Moving from one end to the next.

Its time for sleep.

I fell through again.....

The weather people said that it is suppose to snow tomorrow and the following day. Well, they saints won, so why the hell not, right? anyway. i was driving down Spanish trail today and saw 2 guys walking south on the blvd. they were homeless obviously. but their expressions are what made me stop in my wake and take notice to the stagger as to which both of them possessed. The side to side, shoes to small or to big, to wear so the feet are not properly secured. i wanted to pull over and scream at them, "why the fuck did you let this happen to you, you stupid fucks!" but you don't what happened to these guys in the theirs lives to make them have to succumb to living this life style. horrible things i would predict. but, some i am sure is by choice. i knew a couple of gutter punks a few years back. i met them in new Orleans. my age, 3 of them, squatted in an old building in the warehouse district. really cool kids. last i heard, 2 of them were dead now. after hurricane Katrina drugs were pretty much at your local dollar store. anything and everything became accessible for a while. they bite the big on and wrapped their limbs around some major dope and gave into its love. so horrible. sig, the other guy left. hes some where now in Washington last i heard. dry out. oh well, its amazing how somethings make you remember other things you have forgotten about. how terrible of me to forget those guys. i will never forget again.

Lynda Carter this evening in Hard Rock Live

and i am stuck between what i think was once press board and Chinese drywall. passing out tickets the mass geriatric boca raton snow birds while my mind is miles and miles away from the red marble counters that scream, "bleed for us, we will give you comps!" right? hhmm...



It does not bother me that bad mind you, i would rather be outside in rain and cold chain smoking and bitching about the world like rest of the casino drones that slave away for the almighty slot machine gods. I am being dragged however to a Mardi Gras Ball this evening. Multitude of old and stupid people mopping themselves around a dance floor while the bellies are full on jello shots and the ever lingering stink of Bourbon and Crown Royale. blech. I will be in a mask and hoarding off on my corner of the table so i can people watch. Makes for a waste of an evening but i get the job done. Well.....merry we meet, merry we part right? catch you up later. Brian

did you forget....i didn't.

Jeffrey Scott Buckley (November 17, 1966 – May 29, 1997), raised as Scotty Moorhead,^[1] was an American singer-songwriter and guitarist. He was the son of Tim Buckley, also a musician. After a decade as guitarist-for-hire in Los Angeles, Buckley gained popularity in the early 1990s by playing cover songs at venues in Manhattan's East Village, such as Sin-é, gradually focusing more on his own material. After rebuffing much interest from record labels^[2] and his father's manager Herb Cohen^[3], he signed with Columbia, recruited a band, and recorded what would be his only studio album, Grace.

Over the following two years, the band toured widely to promote the album, including concerts in the U.S., Europe, Japan and Australia. In 1996, they stopped touring^[4] and in 1997 moved to Memphis, Tennessee, to experiment with new material for a second album, recording many four-track demos and completing his third recording session for his new album with his band, with Tom Verlaine as producer. While awaiting the arrival of his band from New York, he drowned during an evening swim in the Wolf River. His body was found on June 4, 1997.^[5]

Since his death, there have been many posthumous releases of his material, including a collection of four-track demos and studio recordings for his unfinished second album My Sweetheart the Drunk and expansions of debut album Grace and his Live at Sin-é EP. Chart success also came posthumously; with Leonard Cohen's song, "Hallelujah" he attained his first #1 on Billboard's Hot Digital Songs in March 2008 and reached #2 in the UK Singles Chart at Christmas 2008. Buckley and his work remain popular^[6] and are regularly featured in 'greatest' lists in the music press.

Amanda Palmer and Zombie......just kill me...please....i'm numb......

Knock-down refutations are rare in philosophy, and unambiguous self-refutations are even rarer, for obvious reasons, but sometimes we get lucky. Sometimes philosophers clutch an insupportable hypothesis to their bosoms and run headlong over the cliff edge. Then, like cartoon characters, they hang there in mid-air, until they notice what they have done and gravity takes over. Just such a boon is the philosophers' concept of a zombie, a strangely attractive notion that sums up, in one leaden lump, almost everything that I think is wrong with current thinking about consciousness. Philosophers ought to have dropped the zombie like a hot potato, but since they persist in their embrace, this gives me a golden opportunity to focus attention on the most seductive error in current thinking.

Todd Moody's essay on zombies, and Owen Flanagan and Thomas Polger's commentary on it, vividly illustrate a point I have made before, but now want to drive home: when philosophers claim the zombies are conceivable, they invariably underestimate the task of conception (or imagination), and end up imagining something that violates their own definition. This conceals from them the fact that the philosophical concept of a zombie is sillier than they have noticed. Or to put the same point positively, the fact that they take zombies seriously can be used to show just how easy it is to underestimate the power of the "behaviorism" they oppose. Again and again in Moody's essay, he imagines scenarios to which he is not entitled. If, ex hypothesis, zombies are behaviorally indistinguishable from us normal folk, then they are really behaviorally indistinguishable! They say just what we say, they understand what they say (or, not to beg any questions, they understands what they say), they believes what we believe, right down to having beliefs that perfectly mirror all our beliefs about inverted spectra, "qualia," and every other possible topic of human reflection and conversation. Flanagan and Polger point out several of Moody's imaginative lapses on these matters in careful detail, so I needn't belabor them. In any case, they follow trivially from the philosophical concept of a zombie.

Flanagan and Polger also fall in the very same trap, however. For instance, they say it is "highly unlikely--implausible to the extreme--that mentalistic vocabulary would evolve among Moody's zombies. But is it metaphysically, logically, or nominally impossible? No." Here getting it half right is getting it all wrong. It is not at all unlikely or implausible that mentalists vocabulary would evolve among zombies. That must be conceded as part of the concession that zombies are "behavioral" twins of conscious beings; if it is likely that we conscious folks would develop mentalists vocabulary, then it must be exactly as likely that zombies do. It is just such lapses as this one by Flanagan and Polger that feed the persistent mis-imagination of zombies and make them appear less preposterous than they are.

Maybe the jokes on you this time.......everyone will say that I'm a lire... everyday the swallowing gets tighter......

i'm exhausted, and yet......im not sleepy...agh, what ever

Twisted fingers and crooked glances. Neck sways to the left and jerks back to the right. Back straightens and the pops from muscles over bone going back into place. Stretching legs so far out that all toes ache. Ears sore from listening to all the bullshit the day had delivered. Silence is prayed for, but not Destin to happen until sleep. Rise. Walking so hard on tile flooring that the thuds could be heard from outside of the home. Neighbors glance in the general direction from the commotion of the hard stomps. The hallway or the living room? Hallway. Door handle still has paint on it from the idiots who were over paid and never did a fucking thing trying to restore this shell of a home from what the gulf waters did to it. Fuck he thought. I could have painted the damn door and not hit the handles with paint at least, I mean come on, I can’t draw a straight line and I could have done better. He turns the knob however and pushes himself through the way. Turning he sees’ the stack of CD’s that have been collecting dust and they only have been sitting here for about 3 days he says out loud. Digging, throwing, curling a lip at the thought of the what the hell he was thinking by purchasing that whiney bullshit. Jesus! UGH! Oh, I remember this, damn, this is crazy I have to play this! Clambering back up to his feet he bolts for the cd player in the living room and jams his fingers into the power button and all the other little black buttons that are now illuminated by the red and green light plastic cheap Christmas lights. The tray slides open and he takes the cd and starts vigorously rubbing it across his shirt to get the dust and smudges off the damn thing. Tosses the disk in and hit’s the tray for it to close. Play button, were is the fucking play button, ah, got it. Volume………..up up up up up!. Ok good, now what number was it? Shit, let me think……. First song starts, NO!, that’s not the one….damnit..umm, oh what is it 6 or 10? Whatever, lets just see. 10 it is. The first sound is the lead singer taking a fast deep breath and the anticipation is almost to much waiting for what is happen next. The deep scream and the band starts in to back him up. YES!!!! He turns the knob in hopes that God will somehow allow this stupid machine to surpass what the small Korean people who put this contraption together and put a limit on the sound, and will let him get it to a point that he can’t even hear his own thoughts. It hit a good pitch anyway. Grinning he starts singing along as loud as he wants because he knows it will drowned out by the music anyway……he hopes. The bass is hitting so hard you can feel the thuds on the cold tile floor below his feet like it did what was stomping on them earlier. Eyes are closed. Imagine what the rednecks next door are thinking? He burst into laughter. FUCKERS!!!! He screams. And laughs out loud again. Runs to the window and peeks out and sees just what he figured he would, 4 or 5 stupid rednecks standing around a truck staring back at the house that sounds like hells doors just threw themselves open and the hounds where prancing about. Again, bursting out in laughs he turns and screams with the music. The song is rearing to a end. He collapses to the floor and out stretches his arms and legs. Chest is heaving up and down from the sudden outburst of aggression. That was the last song on the disk. Silence once more. The only sound is his breathing slowing. Damn. I need a hobby………..