these professions of what each of us will never do, are never willing to do, always end up doing, have me baffled at how we could even expect time to accept us into its pattern anymore with how much we disregard its emperical laws.

i want to say that we are both right, but that’s never a proper solution, is it? so, one of us give in. spirits crushed and piled up next to the cans of discarded beers and joints. until the morning after, getting into the car, the headlight’s still out, the gash on the driver’s side door like a faux sticker you’d buy for looks at walmart. except this one isn’t for looks. and the car actually starts. the crushed cans and joints and arguments don’t matter. for now.

you say, “i love you, babe.”

and i say, “i love you, too.”

our daughter, with a smile on her face, dancing in her tiny seat to the engine firing on only three pistons.

and the jalopy actually shifts into drive, leaving the headlight for another day.

The thing about your daughter isn’t that you have to change her diapers, or deal with her stubborness, the rejection of a kiss, the constant fear that she’ll finally get a good punch into the plasma tv and kill it for good, it’s not the melodrama, nor is it that she’ll inevitably have to leave you for better men. It’s that she’s going to see you fuck up, break hearts, and cause tears. And that she’ll never forget. And that those memories will make a piece of who she is and how she loves.

Those were the words, capitalized in red ink on a ripped half of letter size paper. It now rests kissed between the wiper and windshield of a red Chevy Cavalier on Kamin Street, near the corner of Wendover Street, here in Pittsburgh.

I know. So, let me answer your first question: “Why would you write and then put that on someone’s mirror? Don’t tell me you’re one of those motherfuckers that polices motor vehicle activities in your community — like some awkward version of a Brian Posehn bit.”

On any other fine day, in any other state, I would never feel an emotional right to a slice of land, unless I had or was in the process of owning it. But, after living in Pittsburgh for two years, I’ve acquired their concept of public parking in a metropolitan neighborhood: chairs as placeholder.

“What of the consideration of other drivers, though?” you might add. First off, fuck’em, okay? Secondly, if there were no snow at all in the previous week, this blog post would not exist to’ve broken my how-long-has-it-been silence. Carly and I spent a, cumulative, 11 hours shoveling the car and 1/10th of the public road during four storms. Today, before leaving to drop Carly off at work, we placed — as we always do, since the snow — a vomit-yellow failure-at-60s-modern-chic chair in the vacant space. When I came back… there it was. I was crushed. I had spent 3 hours driving my friend to pick up her car from the shop, and Cora had been such a great girl the whole ride through a heavy-trafficed weekday evening, and some Chevy owner steals the space right in front of our building’s door.

“God, what a fucking Jew you are, though, Daniel! What with the complaining and all.” Let’s hold that, for a second, can we? Every juxtaposition is circumstantial, and context can change every outcome, right? I couldn’t agree with you more. Now, please sit your ass back down and finish that goddamned can of Sparks Plus, it’s starting to smell on your breath.

Look, if the street I’m writing of was laden with vacant spots not several yards away, again, this blog post would be moot. I would’ve sucked it up, parked in the one of those spots, and growled out of my 3-story window if I ever saw the motherfucker. However, this is not the case. As this is a tradition – nay! a guerilla law – many of the spots people shoveled out themselves are, as well, currently being held by chairs. What spaces are still open are covered with 4ft² slush mounds.

There is another, more romantic side to this story of mine, though. The vagueness of “chair” is seemingly infinite to Pittsburghers. Once, Carly thought a space was free, but as she backed up to a loud crunch, she discovered the space was, after all, being claimed… by a small laundry basket. Other placeholders seen have been carpeted cat scratchers, cabinet drawers, and even an installation sculpture consisting of a chinese newspaper and brown plastic bag hanging over a butt-less wooden chair (Beuys?). These are hard times, folks, a chair is, sometimes, not enough.

Whether red-Chevy-Cavalier is rejecting or, simply, unaware of the common law; they, nonetheless, had to stop their car, put it in park, get out, move the chair, get back into their car, and then park it. That, if I am correct, is considerable grounds for premeditation. So, dude, if you happen to google the note’s contents and are bored enough to read this post, I’d like to append a quote to that note:

“…there was the Other to be blamed for everything that went wrong, so that one did not feel truly responsible – if there was a temporary shortage of some goods, even if a storm caused great damage, it was ‘their’ fault.”

This year hasn’t been much different, so far. Carly was flu-stricken, first. Then I and Cora. We laid on Debbie’s (Carly’s mother) couches, covered in a myriad of blankets, shivering, taking turns running upstairs to vomit in the toilet, and calling a cacophony of coughs over ridiculous post-holiday TV programs like the marathons of NCIS and Pawn Stars. Our Maine to-do list was all but empty checkboxes. On the day before we had proposed to leave, we laid on the couches (the third day in a row) debating for hours whether we should/could leave the following day. We had yet to pack. Debbie’s house was an utter mess: Cora had managed to riddle the floors with popcorn, puffs, dried cranberries, toys, cooking utensils, ribbons, books, and dvds and vhs’. Carly and I still had tons of dishes piled in her sink, as well. We couldn’t leave without cleaning up. Another sleepless morning came and we were no better feeling. Trudging downstairs to set up for another day of blankets, couches, and mind-numbing marathons a sudden burst of energy had us packing all the bags, cleaning the floors, and doing the dishes. A quick breath came, and we managed to leave a slush rain Fairfield by noon.

We did learn something from this trip. One, we’re never traveling in winter — if we can help it — ever again, unless the final destination is a tropical location or the underworld. Two, reading aloud to each other during car drives and before bed is absolutely brilliant. After getting Bernard Bryson’s telling of Gilgamesh to read to Cora and realizing the content was too mature for her, Carly became hooked and we finished it in several nights;— to Carly whispering, half-asleep: “what a waste of life”. We are now reading Robert Jordan’s Eye of the World. (I am seventy-five pages from a wife willing to dress up with me for RenFest). Three, store-brand car parts are not worth the discount compared to brands like Bosch or STP. One realizes such a truth when driving through thick patches of snow and the months old Valucraft windshield wipers merely smear water across the glass causing a field of glowing blindness. Four, Bob Evans is the best rest stop one could take with a sore ass. That’s not really a new lesson for me, as a sister/friend of mine and I have been obsessed with Bob since high school. No matter, we now have a convert with Carly, Debbie, and Cora. And that leads me to the last lesson (and props): it is best to travel with a mother-in-law or mother, as they are the remedy for that 28lb beast in the back seat that will inevitably become bored with road vibration and begin to wail something the Sirens would be envious of.

Next trip: somewhere dry, hot, with a beach.

What if the 1996 single from It Was Written, “If I Ruled the World (Imagine That)” featuring Lauren Hill, was an actual model for a new utopian restructuring?

Title I. “Imagine going to court with no trial. Imagine law with no undercovers. Your people holding dough, no parole. / I’d open every cell in Attica, send ‘em to Africa.”
Details: Part A. Omerta defines this more aptly. In mobster crime era Italy, the state police had less power than private security enterprises. These sentences propose a similar structure. Each district would have the necessary private power to passively provide protective services only. To elaborate: no proactive interrogations or patrolling based on suspicion. In fact, patrolling would be disbanded all together for its aggressive nature. Part B. Describes the intention to release all prisoners and, metaphorically, send them to Africa – in other words, to educate them in a way in which they can live peacefully within normal society.

Title II. “Imagine smoking weed in the streets without cops harassing. If coke was cooked without the garbage we’d all have the top dollars. / Open they eyes to the lies history’s told foul. Political prisoner set free, stress free. No work release, purple M3′s, and jet skis.”
Detail: Part A. The state would have an open and legal drug system, broken down by county-controlled distributors who collect and deal for and through the city. These “spots” would be taxed, ultimately, by state jurisdiction, and therein the final profits would benefit the overall communities (similar to present-day state lottery). Each district/county would have different drugs as well as drug-classifications that would be distinct to that community. (For instance, a district with 85% geriatrics would require more palliative care prescriptions, while middle-aged suburbs would desire more marijuana and cocaine.) Because the state would control local distribution, top quality and cleanliness of narcotics would be insured. This weeds out independent distributors with illegal status and questionable goods, leading to a healthier – monetarily and physically – community. Part B. Though mixed with suggestions of riches for all, this statement actually proposes a change in foreign relations. The first part reiterates Title I Part B, but the latter suggests open foreign trade without levies or bulky taxation. This allows local markets competing with larger international ones a chance to thrive in a fair, yet chaotic and unpredictable, environment. (Referencing “M3″ – as in the BMW series – could also suggest, more elaborately, the removal of exclusivity contracts in place between auto import sales and parts manufacturing.)

Title III. “No welfare supporters more conscious of the way we raise our daughters. Days are shorter, nights are colder. / Designer clothes, lacing your click up with diamond vogues [rolls?]. Imagine everybody flashing, fashion.”
Detail: Part A. Quite simply, we can infer that (at the time of the writing of lyrics, at least) child alimony regulations were too tight for Nas. So, as a “solution”, the regulations for paid child alimony would be lightened and/or released. (This is also a wink to the previous post on the PIMP v. HOE class case. This can be a touchy subject, as some hoes employ children as cash machines tied to men-as-atms.) “Days are shorter” can refer to less work hours required to posit one as full-time;– for instance, lowering full-time hours from 8.5 to 3.5; and lunch breaks from .5 hour every 8 hours to 2 hours every 1 hour of work. As an abstract interpretation of the following “nights are colder”, this could suggest that the lack of working would ultimately result in depressed home atmospheres. Part B. This line is the Triborough Ice Tea alcoholic drink of verses, promising communist dispersal of luxury goods to all citizens. (Imagine a line in the dead of winter for collecting your all black Denalis, XL trim, set on 22s.)

Title IV. “Lost Tribe of Shabazz, free at last. / No rubbers, going raw”
Detail: Part A. This is less of a proposal, again, though a prophetic gist towards funding priorities. Nas may unwittingly be suggesting that science be at the forefront of GDP spending. According to muslim mythology, “The Tribe of Shabazz” refers to a group of people from 66 trillion years ago. Shabazz was a rogue scientist that blew up a lab, severing the moon from the Earth, and then led a bunch of black folks to the jungle to live a hardened life. Thus, why Africans are so buff and coarse-haired[?] (according to Malcom X). There is a part of this story that is nearly impossible to get any muslim to talk about. Most notably, that of Shabazz’s specific scientific concept(s) that caused him to be exiled from the other 13 tribes he was part of. If anyone knows the answer to this, I’d love to hear it. Part B. Why amalgamate these two lines? Because the second part of this title is a specification for scientific research. The introduction of higher government subsidies for the education and research of sexually transmitted diseases like AIDS, as well as the increase in subsidized birth control and abortion.

Title V. “I make Coretta Scott King mayor the cities and reverse fiends to willies”
Detail: Coretta Scott King was an amazing representative for the civil rights movement. Unfortunately, Mrs. King died in January 2006, almost ten years after the song was released. Therefore, Cornel West could be a replacement for the Head of Race & Gender Relations, though, without feminine command. From there, a positive image can be consumed by those in doubt of themselves, to bring themselves up from depression.

In conclusion, the idea that acquiring “all the chips, be[ing] poor or rich” invites others to not “want a nigga hav[e] shit” rings true even today. Proof to the case can be found, undoubtedly, within every rap/hip-hop single on the charts: “hater” (or some variation thereof). Of course, some of these references to haters are merely replies to comment hungry bloggers who don’t actually listen to music. So, despite having a socialist society steeped in utopian concepts of equilateral luxury riches, jealousy would still be a capital issue. And, it is my notion, that with Nas’ corrections in place, haters would be the “axis of evil” in that time.

he woke up to the tearing of steel speckled radials on asphalt somewhere far away beneath his feet. three hyrdoponic portabello-sized bullet holes made like paint on the two-inch thick polymer glass windows near his head. soft, crisp thuds hit the doors. what was an almost motionless ride that lulled him into a sleep filled with vague dreams too abstract to make any sense of now, awake, quickly became a rocking boat on troubled water. the custom job Escalade swam on the road; it’s shocks tirelessly absorbing the heaviness of its steel/carbon reinforced siding.

the glowing screen from the onboard diagnostics laptop set aglow the beads of sweat forming on the driver’s brow. soundless mouths. that’s all he saw through the glass panel separating the driver’s cockpit from the passenger’s cabin. the second driver, doing most of the yelling, pressing his whole self in what could only be words of little joy, reached under his seat and pulled out a flat black case. a thick, stubby gun appeared, and with a suddeness the victim of the stubby – a small, mexican-make car – bulged and exploded. it stopped, resting in its strips of flailing reds and oranges, and dust that it had kicked up from the road, shrinking slowly as the back window of the Escalade framed the wild, chaotic growth of an unending forest. then the ride was like before, when he fell asleep. the drivers were looking forward, peering through nothing but foliage and a faint road. the beads of sweat gone, the gun and case tucked away. in the silent cabin, the fatigue pulled at his body again, and he closed his eyes. a gradience of manufactured womens’ faces danced in watercolors multiplied on top of each other. their fragmented bodies jumping from beat to beat through the thick mesh of music.

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LeeVy took two minutes outside the bodega. he was counting. he always had to count with Roub. he tells LeeVy it’s in and out, but getting around the city is a bitch in the summer. the tracks get too wet, so the cars stay back; tunnels bogged by flooding. instead, they took bikes over braHklan bridge, through the makeshift tents covered so thick with exhaust dust that if LeeVy tapped on just one canvas roof a thick cloud would appear above it. the bridge and its braHklan side were for campers; those who chose teepees made from scavanged tarp, canvas, buckling plywood, orange splotched corrugated steal, and miles after miles of rope. who makes that much rope, anymore? biking through the tent town was like experiencing a kaliedescope of scenses and coming out the other end craving some roadside food. that’s why chEyena town was on the other side; ready to fill up stomachs with moo shu fake pork and the melt-apart toro.

Previously, it was the paintbrush and the back of a canvas (maybe a palette), that were quick identifiers of a self portrait. The self portrait collection of an artist showed their grasp of technique, as well as their ability to hide elements of their psyche and time into a single visual piece. But, a continuing phenomenon has always been the nude self portrait. Much different than a subject that was nude, painting yourself nude not only took hefty balls (pun slightly intended), but a certain sense of free hanging exhibitionism. With the invention of the shutter trigger (and then the timer) came hordes of self portraits by the talented and not-so-talented — especially all those college lesbian photographers who couldn’t resist photograph after photograph of pubic hair.

An example of talent, in this context, can be found in Jeff Wall’s “Picture For Woman”, 1979. Wall himself stands next to a woman who exudes sexual energy into the mirror and out to the viewer. Of course, in Wall’s own words, this piece wasn’t at all commentary on the bathroom self portrait, but a “remake” (i.e., modernization, remix, cover) of Manet’s “A Bar at the Folies-Bergere”, 1881-82. Nothing of this painting relates to the sexual side of self portraits besides the mirror exposing the woman’s backside. And Wall’s intentions were more along the lines of the interaction of two different objects, or dialectics in an educational atmosphere. So, a better, quick thought example of an artist’s self portrait and the sexual energy within it — not to mention themes of verility and the ability to withstand a hard-on for hours — can be found in Odd Nerdrum’s “Sef-portrait in Golden Cape”, 1998.

But, seriously, I digress from the original reason of this post. In today’s gossip column, thanks Diandra, another woman has claimed having an affair with Tiger Woods and she “supposedly” has proof (photos, texts, and a voicemail; including the exact number of instances of the aforementioned). One text reads: “Send me something very naughty…Go to the bathroom and take [a picture].” It can, too easily, be assumed that the original text could’ve read something like: “…Go to the bathroom and take one.” This implicit statement is felt common, and what visual sum it projects is equally so.

What, in the past, may have belonged to the talented few is now possible for anyone with a camera and a mirror (or, in some cases for those with a long arm reach, sans-mirror). In fact, it is these very limited number of resources that lead to the specificity and abundance of this phenomenon. Is it a personal creative expression or, rather, exhibitionism? Do I even need to pose that question? After all, as streakers can teach us, the purpose of genitals are, ultimately, to be exposed in an query-less, public manner. Well, that and sexual reproduction.