I woke up this morning in an awful funk. So I did something I've never done. I walked out the door and kept walking until I had walked it off. Four and a half hours later I had had quite a journey through the east side of Los Angeles. Luckily on my way out the door I grabbed my camera.

The following are some of the things I've missed in the past 11 years because I just never bothered to walk by them.
They're thumbnails so click to see the biggies.

What of this thing that birthed our collective consciousness? One being wanting so desperately to know itself that it exploded from its core and created countless minuscule versions of itself in order to understand its own essence. Would you sacrifice yourself to finally know who you are? Some say God did this. That we all are the pieces of the One set to the task of experiencing ourselves. How’s that coming along?
Take a good look at the beaver in the mirror.
Sometimes, in the moment, I feel I’ve glimpsed the One through love. Is that what defines love? Is love the window into what we all once were and will eventually become?
Our social evolution has created a culture of romantic love. Love that is fresh. In the moment. Does this mean we are growing closer to the One consciousness that created us?
I have had these questions in my mind for a long time and for some reason, tonight they’ve pushed themselves to the forefront of my brain. So here I am blogging for no particular reason at 2:30 in the morning on St. Patrick’s day after a considerable internet silence. Am I looking for answers? Yeah, I suppose I am.

I wish i could break myself into thousands of pieces in order to experience myself.

I designed a little site for meself:

joefria.com

I saw a picture of me. I was young. Probably 10 or 11. I find I don't remember that person.

What has layered itself on me so thickly that I can't see that child anymore?

I want to open myself up and count the rings. The only proof I have of my age is from the word of others. If I'm only 31, why is that 11 year old a stranger to me? Would it not be more logical to assume that I have lived for a hundred years past that small, smiling person trapped in the photo?

Photographs. Me and my brother with cowboy hats and laser guns. My grandparents holding me. On my dad's knee. That trail we used to walk. The bunk beds. The bedroom window. The Oldsmobile. These are my memories. On paper.

Do you see that camera pointed at you? Were you always looking at yourself through a lens? When did you build that fortress of fear and why are you hiding inside of it? You don't have to hide from me. How can I blow down these walls and find you? How can I destroy that camera that has come between us?

Let me do it again. I swear I'll remember this time.

Due to certain reactions, i have come to the conclusion that it is necessary for me to write this addendum to my previous blog.

I am not having a baby.
I am not going to kill myself.

I appreciate to no end the love and support of my wonderful friends and I want you all to know that I am fine.
That piece of writing was indeed fiction. A kind of metephor for something that is happening in my life right now.
Thank you all for reading it. Next time I'm drunk, hopefully I won't be in such a dark mood.

dearest unborn person of my loins,

i write to you now in the hope that you may avoid the drama that has become commonplace in your dear old dad's life.

subject: waiting

sweet child o mine, understand this: avoid waiting in all it's devilish shapes and forms. waiting seems to have become the undoing of dear old dad. i wish i could leave you piles of treasure. unfortunately, especially for an ambitious child such as yourself, your father has a far different "treasure" for you. and here lies that sweet, unexpected booty:

number 1: waiting- to serve at meals -- usually used in such phrases as wait on tables or wait on table.
yes my child, your patriarchal influence was indeed a servant of the people. one who belittles himself in the simple task of taking an order for the very thing that "man" primally figured out on his own: putting food on the table, only to recieve an offensive sum of money for his labors which mostly go back to the jackass your papa's country put in office. only to leave your poor dada in a state of virtual poverty. why? well, so dad could understand what it means to be abused by unhappy people who have no idea who he is or what he is capable of.
moral: do not wait

number 2: waiting- to remain stationary in readiness or expectation.
aaahh to be an artist. particularly, offspring of mine, to be an actor. let me tell you the story of a man who dedicated his life to entertain the masses. this was a man who saw at a very young age that entertainment was the noble cause of allowing the public to escape, if only for a couple of hours, from their worries and fears. as pure as that endeavor may seem, the man soon came to realize that the art of entertainment had been reduced to a game of waiting. waiting to be judged. waiting to be accepted. and most apallingly, waiting to "succeed".
moral: do not wait

number 3: waitiing-to stay in place in expectation of
this may be the crown jewel of my chest of fortune dearest. when you at last find the person that makes you happy most in this grey and cloudy world, i hope with all that I am that she/he is available to you as you, indeed, will make yourself available to them. but there is a fact of this life that many of we who live it do not account for. and that is this: sometimes things don't go the way you want them to. and when this conundrum presents itself, there is only this:
wait. with all you are. wait. believe in what you feel my child. if only because your father never could.

this is the gold of my life to this point. use it to build the castle of peace that i never had.

know that my love is always with you,
dad

I have a severe case of the hiccups.
My dog ate my soap.
I can't sleep.

How is it that I keep finding what feels like home only to wake up in a field somewhere in Kansas?

Superman walks into a bar. The bartender says, "what's with the funny suit?" Superman shrugs and motions towards a bottle of whiskey as he plants his ass on a dilapidated stool.
"Yeah, yeah. Just pour the drink," replies Superman.
And the bartender does. Something inside her remembering what Superman meant so many years ago.
"Jane?"
"Yeah Superman?"
"You ever been in love?"
"Love?"
"Yeah. Love."
"Sure. Maybe. I don't know. Why you askin?"
"Well, I've lept tall buldings in a single bound and flown faster than speeding bullets. I can even bend a solid steel rod with my hands. But I can't, for the life of me, master love."
"Listen buddy. Noone masters love. Not even a superhero like yourself. You just sort of become partners with it."
"I don't get your meaning."
"Maybe you should think about not flying solo from now on. That's all I'm sayin."
"Jane?"
"Yeah Superman?"
"I want to know what love is. I want you to show me."

I still have the hiccups. In my soul. I've got the soulcups.

OK. true story.

as some of you might have read, i drunken blogged the other night about the Top 8 (thank you for your responses, to whom it applies). in that blog, i mentioned my theory that Tom's way of getting even for past traumatic social experiences or PATSES as they're known in the industry, was to create the Top 8. that, my friends, was a joke. and it may be my last.
this evening i arrived home and promptly logged onto MySpace, MY FAVORITE INTERNET HANGOUT. I immediately went to my Top 8 to see if anybody is currently participating in THE COOLEST SOCIAL FORUM IN CYBERSPACE when i noticed that someone was missing. and i thought, "huh, that's weird, i haven't changed my 8 for quite some time. I wonder what.... HOLY SHITBALLS FUCK MY BLEEDING ANUS!!!! (i only curse like that in blogs)" there he was. in the lower far right square. the square reserved for my buddy Frank. the square reserved for Bobby Brady. the square reserved for the Lord himself! but it wasn't any of those members of the holy trinity. IT WAS TOM!!!! oh christ, it was Tom. I've never been so scared in my life. how did he get there?!!!! i haven't even come close to changeing my Top 8 in weeks. it takes me that long to figure out who're the hippest and hottest friends on my list!
oh god, TOM! creator of MySpace! ruler of electronic earth! oh god, did he read my accidental bulletin. i was drunk! i meant to blog! damn my foolish ways!!!!!
so he read my bullentin and inserted himself into my Top 8 with his MySpace skeleton key. but why? as a message? like a dead parakeet? like a horses head under my sheets?!!! oh my god i pissed off Tom!
folks, this is not a joke. i will leave him there so you may see for yourself. we are not safe. "he" is watching. be afraid.
say it with me now:
LONG LIVE TOM! LONG LIVE TOM!!!

okay, here it is. top 8
if my dog could be on myspace, i'd top 8 her. otherwise... what the fuck?!!!!
what is this thing called "top 8"? and why did Tom come up with it? i'll tell you why. because Tom was a geek in high school and now he's a multi millionaire and this is his big "fuck you!" this is his way of spreading the feeling of insecurity to the masses. "are you kidding me?!!! i'm not in your top 8?!!!" " i'm you girl/boyfriend and i'm not in your top 8?!!!" "why did you take me out of your top 8? am i not good enough for you? lol!!!! lolllllll!!!!!!!"
what is this cyber experience we all have come to rely upon? the top 8 club?
does my top 8 dictate who i am. can you tell by my top 8 that i pick my nose and masterbate to internet porn? well maybe you could if my top 8 were a bunch of hot women. or boogers. hot boogers.
don't get me wrong friends. i've fallen into the top 8 trap. i've allowed myself to feel subhuman for being removed from the magic 8. the octifab. the ochotastic. the
huit-ees.
but i'm here to tell ya, don't be pulled into the biggest myspace pit. it may be monetarily free, but it'll cost your soul a pretty penny. you are not the sum of some douche bags random accumulation of douch bags.
and because i'm being drunken and judgemental, i will give my high-falutin opinion. for me, the top 8 are those i talk to. the ones who make myspace worth being my space. and they would never feel special or left out because they would always know why they were there. or why they weren't there. or why the top 8 actually doesn't mean dick.

this is pathetic. but i feel it's a must. i'm going to wax nostalgic about valentine's day. because it's nearly midnght and i'm here by my lonesome. my 1st valentine: krista anton. kindergarden. bought me a mercedes matchbox car for my birthday. she was the one i was going to marry. my 2nd valentine: Ms. Pilarski, my 2nd grade teacher. blonde, leggy, funny, had amazing cursive. she was the one i was going to marry. my 3rd valentine: mary pat aires. she played the recorder like kenny g. plays the alto sax. need i say more? yes. marriage. my 4th valentine: dana ionoti. i never even met her. she was in my best friends class at a different school and i only ever saw her picture in the class photo. but i knew i'd marry her. my 5th valentine. maryanne arlotti. man could that girl sing. we had the musical theater connection. my first date ever. and i knew i'd marry her. my 6th valentine: serena samadoni. used to call me names. never been so infatuated with anyone in my life. she lived in a really big house. liked douche bags. but deep down, i knew we would end up married. my 6th valentine: liz dunn. the fist woman to break my heart. brought her into my basement and played pink floyd's "wish you were here" to try to get her back. it didn't work. i think i might have asked her to marry me. my 7th valentine: brigit schuss. my prom date. her dad threatened my life. i recited a shakespeare sonnet to her on the golf course of the local country club: "shall i compare thee to a summer's day." she's married to the guy she went home with on our prom night. so here i am. 30 years old. valentine's day. well not really, it's 12 am. not married. but i'm thinking about love because who doesn't on hallmark's favorite holiday? and the one thing that keeps floating through my brain is super hero valentines. nothing says "i love you" better than a picture of superman with a bubble above his head that says "be mine." i miss that. i remember feeling so special when a girl would take the time to write out that valentine to me. and how king-like i would feel when she would so covertly place it inside my desk so that i wouldn't get it with the general valentine distribution, but find it almost by accident when i was least expecting it. and i can't help but think that that is what true love is. something that appears to you unexpected. something that is given time and care, where every word is written... erased... and then written again to be absolutely sure that that person knows they are the one. not the thing that is handed out to the whole class out of obligation. is that a poor metaphor? well i don't care. i'm drunk. and dammit, i just want a girl to send me my batman valentine. cause i've got her wonderwoman right here. and i spent alot of fucking time on it. 30 years to be exact. so here's to the candy hearts. and here's to love messages on perforated cardboard. here's to secret admirers and overt admireres. here's to pricey heart shaped balloons and roses by the dozen. here's to romantic dinners, romantic movies, romantic strolls, romantic whispers. here's to romace. here's to marriage. to those who have found the one and make all of us realize what life is truly about. here's to you: mark and merrit chris and aglia matt and lordez michael and jessica ben and mami d and kelley nate and tracy sarah and rob jon and ina pete and emily james and jenetta frank and himself happy valentine's day!!! i love all of you. candy hearts all around. just don't puke on me.