Bier de Stone ( wrote,
Bier de Stone

210 to 5N to 126 to 23 to 118W to 34 to 101

(click for illustration)

Hollywood dreaming of hacking out the film on hard copy gradually conditions my thought patters in propædeutic dogma where dialogue is verbatim. In other words, when parts of dialogue in a screenplay calls for numbers, it is customary to spell out the number desired to be read instead of using arabic numerals, as in “take the two-ten to the five west.” In this way, one eliminates an actor from reading his lines like this: “take the two-hundred-ten to the five west.” It’s a totally new way of thought processing when a writers finds himself in the zone because, as you know, it takes that much longer to spell out the word one twenty-six than it does to type the numbers 126.

Writing into my blog has taken on a new form as well. I use to surf the web for vlogs that I could comment about in hopes that I would maintain some readership. I can’t do that sort of thing now that I’m off line most of the time. Consequently, I wish I could come up with a way to download RSS feeds for my lj f-list so that I can read off line. I’ll miss following the hotlinks I find in those blog entries as well as expressing my opinions in my comments.

Self control has never been one of my strong points. Discipline is opposite to my rebelious personality, and I never could make up my mind over who I want to be, a cartoonist transitioning into the art of screenwriting, a screenwriter analyzing script writing to the point of straying to javascript, a web designer learning html and css for the sake of keeping alive the need to doodle and share a comic strip or two on-line, or maybe a writer turned biker to experience the full sense of riding.

A poet who reflects his views of hooker envy, or a musician without a band. There’s just so much I want to do, I feel like a man who couldn’t stop reading into things. The overall look of this blog was waring thin on me, like my blue jeans. Or do I mean it’s waring thin on me. I dunno anymore because I can’t query the Internet on the fly anymore. My blog will take on a raw, west coast dialect tone. Being politically correct calling my blog “quest for the Hollywood buzz” was yesterday, today meet the new blanketsin.

There’s been so much stuff I’ve wanted to say. Stuff that I’m sure I will be embarrassed to have said tomorrow will now be uncensored. I have opinions about off shore drilling, Toyota, tea party movements, Arizona’s Sicherheitsdienst movement, poseurs running for office with names that rhyme with poisoner, and other stupid shit.

I think if the current administration wanted Americans to believe the solution is off shore drilling, then off sure drilling explains the lack of insurance that will dig this government deeper in the hole of debt when accidents like the one in the Gulf of Mexico cannot be contained.

Dear Uncle Al… erm, I had the most incredible ride to Camarillo. Since you mentioned your route to Santa Barbara, I’ve been anticipating a day when I would be off from work to take a ride to the coast along the route you mentioned. During the twenty minutes of beautiful landscaping, I couldn’t help myself fantasize of sharing the moment with somebody special. However, I don’t have a passenger seat on my HOG. So my mind just kind of lingered in limbo while I considered having passenger pegs installed, a dual seat made, how much mileage per gallon I would have to account for, buying a spare helmet and whether or not my tires would explode if I fill them to 41PSI.

I know already whom I desire for a passenger, the problem is convincing her to ride. My vivid imagination takes me for a ride in itself, until I am shaken out of it by the reminder my last relationship remarked about my obsessive nature to get on one’s nerves. Sheesh. Birds.

On my return from my expedition to Ventura County, I could barely keep my eyes on the road. I can’t be certain, but from the white patch of feathers underneath her wing span, I believe I saw a real live California Condor fly overhead. It was beween Fillmore and the 118 when I was winding thru the canyons on junction 23 that these majestic turkey-sized carnivores seemed to be keeping me company. I wanted to stop for a better look, but I figured I might see them again when I make the run up to Santa Barbara next. I long to see a condor fly overhead like that when it’s had its fill of carrion because it’s the only bird I know that size which exposes a bare, red breast once fully fed. I guess black widows comes to mind, but I prefer to think bleeding hearts.

Tags: illustration

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