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  • Racist Asshole on Xanga!
    I don't know about you, but I don't want this bullshit on Xanga. As of this posting, I've reported this site to abuse@xanga.com. I hope you'll do the same. Here's a link for your convenience.
    Here's some quotes from his weblog:

    Saturday, January 17, 2004
    What is a National Socialist in America?
    To make this more understanding, a National Socialist is anyone White who walks through a Black (Harlem, D.C., Oakland, etc.) or Hispanic (Los Angeles, East Palo Alto, etc.) neighborhood at night and comes out alive.
    Upon survival, I believe you can certainly see racial inequalities.  I believe it doesn't get any more easier or clearer than that.

    Thursday, January 8, 2004
    The NAACP's original purpose was demanding civil rights and encouraging protest in response to white aggressions such as lynchings, disfranchisement, and segregation laws.
    Well, every single one of those goals have been achieved, what else do you want?  So we let you become our "Equal", and now you are more dangerous to whites than men are to women.  And lastly, you make up 50% of the prison population.  What a good deal.
    If Whites are blamed for everything and protected by nobody, then why is the NAAWP on the list of hate groups?

    Tuesday, December 16, 2003
    My first day in Charleston I was mugged by a nigger on a bike who pulled a knife on me, "Empty your fucking wallet", luckily I only lost $5 dollars.

    Be sure to check out/report to abuse this blogring while you're at it:
    WHITE POWER

    I'd like to point this out, directly quoted:
    Terms of Use
    Member conduct
    Xanga's Terms of Use is designed primarily to protect our members. To help maintain a safe and fun environment at Xanga, you must agree not to use Xanga's products or services to:
    upload, post, email or otherwise transmit any Content that is unlawful, harmful, threatening, abusive, harassing, tortious, defamatory, vulgar, obscene, libelous, invasive of another's privacy, hateful, or racially, ethnically or otherwise objectionable

    The full Terms Of Service can be found here.

    You can read John's say about free speech on Xanga here.
    The post brings to light that the Terms Of Use are somewhat vague. The aforementioned site and blog ring and clearly violate the Terms Of Use, vague or not.

    Now, I'm all for free speech in America. However, I am fully against the perpetuation and dissemination of a belief system based on fallacy, hatred and fear.

  • So, in something I've been keeping secret (for fear of jinxing the whole thing), it's seems I've been found and contracted to do a set of advertisement designs for this site, hummer.com, to do a series of ads for the new H2 SUT. As of Friday afternoon, the contract was official. I'm REALLY excited about this, because A) it's an amazing amount of money and B) it's not so much a foot in the door as it is jamming my whole leg down the industry's throat.
    With some hard fought permission, I'll be using my Xanga readers as a small test audience. Please give an honest opinion.

    HUMMER2 SUT AD*

    * Did you know the word 'gullible' isn't in the dictionary?

  • looking down and to the right;
    i'm thinking about you,
    about the softness in your eyes,
    longing for the simple clasp of two hands.
    thinking about the sheer shine of panties over skin,
    about distances unbridged, breached and vast enough to swallow hope.
    about incoherent thoughts at five ante meridian.
    a psychic drunken lurch and stumble over my words in eastern standard time.
    simple wishes that could never be so simple.
    a kitten on my bed waiting to curl up.
    would that you were there too.

  • [BombScare] i beat the internet
    [BombScare] the end guy is hard

    [protected post1]

    [Also, gone to take photos. Somewhere. Not sure yet. But i'm going.]

    [I loved you in a sick and tender way, like hazy too bright fever thoughts2.]

    1.
    When you see this, check your protected posts. You know who you are.

    2.
    An errant string of prose that ran through my mind last night and made it to paper.

    Random Link #1

  • Gratuitous Kitten Pic.

  • A Series of Disjointed Autobiographical Entries, pt. III, or A Lesson Of Fists And Impact
    Part I
    Part II

    An autumn afternoon, walking home alone from school when I heard the derisive catcalls. I lowered my head, clenched my jaw and walked a little faster. I didn't look back, but from the sound of it they were at least half a block away. I hoped I was too far for them to care, not worth the sprinting distance, not worth the effort.
    The jeering and name calling continued, closer and closer. My stubbornness had resigned me not to walk any faster, as if maintaining would deter them.
    A hard shove against my left shoulder, immediately followed by a sharp cuff to the back of my head.
    I spun, back pack in my left hand swung out in a wide arc, hoping to catch one of them in the head. No such luck. I let the bag go, letting it fly into someone's front yard.
    I took them in. Three of them, not much bigger than me. Two blonde and freckled (Patrick, John), one swarthy (John). All three of them my age; 6th graders.
    My hands came up.
    It started.
    All the punches thrown were wild, untrained haymakers. Fists hit faces, arms, shoulders and chests.
    A punch landed squarely on my temple and my vision exploded with black and stars. I lunge towards him and got him tangled up in a front headlock. I reached down and grabbed his belt with my free hand. It was the blonde John.
    A fist clipped my nose and my eyes watered and I ran backwards, dragging John with me, trying to avoid the punches of the other two.
    My arm tightened around his neck, my wrist digging into his throat and he's struggling.
    I'm falling backwards.
    My lower back hit the car's front quarter panel a split second after John's face.
    He screamed as we slid to the ground.
    A foot caught the inside of my thigh; a kick aimed at my crotch. My leg went numb from it, but I manage to get to my feet. We stood still, as if in tableau.
    My eye was swelling shut, my knuckles were raw. I didn't care. I was past the point of not wanting to fight, of being afraid to fight. Out of the corner of my vision, I see John on the ground, clutching his face. A long smear of blood against the grey paint of the car.
    I'm ready to get beaten to the ground and do as much damage as I can on the way down.
    Only, it never happened. Dumbly, I watched them collect themselves, their things and walk away.
    I don't know how long I stood there, hands up and my whole body shaking.

  • (When you say my name, I want to split it from your lips and hide like whispers in the rain. When you say my name, I want to stop it in your lungs and collect all of your blood, to put in the radio.1)
    One song, over and over. I do this more than I'd like to admit. Compulsively listening to a single song for hours, days, on end2. Every wordless tint and hue of feeling expressed through 4 minutes of sound. Amazing, isn't it?
    I've been longing for it again. The piercing whine of six string feedback, the felt-more-than-heard tones coming from the four strings under my fingers. The thump coming through the pick ups as the guitar hits my hips in the midst of my particular on stage psychotic episode. The bruises on my hip bones the next morning. The sore fingers and hands from physically forcing, jamming, cramming, pounding, beating my feelings through nickel wound wires. The hoarse throat and fucked voice from screaming along with or without a microphone.
    I want to be exhausted, sweaty, nerves raw, fingers bleeding, every fucking ounce of passion I have spent.
    I want to make music again.

    1.
    Thursday - Signals Over The Air
    If i keep holding my breath, all of this will fade away. If you keep driving we'll be lying in the wreck.
    Changing the shape, folding like an envelope to keep each other in. Shattered glass, broken looks, and mascara gets washed away by windshield wiper blades.
    When you say my name, I want to split it from your lips and hide like whispers in the rain. When you say my name, I want to stop it in your lungs and collect all of your blood, to put in the radio.

    2.
    Songs I've been compulsively listening to:
    Blossom - The 101
    Signals Over The Air - Thursday

  • Fugazi playing on the computer (Do you like me? Do you like me?1). The kitten walks through the vertical blinds with a clickety clack and a long meow in the tone of a question. I softly mew back and reach down to scratch his head. I keep wondering if things will work out. I keep wondering what she thinks. I get up for a glass of water and the kitten follows me, reaching up to sniff at the glass as the water pours into it. Back in my room, Christie Front Drive is playing (I guess you, I guess you win2).
    I feel strangely calm, at ease. Any other night and I'd be quiet and pining away at something. Anything. To go out and do something. To be with someone else. To have a girlfriend here, distracting and attracting me. Not tonight. Tonight, my soul is quiet and cool and calm.

    1. Fugazi - Do You Like Me?
    Your eyes, like crashing jets fixed in stained glass, but not religious. You should pay rent in my mind. Say like the French say "Bon soir regret a demain". Do you like me? I guess. White witness moves to petition the state of Virginia for 27 prisons, while in Bethesda an office flaming, youth group singing, firemen calling in Lockheed, Lockheed Martin, Marietta. Do you like me? I guess. End of the lesson, time for one question. End of the lesson, time for one more question. Do you like me?

    2. Christie Front Drive - Radio
    Hey, could have helped yourself. Just wind up and make it go. Hey, could have hurt yourself. Just wind up and make it go. I guess you, I guess you win. Could have helped yourself. I guess you, I guess you win. Could have helped yourself. Too bad it makes you so, lonely

  • Inconsequential (A haiku)

  • Happy Holidays everyone.