She drank
She did drugs
She was cold
She was callous
She was Sarcastic
She was Purposely hurtful
She was Shaming
She was Promiscuous
Sex and love addict
Gossiping
Controlling
Anorexic
Judging
Immature

She was perfect for me.....
Well..... she used to be...

///////////////////////////

I tried to find happiness and self esteem in a person, place or thing... it was superficial ... From an early age I was seeking an escape... a comfort .... I wasn't comfortable being me... I always felt different ... My defects became my survival skills and then they turned against me. I couldn't accept myself .... Truly love myself... forgive myself .... I had no place for God in my life .. I denied God so I could continue to act out on behaviors that felt good temporarily ... I was spiritually sick ... Bankrupt emotionally, mentally and spiritually ..... My spiritual condition is now on the mend which brings me clarity and keeps me aware of old patterns and behaviors I would impulsively act on - that old person is gone ! Dead ! This continued transformation is all contingent upon my spiritual condition.

By Stefano DiBenedetto

Exclusive Interview

with

Hollywood Photographer

Brad Elterman

What made you realize you wanted to become a photographer?

I loved rock and roll and especially Bob Dylan. I adored Dylan, his music, and everything that he stood for. I kind of killed two birds with one stone: My passion for rock and roll and photography. 

You published your first photograph of Bob Dylan in 1974. Can you tell us how you were feeling when that happened and did it make things easier for you as for your career as a whole? 

It was total jubilation for me when I sold that very first photo of Bob Dylan. I was over the moon and it was the start of my career. That published photo gave me the drive and ambition to go on and make a career in photography from nothing. For me, it was now like, anything was possible now. I began networking and meeting young journalists who were also trying to climb the ladder in the music world. One of my journalist friends, Harvey Kubernik introduced me to all of the publicists at the record companies. Then, I met Rodney Bingenheimer who was my best pal for years. We hung out and met everyone. Rodney was really a god back then. 

Your work is vast, and spans decades of celebrities. Tell us how it was to work with Joan Jett?

Joan was just a cool, quiet and collected friend. The Runaways and Kim was all about drama, but Joan just wanted to play rock and roll. We hung out at The Tropicana, ate these giant hamburgers at Dukes Coffee House, shot the shit and I was taking photos of all of it. One of the most important photo shoots that I ever did was Joan hanging out in her dumpy motel at The Tropicana around 1978. I can't really describe it, but when I was making those frames, I swear I could feel that something wonderful was happening. It is wild and of course I still feel it today. I am not sure if it was the composition, the room, the era or Joan. I think it was her charisma that made it happen. There was no direction at all. It just happened. 

You went on a sailboat ride with Peter Frampton in 1978 where you took some amazing photos. Tell us about that ride:

I puked on his boat is what happened. I went out on his yacht in Hawaii on an empty stomach and got sick. They were all eating KFC and drinking beers and the boat was rocking and I tossed my cookies. I didn’t know Peter before that shoot but he was really a pleasure to work with. He was a giant star and had the biggest selling record in the history of the world at the time. I hustled my way on the boat with the promise to his record company of getting him in all of these European and Japanese magazines. The photos ran everywhere. 

I listened to Rodney On The Roq when I was a kid getting into the punk scene in the early 1980's. You've said that Rodney helped you out tremendously in introducing you to a plethora of key people. Tell us what it was like shooting photos of the punk scene in the late 1970's? What was the environment like? What are some of your fondest memories of that time period within the punk scene such as going to The Starwood, Whiskey, etc?

I loved the Starwood. If you wanted to get laid you went to the parking lot at The Starwood. If that did not work, you went to the parking lot at The Rainbow Bar And Grill at 2:30am, which was unofficially called "The Meat Rack". If that did not work out, you were a total loser. The Whiskey was cool too. I knew everyone there and could move about freely. Both of these clubs smelled like a cross section of puke and piss. It was delightful and I will never forget that aroma. I was not crazy about the punk scene except for some key bands. I liked to photograph attractive bands and in punk everyone went out of their way to look so horrible, the groupies too. Yuck! Now if you compare that to the crowd at a Rod Stewart, Faces, or a Beach Boys crowd, it was like night and day. The girls at those shows would put Victoria Secret models to shame. Keep in mind that they were all so young and free at the time. I can barely contain myself thinking about those years. 

What did you mean when you said, "Watch out if you tried to photograph him when he had nothing to sell!" Speaking about Frank Sinatra?

Frank Sinatra detested the press and that meant photographers. He just did not want to be bothered. If you caught him leaving a restaurant after a couple of drinks, it could turn into an ugly situation. Now if he was selling something like a new record, concert tour or promoting a Las Vegas fight like in my case, it was totally different. These rare photo ops were held in the form of a press conference at a hotel and he would be incredibly charming. I cannot tell you how lucky I was to have photographed Frank Sinatra. 

Tell us about shooting photographs of Stiv Bators & the Dead Boys? You had the chance to meet Stiv's parents in Paris; what are some of your memories of them and him?

I was in Paris with Rodney and we went to visit Stiv at his apartment. I remember meeting his parents who were really darling people. Just real down to earth and you could tell that it was a loving family. I remember Stiv showed me an LP that just came out with my photo on the cover. It was the shot of him backstage at The Starwood with his pants down. I was lucky to have done a few shoots with Stiv and the band. I also saw him from time to time at parties. He really knew how to work the camera. I really miss him. 

How was the Debbie Harry show at the Whiskey in 1977? Was it sold out? Did you shoot photos of the band performing? You mentioned that show was a big deal because it was her first show in Los Angeles. Were you excited to shoot it?

Yep, I was really excited to shoot the concert. It was amazing and it was a really big deal at the time. I am sure that it was a sold out crowd. 

I was hired by the record company Private Stock to shoot the concert and backstage. Unfortunately they have all of my negatives from that shoot. I kept the color. That was the way it was back then sometimes. You sold your soul for a few hundred bucks. There were dozens of bands that I was hired by that gave up the negatives and the band went nowhere. Blondie was managed at the time by one of my best pals, Toby Mamis. Toby was one of the most brilliant managers and publicists of all time in the music industry. We are still friends today. 

How was the party scene back in the late 1970's and early 1980's? And what was it like to shoot photographs night after night in such a star-studded place like Hollywood?

It was amazing. I swear, every single night there was a really cool party to shoot. As a photographer, I was not there just to take photos. I was also there to party as one of the guests. I would take some photos, have the dinner, dance, make-out, everything. Probably the only photographer on the scene today enjoying this sort of lifestyle is The Cobrasnake. I refer to him as my little brother. He is amazing. 

Bands were coming and going from Los Angeles all the time. Most of them were from London, but the New York punk bands came to L.A. too. Money was no object to the record companies. Michelle Meyer who was the queen bee of the Sunset Strip would always say, "There is always a party" and that was absolutely true. It was the golden rule. Whether it was a party at the Bel Air Hotel for Swan Song records, a party at Paramount for Grease or a big pile up back at the Hyatt House after a showcase, there was always a party. Not to mention the countless drinks at the Troubadour, Whiskey, Starwood, all on the house courtesy of the record labels. 

I really love what you said about one of the pictures you took of Michael Jackson, "What I like about this photograph is the stain on the sidewalk." Can you elaborate as to what you meant by that?

In the last few years of Michael's life no one would have had this kind of access; too many people around. If there were a publicist or life coach, they would have advised him to stand away from the grease in the street and make sure that everything was perfect. That stain in the street and the contrast of his beauty and elegance makes the photo a very raw and exciting photograph. 

The picture in the Alley of Joey Ramone is very classic. The shadow of his hand on the wall, the smile on his face, it's almost like he's saying goodbye, but it also looks like he's saying hello. Can you tell us about that photograph and what it was like hanging out with Joey Ramone?

Joey was really a sweetheart. He enjoyed the company of his friends and that included Rodney and me. I spent the evening with him at that recording studio and the photos were boring and nothing that I would have considered putting in my book. However, something prompted me to take his photo paparazzi style as he left the studio. I think that there were a couple of fans waiting outside and he was waving to them. Sometimes my eyes fill with tears when I see him waving goodbye in the photograph. It's a bit emotional.

If you had to tell a story or give advice to a classroom of teenagers, what would you tell them?

Travel. It is the best education in life. Never give up. Follow your dreams. If you become a photographer always try and capture the moment. Marry a rich girl! 

Last but not least, what kind of camera equipment did you use back in the 70's & 80's? What about currently?

Canon F1 and Canon AE1. I switched over to a Nikon FE and FM, but went back to Canon. Presently I’m using: Canon S90, G11 and the Canon 7D. I also own a Contaxt T3 for film. It’s a point and shoot that’s razor sharp and really cool. 

Tell us what's in-store for you? Where do you see the future taking you as for your career in photography?

I want to take photos again. My style of photography is back in style. Available light, flash on camera, under produced sessions is what is presently en vogue today. I have done a few shoots and I will do plenty more. I would love to shoot a Gucci or Louis Vuttion campaign. I’m ready for the call. I need to catch up with my pal The Cobrasnake!

View More Photos // Contact Brad // Click Here

How to Tell if your Schizophrenia gets too Intense-

Written by

Samantha Ashli

Everyone has a ritual, most people probably more than one. Wake up, feet in slippers, pee, pet the dog, back to bed, hit snooze, pet the dog, back up, slippers, etc. Today, amongst a toothbrush and water temperature adjusting ritual, I realized that my contacts and I are no longer speaking to one another. (Inanimate object; speaking--yes, yes. I see the humor.) I chewed over the idea and wondered when it ended between us. Thinking back to the last time I mechanically pulled them out of their watery pods and peeled back my eyelids to suction them against the whites of my eyes.

Even since the beginning I've been on and off with the contact lenses. The first time we met I was forced to fumble before my mirrored self through the process of poking their slippery bowls onto my eyeball while a woman hovered far too close to my face and constructively criticized my first few attempts. After alot of unfolding and re-wetting, I was finally able to claim 'dating' status with the lenses. I remember worrying about us not working out; the whole 'contact wearing experience' and I, but back then I thought it would be due to infection. Certainly it would end up a gummy pink-eye mess after one fell onto the floor and the only means of 're-wetting' would be to spit. It was one of my biggest fears in the first few weeks. Turns out, contacts have good grip. Maybe too good of grip. After putting my contacts in I never wanted to take them out. I had heard stories of other people adjusting and becoming a skilled executioner and remover of the lenses, but it seemed to me; no matter how many times I pulled off or pushed on the contacts, it was a slow, painful process resulting in lost make-up and wasted time. The ritual never wanted to become part of my life and I found myself a soggy, frustrated mess every morning.

I'm not sure if I consciously decided to stop taking out my contacts before bed or if it was a first night of combined exhaustion and forgetting, but at some point I stopped taking out the soft lenses. When my eyes didn't swell shut or goop over, I made some sort of mental note and the danger-factor dropped considerably. Over the next few months my contacts and I were inseparable, except at one point I got a new pair, and a few short, intermittent nights spent each in our own beds.

At first, there was no side-effect. The world was vivid, bright and clear. A world without frames or ties or suctiony rituals, but it was too good to last. Our relationship became a desert. There was no hiding from the horrible dryness that was to come. Slowly it crept into the valley of our happiness and things began to itch and crack. The easy alternative was eye drops and so they became the back-bone of our love triangle, for awhile. Then one day it was too much! I got a new prescription for hydra-clear advance premium plus plus infiniti awesome lenses. We tried for a round two. As always, the beginning of everyday was awful. Twenty minutes spent squinting and pulling, re-applying and cursing. The drops were a constant necessity even with whatever triple action hydrating goo they added to the solution. The desert was there to stay and then the fear of cataracts, don't ask me where it came from. I found a sturdy pair of plastic framed glasses to wear and the contacts and I took a break. A long, glorious break. Out of sight, out of mind.

Finally, a few years down the road the fancy spectacles were lost and the blindness was unbearable. My first independent trip to the eye-doctor taught me about expenses and suddenly, my faith in contacts was restored, briefly. The act of putting them in was once again, clumsy and frustrating at first. A knack of sorts, and then a ritual ensued thereafter. For a couple of short, agonizing months our relationship was a sort of re-kindled fire. Although the scratching pain and dryness were once again a part of my everyday life, being able to see was reward enough. Appreciation is a dish best served occasionally. When you've had something long enough to appreciate it, you've probably had it just long enough to be used to it. The remedy of sight quickly became a rash of blurred vision, drops, and swollen lids which then metamorphosed into a current and serious fear of permanent vision damage.

[I close the mirror cabinet and continue brushing my teeth, listening to the buzz of the electric motor. The last set of contacts remain in the box unopened. A barely worn pair lie stagnant in their watery case. Four good months of contact relationship still available but not activated. I wonder if they know, or maybe they believe I am on some kind of 'contact-wearing vacation'...No worries, I'll have my people call their people.]

Gold Rush Tattoo Shop in Costa Mesa, California is host to some of the best tattoo artist in Southern California! When I got my first tattoo in 1985 at Twilight Fantasy in Anaheim, that was one of three tattoo shops in Orange County at that time. I soon found Goodtime Charlie's Tattooland and thus began my life long journey of getting tattooed. My second tattoo was from Jack Rudy, the third was from Mark Mahoney, and Mike Brown has tattooed me quite a bit. Fast forward to 2009. Gold Rush Tattoo is the place to go if you want quality ink! Every artist at Gold Rush is top notch! Joel Bones is working on completing my left arm and I couldn't be more stoked on what he is doing. His work is amazing!! Not to mention we went to highschool together; life long friends still here to tell the tale. Click the pics to access Gold Rush Tattoo.

From the time of her arrival in New York, Nancy used drugs to meet musicians. “She was blatantly honest about it: She bought drugs for the bands,” Polk says. “She was honest about being a prostitute as well, which I thought was refreshing. The punk scene, like any other scene, had its little hierarchies. There were groupies that had been around for a long time because of their looks. In order to be a groupie you had to be tall and skinny and have fashionable clothes. There were a bunch of girls like that on the scene. And then here comes Nancy. She’s not trying to be cute or charming. She wasn’t telling people she was a model or a dancer. She had mousy brown hair and she was a bit overweight. She basically said, ‘Yeah, I’m a prostitute, and I don’t care.’ ”
But Nancy was too extreme even for a movement centered on extremeness, and she never gained the acceptance she craved; she was an outcast among outcasts, nicknamed “Nauseating Nancy” behind her back. “It was jealousy,” says Roberta Bayley, who worked the door at CBGB. “There’s no more competitive thing than who can fuck these musicians. Maybe Pamela Des Barres tells the story of female solidarity, but there was a lot of backstabbing.” According to Polk, “The other girls shunned her and were mean to her. And that made Nancy worse. She became vengeful. She kind of reacted to them putting her down by doing even worse things. The only people who didn’t shun her were the guys that were getting drugs from her.”
By the spring of 1977, Nancy had “worn out her welcome,” says former Dead Boys guitarist Cheetah Chrome. She took off for London, following Heartbreakers Johnny Thunders and Jerry Nolan, but even her reliable targets were tiring of her. London scenester Bebe Buell says Nolan (who died in ’92) tried to shake Nancy: “I remember Jerry saying to me, ‘If this chick Nancy Spungen tries to find me, please don’t tell her where I’m staying.’ He was trying to dodge the bullet.”
Then Nancy found her twisted Romeo. Working-class, musically challenged, highly impressionable, and enamored of the New York punk scene, Sid Vicious was the bass player for the biggest band in England, and already the walking epitome of punk nihilism. “If Rotten is the voice of punk, then Vicious is the attitude,” Pistols manager Malcolm McLaren famously decreed. Both knew no limits. Photographer Bob Gruen accompanied the Pistols on their U.S. tour. “I remember talking to Sid on the bus, and he really seemed to care for her,” Gruen says. “He didn’t have any anger or hatred toward her. Sid very much loved Nancy. They seemed to communicate and connect.”
“I was there in a club when some girl offered Sid her number,” says Victor Colicchio. “Nancy said, ‘Push her down the stairs.’ And he did. He was a knight in rusty armor.”
But the Pistols broke up at the end of their American tour. Back in London, Sid attempted a solo career, with Nancy now calling herself his manager; by the end of August 1978, they returned to New York, moving into the Chelsea Hotel. “When she came back with Sid, it was like she had triumphed,” says Polk. “She had shown everybody that she really had what it took to become this famous groupie. Some people were outraged by it. They just couldn’t believe that she had succeeded in her quest.”
Victor Colicchio, an actor, screenwriter (Summer of Sam), and member of a short-lived seventies band called the Dead Squirrels, also lived at the Chelsea. He saw Nancy’s good side, despite her spiraling drug problem. “She was highly intelligent and very aware,” he says. “She could spot someone conning her a mile away. She had good insight into people. She was aware of phonies and fakes and users. She did display that wild, crazed behavior, but it wasn’t her total being. I saw both men and women pushing past her, not acknowledging her, talking to Sid. I think a lot of her nastiness and temper tantrums were rooted in that. I was there one night in a club where some girl offered Sid her number. Nancy said, ‘Push her down the stairs.’ And he did, without a second thought. He was a knight in rusty armor.”
By this time, the drugs were taking over. There’s a famous clip of Sid and Nancy from the 1980 documentary D.O.A. Sid’s nodding off, and Nancy’s snapping at him to wake up. “They’re like the Honeymooners,” says Roberta Bayley: “ ‘Wake up, you knucklehead! We’re on TV!’ It’s so sad, it’s funny.” Even the hard-core drug users began to avoid them. “Sid and Nancy as a couple were going down the toilet, and everybody could see it,” says Television guitarist Richard Lloyd. “To hang out with Nancy and Sid was to make a grievous mistake for your own health. I took lethal doses of everything known. You couldn’t call the kettle black. Mine was jaw-droppingly black. But I’m still here. They’re not.”

if i could
for all i would
give to live
i should.

live a little
give my all
try the cobbler
see the peach, in the picture, on the wall.

my friend John said, "man, don't you wonder how i do each day?"
"don't you ever wonder when im low, how full of wonder, it is to see
the color, in the Cosmos flowers, that grow on the patio."

Yeah, john. i wonder how you can drink like i do and still
go to work!? and i don't give a shit! that your old man always said: "you get up each day, wipe your ass and go eat life!" this fucking booze is killing me. Im not eating, wiping anything, or living any kind of life. Lisa, my last sober friend, said today--"you gotta go Tommy. "I love you too much to watch you die like this."

i got out of the car, and watched, as her tail lights disappeared around the corner. she was gone.
i pulled the half pint out of my breast pocket and wanted to break it on the ground, but i didn't;
i needed it. i guess i needed it more than i needed Lisa.

that night i had this dream, where i was standing in a garden. the soil was sandy; i was near the ocean.
a woman was planting this and that; flowers and herbs. as she was digging, she pulled some sea shells up in her hand; they were shells that her child-- her dead teenage son, who was killed recently in an accident-- had put there when he was younger. they would work together in the garden, when he was a very little boy, but he never would plant seeds. he would always play a pirate, and bury the shells like they were treasure.

now, she likes to spend hours with her hands in the soil. where he has gone, because it makes her feel close to him. she began to cry. it was like her whole body was crying. i had this feeling that she was younger than her eye's looked; that nothing can take away what happens to eyes that have seen too much.

then i awoke, or someone like me.

suddenly, i remembered the girl that i loved.
and, how i loved her even more, when she shut the door.
how i took the hit. i burned it all.

just once you told the truth whole.
i watched you sell your soul.
priceless, youth.

then, i awoke.

t. dunaway

words: joel bull // photo: Kamie Kovacks (inside City Lights Books SF)

HEK ONE // TATTOO ARTIST

Hek is a tattoo artist working out of HB Tattoo in Huntington Beach, California. Born in Los Angeles, wandered the states in his youth, then settled into Chino, California before making his way to Huntington Beach in 1995. Hek began his apprenticeship at HB Tattoo in 1999 and finished in 2001 where he still slings ink to this day. Hek is the one who tattooed the MC 59 on my fingers. He just touched them up last night, the day before what would have been Mike Conley's 50th birthday. He knows how much this tattoo means to me and told me so in an email this morning. For that, I am forever grateful! Friendships do not grow on trees... Hek is the real deal! A great tattoo artist, friend, father, husband, and hardcore Bad Brains enthusiast! Check out his website and if you need some ink, hit him up at HB Tattoo! Thanks Hek!!

HEKTATTOO.COM

HBTATTOO.COM

November 4, 2009 // Balboa Island, California:

Today was emotional, beautiful, celebratory. My girlfriend and I went to Balboa Island to have a picnic. I parked the car, then we walked out on the dock and sat down on a wooden bench facing each other... From a white plastic bag in her hand she pulled out a framed picture of Mike Conley, and a framed picture of her father, John Kovacks. She stood them both on the handrail next to us. It was a complete surprise, one I will never, ever, forget! We were having a picnic, all four of us! I started crying... Tears of sadness, joy, and elations... Nothing else mattered as we extolled two lives that mean so much to us... One of the best days of my life so far... Even with the losses, there is so much to be gained... John's bday is Nov. 5th & Mike's is Nov. 6th. Happy birthday to the both of you!! And thank you Kamie for being such an amazing woman, girlfriend, friend, and shining star in my life!! You are truly adored & Loved!!

OBLIVION

From 'Solace'

by

Jason Thornberry

I awakened in slow motion from the mouth of a colossal void that was bigger than me, bigger than the hospital, and bigger than God, who didn’t dare visit while I lingered near death, procrastinating in oblivion. In fact, God was simply much too busy to call on any of the one hundred and twenty days that I lay in two hospitals. My coma was my own. But it was nothing like the Hollywood depiction of a prolonged unconsciousness. There was no bright light; no armies of violins or cosmic tunnels to emerge from like a newborn.
There was nothing.
St. Mary’s Medical Hospital in Long Beach, where the ambulance delivered me, was not unlike a waking dream – suspended in gelatin, hands floating, body pinwheeling slowly, the words of the doctors just stopping short of the layer of gauze and bandages. An astronaut hanging in space at the end of a cord, I heard the term “Brain Injury”. I heard about my brain stem; how I was beaten and kicked. None of it made sense. What was this name that they kept repeating?
In movies the coma is fulgurous and picturesque – as if the mind in this state is forever remembering. Skeletons peek, old lovers beckon from the hallway, long dead friends remind you of promises as people crowd your bed, their hands together in prayer (even the atheists). Movies treat comas like long naps. The movie coma is an ocean of memories; a long list of I should haves and I could haves. I’ve read about near death experiences in Readers Digest. They weren’t even close. My own near death experience was pitch black. I was an unperson – matter reacting imperspicuously to the wave of medications sent to various places in my body. And when I did open my eyes I went from dead to half dead.  But on the screen they come out of comas as though they’re awakening in an exotic time zone.
I opened my eyes – a bit, a fraction of a centimeter, hardly at all – eight days into my hospitalization, but wasn’t aware of the people around me for more than a month. Minimally conscious. Someone began aiming a flashlight into the crusty slits to check for a response and put saline drops in that kept them from getting dry. My mother talked to me, she touched my face, she brought my stereo in and blasted music. She played cds of the different groups that I had performed with; she invited my friends and encouraged them to talk to me as well. Anything she could. And she kept her own journal of the early part of my hospitalization, just after I technically “awoke”. She maintained a daytime vigil, put her job on hold and told her bosses that she’d be back whenever it was possible. Mum worked as a medical transcriptionist. Her employers understood how serious my case was. She didn’t know when or even if I would be all right, but that didn’t stop her from showing up every morning and leaving only to go home, make dinner for my stepfather and get a bit of rest. A legal pad was on a table next to where I lay, semiconscious, but usually consigned to the arms of Morpheus. Though she encouraged my visitors to write in it, nearly all of the entries were hers.

Copyright 2008 Jason Thornberry

Contact Jason Thornberry: myspace // facebook

Samantha Ashli

Back for round two... I sit, watching you-tube provide a nesting place for disturbing behavior...one in peticular: a group of "adult men" have taught a five or six year old boy words like "stupid jew, fuck, and niggar" so, for your viewing pleasure, while they poke him with a long pole, he screams the hateful verbage without a clue as to what it means, simply imitating the only human interaction he knows. Maybe you've seen it...if you haven't, indulge. It's free, It's available from the comfort of your own home, or I can leave you a message on Myspace, Facebook or Twitter, you'll recieve the message through your Iphone, and immediately hit up the Safari to access...you can readily view our "freedom of mass media" from anywhere in the world, for a fee of course.

There will be a fee to activate the service of your iphone, a fee to access the internet, a one time fee for the download, a fee for looking at the content, a fee to stop looking at the content, and a long automated system before you can dispute any of those charges...but we're all willing to pay right?

I am disgusted, but not upset with the United States government. I think it's about time we asked ourselves who's fault is it really? Can we keep blaming the government, pushing all the guilt towards federally funded nouns?

I don't think so.

I do, however, ponder if it is even remotely plausible that I would ever bring another being into this existence, is it even humane that we still breed?

I interact daily with media violence, but to spank our children constitutes for a government agency to come knocking at the door with a word from a "witness" who happens to be your next-door-neighbor, you remember, the one that wanted to borrow the grill last August but it was in the back of the garage, and you just didn't feel like pulling it out...yeah. that one. No worries though, spanking won't be necessary after his third grade teacher determines he has ADHD and recommends he see a doctor. Timmy has been acting up alot lately, and with those long hours we all work it's getting harder and harder to tell if it's "normal".

Dr. Smith thinks it would be best if they run some tests, so the appointment is made (for a fee) but the clinic is reputable. Timmy is taken into a room. He will be asked a series of questions, but you aren't allowed. The results could be forfeited if you are present, so for an hour you wait.

Precious life clicking away, because your child has trouble concentrating on math on seventy degree days, or doesn't have the appropriate human interaction skills since he spends most afternoons alone at home, while you work those extra hours to pay for the cable, or maybe the third grade teacher was a "C" student in college, and doesn't have the capacity to communicate decimals, fractions, or division with the class, so your son wonders off as she stammers around for hours at a time.

ADHD medicine permanently alters the function of the human brain. The research needed to make this life-changing decision is underestimated, and unknown by most in our society. We know Susan's children take the medicine, and matter of fact, so does Brian from work, didn't they show something on CNN about ADHD medication and its widespread usage? Life is life I suppose, so at the end of the day you can pick up his prescription at your local Wal-Mart, or maybe you'd like it shipped to your home. Timmy's original personality substituted with a daily pill, he continues taking his medicine until he is fourteen or so, and then he can start selling it to his friends or maybe the neighbor to pay for the cable.

I am not willing to be a part of the vicious cycle of that meaningless life. To reproduce knowing that the only means of survival in modern American culture is for the ability to buy some endorsed version of basic nutrition or shelter. I am not about to accomodate conglomerate corporations exploiting a universal symbol of peace, and making millions of dollars MONTHLY, who feel that they have no need to ever lift a finger to help solve world issues...don't believe it? Try to buy something without a peace sign marking.

You are the consumer, YOU have the power. If you refuse to pay the fee, then the company has no power to charge it. If you refuse to watch the gore, the company has no power to broadcast. Stop pulling out your wallet to sponsor corporate bullshit, and there will be none. We are by choice, uneducated, dispassionate, impervious, unemotional, soulless drones...until we realize that, we can continue to charge carelessly into our graves one wholesale item at a time.

+++++++++++++

Story #1: I like to think that I was aborted from the seventies into the nineties. I am a forty year old lady, about to be divorced, fortunate enough to get stuck in a twenty year old body. My relationship was working out great when it was a constant trainwreck of drug use, backed by poverty, and fueled by teenage drama. My spouse has now joined the ranks of Uncle Sam, and we moved from the midwest to Cali, everything fell apart almost as soon as we hit the state line. I would someday like to claim more education, because as it stands I hate our society, our disgusting culture and our corrupt government. Not to mention the bullshit of daily activity which generally constitutes for a decent looking dead end job, allowing you enough money to demand middle class. That way, when you can get home, you can flip off your shoes and flop down onto your $400 IKEA couch to watch your 780 channels of digital, surround sound, xxL, flat screen, touch screen, LCD TV. Channels romanticizing murder, preaching gore and purging descriptive violence until you are perfectly desensitized, all the while consuming blinding amounts of precooked, prefrozen, microwaveable, saturated fat.

People think if we buy everything in the Sears Catalog our lives will be complete, and then wonder why we wake up every morning taking two Tylenol and heading off to another day at a job we hate. Families make a decent living but don't feel adequate because we all know how they need to keep up with their kids classmates, the neighbor, and everyone else in this numbing game of who's who. These people really do find happiness in tangible items instead of actually experiencing life...just knowing that at home their "stuff" patiently awaits their return is enough to get them through another brainless day. When their kids throw fits on Christmas because they didn't get what they wanted, instead of putting them in place, they feel inadequate. These are the people completely bound by societies standards of life. Afraid to spend time living for what they might miss out on buying. Mindlessly following the media's provoking sarcasm. While fanatics explain what God would want, by hanging obnoxious images of half-aborted fetuses out of clinics. Screaming to 12 year old girls about God's plan for them to abandon their dreams and help overpopulate the country with a child who will grow up disillusioned, unwanted, nonessential, beaten, sold for organs, or deformed forever, because the 'parents' were only teenagers and still experimenting with 'how-addicting-do-you-really-think-meth-is?' type of substances...Organized Religion as a whole disgusts me. 

THINK FOR YOURSELVES YOU SHEEP!
We are a sick culture, our generation has the flu. We aren't getting better... we are just learning to destroy things faster, and I firmly believe before the end of my lifetime we will begin to tear at the seams of our preservation, thread by thread we will rip apart the only place we have to inhabit, and we will kill each other in the unending search for merciless power.

So much for love. 
Bring on the violence!

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