Archive for the life Category

The Scylla’s Blanket

Posted in adventure, books, fantasy, fiction, life, love, passage, poetry, relationships, story, travel, writing with tags , , , , , , on March 1, 2012 by tymora42

What a delightful day for a picnic!
The waves of Charbydis lapped against the beach
Helios had not yet set upon the Cliffside
And the song of Sirens played softly over the dune
Scylla laid in wait upon her blanket in the sand
for sailors, the most scrumptious of company,
To pass by her snare
She will reel them in like a fisherman
Entice them into her cavern with her sway
Posing all twelve of her long tall legs for the show and
Nibbling on appetizers of caviar and starfish

Fleets edge up to Beauty’s blanket
But only six men will be served
They would be wined and dined upon
A pound of meat; A bottle of red
“Oh, yes, dears, there is plenty enough to go around
Would you like some more?
You sure are a group of big strong lads.”
The conversation goes on like this
With the choral serenade still lingering in the distance
The calming waves churning along the shore
And Helios preparing for bed
Scylla smiles with all of her teeth
Then she cries
She wines like a babe about ceaseless desire
Here, they cry for her
She brings them close to her lips
They enter her and are consumed by her ways

The feast is done
The lambs were harvested on a bed of kelp
The ox were well seasoned with salt and brine
Beef and poultry and pig and man
All were taken down her gullet
With nary a crumb left for the ants
The men lay strewn about the den
From the ravenous ferocity of their hunger
In spent puddles along her floor
A little of them here
A little there
“Seconds?”
Gracious Host has the nerve to ask
“Dessert?”

“No, thank thee, m’lady.
But we must be on our way.”

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Pondering My Workd

Posted in bar, beer, blog, houston, life, rant, relationships on January 21, 2012 by tymora42

I lay here half drunk, the designated driver just got homemkimdamhalfmdrunk, drinking a beer in bed, beautiful woman passed out next to me, the its my birthday I can drink if I want to kinda drunk, and the whole world beckoned me to ponder it. So I did. Never do that. Or do it often. One of the two. Tonight we talked about limbs and conservationists and museum and art and running as oopposed to biking. Then the random shit started with people that claimed to throw up blood when faced with extreme emotion, a girl on a date with a cat psychic (like he knows,you have cats but doesn’t know the names variety), monkeys who won’t climb trees no matter how vast their dungeon, someone whose name may or not be James but prefers now to be called Jizz Hands for mysterious reasons and other of the like. I’ll have to tell her she snores in the am. Not every night. On her pre birthday birthday? Yes!

Here I am pondering the world – mostly harmless. Wikipedia shut down for a day. You could still get into a back door. I never saw it. I turned off the Internet. I typed “google” into Google and it broke. Instead I went door to door selling stock in myself. A couple of takers. They called me today to set up appointments.

One of the most ponder able moments was the dialogue about the Beatles lyric, “Oh, that magic feeling. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to go.” Each of us had a time when it applied. It always fit. Some were right outta college. Some were en media res. Each was a journey the other could never know. Nowhere to go. Magic!

We cursed people with cuss words in good fun. I would curse without cussing some other people in less fun later. Whatever. They are just jocks. They angered and frustrated me because I thought they did not like me, when, as it turns out, after I pissed all over the bed about it I realized that it was probably more that I did not really like them. We had no relation. They talked about running and beer and marathons and racing and winning shit like a Bostonian talking about baseball or a Boulderite and their diet. One dimensionals bother me. I want to know what they thought about politics or technology or the last movie they saw or a TV show they watch or even (gods forbid) how they feel about their job. I want a connection with people beyond the immediate easy road. If we met on the plane we can get the small talk stuff out of the way – this is a really big plane, do you fly often, is that your final destination, are you from there, where were you originally coming from, business or pleasure. Done. Now we can get into the really interesting stuff. I have had more connection with people on a city bus.

And my ponderance gives way to sleep as the final thoughts of teacher versus student accountability, Perry dropping out, whether “Food Stamp President” is truly racist or not, and the million stupid puns I can make about one eyed one horned flying SOPA / PIPA eaters.

Stay-At-Home Wife

Posted in blog, family, life, love, relationships with tags , , , , , , , on January 14, 2012 by tymora42

Here is a quick story. I will remain as unbiased as I can (try to that is) in the telling of it because the important part (for me) is your reaction to the characters involved. When you are done reading, please give a brief (or lengthy if it moves you) comment telling me what you thought about them. After enough comments I will offer my own response. Thanks. Here it goes:

          A man and a woman are dating. The woman tells the man she would like to be a stay-at-home wife until she becomes a stay-at-home mom. She makes it a condition for marriage. He agrees. They marry.

They both have jobs. He makes “alright” money. She makes a decent salary also. Together they are doing well. She loses her job. She tells him it is time to fulfill her marriage condition. She would like to be the stay-at-home wife now.

He tells her they cannot afford it yet. His salary alone will leave a married couple in meager circumstances. She tells him plainly that if he cannot provide for her, then she will leave him. He cannot. She divorces him.

What do you think?

Spirituality Behind the Ritual of the Traditional Bachelor Party

Posted in bar, beer, family, life, love, passage, religion, spirituality with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , on March 22, 2011 by tymora42
Purification Ritual by Jonas Lonborg (catinatree)

just so you know - we will not be doing this

My best friend is getting married. Being my best friend I have the opportunity to be none other than the best man. As the best man you are in charge of arranging the bachelor party, the sendoff of your friend into the new and exciting realm of matrimony. To perform this function correctly one must reflect on the spiritual aspect of the bachelor party, the debauchery, the objectification of women, the wild romp through the night before the union of two lovers. In our current politically correct society we must slough off the reins of morality to a point and carry on like the animals we are. Aside from the base pleasure orientation of the crusade, I propose there is a spiritual underlining to the ritual of the traditional bachelor party.

In the past I have been in four other wedding parties, this one will be the fifth. The very first I was a groomsman to the highschool buddy just graduating college to go off and have a life with a wife, who was also a mutual highschool friend. They hated each other in highschool. He asked her to prom and she declined because one night he dropped in the bushes next to the Sonic. Now, they have two children and a third on the way if it has not got here yet. My second wedding I had a shared best man duty with another guy. There was a bachelor party – sorta. More about this later. The marriage ended in a bitter divorce with affairs and distrust. The third was unmemorable. He was a good friend at the time. We lost contact. I was a simple groomsman that did not attend the night before sendoff. I think they played golf. I have no idea how they are today. The last wedding was my sister’s. Being the minister I took my role seriously and did not participate in the debauchery, which took place in New Orleans on Bourbon street so you can imagine there was some serious debauchery going on. They are still together.

The traditional bachelor party can wax and wane in structure, however, there is one key aspect that needs to be upheld: 1) The women and men must be separated on the night before the wedding. And this goes for ALL women and ALL men. Just because the groom is better friends with this girl he has known forever does not mean that she should come to the bachelor party. If they are really that good of friends the bride should invite her to the bachelorette. And this goes for the brother of the bride as well and that guy she has known forever. The typical modern pre marriage get together is the combination of both groups of bride and groom for one big blowout. That is what the wedding reception is for. Save it for the rehearsal dinner, split the parties on the night before. The bride and groom will be all mushy mushy the whole night and you do not get the chance to have a special moment with your buddy where you tell him how awesome she is and that he is making the right decision right before you send him and the stripper into the private room for a VIP lap dance. At my first bachelor party I watched the groom’s father, the guy who was always viewed as an authority figure through highschool when we were upstairs in his game room carefully trying not to mess the groomed fuzz on his pool table, slipping twenties into g-strings. This was the moment I started feeling like an adult. It passed.

Another bachelor party I attended did the whole strip club thing with one MAJOR exception. The groom was also friends with my girlfriend, who came with me because she was invited. Thanks pal. His marriage failed. Good. Maybe next time you will split the genders, dumbass.

Failed bachelor parties end in failed marriages. I have theories about this. The co-bestman wedding with the bitter divorce had one of those dinner at Chilis night before gatherings with both parties represented. Lame. Halfway through the night, myself and the rest of the groomsmen kidnap the guy out the back door to hit the town. One guy yelled, “Tittie Bar!” and we were off to our destination. None of us really cared to go, but it was traditional so we did. The groom lasted no more than ten minutes in the place before he paid the bouncer fifty bucks to throw him out. A half hour of searching later we figured out what happened. That pussy had already called a cab from the payphone outside to take him back home to his woman. They woke up together on the day of the wedding. If that was not bad luck, what is?

This anecdote brings up a few of my theories as to why that marriage did not work based on the failure of the bachelor party. Having the parties together hints on distrust, whether it is the bride distrusting the groom or the other way around. Distrustful people have either been burned really bad in the past or are not loyal people to begin with. Then there is the issue of distrusting yourself. Putting yourself into a lustful position with a potential and almost certain one night stand situation is a test of your fidelity. If you do not love her enough to resist that casual urge, much less do not trust yourself in that situation, what the hell are you doing marrying? Obviously your wild oats have not been successfully sown.

Then, there is the matter of going home to her and waking up together on the day of your wedding. You are roped. There is no out. Not that you would take it, but it needs to be presented for you to reject it. Get a hotel. Sleep alone. It may be the last chance you will get. A fundamental part of the bachelor party is for the groom to have that soul searching alone time where he accepts his future. Your brain has been so wrapped up in her and the catering and sending out invitations and getting a minister on top of normal life stuff like work and bills and keeping the house clean. You are stressed. You need a wild night of release where you can ask that one fatal question: Is the sacrifice of all of this worth her for the rest of my life? In a drunken stupor you sleep it off and answer yourself in the morning. Then you go get married.

This is what the whole shebang, the ritual of, the purpose for the bachelor party. This one question is what it is all about. The job of the best man is to be the devil, to throw temptation into the face of the groom to be. The rest of the attendees are minor demons assisting in bringing those temptations to the forefront. It is not because we do not want him to marry. Do you really think Satan, sent by God, really wanted Jesus to cross out of his circle of stones instead of dying on the cross? Hell no! He just wanted him to be confident he was doing the right thing.

remembering southmorehouse

Posted in band, bar, beer, blog, family, houston, life, love, music, passage, performance, review, southmorehouse, technology with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on December 12, 2010 by tymora42

southmorehouse logo

Tooling around on the social networks that will remain nameless I saw a post onto a friend, the poet / musician Aaron Trumm’s wall (this may be a better link to him) from a guy I knew back in the southmorehouse days, Alex Wukman, another poet that frequented the community. He commented from his mobile on watching Marie Brown, a Houston slam poet, performing at Inprint! , probably for slam nationals, and remarked how great she was. “When Ruby do hair, Ruby do hair right!” I can remember her starting the rhythm. Alex said he almost forgot how good it was. So did I.

southmorehouse was an avante garde art space, sometimes called a venue, sometimes a gallery, sometimes a commune. Overall it was a loose knit community of outsider artists in many genres. As quoted from a lighter bearing the logo that I pocketed one night, it was a “home for the functionally insane.” The best summary of its existence from beginning to end was written by Buffalo Sean’s Art Blog. Sean would know. In the early days he would pass out drunk on the sidewalk and we would spray paint a chalk outline around him. In the later days he would pass out drunk and we would spray paint a chalk outline around him. Although the location changed, the outlines remained. After 7 years Sean had spray paint outlines of his body all over the city.

I snooped around Alex’s profile not sure if I should send him a friend request. We knew each other. I remembered him. Self doubt crept in and asked if I really thought he remembered me when I saw a link on his favorite movies, “Southmore House: the Rise and Fall.” Edd McCoy, president of the community in the last of its days and art coordinator for the three years prior, told me of a rumor he heard that this was being created. We both thought it was pretty bold for any movie to be made about the venue without consulting either of us. Now that I saw the title “Rise and Fall” it was downright shocking.

After I got over the elation of somebody actually wanting to make a movie about this piece of time that played a major part in my life, I began to notice discrepancies that unsettled me. The first was the separation of “southmore” and “house.” The second was that they capitalized it. Not being much for capitals I tried my hardest to make the lower case clear to the people who made the flyers, but they were making flyers so i was happy enough about that. One thing that did come across eventually was the lack of separations. Evidently not to these guys.

The next, and the biggest, was the lack of the logo anywhere on the page. That logo was a branded symbol encompassing the spirit of the (dis)organization. One part anarchist’s circled A, another part the chaotic randomness within the order of pi, a house with a swooping roof and arched doorway like the original when it was on Southmore street, simple enough to be drawn quickly with a paint can, encouraged to be done on as many occasions as would arise, yet flamboyant enough to be penciled with care and stenciled over with a sharpie there was never a set graphic style to the logo. It was made for everyone to use. It was trademarked and copyright free. But I still never saw it anywhere on their profile page.

So, I looked harder and realized from the photos and videos and comments posted that these were all the kids from the post founder days. These were the attendees that took it over after 2005 when it turned its focus to the hardcore scene. One friend that I do keep in touch with must have seen the “Tyson Moore likes Southmore House: the Rise and Fall” post on my page and went to check it out while I was still perusing for the logo. He seconded the comment Alex made about not focusing just on the music. Alex mentioned the poets. Doug Shields, an event coordinator at southmore, really jump started the slam scene in Houston at the space. Another guy brought up the theatrical production of “The High Elves Christmas Play” hinting at the other stage presentation offered in the pre mid decade years. Rob, the aforementioned friend, said he had the best birthday of his life there. He had pictures to prove it. Was that the night when Organ Failure from Super Happy Funland played Robot Parade and Muff of Amish Acid Dealer knocked over the cabinet? We could not get the smell of vinegar and mustard out of the floors no matter how much Terry, Wendell, and Guido tried. Yes, in case you were wondering, that is what that smell was. Armpits, ass, and vinegar. Maybe a little corn syrup dried up and leftover from the Halloween Blood Bath party. The good ole days.

These memories made me seek out pictures, videos, blogs, whatever would show up in the first couple of google pages. This was problematic. The version of the house that will be remembered by people who do not read will be the latter years when it ended. In 2000 when it started we were on the edge of social technology. Digital camera were astronomically expensive. You can imagine how much streaming web cams cost. You were lucky if your cell phone had color much less the ability to take images or, god forbid, video. Facebook had not even been invented yet. The documentary had 400 friends. I can only imagine how many friends the actual place would have had. For better or worse we touched many lives. If you go to the place our website used to be, southmorehouse.com, somebody bought it up and is selling painting on it.

My next favorite summary was from Loop Scoop in a nostalgic look back on Houston in honor of their 200th post. “#83: the southmorehouse for being whatever it wanted it to be.”

So, I ask you who find this to tell me in the comments about your favorite show at southmorehouse. Make it as long as you want. Put it on your blog and provide a link for us. If you were involved in any way, put a link to yourself. Tell us what you did. Tell us what you are doing. Post those rare pictures and video. Especially the pre 2005 days.

Thanks to everyone who made up southmorehouse. You were the best.

The Whole Picture

Posted in computer, death, life, photography, technology with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on August 22, 2010 by tymora42

Funny thing about working with digital media compared to tactile media (is that the name for it?) is the ability for it to be irretrievably lost to the binary gods as opposed to simply plucking it from the waste paper basket, smoothing out the crumples, and recopying the important bits with a physical reference right at your side. The delete option only goes so far as to send it into oblivion. It is like scratching it out, drawing a single line through a bit of text, or smudging the pencil lines around with a rubber eraser. There is enough of a remnant still there to bring it back whole or in part with the undo function. Even sending it to the trash is completely salvageable unless you are an anal recycler like myself. It is soooo easy, though. Too easy. Even easier once you learn all the quick keys instead of dragging and dropping like the predigitites.

A laptop is like a portable desk hence, the name “desktop.” File folders are like the drawers with little subfolders inside of each. A computer is a well oiled machine in the department of organization. So, I was cleaning out my drawers the other day. they had become cluttered as they tend to do. I was going to clear the surfaces and give the silver mahogany surface of my Mac Powerbook a good shine. Somewhere along the way I would have probably found a new placemat backdrop for the screen from my photo albums. With 30 gig worth of photoshops and vacations and walking around town with my Christmas special Olympus Toughshots and whatnot from the last two or three years, I figured they were the first drawer to start the weeding out process. My music drawer was done at the end of spring after a hundred gig trade with a buddy down the street. My documents are regular enough given the tiny size needed for storing predominately text based items. The website content was not really anything I wished to tackle at that particular moment. The iPhoto library it was to be.

First, I scanned the contents and felt assured that a portion of those files were already stored in the closet. After plugging in my photo/music closet (external hard drive) I briefly looked at the shelves of years past, taking mental note what was and was not included among them. Remembering a mishap that always occurs during severe cleaning, all of my photos were duplicated and triplicated from the initial transfer to the external because of that rascally “import to iPhoto” command. Of course I hit “import the whole damn friggin library” and it took it as literal as computers will, importing everything from “originals” to “modified” to the thumbnail data. I was not about to do that all over again. I learned how to control+select and “open package contents” and pick and choose what should stay and what should go. Then it is all a matter of option+deleting from the iPhoto window.

In my finder window under the Pictures drawer I had a series of years from 2000-2007 above the iPhoto Library icon. They were of Disneyland, The Alice in Wonderland Frye’s in CA, the trip Zombie Spiderman took to Universal Studios, all stuff I had brought copies out of the closet and worked on previously, but never removed. One by one I previewed and compared to those stored in the closet. All there. All accounted for. All the same version. Option+Delete. Option+Delete. Straight to the trash. Well, I option+deleted one too many times. I might have even used the select then shift+select to grab a whole bunch to option+delete in one big go. Whatever it was I did not notice until holding the select button over the trashcan in my dock until the command window popped up and telling it to empty, which is the same as recycling to all of you PC users.

The little box that tells you what’s going on started configuring. It said 124, then 256, then 592, which is about where I thought it should have stopped but it didn’t. It doubled. I figured these were the thumbnails. It tripled. The modified versions. When it hit 10, 000 I started to get really worried. It was too late.

After realizing my mistake I did what any 21st century man would do. I shouted a string of obscenities, threw around no-tech objects that could take a good pummeling, beat my sticks and clubs against the cave wall, slept on it, played a violent video game, then posted my woes on Facebook and Twitter. The responses for recovery programs flooded in from friends and spammers. I decided to check a few of them out. Maybe there was a chance. Not having another computer hooked online nor a hundred bucks to spend after the free trial, this process for free software ate away at the memory used to store these recycled documents in digital limbo. When I found what I was looking for it took two or three trial runs with it to come up with more useless crap to further disintegrate the photos into uselessness.

Finally, I was on my way. It took a day and a half for the program to sift through my garbage and find every .jpg and .psd still available among the coffee grinds and tomatoe sauce. Yes, I think someone made spaghetti, ate only a bite, and threw the rest away on top of my Hawaii trip. The most successful recoveries were from Moab, which Blake 182 had all of on his Borg Drive, and the two years I spent in Massachusetts from 2005 – 2007, all of which were already saved in their current form in the closet.

I wiped away the noodles from everything else for the next two days, which in the digital sense means getting rid of every website image visited, countless profile pictures stored for easy reference, and trace particle from a disc your buddy might have burned for you that you downloaded. It also means being satisfied with 300×500 pixilation. Only the iPhone camera gave me 1,000. Again though, all of those were already stored on an alternate device. Calling Robert was no help. He had lost the camera containing our adventures. I said my goodbyes to the bulk of Guadalupe, to Galveston, to Engineer mountain, to Boulder Creek Festival, to Zombie Jesus Day, to Christmas in Durango, to Copper Mountain were the South and the East collided, to Glass Beach on Kauai, and whatever else I committed to photographic memory and so consequently forgot. I would name them, but they are already gone like a dream from one wakes and has already had their coffee.

The Best Day Ever by Jeffey Frye

Posted in california, fiction, life, love, passage, photography, science fiction, story with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on June 2, 2010 by tymora42

A California boy dreams about his best day ever, how much he loves Taco Bell, the beach, and getting high. Also a photo review of Thomas Hawk’s flickr stream.

"The Best Day Ever by Jeffey Frye" story header - original image by Thomas Hawk

“Mrs. Dickers wants the class to write a story about their best day ever. She said it could be real or not. She helped me to spell some words. She said I was a real good speller anyway. My last name is hard to spell because it reminds me of French Fries but it is spelled different. My first name is easy except everyone calls me Jeffey instead of Jeffrey. She helped me spell that too. She said it was okay to write Jeffey since I like it better. She said I should put a space here before I start my story.”

click to read the story

“Our artist on this piece, Thomas Hawk, might be considered that type, but to pigeonhole him into a single genre would be unfair. The sheer quantity of his online work immensely overstates any one kind. With close to 40,000 photos in his Flickr collection in just 6 years as a member he is only a fifth through his lifetime goal of a cool mill. His 30 grand explains this.”

click to the review