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 there but the only two words that came to me right away were moth and butter and I couldn't negotiate the term 'guilt' with them properly without feeling inept and somewhat aroused.
Anyways, I strongly feel that the human race is 90% wrong at least half of the time, which mathematically equates to us fucking everything up anywhere from 110% to 240% of every waking moment, globally. Some people screw things around so magnificently that they double up the worldwide awkwardness for the rest of us and take up the slack for the unnaturally perfect who never do anything for the greater good.
We live in a constant state of TV-inebriation and advertisement-sanitization scrubbing our reality away (TEETH ARE SUPPOSED TO BE A LIGHT YELLOW! BREATH ISN'T NATURALLY MINTY! TOENAILS ARE... okay, cut the toenails) 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/feminine pink-lavender-colored razors. Sure, graffiti is a crime, but that empty public space where art could be is taken up by some unattainable physique chewing Mentos because $ > society.
Photoshopped-perfection wildfire-brandishes your cityscape, blazing a spotlight on that mole on your cheek, focusing a camera on your incorrect nose, and 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 plus-size members of our population, so go buy some sweatpants and a baggy top to highlight your ostracization, fatty. Oh, and everyone? Make sure you feel bad and anxious all the time, too.
One bus-stop ad makes you unsure of yourself and anxiety-amped, the next one sells you an anti-depressant.
But there I go again, grabbing my highly-decorated and quite obvious rant-flag to scream down the highway like I expect to be noticed, 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 us being wrong because some cock-bag (hold it, hold it, hold it... wait - why is human genitalia [and sexuality, and products-relating-to: c*nt, d*ck, dildo etc] often or always deferred to when needing an insult? They're the best parts of the human body - I mean, have you ever even touched some genitals? It's so much better than touching your eyeball or the black stuff under the fridge - so some questions about all this double-standardness 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 take off as expected, but about how we're so unconsciously trained by that shaved-body Adonis in Buffalo jeans shoving a bulge at us from the bus shelter at six A.M. before work to be uncomfortable in our own entities 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 an extent 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 really escape "flawless" people, as they invade our vision non-stop wherever we go and it only ends when we look in a mirror in order to find natural things to unnaturally fix, and then 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 that it's like some shitty "1984"-like auto-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 by ourselves and others, have unconcealable rashes on freshly-shaved/waxed, um, areas, and have unmakeupped-faces dribbling mucous while suffering a cold in front of someone we find desirable, so you're a human and start getting re-used to that. Remember when you were a little kid and it was all about being a free human? Find that again. I'm sure you can look past that pimple on their forehead; I believe in you. Fight the system. You're already fighting it by reading this, and you've won if I've made you think.
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 rubber and inhale some CO.
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 existed in abundance. Seriously. And I'm not bashing that, either. Please bring all this back, somebody.
Echoing announcers giving indecipherable play-by-play; revving engines; squealing tires; crowds 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 'moving' from one speaker over to the next, it's just that the mono-version record 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
Download here:
vroooooom
Posts
0 comments:
Post a Comment