I was just going to plop one of my poems in here in an act of obtuse laziness but since I haven't posted anything in a few days (days, year - same thing) I'd feel guilty and I feel guilt... well, ridiculously easy. I was going to put a metaphor in right there but the only two words that came up right away were moth and butter and I couldn't negotiate the term 'guilt' in there without feeling inept and somewhat aroused.
Anyways, I strongly feel that the human race is 90% wrong at least half the time, which mathematically comes out to be that we're fucking various things up anywhere from 110% to 240% of every waking moment, globally. Some people mess things around so magnificently they double up worldwide awkwardness for the rest of us and take up the slack for the unnaturally perfect who never do anything.
We live in a constant state of TV-inebriation and advertisement-sanitization with no view outside of our homes untainted by some bipedal perversion of reality selling us purple Windex or Fresh Alps Sun-Dried Laundry Febreze or manly steel-grey-colored razors or feminine pink/lavender-colored razors. (Sure, graffiti is a crime but that empty public space where art could be should be taken up by some unattainable physique chewing Mentos because of $ > society)
Photoshopped perfection wildfire-brandishing your cityscape puts a spotlight on that mole on your cheek, focuses a camera on your incorrect nose, introduces your receding hairline to everyone around you like a guest of honor at a surprise party. They don't make nice clothes for the larger members of our population so go buy some sweatpants and a baggy top to highlight your ostracization, fatty - and make sure you feel bad and anxious all the time, too.
But there I go again, grabbing my highly-decorated and quite obvious rant-flag and screaming down the highway like I expect to be heard or like I don't think most people already know this but put zero effort into changing it because bills/rent/food/family/time/how-the-hell-do-I-do-that?/etc.
So like yeah.
This isn't about we or us being wrong because some d-bag (hold it, hold it, hold it... wait - why is human genitalia (and sexuality, and products-relating-to: c*nt, d*ck, dildo, f*g, etc) often or always deferred to when needing an insult? They're the best parts of the human body - I mean, have you ever touched some genitals? It's so much better than touching your eyeball or the black stuff under the fridge - and we wouldn't have cleaner whatever's without douche-bags, I think, so some questions about all this arise) sits at a desk and thinks of ways to make all of us feel like shit because the new Crystal-Lite watermelon/goji-berry elixer didn't turn us into Ariana Grande or whatever, but about how we're so unconsciously trained by that hairless Adonis in Buffalo jeans shoving bulge from the bus shelter at six A.M. before work to be uncomfortable in our bodies that not only our whole day is slaughtered in thinking "that woman over there couldn't possibly think I'm attractive - I HAVE A NORMAL BODY.", but our lives are somewhat controlled to a point as well.
(Wait. Did I just contradict myself about how this isn't about that but then it totally is? Good.)
Our eyeballs can't escape "flawless" people as they invade our vision non-stop and it only stops when we look in a mirror when we look for natural things to unnaturally fix and in our friend's or co-worker's faces and think "geez, a little effort?" and it's all just horrible. And it's been going on for so long now it's like some shitty "1984"-like medication taken on a daily basis to ensure a populace so self-aware that entire industries from the ones pandering to depression and anxiety to Lululemon survive on it.
We're all wrong in this together; we fart and get caught picking our noses, vomit when it's least appreciated, have unconcealable rashes on freshly-shaved/waxed, um, pleasure-zones (fun-crotches?), and have unmakeupped-faces dribbling mucous during a cold in front of someone we find desirable, so you're a human and start getting used to that. I'm sure you can look past that pimple on her forehead; I believe in you.
Now here's something that has surprisingly little to do with that tower of words above, so put all that crap aside because we're heading back to 1964 to burn some rubber.
Nowadays things like this just make no damn sense, but drag racing was big in the 1960's. Really big. Car magazines, car-humor magazines, toys, model kits and sound effects albums like this beautiful thing.
Echoing announcers giving indecipherable play-by-play, revving, squealing tires, crowd cheering. And an ambulance.
Sometimes I can just really go for massive burnouts with the bass up and the scared neighbors, and this does the trick. I actually have two copies of this: the stereo one pictured, and a mono version. No, I don't have that ability to tell the difference between mono/stereo unless the piano or feet or whatever is 'walking' from one speaker over to the next, it's just that the mono version is a gatefold with color photos and extra stuff in the packaging, so I'm a geek in an aesthetic rather than aural way.
And I'm very cynical in thinking anyone can tell the difference between engine-noises, so I didn't split any tracks up, settling for giving the two sides their places. So sorry. But here's the track list if you care to do it yourself:
A2 Super Stock Eliminations (Automatic Shift)
A3 Dragster Eliminations
A4 Mr. Stock Eliminator of 1964
A5 AA/Street Roadster Eliminator
A6 Top Fuel Eliminator
A7 Top Gasoline Eliminator
B1 The Sounds at the Finish Line
B2 Blower Blowing Up On Dragster + Ambulance
B3 A Two Engine Dragster, "The Freight Train"
B4 The Sound of Shifting
B5 "Troubles" at Starting Line
B6 Stock Cars Lined Up Behind Ready Line
B7 Dragsters Time Trials
B8 Roadsters Time Trials