"A Cerebral Spirit Gasps" by Sam France

More school, so more "HAOJ" journalism. (Looks like this madness will be daily; keep you readers on your toes and inside words and harmony and head brilliance instead of outside in the warzone.) Ginseng root plus an empty room and Ima spill my guts for you guys, really. I'm going to work up some tears. This is good.

First off, I'd like to say that I think Rado's idea to post a shitty twenty-second clip of trashed footage of Maggie Anderson on a blog that nobody reads is a brilliant, courteous and honorary way of saying, "Sorry for completely nixing you out of a role, your hopes, your dreams and your gas money." I think that she will truly be uplifted and will truly give a fuck. And as for my cut scene -- it's not like we should put it on the DVD or anything, the footage only being my most hysterical, genius Golden and most importantly sexy shirtless performance since the bathtub implied-masturbation scene in Ryan Schwartz's UNDERAPPRECIATED Oak Park nightmare art film California Eddie.

Which leads us to Katherine Combs, whom Rado and the gang want to play Maggie's right-hand woman; yes, Katherine is a great actress and a "joy to work work" (suit pig talk) as I can vouch acting alongside her in Eddie, but the beauty of the character Rado wrote is in her mellowed-Maggie pop culture prowess which would be both sexy and funny coming from a female who looks like any average tween bop (Bailey, for example, filled in and read the part at the read-through and I thought she was fucking great,) but could easily be blackened/ruined by a chick who already is a pop culture vampire priestess such as Katherine who is dominant and towering (http://www.kanankids.com/.) Not to say that Katherine's text to Bryan wasn't both reassuring and Biblical in its epic-ness:
"I'm drunk and studying my part
I work in mysterious ways
I am not God
And therefore
will not fail you."

The only reason I could tolerate her playing the role is because of this magic. This is genius and beautiful. Fuck it, fuck it fuck it. Katherine Combs all the way. What a fucking magnificent person.

"There -- I have illustrated the contradiction I am famous for. Yes. I have sincerely just changed my mind 100 percent and completely gone against the argument I was making when I started this entry! (good?) It wasn't even on purpose and all the while it was so on purpose. Is this mental illness? Insanity? Simple-mindedness? Sanity?! When does it end? I just wanna take my prizes. (click.) I'm not a free-soul spirit shaker, i'm tellin' you -- I want what's mine, I'm greedy and mean, I swear. (You don't understand.) The book-movie life is not mine, (I never even liked castles,) my dad uses Xacto knives instead of scissors, I don't want your colors to be mine, and I never asked for this. Compartamentalize and all that, and John Garcia. (woosh.) And (he wrote such a great poem sophomore year, i loved it. it was about a guy from Michigan who just loses his kids and his money and stuff and just drives in this bumpy red car just 'a bumpin' along singing about his hardships. the picture was colored pencil and wobbly, real gone stuff you remember.) john raises his hand and everybody waits for the biting cold stuff he spills -- too cold and overcooked, but still scary and motivating. guy has green guts. he really pulls it off. I mean, everybody "pulls it off," right? We just do what we feel we need to do, and sometimes folks nod and sometimes they shake their heads and sometimes they do cartwheels but at the end of the day we all just want a full belly and a little bit of love. Fuck all you black-death hater-warriors. You have friends, so I know you know love. Smile, smile. Whenever I get a fever I smile and my headache lessens. Frown, frown. We are at war, our planet is dead, polluted destroyed massmedia burning plastic pornographic television-machines kill, kill, kill. THERE IS NO DOVE. THERE IS NO HARMONY; no music. What can we do but huddle around, cold? Is that shared misery -- people freezing and miserable tryin' to get warm with their bodies -- love? Or is the real love when you get up, stand up and play the french horn and/or trumpet through the madness? Or is it both? And does it matter? And if it does, why? And if not, why not? And if so, why not not?"

*France then takes a humble drag off his cigarette, sips his black coffee and closes eyes and folds his arms. His self-consciousness is obvious, (he is looking for something -- trying -- trying to get comfortable --) and his friendliness with me has faded noticably since I first began the interview.*

CONT.: "We all know who's set up for failure and who's not. Let's be real. We all know they just pump out proportionate SAT scores in accordance to our GPAs, that you Box motherfuckers write like illiterate backwoods creature-freaks when it's not for an essay and a nice lil' red-stamped "yes!" and a finger in hole, that the deep groan and hatred down in your Soul is real and will serve as your Family Entertainment one day, that it's all about getting your sick pink cocks wet, that nobody reads your college essays, that the men in suits in the white office bulbs already know your social security number and the whole culture is filed. We all know you ASB motherfuckers are glory-holed cocksucking cultist pricks, cliqued-up barbeque useless nothings with an heir of purpose and you know it too -- but you keep it up 'cause it kinda feels nice. Well, I'll say it now -- fuck Mr. Stephens, fuck AHS, fuck ASB, fuck Mr. Misel, God Save Kyle Baker, fuck teachers who repeat their schpeels and mechanical jokes for each class and don't listen, fuck CA standards and the limitations set on learning, fuck multiple choice tests and memorization vs. knowledge and discussion, fuck robots, fuck not having a corpus callosum (4.5 monglers who sip,) fuck anybody who "hated" Corpus Callosum, fuck E. Kuper and arrogance in generel, fuck the Big Scene, fuck Christmas cards that show the family decked-out in their college gear as if those two-colored boring cursive thread Nothing stands for something Greater than just a building which you hung out at for four years, fuck the radio, fuck these weird princesses that churn out shit and infect our newspapers, fuck the news stations not documenting the WAR, fuck anybody down with murder, fuck assumptions and Senora Wallace and the eraser burns, fuck all you fake Peter Pans, fuck you little pirates who memorize the phrases and crumble in conversation when I bend yo mind, Smash Yo Scene, fuck all you lost bro-ho furry SWAT freckle drunk sluts I pray for your tired lives, fuck the bullshit movies that you pigs are pumping wide-eyed children who don't know any better like sister full of, fuck all these fantasy books with talking bears and bows and arrows and shit Bring Us Literature, fuck tired hick racist bullshit I Want J.F.K., fuck blind faith, fuck people who despise religion, fuck people who vote in accordance to financial benefit and justify it by becoming a Right-Wing religious zealot propheteer, fuck illiterate assholes, fuck the soldiers out there doing the first-hand murder, fuck the bumper-sticker monsters supporting these folks, fuck day care and working parents who aren't home, fuck false Disney divorced families in their little newww-age Modern systems that make broken homes seem normal, fuck psychologists who raise their eyebrows, fuck walkers who bow their heads and don't say "hi" back, fuck gossippy bullshit, fuck anybody who blames a child for anything, fuck the sore losers and the fat winners, fuck the government, fuck money and fuck the Material World."

r.i.p.