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Ice cream Day

There he was crying. The ice cream melted at his feet. The puddle grew and grew, and all the kid could do was cry. Another boy greedily stuffed an ice cream sandwich into his mouth. He tossed the wrapper and started down the street. The kid in the cape, looked back and forth from the ice cream to the boy walking away. He curled his little hands into fists.

The children all licked away, their big grins covered in ice cream. They laughed and played. I pulled away from the curb while pop goes the weasel streamed out from atop my truck. I waved goodbye to the children, and they waved back. “Round and round the cobbler’s bench the monkey chased the weasel, the monkey thought ’twas all in fun. Pop goes the weasel”, the music chimed

The plane came down amidst smoke and flames, and that’s the last I saw of the greedy boy. It lay there in the middle of the street spewing out its guts. One by one the neighbors stirred to life. Some peered out from their doors, other peeked out from behind closed curtains. The children shrieked and cried. Theirs mothers came out and held them tight. There, there they would say. Hush my little baby, mommas right here. Down the road a woman just stood there. Her eyes glowed red in the smoke. She stood there helpless, all she could do was cry as she stared at the flaming plane.


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The king is dead

There is Elvis and than there is Michael Jackson. They are the kings. They broke convention and reinvented America in the process. But now that Michael is dead there is a hole left in the world that will not be filled for some time to come. I didn’t think the man could be killed. He seemed invincible gated off from the world. It is just now that I realize what a loss it is to have lost Michael Jackson.

My brother came clamoring though the front door. He asked if I had heard that Michael Jackson had died. I didn’t believe him yet there it was on the local news. The King of Pop was dead. I had grown up always being told that he was the King. I just took it for granted. Fine he’s the King of Pop I would think. But now that he is dead the gravity of the situation is hitting me. Will there be another artist to hit such heights ever again? We have cookie cutters of the mold that he created, but there is only one M.J. Thriller will never be too old to listen to. The Moon Walk will always be cool, and his singing will never be matched.

As a musician Michael Jackson has no parallel. His pop sensibility has made his entire catalogue timeless. The world boogied alongside him as he sang with the Jackson 5. He was this cute little kid that seemed so likable with his afro and stylish threads. Than came the 1979 and we get this new sound with the album Off the Wall. It had the great bass lines that the Motown sound was known for, but then there was this unique voice punching through. It has the familiar falsetto sound of a group like the Bee Gees, yet it has so much soul. I can see why it cut through racial divides. How could you not dance to the music?

But as amazing as Michael was at writing music it was his flair that made him mythic. At first his style was fairly tame but as the 80s unrolled his style was off the charts. His style kept getting more and more daring with each passing day. His Thriller jacket alone is the 80s. I don’t think there is a single soul on this planet that doesn’t think of Michael when they hear the word Moonwalk. The man might as well be from the moon. His dancing was unearthly, and we loved him for it. He danced differently, sang differently, and looked different. His music videos are unmatched. The scale and size of these videos puts everyone to shame. To this day people are still dancing to thriller. His title as the king of pop is extremely appropriate. There is something about his music that spoke to us. I am still not certain as to what it is?

Unfortunately the Michael Jackson that I saw was the one climbing trees and hanging out with a chimpanzee named Bubbles. Long after all the scandals of child molestation are gone I am not quite sure what legacy will be left. Will it be his music that we remember? Elvis is remembered as a fat man in a jumpsuit that has a quivery lip. It most certainly does not do him justice. Will Michael forever be remembered as a masked pale man running around hanging babies out of windows? Only time will tell but I hope it does him justice. It is a shame he didn’t get this final tour to finally show the world once again why he is the king.

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Rain, Death, and the Tenenbaums

I just finished watching the Royal Tenenbaums and the deaths from my own world crept out from wherever suppressed memories go to hide. I watched the characters standing in the rain, and pictured myself standing there. The damn earth, and the raindrops tapping away at umbrellas. Rain has accompanied both of the most important funerals in my life. My grandfather died as he was bled dry by cigarettes. There is nothing refined about having a cancerous growth rupture an artery while those that love you most scramble to make sense of it all. Blood doesn’t flow out so nice and smooth like the nice hit of a cigarette. If your life is so stressful you need cigarettes as a coping mechanism, rethink your life for fucks sake. There is nothing cool about smoking. There is nothing cool about smelling like shit.

My aunt died silently of cancer as well. It is a harsh ugly thing to see someone so young, erased by cancer. At some point in time were people affected by every death so severely and genuinely?

A man died somewhere in Afghanistan. I am certain someone out there is dying silently in their sleep as i write this. But at the end it does not keep me up at night. I do not toss and turn at the thought of innocent kids being deployed to the far reaches of the American Empire. Even Kim Jonj-Il and his fortress of bigotry does not cause me to wake in the middle of the night. But why? I find it a little disturbing that I remain so removed to these terrible things.

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Time and time again i hear the rally call of the right, denouncing the potential court appointee Sotomayor. I have yet to hear much debate about her qualifications, or her past rulings.

It is the same drone about her being hispanic. YES, she is hispanic. but in reality she is just a judge who happens to be hispanic. I understand it is a little wordy, but she pulled herself up by her own bootstraps. She got to where she is by shear determination and focus. We should admire her accomplishments, and the way she got there should simply be the cherry on top. I am very proud of the US for even considering her. If it turns our she is not the very best pick possible, than fine. but until then stick to the relevant issue at hand.

The Obama administration is really into doing a bunch of firsts. but for now Sotomayor’s ethnicity is a non-issue. The fact that this is the main focus shows how shallow and disunited the right has become.

also, i picked up on the comment about her being a racist. It is infuriating to see such stupidity, the allegations are unfounded and show how the right has lost touch with reality. To say La Raza means solely the race shows that there was no real research done. Things do not always translate well. in this instance the La raza is just an identifier for peoples of a common background to rally together and have one another’s backs. For gods sake there is even a radio station by that name. It is a common term, that does not carry connotations of racial supremacy. Get your facts straight, than come and make wild and damaging accusations.

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Why do I Write?

Of all the things I could have chosen, why writing? There is no real job security in the world of abstraction. My five words of beauty, are worthless when it comes to paying the bills. Even if I do get someone to pay for my work, how much will it be? Can i survive off of the nickles and cents that come my way? My father recently told me to pursue a real job before going after my english major. Of course I fired back saying how can one expect anything giving their passion a half assed effort. You either give it everything you have or go home.

Does his advice even have any real value? Here he is looming on half a century and his hob is far from secure. He is not happy doing what he does. I can take as just a sign of the times, but it seems to be indicative of so much more. Maybe it is a little bit self indulgent in saying i want to pursue a life of accomplishment and happiness. But if anything what is the alternative? How many jobs out there pay the bills and give a life of leisure. few if any.

Do I have to attend school to become a great published writer? Maybe not, but what do i know. I am just in the infancy of my writing development. the only real literature that I have read is through school. The occasional work here and there like Brave New World was read on my own time. I am not well read compared to many of my piers. But writing is something that i have loved doing. Of course love does not mean success. Even talent does not equate to success. It is fiction that has had my heart from the beginning. Ever since middle school I jumped at the chance to be creative. Teachers would most always select mine as a standout piece. Of course that does not mean much, but nonetheless this is something that I thoroughly love doing. This is before the notion of even getting payed to do so entered my mind. There are a million other things i would have wanted to do, that is before I started going to OCC. English was the only real challenge, and i made it through with A’s. In english 101 i was given the chance again to write a fictional piece and i surprised myself. It is far from done, i gave it a bullshit ending just so that i would have something to turn in. But the craft that I found instinctually, and sparked the inclination that i could write competent pieces of fiction. After that i took an introductory creative writing class. Ever since i have been determined in getting an English major. beforehand i was undecided.

I want to attack this major with everything i have. I want to create the literature i wish to see. Hopefully others will learn to appreciate the lenses which i look through.

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I am not exactly sure why I started this blog. It just felt like the right thing to do.

Anyways, the recent tremors have left more jarred than usual. There is nothing original about the California Earthquake, or wildfires. But this recent sequence of shakers have been far more violent. I could here the earthquake approaching. I hate to use cliques but it rumbled in the same way a wave comes crashing down. It had that same guttural low frequency rumble that kicks you in the chest. Before the house began to rock back and forth I could hear the birds shrieking madly. They flapped their wings in their cage. Even their small brains could comprehend this quake was going to be a bitch. I have never heard an earthquake coming, but somehow I just knew what it was I was hearing. As the quake reached my house the windows shook, the house rocked, and my brain just switched through all the static noise that related to what was happening.

Should I go to the doorway?

No, only dumbasses do that and end up losing fingers as the door slams shut.

Should I go outside?

No, I’ll probably be whacked by the bricks on the outside of the house.

Should I sit here?

Really brain? thats it?

The couch seemed like the best place to sit this quake out. And so I sat. The house stopped shaking. The light was still on, and so I put on the news. Breaking NEWS, did you feel that? That was an earthquake. Realizing the stupidity of it all i couldn’t bare changing it right away. And ultimately why the fuck do they have regular people describing it to me? it was the same earthquake. Unless somehow they got a different type of wave, they felt the same thing. After they stopped giving any relevant info , like the magnitude (which was the only relevant info they had) i changed it. But really? Do we really have to hear how someone’s china fell to the floor? How some retard didn’t earthquake proof his bookshelf. Really? I guess we have become so desensitized that we want to hear someone else say the same thing. This was straight out of Dellilo’s book White Noise.

I can’t wait for the big one. I don’t have an earthquake kit ready, and I bet you don’t either. It will rip our homes a new asshole. I have never been paranoid about earthquakes before but lately I’ve been a little on the edge. There is nothing we can do to stop it. I hope you keep your ass nice and clean California, because we’re gonna be kissing it goodbye real soon.

se habla ingles,

The illiterate Mexican

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