fetaman.com

Brinesanity – an abide jar, filled with all the fuqs given.

By

Souvlaki wine, magic chop.

Good morning, Gus here. Fetaman has left me alone. So I was reading a string of articles in the Globe and Mail this morning, and it had started with the Rob Carrick article titled “Job seeker on Gen Y’s struggles: “I didn’t think I’d be here at 30’”  A very interesting piece that illustrates a telling tale of a cycle, that is all about context. I am fond of the context smirk often, in fact, Fetaman uses it a lot. I introduced it to him. Yeah, I am anxious to weigh in on a number of matters, and consider “right.”

From there I had proceeded to click on a link of his that spoke of this blogger (*financefox.ca) and how the practiced “No Spend Days”. This new cult of personality has recently popped up more and more since the days of the Cappuccino Hair Bands. Seems so long ago, but those were good days.

Making your own coffee in the office. Being proud you saved that couple of bucks, and taking it to the next level. *context smirk* That was divine, grand. Divine. Hell, you even went out and bought $164.73 of sealable and transportable containers to be able to take in leftovers, and soon enough, you could even be shopping each day for fresh little bits of delight you could proudly boast in the office as the bundle of joy you are.

Mmmmmmmmm…Berry Pomegranite Mio…

So is my desire to sit here and start to “complain” or whine about what needs to be done, and how tough it may be out there to do what you need to do or why you choose to do it?

Not quite – I am more aligned, and of the same opinion ranges as this writer speaks of, in his reply to the initial letter written to Rob Carrick. It is titled “Why this 29-year-old believes Gen Y doesn’t have it that bad.”

No, I think I would rather look at the positive side of it all. Just like you do? Consider how if you really look at the “richness” that you have in your life, surrounding you, and you have adjusted the means and the ends for the “revenue” you seek in your life, then you will be able to live on much less of a “spend” from the financial side. Fuck. The opposing side of this Yang, is that Ying requires a lot more work and effort, they balance each other, and Ying is sparing when it comes to creature comforts. He lives in a way that many feel romantic about, until their month of joy has been eroded to menial tasks that will provide warmth, and food, and joy of a kind found only in the mountains of the mind. Chopping fucking wood in minus 30 degree weather, with a senior citizen is not exactly a fucking task for the faint of heart. But when you have a purpose, to make some wine, the challenge was that my wine was a vine. The grapes were “different”.

Wine is wine. It is from grapes, sweet or sour. It is fermented with time. It inebriates, as does it’s main ingredient. It swirls and aerates the elixirs of the mind, providing the same intoxicating reflections, effects, lapses of memory, depressions, joys, good times and bad times, wealth and poverty. All of it, inebriated by time.

Time makes the vine grow. Time makes the orange show.

Syntax changes today, and the only difference becomes how we consume the whine.

Consider weight of the whine, as something that has to be measured. It must be qualified. So you have to add subjective measurements such as age, and quantity or size, is the whine intelligent with an IQ that is acceptable and has been given a good “score” by the ratings guru’s, pundits and promoters and readers.

The readers can see, that the whine has an h in it. The listeners, will have to imagine that, to have the capacity to draw that conclusion themselves. It ain’t easy drawing conclusions at any age, is it?

Is this any different life at any of these ages? Of course there are, at different stages of life, your conclusions will be driven by what it is that has been delineated by the “age” – time, credentials, net worth, penis size, cup size…I-fucking-Q.  It Is all about your form. The world has changed and physical versus cerebral and cognitive empirical measures and subjective objectivity are always important boundaries to look at when you determine where you are. They are the fence posts on the Parameter acreage you own from birth. Expanding it or contracting it, is an environmental manifestation of the physical reality called you.

As humans, we then automatically create a stigma, a dogma, a viewpoint on other’s from our own experiences, and find entertainment in the universe of the mind as we consider how we like some things, and despise others. Why we are more entitled to something, than that other person who clearly is not as good as we are, so you must beat them back or harm them in some way to proceed. Of course, the second that many of you read that you pounced from the mental soap box to scream of your charity work, and your giving nature and all that you do to be kind, caring and some form of a religion based deity that has wings and can solve your problems.

Well, so can a shitload of Red Bulls and Vodka.

Trust me, it is only a temporary fix.

Just like breakfast of Corn Flakes and Crown Royal.

Just like plugging into a shit J.O.B. – it may sound like some kind of multi-level marketing jingle to have you sign on the dotted line so you can eventually move to Bora Bora after you make the millions saving your friends and families money on basic cable, phones, internet – and you are right. I had heard it from a douchebag, that was a miserable failure trying to build his life back up by telling lies, fuck him. Fuck anyone who is going to try to continue build up their lives using lies and not revealing them, and that is a very important reflection point is for me, and in fact it appears society is very clear. Honesty is the most valuable currency in this day and age, and transparency, as a result of it, whether you like it or not, is here.

I honestly do believe that a job is “Just Over Broke”.

No matter what kind of wealth you have, you are living within your means. You believe, that if the Jones’s are indeed driving that car, and have a debt ratio of X:Y, then yes, you too can be living within your means, if the means, become your own. If you accept “them”, then by natural collusion, you will unite with their means. Their means.

Means judged by others.

Not my fucking gig, thanks.

So does that then make me right, or am I wrong?  Who has a right that is more important – can one right shove all-in on another and always be the Royal Fucking Flush? Are these physical rights or spiritual rights? Does this right consider the right and just associates and peers, fellows and humans that sit beside us, in this commune circle delineated by the chairs we sit on?

Each right is different in it’s own way, until you fly a little higher by whatever means you need to so you can spend a little time with Jonathon. Silly fucking seagull, or prophet of understanding that at this height, they are all just big box store data points that lead to one giant balance sheet in the sky.

Immigrant parents came and worked like dogs. Literally.

Wandering the streets to find jobs, or trying to build them and having them fail, into bankruptcy.

There is one very simple solution to all of this bullshit, fuck.

Stop the victim thinking. Just think internal. The only victim has been my own self victimizing itself and blaming others.

Stop your fucking whining, and make your own wine with no h.

Drink it, enjoy it. It is the elixir of life.

It will change your life.

For the better, it always does.

But remember, my wine is not a vine. My vine, is actually orange grass.

“It will change your life for the better.” Always does.

Your wine, my vine. I found that vine because I looked for the orange in everyday. Somedays I chose to share it.

The world becomes a better place.

Other days I choose to nurture it, make sure you do so in order to help it become a belief grenade.

In the past, those belief grenades have changed. They have been brine grenades, taint grenades, the have been lie grenades.

What I do know, whatever you do,  when you do launch it…people will realize for what it is.

Me? I am just launching a biography. About myself. Gus Xortopoulas.

I will tell you right now, the grass, it’s fucking orange.

*abide*

 

By

Protected: Concubine Clauses

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

By

Sounds of Silence – Gus Covers

*adapted from the Simon and Garfunkel song by the same name. Link here, for enhanced correlation to the adaptation from Gus.

Hello Twitter, my old friend
I’ve come to tweet with you again
As a stalker softly creeping
Left seeds, on me as I was sleeping
And collusion has been planted in my brain
paranoia remains
With the tweets of compliance

In restless timelines walk alone
Narrow blogs of rubble stone
‘Neath the HALO muzzles clamp
Turn caller ID towards the lamp
When the eyes are stabbed by a Nazi’s neon light
That split the sight
E ‘fore I, fucks compliance

And in my naked thigh I saw
Ten thousand tweetstars, maybe more
Assholes talking without speaking
Cats hearing without listening
Comics stealing lines that voices never shared
And still one dared
Disturb the cone of silence

“Fools”, say you, “You do not show
trophies like a cancer that grow
Drink my words that I might breach you
Smoke my joints that try to reach you”
Yet the words, like silent gumdrops fell
And clogged
the walls of flatulence

Tweeter people bowed and prayed
To the neon digits their God made
And the high man flashed out a warning
In the words that smoke was forming
And the sign said, “Balanced profits are not the subway walls
or tenement halls…
their on my hairy balls. Like words of silence.”

*abide*

By

Protected: Always as planned?

This content is password protected. To view it please enter your password below:

By

Camel’s nose.

Twinkle, twinkle little star,
how no gives fuck, you who are.
Wish you would,
wish you might,
walk beneath the northern lights.

Logic.

Such a fickle, but empirical miracle.

  • ad hummusin – attacking the chick peas instead of the tahini. #fetallacies
  • Straw Monk – an argument based on misrepresentation of an opponent’s zeal and their use of the word hey. #fetallacies
  • Butlerverism (Psychogintonic) – inferring why an argument is being used, associating it to invalid pink elephants and results. #fetallacies
  • Defeminist fallacy – confusion between two spouses by defining one serving the other chocolate, pedicures and the remote. #fetallacies
  • Red Earring – random objects, appear from a portal linked to the Bermuda Triangle. Do not confirm anything, you were at 7/11. #fetallacies
  • Patheocracy fallacy – when an inanimate object is declared to have characteristics of animate objects, so they can be worshipped. #fetallacies
  • Galloping Gish – fish, with hooves, millions of them teaming towards the Venn diagrams, unable to be brought down. #fetallacies
  • Appeal to @Sprite – dunk type of appeal to @Sprite which involves @Sprite sending me 365 cases I might*  hand out each day. #fetallacies
  • Tu quoque (“you too”) – if you can not pronounce this logical argument, just think small cuckoo clock. Look a ball. #fetallacies
  • Misleading vividness – invisible brown acid, where exceptional occurrences can convince people to pay to coalwalk for Anthony. #fetallacies
  • If-by-whiskey – an argument is always automatically won, if you are drunk as fuck on whiskey and giveth nye fuqq’eth. #fetallacies
  • Mind ejection fallacy – when one considers the way they/it tweet(s) the world as a giant vat of syphilis or daffodils/lilacs. #fetallacies
  • Circular treasoning – trees come alive in a forest, and try to eat you, cause forefathers wronged generations of pulp fiction #fetallacies

*abide*

 

By

Mean Culpa

In modern times, Mea Culpa has become a noble declaration of admitting, accepting the making of a mistake by one’s own actions, and decisive “fault”, which is formed when diligence is disregarded, and harms way is considered a proper risk for the reward of the actions. Interestingly enough, the word culpa in latin is “fault”, and mea is “my/mine”.

We live in a world of syntax, so let’s shorten it all. Keep it real, eh?

Word wise.

And, is simply n.

You n me, them n us, m n m’s.

Mea, or my and n. Mean.

Culpa, fault.

Mean fault?

Me an Fault?

Could Fate be Fault under duress?

So the choices we make, or as Gus claims, mean culpa – creates a poetic tragedy of sorts.

“Observation fully confirms what reflection teaches us on this subject: Savage man and civilized man differ so much in their inmost heart and inclinations that what constitutes the supreme happiness of the one would reduce the other to despair. The first breathes nothing but repose and freedom, he wants only to live and remain idle, and even the Stoic’s ataraxia does not approximate his profound indifference to everything else. By contrast, the Citizen, forever active, sweats and scurries, constantly in search of ever more strenuous occupations: he works to the death, even rushes toward it in order to be in a position to live, or renounces life in order to acquire immortality. He courts the great whom he hates, and the rich whom he despises; he spares nothing to attain the honor of serving them; he vaingloriously boasts of his baseness and of their protection and, proud of his slavery, he speaks contemptuously of those who have not the honor of sharing it.” Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Discourse on Inequality

*abide*

By

Bytoine

Bytoine:

a chemical synthesis of products created from bytes of data, that have a heroine like addiction by working within the firings and the data subsets of the neurological mind and the world it creates. This socially synthesized product, is not only being fed into the very essence of life, but in fact, it is creating physical changes to body, mind and soul that few are aware of, and even fewer are working on means to an end of their own satisfaction, and not the plastic covered optical fibres demanding tolls without full disclosure of the costs, and the implications.

The days of the chalk and a sidewalk, or sand and a beach with a Crown n Coke and a fattie, looking at the sunset, as the ladies finish off the meal and a brother is standing near asking what to do with the roach we all know needs to kiss the sand…did it’s job…they have been synthesized, metamorphosis of the inks that were told by the aging of the skin, and not the colouring of it. Products of a virtual reality, a logical illusion that continues to drive the non-believers into the gate ahead of Buffalo Jump.

What, it is a tourist attraction for the locals, don’t be afraid Mr. Buffalo – all is good ahead, please just proceed at will. This prod is only here to remind you of the tools you gave to Snowball, and Boxer, and Mollie and Moses, Clover. They have appeared at the farm, they have been part of the gulch.

I am aware of them, like the touch of the cards underneath the fingertips when you got back in from recess and were able to go right to the library, and just sit in that circle and listen to the most beautiful words being spoken from a book. The magic of the words, and the weight they would carry in your life would always be speckled and flavoured with the images of the lands you could escape to. Two? Oh, Jacob – that is just a hooded hipster trying to pretend he is the Hooded Fang, look, he has perfect fucking teeth from the trust fund – don’t be silly.

Writing instruments? Pencils and pens, and the old purple Ditto ink, gone the way of the portables that dotting the server farms that are forming collectives of a new order. Of a digital imprint, or a trail that is becoming a trip, that I am reluctant to want to partake in, but find it necessary to remain on the farm called Earth, just where – that is the real essence of the questioning. With so much more behind it, that I would affirm with no hesitation, that I could not profess to know another’s questioning, it is not possible.

But I do know, we will both smile, if we are of the certain age and reference a pencil sharpener mounted on the wall, next to the brass bell. The long cotton, braided chord hanging there as a reminder that this physical act would stir an instinct, one Pavlov knew so well, and with the flick of hand, fate would take the programmed mechanical mind and have 32 children open the desktop.

It is wooden, and hinged. Inside, the pencil cases and the stacked books ordered. In another’s is chaos and anarchy by choice, or by lack of proper programming.

It is not different today is it?

Spike that vein, watch the line flicker in front of you like some green and bland ticking that is a heartbeat away from Rampart, 1-Adam-12 or a graphical interface hinged upon an encrypted drive to prevent the spouse from discovering the matrix is not what it seems.

How could it be.

If you are trying to spot a freight train, or a brine tsunami…

hard to do with the minds eye, wide shut.

One thing I do know, and Gus has confirmed it.

The grass is orange.

*abide*

By

Stapler, used to gather paper with a single bind.

“You would get sick of any stapler, any desk…any dream. You would, and if you haven’t, then you are not alive.”

Gus, it’s his biography. Just like the brineday, and the second period after the.

Catch up.

The videos tell some of the tale, the rest is in the head.

Whose, well…

that is to be seen…

or read.

But go ahead, ask yourself that question – if you could, would you? What if it was not really a long standing dream, so much as some kind of kick, from some ingested invisible brown acid?

What if that involved saying fuck it to that fucking piece of shit chow lung tool, near the faux walls and the artificial boundaries? Truly doing it past the bar stool, past the bullshit, pulling the trigger on something you only chirp about having the balls to do? What if that was just something that had to be done?

What if you knew, nothing then of what the real meaning of orange grass was?

Really, not as simple as it sounds…according to Gus, who has agreed to tell his tale.

The regularly scheduled episodes of life will proceed for myself, Fetaman – some form of them, is always around.

But I must admit, I am personally fascinated with Gus.

Not your typical Gus.

“You have never lost it in a Bored meeting, until you have shown them genitalia flesh tones.”

Gus fed me that one, I got to give him credit, I agree – what a difference a vowels stroke makes.

The conspiracy, and the tales.

As real as I have ever seen, but please, take that for what it is worth – hell, I am just a walking cheesy pseudonym man. Just a guy, rolling along the gig man.

The toll is the ignorance we pay, forgetting to live the moments so you can count the lines on the highway. How many lines in My Way? Frank’s and Gus’s seem to match up, mine.

Diluted in brine.

Own ’em, at your own pace. It’s not a race…is it…

*abide*

By

Hating but.

But.

You make a statement.

However, or but, or – can not be used, without annoying the shit out of people.

Use of the words like, please also consider, or may I also suggest, how about – things that are going to phrase to the participant in the conversation, things in a slightly different way.

It also sounds like the word but, and rump roast and those are things near shit, so when I hear the word I imagine an ass.

Like the one that makes assumptions.

Am I rich or poor?

Black or white?

A liar, or a truth teller?

Open or closed?

Is judgment different than understanding? Mutually exclusive? Inclusive?

Man, or cheese?

Pretty funny to consider the last one, it is obvious. I am a man. a man that is completing a book, and starting a new outlook.  A man, that is addressing things in his own life, and wondering if how I am doing them is right. Write?

I don’t try, I just do and this is what I believe is the right course. Sure, a dime a dozen right, another writer talking about self awareness, and some kind of fiction that comes from the wild imagination, and all of that fuckin’ shit…write.

A guy is who is random as fuck, who can snap on the pinhead of an inflated thought, and dance on the same surface ensuring not a drop is spilled other than the hint of the sunshine from the roaming corners of the upturned mind.

Sober reflection of the reality that abounds, astounds and confounds.

Silly rabbit, tricks are for con men, and liars and thieves.
Losers, and lovers, scallions and plebes.
Mystery, history, fascination in the mind
Onward and upward, incredible the kind.

The day seems yours, pleased as the bunch, a hunch and a lunch
Sweatshirt, yoga pants, sidewalk cowboy.
The fuck, a horse.

There seems to be a taste, a small brush of it in the air. Can’t quit bring myself to wanting to actually encourage a chord of a song reference, may be overkill on the amount of cheese being brought out – too much air, the exposure seems to almost create a post radheel on it.

Can I keep this little tag to a less than cordial 500, and we can still be friends?

The bank of Fetaman does not recognize time as a deposit credit or debit opportunity it is involved in.

You get to pick the shine on that crazy diamond.

I do.
Gus, he tells me he does.

What do you say?
Did you hear him yesterday, with that link.

There is one you know.

Just saying.

*abide*

_ _ _   _ _ _ _ _   _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ (don’t try)

By

Happy Birthday to…

What an incredible odyssey.

It has been a year since the site officially became mine.

I had waited over 8 years to be able to get past all of this, and before that – you have no fucking clue.
None.

You think I am not aware of what is “out there” – and what the “lines look like”…really?

Do you think a plan, that has been made for decades, even a lifetime if one considers it, is really just something that simply happens?

You have the sleuth ability to start to get hooked, and like the heroine town you may exist in, or the hero mind you do, you are addicted to taking it to the next level.

To finding out more, to getting past the reality of Survivor, and the fake fucking bandana’s and the bullshit positioning from Day 1 – “I am just here to make some friends, I am so naïve, I am so strong, I am so fucking smart, I am so fucking stupid…oh look, a tortoise with a hare on his back…do they even have hair…”

I know who the fuck fetaman is.

Pretty fucking proud of it as well, because I know it all – except for you.
You are the know it all I want to meet.
So does Gus.

He is interested in beginning to introduce himself over the next few weeks.
His biography is coming out.

Pretty fucking impressive, and having had the chance to not only interview him, but also having been given the chance to verify accounts, eyewitnesses and documented proof.

One of the strangest, oddest, brightest, most eccentric, gifted, smart, angry, loving, caring, compassionate, valiant abiders I have ever known.
If not the single greatest…

Gus runs on his own time.
So do I.

It is a birthday celebration and it is combined with a publishing. What more could anyone ask? I mean, seriously – what a long strange trip, and where are we still? Yes, just seeing some of the invisible brown acid come to life. A special K of sorts.

The biography, the story, of Gus…

Don’t expect synchronicity.

This is a delicate operation, and if you want to be part of it.

Welcome to it – you can either RT this link, direct with the question included, or you can #orangegrass it up, either is a chance to ask Gus, and I can assure you, he will answer.

Celebrate or don’t.
Trust me, this has nothing to do with hunching over anything – not a typewriter, not a water tray, not some village code, not a table of weed, not a set of bullets, not a conspiracy of shades that are something new…

I know.
Hard to believe.

Trust me.
I fucking know.

It doesn’t matter though.
Cause the clock, the watches – the story of Gus.

It becomes clearer with each passing day, and in the coming 30 days, how many and when are just beside the Fuqu Pyramid, just take a coat hanger and levitate near it.

There is a whole year to explore behind this, and there is much more for myself.

Being an interviewer, is one interesting experience.

Care to play?

fetaman/ _

*truly a wonderful, gracious humble bow today – humility asks for, and asks no excuses, for it too…*abides*

****this is where I insert my own happy birthday to fetaman.com – for the real fetaman, from the real fetaman, with a background heralded by associates. Go ahead, link from the site – fill in the question, I promise. I am pretty sure Gus would answer most honourable, logical and discretion sensitive inquiries. To the point of the dedicated box that is running the code – the rest, my…look…a shiny set of keys. Oh wait, it may be a text…did that arrive? No, must be a lonely time, grab the flash light…only 45 metres across the way…no, the...the way…

*************Yes, this is 13 of them, is that “code” also.

*******Gus thinks so.

*iAbide*