Spend · tonight-in

I'm not a religious man, frankly i don't really have faith in anything but i think the idea of giving something up for a month(lint)is an excellent idea. The things i'm giving up are as follows:

1. drugs- some i'm giving up forever and some(after lint) i'm changing to only on occasion. i do too much and if you know me, you know about the addictive personality.
2. alcohol- giving up all together in general. it totally makes my stomach hurt and it doesn't even make the night more fun. I might have the occasional beer or mixer but only one.

i'm gonna try and keep this up but i fault-er just like everyone else, so if you catch me in the trenches, don't judge...

1)Scott Walker sounds like Wayne Newton on acid.
2)Devendra Banhart can not be any better.
3)I want that Donovan song "Sunshine Superman" to be my theme song for the millenium.
4)Every time i hear Smokey Robinson's "Tracks of my tears, i think about my birthday for some reason.
5)Velvet Underground songs were in 2 car commercials?
6)There's a slow train a-comin'
7)Who the fuck is Wolf Eyes?
8)Are barber shop quartet's in style yet? I'm waiting
9)If i was a member of Rainbow, I would...
10)My sense of smell is gone all together! I wore a tie all day today that i think my cat might have pee'ed on, and i had a job interview. This instance is not an example, but a metaphor for my life so far.

...all i could do was drag my fingers on the back window pane, as we drove away from your voice, cursing in the distance. even then, you seemed so funny there, with your indian knives and rocky top hair. a rolling martyr for the lonely masses to tie down and twist into found art or a basement cult leader. you were the one too, man, whew, a fully loaded present on 4 wheels. you shuffled your feet and dipped a little lower and a little lower and before you knew it, it was sticking to your shoestrings. you started bringing knives to the breakfast table and the days of lunch without bullets were slipping to the sea. you started swimming though everything and you would just stand there in your goatskin boots and let it drench you to the bone. you were digging a hole when the house went up, all fiery red and october orange. i liked breaking into that old house too. i knew you could never protect that bottom line, not as long as you kept it in the mirror. you ate pieces of the walls that were all stuffy stabbed and euthanized, the floor just kept coming up behind you. i moved you to an open row on canal. the bustling home, you called it. i secretly, hoped for your failure. that's right, your old friend, the solid one, the open door in your time of sorrow, the hero of your plight. yeah, that was me. your bruises really started to shine in that silhouetted sunlight. you were boiling the cold fever blues night and day. "this ain't what's left" you would scream, while stabbing the couch with a buoy knife, "i ain't no black holler hustler, these knuckles gonna pay the rent, i'll kill a priest if i gotta." the ambassador was now ready for his dinner and send in the maid. one day, i saw you on mitchum, you had a present for me, a new walkman all chrome and cherry. you stabbed that too before i knew it, i never saw that knife taped to your chest. the electricity was never mine to hold though, it was as it were, all duress. the day before the fall harvest, i found you again, dreaming vacancy and holy water on 8th avenue. you were clutching the koran and screaming that you had bought the wrong book. "it's the other one" you screamed, the one where we win.

I use the computer at the library alot. It's free and easy and gives me a chance to get out of the house. i sit among real people with real problems that are solved by the world wide web. Lately, i've noticed that the patrons sitting beside me are either looking at the lottery results or looking for ways to sway the lottery results. It makes me sad to see all these lower middle class people spend hard earned money on something as frivolous as the big 6 or scratch and win especially when they can barely afford clothing or food. i understand the hope it provides and i know that alot of the proceeds go towards education but is it worth it? i guess i'll never really understand it but it reminds me of a bruce springsteen song.

i'm feeling less than inspired lately. i want to write it all out but i feel the energy of creativity is lacking its lustrous shine. so i am proposing this:

A Creative Exchange
what this entails is trading stories/poetry/free flow journaling with someone out there in t.v. land. we would agree on a topic, length and time limit. then after writing said story/poem/ect., we would trade (through email or probably snail mail because i only use a typewriter) and talk about what we thought and do some light critiquing. I'm not an editor and don't plan to change anything just to offer my open opinion and nothing harsh. i would appreciate the same.
all this said, i don't really do political and i'm not looking for term papers, band interviews, wine lists, fart jokes, or nytimes journalistic pizazz. just true creativity and heart. other than that, there are no boundaries. anyone interested, email me: sethmcbay@yahoo.com or reply to this post.

so i had a short stint in ye old laughing academy. it was my decision and i needed it and yada yada yada. i'm better now. The problem is i'm having trouble staying away from the vices. the pills aren't the factor and pot, not so much but i really, really need a drink. i contemplated having one last night at the show but i held back, and then i started thinking about stopping at another bar to have one, but again i resisted. i think that i always had to fall back on that stuff when things weren't going well, or i had a bad day or i hit my shin on the coffee table or i owed money to someone or something. all of these things could apply to this week and i keep trying to justify having a stiff drink but who needs to fall in that hole again. (sigh) cigarette, here i come.

ps. Happy Birthday Michael!!!!!!!!!!

do all unemployed people search for purpose in this life? Does having a job give you the fulfillment that i am reaching out for, like a baby reaches for their mother? Is employment the purpose of this century? Is 9-5 the motto of the middle class? I wonder if i even qualify as middle class anymore? Do i just have too much time to think? But if we quit thinking, where are when then? cattle on the killing room floor, horses in the stable, drones for the taxman! I feel lately that i should get a job doing construction. something that you see the end result of. maybe that could satisfy my lust for purpose or would it still satisfy the upper class by taking someone with a brain and not giving him a chance to use it.

i totally need a J to the muthafuckin o. b. i fear that soon i will be that guy on the streets in a jaunty beret that will write you poetry for a donut or the rest of your cigarette. i read the paper everyday looking for some hope of employment but like the social distortion song say "i ain't got no experience." i don't even know if i can get a job as a dishwasher.

Dear God,

i know i don't really believe in you and i totally cuss like a sailor and smoke about the same amount. but if u could at least get me like an interview, i will totally go to church for like five minutes or until that whole crucifix thing makes me wanna ralph.

love seth

ps. please send me a preacher's daughter, its always been one of my goals.

"hey mr. tambourine man, play a song for me, i'm not sleepy and their is no place i'm going to"

on most days, i'm in this one state of mind that i have kept with me for my entire journey. a mood of looking down at the ground and waiting for that ground to take me somewhere, and anywhere will do. i just follow my feet and anyone else that seems to know where we're going. it doesn't sadden me, it's just the norm.

"i dance between the diamond sky with one hand waving free, silhouetted by the sea..."

but there's always that day, the one between my feet and head. i start to look up. i see the sunlight on a spring morning that feels like the first time i'm seeing any morning. i look up at the stars as if they were never there before. i see the hope in things. i see the things i would miss if i wasn't ever on this planet. i start to wonder where i fit in this scheme of sorts, this commotion of life that has enraptured some and spit out many. i keep thinking about jobs and careers but that's not what i see for the future. i guess its good that i see a future. i begin to think of the ocean and how gigantic it is and how overpowering the waves crashing on the shoreline. it seems so peaceful at times but has an abundance of anger inside those blue and green eyes of god. my hands shake at the thought of being lost out there beyond the shore without the light of civilization. most of the time i feel like i'm just waiting for the right wave or the right fish to take me home. lately, i've been thinking that i need to make some of my own waves.

these southern nights can get to you more than i have ever really remembered. the heat, the sky, the slow suttle way the the alcohol empties into my bloodstream. I feel it all has come to this anti-climactic stopping point. the point where i decide to get out while the gettings good. i even use those old sayings to prove that i have a colorful vocabulary. all these words, the girls, the light drugs, that lead to another night like this without those thousand dreams. the lady next to me is sleeping in a chair in kinkos, her head tilted back into space in front of a book like "things fall apart." And what happened here, did i grow old too fast, did i use up all my youth at the point where i left her with the tab. have i snook into too many clubs, used too many lines on too many bridge and tunnel girls with their innocent legs and eyes that lead to a late night in the middle of town; where i wish i knew where my car was. she fell asleep again in the arms of the heated air around the lightbulb that swings to an 'fro through the twilight of my self respect. i know i have a few more years in me if i plan it right. at least, another night in that misty, black bar with the one thats like the other one but not enough to take home and meet the parents or even my cat. who am i to say that you can sleep in my bed untouched with those kicking dreams rolling through your body in into my side. can i get another xanex for her, maybe 2 for me. i really can't kick it. that urge that sends me through the traffic lights and into the arms of a rail i lean next to for another 3 hours. do you want to save me? does the pain leave when i talk? bring it all back to this point where my keys are in the hands of a black haired girl with a tight dress on that says that it will be easy tonight. the mornings come harder and i can't even dress fast enough to get out of your house with a shred of dignity. i can drive home now with the words that are tatooed on my eyelids. the ones that read " there is no hope for all that pass this point." so go hard into the hot night and don't stop at the light and don't run from the bar because it eats us all alive.

i'm sure by now, anyone that reads this is not charmed by me or interested in why i don't call, write, email, survey, fax, use telepathy or blow smoke signals. I'm such a fairweather friend, as hard as i try to believe that i'm not, i know the truth has arisen after all these years. I get too involved with work or school or who i'm dating to stay plugged into others' lives. I sit at home smoking and watching italian movies with huge casts all the while, pretending that i am too busy or too tired to pick up the phone. For all of this, i must apologize. I mean nothing by my action(s) but is that not what you judge a person on, their actions. (sigh) With all that being said i'm taking this livejournalshit down ASAP and grabbing a drink. blah.

i am officially the busiest man alive. i think i have worked the last 8 days straight and it starts again on friday. for the next 2 days though, i'll be doing one of the following things:
1. showing some shirts
2. looking for my car keys
3. watching fat amounts of cable tv
4. playing with my new cell
5. talking on both cell phones at once
6. watching the o.c.
7. drinkin', smokin', sleepin'
8. tapeing my headlight back in place
9. nude portraits
10. shopping for used organs

ps. this might be the last livejournal update. i think i might get out the game while i still have all my teeth. word!

Right now, i am sitting at kinkos listening to 2 employees talk about how fun they think creating documents is. I also just heard one say that she could have been someone's grandmother when she was "like 10." The days must be long for those guys and the nights can't be any better. I have this running dream that the workers are into some sort of s&m involving paper cuts and lemon hurling.
On that note, when i was at some really bad vintage store across the street, i heard a kid that had to be like 7 or 8 say the words "bling-bling" and "nicole richie" in the same sentence. What have we did to this world?