The blog time forgot.

The cult of the celebrity. The possibility of everyone being FAMOUS. Fan pages on Fakebook.
The fame game is just a drain on your membrane. I am having trouble understanding this obsession.

If you are on chatroulette.com you are looking at yourself looking at a camera. You are now self conscious.
You have woken up.
You perceive yourself and now adjust yourself according to what you have seen and how you think you are perceived by your webcam counterpart.

YOU HAVE JUST BROKEN THE FOURTH WALL.
This is a film making term.
Hopefully you are familiar with it.
If you aren't,
"The presence of the fourth wall is an established convention of fiction and drama, which has led some artists to draw direct attention to it for dramatic or comedic effect. When this boundary is "broken", for example by an actor onstage speaking to the audience directly, or doing the same through the camera in a film or television program, it is called "breaking the fourth wall."

Your actions are now self monitored, you act out in ways you probably wouldn't and your perceptions are now askew.
Welcome to the society of the Panopticon.

You a plastic thought regurgitator with no hope or recognition,
the sins you blessed were that of divine definition,
so come the raw prawn singing Waltzing Matilda, without salvation,
Stand in the sun of the all seeing eye horoscope, one world nation.

Twenty twelve, what becomes of thee,
Another bullshit pagan Mayan government regiment philosophy,
So stop the soliloquy and pay attention with your wallets,
It's Y2K again, conglomerate raking and raping in mass profits.

The prophet was never born, and my namesake the same,
If James was Jesus' brother, than I'm slightly insane.

Diagnostic agnostic priests of belief in deceit receive relief by way of government rationed beef.

Trick or Retreat, the price is always wrong,
because time after time my head's clouded from paint fumes and homemade Gatorade bongs.

The diatribe you confer to me is one of pure energy, focused on points, like a magnifying glass beam and the ants it anoints. I can speak without speaking and know how you really act, the whole stage is a show and your life is the final act, no intermission, the last time the sun revolved the earth, Da Vinci discovered nuclear fission.

Fusion, better than soul, so sell your scuffed soles through the glory hole at the Superbowl.

People think I'm paranoid, I'm just a realist,
so when I'm being a pessimist, I'm just pissing in your nest.

Rest in Peace Else, Kmit, Mishen and Hazedus.
And all the rest, lest we forget.

You know who needs a bodybag?

Something I found that I wrote as a comment on someone's blog, some idiot who writes meaningless messages on post it notes, then photographs them and writes down their location. I'm not gratifying them with a link, but rest assured that this cat is a phony, I ain't bullshit. The poor bastard has 4000 fans on Fakebook.

I'll eat your cunt with a spoon.



Anonymous said...

Hello, I think what you're doing is really meaningful it makes people smile when they read this and they remind us of those we forget. Keep it up dear, this is really sweet

August 16, 2009 1:46 AM

Jimmy Hats said...

I believe this is very trite, with no real sentiment or message.
There is a beauty in impermanence, however to simply promote a collation of similar post it notes on a blog detracts any subtext I could even try to read into from your work.

From banality comes creative merit, and from this same creative merit spawns a chance to remove the idea of simply making a glorified advertisement for how alternative you are. It is one thing to conjure thought, and another when the thought conjure nought, except making art a sport. Thumb up but then thumb down, period.

August 16, 2009 3:16 AM

Anonymous said...

Ouuuuch Jimmy Hats. Can't say I disagree though, good point.

August 28, 2009 8:35 PM

The king is dead, long live the king.

Think about it.

RZA Part II.

Recieved a text message from my good friend who went to go get a book signed over east on the RZA tour.

"Man, Bobby has your zines packed in his hand luggage to read for the flight home, and he said you held your own on the board!"

Does life need anything else?

I played Chess with the RZA.

Hope you enjoyed the zines Bbbbbobby.
Twenty-four hour flight, at least you got some light reading.

I already hear "Bullshit" being called about the title.
But trust.

The ever present Gracey from http://chroniclesofdardia.blogspot.com was in RZA's hotel room last night.
They needed to get lifted. I was called. I was already lifted so I thought they were playing a joke on me. I caught a Taxi to the Sheraton with this rad taxi driver. I told him who I was going to see, but he feigned ignorance. I, out of shock since this taxi driver was twenty five, yelled WU TANG CLAN at him. He suddenly jogged his mind round the projects, worked out he knew RZA and kept smiling at me.

Jesse Chip from http://alldayidreamaboutsauce.blogspot.com was already there, with Gracey and beautiful Rosie Bates. Your breasts looked amazing Jesse. But I already said that.

If I wasn't so sedated I would of beaten him or at least stalemated him. I may have lost but I got my Tiger style on and showed him I wouldn't let him walk all over me. Stewie, bad luck mate.
Trust.
Fucks sake, he's the grandmaster, the grandmaster of the Gravediggaz.
I showed him moves he hadn't seen before.

Quote unquote.
Rewind.

I showed the RZA moves he ain't seen before.
I had him stunned.

The RZA seemingly respected my game yo. I was in a haze of confusion and delight. The banter wasn't spoken much with words, but mainly with moves. There was this dude that was pestering me, Stewie, and trying to give me advice, even though he seemed to be a muppet. I was right. Stewie goes and gets checkmated in two moves. The Abbot recognized real. One of the highlights for me would be The Big Payback blaring out the speakers, crew know. Me and RZA both bopped to Brown.



















Zigga Zag Zig even honoured my blackbook.
Life is complete.
I got lifted with a member of the Wu, RZA of all people, and went a round of Chessboxing with him at two in the morning at the Sheraton hotel.
No need to set goals for a while.

Birds.

My local fish and chip shop, ahh scallops with the lots of flavour on top, has a poster of birds. These are their stories.

I imagine this bird to be exactly like my ever longed after Maggie G, in the motion picture Secretary.
You'd fucking hope so.

Audrey Allen, this bird weirds me out.

Hahah. I made it say "Cock" and "Pecker".

Even if it's the size of this, it's okay, as long as they;

Do girls with Swallow tattoos swallow? I need to gather intel.

The bird that represents every pseudo ex-pat from Western Australia, no extra hipstur points sorry. You realise the Pigeon is a rat with wings, don't you? Right?

King of PARADISE. Nuff' said.

Dude, it's like an Eagle and an Owl. Imagine an old American biker and a HxC Neo Traditionalist fan talking about tattoos and this bird just perching between them. Who would win?

Insomnia sucks. Big 'tings 'gwan soon so stay tuned.

Sly like Stallone.

Dude.