misty

Jouralistic melodrama over a renegade representative of late sixties drug culture.

bloodycandycane@aol.com — Sun, 02 Jun 2002 04:53:11 GMT

Hunter S. Thompson's "Fear & Loathing: On The Campaign Trail '72" would be incredible if I knew the interworkings of 1972 politics and policies. No wonder my uncle likes it...he told me about Hunter S. Thompson, and the reason I loved the first book he told me to get, "Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas," was incredible, since I have a far-off understanding of drug culture in the late sixties and early seventies. I need to call up my uncle again and see if he has any more Thompson books I could follow.
My journalism advisor assigned us this book report on something having to do with journalism...and since I can't follow this book, I'll have to make my oral about "Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas." It upsets me though, the race he was assigned to cover was hardly mentioned, and the reader loses sight of why he's there and think he's some junky in Vegas, not a renowned and infamous writer, a grim representative of the drug culture, the only one in Levis and a press badge at the same time. Oh well...she'll understand.

The one who carries the flag in war is the first to be shot down.

bloodycandycane@aol.com — Sun, 02 Jun 2002 04:53:03 GMT

No one dared to say what Ice Cube said in the 80s, man, now everyone thinks they're the shit but all these modern day fucks need to give credit! Ice Cube. Recognize.

Here is my real world resignation along with the required online survey for a live journal.

bloodycandycane@aol.com — Wed, 29 May 2002 05:49:36 GMT

Today I have officially been going out with Nina for one year! Haha to all the serpents, little things with no jawbones telling her that I would just hurt her anyway...wow...we had an amazing day...she looked really nice...feathers enveloped her jaw and met with her freshly dyed black hair...mmm...nina is good.

Today in English class she said to write something about your own eulogy...so I wrote about Misty afterlife style...it was a long flowy thought on a peice of paper so it's not really coherent but hey i think it reads kind of neat...

"Elvis' voice echoed off the walls of the Heartbreak Hotel Administration Room number Forty-Four, soft and soothing from the famous twitch lips and he asked the boy 'Misty, in retrospect, how was your life?'
'Well, Mr. Presley, I think it could have been an Oliver Stone film, with Matt Damon playing me...or maybe Jason Alexander, the short and stocky bald man who played "George" on Seinfeld.'
'Matt Damon in an Oliver Stone flick?'
'Well, yes, Mr. Presl-'
'Call me Elvis, please. Or, if you must, King.'
'Okay, King,' the boy went on, 'I was thinking it could be this big acclaimed media fiasco that turned out to make millions not because it was good no nononononoonono but because people were interested, curious to see how Mr. Damon would do in acid oranges and greens...'
'You'd never make it in Vegas. Take this slip and go down the hall. Then go down the hole to the place of love where lovers love to stay.' The boy, being a lover and all, proceeded.

The boy took a further trip down the hall, and random passerbys passed with their slips. The boy looked at his and it said to go to the bottom of a long long hole, a place of love where lovers love to stay.
'Hello, Mr. Morrison,' the boy approached the front desk.
'This is where lovers love to stay.'
'I know.'
'Do you want a stampie?'
'Yes please,' said the boy, as was necessary because if you went all the way down the hole to get a stampie and rejected one you not only have wasted your time (which counts, contrary to many people who think afterlife if timeless) but the time of King, or, as the boy called him, Mr. Presley in Administration Room number Forty-Four of the Heartbreak Hotel. 'Thank you, sir.'

On the boy went, and fell out of a rather lengthly window where there were chains and a big fiery dragon, who gobbled up the boy. The boy found himself in a lovely stomach, but not quite as lovely as to suit the name "a place of love where lovers love to stay," but don't get me wrong- it still was quite lovely. So the boy excused himself from the dragon tummy and walked on. He was tired now, especially with no portable CD player.

A ninaless, a teapartyless, a bookless Friday evening!

bloodycandycane@aol.com — Sat, 25 May 2002 05:51:47 GMT

Event? EVENT?! Nah, man. . .I know what you really want! Serial killers that rhyme!

There was wind when words of murder were spoken.
They were frustrated, but not broken.
First, sure, maybe there was jokes...
Then it grew to wanting to plan a hoax.
Red syrupy mixture on a realistic doll...
They could throw it down from the balcony at the local mall!
In a few more months, well into summer now
They would put on hoods, find some strangers, and fisties would go pow pow pow.
They were red, but only hurt. In fact, recovery came fast.
But they started craving something that the newspapers could grasp.

One day during a game of dominoes, I think by now it was Fall
They said no more pow pow for strangers, no more dolls.

More words.

A plan was born
They selected a fine face that they could adorn
Once the target was selected, then the scheming
Deep brown leaves fell from Autumn trees and the still lake was gleaming

It's hard to say how the talk of murder came 'round
Did they REALLY want someone bleeding on the ground?
See, what I think it was, was that as a musician thinks of
Fame in a celebrity position,
They see a guitar as a rocket ship to Planet Rolling Stone
Before a guitar is the only prized thing
That they own...

Not vice-versa.

Well, same thing here, just with guns and knives and the loss of lives.

No, they didn't want to kill nearly as much
As they wanted to be on TV, the radio, and such.
No, not influenced by music, nor movies, nor Oliver Stone
They loved the media and the sounds of a dying moan.

More words spoken.

On the edge of a still lake, there was a big house, pastel in color with all sorts of violet and pink.
It was abaondoned, full of crawling crittery creatures that go pitter patter...so it's not quite safe to blink.
Our two subjects movedi n there, so they could plot their vile violence undisturbed and quiet.
Everyone had forgotten about the House,
So they didn't have to buy it.

More words spoken.

While laying down their dominoes, they went over the plan again and again.
Up in their haunted Pastel Den
The first possible target was someone nobody really knew
So no one cared when he's pulled out form a lake stabbed, his face blue.
So of course they skipped that, there had to be an uproar.
That ruled out the junkies, the filth, the pimps, the whores,
Drug dealers, inner-city runaways and the like
So who is left? Who to strike?

There was one girl they both knew.
Who sat in turquoise fields when the high winds blew.
She was rich, daughter of inheretence
Was away for years, came back, and hadn't had a friend since
Sheltered in a way, but not overdone
She would become
The Lucky One.

More words spoken.

"The victim is chosen! We simply need a method!
The victim is chosen. We need a weapon."
As more dominoes dropped, the Boys couldn't grasp
That they'd be responsible for the victim's last.
So, as a result, they didn't really care of consequences.
Or, rather, think of them- they thought they had good chances.

Two years passed, eight seasons.
They had planned from every angle
And worked out Media Reasons.
They handwrote rough draft terror letters
Each one written with an inkdropped feather.
They had predicted every scenario,
And mapped their escape.
They would take no TV nor jewely nor sterio,
Nor commit sexual assault nor rape.
This would be murder.
This would be murder.
Nothing else.
No more words, no more feelings for her.
This would be murder.
No more days, no more nights.
After the murder.

Evening now.
Silence spoken.
Evening now,
Silence spoken.

They creeped up the front lawn, the second one went round back and hopped the fence
The first dodged security systems and avoided wilted flowers in the front yard that had lost their scent.
The First crawled up to a bedroom balcony and peered
Drew an occult symbol, and smeared.
The Second found a bathroom peering glass
Twenty feet above neatly trimmed grass
Their clocks ran in synch, and they entered at 2:45 AM.
The family slept soundly, so no need to worry about them.

They met in a main hall, and walked together softly down
Excited heads, anticipating a bloody, gory, red red evening gown.

No words spoken.

They came to her door and turned the knob...
Temples throbbed.
A cat hissed
But it didn't claw.
They heard sobs.

She was crying on her bed and looked up from her hands
The First had drawn a knife from the back of his pants
"Are you the ones that want me dead?
To make a name for yourselves, to put a price on your heads?"

Her cat jumped up on her lap and purred, curious.
The First and Second were furious
So much planning gone to waste
The fear of caught crept up, they were in a race

"My name is Jane
You try to be mysterious, but I know why you came.
You probably want to know why I'm speaking my name...
I'm guessing murder is a sensual thing, I'd like us to know each other
You can proceed, I promise I won't duck for cover
Or scream for my father, the police, or my mother."

"Why," spoke the first, "Do you invite us?"
"Stop!" snarled the second, "No time to discuss.
We planned for years, the events of this Moon Rise.

Silence.
No replies.

Everyone was puzzled, and unsure what to do
Their watches beeped, this was to be their cue
T get out, to leave
I twas too late to do the hack and make with the cleave

So they ran home, and went to sleep distressed
When One woke up, Two had confessed
It was all over the news and Time magazine
Reporters reported on a would-be murder scene.

Two had gotten the fame they sought
He didn't even have to fire a single shot.
But he left One alone.
Out of the picture, off of the Throne.

It wasn't fair, so One started planning.
Starting plotting, started scanning.

He would nto get away, Two would be broken

And so

More words were spoken.

________________________________________________

Isn't that more satisfying than my day?

Let's see..John Walker...the modern day Charles Manson..he did not fire at any American. He was a student of Islam when Mr. bin Laden approached him and asked Mr. Walker if he'd take up ams for the Taliban. He was involved in a battle or a few battles...ended up in a prison during an uprising when he was shot in the leg by an American CIA agent. Two of the agents sat him down and demanded answers with a video camera close by. When Mr. Walker spoke of his right to an attorney before speaking, it was disregarded...so then they took him to America...land of the free, home of the brave..where he awaits trial for treason.
Maybe I'm all wrong...but where was the treason? Asking for his American rights? Being involved in a prison uprising? Or was the treason executing his rights to freedom of religion? He was a student, moreover, an intern.
And another thing...if they stipped him of his rights in the Middle-East, why the trial? Why pretend to be good natured in home, but be pigs over seas?
All of this is just my understanding of the interview Mr. Walker gave CNN, by the way...

yumyum

bloodycandycane@aol.com — Tue, 21 May 2002 18:27:20 GMT

"Livejournal."

I'm having fun already!

blah blah blah blah, to pass the journalism hour

bloodycandycane@aol.com — Thu, 09 May 2002 19:21:24 GMT

All I ever see, all over this livejournal internet community, is a bunch of obscure, vague suburban kids ranting about how horrible their lives are, how angry they are at their father, and horrible one line poetry reading something like
"hate
hurt
sigh
sob
cry"

Has the world forgotten how good it feels to be happy, in love, truly enjoying themselves? Has cheap misogynous music gotten so stuck in their heads that they actually believe the horrible lives that have been sold to them for $17.99 at Tower Records? Has being "weird" or "outcasted" finally become a fashion statement?

On all the live journals I've seen (I would never speak for an ENTIRE community, just the ones I've seen around me) belonging to my high school peers, there's all these little boxes saying "YOU ARE MOST LIKE...THE OUTCASAT" or "YOU ARE LIKE THE COLOR...BLACK!" Ugh.

Get over it. Your French teacher does not hate you, and when you walk down the halls there are really no snickers, laughs, and scoffs you'd love to hear to play the Outsider role. The only sad part is that the Outsider role is such a big part of this production...I say we make a new production...maybe Wizard of Oz...