Time was a fool with a banjo.


I haven't always been one to wear his heart on his sleeve,
however I do believe that a few individuals have managed to steal my heart like,
candy from a baby
or motivation from a suicidal teen
or dignity from the bush administration.


Besides the regulars, who should know who they are. (*if I were of oriental discent, here's where I would put the winking emoticon.*) There are a number of people now deceased that have captivated my heart in a similar fashion.

To Name a Few:
Weezy F. Nietzsche,
Albert Camus,
Kurt Vonegutt,
and of course, Cat Stevens

As you all must be wondering now, "what the fuck is this post about, and what do dead people shikhar get's off to have to do with time being a fool with a banjo" **

and now, for a side note:
[[ ** despite popular belief, I love Nietzsche and everyone else on that list in a different light. Physically, they're quite unattractive and boring. Also, Nietzsche had syphilis. ]]

Back to the meaning of life,
there is one, and only one link between banjo's, time, and the forementioned list. Ready for it:
too bad, other people are...
Charles Bukowski.

He looked like this:

After picking a few of his books from the excesses of capitalism, (for more hilarity, see "obvious euphemisms)
I have realized he is precisely what was missing from my life.
pre-empt: no, he's not a woman, or a life, or a gym, or religion.

he is, however a god among men. err, at least was. He fell off the map in 1994 just as he published his last book. (they say he suffered from perpetual awesomeness. This continual dose of awesome ultimately culminated in an awesomeness attack, which claimed the life of the greatest half-german half-american bastard to ever write a book.

Without further ado, here's a short story:

this story is fucking weired, but nevertheless I like it. My favorite quote is bolded.

back to the goods:


I was sitting in a bar on Western Ave. It was around midnight and I was in my usual
confused state. I mean, you know, nothing works right: the women, the jobs, the no
jobs, the weather, the dogs. Finally you just sit in a kind of stricken state and wait like
you're on the bus stop bench waiting for death.
Well, I was sitting there and here comes this one with long dark hair, a good body,
sad brown eyes. I didn't turn on for her. I ignored her even though she had taken the
stool next to mine when there were a dozen other empty seats. In fact, we were the
only ones in the bar except for the bartender. She ordered a dry wine. Then she asked
me what I was drinking.
"Scotch and water."
"Give him a scotch and water," she told the barkeep.
Well, that was unusual.
She opened her purse, removed a small wire cage and took some little people out
and sat them on the bar. They were all around three inches tall and they were alive and
properly dressed. There were four of them, two men and two women.
"They make these now," she said, "they're very expensive. They cost around $2,000
apiece when I got them. They go for around $2,400 now. I don't know the
manufacturing process but it's probably against the law."
The little people were walking around on the top of the bar. Suddenly one of the
little guys slapped one of the little women across the face.
"You bitch," he said, "I've had it with you!"
"No, George, you can't," she cried, "I love you! I'll kill myself! I've got to have
"I don't care," said the little guy, and he took out a tiny cigarette and lit it. "I've got a
right to live."
"If you don't want her," said the other little guy, "I'll take her. I love her."
"But I don't want you, Marty. I'm in love with George."
"But he's a bastard, Anna, a real bastard!"
"I know, but I love him anyhow."
The little bastard then walked over and kissed the other little woman.
"I've got a triangle going," said the lady who had bought me the drink. "That's Marty
and George and Anna and Ruthie. George goes down, he goes down good. Marty's
kind of square."
"Isn't it sad to watch all that? Er, what's your name?"
"Dawn. It's a terrible name. But that's what mothers do to their children sometimes."
"I'm Hank. But isn't it sad . . ."
"No, it isn't sad to watch it. I haven't had much luck with my own loves, terrible luck
really . . ."
"We all have terrible luck."
"I suppose. Anyhow, I bought these little people and now I watch them, and it's like
having it and not having any of the problems. But I get awfully hot when they start
making love. That's when it gets difficult."
"Are they sexy?"
"Very, very sexy. My god, it makes me hot!"
"Why don't you make them do it? I mean, right now. We'll watch them together."
"Oh, you can't make them do it. They've got to do it on their own."
"How often do they do it?"
"Oh, they're pretty good. They go four or five times a week."
They were walking around on the bar. "Listen," said Marty, "give me a chance. Just
give me a chance, Anna."
"No," said Anna, "my love belongs to George. There's no other way it can be."
George was kissing Ruthie, feeling her breasts. Ruthie was getting hot.
"Ruthie's getting hot," I told Dawn.
"She is. She really is."
I was getting hot too. I grabbed Dawn and kissed her.
"Listen," she said, "I don't like them to make love in public. I'll take them home and
have them do it."
"But then I can't watch."
"Well, you'll just have to come with me."
"All right," I said, "let's go."
I finished my drink and we walked out together. She carried the little people in the
small wire cage. We got into her car and put the people in between us on the front
seat. I looked at Dawn. She was really young and beautiful. She seemed to have good
insides too. How could she have gone wrong with her men? There were so many ways
those things could miss. The four little people had cost her $8,000. Just that to get
away from relationships and not to get away from relationships.
Her house was near the hills, a pleasant looking place. We got out and walked up to
the door. I held the little people in the cage while Dawn opened the door.
"I heard Randy Newman last week at The Troubador. Isn't he great?" she asked.
"Yes, he is."
We walked into the front room and Dawn took the little people out and placed them
on the coffeetable. Then she walked into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator and
got out a bottle of wine. She brought in two glasses.
"Pardon me," she said, "but you seem a little bit crazy. What do you do?"
"I'm a writer."
"Are you going to write about this?"
"They'll never believe it, but I'll write it."
"Look," said Dawn, "George has got Ruthie's panties off. He's fingering her. Ice?"
"Yes, he is. No, no ice. Straight's fine."
"I don't know," said Dawn, "it really gets me hot to watch them. Maybe it's because
they're so small. It really heats me up."
"I know what you mean."
"Look, George is going down on her now." '
"He is, isn't he?"
"Look at them!"
"God o mighty!"
I grabbed Dawn. We stood there kissing. As we did her eyes went from mine to
them and then back to mine again.
Little Marty and little Anna were watching too.
"Look," said Marty, "they're going to make it. We might as well make it. Even the
big folks are going to make it. Look at them!"
"Did you hear that?" I asked Dawn. "They said we're going to make it. Is that true?"
"I hope it's true," said Dawn.
I got her over to the couch and worked her dress up around her hips. I kissed her
along the throat. "I love you," I said.
"Do you? Do you?"
"Yes, somehow, yes . . ."
"All right," said little Anna to little Marty, "we might as well do it too, even though I
don't love you."
They embraced in the middle of the coffeetable. I had worked Dawn's panties off.
Dawn groaned. Little Ruthie groaned. Marty closed in on Anna. It was happening
everywhere. I got the idea that everybody in the world was doing it. Then I forgot
about the rest of the world. We somehow walked into the bedroom. Then I got into
Dawn for the long slow ride. . . .
When she came out of the bathroom I was reading a dull dull story in Playboy.
"It was so good," she said.
"My pleasure," I answered.
She got back into bed with me. I put the magazine down.
"Do you think we .can make it together?" she asked.
"What do you mean?"
"I mean, do you think we can make it together for any length of time?"
"I don't know. Things happen. The beginning is always easiest."
Then there was a scream from the front room. "Oh-oh," said Dawn. She leaped up
and ran out of the room. I followed. When I got there she was holding George in her
"Oh, my god!"
"What happened?"
"Anna did it to him!"
"Did what?"
"She cut off his balls! George is a eunuch!"
"Get me some toilet paper, quickly! He might bleed to death!"
"That son of a bitch," said little Anna from the coffeetable, "ifI can't have George,
nobody can have him!"
"Now both of you belong to me!" said Marty.
"No, you've got to choose between us," said Anna.
"Which one of us is it?" asked Ruthie.
"I love you both," said Marty.
"He's stopped bleeding," said Dawn. "He's out cold." She wrapped George in a
handkerchief and put him on the mantle.
"I mean," Dawn said to me, "if you don't think we can make it, I don't want to go
into it anymore."
"I think I love you. Dawn."
"Look," she said, "Marty's embracing Ruthie!"
"Are they going to make it?"
"I don't know. They seem excited."
Dawn picked Anna up and put her in the wire cage.
"Let me out of here! I'll kill both of them! Let me out of here!"
George moaned from inside his handkerchief upon the mantle. Marty had Ruthie's
panties off. I pulled Dawn to me. She was beautiful and young and had insides. I could
be in love again. It was possible. We kissed. I fell down inside her eyes. Then I got up
and began running. I knew where I was. A cockroach and an eagle made love. Time
was a fool with a banjo. I kept running. Her long hair fell across my face.
"I'll kill everybody!" screamed little Anna. She rattled about in her wire cage at 3
a.m. in the morning.

For any of you who cared enough to read through that, the rest of the book is on ScribD.

"South of No North - A Collection of Short Stories by Charles Bukowski"

So.   I have a tendency to get low grades on english papers for some reason.   Usually because I tend not to answer the question and instead focus on psychological philosophical shit I'd rather think about / found more important.   Hover this time, I have been blessed to have a topic CENTERED around philosophy as I got to analys the Oedipus Complex in relation to shakespeare's Hamlet. 

Here's the paper:   You psychoanalysts out there, sorry If my analysis is a little off point, I did the best I could.  

Without futher ado (or much ado) about nothing, 

My Attempt to dabble in psychoanalysis and interpretation of Lacan as applied to Hamlet. 

Desire and the Oedipus Complex in Shakespeare’s Hamlet

Shakespeare’s Hamlet  is  not only one of the greatest plays of the Elizabethan era, but also a tragic story of repressed desire turned to inner ressentiment which serves as a classic example of Freud’s theory of the Oedipus Complex.   As the story of hamlet unfurls, we see the development of a tragic hero shadowed by the Oedipus complex.   In order to better qualify this assertion, we must first understand what exactly is meant by Freud’s Oedipus Complex and secondly analyze and apply this fundamental theory to the chronological development of Hamlet as a tragic hero.

Freud’s theory of the Oedipus complex argues that a young child has a strong sexual attraction towards his mother and competes with his father for her sexual attention.   The Oedipus Complex as applied to hamlet follows a perversion of this rivalry: often the child feels overwhelmed by the overpowering masculinity of his father and he ceases to compete with him realizing he’s always second in line.   With no other choice, the child is forced to repress his sexual desire which signaling the development a super-ego to counter act the ego in the actualization of perverted sexual desire.   In applying this theory to Shakespeare’s tragic hero, Hamlet – one may begin to wonder why Freud didn’t title his theory the ‘hamlet complex’ as it presents a much more realistic account of his theory:  focusing on the effects of repressed desire has on Hamlets ability to maintain his composition as a rational actor.  

As the story opens, we find that even prior to learning about his uncles dastardly involvement in his fathers death – Hamlet is disgusted and deeply troubled by his mother’s decision to take his hand in marriage.   Meanwhile, his uncle works tirelessly to take his departed fathers place as a fatherly figure of nobility in Hamlets life.   In fact, seeing Hamlet upset sparks Claudius to urge Hamlet to “stay near” as he is “next in line for the throne” and doesn’t want anything bad to happen to the future king of Denmark.   The irony in this is that Claudius accomplishes the opposite of what he seeks as he places his-self in front of Hamlet in line for the throne.   In a Freudian sense, the throne is symbolic of a sense of closeness to the queen,  (not so) coincidentally his mother.  This marks the exposition of Hamlet’s Oedipus complex as his fathers death is supposed to mark his ascendance to his father’s position as his mothers lover and protector,   however since Claudius’ sneakily takes his father’s hamlet feels cheated and grows envious of his mother’s new man.   As the act closes, we see Hamlet overcome with resentment as he contemplates suicide he feels hapless and vulnerable in sexually repressed state.

Psychoanalyst Jaques Lacan makes an interesting argument for the Oedipus complex as applied to Shakespeare’s hamlet he argues that “The desire, of his mother, is essentially manifested in …”[the] confront[ation] on one hand with an eminent, idealized, exalted object – his father – and on the other with the degraded, despicable object Claudius, the criminal and adulterous brother, [which] Hamlet does not choose.”  Hamlets overwhelming love for his mother and hatred of Claudius causes Hamlet  to “waver in his abjuration of his mother.” and defuse all responsibility in the incestuous act upon Claudius, as the primal villain in Hamlets unconscious ego. (Lacan 3)   Lacan further notes that Hamlet’s disposition against Claudius is due to the fact that “his mother does not choose [Claudius] …[she is instead attracted to him]because of [an] instinct[ual] voracity… The sacrosanct genital objects … appear to her as an…objet d’une jouissancce… in what is truly the direct satisfaction of her need, and nothing else,” Further rationalizing her actions from Hamlet’s perspective.  (3-4)  

A major turning point for Hamlet is as he learns the “truth” about his father’s death as revealed by his father’s ghastly figure.   As act I scene IV unfurls, the ghost of hamlet reveals his mysterious death was in fact a homicide committed by none other than Claudius, who poisoned him in is sleep.   He then urges hamlet to avenge his death by taking revenge on his dastardly brother, Claudius –but also explains that he must not hurt his mother.    From a psychoanalytical standpoint, the ghost of hamlets father represents his Ego: which leads him to rationalize hurting Claudius and not his mother, a predictable condition of his psychological precondition.

            What is often ignored by many theories of Hamlet’s Oedipus complex is that although his actions are primarily driven by his repressed desire for his mother, his father also plays an important role in the development of the fantasy.  David Kastan argues that Hamlet definitely feels a type of labinal attachment to his father; warranting that “Hamlet cannot name himself without simultaneously naming his father… his fathers name [becomes] “bound to [him]” and finally [“bound to revenge”] … [and thus hamlet] is bound to… his fathers cause” (Kastan 1)  As a result, Hamlet’s identity becomes solely created by his desire for revenge against his father’s killer and his loyalty to his mother, “he would be the only the son, sworn to remember and revenge his father.”  (Kastan 1)  This overwhelming love for his mother and vengeful longing for revenge for his father born out of his ressentiment creates the perfect ethical cause for the tragic hero, Hamlet – prince, and avenger, of Denmark.   

The establishment of Hamlets ethical role is apparent as he cries “Yea, from the table of my memory I’ll wipe away all trivial…records… [so] that youth…be copied there,  And thy commandment all alone shall live Within the book and volume of my brain, Unmixed with baser matter.“ (99-104)  This is precisely what Lacan would call the perversion of the phantasmal order in the creation of the fantasy.   He argues that “the fantasy… [is] paradoxical… [On] one hone hand the end term is desire, and on the other hand… it’s…located in the conscious” (Lacan  5)  This fundamental theory helps to explain Hamlet’s continual struggle with his super-ego –.    Hamlet’s outcry signals his return to his childhood obligations, the inversion of the super-ego is complete as Hamlet finds a new ethical cause by which to live his life.   even after his commitment to a new ethical cause Shakespeare’s comparison to the bible seems to signal that like Christ, Hamlet too becomes a martyr for his cause.   However, The difference between hamlet and Christ is that Hamlet lives by no moral order:  he feels justified in doing anything and everything to satisfy his inner ego.   Lacan further notes that “insofar as the fantasy marks every human passion… perverse… it appears in a sufficiently paradoxical form to… have motivated the rejection of the phantasmic dimension as being on the order of the absurd.” (Lacan 5)   The absurdity that ensues hamlet’s perversion of moral and biblical order is the very absurdity that characterizes the original fantasy of unity with his mother and vengeance for his father who he now aware of his instinctual interconnectivity to. No longer living by the book of piety and weakness that had entrenched his identity– He returns to his most innate primal instinct:  love for his mother, and vengeance for his father.  

Learning the truth has a magnanimous affect on his mental stability, as it exposes the inherent disjunction between his desire to maintain his biblical sanctity as the prince of Denmark and his desire to avenge his father’s death – causing hamlet to violently snaps back and forth between a dimension of rationality and irrationally.  The forces that were once repressed by his super-ego discharge in an irrational manner as his ressentiment turns outwards and he begins to lash out at everyone he loves, even raising his voice at his beloved mother.  Then suddenly he loses all ability to cope with the world and descends into a deep depression in which everything seems meaningless, he begins to question his own ontological being:  “to be or not to be… that is the question.  .” (54-55)   His subjectivity in question, Hamlet falls back upon his logic to create an ethical justification for violence against his stepfather; his plan: to develop a litmus test to determine Claudius’ Guilt.

As he becomes sure of Claudius’ guilt, many critics of my position argue that hamlet , being so desperate to kill Claudius, should have taken any opportunity to do it.   Since  Hamlet does indeed pass off an opportunity to kill Claudius in prayer, critics believe the theory of a new Hamlet born out of ressentiment to be falsified.  However what is ignored is that due to the very the nature of revenge, which Kastan argues “… is a desperate mode of imitation…[in which] The revenger is…allowed only to re-act to –and re re-enact – the original crime, ” (3) the inner ressentiment that now consumes Hamlet presents a more logical explanation of his decision to wait.   That is, his delay can only be understood as a last grapple between the ego and the super-ego, a battle between the pious rational actor within hamlet and his overwhelming desire to take revenge on Claudius.   Shakespeare creates the perfect setting to express the inner struggle Hamlet undergoes by alludes to the perversion of the moral fantasy as he  presented with the opportunity of murdering Claudius in prayer, but refuses to take it.  Kaston concludes that his refusal is an indication of “[a] resistance to accept his imitative relation… to his father who urges him to revenge” further revealing an underlying complexity of Hamlet’s Oedipus Complex. (Kastan 3)  

            Hamlet’s final hour is perhaps most revealing as what remains throughout most of the play an inner conflict is given a means to physically discharge, his super-ego is overcome by his ego and his innate desire as his life is pitted against that of Leartes.    Interestingly enough, Hamlet enters the competition on the side of his enemy, and has absolutely nothing to gain from it besides a title of nobility and honor.   However what Hamlet remains blind to is that he is entering into “the most serious of games… a game [in which] he will lose his life in spite of himself.” (Lacan 20)    The spirit of the Martyr is clearly present as the conditions of the tournament express “the very nature of the fantasy” as Leartes proves to be his mirror double. (Lacan 20)   Lacan warrants that “the basis of aggressivity… [is situated] in the imaginary register… the one you admire most… [is] the one you have to kill.” (Lacan 21) Furthermore, the fact that Hamlet’s inner desire to murder Claudius does not surface until he learns about the death of his mother further at the hands of Claudius and of his secret ploy to poison Hamlet which Leartes regrettably informs him of further reveals that his thirst for vengeance is born out of the irrationality that subsumes him in the actualization of his Oedipal desires.  Hamlet proves to be a true martyr for his perverted phantasmal order as with his final breaths, he avenges his father and satisfies his desire for closeness with his mother – even in death.    His revenge upon his father presents a bitter-sweet irony that no Shakespearian tragic hero would be complete without, as he impales Claudius with the very double-edged sword that killed Leartes, and now ushers in his death, on the very throne on which his father once sat and force-feeds him  the very poisoned wine responsible for his mothers downfall.   In his death, Shakespeare’s tragic fantasy is complete, as Hamlet satisfies his call to ethical violence and proves to be true a martyr for his cause.   


[Im]mortal Combat.

Immortal Combat.

What a title for a semi-profane return to the internet scene. Not to say I had followers or even chronic readers - fuck, I didn't even have a direction -- I just feel its important to note that I haven't written here in fucking ages! Only adding to the irony is that I've written of similar epiphanies quite often in the past few months. Fuck it. Life remains an eternal return of the same - what else is new??

So shit. Let's not play games with excuses. The real reason I haven't been writing here is a little blury to me - but I have a few theories as to why not.

1. Business.
2. Laziness.
3. Self-Conceousness.
4. High Expectations.
5. Debate.
6. Utter Shit. (pronounced: Other -- for more: see raving idiot, Emanuel Levinas)

Now, on to more interesting news...

I think I've come to yet another profound conclusion about life. Although I am conflicted on whether or not whether it's a conclusion or simply another beginning. A new marker in the journey to self-appreciative unconditional affirmation of who I are. (I know, I keep it fresh like Whole Foods.) This conclusion, however simple, I know, is a difficult perspective to uphold, a truth only for those brave enough to forge their own way through nothingness. I have yet to meet a person so brave, and I must add that I in fact do not see such a figure in my own shadow. Enough with the buildup, most of you have probably heard me say this sometime or the other: "life is a swirl of eternal meaninglessness."

ok, lets stop. Before you egg my house or send me nasty emails telling me "My life has meaning; ya douche!! [insert trail of profanities]" let me clarify what it is I am attempting to so publicly declare on this here internets. (and yes, you're welcome to use that as an email template) I began pondering the idea a few months back, but I never really understood how cold we were in the shaddow of our befallen god until pretty recently... Have you ever filled up a condom with water due to a lack of water baloons? .... becuase I haven't. But I think that if such a condom were to break before my eyes, I would be a witness to perhaps the greatest metaphor for a Nietzschean Big Bang (Pun Intended); That is, a giant cataclysmic accident that dispersed the forces across the great cosmos in an endless swirling game.

Though the joker often poses "why so serious?" I have yet to see a plausable victim take his questions seriously. Heath ledger was a phenominal actor, and I think that this kind of dismissive discern is precisely what drove him crazy! Just because the fucker had a clown mask on isn't a reason to not take him seriously. I Tried ; Thought; then Failed. Until I realized... maybe there was no good answer. Ask your self, "Why So Serious?!?" Who ever knew that a played out batman line could represent something so profoundly Nietzschean. Why are we so serious? :: About school, about work, about church, about friends, about our beliefs?! We pious fools have bowed before false gods and now do believe that there is a certain way we "ought to be." Has the madmans message not yet reached us? Why do we still choose to stand in the shaddow of our god? I'll tell you. Although god may be dead, and our hands - tainted with blood - We still embody the weakness that we so fundamentally clutched on to for so long. The lies that we call truths promise a new world - the greater kingdom of heaven where there was only good, and the bad stayed away. Well I've got a question for you world, What if it isn't that simple... What if there are no white and black? What if the only color on gods palet is toumbstone grey? Should we still chose to live our lives in seriousness and piety to the weaknesses we have dubbed strengths? I personally think not, but it's up to you to decide your position on that one.

"Why?" - Not only a good band, but also a tricky question. Being a curious goerge fan, I posed this question as often as possible -- although i was never really satisfied with the answer. Why was the sky blue? because god made air particles. Why are they blue? because air particles reflect light. No matter where I looked, the heavens or the bare hands of human innovation. I consistantly discovered "how" but never "why" things were the way they were. Until one night, in the very room I sit in, it hit me like a train. What did? Silence. The same silence I had felt when I asked why the sky was the way it was, or why people die, or why every good thing has to end, or why I was so chubby. Although a familiar feeling had returned, it brought with it a revealing even heidegger would pay to see.

No. Not pics of Jessica Alba nude you fucking pervs -- the moment revealed that maybe there was no answer to the question "why?" that maybe the me, you, the world and it's moon are all just a small fraction of a glorious accident who's reverbrations we surf and call "experience." Sure it's stupid, and you're right - i can't prove it. But something doesn't have to be falsifyable to be a "truth" for absolute truth was burried with god, it is only our fear which props it up today. I'm not saying we shouldn't have truths, just that we should be brave enough to forge our own. That always makes for the most interesting people.

So here we are. Meaningless, Unequal, Fragmented and Alone. But that doesn't mean it's the end of the road. Do the highest mountains cower in fear, or stand tall in all of their glory? Do the tallest trees shrink to be like their comrades, or do their comrads grow - to some day be even half their height? My point is, that just because meaning isn't legislated in our lives doesn't mean that we can never lead meaningful lives. I think it's better put as tabula rasa, a clean slate on which you must mold yourself out of nothingness.

Go ahead, I dare you.

If everything was permitted, what will you do?
Are you strong enough to part the sea of meaninglessness?


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