Words from a Man in Leather Kick Arse Together

For one to see the way that things are truly to be seen, one needs to alienate themselves from the everyday rough and tumble, the too a fro, the hither and thither. Human interaction, a stable diet and tinea free hot showers need to be nipped in the butt as a mere starting point. Then, once you feel the warm guiding hand of isolation and discomfort night-sticking you from behind will you truly feel the cookie crumbling around you. Step into your terrestrial moonsuit and walk freely amongst the raining, hard baked dough with a discerning eye as you feel the malevolent drizzle fall upon you like a wild bear on a peanut butter covered school boy. Take heed, dear drifter, let nature take its course and sense the mighty sting of the all powerful cosmos as it dishes out pre-pubescent smiting.

The art of writing is indeed akin to the quintessential ceramic reunion, you've got to want it, want to push yourself out there like a ready made stool, docked and ready for departure. Perhaps considered high dining in a literary sense, a man omnipotently riding his keys is more dangerous than a wronged German Shepard with a loaded shotgun and vengeance on its primitive canine mind. As I compose this thought provoking, one man, razor edged social-political commentary, I am indulging in my newest favourite, invisible-bowtie-wearing gentlemanly pursuit; swilling whiskey on ice in a bar with pen and paper at the ready. Of course, scattered artfully across the table are high brow literary classics with man glasses folded and perched adjacent to the mighty Art Directing Tumbler. Contemporary icing on the cake? Beard and Black Sabbath shirt combo, signifying the cutting-edge-new-age-cutting-edge. People glance, lingeringly, and deduce that I am some sort of Maverick Somebody, and they are indeed on the money. Like a bearded, street dwelling chameleon (currently sporting a two wheeler induced uneven gait), I adhere to the shadows (drinking whiskey on ice), absorbing the identity of all that upon which I pass.

See that dude walking past just now? He thinks he knows the score, the way lady luck dances, walking around like a llama with six legs with nothing to do. It's a shonky and ill conceived facade, a thin Choc Top like veneer of confidence that can't be survived without shoddy plastic sunglasses picked by his cheeseparing and donkey faced girlfriend and unnecessarily brittle, retarded, underpaid circus monkey laughter. Was that a dismissive sneer bearing towards me? Surely it was something more ambivalent than that if you are sauntering around as a grown man in that suburban Peter Pan outfit, bro? Remember, the longest and most pedestrian of journeys begins with one board short clad step, my dear unexceptional (and unbearded) friend. As a Writer-ion of fact-ion, I am acutely aware of other peoples faults, they slap me in the face like a flaccid and unwelcome Midnight Weiner Attack. And as to not be overwhelmed with other peoples accumulated averageness, I seek refuge in the mighty embrace of holier things; fictional big titted heroines, eye patch wearing space captains and whiskey on ice, then, and only then, do I feel the genesis of Universal Genius flow through me like an out of control rabid river of awesome.

I think that is something we can all drink to.