k. william scott

K. William Scott.
Scottsdale, Arizona.


billy scott.
bill.
k.
the scoff (his coworkers)
william (his mother)


this is the man i must kill.


the K. doesn't stand for anything. it's one of those names. and it's never just a "K" either. it's got to be connected at the foot to that period.

"K.".

like that.



Germaine Street Pre-K.
Kelpville Elementary.
Kelpville High. (basketball team)
University of Illinois. (accountant/business classes)
Hilton Research Co. (consultant)
6', 173 lbs. 33. glasses.
mole over right cheek.
wife, daughter, dog named Sam.


every day that goes by is a day closer to when i will kill K. William Scott.


i've never met him.
i've never talked to him.
i don't even know why i need to kill him.

but i do.


and i'm so very afraid.
i laugh because you think it's your laws, your morality, your sense of stability and reason that frighten me.


i'm sorry to tell you but they don't so much as pose a nuisance, let alone keep me at bay. i could drive onto Red Valley Rd, park beyond the culdesac, walk onto 2119 Faulton Way, jimmy the side door lock, walk in, press 5119 (his and janet's birthdays), turn left, up the stairs and glide into the bedroom on the right -- careful not to step on the creak at the foot of the door -- and slit K. William Scott ear-to-ear before janet even had a chance to wake up and scream. keep on screaming.

i could.

but then what?

no, not the law. not justice. not reality. not guilt.





the voice.






what would happen to the voice?

the voice i've had since i was 7. the voice that kept repeating the name "K. William Scott" like some magic elixer into my ear....

at first i was terrified by the voice.

doctors. therapists. psychiatrists. pills. crying. fighting. mother. no father. couldn't concentrate in school.


no one could explain it.

no one could hear the voice but i.

and who in the world is K. William Scott?!
why in the world is his name whispered into my ear every. single. day?


and what did it mean?

was it me?
was i K. William Scott?


and then it happened.


google.


i was 21 years old and for a research project at school we were allowed to use internet search engines.


and there they were, my fingers tracing the letters, almost as if someone else were controlling them.

"K-.--W-I-L-L-I-A-M--S-C-O-T-T"

i found him.





but it wasn't enough.

the more i obsessed, the more the voice took shape, whispered into my brain.

hurt him.
stop him.
kill him.


and there it was.



i told no one.

i researched more and more. frantically, moving to Arizona. searching him out. following the trail of breadcrumbs left behind. always searching, always gathering information, always hungry for K. William Scott. i needed more. i needed to end this.

but then what?
why kill him?
who am i?


so many questions, so much doubt, so un....sure.....


what happens when i do?
would the voice go away?
would i be alone forever?
what was this? where am i?

the years were peeling away around me, i didn't know who was up and what was down. i only knew K. William Scott. if i lost him....if i finished my one mission.... what would....


is this true madness?









what am i?







i ordered another gin and tonic, using two fingers to massage my aching forehead, willing it all to swill away with the next drink. Jillson's was packed full tonight and when i got my drink i tipped her well. i wanted her to remember me and keep bringing them as i needed them. i sipped on the cool, soothing elixer, a touch of the honey-drunk buzz beginning to spiral in my mind while K. William Scott ordered his 4th Bud Light across the bar, clinking bottles with his friend Dave. all the while i watched.



like always, i watched.

sometimes there's a rhyme in my head

.... it's weird, i've wanted to write for days and days now. and days.

it builds up. words and thoughts overflow, get jumbled. soon, work intertwines, the days become nights, running and running, and before you know it:

it's payday
it's christmas
it's your second wife's third honeymoon anniversary
it's the holocaust chapter II
it's the last wednesday before you die (you do realize that day is coming, right?)
it's national pi day
it's that fucking ovaltine commercial again.

it's always.... something.






















and it really is. human memory chains us to tradition, to friendships, to dates, to anniversaries, to ideas, to relationships in general.

the longer we live and the more people we engage in, the more we're 'integrated'. the more we're 'connected'. the more we're 'stuck in place' on a social level. the more 'amalgamated' into families and dramas.

i'm not rallying against it or anything. but it happens.














down with society!
down with relationships!
burn the calendar!
kill everyone over 30!!




it's just a fact of life. and it all just seems so fast.

sometimes it's the 'in between' moments i love the best. sometimes it's when i'm alone, unattached to anything or anyone, that i'm free to just 'be'.

in fact, right now, when i'm finished writing this, i'll go for a walk and just smoke a cigar. just chill. jam out some tunes, maybe think a few up. get away from people, and twitter, and the internet, and my family, and my cell phone, and my dog, and my computer chair....

no one. no thing.

and i couldn't do it always. i do love people (sexually, if you catch my drift). and i'm not about to forsake all my human relationships and social statuses (sexual ones, if you catch my drift).














just sometimes..... there's a rhyme in your head. there's a beat under your feet. there's swagger in the air. you can taste the electricity, roll it on your tongue. starlight catches your eye. it's something......

well, you know what i mean.

the Fight Club

every guy lives to bring the brawl.
every man strategizes fight scenarios.
every single male imagines a melee.

every fella in here has:
The Zombie Plan
The Meteor Plan
The Aliens Plan
and The Terrorist Plan.

this is, without question, a matter of fact.
a zombie attack? a meteor will crash into earth? terrorists take over? it's ok, we've got it covered. don't sweat it.

oh, hey, there's that cute young girl Sarah, in the mall with her boyfriend Mark! she's talking non-stop, hanging onto his arm, going on and on about the new girl at your work who totally wears too much eye-liner and-- "Mark, are you even listening?"
no, Sarah, Mark is not listening. he can't.
he's answering to a higher power.

-action jackson thought processes are firing a mile a minute-
he's looking at those two clowns on the other side of the mall.
------30 feet away, about 5'9 and 5'11, both probably right handed, 18 years old, a buck-60-ish, urban dressed, dull-eyed dimwits who aren't moving particularly quickly, the shorter one a few pounds overweight, the taller one probably lighter than mark and less sure on his feet, wearing awkward skater shoes, cant run, he's the quicker target, carrying a lightweight bag probably clothes in it, one park bench heavy enough to hold Mark's weight should he need the hurdle in between, a trash can with a removable lid, heavy plastic, one of those planted indoor trees about 10 feet to the left, a full glass wall, roughly 40 other witnesses in the immediate area/people to break it up if things go wrong, his left leg hurts from that bruise on his shin, lead with the right, tense the knuckles, untense, no other real props, a man carrying a cane or umbrella? 20 feet ahead, Sarah can be kept out of range, the tall one has long pullable hair, take one out first as quick as possible, then concentrate on the other, exits behind me towards the bathroom, no cops, can they ID me, where is......----
"oh, yea. totally. i agree," says Mark.
like fuck Mark agrees.















status of this dbag: fucked


all this goes down in a matter of 2 seconds in some weird T1000 / Terminator mode that flickers on and then back off in a blink of an eye. it's entirely subconscious. Mark doesn't even know the two kids walking by in the mall. Mark doesn't even care, he wasn't really getting ready to fight them...but if for some reason those two fuck-bags turned into zombies or terrorists or just decided to attack Mark and Sarah-- Mark was ready to flipkick those mothers in their dirty zombie mouths, crack some necks, flee to safety, and evade any identification. But they don't. And Mark doesn't care. And Sarah keeps talking about that girl at work.

well guess what Sarah? you're welcome.
Mark just planned on saving your life. and I don't know if anyone's told you, but maybe you wear entirely too much eye-liner. did you ever think of that? did that ever occur to you? did you ever think of that or think about your own survival in the face of cataclysmic and life-threatening disaster? of course not.

you're a selfish, selfish girl Sarah, and I think maybe I'll talk to Mark about finding a girl who really gets him. (and doesn't listen to entirely too much Taylor Swift).
now I know women can think this way, I'm not saying they can't. I'm just saying all men do. all the time.

it happens every day. it usually happens every hour.

we plan ahead--not for our weekend at your parents house in June, SarAh--but for the inevitable. we hone our minds to become strategic, precise, killing tacticians. it's not just killing and fighting. it's running to the gun shop if there's a zombie outbreak. it's planning on stockpiling food, sexy lubes and weapons in the event of any kind of survival scenario. it's hotwiring that camaro with the top down in the parking lot if the government moves in to take him down.

maybe it's some leftover human survival instinct--born of territorial and/or self-defense mechanisms. i don't know.
maybe it's a product of violence in media --our glorification of the dominant, aggressive, explosive power of man. could be. right?
and maybe it's just boredom.



places it happens the most:
-anywhere with girlfriends/wives
-church
-supermarket
-walking in public places
-school
-prison (visiting)
-driving
-your mother's family dinners
-the shower
-in dreams
-on the toilet
-on the Septa bus
-at work
-on the phone
-in the city
-boarding airplanes
-crashing onto desert islands
-working in morgues
-watching men in black II
-when breathing
-7:30 pm (everyday)





and that's just a handful. it's a constant motion in there, Sarah. an urge to kill, to brawl, to remove the head from the body (zombies), to survive. we can't then be expected to listen to every.
--single.
---word.
------you.
---------are.
----------saying. zzzzzzzzzzz.....

we have to stay sharp. we have to stay focused. we have to save your life.




















they could be anywhere




so yes, Sarah, Mark is listening. listening to his heart. and right now his heart is measuring the number of steps it takes from here to that park bench, to the launch-off, to the angle he should drop that elbow in the face of that old lady carrying her groceries (seriously favoring her left hip) on the way out of Super Fresh. i mean, if that bitch decides to turn into a body-snatching alien and open her jaws up wider than her head and try to swallow you Sarah, boy is she totally fucked.

this is man's curse.
this is man's gift.
this is his baptism into a nightmarish, delicious world of violence and glory.



this is the real-life Fight Club.















and we all totally want that body.

this is it.

this is all.

blogging. it's gay.

blogging is gay.

gay, you say? like, dude-on-dude gay? oh yes, it's incredibly gay. that's why i never get around to it. i'm usually knee-deep in women's vaginas and plowing my way through hot virgin sluts (yes, virgin sluts).

that being said, i may one day need to become a world-famous writer (if my plan on becoming a world-famous shark-watch salesman doesn't pan out). and i may need to keep writing. and while i don't think my writing will be anything like this, i assume it does help to slap together a few paragraphs like this, have no one read them and then do it again on occasion more to keep my fingers used to using a keyboard than anything else.

and i guess if i hit a low-point in my life and i'm strapped for cash (because i bought a mike green Lamborghini) i can always write porn? right?

lastly, i go onto youtube and type in 'funk' or 'metal' or 'badass jam' and look around until i find something that catches my attention every time i write on this site. and.... all i can say is japan.










http://www.greenlife52.com/
4lyfe!!!

my god, looking at this, i realize i could write an entire blog dedicated to how gay mike green actually is. if only i wasn't busy doing anything else.

new gig

Sometimes i think everything is fine. And sometimes i feel like i need a new gig.


is it weird i feel like i should have been famous?


i'm not sure how. or why. but i can feel it in my bones.
i should be the one on tv.
i should be the topic of discussion.
i should have my own clever t-shirt slogans.

things i could be famous for:

-genius
-serial-killer
-rock star
-writer
-Truman Show (you're all watching MY life)
-invent an infomercial product
-spokesperson for infomercial product
-badass athlete
-silent athlete
-4th string quarterback (NFL)
-really good at chess.... and banging girls
-terrorist hunter
-super villain that never dies and is integral to the show
-astronaut
-date celebrity
-made for tv movies
-got off for murder because i'm white
-hold my breath for 10 minutes
-owns 5,000 snakes (appear on oprah)
-am god.


again, i don't know what i was meant to be-- but chances are it could have been one of them. i need to look into it. i just never seem to have the time.

-sigh-

where the funk?

Where DOEs funk come from really?


-mistaken time signature 'on-beats'
-intentional emphasis on the '1' and the '3'
-Hans Gruber
-hip-checking at the blue line
-Aliens (the movie)
-bass guitar
-alcohol
-marijuana
-antifreeze
-THIS guy
-peanut butter and marshmallow sandwiches
-the pope (circa 1734 BC)
-dennis chambers (drums)
-black people (who aren't D-Chamb)
-Uranium Bassment



my money's on THAT guy, but all in all, i'll ask----
what is it really?

yearnin' n burnin'

we were driving home from work today listening to mmr's Jackson on the radio. He was reading reports about a huge forum for people 'dealing with depression' after seeing the movie Avatar. oh yes, this was a real thing. an online community for people obsessing over a james cameron movie.

My first thought was 'it's a movie jack-asses'. are people really suffering from bouts of depression and considering suicide because the mythical land of Pandora does, indeed, not exist?

my second thought was, 'oh my god, maybe that was why i was feeling so blah today!'.

my third thought was 'no, it's philadelphia suffer-monday' where we reflect on the weekend in football. ThAt's why i feel so blah. (incredible suffering and depression are to be expected after losing to the fucking cowboys)

my fourth thought was 'what's for dinner?'



--but the real point was, maybe it was a little of everything. and maybe seeing Avatar last night has, in some way, made me feel kind of like i'm... missing something.

the special effects were insane. the imaginary world was complex, rich, deep and believable (as believable as human-kind overlooking a moon of jupiter as being perfect to support healthy, lush and incredibly advanced life can be). and aside from the pocahontas-predictable storyline it was a kickass planet. and a part of me does yearn for something that beautiful and that pristine and that wild and undiscovered.

so i guess, in a way, this movie has affected me in my daily life (for 1 day at least). i'm just like all these jamokes on the avatar forums, i guess. and i better sign up before all the good Navi names are taken!

except it's not a depression per say. this feeling i've had all day-- it's a hunger. it's a self-destructive need. it's a primal force that belies reason. it's an urge to just see what happens when you set something on fire.

it's rooted deep within me and i can't explain it. it doesn't have a name or a face. and little things always touch upon it. they nibble at the edges. no one thing really captures it completely. it's always just out of focus.

it's in that moment the knockout punch lands in one of those epic hockey fights.
it's in the way the guitar note bends just the right way during the monumental solo.
it's in the taste of pain when your body tells you to stop running but you laugh and run harder.
it's in the swell of adrenaline that courses through your blood when you hear a car crash.






it's wanting to escape.






whether it's to a magical beautiful world, or to a place beyond words, or a higher level of knowing, or a different spiritual plane. it's the will for release.

i am by no means suicidal. this should be clear to anyone who knows me. but i do feel the pull from time to time. the pull towards chaos. i want to watch the speedometer needle press all the way to 140 and break. i want to dive headfirst over a cliff thousands of feet above the jagged rocks and crashing waves. i want to be launched into some spiraling supernova sunfire. i want to be twisted in some grand cataclysmic celestial event. i almost need it.

i long to be devoured in flames and beauty, to be set ablaze and unfurl across a dull, grey sky. some sort of escape. i mean, we're trapped inside these bodies for oh so long sometimes. how many days in a row do we wake up in the same world? how many weeks in a row have we drove through the same traffic? how many times do we look in the mirror and see the same person? life is awesome and all, but.... what is out there? what am i missing? what facet of living is yet to be discovered? what happens on the other side of life? is this step 1 of a 40-step program called 'Life, Death, and Beyond'?

i know most of us play it safe, myself especially (living at home, working for my parents, girlfriend up the street). it's tough for people to burn, burn, burn in this life because, frankly, it could be that this is it. no second chances. no start-overs. and that scares people and i understand why. it scares me, too.

but i just wonder what happens when you shake things up. maybe it's not so much about escaping 'life' as it is just escaping 'predictability'. escaping 'immobility'. i not only want to live, i want to live to the fullest. i want to taste every one of life's flavors. i want to punch random strangers in suits, i want to donate all of my money to a country musician i've never heard of, i want to climb a corporate building wearing a nixon mask, i want to have sex with the pope on a nationally televised episode of Oprah.

i want to do any and everything i can outside of 'normal'.

the repetitive nature of our lives just wears on the brain. my conscious can only take it so long before it needs change. maybe it's some inner, hopeless life-version of ADD. maybe it's a deep-rooted Fruedian obsessions with weiners. maybe i'm totally nuts and i really do have some serious self-destructive depressive urge towards suicide. but i think it's something else.

life, literally, is literally too short, literally. (to use a cliche').

and while yes, sometimes i do want to die flaming in an indy stock car hurtling off the Golden Gate bridge while listening to 'In Flames-The Hive' there are other things i want to do while alive as well. Like wake up an hour early and smoke a cigar and go for a walk before work one day. Or take a train somewhere west of West Chester (I've never been farther west). just, escape the mundane. and maybe that's how it happens--just one simple step at a time. maybe i'll do hundreds of simple, tiny side-steps in life before i finally go covered in gasoline into the night air, free-falling from a plane without a parachute, hurtling down towards the earth like some shooting star, aimed directly at Freddy Hill.

so here's to those avatar goons, here's to those that read this, here's to the kids who dress up like superman, here's to the pope and his sweet ass, and here's to the hope that we all burn out bright into the night, raging, uncontrollable unconsolable infernos because --fuck it, that's all that's left to do in the end. and i want it.

yearnin' and burnin'.




PS - i'm telling you-- i'm going to go to europe alone in the next year. and oh, i'll DO it.
i'm inSANE.















my avatar name woulda been:
AgroCrag

Primal Grooves

i was searching youtube for some sweet-ass bass and/or drum jams and i happened upon a real gem. one of those low-down grooves that soaks you all the way to your toes and you hear it echo in your head, in your fingers, in your dinner and in every other song you hear.

you have to go back and listen to it even if it means risking further addiction to the song. And i did. And it did.

and it was enough to drive a man mad...... or write a poem.







so i listened to this song on repeat like 400x while i wrote it and edited it. to get the full effect you have to open the song up and listen while you read it. they just 'have' to go together for some reason. give it a shot.

(couldn't figure out how to get it to open in new window, right-click and do it yourself)

Sei Bass Jam


Primal Grooves

yes, the subject is fresh.
yes, it leaks out of skin.
-it branches itself out.
.it comes from within-

until this whole tree-
until these veins whole-
blend in \ to one earth
bleed in \ to one girth

a tone, like our sun,
bright woven jaden silk-

-hiding under in-time,
skewed all in off-rhyme-

the low-down grunge "growl".
decibels, dripping on down.
Listen these sounds full-swell
warmth:
of the color brown.

it is what it will was--
cooling hotness gone 'wry.
fingers rip harmonic vines,
tearing up in frett'd lines

the oct*ave power 8,
blue shift: to s l o w down time.
love lost's lusts create.
nature's thump, a groove divine.

it reaches branch to branch
swinging tendril till enhance
the core. the breath. the dance.

you groove 'full in
you groove 'half out
don't stop. don't think or care.
do it with unwavering flare_

[it's alive. it's inside.
glowing growing groots]
it's spiral-synapse shaded green.
this vel-vet touch, yet still unseen.

eternal unconstant,
the black behind our space,
a million heartbeat journey,
this call: to 'Funkin' bass--