The Dharma Bum by Jaysen Buterin

"Without clarity, we seldom think well; without provocation, we seldom think at all." - Donald Keesey

Did you ever have that moment of zen where at any second you feel like you could freeze time and live exactly in that moment? Or even better yet, freeze time around the world except for yourself and spend fortnights running amok around this soggy giant orb, rioting and pillaging (although these are generally activities that don't look nearly as impressive with an army of one, but hey, it's my moment of zen and I can loot if I want to), spreading your hedonism and debauchery from zip code to zip code, stampeding the women and raping the cattle...wait a minute...

Oh bloody hell, who has time for zen anyway?

Besides, I hate that Bush song...

Sometimes I really stop and wonder, why am I the only one I know that is harangued by the same dream every night where I'm standing atop the most pulchritudinous Mayan temple, feeling the anesthetising warmth of the mercurial sun on my person as I stand there in my sun-god-like robes looking out over my zealous throngs of thousands of adulatory worshippers - scantily clad...wait...naked women, all bowing to me and throwing small pickles at my feet? Then again, sometimes I wonder why retro-pop couture episodic boob-tube brilliance like BJ and the Bear can't make a comeback to the airwaves? I mean really, there's a concept I can't get enough of, a man and his monkey.

And even sometimes, just sometimes, I wonder, really wonder, at what point did I become old? That's right bears and ghouls, yours truly - who had intimations of his own mortality at the age of ten, has just carved another notch in the headboard of existence that compiles the random lottery of meaningless tragedy in a series of near escapes that is my so-called life...I turned 26. Yet I shall not annoyingly whine for 30 minutes on why Jared Leto doesn't pine for me, or how Rayanne just wants attention, or how Crachau just needs to get over me (bloody hell #2 - I don't know which is more pathetic, that I can remember all the names of those vapid twits on that show, or that Sylvester Stallone actually wants to make another Rocky movie?).

You see kids, the beauty of being an ageless soul in a 26 year-old body is that I've gained this keen, yet arcane persiflage and insight as to the inner workings of this brief justification for the ontological necessity of modern man's existential dilemma, and while I truly feel that nobody...nobody can eat 50 eggs, I do have to pose this question - when the hell did tennis shoes stop looking like tennis shoes and start looking like spaceman boots? Did I miss a meeting or e-mail about this? While I shan't deny that acerbic senility set in at the age of five for me, I am legitimately vexed by the fact that shopping for shoes in this "triple dog dare/pull up your pants" world is like spending the day accessorising at a NASA store for wayward, barefoot boys. Longed for are the days of Airwalks,

Vans, Visions, Chuck Taylor Canvas All-Stars, even Keds or Roos, where the most prolific technological innovation was Velcro...or maybe the zipper pocket on the sides of the shoes that you could hide your stash in. Of course, I'm talking about being five during this sartorial apex and a "stash" at that point in time amounted to how many Tootsie Rolls you could stuff into your mouth at one time - bloody hell #3 - what did you think I meant? Get your minds out of the gutters you twisted little monkeys...there's not enough room in here for all of us.

Anyway back to the revolucion de zapatos - seriously, call me old-fashioned, or call me Susan, which I won't answer to because obviously that's not my name, call me what you will but shoes should look like shoes - it's that simple. They shouldn't look like discarded Buck Rogers space-commando boots, although if they came with a free Twiki, I'd buy a pair.

The point of all this circumlocution and inane babbling...there is no point, that's the point. People take themselves way too seriously that so many people don't know how to have fun anymore; they're just going thru the motions once more, with just a faint pulse of feeling. Plot a conspiracy theory, start a religion, call yourself Holden Caufield and rise up in the cafeteria and stab the pork fritter that begat the chicken patty that begat the beef fritter-patty with your plastic sporks! They think you're crazy? Make them think you're insane. Kill the radio with your video star and do something that will lift the fog from your valley and make you realise you're alive again. Just do it quick dear readers, because the whole world is on fire and as the sun sets slowly in the west, I bid you a fond farewell from this sacrosanct land of ours whom I cherish deeply, yet don't feel compelled to rush out to the store and buy flag-emblazoned products that I stick on my car in order to assert my allegiance and patriotic defiance. It's an icon to be revered, not a replacement car antenna cozy because you lost your Jack-in-the-Box ball. Stickers are nice, especially when they make fun of stupid people...or cretins, don't trivialise a national icon because you feel guiltily responsible for not doing so before. Just make a difference, play nice with the other kids, don't threaten to strangle the lady in front of you with her own key chain because she stole your onion rings at the Burger King counter. Trust me, it only causes more problems...but c'mon, you don't take someone else's onion rings...bunch of savages in this town. Goodnight kids.