Pop-Chromatica EP. 3, My Neiborhood

The Skräuss loves his Neiborhood. Join him as he explores a few things.

Liquor, poetry, vacancy!

Pop-Chromatica, #3

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Neck Fat

Some guys have really fat necks.  Below is a fat neck, though not the fattest neck that I’ve seen.  How the human body decides to store unsightly fat is a mystery to me.IMG_20170606_175805272-1

 

I have the unfortunate advantage of a hyper thin frame and flesh.  This means that my neck is the width of the proverbial pencil.  When I call a guy pencil-neck I have three fingers pointing back at me, and together they equal the width of my neck.  I’m what they call, “skinny.”  You think that’s good?  You think that’s some kind of super power?  I have a news flash: It ain’t.  It’s the opposite; a super-disempower.  I tried to get a job as a mover and the guy behind the desk eyed me and said, “Him?  He ain’t got nothing!”

People love to ridicule me, tell me how skinny I am.  My own mother, every time she sees me tells me how I’m losing weight.  I walk into a room and everyone suddenly feels self conscious of their neck fat, arm jiggles, and Milwaukee goiters (hypertrophied bellies resulting from beer over-consumption).  It’s my fault so they insist on using the worst  term for my body as if I love it: skinny.

Skinny means, no power, no strength, no girls.  It’s a curse, I tell you!

Last summer a middle school girl yelled out the bus window, “I wish I was as skinny as you!”

Women want my body.

Do I need to say anything else?  Wait…yes I do.  After a quick glance at the above sentence I see that it gives the wrong impression.  Women want to live inside my body, wear it like a coat, a bizarre and macabre furless coat.  They do NOT want to own it as a toy.  They do not want to touch it, pet it, or embrace it.  I once had a promiscuous knock-out refuse to date me because I was too thin. “I would feel like less of a woman,” she told me, meaning: too fat.  So she walked away and immediately shacked up with a short pudgy character with a micro-penis.

It’s so true, I’m crying.

Neck fat.

You don’t understand what this narrow body of mine means. It means that when the stool his the fan and all tech fails and we’re reduced to 19th century farming because grocery stores have stopped working; I will be dead. I will die of starvation long before any of us get or acts together enough to produce did again. And as I lay dying, my body aggressivity devouring itself, I will do so in ill-fitting shirts and high-water pants.

Now that I’m walking through the foyer of middle age I’m loosing the thin body that has held me back for so long; I’m getting fat, but there’s no hope in this. Unfortunately, I’m not getting fat anywhere good: pecks, thighs, biceps, Milwaukee goiter.  No, I’m getting fat over (under) my perineum, if you want to know the gory details, and you didn’t, but now do.  I can feel my urethra falling asleep when I sit in hard chairs.  I shift over, tilting onto one or the other buttock to alleviate pressure.  It’s an unnatural way to sit.  “Hey, wake up buddy, keep the lines flowing!” I have to give it a pep talk.

Fat neck.  I’m relieved that at least I don’t have one of those.  Though if I did I could probably get shirts that fit.  Made in America! 

Out of Dodge, Into Activation

Cavedwellers,

When they fired me I quit.  I waved my middle finger in their eye and I said “Thanks work-job that I hated.  I’ll take it from here, and I did.  Now I’m self employed, have a manager, am painting regularly, producing work, and getting acting gigs.  Sounds great, doesn’t it?  All I had to do was say, “Never again, Consensus “Reality!” Reading “Valis” immediately following “Cosmic Trigger” may have influenced my decision.  Or maybe I just couldn’t take the boredom and condescension anymore.  Or maybe whenever I asked for help, people asked me,”Want do you want to do?” What I wanted to do was not have a job.

I want to never be strapped to someone else’s timetable of busywork.  I want to travel, fill in my debts, write, make videos and things (like my giant cardboard Millennium Falcon, made of recycled materials;

Model Millennium Falcon made of cardboard
Millennium Falcon waits for the bus
Model cardboard millennium falcon
Here it is on the studio floor
Cardboard Model of the millennium falcon on top of dumpster
Disposing of the Millennium Falcon the only appropriate way

or the comics that I keep starting and then procrastinating). I want to perform, make people laugh, and speak extemporaneously before large groups of people.  I want to explore the cosmos as a, don’t snigger, as a psychonaut,

Drawing of the Skräuss with a crown, eye in a triangle and 7 rayed Star
I fancy myself a magician, though really I’ve only achieved a few synchronicities that defy interpretation.

like Doctor Strange or King Mob.  I want to make T.V.-art like a talkshow, like a space show, like shows with puppets.  I have a script in the procrastination file about a special gorrilla suit and a hotel.  I have an idea for a Doctor Who fan film.  I want to do these creative endeavours.

I then look at the people that I have gone to for help and ideas of what I should apply for and say, “Nothing.  I don’t want to do anything.”  I have no idea what avenue to step down that will lead my feet to the paved visions of magic and creativity.  “I like people…” I offer tentatively.

“You keep saying that, but we’re not buying it,” one employment group said to me.  That was the last brick in my face that I will ever take.  I went home and just painted.  I’m done trying to appease these people.  I’m beginning to appease myself with the discipline of self employment, and it’s very rewarding.

A local podcast called me and offered me a paid position. A local talent agency called me and asked me to audition for a role called, “Indiana Jones Lookalike”, which is 1000% better than actually auditioning for Indiana Jones. I didn’t get the lookalike, but that’s fine, the next day I landed a role as an art professor.

And last night a knockout scientist delivered an answer to me (two days after shoaling a handful of sigils asking the question “what is my schtick?” That is: what is my message, my voice?) She told me that I should interview people because I’m good at drawing out people’s stories.  Ha! Purpose!  I’m still waiting to figure out the money part to begin flowing in, but I’m launching, Exponential Growth is occuring, it’s only a matter of time.

Sounds broke, don’t it?  “wait a minute,” you ask, “I thought it was coming up daisies not pushing up daisies.  You sound impoverished.”  In response I fix you with a steely eye and stiffen my back with a bit of the Wooster vigor and I quote, “Don’t curse a day of small beginnings.”   I don’t earn much, but I am eating and paying my bills.  I’m still just realigning.  I’m still only recalibrating, and so far the test drives look very promising, everything that I need comes to me.  When I finally get the hotrod out on the highway, look out Bonnaville Salt Flats drivers, The Millennium Chromatica is blowing past you.
You should join me Cavedweller. Let me know how your own jump to hyperspace progresses.