Flying a Kite

So, I am in this incredibly churlish class -- public speaking -- and I needed to pre-record my presentation so that my inferior superior may critique my style and offer suggestions on how to improve my presentation come gig time. Since the class is a gong show, I delayed this until the final minutes of the deadline. I madly wrote an outline, and considering this entire thing was concocted in fifteen minutes, I think it's dece. Aight, here you are, TAH-DUH! (I wrote this to the Scissor Sisters):

My heroic theme is the Beat Generation. This was an anti-culture movement in America circa the forties and fifties where a group of writers essentially wrote about their lives and labeled themselves the Beat generation -- now affectionately named beatniks by adoring fans of said literature. Two salient beats for this generation are Jack Kerouac and Allen Ginsberg. I will read from their respective magnum opuses –- Kerouac’s novel “On The Road” and Ginsberg’s poem “Howl”.

(I now read some Kerouac -- part two: chapter three; beginning with "It was the saddest night" -- and so you may turn to this and read it yourself as I assume On The Road is on your shelf next to your Bible).

(Then I read some Ginsberg -- perhaps with a lisp -- and I need to have this memorized. Daunting)

(Now I have a sort of reflection type deal, which is essentially a stream of consciousness written against time. Forgive the solecisms -- a brother has other things to accomplish too, you know).

These readings certainly offer a very vivid and sordid taste in your mouths. This was a bohemian hedonistic lifestyle that rendered its abusers into whirlwind manic mania and soul dropping anti-climatic lows -- all this created by frustration and boredom and pure resistance towards to what they would consider an inferior and sadder culture, where folks are fixed labels and brands and deathly devoid of soul, profundity, and introspection. They desired challenge and truth to determine “time”; to determine what “it” is; but in the interim, indulge in debauchery and fall deeply into a strange and fantastic cosmos that ultimately destroyed their very souls that they desperately attempted to enliven and enlighten. Their libertine-esque ways drove stakes into the very hearts of the ones they desired to love, as their incessantly restive states could never be satisfied, until everything was known and all joys experienced.
This movement was particularly salient in the 60’s and 70’s as it served as the fundamental ideology of the explosive free bird hippie movement -- but with classic hipster snootiness, they repudiate such claims.
So what does all this mean? Why do I bother speaking about these pagan vagabonds? Well, this is not mere persiflage, there are truths and non-truths to be learned from this sordid bunch: 1. Debauchery and hedonistic propensities may offer some mirage of happiness but you’ll end up street-ridden and poor financially from hookers and poor spiritually -- also from hookers. 2. Everything feigns fecundity when one is hopped up on hallucinatory drugs. Maybe nothing is learned t’all. 3. Aight, here’s a truth: Our culture does blow chunks. It’s materialistic; it pressures justice negligence; it’s sour; it offers happiness through dumbing oneself down and accepting the gloomy quotas as normal; and there is a corona around everything that the media shines it black light upon.
(now note the classy Christian tie-in)
What does one do? I joined an irresistible revolution in Christianity, attempting to live as a rebel for Christ. But it is a struggle with external pressures boxing me in. But I aspire to delve profoundly into Christ, as the Beaters dug into pot and women.

(Class is wholly confused, and I smile and leave them all behind -- they'll never see a bad guy like me again).