Boney Was A Warrior

(Here's another assignment from that class.)

(It is a rather small elevator in a government building. We do not know where or whats building it is, we just know it is a government building. A metal box, buttons on the inside, a five person limit, It is your typical claustrophobia inducing elevator.)

(Enter Filliburton)

Fill. Aar to find me ship I gots to go up, into the sky in a little metal box! Which number shall I press?

(Closes his eyes and randomly hits a button, the button for floor 57 lights up)

Fill. Whoa thar! This box be moving faster than I hoped!

(Filliburton watches the numbers light up one by one. The elevator stops, the light is at 7, the door opens and we see Jo standing outside scratching his head)

Jo. Going up bro?

Fill. I be going up lad, hop on in!

(Jo enters and and stands beside Filliburton, he presson the button for the thirty second floor)

Jo. So, bro... what are you doing here, man?

Fill. To find me ship lad. It be at the top o' this tower.

Jo. Rightous man, I'm here to see The Man. He owes me a favor.

(The elevator stops. It is the eighteenth floor. In walks Rollin, His jewelery making a clinking sound with every step. He looks at Filliburton and Jo and then without a word, he presses a button (floor 63) and stands beside Jo)

Jo. Dude, nice bling man!

Fill. Aar! You got more booty aroun' yer neck than I gots in me treasure chest.

Rollin. (Dismissively) Hmm... Yeah...

(They go up in silence. Rollin looks around at the other two people and decides to stare nonchalantly at the door of the elevator)

Jo. (to Rollin) Are you here to see The Man?

Rollin. No, I’m here for business..

Jo. True, true....

Fill. Beware the wind me mates! She be the finest lady one moment and then a nasty wench the other! I remember back when I was the captain of the Purple Maze with a parrot on me shoulder, I traveled the seven seas with me crew. They were the finest bunch of barnacle-bearded seamen mine eyes have ever witnessed...

Jo. (in endless delight) Dude, you said SEAMEN!

Rollin. (to himself) Wow, what a bunch of retards...

(The elevator stops again, it is now at the 21stth floor. Enter Ciaran carrying a violin case and a folder with staff paper in it)

Ciaran. (to no one in particular) going up.

(He presses the button for the 59th floor and moves into one of the corners of the elevator)

Fill. Ahoy lad, play your fiddle for us if you will...

Ciaran. I'm sorry sir, I am not prepared to perform right now.

Jo. Come on man, play for us. Bury us in your musical excellence.

Ciaran. No.

Jo. Why not? Do you think you're bettar than us dude?

Ciaran. Not really.

Jo. So what? Why wont you...

Rollin. (cutting in) Leave him alone. He doesn't want to play right now.

Ciaran. (to Rollin) Thank you.

(Rollin nods in acknowledgement)

(The elevator jolts to a stop between the 24th and the 25th floor. The lights blink for a second and an alarm starts ringing)

(RIIIIIIIING!...)

Rollin. What the fuck?!?!

Jo. Whoa!

Fill. The ship is struck! Man the turrets! Arm yerselves scallywags!...

Ciaran. Calm down everybody. It's just a small problem. Somebody will come to help us within a few minutes.

(RIIIIIIIING!...)

Rollin. And how are you so sure of this?

Jo. (to Rollin) He's right bro, somebody has to come in a few minutes.

Rollin. They better. I don't have the time to be stuck in this damn elevator!

(RIIIIIIIING!...)

Jo. (trying to change the flow of conversation, to Ciaran) So dude, what are you upto man? What brings you to these parts.

Ciaran. Business.

Jo. Thats cool man. I guess you like to hold on to your privacy. I'm here to see The Man. He owes me a favor.

Rollin. (to Jo) Does this "The Man" have a name?

Jo. He's The Man man. I guess that's his name.

(RIIIIIIIING!...)

Rollin. (getting agitated) That can't be his name!

Fill. I once knew a man with no name.

Rollin. Oh shut up!

Fill. We called him Boney. Boney was a warrior/A warrior and a Terrior.

Rollin. Oh good lord...

Fill. Boney fought the Russians/The Russians and the Prussians.

(RIIIIIIIING!...)

Rollin. Stop it!

Jo. Let him sing dude, I like it.

Fill. Moscow was a-blazing/And Boney was a-raging.

Rollin. You like that? That sounds like shit to me.

Fill. Boney went to Elba/Boney he came back again.

(RIIIIIIIING!...)

Jo. What's shit to you is good music to me.

Fill. Boney went to Waterloo/There he got his overthrow.

(Ciaran watches on as Jo and Rollin continue to argue over Filliburton's singing)

Rollin. (to Ciaran) Whatchu lookin' at?

Fill. Then they took him off again/Aboard the Billy Ruffian.
Ciaran. (looks down) Nothing.

(RIIIIIIIING!...)

Jo. Don't be pushing the little dude, he didn't do anything to you.

Fill. He went to Saint Helena/There he was a prisoner.

Rollin. (to Filliburton) What the fuck is wrong with you man? Stop singing!

Fill. Boney broke his heart and died/Away in Saint Helena.

Jo. Leave the poor dude alone, he's not well...

Fill. Give her the t'gan's'ls/It's a weary way to Baltimore.

Rollin. One more line and I'm gonna....

Fill. Drive her, Cap'n, drive her/And bust the chafing leather.

(RIIIIIIIING!...)

Rollin. Thats it! (movong towards Filliburton) I'm going to kick his ass!

Jo. (steps between them) Stop!

Fill. (to Rollin) I'll skewer yer gizzards you lilly-livered bastard!

(You hear three gunshots. Filliburton, Jo and Rollin are on the floor in a pool of blood. Ciaran is still in the corner, his violin case open on the floor beside him, a gun in his hand. The alarm is still ringing.)

(RIIIIIIIING!...)

Ciaran. Assholes...

The Fish-lady's Slice of Pizza

(This was originally written for a Creative Writing class a few years back, I figured I would post it here for the sake of preservation.)

And in walked the fish-lady.

She was known amongst us gypsies because she would come in once or twice a week to talk to Maribella, the one eyed seer, my great-aunt. Ophelia, that was her name, was a very superstitious woman and she believed in omens and angels and black cats and rituals. She paid us with money and sometimes with fish.

Her hair lay like a dry mop on her head, dusty and forgotten in a closet, her jerry curls were no longer than my outstretched hands and her skin was tanned from the ferocious sun that beat down on her when she was out at sea. She was a fisher-woman, one of the few that existed.

As she waited for Maribella to come out from her quarters she went ahead and sat down at the table we had set up for Maribella. The table was at one of the corners of the building and for privacy we had it shielded with veils and thin curtains. The uninviting, cracked leather seat collected dust in it shadowed concrete nook. Ophelia just dusted the seat and sat down. It was not like she had to dust it as she was dirtier than the chair but I suppose she did it because of some conditioned behaviour that was forced into her as a child. "Say thank you if somebody gives you something." "Always keep your legs closed when you're sitting down."

Ophelia then dug into her bag and pulled out a little package wrapped in foil and tied with string. It looked like one of those little packages of food my grandmother used to make for me to take to school when i was in kindergarten, only back then we wrapped the food in banana leaves and not foil. Anyway, Ophelia pulled out this package from her bag and opened it out to reveal a slice of pizza. She smiled a little when she opened it, like a little child opening a birthday present. With that same happy expression she held up the slice of pizza and took a bite out of it. Her chewing was like that of one of those happy, pretty girls on the television set telling us to buy some expensive make up or something. She enjoyed chewing and tasting her pizza and looking at her made me hungry too, which is funny because the first thing I feel when Ophelia comes into the parlor is nausea, this wasn't because I disliked her or anything, it was just that the smell of fish was so strong.

As she set her slice of pizza down to take a look around a huge rat jumped up n the table and tried to steal her food. Big rats aren't uncommon in these parts as we live in one of the poorer parts of Aveiro, Portugal. Perched heavily on the tinfoil of her all too short lunch, he scampered away with what seemed like some sort of pride as Ophelia shoo-ed it away. She looked rather sad for a second as she stared down at her slice of pizza which was defiled by a hungry rat.

To my horror and utter disgust, she lifted up the slice and brought it close to her face, thankfully she just took a whiff of it and threw it into the garbage can that was next to the table. She turned towards me and smiled a small tired looking smile, shrugged and said, "Maktub."

Saul Williams at The Social, Orlando 11/05/09

Nov 5th at The Social, Orlando

Saul Williams

respectfully...

respectfully..

respectfully

Gesellschaft ist tott

(Pardon the grammatically erroneous German)

What is it that makes one "cool"? Is it the awesome (yet unknown) band's tee they're wearing? or is it the expensive, sweat-shop produced, bedazzled, (super-) low v-necked tee they're rocking? The $700 pumps from Milan? Or maybe its the $200 coloring job on their hair?

It's exclusivity.

By exclusivity I'm not just talking about monetary exclusivity or rarity, this could also stand for people's ideas, thoughts or even behavior. the Masons were a super-exclusive society of the major figures of history passed, were all these people cool? I doubt it.

So how do you take it when somebody calls you cool? Are you supposed to thank them? Doesn't that make you uncool? Or are you supposed to brush them off and tell them to fuck off?

And if you are the one people claim as being cool, do you actually feel cool? Don't lie to yourself, do you? Do you feel like the whole world revolves around your little finger? Do you feel like your "coolness" is so heavy that there are a bunch of uncool social-peasants orbiting around your kingly cool?

So, do you actually feel cool?

Don't take this the wrong way, I'm not giving my ego a Ron Jeremy style mono-person blow job, but people call me cool all the time. Why they do so is beyond me. Agreed, I am somewhat of a musical Christopher Columbus, I can hold my own in an intelligent conversation (if I feel like it), I have Bozo the Clown's sense of humor and mirrors don't shatter when I look into them. I'm not calling myself the super-erudite Adonis of every male-loving person's dreams, I'm just saying I'm competent.

So why exactly am I cool? I don't try to be cool, I don't own any good clothing to speak of, everything i own is old/torn/thrift store bought (and I don't mean that in a cool way). I'd like to have some new clothes that fit me better but the means are beyond me.

I guess nowadays coolness is the same as having style. People follow trends and fashions and try to be stylish all the time, take for example Mr. Too-fuckin'-cool-to-be-here (I am currently in a food court in a mall in Tampa, FL). He's an amalgamation of everything that's considered cool nowadays (admittedly not by everyone): a precariously cocked baseball cap, a dragon embroidered shirt, jeans that look like he killed a couple of small Ethiopian children to pay for with their blood, neon colored sneakers that are a few sizes too big, carefully shaved hairline (with fake edges) and a trixie-looking girlfriend perched on fifteen foot tall stilts that double as high-heeled shoes. Basically this gentleman of urban-decadence is the prime example of our society's ideal cool.

Do you think he's cool? Maybe my description's not good enough (or slightly embellished) but to me the man looks like the epitome of materialistic douche-baggery. Him and Ms. Plastic-titted-Barbie-wannabe; who is looking at poor little me with such disdain, with my unshaven face, tousled hair and poor-man's shorts: aka cut-off jeans (I will be touching up on this in a few minutes), and lint-laden hoodie (It's a chilly day for fuck's sake!) Let me throw her a little smile, there. Now where was I? yes, These two are prime examples of how we now live in a Subway society.

"Subway society? What the fuck is that?" you ask. Patience little one, i am about to tell you.

When you walk into a Subway restaurant you are tempted to pile on every topping you see onto your sandwich just because it is there. people are the same way about their lives, piling on clothing and chemicals and possessions and little pieces of papers proclaiming them social gods, therefore - Subway society. Get it?

So we live in a Subway society, how do we break away from piling our lives with "stuff"? - i really don't know but awareness is the first step. Acceptance would be good too but being aware is good enough for now. Change will come soon after.

Wait! I said I'll talk about cut-off shorts, so here. The re-emergence of this long dead style is linked to the rise in popularity of biking. Full length pants aren't ideal for biking. I have cut most of my jeans into jorts (Jeans-shORTS - JORTS... ta-da!) because i do not own a car right now and I bike everywhere. jorts are now considered the non-mainstream mainstream cool because it is the unnoficial uniform of the bicycling bunch. Butt the more popular and "cool" biking becomes, the fashion and the attitudes of the whole "scene" becomes cooler still, so much so that you see douchebagsgs jumping out of their SUVs wearing jorts and Bicycle hats jusbecausese they are "cool". this is the kind odouchech-baggery I wanted to write about but ended up going on an almost-introspective tangent on. If I have bored you, I apologize.

But let this be known, Your greed and the pursuit of "cool" is the death of society.

Society is dead.

Gesellschaft ist tott.

Twenty Five

Alright, another year's gone by and am I going to look back and think about everything that's come and gone? Yes. Will i be mopey about it? Maybe so.

The truth be told, I've done a lot more than i thought i would (realistically) in the last one year. I finally moved, I'm not too far but I moved nonetheless. I work a shit-load, so nobody can even say that I'm lazy anymore. Three jobs to be exact.

And my personal life? I have somebody I adore and worship but I am sort of lacking in the friend department. My complete lack of a social life is my biggest gripe in life.

Second only to money. Three jobs and I cant seem o make enough money to live comfortably. Hopefully that will change in the next few months.

Oh well, fuck this.

Here's to another twenty five fuckin' years of up-hill climbing.

Cheers mother fucker.

Kim Lenz & her Jaguars

I'm back!...

I'm coming...

In a few days my pretties.

In a few days.

The good life.

"She just said she didn't want to..."

it has been a while, hasn't it?

Well, a lot has changed. And a lot more is about to change. I move in a little bit more than a week.

What will happen then? Will I blog?.... Not as often as I'd like but I will be twittering incessantly.

@FakeAvi

I must head off now kiddies. Off to bed.

Rest in peace.

"I must, above all things, love myself.

That I must above all things, love myself.

That I must above all things, love myself."

The Fulgurator

Perfect!

" Sita Sings the Blues" by Nina Paley

I just watched this little video for the first time today and I have just one thing to say; phenomenal!

Here's a little note from the creator, Nina Paley (taken from her website) -

Dear Audience,

I hereby give Sita Sings the Blues to you. Like all culture, it belongs to you already, but I am making it explicit with a Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike License. Please distribute, copy, share, archive, and show Sita Sings the Blues. From the shared culture it came, and back into the shared culture it goes.

You don't need my permission to copy, share, publish, archive, show, sell, broadcast, or remix Sita Sings the Blues. Conventional wisdom urges me to demand payment for every use of the film, but then how would people without money get to see it? How widely would the film be disseminated if it were limited by permission and fees? Control offers a false sense of security. The only real security I have is trusting you, trusting culture, and trusting freedom.

That said, my colleagues and I will enforce the Share Alike License. You are not free to copy-restrict ("copyright") or attach "Digital Rights Management" (DRM) to Sita Sings the Blues or its derivative works.

Some of the songs in Sita Sings the Blues are not free, and may never be; copyright law requires you to obey their respective licenses. This is not by my choice; please see our restrictions page for more.

There is the question of how I'll get money from all this. My personal experience confirms audiences are generous and want to support artists. Surely there's a way for this to happen without centrally controlling every transaction. The old business model of coercion and extortion is failing. New models are emerging, and I'm happy to be part of that. But we're still making this up as we go along. You are free to make money with the free content of Sita Sings the Blues, and you are free to share money with me. People have been making money in Free Software for years; it's time for Free Culture to follow. I look forward to your innovations.

If you have questions, please ask each other. If you have ideas, please implement them - you don't need my permission or anyone else's (except for the copyright-restricted songs, of course). If you see abuses, please address them, but don't get bogged down in arcane details of copyright law. The copyright system wants you to think in terms of asking permission; I want you to think in terms of freedom. We've set up this Wiki to get things started. Feel free to improve it!

I've got to get back to my life now, and make some new art. Thanks for your support! This film wouldn't exist without you.

Love,

--Nina Paley
28 February, 2009

Here's a little 11 minute preview of the video:


And here is the full video.

Support Nina Paley. Donate here.

Here...

The blind tribunals of the unholy martyrs crawling with the many untruths that make or break any little monkey-hearted bastard into a pansy assed ball-sack is what makes the lower lip of the sucker of a dead donkey's rotting teat have a quivering lip not unlike a little baby when you pinch it.

how's that for disturbing?... :)

Mercier Kilo TT

Now that is what I'm gonna get when my tax refund comes in.

Isn't she a beaut?

Mercier Bikes - Kilo TT

Sigur Rós @ MOMA

Shot live at the Museum of Modern Art in New York City on Icelandic Independence Day, Sigur Rós @ MoMA is a unique concert film highlighting new material from the band's latest album, "Með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust", as well as classic Sigur Rós songs. Directed by Alex Simmons.

Track Listing:
Glósoli
Sé Lest
Við spilum endalaust
Sæglópur
Icelandic National Anthem
Inní mér syngur vitleysingur
Hoppípolla
Gobbledigook

tonight

Human beings are funny. They long to be with the person they love but refuse to admit openly. Some are afraid to show even the slightest sign of affection because of fear. Fear that their feelings may not be recognized, or even worst, returned. But one thing about human beings puzzles me the most is their conscious effort to be connected with the object of their affection even if it kills them slowly within.

— Sigmund Freud

Hobo Code

As inscribed in the Annual Convention Congress of the Hoboes of America held on August 8, 1894 at the Hotel Alden, 917 Market St., Chicago Illinois;

1.-Decide your own life, don't let another person run or rule you.

2.-When in town, always respect the local law and officials, and try to be a gentleman at all times.

3.-Don't take advantage of someone who is in a vulnerable situation, locals or other hobos.

4.-Always try to find work, even if temporary, and always seek out jobs nobody wants. By doing so you not only help a business along, but insure employment should you return to that town again.

5.-When no employment is available, make your own work by using your added talents at crafts.

6.-Do not allow yourself to become a stupid drunk and set a bad example for locals treatment of other hobos.

7.-When jungling in town, respect handouts, do not wear them out, another hobo will be coming along who will need them as bad, if not worse than you.

8.-Always respect nature, do not leave garbage where you are jungling.

9.-If in a community jungle, always pitch in and help.

10.-Try to stay clean, and boil up wherever possible.

11.-When traveling, ride your train respectfully, take no personal chances, cause no problems with the operating crew or host railroad, act like an extra crew member.

12.-Do not cause problems in a train yard, Another hobo will be coming along who will need passage thru that yard.

13.-Do not allow other hobos to molest children, expose to authorities all molesters, they are the worst garbage to infest any society.

14.-Help all runaway children, and try to induce them to return home.

15.-Help your fellow hobos whenever and wherever needed, you may need their help someday.

16.-If present at a hobo court and you have testimony, give it, whether for or against the accused, your voice counts!

Anonanimal

- Andrew Bird