Since I accidently turned Storm in the Key of G into a manifesto, it will be my only post this week (if anyone actually reads these things anyway). So since this won't be an actual post I would like to say a few things for those I know read this rubbish--my reasoning: rappers get shout outs, why can't I?
Jay- sometimes it is fiction man, don't get all worked up. The monkeys, though, those were real. Sorry about your tools, but relaje, amigo.
Lisa-congrats on the newest addition. Games this Christmas. Games.
Cody-you are downstairs right now. and as creepy as this sounds i am watching you read my blog. you smile; i smile. you grimace; i smile wider.
Nate-cut your hair, shave your 'beard.' Christmas is no time to look Jewish (no offense to Jewish people, of course, a gorgeous people group. just not too festive this time of year).
Leslie-thanks for the advice . . .
Johanna and Josh (and baby)-I'll see you this weekend.
Jonathan-i don't think you read this nor do you have time, but your blog got me started on here. you are the best guy i know, doing the best thing i know, and you will be in my prayers this holiday season.
Brice-your three-pointer the other night, well, it moved me.
April-i heard you read this stuff. i don't believe it, but if so, i'm glad to be here with you and wish you well.
Kerrie- t-minus five days until you see the 'not-so big guy'. salute him for me.
Evan-see you in the springtime.
Mom-love you (and could you make sure the washer is empty . . . i'll be there thursday).
if i missed some of you, let me know, but do so harshly and with conviction. if you have anything you want cover, i would love to accomodate my readership: let me know via comments or email.
Merry Christmas to all (and hannakuh to Nate).
07 December 2008
23 November 2008
09 November 2008
"Well, I Do Have that Hammer . . ."
Okay, so I have a problem. Yeah, you keep your smart mouth shut, Dear Reader, for I know you piped up with an Obviously or sarcasm-soaked Really?. Here I am pouring out my heart juice and being greeted with ill-timed cynicism. The problem, though, now that we have had our little grievance, is the stickiness of my brain. Think of the most asinine stories or ideas you have been subjected to and rest assured that they have entered my head, tried to pass on through as if it were a normal functioning mental zone, and been caught in my brain’s unrelenting tractor beam, which sucks up all things useless and dwells upon them like guys with mustaches study art at the Louvre or children’s soccer practices. These tidbits cannot be shaken and cause me to spend nights seizuring rather than sleeping in my bed. And true to form, the other night a friend of mine introduced a topic that is morbid, and if taken with the right grain of salt—a jagged one—darkly comical.
So apparently in a small Southeast Missouri town lived a man and his wife. I don’t know much about the couple, though a flock of theories have replaced sheep in my nightly practice. What is known for sure, however, is that this particular sir and madam were pretty hard up. Again, anything more than this must be conjectured upon. The situation had ditched bad in a dumpster and swapped it out for a solid dose of macabre. Life had smacked them around and they were looking to counter.
Well, what happened? What did they do? To answer your concerned plea I could tell how they got shift work, worked long hours as hard as they could, scraped and saved, and eventually turned their meager pay into golden investments and are now contently becoming overweight whilst counting their money and sipping Cristal in the Caymans. That would be nice and allow me a restful eve.
Or this story doesn’t have to follow a Dickensian plot line and instead take a beat from the hip hop world. Our desperate tandem felt caged by society’s bureaucratic boundaries and used their scant government assistance monies to front a fledgling drug running ring. They were being grinded down by the sandpaper world and only their elemental and animalistic selves were left; like empty eggshells with pockets full of cocaine and happy trigger fingers to boot. It would be sad as the pair is gunned down when encroaching Big Eddie’s turf with a watered down product and wire tap, but at least it would have all the merits of normalcy, albeit a somber medium, and would afford one the luxury of discarding it when met with the comfort of a tender pillow.
Hundreds of other possibilities have clambered about the well-trod paths of my mind and I’m sure more will follow; they have left me without choice . . . .
So without two dimes to rub together, our hero and heroine sit down at the ironing board, with which I am replacing the dinner table for dramatic effect, and I can only imagine they had quite a discourse. During the discussion, I’m sure a logical, insightful affair, an unhealthy portion of alcohol was consumed. They passed the iron (they sold their cups in a sidewalk sale—it was a sidewalk sale because they had rented out their lawn to dog trainers and had sold their garage in a previous garage sale . . . this is a speculative digression, however)—back and forth and swigged their formidable liquor through the little sprayer typically reserved for the most finicky of wrinkles, then refilled it and guzzled until Reason had had enough and silently doffed his cap and went on his way.
This is the point in the perplexing tale at which they came up with a plan. It was a simple scheme, and one that has unfortunately been plotted before, but hey, I suppose they figured they would get original when it came to detailing the endeavor. Basically, they decided Death was the best way to avenge a Life that had soured.
The tragedians were to kill themselves, but Romeo and Juliet had nothing on these lovebirds. No, they decided poison and a lurid embrace were clichéd and instead opted for the elegant and underrated use of a hammer. The woman volunteered first and enlisted her husband the task of hammering the life out of her with it. I do not know if he used the flat or spiky end, nor have I a clue if it was steel or rubber. All I know is that something fishy was going on because after trying to kill a woman who was volunteering and likely leaning into the blows with a rather solid construction tool, Prince Charming was unable put the nail in the coffin.
Matrimony had prepared the couple for this, though. They apparently realized—after who knows how many thuds—that things weren’t working and a change had to come. So they regrouped, filled the iron, and went back to the black drawing board. This suicide never looked so tremulous on Lifetime: Television for Women. But determination defeats failure and a hammered in head any night, so the couple decided on a new path: one which was driven on by their automobile and ended at a largish utility pole. My friend was retelling this epic from a newspaper article which didn’t recall how fast they were going at impact, where they ended up, if they had slipped up and buckled in, but it did give the good, or in this case heartrending results, that the only causality involved was the 1993 Ford.
Our merry tandem is now recovering in a local hospital. I’m not sure how their spirits are about the disappointing events and the failures of the big night. I want so badly to question them, though. I don’t know what I would ask first. Somewhere along the line I would definitely inquire why they didn’t rob a bank. Get caught and prison is free, get shot and YOU win, get away with it and the financial woes vanish faster than your will to live did. I would also ask if they had ever seen a bridge or train track or interstate. I would ask them what was next and if their will to live had been renewed. I would see if they needed a nurse and if they still loved each other. I would babble and babble and then when my questions began to slow or they grew tired, I would give them $10 for a new hammer with which to build a new, less calamitous life, leave the room, and go take a nap.
So apparently in a small Southeast Missouri town lived a man and his wife. I don’t know much about the couple, though a flock of theories have replaced sheep in my nightly practice. What is known for sure, however, is that this particular sir and madam were pretty hard up. Again, anything more than this must be conjectured upon. The situation had ditched bad in a dumpster and swapped it out for a solid dose of macabre. Life had smacked them around and they were looking to counter.
Well, what happened? What did they do? To answer your concerned plea I could tell how they got shift work, worked long hours as hard as they could, scraped and saved, and eventually turned their meager pay into golden investments and are now contently becoming overweight whilst counting their money and sipping Cristal in the Caymans. That would be nice and allow me a restful eve.
Or this story doesn’t have to follow a Dickensian plot line and instead take a beat from the hip hop world. Our desperate tandem felt caged by society’s bureaucratic boundaries and used their scant government assistance monies to front a fledgling drug running ring. They were being grinded down by the sandpaper world and only their elemental and animalistic selves were left; like empty eggshells with pockets full of cocaine and happy trigger fingers to boot. It would be sad as the pair is gunned down when encroaching Big Eddie’s turf with a watered down product and wire tap, but at least it would have all the merits of normalcy, albeit a somber medium, and would afford one the luxury of discarding it when met with the comfort of a tender pillow.
Hundreds of other possibilities have clambered about the well-trod paths of my mind and I’m sure more will follow; they have left me without choice . . . .
So without two dimes to rub together, our hero and heroine sit down at the ironing board, with which I am replacing the dinner table for dramatic effect, and I can only imagine they had quite a discourse. During the discussion, I’m sure a logical, insightful affair, an unhealthy portion of alcohol was consumed. They passed the iron (they sold their cups in a sidewalk sale—it was a sidewalk sale because they had rented out their lawn to dog trainers and had sold their garage in a previous garage sale . . . this is a speculative digression, however)—back and forth and swigged their formidable liquor through the little sprayer typically reserved for the most finicky of wrinkles, then refilled it and guzzled until Reason had had enough and silently doffed his cap and went on his way.
This is the point in the perplexing tale at which they came up with a plan. It was a simple scheme, and one that has unfortunately been plotted before, but hey, I suppose they figured they would get original when it came to detailing the endeavor. Basically, they decided Death was the best way to avenge a Life that had soured.
The tragedians were to kill themselves, but Romeo and Juliet had nothing on these lovebirds. No, they decided poison and a lurid embrace were clichéd and instead opted for the elegant and underrated use of a hammer. The woman volunteered first and enlisted her husband the task of hammering the life out of her with it. I do not know if he used the flat or spiky end, nor have I a clue if it was steel or rubber. All I know is that something fishy was going on because after trying to kill a woman who was volunteering and likely leaning into the blows with a rather solid construction tool, Prince Charming was unable put the nail in the coffin.
Matrimony had prepared the couple for this, though. They apparently realized—after who knows how many thuds—that things weren’t working and a change had to come. So they regrouped, filled the iron, and went back to the black drawing board. This suicide never looked so tremulous on Lifetime: Television for Women. But determination defeats failure and a hammered in head any night, so the couple decided on a new path: one which was driven on by their automobile and ended at a largish utility pole. My friend was retelling this epic from a newspaper article which didn’t recall how fast they were going at impact, where they ended up, if they had slipped up and buckled in, but it did give the good, or in this case heartrending results, that the only causality involved was the 1993 Ford.
Our merry tandem is now recovering in a local hospital. I’m not sure how their spirits are about the disappointing events and the failures of the big night. I want so badly to question them, though. I don’t know what I would ask first. Somewhere along the line I would definitely inquire why they didn’t rob a bank. Get caught and prison is free, get shot and YOU win, get away with it and the financial woes vanish faster than your will to live did. I would also ask if they had ever seen a bridge or train track or interstate. I would ask them what was next and if their will to live had been renewed. I would see if they needed a nurse and if they still loved each other. I would babble and babble and then when my questions began to slow or they grew tired, I would give them $10 for a new hammer with which to build a new, less calamitous life, leave the room, and go take a nap.
26 October 2008
Just Say No to Voting
I just want to take a moment on this Sunday evening to remind everyone that the election is just nine days away. Please be sure not to vote. That is right, I said it. Don’t vote. If you must go to your polling place to fulfill some sad urge to belong, please only use your visit to spread your apathy around. And then when Wednesday rolls around and Obama or McCain is seen on the front page take heart in knowing you had nothing to do with any of it. Wear your “I didn’t Vote” t-shirt more proudly than those flaunting their pretentious oval “I Voted” stickers. When Barrack supporters are high-fiving in the hallways of your school or workplace, join in the fun: “Yeah, all right. You all did it! You did!” Likewise, should J-MAC slip into the oval office, celebrate it with those around you: “Way to go guys! Good vote everyone, nice work.”
And then should everything unravel, either way, you can always voice your dismay: “I DID NOT vote for that guy . . . yikes.”
Now I know the majority of the three people who read this will be upset. They will say I am un-American, an idiot. But you have to question this whole voting rage. Veterans and hippies are all begging me to vote: conservatives and liberals, abortion doctors and Baptist ministers, blacks and whites . . . something is going on here. The only other time this much of our nation has agreed on anything is the recent concordance that Rosie O’Donnell is crazy—just plain nuts.
Which brings us to celebrities. From Bruce Springsteen to Beyonce, every publicist in America has his or her client spouting political ideology. The foreign ones, too. At the close of SNL last night, Coldplay frontman, Chris Martin, finished “Yellow” and chanted “Barrack Obama” into the microphone. Sir, you are from Britain—what’s your game?
I don’t trust all this agreement. I feel like I have stumbled into a Care Bears movie, the part where they are still zipping down cloud slides and singing in Care-A-Lot. It is all wonderful and, of course, a song ensues about how happy all of us bears are and how well we get along. Amidst all of this intoxicating joy a bear hunter in a black suit, with an “I voted” sticker over the right breast, shows up and opens fire. All you colorful bears will be gone, leaving only me, hiding behind a cloud sculpture of Mao Zedong, the bear hunter and Chris Martin. And we will rule, cutting taxes for people we like the best, fighting only the good and noble wars (as deemed by movie directors we like the best), and making sure that no nation under our direction will ever wholly agree on anything. You are all welcome in joining me in hiding, and then when the time is right we will re-emerge en masse. All I ask in return for this heads-up is that once we do come out that you will promise me your vote. The bear guy doesn’t scare me too much, but early polls show that Chris Martin has a lot of supporters.
And then should everything unravel, either way, you can always voice your dismay: “I DID NOT vote for that guy . . . yikes.”
Now I know the majority of the three people who read this will be upset. They will say I am un-American, an idiot. But you have to question this whole voting rage. Veterans and hippies are all begging me to vote: conservatives and liberals, abortion doctors and Baptist ministers, blacks and whites . . . something is going on here. The only other time this much of our nation has agreed on anything is the recent concordance that Rosie O’Donnell is crazy—just plain nuts.
Which brings us to celebrities. From Bruce Springsteen to Beyonce, every publicist in America has his or her client spouting political ideology. The foreign ones, too. At the close of SNL last night, Coldplay frontman, Chris Martin, finished “Yellow” and chanted “Barrack Obama” into the microphone. Sir, you are from Britain—what’s your game?
I don’t trust all this agreement. I feel like I have stumbled into a Care Bears movie, the part where they are still zipping down cloud slides and singing in Care-A-Lot. It is all wonderful and, of course, a song ensues about how happy all of us bears are and how well we get along. Amidst all of this intoxicating joy a bear hunter in a black suit, with an “I voted” sticker over the right breast, shows up and opens fire. All you colorful bears will be gone, leaving only me, hiding behind a cloud sculpture of Mao Zedong, the bear hunter and Chris Martin. And we will rule, cutting taxes for people we like the best, fighting only the good and noble wars (as deemed by movie directors we like the best), and making sure that no nation under our direction will ever wholly agree on anything. You are all welcome in joining me in hiding, and then when the time is right we will re-emerge en masse. All I ask in return for this heads-up is that once we do come out that you will promise me your vote. The bear guy doesn’t scare me too much, but early polls show that Chris Martin has a lot of supporters.
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