Real Life Old Timer

COLTON HARRIS-MOORE - aka 'the barefoot bandit' is at it again. That, or he's just never stopped.

Last sighting: The Bahamas, after crashing a single-engined Cessna he flew over 1,000 miles to get there.

He was 18 and stealing airplanes and crash landing them away from authorites. He's 19 now, about 6'5 and still at it.

Keep running, kid!

Colton Harris-Moore

Bahama Chase Article

And he's non-violent to boot!


Colton Harris-Moore Fan Club!

More posts to follow, i promise.

-e.

High Times, May 1978

WHY I LOVE TO LIVE FAST
Andy Warhol
May 1978


FIRST OF ALL, IT'S best to be born fast, because it hurts, and it's best to die fast, because it hurts, but I think if you were born and died within that minute, that would be the best life, because the priest says that way you're guaranteed to go to heaven. He says you're born to die. “Born to die” – you could write a song about it.
I know I love to live fast because all my favorite things are the fastest – the new Polaroid Super 8 movie camera, the Roy Rogers Family-Style and Sony tape recorders, the Concorde, drive-in movies (because you can go in your pajamas). And my favorite person is Tom Seaver, because he pitches the fast ball and he gave me the fast bat I'm holding in this picture taken by the fastest photographer in America.
Ever since I was a kid I've wanted to live as fast as I could, so I always try to find ways to do things faster: I like to sleep fast, that's when you just snooze, and I like to love fast, that's when you have a one-night affair (but remember, a fast person can never have any kind of relationship with a slow person). And I really like Swanson's TV dinners when you have friends over, because there are no greasy dishes to think about afterwards. When I get up in the morning, it doesn't take me any time to get ready for work because I wear the same thing every day. So uniforms are great, and the fastest uniform today is the jumpsuit: you just jump in it, jump out the door, and jump to work.
Some people complain that you should have slow sex-- like in India I head that it takes fourteen hours-- but then they have all these problems with, what do they call it, premature ejaculation? See, I always thought that was the best kind. You should never even get it in before you come. I mean, you might be able to get to the point where you just shoot it inside your pants, thinking about it, and that would be the best.
Frankly, in my opinion, there's nothing it's good to do slow, so the only thing is, how to live fast if you live slow? I don't know anyone who takes amphetamines anymore, but you could hang around with girls who take diet pills, because they'll get you nervous and jittery and that makes you go fast. But what really makes you go fast is if you knit: you never can stop once you get started, and it teaches you that it's best to keep doing something all the time because that way you live faster and faster. I paint faster now, because I use a sponge, and I make movies faster, but I think new movies will be even faster, like only half an hour. I mean, for me time goes by so fast I find myself asking everybody on Friday if it's still Monday.
Funnily enough, America isn't the fastest country. They live faster in Japan, but the Japanese are such completely different people you can't make any comparisons. And, anyway, fast Americans are the most glamorous people: they do more, see more, learn more, and get more money because they get fast money. I love to live fast, because then you don't have to think about anything. For example, writing this took me four minutes – which is the time it takes to eat a Big Mac – so I did it in my lunch minutes, and I was glad because, instead of just eating and talking to the kids in the office about my problems, I was eating and writing an article for High Times, so I got more done and made more money and felt better faster. And that's what we're here for, isn't it?

Quanta by ETGAR KERET

I've mentioned the name 'Etgar Keret' quite a bit as of late. Seldom do people follow up on my Biblical beggings, swearing to this and to that about his work, begging with furtive hand gestures that this gentle mans' work is nothing short of exemplary. But basic laws of human nature apply and too many of you have settled into the comfort of the couch.

So, without further ado, a short by Etgar Keret, simply titled 'Quanta'...




Quanta.

On Yom Kippur Eve, the quanta went to ask Einstein for his forgiveness. “I'm not home,” Einstein yelled at them from behind his locked door. On their way back, people swore loudly at them through the windows, and someone even threw a can. The quanta pretended not to care, but deep in their hearts they were really hurt. Nobody understands the quanta, everybody hates them.
“You parasites,” people would shout at them as they walked down the road.
“Go serve in the army.”
“We wanted to, actually,” the quanta would try to explain, “but the army wouldn't take us because we're so tiny.” Not that anyone listened. Nobody listens to the quanta when they try to defend themselves, but when they say something that can be interpreted negatively, well, then everyone's all ears. The quanta can make the most innocent statement, like “Look, there's a cat!” and right away they're saying on the news how the quanta were stirring up trouble and they rush off to interview Schrödinger. All in all, the media hated the quanta worse than anybody, because once the quanta had spoken at an IBM press conference about how the very act of viewing had an effect on an event, and all the journalists thought the quanta were lobbying to keep them from covering the Intifada. The quanta could insist as much as they wanted that this wasn't at all what they meant and that they had no political agenda whatsoever, but nobody would believe them anyway. Everyone knew they were friends of the government's Chief Scientist.
Loads of people think the quanta are indifferent, that they have no feelings, but it simply isn't true. On Friday, after the program about the bombing of Hiroshima, they were interviewed in the studio in Jerusalem. They could barely talk. They just sat there facing the open mike and sniffling, and all the viewers at home, who didn't know the quanta very well, thought they were avoiding the question and didn't realize the quanta were crying What's sad is that even if the quanta were to write dozens of letters to the editors of all the scientific journals in the world and prove beyond a doubt that people had taken advantage of their naiveté, and that they'd never ever imagined it would end that way, it wouldn't do them any good, because nobody understands the quanta. The physicists least of all.

A Worthy Rep

This goes out to my favourite pastime as of late; [figuratively put] losing my mind one picture at a time, in an arrangement, ornate, as if godly met, or maybe the code for all life made, is random?

In plain English:
GreyHandGang is a blog that is an assortment of pictures uploaded one by one. Whoever chose them has quite the keen eye. This blog has been a staple of 'my' time lately. Give it a whirl.

http://greyhandgang.com/

-e.

(( El4D ))

New tunes for interested parties.

(I suspect a leak of schizophrenic sorts)

Whoops, i slipped it on purpose.

Freudian dick.

http://drop.io/el4d_music

Edgar Allan Poe, mmm.

For a long time i wondered what drugs would do
Then i took them
And knew for ever that i knew.

Though i forgot what i saw
and things that i thought
The experience washed over me
Like tide in an astrological inquisition.

As creeping misery worried a slippery felt down my side.
Creeping worries matched those, parallel in stride..

So i decided to document it:

I took pictures of my skin,
Then darkened it with ash-dust.
I wanted the colour
So I turned the lights up

[For contrast]

But each time as the pixel grew
As the light illuminated the charcoal
And it changed hue
So subtly, it went
from a black to a red

And as the walls
Like the Mirrors
grew with intensity
The brighter they grew

I laughed
with misery
for the darkness knew.

'What?' i asked
[Do drugs do]

As the sunlight fades in a darkened room,
Different quests embark
On questions they already knew

[A facet of drugs and what they do]




(Looped to Pulp Fictions 'Zed's Dead' dialogue 3/21/10)

Personals.