Last night’s episode of Lost has left me well, Lost. What’s going on? I’ve never missed an episode, in fact I usually watch each one at least twice… and yet in this final season where I was expecting answers I’m left with even more questions. Is Locke the devil? Will Claire wash her hair? Anyone want to give their theory as to what’s going on here?

Also, how awesome are these Lost posters?

Just a quickie post for shits & giggles!

Espo (Steven Powers) is a well known New York graffiti artist. The works featured here were part of a project of his entitled “Love Letter”, where he made 50 love inspired murals throughout the Philadelphia area.

You suck until further notice. It’s gonna take a long time before we even acknowledge your existence, even longer before we can bear to look at that foul scribble you call your name. To speed the process of acceptance, you can A) Choose a clever name that defies the norm of simple-minded slang. An example of a good name is “ARGUE” (RIP). It looks good when written, sounds cool when spoken, and conveys a combative attitude. On the other hand, “ENEMA” (actual name) looks, sounds, and conveys a shitty attitude. BE CHOOSY. B) Use paint, gain a thorough knowledge of supplies, remember that permission walls, stickers, and dust tags are small parts of a balanced diet, be bold, learn a style of writing for every occasion,and write your name bigger every time you go out.

Jealousy is a disease for the weak. Your heart is your greatest possession, don’t let it get taken from you. Don’t write on houses of worship, people’s houses in general, other writer’s names, and tombstones. Writing on memorial walls and cars is beef beyond belief. Furthermore, involving civilians in your beef is grounds for dismissal. These are are the five fingers of your right hand. Get to know them well. Give soul claps, firm handshakes, and throw smooth bolo punches.

Although being a toy seems undesirable, you should enjoy it while you can. At this stage you can bite all you want with no remorse. All your elders will say is, ” Awww isn’t that cute, kootchie kootchie koo.” So steal that dope connection, rob that color scheme and loot whole letter-forms. Don’t worry about giving any credit, we’ll pat ourselves on the back and brag how we’re influencing the next generation. However, style isn’t a crutch or a shtick. It is understanding why that connection you bit flows, or why that color scheme bumps. Style is the process to an appealing end. Once you got it down to a science, you can reinvent letter-forms to suit yourself. This creative growth will amaze the old and young alike. Pretty soon somebody will steal your secret sauce and the cycle will be renewed. If this happens to you, don’t bitch about not getting your due. Graffiti is the language of the ignored. If your style is stolen, someone heard you speaking. You got what you wanted from the beginning, some attention, you big baby.

It must be noted that the vandal squad loves graffiti. Their job requires them to fiend for graff as much as you do. When you wreck enough walls, they’ll want to meet you. Just like the ball huggers outside the graff shop, they’ll recite every spot you hit, with the difference being you’ll also hear the Miranda Warning. To postpone this, go solo as much as possible. Don’t write with anyone that wont fight for you. Don’t be paranoid, but be careful. If you avoid writing on pristine properties, you’ll stay in misdemeanor territory, and you wont divert the cops’ attention from pastry and caffeine consumption (consult local laws to be sure). Remember, if they didn’t see you do it, it’s almost impossible for them to win a conviction without your own damming testimony. Shut up, shut up, SHUT UP! Giving a cop info on another writer will doom you to a life of ridicule, from cops and kids alike, with no parole.

There’s nothing wrong with knowing you’re the shit as long as you are. But once you reach that conclusion, your one foot over the edge of falling off. Watch your step fathead, there’s no shortage of people chanting, “JUMP JUMP JUMP!” There are plenty of writers that have been painting well for the better part of 20 years, and your posing and fronting looks retarded next to them. Get back to work, you “never was” slouch. In conclusion, graffiti is free, impresses the girls, is heroic in our couch potato culture, will provide you with a million stories to tell at parties, and a sure cure for the inner-city blues. If it’s not fun, you’re doing it wrong or have been doing it too long. So get going, fame awaits the fly among you.

Tomorrow I will be traveling for the better part of the day, so I thought I would try something different in place of a new post or video. One of the things that was really important to me when I was creating Life On Blast was that I wanted to provide a place for people to talk about things they might normally not think of or bounce off of other people. I hoped to act as the catalyst for people from all over the country (or the world!) to share their ideas about all kinds of things. Life, music, relationships, art… things you might not talk about around the water cooler. Things that matter so very much more.

Once per week I will be posting a question, idea, or topic: and I want you guys to share your opinions. I plan to chime in right along with you, there in the comments. This isn’t my soapbox. Sharing a dialogue that others can take part in has always been what I’ve wanted to do with this site more than anything else.

Hopefully, by the time I reach my destination tomorrow there will be some great responses, and I plan to reply using the built in video option. It’s much more personal, don’t you think?

The answer to this weeks question is something I’ve pondered for a while now. I’m curious to hear what people have to say about this.

Okay so who’s first? Put it on blast!

This Then

it’s the same as before
or the other time
or the time before that.
here’s a cock
and here’s a cunt
and here’s trouble.

only each time
you think
well now I’ve learned:
I’ll let her do that
and I’ll do this,
I no longer want it all,
just some comfort
and some sex
and only a minor
love.

now I’m waiting again
and the years run thin.
I have my radio
and the kitchen walls
are yellow.
I keep dumping bottles
and listening
for footsteps.

I hope that death contains
less than this.

~ Charles Bukowski

When did it all get so difficult? As a teenager, I slipped in and out of puppy love like so many trendy t-shirts. Does this match? It clashes? No problem, change! Not flattering? Buh-bye! In the infamous words of Janis Joplin, “Freedom’s just another word for nothing left to lose.”. As all encompassing as young love feels at the time, we know somewhere in the back of our minds that our whole lives are ahead of us; that the likelihood of ending up with our adolescent heartthrobs is slim to none.

Fast forward a couple decades and the whole game changes. As we get older we become more aware of our mortality. Nothing left to lose? Time becomes more valuable as it diminishes, doesn’t it? Both personally and professionally I find myself less willing to put up with people’s garbage and less likely to compromise on my own expectations for myself.

I believe we really do get what we settle for. I’ve been single now for a little more than two years. To be honest though, you can’t force the “it” factor. Regardless of what someone looks like on paper (or looks like period, really), you either feel “it” or you don’t.

It’s been comfortable having this time to myself. I’ve focused on my career, on my friendships. More importantly I have focused on evolving who I am: by rediscovering myself after my last relationship ended. I’ve had time to resolve within myself just what it is I want out of a relationship, and time to become strong enough to hold out for nothing less.

But then there’s the sex part. Let’s be honest… it’s different for women. A sought after man who takes pleasure in one conquest after another is still regarded with pats on the back from his peers. For women, though it isn’t the same as it used to be… if she’s too promiscuous she’s a slut. I’m just going to come out and say it straight: there’s nothing wrong with that. Be a slut, if that’s what you want to be. If that’s what makes you happy, if it satisfies you… who cares? I think the women are calling each other sluts more than the men are these days.

On the flip side, as much as men say they don’t care about a woman’s promiscuity: I don’t believe them. Confession: I care less about what they think when I care less period. It’s my body, it’s my life. Ultimately I let myself do what I want to do. Personally speaking, I don’t “want to” with someone new very often, and if I do want to… I usually want more than just that. What makes me “want to” are the same things that make me “want YOU”. If I want you I want you. And if I want you I want you all the time. Anywhere. Any way.

Does that mean if we have sex I want to marry you? No. Does it mean if I have sex with you I think we should immediately be in an “official relationship”? No. Not every woman sees it the same way I do, this is just how I feel. What I do want to know is that doors are not closed before they open. What I do want to know is that the possibility is there for it to evolve, for us to become… close.

Love and sex, two words thrown around so casually they have become watered down and redefined. What about being close to someone? That’s what I want more than anything else. An intimacy so intense it scares the crap out of me, yet is so intoxicating I can’t fathom not having it. Sex can be part of that… or not. Sex can instigate that… or not. Truth is, even when we feel that “it” factor, we don’t know for sure that the closeness will come: or that we want it to. The best I can say I know when I feel “it” is that I want to find out if it might be worth it to be that vulnerable… to allow the closeness to come. To allow myself to cum.

It’s complicated.

Korean-born artist Ran Hwang uses buttons and pins to create these awe inspiring installations. The immense amount of time and patience it must take to create these installations is a zen like process for the artist:

“My immense wall installations are extremely time consuming and repetitive manual work,” says Hwang. “This is a form of meditative practice that helps me find my inner peace. Pins are used to hold buttons onto the surface to form a silhouetted image, or to disintegrate such image. No adhesive is used so the buttons are free to stay and move, which implies the genetic human tendency to be irresolute. I use buttons because they are common and ordinary, like the existence of human beings.”

“By hammering thousands of pins onto a wall, I discover significance of existence,” she adds. “Like the monks practicing Zen facing the wall, my work is a form of performance that leads to finding oneself.”

I especially like the concepts that depict a caged bird. Based on how Hwang describes her process, infinite metaphors can be drawn from her work.

Life, love, loss, lust, heartbreak, humiliation, happiness/pretend-happiness – it’s all online these days, right?  If you want to learn about someone’s past, you can scour through his or her Facebook profile and search for any signs of craziness, unhealthy habits or illicit affairs.   You can read a person’s blog as a way of gaining some insight into how his or her brain operates.  You can simply Google someone’s name and swim in a sea of articles, images, public praise, and even some dirty laundry if you’re really looking for a reason to circumvent any mystery.

Celebrities have been dealing with such scrutiny ever since society began embracing the work they do and devouring the fodder they feed us. Why do we celebrate these ordinary people with extraordinary jobs?  Because it helps us forget about our own lives.  Escapism and fantasy-addiction will never get old, and today’s onslaught of hyper-produced content and social media is tempting us to dive into an even larger abyss of gossip and sensationalism, encompassing our peers and us.

I’m an avid user of social networking sites, and as a writer I spend a good deal of time online conducting research on story ideas and interview subjects.  However, when it comes to people I may be getting personally involved with, there are just some things I don’t want to know.

If I meet someone and we hit if off, I don’t want to do any investigative reporting into his life even if he’s put it out there publicly.  I don’t want to immediately add him on Facebook, and I have no desire to follow him on Twitter.  I don’t want to know who his last girlfriend was.  I don’t want to see flirtatious online exchanges he’s having with different women. And I don’t care if he just became mayor of Canter’s Deli on Foursquare.

Recently, a friend of mine asked me how I couldn’t have known about a certain someone’s reputation for being a philandering fool.

“Didn’t you see all those Facebook and Flickr photos of him with his hands all over multiple women?” my friend asked.

“I didn’t look through his pictures,” I replied.

“Why in God’s name not?” he asked.  “Didn’t you want to know what you were getting yourself into?”

“I wanted to see what he was like in real life first,” I said.  “I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Maybe I’m too much of a romantic to really take advantage of social media the way so many of my friends do.  (I don’t judge them for it.  I actually think they’re smarter for it.  Online due diligence can eliminate painful time suckage in the long run.)  Or maybe having a career that has had me on a constant quest for truth and knowledge has finally stripped me down naked on the bedroom floor for all to see.

Eight months ago, I fled Los Angeles with a bleeding and broken heart.  After working as an entertainment correspondent for CNN for four years, I had finally reached a place of insurmountable ickiness over having to write and report about an industry headliner, whom I had tragically fallen in love with in the most clichéd manner.

I defiantly disregarded my own advice. You know the old adage, “don’t shit where you eat.”  Perhaps I should have listened to my little black heart at the time, and not gotten emotionally tangled up with a multi-millionaire who shits everywhere.

At the time, I couldn’t see past what I wanted.  I didn’t want to let go of those cinematic stolen moments – the ones we shared parked in our favorite spot on Mulholland, laced in each other’s arms on the floor of his recording studio, kissing outside The Dresden, while Marty and Elaine sang so eloquently off key.

Somewhere down the line, the babes, the booze, and the bourgeoisie became too much for me.  The sheer force of everyone around us wanting a percentage of him was palpable and oh-so-gut-wrenchingly-ugly.

While I was at work checking my e-mail one day, my best friend sent me a TMZ picture of him having lunch with another woman. Later that night, he and I had a seething argument about a story a potential employer wanted me to write about him and his tabloid-speckled shenanigans.  The next day, my love was arrested and taken to jail for a crime I will not get into here.

I was greeted at work the following morning by piles of videos and articles about his life in the limelight throughout the last 20 years.  My assignment was to produce a piece about the incident and the details of his detainment.  I felt lower than dirt, and asked my supervisor to be put on a different story.

I wouldn’t do the story for the same reason I gave the philandering fool I mentioned earlier a chance to see the me behind the words and any online ornamentation. I didn’t do it because in this world of non-news, the opportunity to go beyond the surface of pre-conceived notions derived from the media and the wonders of Web 2.0, hope, faith, feelings, and second chances are still sacred.

Rumors are often true, but that’s no reason for romance to be completely dead.

Every Friday I am going to feature an artist I’ve discovered online! First up: Rockfield on Deviant Art. A 21 year old vector artist from Brazil, this guys work is modern, fun, and even a bit sensual.

Frank Plant is a sculptor from Barcelona, Spain. Check out his blog!

1) I walk down the street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I fall in.
I am lost… I am hopeless.
It isn’t my fault.
It takes forever to find a way out.

2) I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I pretend I don’t see it.
I fall in again.
I can’t believe I’m in the same place.
But it isn’t my fault.
It still takes a long time to get out.

3) I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I see it is there.
I still fall in… it’s a habit.
My eyes are open.
I know where I am.
It is my fault.
I get out immediately.

4) I walk down the same street.
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk.
I walk around it.

5) I walk down another street.

This is from Sogyal Rinpoche, The Tibetan Book of Living and Dying.

My belief is that we are bound to repeat a lesson we are meant to learn until we evolve past it.

It’s always been interesting to me… Some always watch where they walk, some occasionally do, some never do. What is it that separates them?

Some seem to get stuck at #1. Lost, hopeless, blameless… they will likely spend the bulk of their lives navigating their way in and out of the same deep holes. Some get stuck at #2, able to acknowledge the deep hole to themselves but shrugging it off. This is a different deep hole. Not the same at all. Step #3 requires being able to admit that it’s your own fault. There are those whose egos are too fragile to acknowledge that within themselves, so they don’t introspect very often. How often do you find yourself taking a self-inventory, weighing who you are against who you’d like to become? Even at step #4, energy is still be spent to avoid the deep hole.

I think all of our maps are full of rocky roads and “holes” of various depths. Some we can leap right past and others we are bound to fall into head first over and again.

What “holes” do you find yourself stuck in repeatedly? Think about what they are, and consider which step above you might be getting caught in.

No matter how confident you are in yourself: your talents, your appearance, the choices you make in life… we all have insecurities and self-doubts. We all stop to question ourselves at times, as we should. It is only via second guessing our instincts that we can ever hope to evolve into something better than we are. It is only through questioning our existing patterns that we can ever hope to develop new ones.

It isn’t paranoid to think that there are people out there who would love to see you fail. I admit, there are those out there who I would love to watch fall flat on their faces because I want to see proof that karma does in fact exist. Smug grin playing across my lips, eyes dancing. Nothing to say but, “ha!”. I’m almost positive there are those who feel the same towards me for whatever reason. This is a symptom of the human condition. A fact of life.

People will absolutely talk about you. People will hate on you. People will criticize what matters the most to you. People will play on your vulnerabilities and life will poke holes in your confidence. You will be let down, you will be betrayed, and you will be disappointed.

Don’t let the bastards wear you down. For every disappointment life will offer you an opportunity. For every person who looks down on you there will be another who will admire what you do. For every heartbreak, you will love again. For every betrayal, there will be someone who has your back through everything you go through. For every smug grin, there will be an adoring smile.

And you know what? If not… FUCK EM. We all hold within us so many variables that we can’t possibly expect that other people will understand us all the time. Or at all. Examine what “normal” really means. It’s the median, the average. I used to say all the time, “It’s hard being in the 98% percentile.” Arrogant a bit, but… it’s true. It means most people won’t get you. Most people don’t have the capacity to.

If anything, it’s cause for celebration.