greener grass III

the grass is greener
greener grass II


“water…”
I could barely get the word out. It wheezed and whistled its way through a swollen throat and over a tongue in desperate need of a shit, shower, and most importantly a shave. Although, when your vocal cords feel like they’ve gotten the business end of a 3000-watt hair dryer, I suppose speaking is the least of your troubles.
I realized one eye had been open ever so slightly for some time now. How long I couldn’t say - and not because of my current speech impediment – it’s was just one of those things. Like when you realize you’ve been staring at the spot on the wallpaper again, and you have no idea how much time has passed. You just know that afternoon has become evening, that the urine has evaporated, and she’s still never coming back. Through that eyelid crack I realized I was seeing the mouse. I guess I didn’t understand it at first because half of my view was being pulled and bent. What I thought were vestigial traces of last night’s psychotropic dabblings still being weakly pumped through my bloodstream turned out to be, upon closer examination, a glass bottle lying in front of me, perverting my perceptions. But that’s to be expected when you hang your hat on the kitchen floor.
But I digress.
The mouse. Inclined against his doorway opening, resting one shoulder against the wall, one leg bent around the other in the shape of a distorted “4”. He leaned there, reading his morning paper, the yellow plastic bag it came in tucked under one arm.
“water…?”
It came out like a question this time.
The mouse raised a mouse eyebrow as he peered over the edge of his periodical, one side of his whiskers twitching ever so slightly as he regarded the empty, discarded shell of a life sprawled out in front of him. With another whisker twitch he dismissed me and went back to his daily.
“That little shit” I thought to myself. “That selfish little prick…”
But I couldn’t really blame him. We had danced this dance before. And we both knew it would play out the same way. We could roll these dice a hundred times and they’d always come up boxcars. He’d come out with a cup of water. I’d scream at him in a high-pitched, spittle-coated voice that “he knew goddamn-well that that cup wasn’t going to do jack-shit.” What was a mouse-sized cup of water going to do for me? Abso-fucking-nothing, that’s what. He may as well have brought me a bag of play sand. Or a mouse-sized pistol to help with a graceful exit…
Yeah. I could see that whole bit play out again in his eyes. I knew he was reliving that bit. Right between that first twitch of whisker and the last.
Right on cue, the mouse shot me another look of disappointment (or was that pity? was that fucking pity?!? god so help me if I could get up off this floor…) and headed into his hole. Were there any fluids left in my body, tears would be flowing. Were my voice still open for business, sobs would be working the cash register. After contemplating moving, only to dismiss that notion as sheer lunacy, I realized that my vantage point on the floor afforded me a direct line of sight from my one open eye to that spot on the wallpaper in the adjoining room. I took comfort in the old familiar spot, and as I relaxed my bladder, I felt the comforting warmth quickly spread.

time, space, and my place under the Man's thumb (JoJo the monkey-boy wins big in the New Jersey lottery)

what to post?
oh, tis my day

so fricking busy
no time to play

here it is
short, yet sweet

if you don't like it
suck my toes

What Gives?

I spent my holiday afternoon hiking in the Poudre Canyon. All in all, the trip was delightful, but something bothered me upon our arrival that stuck with me throughout the day. Being a sunny Colorado afternoon, the parking lot to what I would describe as a moderate to difficult hike was completely full with the exception of not one, but two spaces devoted specifically to handicap vans. Now perhaps it’s not PC and maybe even a little discriminatory, but why the hell are two perfectly good parking spaces reserved for the handicapped outside of a difficult hiking trail. I have yet to see a wheelchair bound hiker or other such person of special needs along the trail. But seriously, if they’re capable of traversing through the backwoods and mountains, you mean to tell me they can’t walk an additional twenty feet of parking lot pavement like the rest of us. What gives?

My intentions with your daughter (Assuming that your daughter is Memorial Day weekend)

1) I plan to drink upwards of 17 Miller High Lifes from the bottle
2) I plan to be shirtless for much of the weekend
3) I plan to wear my sunglasses constantly
4) I plan to perform feats of potato salad-eating wonder
5) I plan to grill much encased meat, and I intend to use my new tongs with reckless abandon (while singing "the thong song" with tong substituted for thong)
6) I plan to listen to Bob Dylan in the dark
7) I plan to play lawn sports as much as citily possible
8) I plan to foolishly shun sunblock
9) Since I will most likely not be around any large bodies of water, I plan to loudly and frequently proclaim that the proper way to celebrate any of the "Big 3 America days" (Memorial Day, 4th of July, Labor Day) is to be shirtless, waist deep in a lake, while drinking a Budweiser tallboy... The only reason you should not be in that lake is to be playing one handed lawn sports with your buddies (the other hand is for beer)... when playing croquet you should take every opportunity to "Blast" your opponents balls and speak with an english accent.
10) I plan to bitch about how Flag Day (June 14) gets absolutely no credit
11) after all this is done if there is any time, I plan to have sex with your daughter while I wear my sunglasses, after which I will eat more potato salad

in the jailhouse

Well,
I’m in the jailhouse now
Lord, what you done?
I’m in the jailhouse now
Hope you had your fun
I’m in the jailhouse now
‘Till the kingdom comes
Lord, ‘till His kingdom comes

Daddy

My father works in sales. He has ever since I've known him. If you've ever had a father who sells stuff then you know that it's all about leg work. A lot of it. Back in high- school as my natural tendency " to leave ones parents behind and strikeout on your own" was kicking in, my father was putting meat on the table and thus not around that much. He and I were ships that passed in the night with Pangaea smack-dab in the middle blocking the way. Lucky for me there was a man in my life that was around all the time. He was there to cheer me up. Provide advice. Show me what it meant to be a man. That man...

Ed McMahon. He was all over the place. Carson, Star Search, Bloopers and Practical Jokes, Sweepstakes. The man was a fixture.

Although several years older then my father at that time he still provided the guidance and wisdom one can only obtain from a father-figure. To be honest he was closer in age to my grandfather but he taught me that love bears no prejudices. That was one of the many lessons I picked up. It was not a hands-on type of learning but more of a distant surveillance. Does this diminish the quality of enlightenment he unknowingly provided? I think not.

Through his various appearances Ed opened my eyes to many Truths providing me with a foundation of what a good human being ought to be. I would like to share a few of those.

As the spokesman for the American Family Publishing sweepstakes he showed me that it is better to give then receive. On Star Search he taught me to embrace my individuality and talents, and that through hard work and determination you can reach the stars. But I thank him most of all for his vast work in the Comedic Arts such as his stellar hosting ability on TV's Bloopers and Practical Jokes where I learned the importance of a good laugh. And last but most definitely not least his long tenure as Johnny Carson's right hand man where nightly he (and I) was reminded that you can't take yourself too seriously.

These are just a few of the things he taught me. There indeed are more. Much more. I could go on about how his example as a businessman or as a loving husband and father affected me but I will not. My point has been made and my gratitude expressed. Thank you Mr. McMahon. Gracias Ed. I like to think that I have made you proud.

The Standard

I was recently in Canada peeing and as I did my business I looked down into the urinal and saw the words "American Standard" written in script.



At that moment I was stuck by an overwhelming sense of pride knowing that my fine country sets the bar when it comes to going pee-pee.

7:34 pm

Gene tastefully placed the moss on the green bidet, then populated the bathtub in hopes of easing the sting of his Canadian sunburn...

Advice from a composing wizard

"If I decide to be an idiot, then I'll be an idiot on my own accord."

Johann Sebastian Bach

Oh me. Oh my.

Going on vacation allows you to take a break from the daily grind. Recharge your batteries, if you will. My recent vacation did grant me all that, but it also provided me with a glimpse into my soul.

I am not the kind, giving person I always thought I was. Instead my time away from home showed me that I am a selfish self-centered cad. This is not by choice. I point my finger at my environment, my upbringing. I was shaped this way. The whole nature versus nurture debate landing squarely in my lap as I sit unsuspectingly on the pot. Do I blame my parents or society as a whole? No. That would be an unfair judgment of their best intentions (my parents; society could give two shits). But now that I know of this crummy behavior and could change my despicable ways will I? On the contrary.

I suppose now is the best time to explain my behavior and what lead me to this realization. While starring at the ceiling of the Comfort Inn just outside Decatur Alabama for the second straight hour it hit me - I need two pillows under my head. Hey there moral cowboy put those pistols away! Let us not forget that he who throws stone better have good aim.

Now my so-called crime against humanity might sound tame to some but it's significants points to a much deeper issue. How could I lie there with two mounds of down cradling my noggin while some people in the world lie on a dirt floor. Mine is a life of privilege and prestige. I ought to be thankful that I am even able to have one pillow. And I am.

That is what this exercise has taught me. That is the point. You know gifts and the mouths of horses, or something along those lines. So as I snuggle in my bed tonight with two, count them two, pillows I will sleep easy, and thankful. And so should you. Nigh night.

advice from a metal wizard

Ricky was a young boy, He had a heart of stone
Lived 9 to 5 and worked his fingers to the bone
Just barely got out of school, came from the edge of town
Fought like a switchblade so no one could take him down

S. Bach

Advice From A Git Wizard

What a caterpillar calls
the end of the world
The master calls
a butterfly

R. Bach

Job Rose

Save the date.

Save the whales.

Spin your top on floppy sails.

Stabilize, pretend and wish.

A whale is not a whale.

A fish.

Neither Motorola nor RoboCop

I was walking home last night when I passed a woman who was deep in conversation with herself. My first thought was to ignore her, but the reason why is what bothers me.

In the old days, I would have ignored her because she was ding-bat crazy and that is the way that I deal with those people most of the time. Until I cross the street, then I marvel in their out-there beauty and freedom. When I am face to face though, I usually ignore them and try to be invisible. Last thing I need is to be engaged in conversation with Morzar the flying fireman... again.

Anyway, last night when I encountered this woman carrying on to herself, as I said, I ignored her. My knee jerk reaction was that she was on one of those bluetooth earpieces for her phone. As I got a safe distance from her, I began to watch her. This woman had no earpiece, no phone. She had invented the damn phone and earpiece long ago (along with a pepperoni pizza flavored pudding/deodorant) and I would be willing to say that she had been using them since then... in her world.

Here is my point. I have slowly come to terms with technology advancing us forward, but I have long recommended that while we vault forward we still look out the window and notice the things we are flying by that may be marching toward extinction. The dial tone or the busy signal for instance, I long for their song. Random pictures developed on that roll that truly capture the moment right before the moment that you wanted to catch. Eyes closed, mouths open, hair a mess... Today, those are deleted right from the camera. Remember when you could snap a pencil and pull the whole lead right out in one big shaft... or make it look rubber by wiggling it the right way. Do you even have a pencil in your house now?

I am making a stand, as I so often do. This one will not waiver, I will not compromise in this. I will not allow technology to take away the beauty of the crazy person on the street talking to themselves, narrator to their own universe. To the outside world they pose a threat to societies normalcy, to their inside world they rule in a way few do. They are at once along for the ride and strangely in control. Pure, beautiful, true.

I can live with the fact that businessman Joe needs to talk loudly on the train to someone that is in his ear, because he just doesn't have enough hours in the day to maintain his importance. Seriously, I can deal with that. What I can't deal with is that scene becoming so commonplace that no one notices (weather they like it or not) the stumbling sidewalk wonder that is the crazy man/woman lost in their world, spewing nonsense, and ignoring the norm. That is human, and neither Motorola nor RoboCop will take that from me. This I pledge.

If only there was some way to patch the crazy mans banter into businessman Joes ear. I would love to write about that in pencil on the wall of my corner phone booth, take a picture of it, have it developed and put it in the mail, addressed to you. Because I think you might understand.

There is much work to be done

You may have forgotten. You may have moved on to bigger and better.

I have not. This ball of rubber does not build itself.

Home finally from a stressful, yet productive trip I found that the natives no longer were behind the project. Something about poor wages and no heath plan. Honestly I didn't really pay attention. No worries. My eye remains on the prize. Now I could do like most and out-source to China or India but I consider myself a man of integrity. Granted production could be 5 times faster and the volume much larger, but that is not what this is about. It is about bands, and rubber, and balls. Things this country was built on.

So I preserver alone.

To show you though that all my "production" time has not been wasted on communications like this I serve up the photo above as testament to my progress. More updates to follow.

The LSD no hitter

I have done many things on many different substances. I will spare you the details as we all have stories to tell. Yes, I know what you have done. I discovered today that there is a baseball player that has done something amazing. It was June 12, 1970. The team was the Pittsburgh Pirates. The man was Dock Ellis. Mr. Ellis was a pitcher for the Pirates. On this day in 1970 he believed that he was between starts. He stayed at his hotel, invited his girlfriend over, and proceeded to drop acid. At noon the two dosed. At one o' clock Ellis' girlfriend read, in the newspaper, that he was indeed the starting pitcher that very night. By three in the afternoon that day he was on a plane and by six that evening he was pitching...in a Major League Baseball game! Awsome! As the story goes, the starting pitcher was a last minute scratch due to injury, leaving Dock the starter. "The ball was small sometimes, the ball was large sometimes; sometimes I saw the catcher, sometimes I didn't." Hell Yea! It is said that Ellis saw comet tails on every pitch, pitched quite wild, and even walked eight batters. If that wasn't enough...LSD wasn't his only drug. Ellis sometimes swallowed 10-15 amphetamines before a game. "I was going out there on the average of 75 milligrams," Ellis said. "Some guys I pitched against, we would try to guess which one of us was higher."

care to share this sandwich?

Share this sandwich with me, won’t you? You will not? That’s how it’s to be, then? Your first utterance is one of negativity – one of condemnation? I shan’t stand for such abuse, mon amie. I shan’t. It’s just a sandwich. Were you to have asked of the sandwich’s contents, and then made your decision…well, that would have been another matter entirely. Perhaps upon learning that gentle folds of lean corned beef were awaiting your palate – perhaps that would have swayed your once-unswayable mind. Would the juxtapositional juggernaut of a spicy brown mustard consorting with a mild provolone have you whistling a more open-minded tune? Yes, I thought so.

Were you to have queried me as to the breading that gently cradled the sandwich contents to its bosom, only to then remind me of your gluten allergies and that most unpleasant trip to the 24-hour clinic back in 2004, I would have taken your rejection in stride. But this… as you yourself have been fond of saying, this aggression…will not stand.

I ask you, what if Bob Barker exclaimed “I do not care for game shows” before he had ever felt the rush of Truth or Consequences? What if Chuck Norris had purported to detest the roundhouse before lifting his leg before the camera? The world would be worse off indeed.

What’s that? No. Absolutely not. It is too late.

No - too late I say. And those crocodile tears will get you nowhere my friend. No-where.

Hmm? I’m throwing it away… Yes, I may be “cutting off my nose to spite my face”, but I do not want it, and it does not want your pity.

There. In the garbage it goes. I thought I saw it land on top of your ability to be open-minded.

And don’t do that. That’s so unbecoming…and an exercise in futility, to boot. You won’t be able to rescue it: I made sure to spill the contents of the sandwich among the refuse to make in unsalvageable.

Yes - yes I am that vindictive…but you must have known that…after all you married me.