Friday, February 09, 2007 by Ben Myers
by Steve Bagley Why'd ya leave us, buddy.
Why'd ya go?
What did you know?
That we don't
Did you know a secret?
Like this place is haunted
Did you decide to leave?
And got what you wanted
It was you
in my sleep
in my dream last evening.
Stickers on the door, a convenient store
Stop in for a minute to grab a few things
Push the door open, twice the bell rings
I'm looking for food--and you,
Real smooth,
Go no, dude.
I got all I need
And I knew
What you meant, too
And even after you're through
It echoes, what you said
On the inside of my head
As you pay for one pack
Of Marlboro reds.
Twenty-four years left not a trace,
And no man can keep pace
With the dragon chase,
And even in this void I feel no hate
Because we'll chill again,
This earth's a round place.
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Tuesday, November 14, 2006 by Ben Myers
By The Notorious E.I.T. (aka Ben Myers)
Inspired by the Notorious B.I.G. I wrote this track in a fit of empathy.
JUICY II [INTRO]
Yeah, this album is dedicated to all the teachers that tol’ me I’d never amount to nuttin,’ to all the RAs that lived in the dorms I was chillin' in that called the police on me when I was just trying to live the dream and feed my mind, and all the whiteboys in the struggle, you know what I’m sayin’? Uh-ha, it's all good baby bay-bee, uh [VERSE 1] It was all a dream,
I used to read Boys’ Life magazine,
Bad habits, skipping’classes, squirting visine
Open campus, studyhall,
Every Saturday: Bar-Mitzvahs, Hey Mr., Prank Phonecalls,
I let my grades fall till my teacher called,
Sneakin’ out late night, sippin’ on stolen alcohol,
Way back, when I had the red and black knapsack,
With the hat to match.
Remember math class, Dude? Doo-dah, doo-dah,
You never thought that trigonometry would take it this far
Now I’m the boss-man ‘cause they say I am,
Time for 4-0-1 K’s, chillin’ on paid Vay-kays, (vacations, fool)
Born wise-ass, the opposite of a kiss-ass,
Remember when I used to bump Snoop Dogg at gym class,
Peace to lacrosse, football, rugby,
Detention, suspension and groundings,
I’m running work like you thought I would,
Call the cell, same number new hood,
It’s all good. Uh, and if you don't know, now you know, brotha’, uh [CHORUS] You know very well who you are
Don't let em hold you down, reach for the stars,
You had a goal -- but not that many
'cause you're the only one, I'll give you good and plenty [VERSE TWO] I made the grades as a common cheat,
From GREs to LSATs, and SATs,
And I’m far from cheap,
I buy drinks for my boys all day,
Get f’d up, it’s the college way,
The work and writing keep me busy,
Girls used to miss me,
Now they drunk dial when they tipsy,
I never thought it could happen – this responsibility stuff,
I was too used to slackin’ off and stuff,
Now the boss want my notes,
payin’ for what I wrotes,
From Massachusetts, all around the east coast,
Building condos for Kings,
cash flow is sweet,
Schedule is packed with all the peeps I gotta meet,
Livin’ life without fear,
Built 250 units just this year,
Lunches, brunches, runnin’ on jet fuel,
Considered a fool cause I went to public school,
Stereotypes of a white jock misunderstood,
And it’s still all good. Uh...and if you don't know, now you know, brotha'...
[VERSE THREE] Blackberry – PDA, expensin' all of this,
When I was washing dishes man I couldn’t picture this,
50” screen from craigslist found a sofa,
Buying a new ride, like I’m sppos-ta,
Phone bill, about two C-notes flat,
No need to worry, I got a credit card for that,
And the headache stopped poundin’,
Stackin bills everyday,
No more quarter scroungin’,
Thinkin back, on the days of backpacks,
Now my moms pimps a Movado, and say my son got me dat,
And she loves to show me off to the worl’,
Says her friends got a Jewish daughter, "I should meet the girl,"
They used to fuss when I skipped a discuss,
One week, enjoying my Christmas bonus,
Birth days was the best days,
Now I rest, make my own holidays,
Uh darn right I like the life I live
'Cause I went from positive to positive
And it's all... (It's sweet) ...and if you don't know, now you know, brotha'.. [CHORUS] [FADE OUT]  (1972-1997) Look out for the upcomming Notorious E.I.T. Album: Ready to Design Hit Tracks Include:
Ready to Design
Gimme the Suit
Me and My Girl
One More Chance (The Republican Anthem)
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Tuesday, October 24, 2006 by Ben Myers
by Liz Perkins Waiting for the bus – in today’s American society it’s about as everyman as you can get. So as I stood in the cold October air waiting for that yellow and black monstrosity of human engineering to come barreling down the paved path roaring and shuddering like some kind of stampeding prehistoric beast towards my vigilant and shivering body, I stopped for a moment to appreciate exactly what I was partaking in. Across the Northeast at this very moment were thousands of other bus riders anticipating the pick up, the climb up three steps, the money drop, and the search for a seat next to a person whom they do not suspect of thievery, sexual perversion or psychotic delusions. It was 7:27 and the bus was exactly seven minutes late. Or perhaps maybe it had been early or I had missed it – did it matter? The bus would come again as it always did, like the first slide always came back up on my favorite toy when I was a kid - one of those red Fisher Price 3D viewers that looked like red binoculars. You always knew that if you clicked it enough times that first picture would appear again before you, looking exactly as it did the first time, brighter and larger than life and that’s just how busses are. They are all big and bright and they all look exactly the same. But the bus was still not in sight and I wished I could click through the approaching Squash truck **click**, the minivan on its way to the Junior High packed with pubescent boys **click** and the Toyota Corolla captained by an spiritless day time cube dweller **click** and just skip ahead to the bus slide **click** **click** **click** so that the proliferating anxiety in my gut about being late for work could be deserted on the sidewalk next to the bus stop sign. Then, just as I was about to lose hope, I heard a low rumbling in the distance, a grumbling from low to high and then low again as the bus pressed towards me and my fellow bus waiters, finally reaching us after much struggle, pulling over to the curb and letting out a final and dramatic exhalation - it could not have gone any farther without this brief sojourn. The beast rested for a moment and then its doors opened to us willfully and we boarded one by one, thankful that it had finally arrived to ship the human product to where it could be used in the most economically sound way. I worked my way to the back of the bus searching for a seat and procured one between a fat and bearded man who looked like a bizarro world Santa Claus with a long peppered beard and a drab circa 1949 brown tweed suit reading an old Wonder Woman comic and one which was occupied by some opaque human byproduct, saliva I hoped. I tried to make myself as comfortable as possible and pulled out my bus-ride reading material, Logical Atomism by Bertrand Russell, and instantly began to wish I had brought something more colorful, Lolita perhaps, although I had already read it too many times to count. I knew Russell, with his dry language and mostly logical lines of reasoning would offer little refuge from the monochrome atmosphere of the bus. Just as he was finishing attributing most of the ideas in his book to Wittgenstein, I realized with abject horror that the tassels of my scarf – or rather my mother’s scarf that I had stolen in haste to make the bus on time – had malingered its way into the mysterious pile of gelatinous goop that resided on the seat to my left. I shuddered as I lifted it up to inspect it and wiped it with the napkin from my lunch. As I continued to read, the bus continue to fill with people, its bellow becoming progressively desperate as it pulled away from each stop, its load growing heavier and heavier. I offered my seat to a middle-aged woman who turned down my offer with vehemence, insulted perhaps that I thought her incapable of standing for the duration of a bus ride. I tried to continue reading but found myself more taken with the other passengers than with Russell’s paradoxical conclusions. It was a motley crew of white and blue collars, businessmen and construction workers, nurses and window washers, teachers and welfare recipients. SHHHHWOOOSHHHH, the bus’s breaks kicked in a moment later the doors parted and a final passenger boarded. The bus was packed and the new comer made her way down the aisle weaving and dipping among the other passengers in her gray sweat suit, her hair pulled back into a low ponytail, listening to her IPod, eating a sandwich and heading straight towards the tainted bus seat next to me as if she sensed it before it could be seen. I knew then, I would have to warn her about the mysterious liquid in time to save her ass from base contamination. As she approached I made eye contact with her. “Oh, no,” I said, “You don’t want to sit there.” She looked at me and shook her head, saying something to me but her mouth was full. “Mmm wam mm,” she said. I looked at her perplexed and understanding my confusion she pointed to the edge of the seat and to my surprise, sat down on the ledge hovering just above certain disaster as the bus heaved and shuddered along as I watched terrified at every bump in the road, sure that she would fall into the unidentified matter and into ruin. But she just sat there serenely, as if she were not teetering on the brink of catastrophe and ate her sandwich and listened to her IPod without concern. I marveled not only at her unabashed bravery but also at her ability to keep her balance in the grumbling rumbling beast in which we rode and hoped that someday I too could feel that comfortable on a bus sitting next to a pile of no-one-wants-to-know-what.
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Friday, October 20, 2006 by Ben Myers
Posted by Heather Kelleher Driving down the Pike the other day, amongst the various signs advertising Baby Safe Haven and all you can eat @ Old Country Buffet, as well as the typical road signs directing people to their destinations, I saw a less official sign that has stricken me w/ this thing called “thought”. The sign was hung up on the overpass near the Natick Tolls; it was slightly crooked and although not handwritten, it certainly wasn’t the product of deep pocket funding. Nonetheless, the sign, which read “Help fight the war against fatherhood” achieved a goal, I won’t say, “it’s” goal, but a goal. As I zoomed under the bridge this declarative plea was hung from, I first asked myself “Does that even make sense?”. Clearly it doesn’t but as my thoughts moved beyond the initial critique, my more predominate wonder was why everything nowadays is “a war on (please fill in the blank)…Here, Let’s make a list: The War on Terror The War on Drugs The War Against the Middle Class The War on Iraq The War on Poverty The War on Christmas The War on Education in Afghanistan The War on Free Press The War on Waste The War on Truth The War on Guns (oh the irony) The War on Youth The War on Fat The War on Workers Ok, ok, I’ll stop, I’m assuming you get the idea. I’m sure anyone could agree w/ the ideals represented by at least on of these wars. I myself am am against The War on Free Press but for The War on Fat & The War on Poverty. But I wonder, despite having never picked up a gun, am I a foot soldier in these wars? And being such, have I been brainwashed to view absolutely everything as a war? It’s a little alarming to me that every state of opposition needs to be called a war. So every time I disagree with someone, apparently I am to wage war. Bring out the assault rifles then, b/c I have problems with a lot of people, ideas, institutions, etc. No wonder kids are blowing each other away, fuck! Call me a liberal, hippie, or just fucking naïve, but perhaps there’d be a little less unrest if we viewed things in a slightly more positive light. For example, instead of the War on Fat it should be called “The Promotion for Healthy Eating”. By calling something a war, an immediate division is drawn up between the two sides; people become polarized and discussion is off the table. Our actions become increasingly reactionary because we are in a perpetual state of aggression. I can’t help but think we are being programmed to accept war against everyone, even our neighbors, as natural. I suppose being comfortable waging war against neighbors makes it easier to go overseas and murder thousands of Muslims, which is probably how “they” want it. In no time at all we’ll all be goose-stepping to work, save for the occasional break in formation needed to fire 40 rounds into the fat, old lady on the T taking up two seats.
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Wednesday, October 11, 2006 by Ben Myers
by Steve Bagley, dude. Have you returned to the legendary numero three of ancient haunted-with-love Salem place whose ghosts are the dreams we leaked on the walls and spewed forth on nights that live on forever in the universal vibrations of every-moment-is-now type of thing on great fantasy carnival Main Street? And the tapestries that blew in the windows rustled like cornfields and the guitar tunes strummed like holy men's songs and magenta sunsets and big pine trees and great stone mansions of centuries past and the cherry blossoms unfolding in the yard for two sad weeks in May; and the cherry blossoms unfolding in the mind of God just simply us ethereal humans twirling in the world of things as they are; falling for the tulips to get up and run from the wolves; to command respect from, or prove in the least that one does not fear the universe but actually digs-this-shit and proved so, as Dennis (diddy-puppet-pong) did by surfing three stories of stairs on a cardboard box, planting himself at full-speed into the wall while ripping the stairway railing clean off the wall (bolts and all) in a near-tragic test of cosmic absurdity and desperate survival—and he, in the same chain of events, in a fitful monkey dance, launched a karate kick across the room at an unknown figure, missed, and traveled clear through the wall into the neighbor’s apartment, full of horrified nerds watching Tuesday night sitcoms (sad), forcing down popcorn and white wine and…you get the picture. The hard-lived life burns at both ends but is gifted with the wisdom of loneliness and drooling dragons and brotherhood for those willing to lose the self in order to gain the rest—insight unto the universe that is otherwise closed off to the intricacies of the human skull, leading an existence and never knowing there is more to be perceived, like a dog seeing black and white, never base colors, like a fish can’t see the universe above the surface—like we, thinking we have a grasp on the truth but only a grasp on our selves—like trying to hold water in your fist. So we lived like chaos; the-force-of-the-scheme-itself, kicking the door down and doing cartwheels through the world of mysterylove cherryfuck and the soul bleeds blue, rolling waves and barreling onto shore like Ganesha riding a surf board made of diamond light, like the tender huge heart of toughkid Scotty road-dog, who watched a man light himself on fire on Amherst Common; and soon learned that “death was a way out,” he muttered to me as he, years later pierced his nipples high on Wild Turkey with a scorched coat-hanger, and parties pack-jammed, arms and legs busting out the windows, grins and scoffs and howls, where love and fights happened in the same night, on a sacred burial ground of time, where beanie-cap whoop-dee-do Main Street meanders down off route 202 by the old library and pioneer burial grounds, upward through the Fall smokes past the common and staggering like a hobo towards uptown in a salmon colored sunrise 5am tweak on a Sunday morning, “the most quiet time on Earth” Eddie once said to me smoking by the pond that was a sheet of glass as vegetation encroached on our bench to inspect our human qualities with little or no judgment. Sitting alone together inside the one-mind state of being over-soul sky web bending over the whole earth like a luminous spider web-snowflake that when it rains impregnates the fertile soils and soaks and out unfolds flowers slicing into space with mind-fucking cuteness, rolling and pluming from nowhere into here and now existence at the will of the force itself—saying something whispered, just loud enough, like “hello, hope you haven’t forgotten, you’ve been sleeping since your were born.”
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Tuesday, October 03, 2006 by Ben Myers
by Liz Perkins Waterloo, a yuppie bar on the corner of 86th and 2nd, was packed with corporate youths loosening their ties, stripping away their jackets and shedding their office personas with each consecutive drink. Alan walked us to the back of the bar where a young and good looking manager was directing the chaos. “This is Jim Mahar, he’s the manager,” Alan said, “Good friend of mine. You can put your bags back here. I’m going to get behind the bar and make you guys some drinks.” ‘Sounds good to me!” said Aqua. “And me,” said I. “What do you guys want?” “I’ll have a Stella,” I said. “I’ll have a cosmopolitan,” said Aqua. The Devil jumped behind the bar and got down to business. As I looked around Waterloo, I felt strangely out of place. Although the early twenty-something crowd was common for me and I should have felt completely at ease, I was strangely unnerved. I was accustomed to seeing young people in jeans and t-shirts, not jackets and ties. The business wear seemed unnatural, restrictive and morbid, like they were dressed for their own funerals. Who were these people? Is this what I would become after finding employment? “Your drinks, ladies,” Alan said as he handed us our libations and then headed down the bar to service other patrons. “A toast,” Aqua said. “A toast,” I said. Silence. “Haha, what are we toasting to?” I said. “I don’t know, I thought you were going to say it,” “Hahahaha, you were the one who said ‘a toast’!” “Fine…A toast to toasting!” Aqua exclaimed. “To toasting!” and we drank our drinks down, fast, and Alan was right there to fill them back up again when we were done. “I’ll just have water for this one, don’t want to get ahead of myself,” I said. It was only eight o’clock and I knew we had a long night of drinking ahead of us. I wanted to keep my wits about me at the Devil’s lair. The Devil and Aqua threw back a couple red headed sluts and then Aqua and I hit the dance floor to the sounds of Daft Punk, “One more time! We’re gonna celebrate, oh yeah, all right, don’t stop dancing!” As we busted out some of our signature dance moves, I couldn’t help but notice a dark circle of suits slowly encroaching upon our dance space. Suddenly, one of the collared shirts turned toward us. Jim suddenly materialized behind Aqua and began swinging his hips side to side along with hers. “Hey girls, are you having a good time?” he asked us. “Yeah, great time,” Aqua said. “Alan tells me you guys went to Umass Amherst,” Jim yelled above the drunken calamity. “Yeah we did.” I said. “So did I,” he informed us. It was hard for me to believe, he was wearing a suit! “Oh really? When did you graduate?” Aqua asked. “2004,” Jim said. “Jim Mahar…like, as in Mahar auditorium?” I asked. “Haha yeah, my grandfather,” he replied. “That’s funny,” Aqua said. “I had a lot of classes in there!” I glanced over at the bar and noticed the Devil looking up at me as he poured a drink for an attractive blond business woman. When he finished pouring he began to dance behind the bar, all the while looking at me, and then he gave me the move, the move that you do when you want to make the classic impression of a stereotypical preppy prick, he stuck his pointers out like guns gave me the two-finger Harvard salute and I had to laugh out loud because he did not even know he was a walking cliché. Poor little Devil. “So, is Aqua your real name?” Jim inquired. “Haha, yes, yes it is,” she replied. “‘Aqua’ is nothing,” I said, “ask her what her last name is.” “What’s your last name?” “Bang,” she said. “Aqua Bang?!? That’s really your name??” Jim said, disbelievingly. “That’s really my name,” she replied. “Are you a porn star?” Jim asked. Nope, that’s just the name my mother gave me,” she said. “So you’re a superhero,” Jim stated. “She’s my hero,” I said with a wink. The three of us kept dancing but I had the feeling I should soon find an excuse to exit. Bang and Mahar seemed intrigued by more than their respective names. I crossed to the bar. If I was going to walk around making random conversation with strangers I was going to need a little more al-key-haul. When I got to there I saw a girl passing the Devil a dollar bill with a sly look on her face. He looked at it, furrowed his brow, and threw it away in the trash. When he looked up, he saw me and smiled. “Hey doll, what can I get you?” I could not believe he actually called me “doll”, who did he think he was, Sinatra? “Hahaha…” I accidentally laughed right in the Devil’s face, “I’ll have a mojito,” Why not live it up while you’re drinking on the Satan’s tab? “A mo-whato?” he said. “A mo-hee-toe,” I yelled above the clamor. “I don’t know how to make that,” he said. “Ok…how about a highball?” I asked. “Don’t know that either,” he said. “What kind of bartender are you?” I asked. “I’m not here because I’m good at pouring drinks,” the Devil informed me, “I’m here because I know Jim and because I act the way I act.” “Aha,” I should have known, “then I’ll have a Cape Codder – that’s just vodka and cranberry. Do you think you can handle that?” “I think I can do that for you,” he said with a smirk. “Thanks,” I said, smirking right back at him. The Devil handed me my drink. It was getting hot in the bar so I made my way over to the door to get some air and check out the scene on the New York City sidewalk. I made small talk with the giant bouncer at the door who turned out to be an ex pro wrestler. His hand was the size of my head. I bummed a cigarette off of him and as we smoked he talked about life on the mat but my mind (which does not often do what it is supposed to be doing – in this case, listening) began to wander to the city itself. The borough was sprawled out before me. Twenty one square miles of cement magically cast into gourmet restaurants, fast food joints, museums, exclusive clubs, tenements, churches, crack shacks, bars, designer stores, nail salons, bodegas, strip joints, luxurious apartments, and booming businesses. Someone, long ago, took one look at the island of Manhattan – then covered with lush forests, babbling rivers and refreshing lakes, and thought, “I know how I can make this better. I can make it into a veritable playground for the Devil!” and they did. And I can tell you from personal experience, he really appreciates it. It was quite an impressive feat. I could feel the city beating beneath me and I watched it from the moon. From conception to present state it spread slowly over the surface of the island of Manhattan (which means “hilly island” in Algonquin) like flesh eating bacteria, swallowing up the natural features of the landscape, branching out, shrinking a little, then growing a little more, pulsating and advancing over the land. The city was more than just a pile of bricks and ego, it was a living organism that chewed up naïve aspiring actresses and spit them out in the dumpster. But oh, was it fun to watch.
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Monday, September 25, 2006 by Ben Myers
- In studying the history of the human mind one is impressed again and again by the fact that the growth of the mind is the widening of the range of consciousness, and that each step forward has been a most painful and laborious achievement. One could almost say that nothing is more hateful to man than to give up even a particle of his unconsciousness. Ask those who have tried to introduce a new idea!
- - Carl Jung
Seriously, where is the love? Visiting this pathetic domain, I'm reminded of Chairman Mao's description of the western world, "a sick giant dying slowly." We need to post some shit. Cease tending to your own affairs, send myself or Bob an email, include something written, or not, and contribute! Thanks, Ben http://www.honeyedmouth.blogspot.com
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Please email prospective posts to ben.t.myers@gmail.com.
Or, if you are so inclined, bobmcgovern@gmail.com
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