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.
5.23.2007
5.16.2007
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.
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.
5.10.2007
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...
5.09.2007
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
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.
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.
5.08.2007
5.07.2007
Advice From A Git Wizard
What a caterpillar calls
the end of the world
The master calls
a butterfly
R. Bach
the end of the world
The master calls
a butterfly
R. Bach
5.05.2007
Job Rose
5.03.2007
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.
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.
5.02.2007
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."
5.01.2007
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.
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.
4.30.2007
Come On Down!
In my profession as a traveling hypnotist, I have the luxury of many week days off. I have a routine for these mornings which includes the staples: coffee, cigarettes and The Price is Right. Years of this routine has left me with a series of questions, namely: “How fucking old is Bob Barker anyway?”
I mean c’mon, the man hasn’t aged a day in twenty years. His skin just gets tighter and his hair gets whiter. Is it possible he's a cyborg? The only caveat in this theory is his use of witty observations and comic relief. I actually saw him say to someone this morning that if she wins, she’d be the most undeserving contestant to ever win a prize on his show! Now that’s funny!
Well as it turns out she didn’t win, in fact she was one of those losers who were left with nothing but shame, embarrassment and some lovely parting gifts. How horrible it must be to go through life knowing that if only you’d bid one dollar, things might be different. You would have had that “neat set of his and hers scuba gear” and a one year supply of Little Debbie Snack Cakes…and maybe more! But no, you had to listen to Wanza in the front row, despite the fact that given her dimensions it’s unlikely she’d know the going rate for scuba gear.
Anyway, at least she realized her dream of “coming on down” slapping fives with a random sub-section of America’s finest who are somehow delighted that she won and they didn’t. They’re just happy to be on TV and wave at the camera with ignorant bliss while secretly cursing her in their subconscious, knowing they may never have the pleasure of spinning the Big Wheel or being on the showcase showdown with a chance at the elusive golden grail the double winner!
And isn’t obvious to anyone else yet that the showcase with the clever little story, like “Amanda’s trip to the supermarket” or whatever the hell it might be, is the one they should bid on. Or do some people really want that charming bedroom group and exciting exercise equipment that are somehow valued at $18,000. I don’t care if all 8 of Bob’s bimbos come with that bedroom group, it’s not worth $18,000. And I’m pretty sure a can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup isn’t $2.69 either.
Anyway, I seem to have gotten a little off track here. Really I was just wondering how old Bob Barker is, because…damn, that man looks good!
I mean c’mon, the man hasn’t aged a day in twenty years. His skin just gets tighter and his hair gets whiter. Is it possible he's a cyborg? The only caveat in this theory is his use of witty observations and comic relief. I actually saw him say to someone this morning that if she wins, she’d be the most undeserving contestant to ever win a prize on his show! Now that’s funny!
Well as it turns out she didn’t win, in fact she was one of those losers who were left with nothing but shame, embarrassment and some lovely parting gifts. How horrible it must be to go through life knowing that if only you’d bid one dollar, things might be different. You would have had that “neat set of his and hers scuba gear” and a one year supply of Little Debbie Snack Cakes…and maybe more! But no, you had to listen to Wanza in the front row, despite the fact that given her dimensions it’s unlikely she’d know the going rate for scuba gear.
Anyway, at least she realized her dream of “coming on down” slapping fives with a random sub-section of America’s finest who are somehow delighted that she won and they didn’t. They’re just happy to be on TV and wave at the camera with ignorant bliss while secretly cursing her in their subconscious, knowing they may never have the pleasure of spinning the Big Wheel or being on the showcase showdown with a chance at the elusive golden grail the double winner!
And isn’t obvious to anyone else yet that the showcase with the clever little story, like “Amanda’s trip to the supermarket” or whatever the hell it might be, is the one they should bid on. Or do some people really want that charming bedroom group and exciting exercise equipment that are somehow valued at $18,000. I don’t care if all 8 of Bob’s bimbos come with that bedroom group, it’s not worth $18,000. And I’m pretty sure a can of Campbell’s Tomato Soup isn’t $2.69 either.
Anyway, I seem to have gotten a little off track here. Really I was just wondering how old Bob Barker is, because…damn, that man looks good!
4.24.2007
tuesday the twenty fourth
geist - v. to stab in the neck with a sharp object, preferrably in a sideward, overhanded motion. "I'll geist you, with Brandt as my witness..." Also used as a noun, as in "That was one helluva geist..."
margeistky - v. an action where the gash left by a geisting (see above) is then penetrated with a male sex organ. Can also be used as a noun: "A margeistky is illegal in 3 states, one of them being Ohio of course..."
boppledupe - n. a type of viking-clown. A full explaination would be too unsavory for this venue, and that is saying quite a bit in light of what's already been written. Suffice it to say, once boppledupe has carried out his signature move, he is known to pop the victim's collar and proclaim: "You've been boppleduped. Bitch."
margeistky - v. an action where the gash left by a geisting (see above) is then penetrated with a male sex organ. Can also be used as a noun: "A margeistky is illegal in 3 states, one of them being Ohio of course..."
boppledupe - n. a type of viking-clown. A full explaination would be too unsavory for this venue, and that is saying quite a bit in light of what's already been written. Suffice it to say, once boppledupe has carried out his signature move, he is known to pop the victim's collar and proclaim: "You've been boppleduped. Bitch."
4.23.2007
Why you looking at my nut?
Dear KY Smooth,
I am glad that the rubber band ball has encompassed your entire being causing you to ponder many things. This was not at all my intent. I really just wanted to make a rubber band ball so I will consider this a happy by-product.
Now on to the bad news...all work has been suspended on said ball of band until the chief engineer returns to the continental United States. Unfortunately the Canadian government views rubber bands like we treat Sars.
Work is scheduled to resume late Wednesday evening and I promise you that your patience will not be in vein.
However I will take this time to answer your questions.
"all I can think about is that intriguing ball of rubber bands." - Hypnotic, ain't it?
"I wonder how big it’s become today." - Not very
I wonder when they’ll run out of rubber bands. - No time soon, its a big-ass bag
I have some rubber bands I’ve been saving at home, I wonder if they want ‘em. - Sure. All we've got are the beige ones you see. If they are bands of color, bring them on, I say.
I wonder how many rubber bands are in that ball of rubber bands. - 143
I wonder why this is all I can think about. - You need a hobby?
I am glad that the rubber band ball has encompassed your entire being causing you to ponder many things. This was not at all my intent. I really just wanted to make a rubber band ball so I will consider this a happy by-product.
Now on to the bad news...all work has been suspended on said ball of band until the chief engineer returns to the continental United States. Unfortunately the Canadian government views rubber bands like we treat Sars.
Work is scheduled to resume late Wednesday evening and I promise you that your patience will not be in vein.
However I will take this time to answer your questions.
"all I can think about is that intriguing ball of rubber bands." - Hypnotic, ain't it?
"I wonder how big it’s become today." - Not very
I wonder when they’ll run out of rubber bands. - No time soon, its a big-ass bag
I have some rubber bands I’ve been saving at home, I wonder if they want ‘em. - Sure. All we've got are the beige ones you see. If they are bands of color, bring them on, I say.
I wonder how many rubber bands are in that ball of rubber bands. - 143
I wonder why this is all I can think about. - You need a hobby?
So Feast Your Eyes Upon My Nut
I know it’s my day to write,
but all I can think about is that intriguing ball of rubber bands.
I wonder how big it’s become today.
I wonder when they’ll run out of rubber bands.
I have some rubber bands I’ve been saving at home, I wonder if they want ‘em.
I wonder how many rubber bands are in that ball of rubber bands.
I wonder why this is all I can think about.
but all I can think about is that intriguing ball of rubber bands.
I wonder how big it’s become today.
I wonder when they’ll run out of rubber bands.
I have some rubber bands I’ve been saving at home, I wonder if they want ‘em.
I wonder how many rubber bands are in that ball of rubber bands.
I wonder why this is all I can think about.
4.22.2007
4.21.2007
Day 1
When your mom gives you a humongous bag of rubber bands and tells you to make a rubber band ball, you do it.
4.20.2007
Sofa
To the heady crowd today is a day of much celebration. But let's not allow the cannabis to cloud our minds (too much) because today is also the day my dog entered, Stage Left. Sofie turns 3 today. Yeah!
In human terms the typical tyke at this stage in the game is talking in complete sentences, weights in around 25 to 44 pounds, is sleeping anywhere from 10 to 12 hours a night, and is using the toilet with some help. Sof is the stark contrast of that in every way. She don't talk, she's a dog stupid. She is a slender 103 and averages 16 hours of sleep each day. The toilet thing she's had down for awhile now, although still does occasionally forget to flush.
If you take a sec and look at her specs she aligns more with someone in their late 70's. But she's a dog not a grandma and when you do all the computations she comes in at 21. Legal drinking age in most states. I do not condone the consumption of alcohol by canines so tonight I will drink to her vitality, prosperity, and longevity. I ask that you do the same.
In human terms the typical tyke at this stage in the game is talking in complete sentences, weights in around 25 to 44 pounds, is sleeping anywhere from 10 to 12 hours a night, and is using the toilet with some help. Sof is the stark contrast of that in every way. She don't talk, she's a dog stupid. She is a slender 103 and averages 16 hours of sleep each day. The toilet thing she's had down for awhile now, although still does occasionally forget to flush.
If you take a sec and look at her specs she aligns more with someone in their late 70's. But she's a dog not a grandma and when you do all the computations she comes in at 21. Legal drinking age in most states. I do not condone the consumption of alcohol by canines so tonight I will drink to her vitality, prosperity, and longevity. I ask that you do the same.
4.19.2007
Downtown
For the last week or so, I have had a song stuck in my head. I didn't really notice it until yesterday, but it has been there since at least last Wednesday, maybe longer. It has been at the tip of my tongue when I need to speak, the back of my throat when I have to hum. Dancing around my brain in a way that only Petula Clark can. Today it has really come to a head, whenever there is quiet time it leaks out, no longer just in my head but now on my lips... It's Downtown... Down where the song haunts you... Downtown.
The funny thing is I don't really know all the words, I have been singing this line over and over. "Downtown, down where the town is down..." I am fairly certain that isnt right but when you are singing a concert for 1 it's all great!
A lot of times when you have a song stuck in your head it is a bad thing. Torture. This time it isnt so bad. Downtown is a good song. My knee-jerk reaction was to try and eclipse it with another song and on my way to work today I briefly did that with "Love Shack" but that song is way more annoying and I am glad that it didnt take. I now see that this isnt a curse but a blessing, I welcome this wonderful tune into my mind. I hope it sets up shop and bounces around in my head for awhile, because it would be nice to forget all my troubles, forget all my cares... and go DOWNTOWN....
Maybe this will infect you too. Maybe it will be a different tune... say Huge Calculator... Maybe not. Either way you can find all the words below, but I recommend making your own up. And if you do wind up going Downtown, let me know because I heard they have movie shows.
----
Downtown
Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city,
Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty
How can you lose? The lights are much brighter there...
You can forget all your troubles; forget all your cares, and go
Downtown -- things will be great when you're
Downtown -- you'll find a place for sure
Downtown -- everything's waiting for you
Downtown .... Downtown...
Don't hang around, and let your problems surround you,
There are movie shows
Downtown
Maybe you know some little places to go to
Where they never close
Downtown
Just listen to the rhythm of a gentle Bossa Nova
You'll be dancing with 'em too before the night is over,
Happy again...
The lights are much brighter there,
You can forget all your troubles; forget all your cares, and go
Downtown -- where all the lights are bright
Downtown -- waiting for you tonight
Downtown -- you're gonna be all right now...
Downtown...Downtown...Downtown...
Downtown!
Downtown!
And you may find somebody kind to help and understand you;
Someone who is just like you and needs a gentle hand to
Guide them along...
So maybe I'll see you there,
We can forget all our troubles; forget all our cares, and go
Downtown -- things will be great when you're
Downtown -- don't wait a minute more
Downtown -- everything's waiting for you...
Downtown...Downtown
Downtown...Downtown
Downtown...Downtown
Downtown...Downtown
Downtown...Downtown (fade)
The funny thing is I don't really know all the words, I have been singing this line over and over. "Downtown, down where the town is down..." I am fairly certain that isnt right but when you are singing a concert for 1 it's all great!
A lot of times when you have a song stuck in your head it is a bad thing. Torture. This time it isnt so bad. Downtown is a good song. My knee-jerk reaction was to try and eclipse it with another song and on my way to work today I briefly did that with "Love Shack" but that song is way more annoying and I am glad that it didnt take. I now see that this isnt a curse but a blessing, I welcome this wonderful tune into my mind. I hope it sets up shop and bounces around in my head for awhile, because it would be nice to forget all my troubles, forget all my cares... and go DOWNTOWN....
Maybe this will infect you too. Maybe it will be a different tune... say Huge Calculator... Maybe not. Either way you can find all the words below, but I recommend making your own up. And if you do wind up going Downtown, let me know because I heard they have movie shows.
----
Downtown
Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city,
Linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty
How can you lose? The lights are much brighter there...
You can forget all your troubles; forget all your cares, and go
Downtown -- things will be great when you're
Downtown -- you'll find a place for sure
Downtown -- everything's waiting for you
Downtown .... Downtown...
Don't hang around, and let your problems surround you,
There are movie shows
Downtown
Maybe you know some little places to go to
Where they never close
Downtown
Just listen to the rhythm of a gentle Bossa Nova
You'll be dancing with 'em too before the night is over,
Happy again...
The lights are much brighter there,
You can forget all your troubles; forget all your cares, and go
Downtown -- where all the lights are bright
Downtown -- waiting for you tonight
Downtown -- you're gonna be all right now...
Downtown...Downtown...Downtown...
Downtown!
Downtown!
And you may find somebody kind to help and understand you;
Someone who is just like you and needs a gentle hand to
Guide them along...
So maybe I'll see you there,
We can forget all our troubles; forget all our cares, and go
Downtown -- things will be great when you're
Downtown -- don't wait a minute more
Downtown -- everything's waiting for you...
Downtown...Downtown
Downtown...Downtown
Downtown...Downtown
Downtown...Downtown
Downtown...Downtown (fade)
4.18.2007
Kilgore Trout eats a Braut
The news of Kurt Vonnegut's demise last week came to me pool-side. Basking just above the 30th north parallel the modern age allowed me to read the news through this very blog. Just prior I sat writing a piece on another author that deeply touched me. That is not to say that I did not enjoy, nor find immense inspiration from Mr. Vonnegut and his work. In fact I looked into TIAA-CREF simply because he appeared in one of their television spots. I didn't put my eggs in that basket but I do feel I owe that man a lot. Instead of waxing on about his influence on me and the sadness of the loss, I will post what was swimming around my think-tank at that time and offer it up, set ablaze like a funeral pyre.
On a train from San Francisco to Stockton on a hot August day I was reminded that humans are truly an unpredictable bunch. I was there on vacation with my girlfriend. We had spent a few days in the city and we were on our way back for the remainder of our stay in the land of Schwarzenegger. Just sitting there unassumingly; she thinking about the few days we spent, I wondering what type of dinner awaited us as the scorched California landscape flew by. I assume it was our bohemian appearance or perhaps it was the pull of all things cosmic, a man, who I at the time could picture myself becoming in 15 years, approached. It did not feel odd or threatening, as an unsolicited conversation with a complete stranger sometimes can. It felt as natural as if it were all down in a script and we were simply acting the part. Without as much as an introduction he handed me a book and said flatly "I think you may like this" and returned to his seat.
I was intrigued so I began to read the book. Revenge of the Lawn, a collection of short stories by Richard Brautigan. I had never heard of him. It was a green hardcover no bigger than 15 books of matches dunked in water and rolled into a ball. I took a sip of the first, and title story, and immediately it captivated me. It was charming and funny and sincere all within the first few paragraphs. As the train made love to the tracks so did I to the pages. I drank in more, woozy. It was as if I uploaded my profile for an ideal story to Match.com and this came back. We met, fell in love, got married, and now appear together in their latest TV spot.
Just as the train slowed to a stop I finished the 6 pages shellshocked. Never had I read anything that spoke to me so completely. I walked back to the bearded-stranger-on-the-train, thanked him and handed him his book. My girlfriend and I got off at that station and headed toward the doleful streets of Stockton.
A few days later still drunk from the Lawn I found myself in a shopping mall located directly across the street from another shopping mall in a book store who could be named after a 18th century Ornithologist. Down the B isle in the Literature section I found her. In the one instance where modern society's excesses are a good thing the collection I sought was leading the pack of two other Brautigan books.
In the 9 years since I have read many more his books but Revenge of the Lawn and that chance encounter on the train has shaped my life. That is what a good book and a great author can do.
On a train from San Francisco to Stockton on a hot August day I was reminded that humans are truly an unpredictable bunch. I was there on vacation with my girlfriend. We had spent a few days in the city and we were on our way back for the remainder of our stay in the land of Schwarzenegger. Just sitting there unassumingly; she thinking about the few days we spent, I wondering what type of dinner awaited us as the scorched California landscape flew by. I assume it was our bohemian appearance or perhaps it was the pull of all things cosmic, a man, who I at the time could picture myself becoming in 15 years, approached. It did not feel odd or threatening, as an unsolicited conversation with a complete stranger sometimes can. It felt as natural as if it were all down in a script and we were simply acting the part. Without as much as an introduction he handed me a book and said flatly "I think you may like this" and returned to his seat.
I was intrigued so I began to read the book. Revenge of the Lawn, a collection of short stories by Richard Brautigan. I had never heard of him. It was a green hardcover no bigger than 15 books of matches dunked in water and rolled into a ball. I took a sip of the first, and title story, and immediately it captivated me. It was charming and funny and sincere all within the first few paragraphs. As the train made love to the tracks so did I to the pages. I drank in more, woozy. It was as if I uploaded my profile for an ideal story to Match.com and this came back. We met, fell in love, got married, and now appear together in their latest TV spot.
Just as the train slowed to a stop I finished the 6 pages shellshocked. Never had I read anything that spoke to me so completely. I walked back to the bearded-stranger-on-the-train, thanked him and handed him his book. My girlfriend and I got off at that station and headed toward the doleful streets of Stockton.
A few days later still drunk from the Lawn I found myself in a shopping mall located directly across the street from another shopping mall in a book store who could be named after a 18th century Ornithologist. Down the B isle in the Literature section I found her. In the one instance where modern society's excesses are a good thing the collection I sought was leading the pack of two other Brautigan books.
In the 9 years since I have read many more his books but Revenge of the Lawn and that chance encounter on the train has shaped my life. That is what a good book and a great author can do.
4.17.2007
It's all your fault!
I blame it on the Bush administration,
On the war and occupation of Iraq,
And on the impending confrontation with Iran and North Korea.
I blame it on high gas prices and global warming,
On the corrupt political system and terrorism,
And on Osama bin Laden, Britney Spears and Oprah Winfrey.
But I blame it on the little guy too.
On bad drivers and uppity bitches,
And every “my son’s an honor roll student” bumper sticker.
I blame it on my job,
On my bosses and the beemers,
And every stupid customer’s stupid questions.
I blame it on the ex.
On the lies and the cheating,
And the menace of a dog you won’t discipline.
I blame it on my parents,
On their parents and on their parent’s parents.
And on the genes we should’ve altered so many generations ago.
Finally, I blame it on the snaggle-tooth, nappy-headed,
Convenience store clerk who just can’t figure out the change from my $20.
“Yes, the big ones are quarters…twenty-five cents.”
I blame it on all of you, and dozens more I’ve chosen not to list.
I’m going bald you fuckers…and it’s all your fault!
On the war and occupation of Iraq,
And on the impending confrontation with Iran and North Korea.
I blame it on high gas prices and global warming,
On the corrupt political system and terrorism,
And on Osama bin Laden, Britney Spears and Oprah Winfrey.
But I blame it on the little guy too.
On bad drivers and uppity bitches,
And every “my son’s an honor roll student” bumper sticker.
I blame it on my job,
On my bosses and the beemers,
And every stupid customer’s stupid questions.
I blame it on the ex.
On the lies and the cheating,
And the menace of a dog you won’t discipline.
I blame it on my parents,
On their parents and on their parent’s parents.
And on the genes we should’ve altered so many generations ago.
Finally, I blame it on the snaggle-tooth, nappy-headed,
Convenience store clerk who just can’t figure out the change from my $20.
“Yes, the big ones are quarters…twenty-five cents.”
I blame it on all of you, and dozens more I’ve chosen not to list.
I’m going bald you fuckers…and it’s all your fault!
4.16.2007
stuck inside of baghdad, with the moustache blues again
As near as I can figure, today begins week 11 of my shaving-strike. The ‘stache area has been trimmed a couple times to keep it out of the mouth area, although I have now forgone this practice in lieu of training the hair out towards the sides rather than downwards.
Some things you should know about it:
• I have it on good authority that it made a 12 year old girl uncomfortable over the weekend
• I just ate a morning doughnut. Glazed. The glazing is stuck in the hairs
• It continues to look really horrible
I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. I feel like my venture into the world of beardom is akin to our occupation of Iraq: there is no timetable for withdrawal. If only I had an elected legislative body to force my hand… At any rate, I should probably set some kind of date (and plan some kind of ceremony) for “taking it all off”.
Then again, perhaps the best course would be 5 different styles, presented in 5 different acts - Monday through Friday, slowly whittling away hair each evening in order to grace the office with a brand new look each morning. My face would be my canvas, my facial hair the colors of my pallet (strangely, a pallet unmatched to the hair that grows from my scalp). Clippers and a razor would be the instruments through which I plied my craft. Friday would be a joyous day indeed, with nothing but below-the-nose-bunting to greet the weekend. Or perhaps that day would see me with only the left side of my face free and clear, and the right side left perfectly intact? The possibilities are near endless.
Further bulletins as events warrant…
Some things you should know about it:
• I have it on good authority that it made a 12 year old girl uncomfortable over the weekend
• I just ate a morning doughnut. Glazed. The glazing is stuck in the hairs
• It continues to look really horrible
I’m not sure how much longer I can hold out. I feel like my venture into the world of beardom is akin to our occupation of Iraq: there is no timetable for withdrawal. If only I had an elected legislative body to force my hand… At any rate, I should probably set some kind of date (and plan some kind of ceremony) for “taking it all off”.
Then again, perhaps the best course would be 5 different styles, presented in 5 different acts - Monday through Friday, slowly whittling away hair each evening in order to grace the office with a brand new look each morning. My face would be my canvas, my facial hair the colors of my pallet (strangely, a pallet unmatched to the hair that grows from my scalp). Clippers and a razor would be the instruments through which I plied my craft. Friday would be a joyous day indeed, with nothing but below-the-nose-bunting to greet the weekend. Or perhaps that day would see me with only the left side of my face free and clear, and the right side left perfectly intact? The possibilities are near endless.
Further bulletins as events warrant…
4.12.2007
Sketching assholes on the other side.
The news it came to me today in the form of a watered down newspaper designed to feed the need for news in a society with an eroding attention span. Kurt Vonnegut had passed. My stomach fell a little bit, and it wasn't the homeless smell drifting from the corner of the train this time. This was a man, who genuinely changed the way I looked at things (Vonnegut not the homeless guy, although I must admit, I have never read any of the homeless guys work). There were others before, I remember writing something similar when Ken Kesey died and certainly John Hartford. But Vonnegut was different. He fed me. He motivated me. He led me on adventures that were as ridiculous as they were beautiful. His cynicism spoke so loudly, and somehow it was never bitter, that is just the way it was. He spelled things out for you in all their absurd glory, then he tipped them on their side just to put everything in perspective.
I remember buying Cat's Cradle at the San Francisco airport. I started reading it when we took off, I finished the last words just as we touched down in Detroit. The wings could have fell off that plane, I would have never known... I wasn't there. I was with Newt and the Hoosiers, learning to embrace the end of the world. I was hooked. I have read three other Vonnegut books in one sitting and believe me this is no testament to me, it is all on him. The tales are so insanely structured, so gloriously ridiculous, but at the same time rooted in the simplest of topics.
I think above all what I learned from Kurt Vonnegut was to question what you think you know and to feed your imagination. Just because someone tells you something is someway or you read it in a book, Don't take it as fact. Learn it for yourself. The way he presented the absurd with such reckless abandon, but somehow made it seem common place. He noticed the deliciousness in the ridiculous and he help the reader appreciate it too... and in many cases notice it for the first time.
The thing I have said many times about reading a Vonnegut novel is this. I try every time to get him, to catch something that he will leave unfinished, a question left unanswered a plot left unexplored. He sets up this wonderful circus of tangled insanity, lets it dance around like a drunken clown and like then at the end... OH, the end, he so magnificently takes every little drop of beautiful wackiness, even the tiny mouse droppings, and wraps it up into a nice neat little easily digestible package, puts it in your lap, then smacks you on the back of the head while he smokes a cigarette and complains about the weather. You can do nothing but sit there in amazement or call him a "Bastard." The latter being the bigger compliment.
I have no doubt that he is somewhere right now asking questions that are spot on, making comments that are even more profound and sketching assholes with the mighty flaming tornado in the sky.
Kurt Vonnegut, quite possibly the person that I never met that I least wanted to keep that way. If I would have met you, I would say "I'll miss you," since I hadn't I will just say, "Good luck with the beaver mag that is eternity."
So it goes.
I remember buying Cat's Cradle at the San Francisco airport. I started reading it when we took off, I finished the last words just as we touched down in Detroit. The wings could have fell off that plane, I would have never known... I wasn't there. I was with Newt and the Hoosiers, learning to embrace the end of the world. I was hooked. I have read three other Vonnegut books in one sitting and believe me this is no testament to me, it is all on him. The tales are so insanely structured, so gloriously ridiculous, but at the same time rooted in the simplest of topics.
I think above all what I learned from Kurt Vonnegut was to question what you think you know and to feed your imagination. Just because someone tells you something is someway or you read it in a book, Don't take it as fact. Learn it for yourself. The way he presented the absurd with such reckless abandon, but somehow made it seem common place. He noticed the deliciousness in the ridiculous and he help the reader appreciate it too... and in many cases notice it for the first time.
The thing I have said many times about reading a Vonnegut novel is this. I try every time to get him, to catch something that he will leave unfinished, a question left unanswered a plot left unexplored. He sets up this wonderful circus of tangled insanity, lets it dance around like a drunken clown and like then at the end... OH, the end, he so magnificently takes every little drop of beautiful wackiness, even the tiny mouse droppings, and wraps it up into a nice neat little easily digestible package, puts it in your lap, then smacks you on the back of the head while he smokes a cigarette and complains about the weather. You can do nothing but sit there in amazement or call him a "Bastard." The latter being the bigger compliment.
I have no doubt that he is somewhere right now asking questions that are spot on, making comments that are even more profound and sketching assholes with the mighty flaming tornado in the sky.
Kurt Vonnegut, quite possibly the person that I never met that I least wanted to keep that way. If I would have met you, I would say "I'll miss you," since I hadn't I will just say, "Good luck with the beaver mag that is eternity."
So it goes.
god bless you, mr. vonnegut
I know everyone has their own beginning. It started with Sirens of Titan for me. And wow - that was it. I had heard of him before, but really knew very little. And to be honest, I had seen a picture of J. Garcia with a copy of Sirens. At that time in my life, if he had been into something, I wanted to try it.
The Rosewater ventures, Kilgore, labor strikes, Dresden inferno, RAMJAC, Ice Nine (incidentally the name of the Dead's publishing company), space travel... Again, wow. So much to think about, so much to enjoy.
But this is what we do. We spend some time during our stay here, and try to leave some kind of mark. Then we move on. That's everyone's story. Some just tell a more darkly comedic story than others.
God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut
1922 - 2007
The Rosewater ventures, Kilgore, labor strikes, Dresden inferno, RAMJAC, Ice Nine (incidentally the name of the Dead's publishing company), space travel... Again, wow. So much to think about, so much to enjoy.
But this is what we do. We spend some time during our stay here, and try to leave some kind of mark. Then we move on. That's everyone's story. Some just tell a more darkly comedic story than others.
God bless you, Mr. Vonnegut
1922 - 2007
4.11.2007
Mexican food: The day the light went on.
I had one of those rare moments in life when you question the person you've become. You flash back to that young kid filled with hopes and dreams and ask yourself, the you-now, if the you-then would be pleased with the decisions and choices that you-they made. How I came to this startling notion is really quite odd.
I was in a car with two coworkers on our way back to the office from a meeting. It was coming up on five so as you can image the three of us had quitting-time on our minds. The dream of homemade lasagna or pot-roast dancing around our belly's as well.
My one cohort having been in this predicament before knew that a Del Taco lie just outside our route. Not enough to create chaos but outoftheway enough for us to leave the safety of the freeway. The driver of the vehicle must have been on a few of these excursions before because he didn't bat a eye when Del Taco was brought up. He willfully got off the freeway and headed west. I was in the backseat and truly not aware of the detour until I noticed that we stopped. At a traffic light. Odd I thought. This is not the way I would head back but to each his own. It was at this point that the Del Taco initiator began to shower us with the virtues of said fast-food joint. I, a Del Taco virgin, was rather intrigued.
As we pulled up to the drive-through the Initiator asked us both if we wanted anything. No was our reply. He pleaded that I, the chaste should at least try a taco so without much resistance I conceded. From the front-passenger seat he recited his order that consisted of, I kid you not 4 veggie burritos, 3 soft tacos (one being mine) and a large Mr. Pibb with no ice. Turns out he was ordering dinner for the Fam, but what's most amazing here is that he ordered a Mr. Pibb. A Mr. Pibb!
What's even more astonishing is when we pulled up to the window they actually handed him a Mr. Pibb. No ice. Hot Damn. Mr. Pibb! I couldn't get over it. I used to drink this stuff like it was going out of style and that's when it hit me like a positive score on a paternity test. I drank it...I have not seen Mr. Pibb in years....like it was...like that actor that shows up on the Law and Order rerun that you thought was dead...going out of...I didn't think they made it anymore....style! Here it is, Mr. Pibb, out of style. It was my fault. I'm to blame. I drank the shit out of it and now the only place you can get it is at a Del Taco in Dearborn. My me-then is not happy with the me-now.
I was in a car with two coworkers on our way back to the office from a meeting. It was coming up on five so as you can image the three of us had quitting-time on our minds. The dream of homemade lasagna or pot-roast dancing around our belly's as well.
My one cohort having been in this predicament before knew that a Del Taco lie just outside our route. Not enough to create chaos but outoftheway enough for us to leave the safety of the freeway. The driver of the vehicle must have been on a few of these excursions before because he didn't bat a eye when Del Taco was brought up. He willfully got off the freeway and headed west. I was in the backseat and truly not aware of the detour until I noticed that we stopped. At a traffic light. Odd I thought. This is not the way I would head back but to each his own. It was at this point that the Del Taco initiator began to shower us with the virtues of said fast-food joint. I, a Del Taco virgin, was rather intrigued.
As we pulled up to the drive-through the Initiator asked us both if we wanted anything. No was our reply. He pleaded that I, the chaste should at least try a taco so without much resistance I conceded. From the front-passenger seat he recited his order that consisted of, I kid you not 4 veggie burritos, 3 soft tacos (one being mine) and a large Mr. Pibb with no ice. Turns out he was ordering dinner for the Fam, but what's most amazing here is that he ordered a Mr. Pibb. A Mr. Pibb!
What's even more astonishing is when we pulled up to the window they actually handed him a Mr. Pibb. No ice. Hot Damn. Mr. Pibb! I couldn't get over it. I used to drink this stuff like it was going out of style and that's when it hit me like a positive score on a paternity test. I drank it...I have not seen Mr. Pibb in years....like it was...like that actor that shows up on the Law and Order rerun that you thought was dead...going out of...I didn't think they made it anymore....style! Here it is, Mr. Pibb, out of style. It was my fault. I'm to blame. I drank the shit out of it and now the only place you can get it is at a Del Taco in Dearborn. My me-then is not happy with the me-now.
4.09.2007
Excerpt 3
Hank:
What are composite trees? Well that’s simple, you docile little slut. Generally speaking they’re a cypress, aspen blend used primarily in gymnastics for the uneven bars and such. I’m pretty sure they were invented in the Eternal city by a man that lived with his family in some old turret.
Chula:
Pardon me if I interpose Hank, but you look a little stiff. Is it the noise factor from that “Girls Gone Wild” commercial, or is it otherwise inexplicable?
Hank:
I apologize Chula, but I’m fantasizing about using a bean stalk right now, and only the Penates alone are keeping me from devouring that girl there and the rest of the wolf pack she runs around with. If you cohabit with me long enough you’ll learn that though I may look solemn, my hormones are like a raging bus. Now hand me the manual so I can figure out how to inflate this stoop ball.
Chula:
Hank do you realize that right now, down at the dry-dock, one of our offspring is having relations with a mannequin he picked up at the five-and-ten…and those things usually don’t have limbs!
Hank:
Well he’s clearly no diplomat, but there’s no need for moral decree. Not everyone can be as well put together as that four hundred day clock over there. I’m quite certain with a little vigilance we can parch him of his craving for mannequin love.
With that being said, Chula threw a slice of rasher on the griddle and proceeded to doff her evening gown. Though he found the sight quite offensive, he made love to her anyway in a manner that could only be found in heroic verse.
What are composite trees? Well that’s simple, you docile little slut. Generally speaking they’re a cypress, aspen blend used primarily in gymnastics for the uneven bars and such. I’m pretty sure they were invented in the Eternal city by a man that lived with his family in some old turret.
Chula:
Pardon me if I interpose Hank, but you look a little stiff. Is it the noise factor from that “Girls Gone Wild” commercial, or is it otherwise inexplicable?
Hank:
I apologize Chula, but I’m fantasizing about using a bean stalk right now, and only the Penates alone are keeping me from devouring that girl there and the rest of the wolf pack she runs around with. If you cohabit with me long enough you’ll learn that though I may look solemn, my hormones are like a raging bus. Now hand me the manual so I can figure out how to inflate this stoop ball.
Chula:
Hank do you realize that right now, down at the dry-dock, one of our offspring is having relations with a mannequin he picked up at the five-and-ten…and those things usually don’t have limbs!
Hank:
Well he’s clearly no diplomat, but there’s no need for moral decree. Not everyone can be as well put together as that four hundred day clock over there. I’m quite certain with a little vigilance we can parch him of his craving for mannequin love.
With that being said, Chula threw a slice of rasher on the griddle and proceeded to doff her evening gown. Though he found the sight quite offensive, he made love to her anyway in a manner that could only be found in heroic verse.
hell is most certainly a place without gymnastics
In refernce to the aforementioned "exercise", I think the short stories are all terribly interesting. I also think everyone would agree that what initially seemed like a fun little bit of literary erector set assemblage soon revealed itself to be quite the undertaking. To keep a cohesive idea moving along while following the "rules" took some mental manuvering to say the least.
Aside from the stories themselves, I had also looked forward to seeing how different people would interpret each word. We could not change the word at all; "mannequin" could not become "mannequins", "cohabit" could not assume "cohabiting" or "cohabitation", et cetera et cetera. But there was some wiggle room. I was interested to see if the earthy Kentucky Smooth would return to his rural roots and use his "stalk" to describe an unending field of corn, knee-high by the fourth of July. Would Fathand, the self-proclaimed "man who framed O.J." use the same word to describe how he followed Nicole and Ron back to that southern-California hacienda? No one knew, and that made it exciting.
I doff my urine-soaked stetson to all of you,
H
Aside from the stories themselves, I had also looked forward to seeing how different people would interpret each word. We could not change the word at all; "mannequin" could not become "mannequins", "cohabit" could not assume "cohabiting" or "cohabitation", et cetera et cetera. But there was some wiggle room. I was interested to see if the earthy Kentucky Smooth would return to his rural roots and use his "stalk" to describe an unending field of corn, knee-high by the fourth of July. Would Fathand, the self-proclaimed "man who framed O.J." use the same word to describe how he followed Nicole and Ron back to that southern-California hacienda? No one knew, and that made it exciting.
I doff my urine-soaked stetson to all of you,
H
4.08.2007
Happy Easter, America.
a blast from the past... as written for "Blatant misuse of a conundrum: Pigeons don't soar with eagles" ~circa 2000
----
I eat a Taco Bell
Almost everyday now
I seem to be hopelessly addicted to the chalupa.
The Chalupa?
I'm afraid
I know the long term risks, eating at this poisonpit presents
and I know the ingredients
and I don't like Mexico
Still I eat... and eat
Chalupa's by the three
my stomach stands the test. How?
I don't know, or care.
People always say to me, "I don't believe you don't smoke cigarettes!"
Fuck those people
I eat at Taco Bell
That's worse
I just don't have to put up with the negative propaganda.
like you
you American pig
Did you know that the American pig kills 800,000 people a minute?
... if you let it
what does Taco Bell do?
Tell me that on television.
With your snappy death ads, and your scary afterthoughts.
Tell me something new!
I have to suspect a Mexican restaraunt that is closed on Easter
No matter how fast it is
why Easter?
why the Chalupa?
Was Jesus Mexican?
or even a coneseur?
Hot sauce can't cover this
Tell me I'm wrong.
3 beef baja chalupas with a large Dr. Pepper
that's $4.37
at the second window
Happy Easter, America
Jesus Christ!
----
I eat a Taco Bell
Almost everyday now
I seem to be hopelessly addicted to the chalupa.
The Chalupa?
I'm afraid
I know the long term risks, eating at this poisonpit presents
and I know the ingredients
and I don't like Mexico
Still I eat... and eat
Chalupa's by the three
my stomach stands the test. How?
I don't know, or care.
People always say to me, "I don't believe you don't smoke cigarettes!"
Fuck those people
I eat at Taco Bell
That's worse
I just don't have to put up with the negative propaganda.
like you
you American pig
Did you know that the American pig kills 800,000 people a minute?
... if you let it
what does Taco Bell do?
Tell me that on television.
With your snappy death ads, and your scary afterthoughts.
Tell me something new!
I have to suspect a Mexican restaraunt that is closed on Easter
No matter how fast it is
why Easter?
why the Chalupa?
Was Jesus Mexican?
or even a coneseur?
Hot sauce can't cover this
Tell me I'm wrong.
3 beef baja chalupas with a large Dr. Pepper
that's $4.37
at the second window
Happy Easter, America
Jesus Christ!
4.07.2007
What in the Gymnastics hell?
You may be wondering, "what the hell is going on with these semi-nosensical stories this week at PF?" You might also be wondering, "Do my co-workers know about my carmel fetish?"...
Well, I can help you with the first one.
Last week a message came through the pipes at PF headquarters from Huffer. He suggested an exercise. We here a PF are pretty much anti-exercise, but he was talkin' bout a mental exercise. Which we are always in favor of. Basically this is what he had in mind.
Here are the rules:
- you must use all the words provided in the list
- the words must appear in your PF post in the same order that they appear on the list
- each sentence of your post must use at least 2 of the words from the list more if you want to "go for it"
- the title of your post should be created using any of the list words, but only words from the list
Below is the list of words, in order and randomly chosen from the Random House Dictionary of the English Language, Unabridged Edition by an attractive and blindfolded co-worker of mine. We are using the 1979 publishing run, because it will hopefully capture the vernacular of our youth.
Best of luck,
H
------------
Docile
Gymnastics
Turret
Stiff
Inexplicable
Penates
Cohabit
Bus
Stoop ball
Off spring
Five-and-ten
Decree
Vigilance
Rasher
Offensive
Heroic verse
Doff
Roll
Parch
Four-hundred-day clock
Diplomat
Mannequin
Dry-dock
Manual
Solemn
Wolf pack
Stalk
Noise factor
Interpose
Eternal City
Cypress
Composite
----------
Knowing this, feel free to skip back and re-read the weeks entries. The words from the list appear in bold in most of the stories... or if you are over this little vocabular mombo feel free to get back to that carmel fetish.
Well, I can help you with the first one.
Last week a message came through the pipes at PF headquarters from Huffer. He suggested an exercise. We here a PF are pretty much anti-exercise, but he was talkin' bout a mental exercise. Which we are always in favor of. Basically this is what he had in mind.
Here are the rules:
- you must use all the words provided in the list
- the words must appear in your PF post in the same order that they appear on the list
- each sentence of your post must use at least 2 of the words from the list more if you want to "go for it"
- the title of your post should be created using any of the list words, but only words from the list
Below is the list of words, in order and randomly chosen from the Random House Dictionary of the English Language, Unabridged Edition by an attractive and blindfolded co-worker of mine. We are using the 1979 publishing run, because it will hopefully capture the vernacular of our youth.
Best of luck,
H
------------
Docile
Gymnastics
Turret
Stiff
Inexplicable
Penates
Cohabit
Bus
Stoop ball
Off spring
Five-and-ten
Decree
Vigilance
Rasher
Offensive
Heroic verse
Doff
Roll
Parch
Four-hundred-day clock
Diplomat
Mannequin
Dry-dock
Manual
Solemn
Wolf pack
Stalk
Noise factor
Interpose
Eternal City
Cypress
Composite
----------
Knowing this, feel free to skip back and re-read the weeks entries. The words from the list appear in bold in most of the stories... or if you are over this little vocabular mombo feel free to get back to that carmel fetish.
4.06.2007
Shrubs in the Eternal City
Dear Mr. Scorsese,
I have submitted for your review excerpts from my new and arguably groundbreaking script “Chula” that chronicles the love affair between a docile former gymnastics teacher (Chula) and a crusty turret-ridden Navy man (Hank).
Excerpt 1
[Hank and Chula sit talking on the front porch swing; Hank reminisces. Chula itches her ass on account of her recent bout with an unidentifiable form of scabies]
Hank
…The ocean made me stiff (gently touching his crotch), always did, so I joined the Navy. To my mother it was inexplicable. She knew only the roar of the Penates on a dusty day. But me, I yearned like a whore to cohabit with the waves, to sail the seas, and shoot Japs [Bang!] and Japs [Bang!] and Japs [Bang!] [Bang!]. So I signed their papers, jumped on that shit of a bus and…
Chula
Hank, honey, you should’ve stuck with Jersey stoop ball. Sure you shot the Japs but that that was yesterday, today we’re old and bored; the offspring of some shadowy gravedigger. My ass is peeling off in shelves and you’re playing soda jerk in some five-and-ten war fantasy.
Hank
Well shit, there’s the religious decree! Mary Magdalene is a Judas, an itchy Judas, who would piss on a man’s vigilance to summon a dollar, a dime, to her waiting and ever sagging bosom! Well, green dollar! You take the bosom, I’ll take the rasher! It’s my heart and her… her…Tet Offensive! May the heroic verse read: Straight outta high school Bitch and Sonofabitch doff the crown of sanity for a roll in the hay!
Chula [sweetly, sincerely, gently touching Hank as she speaks]
Honey I’m parched, pass the lemonade.
Excerpt 2
[Hank takes Chula on vacation to Branson, MO. They sit lucidly on a bench in front of Baldknobbers Country Music Theater. Chula’s scabies are more easily managed]
Chula [internal monologue]
Oh Hank. If they made a four-hundred day clock I’d buy them all. Then we’d stay here forever; you the American Diplomat, me the sexy JC Penney mannequin.
Hank [internal monologue]
My ship’s run aground and Branson is my dry dock. But don’t patch the hole honey, don’t even read the manual. It is my solemn vow that we’ll never return to the world, the wolf pack, all that contrived mess of yesterday.
Chula [internal monologue]
But you would be the naughty American Diplomat, you’d stalk me through Menswear and down to the basement, my tight mannequin buttocks flashing red on your sex radar.
Hank [internal monologue]
In Branson all is quiet, truly sans the noise factor. Out there (his eyes look homeward) even the birds interpose. The damn robins, well, just like the Japs, they flit and flut about on a happy seven dwarves kind of mission: to keep me from the Eternal City. The city of happiness, all warm and held to the water by the cypress.
[A large semi-truck creeps slowly by. It has taken a wrong turn and mistakenly entered the pedestrian district. Only Chula seems to notice. Hank remains in his eternal city dream. Chula watches the truck, slightly disturbed. The text on the large semi-trailer reads “Branson Composite Trees and Shrubs”
Chula [now speaks]
Hank, what’s a composite tree?
I have submitted for your review excerpts from my new and arguably groundbreaking script “Chula” that chronicles the love affair between a docile former gymnastics teacher (Chula) and a crusty turret-ridden Navy man (Hank).
Excerpt 1
[Hank and Chula sit talking on the front porch swing; Hank reminisces. Chula itches her ass on account of her recent bout with an unidentifiable form of scabies]
Hank
…The ocean made me stiff (gently touching his crotch), always did, so I joined the Navy. To my mother it was inexplicable. She knew only the roar of the Penates on a dusty day. But me, I yearned like a whore to cohabit with the waves, to sail the seas, and shoot Japs [Bang!] and Japs [Bang!] and Japs [Bang!] [Bang!]. So I signed their papers, jumped on that shit of a bus and…
Chula
Hank, honey, you should’ve stuck with Jersey stoop ball. Sure you shot the Japs but that that was yesterday, today we’re old and bored; the offspring of some shadowy gravedigger. My ass is peeling off in shelves and you’re playing soda jerk in some five-and-ten war fantasy.
Hank
Well shit, there’s the religious decree! Mary Magdalene is a Judas, an itchy Judas, who would piss on a man’s vigilance to summon a dollar, a dime, to her waiting and ever sagging bosom! Well, green dollar! You take the bosom, I’ll take the rasher! It’s my heart and her… her…Tet Offensive! May the heroic verse read: Straight outta high school Bitch and Sonofabitch doff the crown of sanity for a roll in the hay!
Chula [sweetly, sincerely, gently touching Hank as she speaks]
Honey I’m parched, pass the lemonade.
Excerpt 2
[Hank takes Chula on vacation to Branson, MO. They sit lucidly on a bench in front of Baldknobbers Country Music Theater. Chula’s scabies are more easily managed]
Chula [internal monologue]
Oh Hank. If they made a four-hundred day clock I’d buy them all. Then we’d stay here forever; you the American Diplomat, me the sexy JC Penney mannequin.
Hank [internal monologue]
My ship’s run aground and Branson is my dry dock. But don’t patch the hole honey, don’t even read the manual. It is my solemn vow that we’ll never return to the world, the wolf pack, all that contrived mess of yesterday.
Chula [internal monologue]
But you would be the naughty American Diplomat, you’d stalk me through Menswear and down to the basement, my tight mannequin buttocks flashing red on your sex radar.
Hank [internal monologue]
In Branson all is quiet, truly sans the noise factor. Out there (his eyes look homeward) even the birds interpose. The damn robins, well, just like the Japs, they flit and flut about on a happy seven dwarves kind of mission: to keep me from the Eternal City. The city of happiness, all warm and held to the water by the cypress.
[A large semi-truck creeps slowly by. It has taken a wrong turn and mistakenly entered the pedestrian district. Only Chula seems to notice. Hank remains in his eternal city dream. Chula watches the truck, slightly disturbed. The text on the large semi-trailer reads “Branson Composite Trees and Shrubs”
Chula [now speaks]
Hank, what’s a composite tree?
4.05.2007
Stiff Gymnastics or: How I Learned to Love the Leotard.
Melza was a docile creature, too short for her weight, she had long red hair and was especially fond of gymnastics. Melza was particularly interested in gymnastical fashion, everywhere she went she wore a leotard, with her red locks done up in a bun she looked like a misshaped pillow with a tomato turret for a hat, a stiff smell followed her almost always. All this being said, Melza’s carissma was inexplicable for she was the direct decendant of two mildly regarded penates.
One day Melza woke up particularly refreshed, put on a new leotard and set out to find a partner to cohabit the old bus that she lived in. Her journey brought her to a vibrantly colored house with a group of people out front playing stoop ball with what looked to be the offspring of a volleyball and Art Garfunkel. Melza decided that she would go with the flow, she siddled up next to Paul, one of the Garfunkel ball players, and asked him what his favorite numbers were. Before she could even finish he yelled “Five-and-Ten”, which almost made Melza jiggle out of her purple sequenced leotard, she saw it as a decree from the heveans. Melza whispered something into Paul’s ear about bacon grease and a “special” leotard and his once mighty stoop ball vigilance quickly eroded into a lust for flesh and rasher. On their way back to Melza’s, they continued their courtship by reciting their favorite offensive heroic verse poetry.
When they got back to the bus, Melza quickly and gracefully disrobed, she was always one to doff a leotard and let the good times roll. In no time flat, she and Paul were at each other like Lance Bass on a cosmonaut. Spandex was stretched and landings were stuck, after such vigorous carnal tomfoolery the young lovers actions began to parch the bus to the point where the four-hundred-day clock simply exploded. Being the constant diplomat Paul offered to buy his new tubby tantric tumbler a new one and suggested that they turn on the teley and watch his favorite movie Mannequin. Melza had to break the TV out of dry-dock as she hadn’t watch television since the 1992 summer Olympics, she even needed a manual to get the thing turned on. As the two of them sat there watching Mannequin they both realized that they were meant to be together and as the credits rolled they stood in all their naked (and leotarded) glory and swore a solemn oath to each other. They vowed that nothing not, wolf pack, nor tainted celery stalk, nor the noise factor from their own fornication would ever interpose between their love for each other.
Moral of the story: The Eternal City wasn’t built in a day, neither was any city to my knowledge, take your time and do what you love. Before you know it you will find your soulmate and together you will grow to be as mighty as the mightiest cypress tree in all the metaphorical cypress swamp. If that doesn’t work there is always the one-piece, lyrca-poly composite garment of the gods, the leotard. Embrace it.
One day Melza woke up particularly refreshed, put on a new leotard and set out to find a partner to cohabit the old bus that she lived in. Her journey brought her to a vibrantly colored house with a group of people out front playing stoop ball with what looked to be the offspring of a volleyball and Art Garfunkel. Melza decided that she would go with the flow, she siddled up next to Paul, one of the Garfunkel ball players, and asked him what his favorite numbers were. Before she could even finish he yelled “Five-and-Ten”, which almost made Melza jiggle out of her purple sequenced leotard, she saw it as a decree from the heveans. Melza whispered something into Paul’s ear about bacon grease and a “special” leotard and his once mighty stoop ball vigilance quickly eroded into a lust for flesh and rasher. On their way back to Melza’s, they continued their courtship by reciting their favorite offensive heroic verse poetry.
When they got back to the bus, Melza quickly and gracefully disrobed, she was always one to doff a leotard and let the good times roll. In no time flat, she and Paul were at each other like Lance Bass on a cosmonaut. Spandex was stretched and landings were stuck, after such vigorous carnal tomfoolery the young lovers actions began to parch the bus to the point where the four-hundred-day clock simply exploded. Being the constant diplomat Paul offered to buy his new tubby tantric tumbler a new one and suggested that they turn on the teley and watch his favorite movie Mannequin. Melza had to break the TV out of dry-dock as she hadn’t watch television since the 1992 summer Olympics, she even needed a manual to get the thing turned on. As the two of them sat there watching Mannequin they both realized that they were meant to be together and as the credits rolled they stood in all their naked (and leotarded) glory and swore a solemn oath to each other. They vowed that nothing not, wolf pack, nor tainted celery stalk, nor the noise factor from their own fornication would ever interpose between their love for each other.
Moral of the story: The Eternal City wasn’t built in a day, neither was any city to my knowledge, take your time and do what you love. Before you know it you will find your soulmate and together you will grow to be as mighty as the mightiest cypress tree in all the metaphorical cypress swamp. If that doesn’t work there is always the one-piece, lyrca-poly composite garment of the gods, the leotard. Embrace it.
4.04.2007
Dry-dock in the Eternal City
I ask that you remain docile for the next few minutes as I spin a tail where gymnastics and an on-the-fly turret play a prominent role. I understand that the words you just read may have caused you to become stiff with fear, that I'm afraid is inexplicable. But do not fear these Penates that cohabit your mind, for once this whole story is digested its meaning will hit you like a bus.
Twas a sunny day and I was deep into a game of stoop ball with the offspring of the neighborhood butcher. We were just outside the five-and-ten when the local troupe of gymnasts came down the sidewalk and began to shout in unison the following decree.
“Vigilance against all who promote the use of rasher as a form of currency! We are on the offensive!”, they bellowed as they began a long diatribe of heroic verse.
I stared on as one by one they began to doff their unitards to reveal not the trim physique of athletes but roll after roll of blubber. I began to parch as the sun beat down on us; furthermore my four-hundred-day clock decided to expire right then, 293 days shy.
The eldest butcher's boy, who himself had the girth of three men, being ever the diplomat, walked right up to the mob and stood amongst them as still as a mannequin. He remained there for what seemed like days, as if he were a freighter stuck in dry-dock, then suddenly he began to lurch about uncontrollably like the shifter of a manual transmission on the fritz.
As I looked on a solemn air fell upon the hoard of hosiery-clad girls and they reminded me of a wolf pack that unexpectedly lost its Alpha male. Like the stalk of a bean plant captured by the lens of a high speed camera the eldest butcher's boy rose up to tower over the group who had now began to scream and shriek, intensifying the noise factor of the growing crowd. If I might interpose a personal remark here, you may find this hard to believe but having seen this for myself, time stood still and that boy surrounded by a hoard of gymnasts resembled an ancient tower found in the Eternal City. Like a cypress growing in the desert this story is a composite of many meanings and themes, mainly though it is about completing an assignment that was given to me.
Twas a sunny day and I was deep into a game of stoop ball with the offspring of the neighborhood butcher. We were just outside the five-and-ten when the local troupe of gymnasts came down the sidewalk and began to shout in unison the following decree.
“Vigilance against all who promote the use of rasher as a form of currency! We are on the offensive!”, they bellowed as they began a long diatribe of heroic verse.
I stared on as one by one they began to doff their unitards to reveal not the trim physique of athletes but roll after roll of blubber. I began to parch as the sun beat down on us; furthermore my four-hundred-day clock decided to expire right then, 293 days shy.
The eldest butcher's boy, who himself had the girth of three men, being ever the diplomat, walked right up to the mob and stood amongst them as still as a mannequin. He remained there for what seemed like days, as if he were a freighter stuck in dry-dock, then suddenly he began to lurch about uncontrollably like the shifter of a manual transmission on the fritz.
As I looked on a solemn air fell upon the hoard of hosiery-clad girls and they reminded me of a wolf pack that unexpectedly lost its Alpha male. Like the stalk of a bean plant captured by the lens of a high speed camera the eldest butcher's boy rose up to tower over the group who had now began to scream and shriek, intensifying the noise factor of the growing crowd. If I might interpose a personal remark here, you may find this hard to believe but having seen this for myself, time stood still and that boy surrounded by a hoard of gymnasts resembled an ancient tower found in the Eternal City. Like a cypress growing in the desert this story is a composite of many meanings and themes, mainly though it is about completing an assignment that was given to me.
4.03.2007
inexplicable five & ten gymnastics
Cesar could be found nightly, reclining in his easy chair, quietly observing the spectacle through the bending of the fishbowl glass (he could tolerate only the most docile of animal companionship), content to suffer the mental gymnastics that are the price of admission to watching one’s mother recreate Mary Lou Retton’s bronze medal effort on a set of shower curtain rods. From his armchair turret, no adult beverage – no matter its country of origin, no matter how stiff, could give explanation to the inexplicable. He often wondered aloud what he had done to incur such wrath from the Penates, forced to cohabit these 42 years with a woman who’s mental chassis was, at best, long overdue for a good oil-lube-and-filter service. It was nights like this that had him literally on his knees, begging for the 210 Bus Line out of Yardley to veer wildly out of control, suddenly (and of course permanently) putting an end to her next stoop ball match.
Cauterizing his reproductive tubules the previous night guaranteed his lack of offspring, but the five-and-ten utensils he used to do so guaranteed his decree of vigilance over his scarred and festering rasher-like male organ of copulation. It’s true, the new smell that now rose from his nether regions was quite offensive, but some would say the same about heroic verse, or pickled cabbage, or his “collection” of amputee hookers that littered the basement of mother’s house.
Speaking of such, Cesar longed for the days when he’d doff his urine-soaked stetson, roll a j, and quench his parch-laced throat at the Martin’s Nest before trolling the side streets of Auburn Hills and Pontiac proper – his wrist-sized four-hundred-day clock providing a steady backbeat to one seriously fucked up night of recreational drug use and sex-for-hire. On the nights that his “foreign diplomat” ruse proved too transparent, he’d end up balling the mannequin he kept in the trunk of his 1975 Renault. And on the nights that the mannequin was far too incinerated for great, golden copulations, he’d dry dock his love boat and perform a manual jerk off ala el duderino (for those of the anti-brevity persuasion).
Some things you should know about the solemn Cesar and his wolf pack mentality work habits:
- He once used a corn stalk to increase the noise factor in his powerpoint training seminar
- He attempted to interpose banana daquiris between 2:00 p.m. and 3:00 p.m. as a legitimate “alternative-to-coffee” coffee break because "he heard it was all the rage" in the Eternal City
Speaking of Rome, if you’re ever in that hamlet, be sure to visit Vicolo Uomo Selvatico, named in honor of Cesar’s prowess with a Cypress bough (non-composite cypress, mind you).
Cauterizing his reproductive tubules the previous night guaranteed his lack of offspring, but the five-and-ten utensils he used to do so guaranteed his decree of vigilance over his scarred and festering rasher-like male organ of copulation. It’s true, the new smell that now rose from his nether regions was quite offensive, but some would say the same about heroic verse, or pickled cabbage, or his “collection” of amputee hookers that littered the basement of mother’s house.
Speaking of such, Cesar longed for the days when he’d doff his urine-soaked stetson, roll a j, and quench his parch-laced throat at the Martin’s Nest before trolling the side streets of Auburn Hills and Pontiac proper – his wrist-sized four-hundred-day clock providing a steady backbeat to one seriously fucked up night of recreational drug use and sex-for-hire. On the nights that his “foreign diplomat” ruse proved too transparent, he’d end up balling the mannequin he kept in the trunk of his 1975 Renault. And on the nights that the mannequin was far too incinerated for great, golden copulations, he’d dry dock his love boat and perform a manual jerk off ala el duderino (for those of the anti-brevity persuasion).
Some things you should know about the solemn Cesar and his wolf pack mentality work habits:
- He once used a corn stalk to increase the noise factor in his powerpoint training seminar
- He attempted to interpose banana daquiris between 2:00 p.m. and 3:00 p.m. as a legitimate “alternative-to-coffee” coffee break because "he heard it was all the rage" in the Eternal City
Speaking of Rome, if you’re ever in that hamlet, be sure to visit Vicolo Uomo Selvatico, named in honor of Cesar’s prowess with a Cypress bough (non-composite cypress, mind you).
4.02.2007
Sucks to the rules!
Debalt and Huffer were a couple working stiffs, inexplicably cohabiting with a pair of twin mannequins just outside the eternal city. From the composite I’ve rendered, this harum-scarum foursome was little more than a hungry wolf pack, who would stalk their prey and interpose their will in a manner less than diplomatic.
One sunny afternoon, I was minding my own business watching the girl’s gymnastics team (undress) practice for the upcoming event. I was feeling rather parched so I headed into the hall when I saw this hottie apparently waiting for the bus. Well before you know it I had dry-docked her beneath the bleachers. I sort of had to stoop ball though because she was pretty short, but she was awfully docile. We had a couple rolls so things heated up quickly. Well, anyway I was really giving her the old rasher, you know, the big cypress. And believe me, she was singing heroic verse. We were having such a good time, neither of us even considered the noise factor. Just then, in walks the wolf pack looking all solemn saying “just be patient young ones” and “practice vigilance” and a bunch of other crap that just really ruined the moment. I was immediately like “I decree this day wolf pack asshole day” and started putting back on the clothes I’d doffed.
It turned out not to matter much anyway, the first of our offspring was born just nine months later. Now we’ve got two boys ages five and ten. The big one we call Manual, because we learned how to raise him straight out of a book, like a new baby owner’s manual. The youngster’s named Turret for the way his head was shaped when he was born. Anyway we love ‘em to death, but I’ve sworn to the Penates that soon, when that four hundred day clock chimes, Manual and Turret will find this wolf pack, steal the mannequins and do something REALLY offensive. You’ve been warned!
One sunny afternoon, I was minding my own business watching the girl’s gymnastics team (undress) practice for the upcoming event. I was feeling rather parched so I headed into the hall when I saw this hottie apparently waiting for the bus. Well before you know it I had dry-docked her beneath the bleachers. I sort of had to stoop ball though because she was pretty short, but she was awfully docile. We had a couple rolls so things heated up quickly. Well, anyway I was really giving her the old rasher, you know, the big cypress. And believe me, she was singing heroic verse. We were having such a good time, neither of us even considered the noise factor. Just then, in walks the wolf pack looking all solemn saying “just be patient young ones” and “practice vigilance” and a bunch of other crap that just really ruined the moment. I was immediately like “I decree this day wolf pack asshole day” and started putting back on the clothes I’d doffed.
It turned out not to matter much anyway, the first of our offspring was born just nine months later. Now we’ve got two boys ages five and ten. The big one we call Manual, because we learned how to raise him straight out of a book, like a new baby owner’s manual. The youngster’s named Turret for the way his head was shaped when he was born. Anyway we love ‘em to death, but I’ve sworn to the Penates that soon, when that four hundred day clock chimes, Manual and Turret will find this wolf pack, steal the mannequins and do something REALLY offensive. You’ve been warned!
Docile Diplomat
In my youth I was a different man, strong and docile from years of gymnastics. These days I move like the turret on my lathe, stiff and creaky from years of ware. It’s inexplicable to me how the Di Penates of my home would allow me this wench, this bastion of evil with whom I cohabit, that has so clearly aged me.
I remember back in Brooklyn, waiting for the bus and playing stoop ball with her and the other fortunate offspring of Joey (the Hair) and Sandra, proud owners of the neighborhood five-and-ten. I would decree that very day that extreme vigilance would be necessary to keep me from the rasher aroma and offensive appearance she so readily protruded. But alas, she was not a girl for Heroic verse, but would simply doff her dress for a roll in the hay until we were both parched and ready to wind the four-hundred-day clock.
In time, I became a diplomat, and she practically a mannequin, and our relationship was dry-docked from the start. Albeit through the manual alphabet, I took a solemn oath with this woman despite her angry wolf pack courtship methods. I swear she would stalk me relentlessly and wail at my every indiscretion until I’d submit from the noise factor alone. Lately it has occurred to me that perhaps a nice shiny metal object might interpose, and together we could find a quaint resting place for her back home, in the eternal city, beneath an aging cypress. Of course when the witnesses are called upon for the composite sketch, what they would most certainly recall is a different man, one strong and docile from years of gymnastics.
I remember back in Brooklyn, waiting for the bus and playing stoop ball with her and the other fortunate offspring of Joey (the Hair) and Sandra, proud owners of the neighborhood five-and-ten. I would decree that very day that extreme vigilance would be necessary to keep me from the rasher aroma and offensive appearance she so readily protruded. But alas, she was not a girl for Heroic verse, but would simply doff her dress for a roll in the hay until we were both parched and ready to wind the four-hundred-day clock.
In time, I became a diplomat, and she practically a mannequin, and our relationship was dry-docked from the start. Albeit through the manual alphabet, I took a solemn oath with this woman despite her angry wolf pack courtship methods. I swear she would stalk me relentlessly and wail at my every indiscretion until I’d submit from the noise factor alone. Lately it has occurred to me that perhaps a nice shiny metal object might interpose, and together we could find a quaint resting place for her back home, in the eternal city, beneath an aging cypress. Of course when the witnesses are called upon for the composite sketch, what they would most certainly recall is a different man, one strong and docile from years of gymnastics.
The beggar and the fat man
Out in the work shed is some composite material consisting of cypress, pine and number of other evergreens. I acquired it in Rome, the eternal city, when I happened upon a beggar and a fat man quarrelling over the remains of a ground-score donut and felt the need to interpose. Surprised by the noise factor these two men were creating over half a donut, I investigated further and saw their fight was also over a well-aged stalk of celery. As I approached, the argument escalated until they appeared as a rabid wolf pack, solemnly devouring a fresh kill. It was obvious to me these men had lived hard lives of manual labor, perhaps down at the dry-dock, and I wanted to help. When I tried to speak with them, the fat man just stared like a mannequin, but the beggar spoke as eloquently as a diplomat. He told me of his life, and how he used to work for an evil man building four-hundred-day clocks out of parchment. It was grueling work but he felt it was his chosen roll in life and vowed to never doff this proverbial hat. His employer would certainly not be found in Heroic verse, an offensive, berating man who paid hardly enough to provide one rasher a day. Through constant vigilance the employees were able to avoid group molestation which the employer had decreed a team building exercise. He recalled that fateful Christmas eve at the five-and-ten when he, out of desperation, attempted to steal for his only offspring the stoop ball he couldn’t afford. Finding it more difficult than he anticipated for a man to hide a ball under his shirt, he was delayed and missed his bus to work causing him to lose his job and subsequently the home in which he, his wife Wanda and son Billy did formally cohabit. He swore the Penates had abandoned him for some inexplicable reason. He was stiff with anger when he spoke of how he and his family had been living ever since in the turret of a dilapidated old fortress by the coast. Then he said how much he missed watching girls gymnastics, with those docile little ladies bouncing here and there. Though I thought that last part was weird, I gave the silly sap-story sucker twenty bucks and he gave me this really nice piece of composite material consisting of cypress and those other evergreens.
Play ball!
Today, it's officially spring in my book.
Everything is new, everything is even, everyone has potential and everyone has hope.
Everything is right with the world.
Shut your eyes, you can hear the pop of the mitt, the muted shout of the ump, you can smell that pine tar/peanut shell mixture and you can feel the excitement.
When I think of opening day, and baseball in general for that matter, I think of being a young boy going to see the Tigers play at the old ballpark. Our seats were usually in the upper deck. We would climb those huge ramps to get up to our seats. Normally the thought of being turned loose in that place with a skateboard would be enough to blow a 9 year olds mind... but not on these days. These days were about baseball! We would finally find our section... and at old tigers stadium in the upper deck you had to walk the catwalk, basically a fenced plank, to get out to your section. That short walk will forever be the essence of what it is to be at a baseball game to me.
As you walk out, you hear all the sounds that are associated with the ballpark... "Peanuts", "Cold Beer", "Hot Dogs"... Ernie's voice being piped over the loudspeakers, in all it's pregame beauty... You can't walk, you gotta run... and when you start to see the sky... to a 9 year olds eyes, it has to be the bluest sky you have ever seen... then you get closer... and you see the outfield grass... Never have you seen such green in your entire life... then the infield dirt... it is so perfect in a hue that only manicured dirt can be... it is just all so perfect!!... and somehow, it being kept under wraps as you walk that catwalk really gave it that extra BANG as you finally see it... it is all hidden, then all of a sudden POW!!! In one moment it is there in front of you in all it's glory... undeniably beautiful... undeniably pure... undeniably perfect... That to me, is what baseball is all about. That is the backdrop that fueled my dreams... that is the background that will continue to fuel my memories until my last breath... And although the old ball park has began to grow over itself, it will always live on in my mind as the perfect place... one where your hero's always won, whether or not they really did on the field or not. I've been to other parks and loved alot of them too, but under it all the reason I love them and baseball in general is that feeling... running down that catwalk, the blue sky, the green grass, that perfect dirt... That is what baseball is about to me.
Happy opening day, everyone... for the next six months the lows arent really that low, and the highs are almost surreal... Everything is right in the world...
---
For, lo, the winter is past,
The rain is over and gone;
The flowers appear on the earth;
The time of the singing of birds is come;
And the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.
--Song of Solomon (as read by Ernie Harwell)
Go Tigers, God Bless Ernie Harwell and root, root, root for the home team...
3.28.2007
A guide to greatness
I was once in a relationship. Four months in she decided we should get a cat. A little black fuzz-ball we dubbed Thelonious Gazpacho Jones. Here it is I thought, the start of much more.
My long held dream of being a cat handler could finally come to fruition. I pictured it. Our new cat would go on to win regional shows. Everything a cat ought to be. And on to districts. His likeness would become the Wikipedia entry for perfection, poise, and elegance. Then, dare I say it, Nationals. Eventually he's be studded out and sire champions. I pictured a small cottage by a lazy river all paid for by the cat food sponsorships. All this ran through my skull as we signed the papers in the beige lobby of the Humane Society.
Apparently raising winners is not as simple as high-quality food and words of encouragement. (Mom and Dad I see now what you were up against; a winner I did not become, but I was well fed.)
However my brief experience thus far in the competitive cut-throat world of Cat Pageants did teach me life lessons that I still use to this day. One, people who own more then 2 cats are slightly off. Two, that like learning to zip up the fly of your pants for the first time, failure hurts. It hurts bad. And three, again returning to my zipper/scarred-appendage metaphor/accident, I don't give up that easy.
As my relationship continued so did my desire to mold a champion. I poured my heart and soul into this simple animal. Did the rest of my life suffer because of this? Most likely. But fate has a way of bitch-slapping you when it feels it's necessary. Mine came just two weeks before the regional kitty expo. The front door was left opened and Theo, the scamp that he is, snuck out. Some say that's what animals do, his instinct were guiding him and when he saw an opening he went for it. Personally I feel that his flight was perhaps my fault. I pushed too hard. The expo was too soon. He wasn't ready. Either way, my little guy was out there on his own in this cold cruel world.
I would love to tell you that the story ends on a happy note. That Theo went on to greatness and proved to be extremely fertile and that his offspring are everywhere. Such is not the case.
We searched and searched for him but to no avail. We had just about given up hope when we got a call from a local Animal Hospital. Apparently the day he got out he was struck by a passing car. A neighbor boy found Theo and promptly took him there. He lived through the crash but was disfigured because of it. He lost the use of his right front paw and his right hip was thrown out of socket. They renamed him Bubba.
Although his experience in the "real world" was not a kind one he did make it. Although the possibility of amputation was there he managed to press-on without. His lumbering steps can be heard now echoing off our hardwood floors at all hours of day. He is the elder statesmen in our house, now filled with another feline and a shaggy dog. That girlfriend and I got married, had some offspring of our own and now reside in a full house, to say the least.
My long held dream of being a cat handler could finally come to fruition. I pictured it. Our new cat would go on to win regional shows. Everything a cat ought to be. And on to districts. His likeness would become the Wikipedia entry for perfection, poise, and elegance. Then, dare I say it, Nationals. Eventually he's be studded out and sire champions. I pictured a small cottage by a lazy river all paid for by the cat food sponsorships. All this ran through my skull as we signed the papers in the beige lobby of the Humane Society.
Apparently raising winners is not as simple as high-quality food and words of encouragement. (Mom and Dad I see now what you were up against; a winner I did not become, but I was well fed.)
However my brief experience thus far in the competitive cut-throat world of Cat Pageants did teach me life lessons that I still use to this day. One, people who own more then 2 cats are slightly off. Two, that like learning to zip up the fly of your pants for the first time, failure hurts. It hurts bad. And three, again returning to my zipper/scarred-appendage metaphor/accident, I don't give up that easy.
As my relationship continued so did my desire to mold a champion. I poured my heart and soul into this simple animal. Did the rest of my life suffer because of this? Most likely. But fate has a way of bitch-slapping you when it feels it's necessary. Mine came just two weeks before the regional kitty expo. The front door was left opened and Theo, the scamp that he is, snuck out. Some say that's what animals do, his instinct were guiding him and when he saw an opening he went for it. Personally I feel that his flight was perhaps my fault. I pushed too hard. The expo was too soon. He wasn't ready. Either way, my little guy was out there on his own in this cold cruel world.
I would love to tell you that the story ends on a happy note. That Theo went on to greatness and proved to be extremely fertile and that his offspring are everywhere. Such is not the case.
We searched and searched for him but to no avail. We had just about given up hope when we got a call from a local Animal Hospital. Apparently the day he got out he was struck by a passing car. A neighbor boy found Theo and promptly took him there. He lived through the crash but was disfigured because of it. He lost the use of his right front paw and his right hip was thrown out of socket. They renamed him Bubba.
Although his experience in the "real world" was not a kind one he did make it. Although the possibility of amputation was there he managed to press-on without. His lumbering steps can be heard now echoing off our hardwood floors at all hours of day. He is the elder statesmen in our house, now filled with another feline and a shaggy dog. That girlfriend and I got married, had some offspring of our own and now reside in a full house, to say the least.
3.26.2007
Cliff and Peg
Snug in a cozy bed, Cliff groped his pillow in dream. A dream he’d been having since May. Clad only in torn chaps and surrounded by ten of Miami’s finest hams, he’d sip his nog with Peg by a beach-side fire and avow his wild side a thing of the past. All the while, gazing at the ebb of the tide and discussing their plans to loot the Scuba Store after the next hurricane. They were desperately in need of a second swimmer’s fin. Of course, one was better than zero, but it made going straight awfully difficult.
Between the two of them they had hardly a peso. They'd been living for the last week off nothing but Holly-nog and grain. They were in debt to their eyeballs from the bank loans Cliff had taken to open his business as a flower dyer. Certain business would improve as he hones his skill, Peg found it within her id to support him. Cliff loved her for this and was grateful she didn’t nix another one of his hair-brained schemes, like the time he suggested writing a book on Hitler using only rune.
Just then a rogue wave washed over the two of them, extinguishing their fire and leaving Cliff gasping for air. As he struggled to breathe he felt Peg’s hand on his and heard her voice, softly at first, but then louder and louder.
“Honey…honey…are you ok?”
“Um…er…I guess it was only a dream.”
“Uh, yeah” Peg replied, and rolling back over thought to herself, “he always mixes that nog with too much damn rum.”
Just then a rogue wave washed over the two of them, extinguishing their fire and leaving Cliff gasping for air. As he struggled to breathe he felt Peg’s hand on his and heard her voice, softly at first, but then louder and louder.
“Honey…honey…are you ok?”
“Um…er…I guess it was only a dream.”
“Uh, yeah” Peg replied, and rolling back over thought to herself, “he always mixes that nog with too much damn rum.”
3.22.2007
something was a miss
I woke up this morning feeling good. I slept a little bit later then normal, that extra 15 minutes is huge. I had a vanilla yogurt and got ready to leave still feeling spry. But as I pulled out of the driveway I noticed my youngest daughter in the front window with tears in her eyes. Just moments ago I had kissed her on her forehead and bid her a cheery goodbye and now she was all tore-up. It stuck me as odd.
On my drive in the gray clouds increased the closer I got to work. Then the rains came. Normally not a issue, but today perhaps because of my sunny disposition, I left the house without a coat. Once more on a normal day I would brush it off and accept that I would be a bit damp for the remainder of the morning, little did realize that I now put myself in the precarious position of attending an important meeting with the client soaked to the bone. The universe was shouting down at me. I wasn't listening.
It was not until my daily lunch ritual of browsing the internet did the A-bomb finally drop. It is with a heavy heart I relay to you that Calvert DeForest has left this earthly plane. You may remember him as simply as Larry "Bud" Melman. I will remember him as a comedic genius who put David Letterman and his Late Show on the map.
A great loss indeed. Goodbye my friend.
On my drive in the gray clouds increased the closer I got to work. Then the rains came. Normally not a issue, but today perhaps because of my sunny disposition, I left the house without a coat. Once more on a normal day I would brush it off and accept that I would be a bit damp for the remainder of the morning, little did realize that I now put myself in the precarious position of attending an important meeting with the client soaked to the bone. The universe was shouting down at me. I wasn't listening.
It was not until my daily lunch ritual of browsing the internet did the A-bomb finally drop. It is with a heavy heart I relay to you that Calvert DeForest has left this earthly plane. You may remember him as simply as Larry "Bud" Melman. I will remember him as a comedic genius who put David Letterman and his Late Show on the map.
A great loss indeed. Goodbye my friend.
Larry "Bud" MelmanScissor Cuts
I have an old friend, Tall Noreen, she used to work at a scissor factory. One day in casual conversation she told me about a "restructuring" that went on there a few years back. She said that there was a meeting where they actually said, "...cuts will have to be made." Cuts down at the scissor factory, I guess they should have seen that coming.
I laughed out loud and spilled a little bit of my coffee when I heard Noreen tell me this. Then she told me that she was one of the scissor jockeys that got fired. I stopped laughing right then.
I laughed out loud and spilled a little bit of my coffee when I heard Noreen tell me this. Then she told me that she was one of the scissor jockeys that got fired. I stopped laughing right then.
3.21.2007
commute
The sun pushes me on my way
traveling the great rip in the urban tablecloth
strip malls and traffic lights laugh from above
concrete ceilings mix with moments of uninterrupted sky
brief
blue
beautiful
hours later the sun once again
stands over me
leading me toward home
3.15.2007
Lost Friend
I lost a friend today. It made me sad to think about this loss before it actually happened, and even more so when the realization that it was actually happening set in. This particular friend has been with me for ten years. I have been loyal to my friend and my friend has returned the favor many, many times day or night. Never did my friend bitch or complain about where I was going or who I was going with...not once. Sure, I had to spend some money on my friend from time to time, but what friend wouldn't be willing to do that for another when necessary. I felt as if I was betraying my friend today...when I walked away. I had to. I left my friend sitting there all alone. Maybe this is good for my friend too. Another chapter opens in one book...and one closes in mine. I know it was time to part ways with my friend, but it is still hard. I miss my friend already. I only hope that my friend will make new friends and that my sorrow will fade.
I say good bye today to my 1997 Jeep Cherokee Sport. This was the first car that I ever purchased on my own. I was living in Marietta, Georgia at the time. I have been to many places with this car as many of you have. Colorado, Kalkaska, Chicago, and Maine just to name a few. I really loved that Jeep and hated to part with it today. But it was time. The transmission went on it and that was the final straw. I could no longer support my friend financially. 137,000 miles proper. I am proud of my car for sticking with me for ten years, and proud of myself for doing the same. I will miss my old friend and always remember the good times and great transportation that was given to me.
I say good bye today to my 1997 Jeep Cherokee Sport. This was the first car that I ever purchased on my own. I was living in Marietta, Georgia at the time. I have been to many places with this car as many of you have. Colorado, Kalkaska, Chicago, and Maine just to name a few. I really loved that Jeep and hated to part with it today. But it was time. The transmission went on it and that was the final straw. I could no longer support my friend financially. 137,000 miles proper. I am proud of my car for sticking with me for ten years, and proud of myself for doing the same. I will miss my old friend and always remember the good times and great transportation that was given to me.
Pat. The Norwegian Postman
My postman, he is Norwegian. His name is Pat. He is a tall, slender man with an above average mustache and an adequate head of hair. Pat seems to me to be a happy man, often whistling. I never quite know the tune that he whistles. I like to think it is a popular Norwegian folk song from the late 1800s. One that involves a buxom daughter, a ship, and a prank gone wrong played by some Norwegian teenagers. Whatever the tune, he is quick to stop his lip symphony and start up a conversation with me.
Whether it be the weather, or that smell of thawing garbage that tells us that springtime in the city is near, Pat seems happy to dispel his wisdom with a twinkle in his eye. The conversations never last too long, so they are never awkward. It's really a beautiful thing. He brings me my catalogs, chats with me happily, then pushed his tri-wheeled cart on down the sidewalk. Dropping rubberbands as he goes. Then as quickly as it stopped, the whistling continues. Same song. Didn't miss a beat. Come to think of it maybe he is composing this song as he goes, I still hope it is about a buxom daughter, a ship, and a prank gone wrong played by some Norwegian teenagers, because that is a song I want to hear.
Whether it be the weather, or that smell of thawing garbage that tells us that springtime in the city is near, Pat seems happy to dispel his wisdom with a twinkle in his eye. The conversations never last too long, so they are never awkward. It's really a beautiful thing. He brings me my catalogs, chats with me happily, then pushed his tri-wheeled cart on down the sidewalk. Dropping rubberbands as he goes. Then as quickly as it stopped, the whistling continues. Same song. Didn't miss a beat. Come to think of it maybe he is composing this song as he goes, I still hope it is about a buxom daughter, a ship, and a prank gone wrong played by some Norwegian teenagers, because that is a song I want to hear.
3.14.2007
Top this
How could I possibly top the last two posts? I mean a dude on a uni barreling down a mountain or the fact that once man finds his evening sustenance from a machine that spits out treats like a whore turns tricks. I mean really where else could you go to learn that w.j. DeBalt despises
SBMDAAFBWSEACMCDI television commercials have officially become Mardi Gras's favorite. Less we forget that
FiascodomeMr. Mountain Unicyclist
And just when you thought you'd seen it all...
Monday afternoon while on a hike at Red Rocks I saw something that left my mouth agape. We were returning from what was easily the most difficult hike of my young life. The trail was, in my estimation, about 65 degrees straight up. And each time we thought, certainly this must level out over the next bend, we'd get to that bend only to discover that the trail seemed to continue in an endless path to the heavens, kind of like in that Simpsons episode where Homer climbs the Matterhorn! Anyway, we were almost back to the bottom when we saw a man climbing up with a unicycle in one hand. After convincing ourselves it wasn't an altitude induced hallucination, a friend asked the obvious question. "You're not gonna ride that thing down are ya?" To which he replied, "oh, no. It has a device for measuring the mountain." Initially satisfied, we let the sarcastic bastard continue on his path, and we continued on ours. Before reaching the bottom though our embarrassing gullibility wore off and we were convinced of what we were about to witness. We turned around just in time to see this man, free of the restraints of any protective equipment, descend approximately 300 feet on one wheel! And he even turned around and headed back up as soon as I yelled, "do it again!" The whole while this is happening, only one thought was present in my head, and it's the one that's there now as I recall this event. It is simply "you crazy f_cker!"
the office
The office is killing me. And I'm not speaking in metaphors here. It's literally killing me. I'm a sallow ghost, drifting here, stumbling there. Wandering the industrial halls of Ferndale. Competely and utterly unrested.
You know you've made it when you are paying someone to prepare your meals for you. Oprah had Rachel Ray. Richard Simmons had several slender men in various stages of undress. I've managed to secure similar services at a tremendous financial discount. Although I suppose that whatever monetary benefits I may reap are tempered by a lack of sustainable energy, surprisingly stiff arteries, and a life expectancy somewhat south of the expected, even for the most underdeveloped, corrupt, and pestilence ridden areas.
To good health,
H
You know you've made it when you are paying someone to prepare your meals for you. Oprah had Rachel Ray. Richard Simmons had several slender men in various stages of undress. I've managed to secure similar services at a tremendous financial discount. Although I suppose that whatever monetary benefits I may reap are tempered by a lack of sustainable energy, surprisingly stiff arteries, and a life expectancy somewhat south of the expected, even for the most underdeveloped, corrupt, and pestilence ridden areas.
To good health,
H
3.09.2007
2 thumbs up for thumbs
My two closest friends are my right and left thumbs. I mean really, these guys have been with me through thick and thin. Always there for quick thumbs up and a"hey...nice job fella." or to pass judgement or subtly critique. Not to mention their aid in finger pointing and the proverbial "double bird." I can't begin to imagine the cabs I may have missed without them. I sucked one as an infant and now I use them for the space bar. And what about lighters, or coin flips, finger snaps or zipping your fly...thank god I have you two bastards
3.08.2007
3.07.2007
You smell that?
Have you ever noticed that humans smell? And not just a singular odor like say, cheese. We got stank floating out of every orifice. A multitude of different smells of varying degree. That is the best part too, you never know what you are going to get. It could be subtle garlic-breath, your garden variety BO, or the much dreaded Mexican-for-lunch poots.
Whichever level it may be most of us are horrified and yet somehow proud. Unwilling to own up to the most basic of human functions, yet when caught, we admit to it with a sense of giddy.
"Oh man, was that you?"
"Ha yeah. I had broccoli for dinner".
It is time we stop the shenanigans and grow a pair. We smell. It's unavoidable. So join me today and wear your smells on your sleeve. You'll thank me.
My name is fAtHanD, and I smell. Bad.
Whichever level it may be most of us are horrified and yet somehow proud. Unwilling to own up to the most basic of human functions, yet when caught, we admit to it with a sense of giddy.
"Oh man, was that you?"
"Ha yeah. I had broccoli for dinner".
It is time we stop the shenanigans and grow a pair. We smell. It's unavoidable. So join me today and wear your smells on your sleeve. You'll thank me.
My name is fAtHanD, and I smell. Bad.
slacker
Peripheral Fiasco has a few men behind the proverbial curtain. One of these men rarely emerges from his curtain. He does many things behind his curtain; I will not bore you (or shock you as the case may be) with a laundry list of everything he does back there. I will mention that one of the tasks carried out behind his “Cloak of Secrecy and Respect” as he refers to it, is to keep the PF contributors on task and on schedule with respect to churning out the incredibly witty and insightful cerebral candy you all stop by to consume. E.L. Huffer is consistently negligent in the timeliness of his posts, being frequently distracted behind his “Quilt of Insulation from the Impending Reign of SARS Related Death and Devastation” as he refers to it. What began as a non-PF correspondence from E.L. Huffer to this other man was realized to be aptly suited for yet another missed deadline, and follows here:
Subject: My new LP
I received my Mark Twang LP in the mail yesterday. There’s nothing like listening to “Don’t Leave Your Records In The Sun” on your record player.
Incidentally, I left this record in the sub-freezing evening environment of my mailbox. No waviness, warping, or other abnormalities were observed.
Fondly,
H
Subject: My new LP
I received my Mark Twang LP in the mail yesterday. There’s nothing like listening to “Don’t Leave Your Records In The Sun” on your record player.
Incidentally, I left this record in the sub-freezing evening environment of my mailbox. No waviness, warping, or other abnormalities were observed.
Fondly,
H
3.05.2007
Oh the times, they are a changin'
It's funny how the times can change,
the planets shift and the clouds rearrange
and all the truths under them (as I know them to be)
are tried and disproved by a new mystery.
3.03.2007
Chupa Blues
I never wanted my ass to be prickly. I merely wanted a way to keep coyotes from my tender ass meat. I made a deal with the devil. The New Jersey Devil. And what you see is what you get. And if you think my ass is prickly, you should see my rectum.
3.02.2007
oh, gringo!
Unlucky gringo, you’re open and never to close again.
In your north of the border world this may be a boon-
Always ready to serve a customer or devoted friend
‘I can have that for you now’ is never too soon.
But here in the dirt by the gravel, behold
I speak metaphorically: you are face down
Quite sure the jaw is not wont to open so,
Eyelids stretched back like a peso clown
If never to close, then never to contain,
Your brains forever lack their former structure.
Out for a loaf of bread after an evening rain.
Not anticipating the cerebral-spinal puncture.
Oh, gringo! Opened you’ve been and empty you are.
They emptied you here and left you there.
Left in silence ‘neath a Mexican star.
In your north of the border world this may be a boon-
Always ready to serve a customer or devoted friend
‘I can have that for you now’ is never too soon.
But here in the dirt by the gravel, behold
I speak metaphorically: you are face down
Quite sure the jaw is not wont to open so,
Eyelids stretched back like a peso clown
If never to close, then never to contain,
Your brains forever lack their former structure.
Out for a loaf of bread after an evening rain.
Not anticipating the cerebral-spinal puncture.
Oh, gringo! Opened you’ve been and empty you are.
They emptied you here and left you there.
Left in silence ‘neath a Mexican star.
3.01.2007
Cookie!!
Recently I have been waking in the middle of the night, usually between 3-4:30 am, walking to the kitchen, eating two cookies, and then returning to bed. I am quite awake during my little cookie stroll but at the stame time also in a very rested state.
These cookie dreams got me thinking and today I propose that we pay tribute to an often overlooked pioneer. Once a simple monster named Sid, he took his love for cookies and blazed a trail for cookie lovers everywhere. I salute you Cookie Monster, may the crumbs of a job well done fall on your well manicured blue fur and may the chips that you devour in your cookies be chips of pure bliss, for you my google-eyed friend have changed the world for the better.
Chomp!
These cookie dreams got me thinking and today I propose that we pay tribute to an often overlooked pioneer. Once a simple monster named Sid, he took his love for cookies and blazed a trail for cookie lovers everywhere. I salute you Cookie Monster, may the crumbs of a job well done fall on your well manicured blue fur and may the chips that you devour in your cookies be chips of pure bliss, for you my google-eyed friend have changed the world for the better.
Chomp!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
