The Voyeur

Posted in Deep Thoughts, Rave, Uncategorized with tags , , , , on September 25, 2011 by dissectingthefetalpig

I like to watch.  It is as simple as that.  If you don’t stop and look around some days, you’ll never really see the full picture.  The world is filled images and little details that act like hidden gems just waiting for you to find.  You can walk down any street and find something interesting or beautiful if you just took your blinders off.  Don’t just look side to side or dead straight; look up under and around.  Observe what is going on and you may be surprised at what you find.

One of the things I enjoyed about being a bouncer was that I had to watch and observe.  You start to learn the pattern of people and it gets easier to pick out the irregularities.  Irregularities in a crowd can be both good or bad.  A young couple having a heavy make out session, lovers meeting for the first time, a drug exchange, the preamble to a fight or shady behavior all stick out from the overall picture of what is seen in a bar.  Yet they can blend in really well at times if you don’t spot them.  It’s all a game to me, like an egg hunt of sorts.  Every bar or club I enter is immediately scanned for spots where things could happen, then I look to see what type of crowd surrounds me and then I look for the place best suited for me to sit and watch.  Sometimes this can be seen as problematic.  I would refuse to go to certain places again after seeing what a madhouse it was.  I see no reason to be in a place that is dangerous beyond the point of exciting and leans more towards being a deathtrap.  Friends and lovers alike used to think I was no fun for not wanting to go to bars known for having shootings in the parking lot regularly.  I saw it as having an allergic reaction to lead pills.

I love going out late at night and seeing what the world has to offer me as the majority of its inhabitants slumber.  It’s easier to find things, for me, at night as you don’t have the sun’s glare in your eyes.  Recently, I saw an older couple dancing on their balcony.  A slow waltz or something similar I suppose.  But it was awesome to see two old people still in love with each other like the day they first met.  They too were using the veil of the night for their advantage.  I didn’t want to interfere or interrupt the moment as some nosey onlooker, so off I went.  It’s moments like those that make me not loathe the world as much as I do.  It’s like some affirmation that good things still exist.

Even when all I see is the bums shuffling or slumbering on the street, the tricks working their corners and the junkies fixing, it’s still a glimpse into the world no one wants to admit we live in.  The real world.  I never saw the point of turning a blind eye to the problems.  These proverbial monsters under our beds that haunt us as we sleep.  It made more sense to get used to them rather than deny that it is happening.  And there is a uniqueness to this atrocity exhibit that I find exhilarating.  My outlook is that life is built on moments.  With that said, I would rather have a life built on unique moments rather than mundane ones. I like catching rare glimpses of raw life, even when it hurts.  I think it is almost damnable to live life like cattle and just shuffle along your usual route to the cubicle you call a job.  You need to switch it up sometimes and just see what is out there and take notice of all the flaws the gem of life bears.  These flaws, these imperfections are what make things so interesting.  Anyone can walk into a jewelry store and see a perfectly cut stone, but rarely do we get to find one in the raw.


Posted in Rants on November 1, 2014 by dissectingthefetalpig

I like listening to music. It’s absolutely my most favorite thing to do, second only to ejaculation. And sometimes I try to figure out ways to combine the two. God I love that.

My favorite way to listen to music is when I am alone. I eat it and absorb it with as little disturbance as possible. I’ve mulled over things a little and hands down, my favorite way to listen music is when I am on the subway. If I am a little stoned and have a cup of coffee in hand I am probably on the verge of sheer bliss. I actually get a little bummed out when I have to travel with company because it means I can’t listen to music.

But even then, that’s ok, because I also like to watch. I can’t stay focused on the train because I am always looking at or for weird things. I love weird things. I love noticing the flaws, jewelry, clothing, odd coincides and I’ll even break on a nice ass when I can get away with it. I’m a very observant boy when it comes to looking for distractions. But I really love oddities. Weird shit like a hot girl with a hairy lip or who’s got junkie hands, also,but not limited to how coordinated a person is. It intrigues me. I’m a curious child.

Sure, I like other things a lot too. I have a strong appreciation for art and am artistic. I like food and have knack for cooking as well. Cinema and video games eat up a lot of my time and I obviously enjoy literature as well, but my meat and potatoes is music. God damn if I don’t love a good song! And I can be severely judgemental about other people’s taste in music. It’s a major character flaw.

Prior to rocking out on the subway I used to like listening to music in bed. It helps me fall asleep. It’s a bad habit that always leaves me in fear of strangling myself to death. I’ve damaged many a good pair of headphones doing this and I am pretty sure it has driven every woman I have ever had a serious relationship with batshit crazy. I’m sorry about that but I can’t help it either.

I started listening to music at night with my headphones on when I was a real little kid. My Pop had bought me a little boom-box when I was about 5 or so. I was stoked about it. It was my favorite thing in the entire world. I still think about it all the time. It was a silver two speaker and one cassette AM/FM Panasonic boom box. I would tape the shit out of songs on the radio. I tuned in to all sorts of radio shows and developed a wide appreciation for music almost instantly.

Money was tight with my folks back then so I would sometimes have to figure out what songs I could tape over and what tapes would have to get erased and then reused. I remember i found a case of self help cassettes and felt like I won the lottery as it meant I had more cassettes to tape over. I had even gotten good at repairing cassettes and I could even re-splice the tape if need be. I would make these bomb ass mix tapes when I finally got a double deck. I still make mixes to this day. It’s a terrible hobby and I become a perfectionist about it sometimes which can make small projects into a 3 Cd affair. I tend to make mixes to motivate me in some way or to help me sleep. When I was a kid my parents would fight a lot and I would want to drown it all out. My old man had a hell of a temper back then. I figured rather than getting worked up over some dark outcome with all the commotion I could just put up a wall of sound and let go. I could just tune out reality completely. I didn’t like reality then. I generally don’t like reality and have a very difficult time dealing with it. This has oftentimes lead me down some very dark roads. Listening to music has become a way for me to keep grounded. It’s very important to me.

I have my father to thank for getting me into music. He also had an appreciation for music. His favorite music ritual was to drive as fast as humanly possible while blaring Deep Purple. He had a thing for “My Woman From Tokyo” and “Mississippi Queen” if I remember correctly. He schooled me on lot of really cool shit in those rides. Black Sabbath, The Doors, Blue Cheer, Rolling Stones, Genesis when Peter Gabriel sang for them, The Police, Amon Duul, Yes, Soft Machine, Edgar Winter, Alvin Lee & Ten Years After, Mountain, King Crimson, Muddy Waters, Howlin’ Wolf, ZZ Top and even motherfuckin’ Barry White where some of the gems my Pop’s was holding. He also had a thing for lecturing me on those rides. It felt like he was always down my throat for some shit. Never happy. Never satisfied. So I’d say “fuck it” and tune him out. It would drive him ape when he realized I wasn’t paying attention and he’d turn off the radio. Then it was only a matter if time before he’d cave in and turn it back on and then it became the game of exchanging daggers with glances. We never did see much eye to eye. He also hated that I fell asleep with headphones on. I think he may have even planted that seed of fear that I have about strangling myself someday if I continue with my reckless ways.

It’s kind of funny how something so beautiful, much like a flower, can have it’s roots so deeply embedded in shit, isn’t it?

Stare Down

Posted in Deep Thoughts, True Stories, Uncategorized on September 15, 2014 by dissectingthefetalpig

buttmirror-1024x581 I once had a staring contest with myself.  I wanted nothing more than to look into the eyes of the one person I hated most and bear deep down into his soul and see what he was made of.  Would I be looking into the eyes of a real motherfucker or would I be staring down some chicken-shit nancy boy?  I wasn’t entirely sure either, but what I did know is shit was going down and it was going to go down now.

So there I stood in front of the mirror.  This was it, this was the showdown.  At first I coolly looked myself dead in the eyes.  I immediately noticed how stubborn I was. Why was I doing this? Regardless,I refused to break eye contact.  I started to notice the details of my eyes.  The almond shape, how judgmental they appear at first glance and the overall darkness were the first few moments focus.  I started to notice the wrinkles I had accumulated over the years.  Then I started to look deeper.  How wild eyed I must appear at times?  The irides both big and brown with a light hazel ring around the very edges.  A dark rich brown much like a dark chocolate or a healthy shit.  I could make out the stroma and I noticed how much it reminded me of a sea urchin the way it expanded and contracted.  My cold stare was now focused on what could be considered a warm embrace at times.  A look that could possibly warm a lover’s heart.  Could I be caving in?

What seemed like minutes had passed.  My eyes were watering, tearing, as I held my gaze.  I was not about to give in.  I was too far invested to cash out now.  There was a slow searing feeling as my eyes began to sting from the tears.  I wanted to blink desperately.  This was crunch time. Time to see who is who.  I focused on the blackness of my pupils.  The emptiness.  The void within.  Hollow.  I fixated on this and began to wonder how many people do this?  How many people can?  It’s no easy task to look oneself in the eye, to be able too look into the windows of your own soul and see all your features.  Your cracks and crevice reveal your moments of selfishness, weakness, strengths and beauty within.  We take so much time studying others that we forget to study ourselves.

I swam in the black pools of my eyes for what seemed like eons.  I had finally felt the calm.  I had let go.  And with that I blinked.  I snapped back into reality only to realize that only fools have staring contests with themselves.  This endeavor was no-win situation at best.

Perhaps, I had lost… Perhaps, I had won.

The God Of All Endings

Posted in Deep Thoughts on September 9, 2014 by dissectingthefetalpig

My god is the god of all endings. A god neither to be loved or feared. Without discrimination my lord will dole out expiration in manners deemed just and unjust. Fairness and equality do not matter, nor have they ever. Man follies over these concepts. And that, perhaps, is one of man’s biggest sins. These things are vanities at best, and nothing more than an illusion. Illusions are lies. Man is the only animal that lies to itself and pretends that it is not an animal. We are probably the only species that can teach itself to deny it’s own natural instincts. Nature is pandemonium, to be put simply. And, if god makes man in his own image, then my god is the god nihilism and uncertainty, my god is the something born out of nothing. A deity whom most ignore but is the highest ruling of all. My god is Chaos and it knows only one equal and rival and that rival is Time.  The two cannot exist without each other.

Life is chaos. To live, or even love is chaos. A 50/50 chance at best, even when there are no odds. There is only one way to cope with it. Only one way to deal with it, and that is to remember where you are, the here and now, and just roll with the changes. You are your own god. You sail your own ship. Don’t fight it. Accept that we as humans must constantly adapt in order to survive. That we must constantly evolve in order to continue our journey to nowhere. Onwards into oblivion, the only true Heaven, because we do not know our true limits. Nor shall we ever.

And that is also why Time and Chaos cannot exist without the other. All things end and all things begin. The Big Bang. It is uncertain how long we will exist, yet we will exist and are certain to expire.

The true trinity is not of the Father,Son and Holy Ghost; it is Chaos, Adaptation and Time. To squander time is a sin for we never know how much we have because there is no such thing as certainty. Our only certainty is our mere presence and nothing more.

I have to remember, as do we all, that I am here, and now, and that, and all it contains, is what truly matters and that it should be rejoiced and not reviled and abused. We must appreciate what is now and what it is worth and we must carry on.

This is my reality.

Better Luck Next Time

Posted in Deep Thoughts, Rants with tags , , , , on November 10, 2012 by dissectingthefetalpig

They say “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” as an uplifting statement when you’ve had a brush with death or when you’ve had an accident. Maybe even when you’ve just gone through a raw ordeal. It makes perfect sense. The more incidents that occur, the keener you get (hopefully) and you try not to repeat any mistakes.

I, on the other hand, say “Better luck next time”. I figure the Grim Reaper is getting pretty fed up with my wily antics and last minute get-a-ways, so I encourage him to try a little harder. I’d hate for him to get mad at me and take it personal. When I take shit personally I have a tendency to hurt the other person more. It’s a normal human reaction. So it makes perfect sense to show some encouragement and hope that your retirement package is something lavish and glorious rather than something slow and painful.

It’s simple math really:

Dying in bed banging a beautiful woman >; Dying from dysentery in the middle of a desert.


Having a mediocre life, heavy in debt due to lack of insurance, the wife stopped loving you years ago and your kids want to cash in on insurance as cancer ravages your body and you pray for death to come quickly <; Going down in a hail of bullets after a heroic battle that changed the course of history because, although you are about to die, you somehow managed to save the world and people are going to name their babies after your amazing ass.

What would be even worse is if death got frustrated and gave up on you. You outfox him and live forever. That would seem ideal at first. But you get to watch everything and everyone you love die. Your body may betray you or you sustain a serious injury that you may have to live with for an eternity. Imagine being in an accident that cuts you in half and you have to spend forever with no legs. Or the world blows up and you float in space forever like a lost meteor. These are terrible scenarios I never want to experience. Which is more reason to encourage death to practice and put me in a first class coffin.

Little White Lies

Posted in Deep Thoughts on October 11, 2012 by dissectingthefetalpig

Every once in a while I find myself sitting at the bar of this quaint little French restaurant.  I usually order a soup or salad and proceed to shoot the shit with the girl on the other side of the bar.  It’s a weekly ritual.  Conversations are usually laced with what seems a juvenile adoration.  It’s cute and I find it refreshing.

Over the course of time, as with anything if you are smart, you pick up a thing or two about the other person.  She’s a good kid; A good balance of sarcasm and friendliness.  It seems as though she has a bit of a dark side or some secret shame that she struggles with.  I don’t ask questions, we all have pasts.  No need to make anyone uncomfortable unintentionally.  One conversation that sticks out in my head is when I was telling her about some darker period in my life and that eventually you learn how not to be a monster.  Her eyes got big and saucer like.  She believed me.  I believed me.  But that was a little white lie.

Let me explain.

Later on that evening and a few beers in, I noticed she was having a hard time with a package.  I reached down at my hip and procured a knife, more specifically, a larger knife with an assisted opening.  She looked down at it and asked why I would carry that thing.  I explained that it was a tool.  I use it everyday for a million things.  I’ve always had a knife.  Ever since I was a little boy.  All of which is true.  What I didn’t explain is that I also have it as a “just in case” for whatever bad situations might come my way.  I may have stopped acting a monster, but that doesn’t mean I really stopped being one.  He’s still in me, somewhere not too far under the surface and if I need him, I can ask him to come out and play.  That knife is a tool, but it’s also the monster’s claw.  It’s there in plain sight and just a snap away if I need it.

That’s my little white lie.  That’s the truth.  Once you’ve lived that way it never really stops, you just learn how to control it.  You can still tap into it and you can always feel it breathing down the back of your neck.  You just learn to tune it out.


Posted in Rants on May 9, 2012 by dissectingthefetalpig

Walls are specifically designed to keep unwanted elements from coming in or out of an area.  Much like a cage at the zoo, it keeps people from harassing whatever wildlife that is being kept and it keeps said wildlife from attacking the families at the zoo.  It makes a lot of sense when you think about it. Which is why it always would amaze me when people would give me shit for putting a wall up between my emotions and them.  Obviously people who put up emotional barriers don’t like being hurt and so they throw this wall up as a way to protect them…. Sometimes that invisible wall is put up to prevent hurting anyone too.  No one ever gets that.  Life is funny that way.


The Magician’s String

Posted in Rants on April 19, 2012 by dissectingthefetalpig

Not too long ago a friend and I were bumbling around town looking for something to do.  We decide to eat at a tourist trap of a joint and consume some rather savory, yet totally unhealthy food.  As per my usual, I decide to load the touchtones jukebox with some of the worst songs known to man.  There’s just something about watching the other patron’s faces go sour in mid bite when 4 Non Blondes starts blaring loudly overhead that makes my burger taste that much better.

Upon leaving ye old sud shack a young artist has set up camp and is doing elaborate paintings with spray cans.  He has his own sound system and light show, complete with semi cute girls acting as assistants and auctioneers.  My friend, who is a brilliant artist in his own right was fascinated with what was going on and so we took a minute to watch.  I explain to my friend that the artist sprays on layers of aerosol paint and then with utensils peels away layers or carves into the paint to give it the desired effect.  It’s a rather simple technique once you have the formula laid out.  I’ve seen these tricks before.

When I used to work in Chinatown I used to see a guy do similar work.  All of these quick paintings with similar stylings cranked out one after the other and put up for sale for tourists and locals alike.  I would stand and take a few minutes each day to watch and figure out his technique.  Taking time to see if I could find the magician’s string and tear apart the magic of what he was doing was rather simple.  In turn, the artist was clocking me.  He’d notice me and watch me watching him.  We’d both exchange a civil nod of acknowledgement.  Eventually it would be time for me to scamper off to my next job like a dutiful little drone and the cycle would begin anew each weekday, 7:15 PM EST.

What bothered me the most is that this street artist was mainly doing portraits of the World Trade Center and this was in the very wake of 911.  I found that to be semi tasteless, also considering that this gentleman was British.  It just didn’t sit right with me.  I never thought that my disapproval showed, but he seemed to notice.  One day he takes a moment and looks up at me and says ” I bet you listen to a lot of punk and oi!”, which I nodded and said yes.  He asks if I have a compilation called “Strength Thru Oi!”, to which I again said yes.  He grins and says he’s in one of the photos standing next to members of a particular band on there.  The next morning before I begin my commute to work I rifle through my records and sure enough, there he is. Albeit much younger.

There we are again after my shift finishes, our silent exchange begins as per the usual.  He looks up and asks if I had found him.  “Yup, right where you said you’d be”, I say.  He then asks if I like any 2 Tone era ska.  “Some, not too much”, was my answer.  “I bet you’ve probably got a copy of Madness’s ‘One Step Beyond in your collection?”, he grins.  “Yup.  Let me guess, you’re in that album too?”, I volley back.  He laughs and says “Yeah, two or three pics over from Belinda Carlise’s tits on the insert!”  He then looks up at me and says the following:

“Look, I know what you’re thinking.  Here is some limey cashing in on a tragedy.  I get it.  But really, all I am selling is memories.  And that’s not a bad thing now is it?  People come and go wanting to remember what was there and not think about what has happened.  I can’t blame them either.  Sure, I’m hustling for money, and I am sure you’ve figured out how to do what I do and in time, you could probably do a million of these yourself.  But it’s honest work and I’m no vulture.  Honestly.  And you and I probably have more in common than you’d think.”

And that was the magic trick right there.  This whole time I am paying attention to the paintings he is making.  Trying to figure out how it is done like some cocky asshole trying to find the ball in a game of cups and I over look the real magic.  He had read me.  He had clocked me and figured me out faster than I him with a minimal exchange of words.  It’s a simple ordinary magic practiced by street hustlers on a daily basis.  So base and primal that it is easily over looked.  Even now, some 14 years later I have to tip my hat and applaud him.

And for the record, he can be found on the insert a few pictures over from Belinda Carlisle’s tits.


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