POCKET PROPAGANDA

                  

                  Look around you.  You see them?  Most of them are completely empty, yet they still manage to stay close to your heart.  What’s worse is half the time you have no recognition of them.  They could be staring you in the face. 

      Shirt pockets.  Chances are, if you’re like me, you forget they’re even there.  Most of the time they just lie against your chest camouflaged by same color fabric or obscured by patterns or plaid.  It seems they use us as hosts more than we use them for storage space. 

                  The only valid, regular use for a shirt pocket seems to be reserved for the soft pack.  It’s the only application I’ve witnessed on a large scale.  When I was a child my father would only buy shirts with pockets for that sole reason.  Any other shirts were returned to the store in a matter of days—my father’s only motivation to get out into the realm of retail.  Shirt pockets were essential to his Zen, his aura, his self-portrayal.  Whatever it was, it had his pocket prescribed to a pack a day for 40 years.

                  But without cigarettes to store, what other use is there for this pectoral plague?

                  The only instance in my life in which I remember actually using the shirt pocket was when someone at a party had given me a Loritab.  Grinning, I stealthily stashed it in my shirt pocket for later ingestion.  Of course, being stoned to the bone and two 40’s deep, I forgot the little pill was in my pocket so the benefit of its magic was, much to my chagrin, shared amongst the washing machine and the critters of the Murfreesboro city sewer system. 

                  Upon further pondering of the shirt pocket, I discovered the fashion industry’s attempt at drawing attention to this practically unsettled territory.  Shirt pockets have been garnished with a number of accessories from zippers to embroidery, all to dazzle and entice—to instill pocket pride.  Solid color shirts have been given different color pockets in order to make them more noticeable:  a navy blue shirt with a red pocket—the spicy sauce that attempts to make the pocket palatable. 

                  Yet, after many unsuccessful attempts to draw one’s eye to the pocket, many shirt pockets still remain vacant.  The shirt pocket just isn’t prime pocket real estate.  The real interest is in pant pockets.  That’s where the money is.

                  The pant pocket needs no introduction.  It is essentially the Mecca of all things miniature.  Every single pocket sewn into my pants is used at least once during my daily life.  I rely on my pockets to provide convenience as well as comply with the laws of fashion.  The pant pocket dwarfs Coca-Cola in terms of classicism. It requires little dressing up and is generally accepted throughout the world.

                  These pockets don’t need us.  We need them. You can’t turn your back on them as pants without pockets only prove to be of the ilk of inconvenience.

                  Pant pockets have become so de reguir that their absence seems almost offensive.  Think about the last time you saw a girl wearing jeans with no back pockets.  It’s revoltingly lubricious, even for an ass man.

                  Pant pockets are a staple in both the fashion industry and the consumer/retail industry.   A respectable pants manufacturer can’t release a pair of pants without pockets, and somewhere there is another manufacturer waiting to fill those pockets with whatever product they see fitting.

                  AN EMPTY POCKET IS A POCKET FULL OF POTENTIAL.

                  Companies have been battling over that plot of pocket space for quite some time.  The crusades for pocket possession have existed for over 20 years.  The genesis of this pocket-sized manifest destiny began around 1989 with the introduction of Polly Pocket, a miniature doll accompanied by a number of other choking hazards all encased in a diminutive dollhouse which made playtime accessible almost anywhere and at any time.

                  Three years later, the same manufacturer released Mighty Max, a veritable Pauly Short (sorry), meant to appeal to boys.  The product was a hit because every other boy had a snake, skull, spider, or shark awkwardly protruding from his pockets.

                  The next four years were relatively quiet, but in 1997 everything changed.

                  A jeans company from L.A. augmented the landscape for pocket warfare.  They were called Jnco, and at the time they fucking ruled.  The jeans featured the back pocket cousin of the five-gallon hat—pockets stretching from the ass the calf.

                  The size-increase proved necessary because less than a year later Pokémon (pocket monsters) was unleashed onto American children.  The “gotta catch em’ all” mantra was “super effective,” and many deep pockets were filled with Gameboys, Pokémon Blue and Red, a Pokédex, and whatever other Pokémerch that could possibly be carried.

                  Pocket possession isn’t just aimed at children though.  The tactics for adult pocket takeover are more subliminal, wielding music as a weapon of choice.

                  In 1997, just as Jnco began expanding, Notorious B.I.G., Puff Daddy, and Ma$e released the song “Mo’ Money, Mo’ Problems.”  One problem with having loads of cash is not having enough pocket space to keep it in.  Hence having more money = more problems.

                  Those that prevailed from the pocket crisis of ’97 are probably some of the men referenced in Destiny’s Child’s hit song, “Jumpin’, Jumpin’,” released in 2000.  The girls sing, “The club is full of ballas, and they pockets full grown.”  Unparalleled pocket personification.

                  I believe that the pocket reference in the song instills false hope in males.  It suggests that if their pockets do indeed “grow” (not to sound porcine, but for the sake of alliteration) that they will be up to their pockets in pussy.  This of course isn’t true at all, which is why many males abandoned the idea of bigger pockets and attempted to get closer to women by wearing their jeans.

                  Over time the big pants/big pockets trend continued while the alternative tight pants/smaller pockets trend gained momentum.  These days, pants are made so slim fitting that whatever is contained within them is practically on display by way of fabric cast.  This constricting second skin hearkens back to the spandex of the hair metal era except there aren’t any women gawking at naughty bits; they’re just trying to determine what’s in your pocket—which as Dwight Yoakam foretold in his hit “a Thousand Miles from Nowhere,” is nothing but heartache. 

HAIL SKATIN'

          Satan has become devilishly chic over the past year or so.  Seems everyone is trimming their Facebook friend-count down to 666 besties, or catching Zzzs in pentagram printed pajamas, but these testaments to the dark under-lord seem so trite in comparison to that of one group of men--Vancouver's Barrier Kult.  Cloaked in ski masks, these faceless zealots prove their allegiance to the evil one by violent and abrupt road-barrier skateboarding, known to them as blood-knifing.  I had a chance to talk briefly with member Depth Leviathan Dweller.
       
          Shane:  What's the story behind the genesis of the Barrier Kult?

          Depth Leviathan Dweller:  DEPTH LEVIATHAN DWELLER AND DEER MAN OF DARK WOODS.  EARLY OBSESSION AND PARTICIPATION IN RIDING HIGHWAY BARRIERS AS ABRUPT AND VIOLENT QUARTERPIPES.  'DEPTH LEVIATHAN DWELLER' - COINED FROM THE WORSHIP AND FEAR OF THE BC INTERIOR LAKE MONSTER OGOPOGO.  'DEER MAN OF DARK WOODS' - COINED FROM THE WORSHIP AND FEAR OF THE ELUSIVE OKANAGAN DEER MAN.  IN THE EARLY 2000s VANCOVER, BC - THE TWO TEAM UP WITH VLAD MOUNTAIN IMPALER (ALSO ORIGINALLY FFROM THE INTERIOR OF BC) TO MAKE THE INITIAL 'ZINES AS SPIKED PLAGUE PROPAGANDA DOCUMENT.  FROM THERE - THE BA. KU. SCROLL, THEN THE BA. KU. ALTAR, THEN THE HORDE VIDEO.  T-SHIRTS, PATCHES - THE BARRIER KULT HORDE OFFICIALLY BEGINS TO FUCKING GROW WITH DISEASE.

          S:  How integral is anonymity to the kult's growth and beliefs?

          DLD:  THE SKATEBOARDER AS ARTIST AND CREATIVE ENTITY IS A VICIOUS MISCONCEPTION.  THERE IS NO CREATIVE SELF.  AS SAID BEFORE, SKATEBOARDERS THAT MERELY DO THE SAME 'TRICKS' ON 'DIFFERENT' SPOTS IN DIFFERENT COUNTRIES ARE NOT ARTISTS.  THE BARRIR KULT'S PERSONALITIES ARE VEILED AS VICIOUS MARTYRS TO THE CAUSE OF 'SELF' AND VIOLENT TIGHT TRANSITION RITUAL.  THE PLAGUE IS SPREAD AS A WHOLE - THE BA. KU. IS A DISEASE THAT SPREADS AND COATS BLACKNESS UPON THE ACT OF FUCKING 'SKATEBOARDING' - THE ACT IS DECONSTRUCTED, MADE RITUAL, A FETISH THAT IS WORSHIPPED - NOT CONSTRUED AND USED BY SKATEBOARD 'PERSONALITIES' AS AN OBJECT OF BASTARD WEAK CREATIVITY.

          S:  I know how strongly Ba.Ku. feels about the music (black war metal) that represents the same violent ideologies as your style of skating.  What are your thoughts on the recent trend of genres such as "witch house," or other styles of music that are encroaching on black art territory?

          DLD:  THROUGH OBSESSIVE AND MILITANT LISTENING RITUALS - WE HAVE NEVER HEARD OF THIS FUCKING SUB-GENRE.  AS WE HAVE SAID BEFORE, THE TRUE VIOLENCE AND UNFORGIVING BESTIAL NATURE OF BLACK WAR METAL KEEPS THE BARRIER KULT POSSESSED AND CONGRUENT WITH WHAT VIOLENT COMPULSIONS MUST BE KEPT IN CHECK WITH BARRIER SKATEBOARDING.  COMPARED TO BLACK WAR METAL POSSESSION FROM ACTS SUCH AS BLACK WITCHERY, INQUISITION, AND GOAT PENIS - THE KULT IS IN BUT A SHADOW.  IF WE LISTEN TO ANYTHING ELSE THAT STRAYS FROM THE MIND ALTERING HYMNS OF BLACK WAR, THE PARALLELS WILL FALL APART.

          S:  Is there any altar that could ever have as much meaning in terms of violent ritual as the barrier?

          DLD:  IN TERMS OF THE SKATEBOARD / OR KNIFE - THE SHALLOW END OF A POOL WHICH WAS WORSHIPPED IN A CERTAIN 'THRASHER' ARTICLE IN THE 1980s.  THE POOL SIGNIFIES WATE - WHICH SIGNIFIES MAN'S FEAR OF THE OPEN OCEAN.  THE ROCK FACES THAT THE OCEAN WASHES UP AGAINST ARE RITUAL ALTARS - THE LAST STEP INTO THE DARK ABYSSAL REALMS OF FUCKING TRUE REALITY.  THE DEEP ONES.  THE ROOTS AND TRUNKS OF NORTHWEST COAST RAINFOREST TREES ALSO ACT AS AN ALTAR FOR THE BARRIER KULT.  THE WITCHES WOOD - EARLY EARLY BC INTERIOR PRACTICES OF CONCRETE DITCH RIDING AMONGST THE SOIL AND NATURE REALITY THE WOOD.


          S:  Every ritualistic maneuver performed on the barrier looks incredible, but are there any forms of concrete knifing that are held in higher esteem?  An apex of blood knifing?

          DLD:  THE APEX OF BLOOD KNIFING - ON THE 'RITUAL' BARRIER, THE 'MAGICAL' BARRIER, THE 'INTERNAL K-RAIL' BARRIER, THE 'TRUE JERSEY BARRIER OF BLACK SOIL': THE TAIL BLOCK (POLAR BEAR STAND), THE SLASH GRIND (HACKETT SLASH), BACKSIDE EDGER, THE 50/50 STALL TO DEPTH APPRECIATION AND RITUAL.

         S:  I appreciate you taking the time out to answer these questions.  Anything you wanna say to wrap the interview up?

          DLD:  APPRECIATION:  SKULL SKATES, PD'S HOT SHOP, HEROIN SKATEBOARDS, THE TRACKER DANFORTH TRUCK, 80s THUNDER TRUCKS, MOTOBILT TRUCKS, BONES MINI-CUBICS, DYLAN DOUBT, SEB TEMPLAR, TIMMY JAK, PUNKER MATT, JUDAH OAKES, THE BARRIER KULT HORDE.

GIVE SEINFELD A CHANT(S)

                  If you don’t like Seinfeld, you’re cheating yourself.  You’re essentially getting played like Seinfeld via slap bass.

                  I’ve spent a credible amount of time bombarding every party and show, much to the dismay of many bystanders, with Seinfeld chants.  It begins with a whisper.  Three or four friends stand in a circle. The circle turns into a huddle. The beers and fists elevate into the air higher and higher as the volume of the whisper reaches a cry of ardent passion.  It’s a séance to awaken the spirits of sitcoms passed.  “Seinfeld, Seinfeld, Seinfeld,” audible to everyone.

Every chant is quickly snubbed out before catching on.  Sometimes a meek “Elaine” cheer answers the chant. This is, of course, distressing and redundant because “Seinfeld” is an umbrella term. But what’s more distressing is the intermittent “fuck Seinfeld” chant that is occasionally volleyed back at my friends and me.   

                  My efforts were rewarded only once at a popular party-house--the late Country House (R.I.P.).  At one particularly boisterous function, the longest running and most inclusive Seinfeld chant was carried out for a solid 20-25 seconds.  To witness a chant last more than ten seconds seemed a great honor, but I certainly wasn’t ready for what happened next.   Not long after the chant’s demise, a bearded, blonde, Bunyan of a hipster came up to me, shook my hand and said, “Thank you.  That was great!” 

No one had ever given thanks.

                   I stood there in dumb astonishment.  When I came to, I gave him a friendly pat on the back (maybe we had our picture taken, too?), and we both walked away genuinely smiling like men recently informed they were sponge-worthy.  It may seem a modest reward, but it meant as much to me as ZZ means to Top.  Silly and cliché as it might sound, I’m convinced the cast and crew of Seinfeld were watching over me that night.  It comforts me to know that we’re under the same moon.

                  Chanting “fuck Seinfeld” is crass.  It’s ignorant and above all, derogatory.  It’s like burning a Qur'an, minus the political statements.  For true fans, the sitcom is a 24-minute syndicated religious experience.  NBC provided the Eucharist and all we had to was show up.  Once FOX picked up past episodes followers were given what was prophesied in Costanza chapter 8, verse 12: “If ye follow thee, ye shall inherit a wealth equal to Susan of Ross.” And back-to-back Seinfeld episodes were given to the hungry.  Double Seinfeld!  Oh, my God.  Followers’ wells of comedy were left full while wells of those who tended to ignore Seinfeld were left dry and cracking.

                  Detractors of this prime-time phenomenon must be oblivious to the impact Seinfeld had/still has.  The series made waves, and its extensive ripple effect presents itself in all walks of media.  Entire careers have been founded on the show.  Take rapper Wale for example.  He was launched into the limelight all thanks to a “Mixtape About Nothing.” Saturated with Seinfeld samples and references, the mixtape appealed to rap-heads, disciples of Seinfeld (diseinples), and even a significant percentage of tweenagers. 

                  Even though there was never a Seinfeld movie, evidence of the show’s influence can easily be seen in the film industry.  Another career piggyback riding Seinfeld to the banks is that of Shia Labeouf.  His charmingly menacing character Louis Stevens, from Disney’s Even Stevens, had an oil portrait of Kramer hanging on his wall as a testimony to his zany behavior.  Now he drives a Transformer.  Shia hath therefore sippeth from the cup of Seinfeld, and for that he was rewarded.

                  Evidence of Seinfeld worship is also seen outside the Cosmos.  James Cameron recently converted and has since released details concerning his homage to the acclaimed sitcom.  It’s been rumored that the award-winning director will be releasing the director’s cut of Avatar with an optional ending.  Apparently the hero, Jake Sulley, stops short in his training as a Na’vi.

 “He won’t ride the Na’vi horses after someone else,” says Cameron.  “This new cut shaves about an hour off the original but throws a few twists in to make up for it.  And at the end nothing is any better!”

                  Yet, though so many people have seen the light (or the dim glow of late-night television) I realize that my missionary efforts are futile.  Without opposition or conflict, there would be no Seinfeld.  So I take all the rebuttal chants with a grain of salt, but all adamant haters should get wise.   

                When you chant, “fuck Seinfeld,” you’re not fucking Seinfeld, Seinfeld’s fucking you.