impossible

we never made it to the arcade
but saw so many things on the way
the orthodox rabbi pacing slowly under the streetlamp
the muscle man in a frenzy stomping pavement
the babies crying for their mommy
the christians crying, "baby-killer!"

was the streetlight wrong when it told him to cross?
a deaf car struck the blind man down
the driver wasn't the street light
and he became the car for a moment
an ambulance the next

laying in the hospital
beside the man from a salem bookstore
that sneezed
and down came the stacks of treatise that touched the ceiling
crushing all within their path
casualties of words and the freedom of their associations
victims of random
masters of the pattern

Fair and Right

2007-07-26T20:40:00.000-05:00

The table separating Gerald and I is covered in contract documents. His eyes are worn bloodshot and tinted yellow. Surgery will be required to correct years of enduring the solar abuse. This is a common phenomenon amongst men of his trade. The reflection of the sun's rays off concrete slowly destroys the retina, and for some, the soul. Laser surgery exfoliates the retinal tissues, renewing the surface and preventing the onset of blindness.

Gerald has arranged this meeting with the intent of explaining his entitlement to a rather large sum of money which exceeds the six figure mark. His posture is perfect, sitting upright with dignity, and his yellowish-red eyes are fixed firmly on mine. The composure between us is reminiscent of a poker game; the poker-face prerequisite required to show neither discomfort or confidence displayed with vigilant effort. Discomfort is Gerald's purpose for being here. It interrupts his poker-face, and rightly so, considering the stakes and my prior unwillingness to make his what he devoutly believes should be.

I tell him, "I want to do what's fair. I want to do what's right."

His gaze is provoking me to sign checks. His transfixed silence is deafening. Money is tight, as is Gerald's resolve.

But what is fair? What is right? Certainly these words aren't rhetorical gestures of compassion; they are real ideas based on virtue and correct behavior. They are essential truths -- the products of fact. Unfortunately, fact never is rarely so and varies depending on perspective.

(Albeit false,) I want to save the company money. I want to keep it for myself. I want. I want. I want...

... the irony of the "I want" in what I told Gerald is that right and fair have nothing to do with what I want at all. It's what they want, need, and more often, demand. I want to tell you that this is entirely wrong. What is right and fair should and must never be based on the I or they, or you for that matter.

What components contribute to the comprehension of such. The influences are infinite, and all together different for every member of the human race. We each have opinion sets that are the result of experience. With the acquisition of experience, so too arrives the willingness to cast judgement...

The President of the United States of America
Begging for smokes outside the Wawa
Community of drunks in central square
sisters in Somerville
Darwin's hippies and yuppies
Thushan, Threeshan, Fourshan
Labor relations
Investors, Venture capitalists
vultures
BBC life of mammals - opportunistic predators
Rugby
Mammals
Reptiles
Engineering
Christmas
Music
The Apocalypse
Chemistry and Nanotechnology
Swiss Design
Architectural Delineation
The War in Iraq
Hurricane Katrina
The shootings in Dorcester, Mattapan, and Quincy
Suicidal Maniacs and Tall Bridges
Fires in crack houses
Social Generalizations and Prejudice
Medium Regulars
Dance Theory
Law

Gerald is all these things. They will determine his fate.

the rightways

2007-07-22T20:09:00.000-05:00

Now we are the bushwhackers, plucking our way through a healthy thicket of grape vines. Even the path of least resistance becomes treacherous. Absorbing the prickly opponents to reach for welcomed blackberries, stomping onward into another web of carboniferous plant matter tall as three men - crimson and clover - crimson from sweaty lacerated legs drip-dropping onto clover. Adrenaline fiends never worry when lost deep in the woods...

Freedom, oh my brothers, the glorious freedom of fossil fueled pop culture madness. Alpha male driven serenity upon the rugby pitch; cavorting hither-tither theseways from Beacon Hill to Orchard Valleys. A dollar bill dreamscape of ninety-nine cent bargains, organic fruits from hippie havens and fresh chevre from their beasts of burden. The cornfed numbers toss baseballs in the green grass and those with an appetite for the beach find solace at the local pond. Spilling over the brim, icy waters of western mountains topple onto the rocks below bringing oxygen from the dry world to the depths of rocky waters -- where the trout swim. These are not the same sheep waiting at Apple stores everywhere for I-phones.

Excellent days were these days past, moving at all hours and all speeds among the humble underbrush of nature with Tickerish. All the time knowing that between us an humanity was shared the most coordination we had ever known. Even the strangers roadside were subject to chant in unison, "This is fucking awesome."

Fossil fuels and traffic madness, the underbelly of the capitalist monster brushes the asphalt leaving hairy clumps of poison gasses and raspberry burned spills off the coastline - killing all that comes within its path. The Japanese call these all-consuming demons fancy names. There's nothing Zen about Americana. Could have been the leg muscle or biodiesel buses and soybean sedans that got us there, but that's future talk.

Had a collision with a man in his 90s - my ford Taurus making real horrorshow friends with fellow motorists. Road rage never pays, no rage - in these ways, these days. I asked him, and is wife beside, if they were okay. All was well physically, so all is well. Let the insurance folk sort this one out - here's my information, old buddy. Bernard left the scene of the "accident" smiling. The state police were not. Neither was the one who said I was going 50 in a 30. Neither was the one beckoning I avoid the falling ice. Neither was the one with the large spotlight, who issued verbal discipline to I, your humble Narrator, and the other malchiks engaged in warrior practice on the greens outside the midnight congregation spot - bloodying themselves and others.

The conditioned reflexes are all under careful investigation. A farmers' market offers nourishment and garlic cloves braided with a craftsman's precision, adorned with summer herbs and dried red hot chilies: these cost $15. These are country ornaments for country bumpkins. $15 is a small price to pay for a scent of honesty.

At another small market, not far from the farmers' collaborative, fertility in the flesh is holding a pint of gooseberries, she wears her dreadlocks woven high above her head wrapped majestically in a scarf. Her stride is slow and calculated, methodically moving about inspecting produce. Not showered like the consumer sons of bitches, but appears cleaner than you or I, oh my brothers. Cleaner than these summer ramblings, indeed. Cleaner than the muddy-wuddy waters of the ponds churning, a snapping turtle paradise.

Bernard has seen the war, this is evident in his souless gaze. We see it not through the lenses of those out to make a buck chasing road-side explosions. Bernard is 92, drives an '07 silver Lexus, and keeps getting hit from behind because he likes to stop in the middle of the road, without warning. This is personal experience. I hit him.

Detectives detect what? Not you or I, surely. Forensics is all our business. To observe the evidence, try to piece together the past, and measure the futuristic implications. These are the facts: the sun is setting on this mountain peak, some text by a well known author is close by, the author shares his muse without restraint while a small insect climbs nobly along the underside of my testicles. I meditate, and for a brief spell put all the meddlesome worries aside, even this unwelcome intruder on hallowed ground.

Damn these days of war; they serve only to sully the fragile worldly reputation of power - brought eastward-middle onto the powerless, or so we thought. More often, friends will not convene as they once did because a loved-one, acquaintance, or even the individual thyself is affiliated with this misguided foreign invasion. Their actions are as true as anything, praise these malchics and their affinity for patriotism. Will the efforts of this courageous insect trying to establish puppet governments in my nether regions receive a hero's welcome upon returning to his nest? I hope so.

Pass the zucchini, please. A blow from its innards, a reckoning of the green planet, the flavor of realness, a whiff of the earth. Dizzy spells are eased by a moment in the rocking chair with buckets full of steamers. Come to the couch, where peace is found.

The chelloveks in my profession are working ants with little innovation. A savage business, where men are harder on themselves than need be. The boys arrive with watery orbits and complete focus to seek their fortune. They become tired looking old men too quickly. It's because they move earnestly towards nothing to conquer the pattern and play God, or Bog. Men that want to play God grow weary at pace, and beat others over the head with their nonsensical enthusiasm (see: rhetoric). Rest easy good malchic, the day will be given to you. In short, a day cannot be seized; spoil this one with foolish endeavors, and quickly all the great days of existential brilliance will fade with them. Everyone is dispensable, so act accordingly.