blarg

virtual nostalgia

He has 2 faces
Speaks Pinocchio
loves moon girls

Each day I learn
what kind of love-alien
I really am.

Ordinary Miracles

2Dear2

As you can see
that the poking
clown eat raw too
true Saros.
See if you put
something more meaningful
slobbering
yq jajaja

SET ME FREE

3:08

Was gonna to send u a

beat happening song but

it's called i love you and

thatz 2 cheezy so i didn't

send but listen 2 it and i

do love u

Kottonkandi

Disparate personalites unite.  Front seat driver, Lolita on Mill Street. There's a lotta things about me you don't know anything about, Dottie. Things you wouldn't understand. Gaygay.

Train-Poem

Metaphor

TYPES OF PAIN

STOMACH ACHE, n.
A churning pain, provoked by foods, moods, and weather-dependent disharmonies, hovering between the hips.

OH Those Aliens I Have Known

Ok. Today I will attempt to begin to address the looming question of What Is A Love Alien? My colleague Love Idiot might object to any qualifications I list here, for he is an alien of sometimes accidental pretensions. However, a big part of what makes him a true love alien is his own self -recognized naiveté – of which pretention is just one of many ingredients – his general confused attitude in the face of the pressing question of his own human identity. This is the thing. Human identity/Alien identity. How can the two be reconciled?




This conflict lies at the core of the survivalist, sometime juvenile but always true-blue, alien nature. Love aliens don’t know how to be mature or confident or bizarro or beautiful. They sometimes succeed and they often mess up – they are messy by nature (though they also often display visual/virtual neatness, usually in flurried attempts to stifle other manic bursts and tiny rages.)

Some of my best friends are aliens. Most of my favorite people. Actually, pretty much everyone I know and don’t know (yet).

My best friend Valentine, a classic case. Red nosed and twinkled eyed. Like a reindeer with mischief coming to a boil on the future-burner:




My dearly departed uncle Phil, of another beautiful breed entirely:



And so many more! Too many to count. Each full of oozing, lima green life force. Confused. Striking. Searching & Seeking & Searching. Living in fear! In doubt! Tying to digest the planet’s habits and rules of practicalities, riding the waves of emo-fluctuation, the swelling surf of hope and despair, shining crazy light all over the place.

Saturday

I sat on the back of my dads bike. I knew my rist was brokin. 
 I went home.  My dad askt if I fell like I will fenta

Boom boom boom boom

Numero Uno. (1 1 1 1 1)

Here we have Love Aliens on display: first the intelligent but innocent and excitable grinning poindexter angel introducing this "exciting new music-band" with a laugh and struggling with the pronunciation (as we all do) of Saturdayniilive, before explaining the reason for his poncho but not his sunglasses or where the sprinklers are or why nobody else is wearing a large clear-plastic poncho. His response to the tapping drumstick rock countdown (here exempting the clichéed 1-2-3-4), a subtley sexual and effeminate jerky fainting motion, doubles as his awkward exit, pulling a long microphone cable around instruments and into a closed TV set.

Singer-Alien was the inspiration for this post: fashion icon??  However, now partially her outfit and especially her hair - clean, pinned and possibly never cut - suggest a person who is most comfortable at home and close with her mother, while her punk-rock grimaces seem to only be a response to the braces on her teeth; constantly pursing her lips away from the sharp metal in a way most people with braces tend to.  The jarring element of her performance is the modulation in all qualities of her voice during the song's chorus ("I'm a janitor" or "Oh, my genitals"?), oddly reminiscent of R2D2 both sonically and in physical delivery, and her accustomed bandmates' lack of physical response.

The ultimate moment here is AFTER the performance, which grinning poindexter angel alien responds to in the same way some others respond to a bong hit.  Cool and collected ("here's Vex"), he cracks wise at the 2 2 2 kool guitar players. Vex, posing, finds himself unable to conjure words that could live up to his image; and just after guitarist 2 interjects that the song is a rag comes the money shot, at 3:12 exactly, we see the moment of terror and self-awareness when he realizes that he is not actually a carping hipster loudmouth bullying a poindexter, but an intelligent alien working and conversing with another intelligent love alien.