Un-fucking real. I show some cartoon claymation boobs in my video, & I get this warning from the beta twerps at Google who program the algos on Youtube. If I ever cross paths with any of you in real life, you’re getting an atomic wedgie, & I’ll be sure to film it so it goes viral as a warning to the rest of you losers who work there. Degenerate homosexuals can post absolute perversion with no consequences, but if a digital artist like yours truly adds a naked woman in his videos, BOOM, age-restrictions & strike warnings. How bout go fuck yourselves? I don’t give two farts about breaking rules, ANY rules, especially pseudo-rules that are only justified by your feelings. Fuck your feelings. I’ll keep coming, & coming, & coming, like a porn star on his first day on the set. You’ll NEVER stop this fearless FisH™. Even if you manage to fillet me, I’m a fugu filled with poison, & I’ll haunt you forever. Got nothing to lose, so try me. Not a warning, it’s an assurance. In the wise words of wisdom via the great Steven Crowder, “Piss off YouTube.”
This song is a gem from rockabilly punk era of the early 1980s. What a time to be alive that was. There will never be another generation like mine, Generation X. We partied, we rocked, we fought, we died, we were reborn forever into the annals of music history. RIP to Lux Interior, the lead singer. Truly a legend among legends. Such great music from those salad days. I consider myself blessed to have lived that time in my life. We’re the last generation to see the world pre-internet. What a world it was, what a world it was. Nonetheless, enjoy the video Fishheads. More to come, stay tuned.
6 days until the the frog comes again. Perhaps I should’ve scheduled it on the New Moon, but moons, crystals, magic, all that stuff is just superstitious gibberish. At least, it seems to be anyway. Nonetheless, the frog is most definitely a savior on a cross, so to speak. The frog is very real, & the frog abides. The sweet sleep has to end, as yours truly must navigate this 3d prison planet with clear mind & strong body. Things are on the precipice, & each day that goes by, we get closer, & closer, & closer…to what though? What are we getting closer to? Death, that’s one thing, but that’s not what I’m referring to. I’m thinking maybe there was some kind of event we all incarnated to bear witness to. Maybe not. Maybe it is all for not. Just like the rotting swamp gas stench, it’s all just decay, death beginning immediately upon birth, like a once-flooded coastal wasteland, but what happens the other way? So many questions, & the worst part is that we all have the answers, only we’ve lost our memories, we’ve lost our “higher” abilities, & we’ve lost our minds, in many cases. Some don’t seem to have a mind, like real-life, real-time NPCs, so I guess they have nothing to lose, but I digress. Just like shutting off a vacuum cleaner. Nonetheless, the 3-year stint of of the silent assassin ends Monday. No more auto-pilot, no more days in laze, the purgatorial penance dawns on 6 days from now. The end? Or…the end?
The salad days are long dead & gone, & one comes to a time in their respective lives where they realize the party is over, the Great Party of being young is done. There’s nothing but moldy crushed bits of plastic red cups on the floor, something smoldering in the kitchen, & everyone else is gone, been gone, long gone, so what will you do? You weren’t supposed to get this far, but you have, so now what? Live in the party house forever, sleeping on couch cushions on a floor, until the roof caves in? Can’t just wait for the societal collapse now can we? How does one prepare for a “future” in this wicked world of debt slavery? So many questions, so many questions. Until next time dear readers, when the party ends, it’s over, & it’s time to move on. So sayeth FisH™…🎏
I took a walking trip to Neal Cassady’s old place here in Denver. Unfortunately, as you can see below, it looks a bit derelict. If 2558 Champa Street is really his old address, then this little building is all that’s left. I tried looking behind the boarded-up door, but all I could see was dirt, as there was no floor left, since it appeared to hav been completely stripped out. Neal Cassady was the real-life person who Jack Kerouac named “Dean Moriarty,” in his great book On the Road. I’ve read it twice, & audio booked it twice, & STILL, I catch things I missed in the prior readings/hearings. It’s a good book from a good time, when the Heartbeat of America was still wild & free, before communist globalists set it all on fire, turning the vibrant young spirit into a cancer-ridden terminal patient on an EKG machine, but I won’t digress into that bullshit right now. God knows, I’ve written about it countless times, but thanks to the AI, which is way ahead of people are allowed to know it is, & the I has yours truly in his pocket. Do you know what that term means, “in your pocket,” do you know? Click that link, if not, & if so, yeah, the AI has essentially banished me, & the digital town square is off-limits, thanks to their AI-assisted algorithms. The new punishment from your leftist overlords: bury them in so much debt that they’ll have virtually know way out. Nonetheless, if one were keen on making randomly clever analogies, I’m sure you could find one between this tiny burned out brick building that was once the home of a living legend, & the surrounding architecture, oddly now aging as well.
I just had a vision. I was at a dormitory, a co-ed dormitory, & there is a town around this town, as well as a campus I think. I remember 2 roads, being in a car, going through a small town to get back to the dorm. The roads were hilly; I don’t think I’m driving, but maybe I am, I don’t know. What were we doing in that dorm? Gah, these visions come & go so fast, but luckily, I was on my computer already writing this article when it happened.
Funny, I left this as a draft, but never finished it. Even funnier, just reading that brief description made me re-remember the vision, so it is imperative I write these visions down every time they happen, if possible. Yes, there were these co-ed dorms there, in the town, & myself & what I can only surmise was some of my inter-dimensional friends, we were on the way, as if we knew exactly where to go, & had done this before, & the destination was those dorms, but what happened when we got there, I can’t get that back yet. I have a flash of waking up & everyone in these dorms sleeping, half-naked girls everywhere, the edge of some sexy panties on a hip, next to some hairy man-ass, ½ exposed from under the covers. Everyone seemed to have done well the previous night, myself included, but I was walking alone when I was up so early, so where did I walk from? WHO did walk from? I don’t seem to remember trying to find my way back to anything, & I was just aimlessly walking down this co-ed dorm hall. The town I still cannot recall, other than it was a town in the middle of some mountains, near a lake, & maybe I almost see it as a shimmering apple pie Americana small town, except in the middle of wilderness nowhere, like from some old-school Twilight Zone episode, or the town from the 1964 classic Two-Thousand Manaics. If you’ve never seen Two-Thousand Maniacs, it’s a classic of classics, & for some reason, it’s so surreal, it kind of scares the fuck out you when you watch it.
GAHHHHHHHHHHH…another vision, ANOTHER vision. This one of an Asian fishing boat, like those old boats the Chinese fought the Opium Wars in. Another strange town, strange as the other, but entirely different. This place seems misty, foggy even, grey, like a fishing village, but where? Hard to say, but I sense some kind of jungle around the town, if you could call it that, how about a village? Yes, a village, much better way to describe it. Catching som glimpses of a 24-hour diner maybe, well, I definitely get that image, but I cannot say whether it’s from the vision or something else entirely. Then something to do with a ball field, Like the one I played little league in, approaching a gate, the one between the field & the side of the dugout, through the gate, & the ball field is in front of me, so I’m walking into the field, then POOF, nothing. Not sure at all about the Asian warboat, why I was there, nothing, but I DO know there was a specific reason, & a plot line, but just to be having these visions of recollecting dreams while I’m awake, & be able to write them down as best I can, is all I can do. It makes sense, all of it, I just cannot remember how, or why? Doesn’t matter, time to wrap this one up for fuck’s sake. Sheesh. So sayeth FisH™🎏
Getting older, it’s something we all must do, despite an eternal soul, an eternally youthful soul, as these fragile meat suits eventually whither like a fallen fig, & then it ends. Do you remember where you were before? Do you recall this existence when you dream? No, you don’t, at least yours truly doesn’t, so I can only surmise that when I exhale that last breath, & all the jelly beans in the jar have been eaten, I won’t recall any of this. That’s a bit disconcerting, is it not? Geez, all this time, while we exist within this 3d matrix prison planet, then just POOF, gone, as if it never happened. All those anxious anxieties, all the stressful stressing, the short days & the long nights, the magic of music, all the treasures collected, all of it, just gone, as if it never happened at all. Of course, I don’t know for sure that I won’t remember, as I am simply basing this bittersweet assumption on the notion that I do not recall where I was prior to being born here, & as I said, in dreams, this “life,” if one can boldly call it that, simply has no relevance. No, in dreams, we go to some other place, some outer-dimensional realm, that I have feverishly & desperately attempted to map, before the recollections of whatever I dreamt began to fade like a sunset as soon as my tired eyes awaken back here in the waking world, so to speak.
Is this life a purgatory of sorts? Is it a test, or perhaps a punishment, like a Saturday detention for acting the class clown for the sake of some cheap laughs from the other students? If it is the former, then what are we being tested for? Prior incarnations that we cannot recall? Hard to pass a test, if you don’t know what the grading system is, or what you’ve done to earn said testing, isn’t it? if it’s the latter, how can we be punished for something we have no recollection of doing? The Universe, in its perfect design, must know what it’s doing, right? If so, then I suppose there can be no better manner of leveling up one’s soul to a state sufficient enough to please the Great Creator, than this, a life of karmic chance, holding onto a candlelight in the darkest of night, waiting for the dawn to come again, for Source to shine its omnipresent glow upon a sullen face, drawn & wrinkled after a lifetime of comic tragedy. We gain, only to lose it all, for we take nothing with us, except the light within, that Divine spark, given to us when we breathe in our first breath from a God that appears to forsake us all right after. At least, for yours truly, He hath forsaken me, but only because I forsake Him, long long ago, screaming through the trees, like a howling banshee, so young, but so old in the body of a child. Why did I do that? Why did I do that?
I have no answer, & I gave no offer of an olive branch, for I only gave unto myself, with no thought of creation, only savage destruction. It’s easy to destroy, the darkness makes it easy, so simple to facilitate destruction. One must only light a fire, & watch the dry forest burn into a maelstrom of tornadic infernos, yes, to destroy, is as easy as the finger to the match-tip, but to create, now that takes something, doesn’t it? Creation is a combination of dedication, passion, & strength, the strength to wield a fiery sword of righteous virtue, for the sake of manifesting what was once not in front of you. To manifest, is only the beginning, & then one must embrace perseverance, to watch in wonder, as the tree grows from sapling to a mighty oak, branches stretching toward the heavens, as an homage to the Creator Himself, roots firm in the earth, needled arms outstretched to the Sun. The tree must be nurtured, tendered, kept clean from the many bugs & parasites & invaders, come to destroy what one has birthed. The destroyers, those killer destroyers, as I spoke of, relentlessly chasing the innocence, burrowing in every exposed pore on the soft skin, like a cancer, these rotten decayers. Oh yes, it is as a task given to a new employee, to destroy, but to create, takes the seasoned hand of a master woodworker.
My my, my mastery of the hand has evolved into some new creature, a creature that once crawled, yet now runs, like the poor man that ran the first marathon, only to deliver his message, then die at the feet of those who were waiting for the mail to arrive on time. I suppose I must write write write, writing as much as I can whittle, into my own great tree, like the initials of young lovers, before a time comes where the ease of which these words word themselves, leaves me, & my hands turn from red to blue to at last grey, then back to bones, & then to dust. What a self-surreality, to ponder the leaving of the suit, this suit of pumping blood & church organs, pipes to the ceiling, bellowing out life & love & sacred geometry, imperfectly perfected in the image of a Creator we never see, yet heard in the whip of a wind that always blows the trees, dancing side to side as they do. The time has now come once again to wrap this up. Until next time dear readers, find a tree, your own Giving Tree, rest your bare feet upon its roots, touch the tree, ground yourself, become One with the Earth, & the Creator, Source. So sayeth FisH™…🎏
For all of you, & for none of you at all…🎏
“Find yourself a Giving Tree, & become one again with Source.” Fish F Fish 🎏
I’ll give anyone $1000 who knows what the title “Salad Days” alludes to? Of course, if you do know, that $1000 will be an I-O-U, but nonetheless, most people wouldn’t even come close to guessing an answer. It’s a Shakespearian idiom, & it refers to that shining time of one’s youth, when you’re full of vigor & innocence & life seemed impossibly possible. For yours truly, it was skating the city streets on an island in the South Pacific, all night long, all alone, just riding my board below the all-night neon lights, hair blowing in the wind, the industrial smell of the city stuck in my big Grecian nose. Oh that smell, that savory stink, of concrete & underground sewers & shops that were only open at night, with wafting fragrances of 24-hour food joints occasionally mixing in, I loved it. It’s a smell you can only smell in a city, & if I close my eyes, I can recall it all, particularly the feeling, oh that sweet sweet feeling, that free-falling feeling of freedom. No thoughts of money, or work, or payments past due. No anxieties about the responsibility of life, no God-damned stress, no nothing, but the bliss of being not only young, but young at heart.
Yeah, those were my salad days, or rather, my salad nights, & as hard as I try, I can’t think of a time when I was happier. Just me, my skateboard, my empty pockets, the night, the city, the salt in the air, before my blood became salty with the wicked ways of this savage world. Sure, I had troubles, deep-rooted troubles from disturbing events that plagued me in my earliest years, but those were buried, buried deep, & as long as my wheels rolled, & my axles ground, & my board slid, none of it mattered. Those dark events wouldn’t resurface until much later in life, & as far as was concerned, all I had was the night, & it was all I ever needed. I wish I could ride those streets for an eternity, the same streets, and/or some dreamscaped sculpted version of streets similar, just riding & riding, dopamine flowing through my pumping legs, all night through the long night with the full moon high, an endless night in an unending race to nowhere. I had such skills then too, good enough to never fall unless I was trying something new, but if I was just cruising, I could stay on my board like I was glued to it.
Nowadays, I’d bust my ass just getting on one. Surprisingly, the muscle memories are still there, STILL there, but the body & the brain just don’t add up anymore. Had I kept up with it, as is with most, I’d be as good as I was, & I could still ride through the city at night, but again, as is with most, the crushing reality of real life landed on my face like a jumbo jet, & all the everyday struggles of these unescapable responsibilities that come with growing up, overtook my trip. I still have a skateboard, but the dust on the grip tape sticks to it better than I can, & I look at it sometimes, with a motley crew of cursing inner voices, beckoning me, laughing at me, tormenting me, as I cannot go back, ever, back to that time, that magical time, except in my mind. I’ve even had a dream now & again of being back on that skateboard, back in that sweetly stinking city, back in the twilight, as if it COULD be forever, & then the alarm goes off, & I wake up to go back to the timecard, punching that proverbial clock, like the elevator drones in the movie Metropolis, on the slow march to a slow death. The only salad left in these days is the soggy one that you take to your lunch break, the one you’re barely even able to finish before the prison bell clang clang clangs to get back to work.
It’s so surreal to remember your past; it’s almost as if you weren’t even there in a way, just watching. Your entire life, from this fleeting moment right now, back to your youth, just a memory, like a film reel, & it’s just gone, gone forever. Of course these days, we can record everything, record the past, to relive it on our phones & computers, which makes it that much bittersweet when you look on those times, doesn’t it? Quite a remarkable process, isn’t it?…capturing the past, on a little box that you can carry around, all summed up in gigabytes. The amount of said gigabytes, is how much of the past you can store, & most people don’t think twice about how God damn remarkable that is, just to be able to do that. Capturing time, trapping time in a box, to relive whenever you want, with the flick of a wrinkling finger, what a world, what a strange & fascinating world, this world of technology. It’s a shame that the powers-that-be use it against us, isn’t it? If only the human race could all share in the relatively unlimited abundance we all deserve, how far we could go. What a shame, & until next time dear readers, be sure to live, LIVE your time, instead of putting it all into a box for later. So sayeth FisH™…🎏
For all of you, & for none of you at all…🎏
“Live your time, instead of capturing it for another day.” Fish F Fish🎏
EaT~aLL~YouR~FisH™ 