What's the Dealberg?! More Like Smashing Blumpkins

Yo it’s still not you’re boi but I’m unveiling a new alias. Everybody knows bad bunny well here comes bad bunty dranko. Real ones know and if you don’t i’ll be cold chillin with Jan, Brenda and Karl from AC, freakaziod style. Or did you forget that one speilberg? Animaniacs? More like tie america to the trainy tracks. Think you can force a bernie or hillary bid on the back of a fingerprints joke you dove crying purple shower drinking alien chaser. Speaking of Spielberg Studios, how many fresh minds are reacting with thc for the first time and asking their weird ass film student roomates if they ever heard of a show called pinky and the brain only to be told that a listicle once said pinky is actually the genius because of his hakuna matata’d non sequiters. Allow me to treat you like a monkey going into space you soap factory rejects. Pinky and the brain is an examination of the male condition. The quest for dominance between the longevity of the sculpted ego and myopic inconsistencies of our weak willed flesh sacks, especially the gun on the sack rack. Hence pinky… and the brain… I’ll refer you to chris browns pillow talking

Speaking of the location location location of the stains i leave at your mom’s house and things you shouldn’t dwell on perhaps this was what billy corrigan alluded to in the song “Bullet With Butterfly Wings”. Despite all my rage i am still taking over the world from a cage, narf. Forget sex. Forget money. Forget family planning. Wanna know why men are so stressed these days? We’re all freaking driving the skinner box for work! Literally a life threatening activity all day and all one can do is succeed at not dying. Come home and your safe but not for long! Tomorrow’s another frogger and you’re in a magic bullet as a ketchup packet hollow point. 

1995’s smashing pumpkins saw the unity of the arc of life as where speilberg studios saw the conflict between flying higher and resting upon laurels like dainty flowers 

or where 1996’s chuck palaniuck saw the split of life between a consistent narrative vs spontaneous moments of decision making. I am jack’s dissatisfaction at a metaphor suggesting something as violent as a bullet could satisfy the needs of something as dainty as butterfly wings. Meanwhile tyler points that bullet at raymond k hessel and fails to take into account ptsd and how hard it is to accomplish anything without a fricken drivers licence. Can’t even buy a pack of smokes to smooth out the shakes. Despite all my rage one must imagine the rat in the cage as happy or beautiful in retrospect. Or not. Much the same way one has revisited franz kafka’s metamorphosis to extole the body positivity that can be found in various real life pokemon. Passion pit returns to the notion of the frantic male psyche in the song moth’s wings. Unlike that NPR puff piece, Passion pit gives the source material a fair shake.

Let’s be honest folks this metamorphosis I’ve gone through ain’t pretty to watch, hear, and sure wasn’t fun to live through. A lot can be said about the interpretive nature of prose, poetry and whatever the hell my chemical romances black parade is considered but the focus of the internal disgust in metamorphosis goes beyond a physical appearance. We live in a world that can leave one bereft and devoid of any notion of safety and when that happens a shell appears out of seemingly thin air. Your mind becomes your only refuge and looking through that is akin to forever feeling like a cop knowing there’s more criminals in the line up than there are of you behind the one way glass. Simultaneously disgusted in yourself for needing the shell and ashamed that it wasn’t strong enough to protect you even as you suffocate within it. “If only he knew” doesn’t cut it in a situation like that. To pretend that a friend or lover could abra cadabra a label, mindset, or physical appearance to be applied as a salve to soothe the savage exoskeleton is to deny the very essence of what Kafka could have been examining which is all to often ignored in the land of the gimmi gimmi gimmi. How many of us have honestly reckoned with the thought of I hate what i have become… yet i must be? Cue edward norton in american history x or the gunman at the end of the film.

Given my druthers i would have kept my presence to myself, kept my nose to the grindstone, finished my back tattoo and gone back to med school. I’m willing to bet any of Jack the ripper’s victims would have prefered to turn another trick or two. As in those cases there’s very little information and what is known is shrouded in superstition. Unlike them and jerry garcia, i seem to keep truckin’ and until that sneed’s to feed and seed, i have to face the very real possibility mental illness has gotten the best of me. Good thing I got the license to ill and before you buy the farm for former benchwarmers to bengay their butthurt, do your best to remember the broken glass i leave everywhere john mclame. 

As I was saying. Moth’s wings. A treatise on two elderly men both swept into disillusionment by time. One tightens the grip on the reigns of wisdom and tradition, the other begs for release from the burden of growth. Alas… despite all the rage. The bullet was caged. And despite the experience that has come with age, the gossamer wings are now dusty, and flutter spastic and violently, like a vegan at peta rally. Hey what’s a vegan’s favorite thing to talk about? The one non-vegan food they eat and for what health reason. So even in the unity that was expressed on melancholy and the infinite sadness the diacotomy now exists between life experience. Infinite sadness indeed. How many songs have been written, wrestling with this same dilemma. “One Pure Thought” by Hot Chip, “Stay Lucky” by Gaslight Anthem, and even Usher’s “Confessions”. I am jack not what i wanted to be now that i recognize what i am.

Fluttering spastic and violently. For what separates and conflicts within me is the limitless potential of a life unencumbered by material means, and the sticky silk tying me to half forgotten friends slowly caccooning me from daring to replace their faces. Gone forever save long enough to steal a smile or return one to my face. To say this is suffering would be to miss the point. If the silk ties me to the dead… who intends to draiaiaiannnn…. Certainly doesn’t seem like the people circling it. Choking on carbon monoxide as the tires melt into the punishing asphalt. 

Before any hot headed ham user uses this as an excuse to raise a fist let me say if your a guy, it’s okay to cry, two minutes to let out, a lifetime otherwise. Oxytocin doesn’t always equal romance and no bro deserves to get in your pants just because they gave you a shoulder to cry on. Look up to your dad as much as you want but if you want the mamacitas leave the battlefield, board games, and pigskin behind because the ladies wanna see you shake what your momma gave ya. Don’t believe me, do a toss up of magic mike and adam sandlers longest yard, any lord of the rings, or black hawk down and i wouldn’t need Gregor Mendel to tell me which one of those movies is showing the dominate genes.  

Look at that American school system. There’s ways to approach men who don’t care about the sanctity of life without a gun to the back of their head. It even involved mice! You know what it didn’t involve though? Meth… and that’s why I choose not to abuse the color blue. You may worship a white devil but here’s one thing your pink heiny can be certain of. The only WW you need in the american media landscape is Walt Whitman. I guarantee a life with leaves of grass will be better than the crash when the feds raid your stash and lab you training day wannabe copper crimpers. Go clean your buddies garage before the cops get there and pass the savings along to the next rat who needs a lower cash bail. 

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