Notes Scribbled On Pieces of Paper

I would like to introduce a new and likely short-lived series entitled "Notes Scribbled On Pieces of Paper," which will appear whenever I find these pieces of paper, so usually when I clean out pockets on laundry day and when I move the couch cushions to look for the lost tv remote.

Note #22988

I'm sitting on the back of the bus, and the two Asian girls sitting to my left are laughing at me.

I know I look funny--I haven't trimmed my beard in nearly a month, and I haven't shaved in two weeks which means my neck beard and chest hair have converged; I can't even begin to think of when I cut my hair last, and I realize that it's stuck in an awkward mop-top phase in which it's longer in the back which makes it a sort of mop-top mullet style that will never become a fad; I know I'm wearing the dirty tan 'Bulls' hat that is made by some brand I've never heard of an looks like it was a free give-away at a home game against the Sacramento Kings back in '97, probably one in which the Worm had his hair painted like a smiley face; I know I'm wearing a dingy bluish-purple polo shirt with oddly shaped golf-club faces patterned all over it like it used to be my grandfather's shirt and that's why it's slightly too large around the middle and the short arm sleeves sag off my arms like I'm in a nightshirt, and I know that having the top two buttons undone makes my black forest of hair running from my chest up my neck all the more noticeable; and I know that wearing these royal blue nylon shorts and dark brown Panama Jack thong-sandals make my appearance all the more disparate,

But that's no excuse to make fun.

I think they're Japanese--they look Japanese to me--and I know that they're talking about me in their sing-song voices and laughter. I think they're Japanese, and I know they're talking about me, but I have no idea what they're saying, what language it is they are speaking. It could be Japanese. It could be Greek for all I know. They're sing-song voices rise like music, ching-chong like wind chimes, and crescendo into a staccato laughter. Their voices sound like chimes in the wind, or in this case the cool breeze of the transit bus's air-conditioning that adds a pleasant hum to their song like bees.

Yet, despite all the summer niceties, their laughter and mockery sting. I know, and I see, and I can laugh too for these reasons. And I place this moment back in the recesses with all of the other pains, so when I look down to my left, upon the girl closest, upon her bare, fair white, unshaven leg, I can think 'Boy that's hairy, but damn if it still ain't sexy as hell.'

Definition: Preejac Blogger

Individual who never quite manages to post anything on the blog, often because the person has managed to write the entire entry in his or her head before reaching a computer and, once reaching the computer, no longer desires to go through the tedious task of physically typing the thought since the excitement, thrill, and satisfaction of the idea has already been lost to time and memory.

In some instances, the post never makes its way to the blog because of mechanical malfunction, such as the keyboard being sticky and the keys sticking to the point of making it impossible to type.

Rel. see "Blue Balls Blogger"

Definition: Blue Balls Blogger

An individual who continually leaves readers with a discomfort in the lower abdomen, similar to the sensation of being kicked or hit in the testicles, often produced by teasing them with unfulfilled promises, such as posting daily, or writing, like a gun that won't fire, that fails to produce significant feeling in the reader.

Sometimes, the same effect occurs with serialized posts, broken down into seemingly-never concluding segments, as with multi-part reviews of other works that span several weeks. Though this particular instant is more commonly referred to as "constipated blogging" and is most recognizable by the usage of the phrase "to be continued..."

One may say that "He suffers from BBB." or "He's a three-B." Also, "If he doesn't stop monkeying around on this blog, I'm going to get blue balls."

Ant. "Happiness is a Warm Gun Blogger"

Faults

We all have faults, don't we? Tom Petty was in love with a girl on LSD.



And I can't help but see, I always love a girl who don't love me.

Two-Fer Ya Greedy SOBs

A man once said, "You're real entertaining."

I replied, "I do what I can, you know. I try. I do."

He said, "No, by 'entertaining," I'm using a specialized term. It equates to sanity and consciousness and interest in the world, a sense of measure, a sense of humor, and some vision backed by experience. Most people are not entertaining."

I took this to mean that he thought I was a jackass, and some times, I was enough of a jackass to be amusing.

So I said, "You're welcome. Send me a check in the mail."

--For Boxer

Tombstone

I always tell everyone that I'll be dead by thirty. I often ignore their instant question of why? because I know why and quite frankly it's none of their damn business. But now it seems it's coming much too soon--death that is. I mean I always figured I'd take care of it around twenty-eight, probably on a real birthday, my seventh. But now that it's approaching at twenty-three already, I can feel my hands clutching independent of the rest of my body, grasping out wildly for a little more time, time enough at least to make it once more in the sack.

I wish to extend a sort of parting letter only a little earlier than planned I imagine. I want to begin with a reaction to a reaction, which is to say that several of you dear readers have indicated your concerns and fears after reading one of the previous posts entitled "Scary" which goes to show how great of a writer I am or perhaps more realistically no one likes the idea of someone being anally raped. The whole thing led to several calls from my mother who wanted to know where I was staying now and if I was eating my vegetables and whether or not she should send along a few more cans of Gerber and if so where should she address them to. It was all very touching. I even came across a dear dear friend who I often playfully liken to death--and no not the Brad Pitt death but the Count Orlock sort--and even he, after reading, offered a comfortable place on the floor of his home to sleep, which I thought was more than gracious of him, especially considering he also takes the time out of his busy days writing what will be a terrific and I'm sure hilarious novel not to mentionthe work on his own, much better blog to point out all of the "fleshy broke-dick sentences" in my own postings. I couldn't ask for better friends, but as for you, all of you who expressed no concern or care over the sanctity and security of my Hairy Asscot-hole, to you I say 'screw you.' And not that you care, but when I am dead by next May, it will most likely be from one, several combinations of, or all of the following things:

Like that poor bastard Kane, the newspaper business will have done me in, and I'll have lost the woman who's not in my life to begin with. I'll end up crippled in bed, crushed under the weight of deadlines and high school gossip columns of the School Press. Lying there, lying there in bed muttering shit about sleds and lost childhoods, blossoming bosoms or buds or some nonsense. Or maybe I'll be sitting on a dock, at the end of a pier on Lake Lepto like Gatsby, blankly staring at the flashing green light on the distant shore until the aneurysm finally kicks in and gets the job done.
Perhaps I'll go out more gallantly, laying down my life on the battlefields of Freshman English, storming the classroom like the beaches of Normandy only to be struck down, pierced by some fourteen-year-old's witticism, cut down like those fools from the light brigade.
Even better will be my utter destruction in the course of coaching--or at least wildly running around on the sidelines like I'm doing something as several of my past coaches did--seventh grade girls basketball. If I haven't strangled one of them by the end of the season, maybe I'll have strangled myself.

But what I really hope happens, the way I really hope to go out in this next year is quite simple really. It will be for no complex reason or exquisite, glorious death or anything, not even a particular day--well, I hope it's on a Friday actually, and I'll be coming home from a long day as they'll all be long days, and I'll set a six-pack of cans of Schlitz or Hamm's or some equally schitz beer, though I can't think of any equally schitz beer right now, down on the kitchen counter, and I'll be too exhausted to make pizza from scratch as I do now, and, instead, I'll settle for a frozen Tombstone pizza--Supremo Deatho, Brick-Oven Style. I'll throw it in the oven before the oven is quite preheated to 425, and I'll pop a beer and take a sip. And I hope to die, I hope to choke on the very last bite of the last remaining inch of frozen pizza, and I hope I go before the first bad beer is completely drank. I hope they find me on the living room floor late Monday after I haven't shown up for work. I imagine the cats will have nibbled away some of my flesh having not been fed for two days over the weekend. And I say when I'm gone and you're forced to find someone else to schitz on, think fondly of me, or think of me as the bastard I am because either way, it makes no difference. I'll be dead.

So put something clever in the eulogy and something cleverer on the stone. Bury me in pine, throw in a Cohiba and a quart'o'tequila for the after party and make sure I'm in my Grateful Dead boxers 'cause I want to go out in style.



But what I really hope happens is when I'm down on the ground, blue in the face, gasping for air and grasping for the last clutches of life, I hope I manage to gurgle out in the last breath, through the crumbly crust and sauce and pepperoni and black olives, I hope I manage to get out Boxer's famous words, those death-gurgling words of a dying old man, "I will work harder."

Day Number It's Been a Long Time: I've decided I'm going to have a Schlitz or a Hamm's some day next week when I go out to lunch. I don't consider these to be real beers so no harm no foul.

The Big Rock Candy Mountain

We've struck gold. Well, perhaps not the motherload but a sizeable stake nonetheless. I'm filing my claim in an area that's name means an "agreeable, extensive area of level or rolling treeless country. Yeah, sounds like the Midwest.
What does this all mean? I have been offered employment, and I have accepted. I will soon be filling the minds of our prosperous youth with the wondrous bunk of Shattuckized American History, English, and Journalism--did I mention I'm in charge of the school newspaper. What fun.

Any way, I started thinking about all of this after I had an encounter with a gentleman named Norman who was working at the Bible Education Center in our local town "mall," which is really a pathetically deserted space with a few unsolicited establishments which somehow manage to scrounge up the lease money each month. How they do it I have no idea--any time I go into the Lincoln Square Mall, I feel like it's deader than the corpses in the funeral home, though I suppose if they're still at the home, they must be relatively fresh but no matter. As a general rule of thumb, I avoid any sort of financial or moral, but mostly financial, support of any business or institution with religious ties (the denomination and faith have no bearing). Although I do make exceptions for the little old ladies who run the Thrift Shop on Elm Street, which is really a front for some Christian charitable organization, but they're just so darn sweet and don't push any of the religious crap ever and they're birthday, wedding, get well, thinking of you, not thinking of you but wish I were thinking of you, Christmas (though I don't celebrate), Easter (though I don't believe it), St. Patrick's, Hannukah (though I'm not Jewish and don't know how oil can burn like that), Valentine's Day (though I think it's a fake holiday created by the card manufacturers), and finally Flag Day cards are just quality and cheap, about a nickel a card. How could I pass that up?

So other than the sweet old bluehairs on Elm, I avoid supporting the churches, the fanatics, even the heretics. Yet today, I found myself in the Bible Education Center looking to purchase a copy of the original 1611 text of the King James Holy Bible. As soon as I stepped in, Norman approached as I expected, sensing that it's the kind of place that doesn't have too many visitors or customers other than the regulars who attend the hosted Bible study. He politely asked how he could assist me, and I informed him that I had been looking for this particular edition/translation of the Bible. He was more than polite in asking why it was that I was interested in this particular text, and I was quick to reply that I was dissatisfied with many of the contemporary translations and editions that tried to update the language but typically did so in misleading ways and often included the "let me think for you" analyses boxes for specific passages and lessons. He shook his head and agreed that many of these newer translations were really paraphrases that often contained bias, which segued into a mini-lecture on the Bible and its various transformations and ended on his sales pitch for the English Standard Version that "most of the students on campus use." It certainly was nice with its colored maps and chart of weights and measures and even the concordance and references that it included. However, it was nearly twenty dollars compared to the three dollar KJV, and I didn't care for how it had adjusted the "word for word" translation of the KJV in the very first verse.

I ended up walking out with two used copies of the KJV for less than four dollars, and I was relatively happy. I hadn't minded Norman's attempt to get me to buy an edition of the Bible that was nearly six times the cost of the translation that I had specifically said I desired to purchase. No, it didn't bother me. I understand Norman's just trying to run a business, A Bible Education Center maybe, but hell, it could be just like the motel business--I don't know, maybe boarders are scarce. What did bother me was the fact that he aggressively, though politely, questioned my reasoning for desire the KJV. It seemed a reasonably simple request and the copies were top shelf right inside the door. Why did I need to explain my reasoning?

I suppose that's what gets me about these Christian, and really generally these religious, types is that they have their technique down. I mean they have it solid. As soon as I gave my reasons, Norman informed me that they were all very good reasons, but then he tried to sell me the ESV. He did say he wouldn't bother me after he gave me his sales pitch, and I think he was just trying to be helpful really, but still I can't shake the feeling that I was strongly encouraged to adjust my opinion/view to match his. There's a sort of preaching of free will and learning with a dogmatic set of blinders attached that imply you really should read that parable this way.

It's the reason why I stopped returning Robert's calls. Robert is a Jehovah's Witness that I used to meet with weekly for nearly two years. I suppose it was unfair of me to entice him by being interested in reading the Bible and learning what it actually says, but I told him up front that I wasn't interested in being religious, joining a church, or having my eyes opened to the supposed glory of God. It really wasn't fair on his part either to think that he could win me over with flattery, constantly saying things like "I love the way you think, man" after I would make only a merely clever observation. My favorite technique of his was when he would tell me how intelligent I was and how since i was so intelligent I would clearly see "that the Bible is truly of divine inspiration" from reading it. Needless to say as the history pseudo-scholar that I am, we never got past the fact that the Bible is a text written, prepared, edited, translated, revised, etc. by men. After a while, I just left it at a mute point, realizing all that I would get back was some circular talk that ultimately relied on the argument that the truth contained in the pages was so powerful that it could have only been divinely inspired, that it was in fact, the word of God, never mind the mortal man who merely made some squigglies on a page. Okay. The one thing about the Jehovahs that I could dig was their quasi-communist views on the world and the end-days--their interpretation that the so-called anti-Christ is simply the governments of the world. I could buy that if I thought that there was an anti-Christ and end-days coming. They lost me of course with the literal interpretation of angels and demons battles and the beast dragging along--that whole insane acid trip that Revelations is, you know. I feel like Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas could have been an addendum to that last book in the the Good Book--the prophet Hunter snorting coke off a nun's ass and spiking the holy water with high-powered blotter acid or something, something right up John's crazy alley.

In the end, I guess I just get tired of all of the editorializing and bias that goes on, and I'm tired of it from both sides for that matter. The non-believers exhaust themselves trying to push back equally as hard against the zealots, and trust me I know because I used to waist my time trying to out yell them, screaming fire and brimstone on the main quad, telling me 'You're going to Hell and there's nothing you can do about it.' Oh, and he was so close to winning me over--a convert--with that. Oh well, maybe another time. I'm equally tired of the facade of spreading the word for the word's sake but with a catch--join us and think like us or continue in your ignorance.

I suppose I just hope to let my future students know from the very beginning when I created the classroom and it was without form, I was biased from the start. Perhaps the history students will pick up on it when I teach early religious sects in the States and lament that not nearly enough of them practiced the sound Shaker belief of abstaining from all sexual contact, including procreation--what a wonderful world that would be. The journalism kids will get it straight when I tell them I want to see reporting and they should leave the editorializing to the pundits.

But for now, I'm okay with purchasing from the Bible Education Center. I figure I was supporting a local business, and Lord knows they need the support around here. Otherwise, I'm just taking it easy in the sun. No hobo-in' for a while. I've reached the Big Rock Candy Mountain. First things on the agenda: set up a blog for the school newspaper and create a Writing Club Workshop after school program. I'll be honest, the latter is more for keeping me honest and still writing while working a career job in the straight world. But then, when I tell myself, I will also tell the kids 'write, write, write...and then write some more.'

Listless and Lifeless

Because I have no life, I am back. In case you have no life, which is why you're probably reading this in the first place, you're in luck because today is a two-fer. You get two posts for the price of one, which reminds me, if you haven't sent in your subscription fees yet, please do so promptly--my kid's birthday is coming up, and I need the dough for the gift. Just think, you could be responsible for a young boy or girl's (I haven't decided if I have an imaginary son or daughter yet) tragically giftless fourth birthday. You cheapos can only get away with that stuff with me, since I only have one birthday every four years and only expect gifts accordingly.

Anyway, I also noticed that my life and this blog are both listless. So, here you go:

MY TOP 10 MOVIE-GOING EXPERIENCES

1. "Drag Me To Hell" at the Virginia Theater (Summer 2009)--yes I went with my ex-girlfriend who was my ex at the time and that kind of sucked, but it was still the coolest trip to the theater. It was my first time at the Virginia, which is the closest thing my community has to offer to the old-time palace theaters. The whole way there, I was thinking of the scene from "Donnie Darko" where Jake Gyllenhaal and Jena Malone go to the theater to see "The Evil Dead." Sam Raimi didn't fail to deliver with "Drag..." either--full of disgustingly funny scenes with old gypsy fortune tellers drooling into the pretty blonde's mouth, etc. the whole lot. When I got to the little ticket booth out front, I excitedly said "Two for 'Evil Dead,' please." The young vendor looked at me confused while my ex laughed, knowing exactly where my head was at.


















2. "Star Wars IV: A New Hope" (re-release c. Summer 1996)--this was my favorite movie when I was a kid. I had a crappy VHS recording from when it was broadcast on television, and I probably wore out the tape from watching it so many times. When I saw it on the big screen for my friend, Parker's birthday party, it was truly amazing, like some unspoken force had settled over all of us and the theater.

























3. "Space Jam" (Summer 1996)--that same year, we went to see "Space Jam" for my birthday. Then the nine or ten of us went back to my house and played ball out back until it was too late and the neighbors were going to yell, so we moved the game into the basement and had slam dunk contests on the Little Tikes basketball hoop down there.

















4. "Crazy Heart" (Summer 2010)--I returned to the Virginia Theater alone, but the movie simply did it for me, plus I just like that theater. Jeff Bridge's was pretty good as Bad Blake, though I never necessarily bought the relationship with Maggie Gyllenhaal. The cruising music and western scenes against the country bars and honky tonks made it worthwhile and I never noticed I was in a theater by myself. What a loser.
















5. "Rango" (Summer 2011)--although the first movie I saw at the Art Theatre was "The Light Thief," the second that I saw later that day was "Rango," and I found it hilarious. Plus, I got to sit and drink a beer and munch some popcorn at a place that uses all recyclable and bio-degradable products, gives you a punch card for your popcorn with a pretty generous free per scale, and gives you ten percent off for every fifty bucks you spend, which is pretty easy with the great stuff that they show. "Rango" was the late night flick, and it was funny but also thoughtful in its own right but it also took me back to "An American Tail: Feivel Goes West," one of my childhood favorites.
















6. "Titanic" (1997)--I absolutely hate it now, and I hate the fact that I saw it like three times like all of the other idiots when it came out. But I do have to admit that it was the first movie that I took a "date" to, so it gets its spot...6 is probably way too high, maybe I'm just being sentimental and sappy now, so moving on.




















7. "The Rocky Horror Picture Show" (Summer 2005)--it's the only movie I've ever seen at the drive-in and we danced and sang and laughed at the yahoos on either side of us dressed like sluts, like that b%*@! Jane--oh Susan Sarandon, you know you secretly love that movie still.






















8. "Troy" (Summer 2004)--the movie was terrible, but I went with eleven friends all crammed into a Mountaineer, there may have even been twelve--I know for a fact it was at least eleven. It was the first time I was exposed to a lot of things and probably the first time I drank in a movie. We all went to the playground afterwards and danced around like wild jackasses. I forget who won the war, but that Brad Pitt has some nice glossy muscles...

























9. "The Tree of Life" (Summer 2011)--I'm not sure if I really want this one on the list mainly because I think if I go see it again at the theater that the second trip will far surpass the first. Still, it was a great movie. Again, it was made more enjoyable at the Art Theatre venue, and I feel like I probably saw the 2011 version of "2001: A Space Odyssey."
























10. "The Wall" and "Apocalypse Now (Redux)" (some past Ebert Fest)--I put these two at number ten because I never made it, never saw them on the big screen at the Virginia Theater, and they most surely would have been in the top five on this last had I been there. Damn.



Still Day 12: Tomorrow's Coming Attraction--something about The Velvet Underground and Nico and a nice phallic Banana poem that you may or may not have already read. Cheers. Look for more bad lists in the near future.

Scary

It has been a long-time running joke among several of my friends at work that I am a serial killer. It's because of the way I dress. I suppose it really began a few years ago when we dressed up in costumes at work for Halloween. I still lived on Elm Street at the time, so of course, I was Freddy Krueger with the mask, hat, sweater, glove, and foul mouth--the whole kit and kaboodle. Well, it was a fun time, and I became Freddy every Halloween at work. When I wasn't in Freddy guise, though, I typically wore a red and black plaid flannel jacket. As all of us slasher geeks know, Freddy wears a red and green striped (Christams) sweater. This didn't matter to my co-workers, however, as they began calling the plaid jacket the 'Freddy jacket,' and they told me how my long hair and bushy beard was creepy, that I was, in fact, a serial killer on the prowl around campus. Our recent outbreak of sexual and physical assaults on campus here at Big Ten University fueled the fire.

Anyway, the point is that, in the past, with my long hair and mountain-man-esque beard, lumberjack coat, etc., I am usually the imposing character that people see and then quickly decide to change directions when walking toward one another at night.
Yet, just last week, I was the one encountering the stranger stranger on the street. I was trying to decide what to do for the night--it was about one'o'clock in the morning. I had parked the car, which was my bed for the night, on Oregon and was returning from the park water fountain where I had brushed my teeth. I was walking around aimlessly, trying to decide if I could find a relatively concealed but still comfortable spot to sleep or if I should go to the twenty-four hour diner for the night and try to stay up until dawn and write part of the story I was working on at the time. It's funny when you don't have a residence to sleep at for the night, you almost have to remain awake for the night and then sleep during the day. Sleeping in public during the day can be taken as an innocent nap, while sleeping outside at night is clearly a sign of vagrancy and the closely following tag of degeneracy.

So I was walking along the scenic route, trying to come up with something to do that would decrease the amount of time I'd have to sleep in the discomfort of the front seat, past the library, my old apartment, my old house, the pleasant hippie-yippie-town bungalows of those neighborhoods. I was cutting through the playground of one of the small elementary schools in that area, and I happened to look down one of the alleys where a silhouetted figure was walking toward me.
I continued past and perhaps it was my mistake of taking the second and third glances back behind me to see this individual's movements that provoked the whole thing. I saw the figure come out of the alley across from the school, he turned right in the opposite direction of where I was now, around the corner from the school looking across the grounds. When I looked back a final time to confirm his going the other way still, I found that the man, now visible in the street lights overhead, had completely turned around and was now coming my way. I was back on Oregon now and heading east toward my car. The man turned down Oregon and was walking about fifty feet behind me on the sidewalk. I was on the left-hand side of the street, in the street since most of the sidewalks are busted up around here when they don't disappear altogether. I wasn't worried because I can take care of myself, but I didn't like the fact that the guy had changed directions after clearly seeing me walk past.

I slowed my pace, noting the closing of the distance between us out of the corner of my eye. When he was only about ten paces behind me on the other side of the street, I stopped at this beautiful garden and moved to the sidewalk to smell one of the irises. I pretended to casually sniff and not pay attention to this guy. He seemed to be somewhat interested in this because at this point he crossed the street to the sidewalk where I was standing. He was rather lean, wearing khaki pants and an orange t-shirt, and had black square framed glasses and a crewcut. His eyes were the oddest thing. They were intent and unblinking, focused. His brow crinkled slightly as if he were trying to work out in his head what was going through mine. I got the sense that there was a storm behind the calm. He looked me dead in the eyes and held the gaze for a few moments too long. But he continued down the sidewalk.

I allowed him to get a good distance ahead before I started back up, now behind him, once again in the street. A reversal of fortunes, or at least positions. I was walking rather slow in order to maintain the distance between us. I had no intention of engaging or suggesting anything to this latenight wanderer. Still, it was not long, before I noticed, despite my slow pace, that I was gaining on him. I watched him for a few strides and saw that his gate had become slug-like, that he was deliberately moving at a snail's pace. A minute later, I was even with him, and he was glancing over at me every couple of seconds. I tried to withhold it but a grin snuck across my lips as I couldn't help but laugh at the absurdity of these trifling maneuvers--I wondered if this guy wanted to sodomize me in the hot summer night. We reached my car, and I didn't even look at it, wanting to give no hint that it was mine and that I intended to sleep there later. I walked at a brisk, but not too brisk--as that would indicate worry or fear, pace. He kept up with me, continually glancing at the back of my left ear and the side of my temple. We reached the main cross street which is the east boundary for campus. I stopped walking. I stood dead still in the middle of the street, forcing him to show his hand if it was going to come to that.

He looked at me oddly, puzzled, still trying to figure out what it was that I was thinking or desiring to happen. Again, he crossed the street in front of me. He was mere feet away. Again, he held my eyes too long. I forced him to pick his direction, so I could choose mine. He chose north down the cross street. I waited for him to commit to that direction before I crossed this main street, still heading west, appearing to head toward campus. I looked back as I had done before, watching my ass as it were. He went a half block north, and then do you know what that son of a bitch did? He turned, he crossed the street. He was behind me again. I said FUCK IT. I feigned west slightly, and turned south down the main street, south to where there is nothing open at night. At least the street along there is well lit. He must have judged that I was going onto the campus, though, because he had begun to cut across a parking lot at a diagonal that would have intercepted me had I continued west. I didn't care. I was walking south, and if this motherfucker followed, I was going to grab the fallen branch that most resembled a baseball bat. I was tired of playing around.

Somehow, this must have been communicated across the night air because he didn't follow. I glanced behind me and saw that he had done a one-eighty and was crossing back over to the other side of the campus border street. I expected him to follow along the opposite sidewalk, but instead he headed north again. I watched him as he glanced back at me a few times. Then I continued to head south so as not to appear like a flake as this guy clearly was. I walked to the south end of campus where all of the athletic facilities are located. I stood for a few minutes under the street lamp of the last illuminated intersection. Then, I turned around and retraced my steps. I returned to my car, tilted the seat back as far and as straight as it would go, laid my head down on a pillow, pulled the blanket up to my shoulders, and went to sleep. I slept the best that night that I had all summer, car and couch and bed included. It was a deep sleep, and I woke with the sunrise and the birds chirping, only three or four hours later. But I felt like a million bucks, and I felt like my ass was safe, and I felt like I could take a nap somewhere in the daylight and no one would know.


Day 12 One, two, Freddy's coming for you. Three, four, better lock your door. Five, six, grab your crucifix. Seven, eight, better stay up late. Nine, ten, never sleep again (in a car). What a beautiful song.

Hairy

One of my writing instructors nicknamed me Hairy Asscot because he insisted that my scarf was an ascot. When I was particularly snide in his class, he called me Hairy Asshole. Hairy is my alter ego. I composed this shortly after Hairy/I blew a potentially important life moment. I recognized the ruin in the moment and could do nothing. It was quite depressing.

Hairy Asshole

Life is hard as a hairy asshole.

I'm always the butt of a joke,
and everything that comes out of my mouth is foul.

It's hard to take life or myself seriously.

As soon as the hand goes to the fly zipper,
I think I already know where this is going.

I can't tell people how I really feel.

When I start to feel something nice,
I cover it up with some crass joke.

People tell me I'm mean.

I want to show them that I'm misunderstood,
that I just don't express myself well when it comes to true emotion.

And still, I come off like I'm full of shit.
What a sad human being.


Day 9? or was that yesterday? 10? Anyway, try not to step in it. Sorry, no picture of hairy assholes today for all you degenerates who were disappointed.

Dead Flowers

From "Love Letters," Stories V!
by Scott McClanahan

"Sarah,
This isn't the cheapo $5 bouquet either. This is the real deal $10 one. Please love me. I'll make it worth your while in the long run.
-Bubbies"

Do we all remember playing those games? He loves me, he loves me not... I remember playing in the front yard in grade school, pulling the petal leaves one by one from the flowerhead. Daisies seem ideal for this game--I mean the Anthemis 'Sauce Hollandaise.' The classic daisy--long white petals stemming from the golden center disc. They're perfect for the game. They possess enough petals to make it interesting, keep our attention--irises and lilies have too few petals, the game ends as soon as it begins--yet, there are not too many that we cannot still eye the count to manipulate the outcome. With daisies, it's a rigged score as they say. Tulips and roses with their folded petals involve too much risk, and roses have thorns.
Neil Young taught me my flowers and ways in love when he sang
Love is a rose, but you better not pick it.
It only grows when it's on the vine.
A hand full of thorns, and you'll know you've missed it.
You lose your love when you say the word 'mine.'

But daisies can be dangerous too, especially when one gives them in all sincerity.

I never liked the idea of giving flowers to a girl. It always seemed so cliche and worn out like the guy who's messed up and now thinks it's going to be all sweet and rosy again once he hands over the stupid boquet tucked beneath his arm. Even worse is the valentine, dumbly waiting beyond the front door, stupid grin and, of course, red roses and red heart-shaped box of chocolates in his hands. I cringed at the lack of originality, and I doubted myself when I first decided that I would give the gift of love in some fresh-cut stems wrapped in cellophane. It sounds so suffocating.

Of course, her favorite as she told me was the white daisy with the golden center. I looked up the local florists to see where I could get a deal. April's Florist set me up with a nice vase, an arrangement of white daisies with accent foliage, and a pretty bow to seal the deal and show how much I cared. I felt stupid walking from the florist shop to the bus stop, carrying my sign of love. I felt even more stupid when a coworker saw me at the stop and asked, "Who are the flowers for?"
"April," I embarrassedly answered, looking at my feet. And yes, I bought flowers from April's Florist for my girlfriend April.
She cooed annoyingly, and I could feel my temples reddening. My eyes refusing to meet hers.
She continued," Is it her birthday?"
I shook my head "no."
"Are you going on a date tonight?"
I shook my head "no."
"Is something special going on?"
Again, I shook my head "no."
She cooed and awwed. I thought maybe this is a good thing as I stepped onto the bus.

At the time it did turn out to be a good thing, and I probably scored some points that day in this rigged game, but I forgot to count the number of petals when I started. I ended up surprised in the end, when I pulled that final leaf on a "love me not." Like all good perennials, the daisies came back for a couple of years, until I finally uprooted them for good. Since then, there have been plenty of bouquets, plenty of vases, only a couple of bows, but none of them seemed as real or sincere as that first. I'm not much of a flower guy--hardly any grew in my garden last summer while the vegetables and fruits thrived. Perhaps, it's because I find them deceiving. They look so dazzling and alluring above ground, but beneath, the roots are battling, strangling one another in a brutal struggle for survival against their own as well as the invading weeds. We give flowers to show our love for one another, but in order to do this, we must cut the flowers--kill them essentially, and to preserve them longer and longer, we continue to make that angular cut, allowing a new part of the stem access to the water, which often contains a preservative. The most common preservative is sugar. The sucrose provides sustenance, but what it really does, for me, is provide a sugar-coating in the way that we often use weak gestures like flower boquets to apologize for or symbolize something that we should be communicating much more effectively.

Maybe love is a flower, and those cuts are the things of relationships and life. The sturdier will survive and continue, perhaps reach more brilliant colors and greater fruits than any other. But maybe, in the end, all love eventually dies with our flowers, the sugar coating trying its best to prevent the inevitable only as long as its sweetness can.



Day 9, who's counting...

Independence Day

In case you have forgotten what actually happened on the Fourth of July, devoid of all the celebratory baggage of John Wayne marathons and Will Smith/Jeff Goldblum missions to thwart alien designs on taking over the world, here you go:

The Declaration of Independence

IN CONGRESS, July 4, 1776.

The unanimous Declaration of the thirteen united States of America,

When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature and of Nature's God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.--That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, --That whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shewn, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same Object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute Despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new Guards for their future security.--Such has been the patient sufferance of these Colonies; and such is now the necessity which constrains them to alter their former Systems of Government. The history of the present King of Great Britain is a history of repeated injuries and usurpations, all having in direct object the establishment of an absolute Tyranny over these States. To prove this, let Facts be submitted to a candid world.

He has refused his Assent to Laws, the most wholesome and necessary for the public good.
He has forbidden his Governors to pass Laws of immediate and pressing importance, unless suspended in their operation till his Assent should be obtained; and when so suspended, he has utterly neglected to attend to them.
He has refused to pass other Laws for the accommodation of large districts of people, unless those people would relinquish the right of Representation in the Legislature, a right inestimable to them and formidable to tyrants only.
He has called together legislative bodies at places unusual, uncomfortable, and distant from the depository of their public Records, for the sole purpose of fatiguing them into compliance with his measures.
He has dissolved Representative Houses repeatedly, for opposing with manly firmness his invasions on the rights of the people.
He has refused for a long time, after such dissolutions, to cause others to be elected; whereby the Legislative powers, incapable of Annihilation, have returned to the People at large for their exercise; the State remaining in the mean time exposed to all the dangers of invasion from without, and convulsions within.
He has endeavoured to prevent the population of these States; for that purpose obstructing the Laws for Naturalization of Foreigners; refusing to pass others to encourage their migrations hither, and raising the conditions of new Appropriations of Lands.
He has obstructed the Administration of Justice, by refusing his Assent to Laws for establishing Judiciary powers.
He has made Judges dependent on his Will alone, for the tenure of their offices, and the amount and payment of their salaries.
He has erected a multitude of New Offices, and sent hither swarms of Officers to harrass our people, and eat out their substance.
He has kept among us, in times of peace, Standing Armies without the Consent of our legislatures.
He has affected to render the Military independent of and superior to the Civil power.
He has combined with others to subject us to a jurisdiction foreign to our constitution, and unacknowledged by our laws; giving his Assent to their Acts of pretended Legislation:
For Quartering large bodies of armed troops among us:
For protecting them, by a mock Trial, from punishment for any Murders which they should commit on the Inhabitants of these States:
For cutting off our Trade with all parts of the world:
For imposing Taxes on us without our Consent:
For depriving us in many cases, of the benefits of Trial by Jury:
For transporting us beyond Seas to be tried for pretended offences
For abolishing the free System of English Laws in a neighbouring Province, establishing therein an Arbitrary government, and enlarging its Boundaries so as to render it at once an example and fit instrument for introducing the same absolute rule into these Colonies:
For taking away our Charters, abolishing our most valuable Laws, and altering fundamentally the Forms of our Governments:
For suspending our own Legislatures, and declaring themselves invested with power to legislate for us in all cases whatsoever.
He has abdicated Government here, by declaring us out of his Protection and waging War against us.
He has plundered our seas, ravaged our Coasts, burnt our towns, and destroyed the lives of our people.
He is at this time transporting large Armies of foreign Mercenaries to compleat the works of death, desolation and tyranny, already begun with circumstances of Cruelty & perfidy scarcely paralleled in the most barbarous ages, and totally unworthy the Head of a civilized nation.
He has constrained our fellow Citizens taken Captive on the high Seas to bear Arms against their Country, to become the executioners of their friends and Brethren, or to fall themselves by their Hands.
He has excited domestic insurrections amongst us, and has endeavoured to bring on the inhabitants of our frontiers, the merciless Indian Savages, whose known rule of warfare, is an undistinguished destruction of all ages, sexes and conditions.

In every stage of these Oppressions We have Petitioned for Redress in the most humble terms: Our repeated Petitions have been answered only by repeated injury. A Prince whose character is thus marked by every act which may define a Tyrant, is unfit to be the ruler of a free people.

Nor have We been wanting in attentions to our Brittish brethren. We have warned them from time to time of attempts by their legislature to extend an unwarrantable jurisdiction over us. We have reminded them of the circumstances of our emigration and settlement here. We have appealed to their native justice and magnanimity, and we have conjured them by the ties of our common kindred to disavow these usurpations, which, would inevitably interrupt our connections and correspondence. They too have been deaf to the voice of justice and of consanguinity. We must, therefore, acquiesce in the necessity, which denounces our Separation, and hold them, as we hold the rest of mankind, Enemies in War, in Peace Friends.

We, therefore, the Representatives of the united States of America, in General Congress, Assembled, appealing to the Supreme Judge of the world for the rectitude of our intentions, do, in the Name, and by Authority of the good People of these Colonies, solemnly publish and declare, That these United Colonies are, and of Right ought to be Free and Independent States; that they are Absolved from all Allegiance to the British Crown, and that all political connection between them and the State of Great Britain, is and ought to be totally dissolved; and that as Free and Independent States, they have full Power to levy War, conclude Peace, contract Alliances, establish Commerce, and to do all other Acts and Things which Independent States may of right do. And for the support of this Declaration, with a firm reliance on the protection of divine Providence, we mutually pledge to each other our Lives, our Fortunes and our sacred Honor.


--------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The 56 signatures on the Declaration appear in the positions indicated:

Column 1
Georgia:
Button Gwinnett
Lyman Hall
George Walton

Column 2
North Carolina:
William Hooper
Joseph Hewes
John Penn
South Carolina:
Edward Rutledge
Thomas Heyward, Jr.
Thomas Lynch, Jr.
Arthur Middleton

Column 3
Massachusetts:
John Hancock
Maryland:
Samuel Chase
William Paca
Thomas Stone
Charles Carroll of Carrollton
Virginia:
George Wythe
Richard Henry Lee
Thomas Jefferson
Benjamin Harrison
Thomas Nelson, Jr.
Francis Lightfoot Lee
Carter Braxton

Column 4
Pennsylvania:
Robert Morris
Benjamin Rush
Benjamin Franklin
John Morton
George Clymer
James Smith
George Taylor
James Wilson
George Ross
Delaware:
Caesar Rodney
George Read
Thomas McKean

Column 5
New York:
William Floyd
Philip Livingston
Francis Lewis
Lewis Morris
New Jersey:
Richard Stockton
John Witherspoon
Francis Hopkinson
John Hart
Abraham Clark

Column 6
New Hampshire:
Josiah Bartlett
William Whipple
Massachusetts:
Samuel Adams
John Adams
Robert Treat Paine
Elbridge Gerry
Rhode Island:
Stephen Hopkins
William Ellery
Connecticut:
Roger Sherman
Samuel Huntington
William Williams
Oliver Wolcott
New Hampshire:
Matthew Thornton

Unfortunately, with America's current imperialist, or if you prefer liberatory, exploits across the globe, one wonders if the rest of the world could draft such an article of grievances, citing similar injuries and usurpations by George, against the United States. Perhaps less importantly, in our current literary world of tweets, facebook updates, and widespread lack of rhetorical skill among our governing lackeys, one wonders if such words as those written in the essay above will ever be remotely matched or surpassed in our current political, social, and rhetorical climate.


Day 8 This past weekend, at a mini-reunion of former friends and classmates, a wonderful mix of alcohol and fireworks. The high school girls stumbling around the front yard of the country house, rocking fifths of captain morgan and two liters of coke and sprite in their arms as if they were suckling little babes. The 'guys,' shirtless and with plastic cups of keg beer, lighting Roman candles and Big Berthas, they clearly displayed their manliness. When they began to hold the launchers in their hands, aiming at the transformer up on the electric pole, sparks flying into their faces, I was reminded of the man who used to live across the street. My friends and I were all scared of him as kids because of the hook that was his right arm--the unfortunate result of a childhood accident with fireworks. Be careful.

Big Shot

I'm feeling like a big shot today because I noticed that I have my first follower, and I'm sure that this person randomly came across the blog and decided to follow because she was so enthralled by the beauty of the writing--not because I know him or her or because I shamelessly advertise posts on facebook or anything. Anyhow, I was going to post a Bukowski poem in honor--something called "to my fans," or "for...," or maybe simply "my fans," but I couldn't find that beautiful poem in which the German feminists are standing in the rain protesting outside of the bar in which Buk's drinking. Of course, he comes out and gets into a car, blowing kisses while they boo and throw things. Such a beautiful thing. But I could not find it, so I jotted something down instead (for Andrea, whoever that may be).

for my fans: a dream

when i fall asleep after a night
of work and the sky is just begining to
lighten into the gray dawn. i dream
of that beauty who has forever
eluded me, and she is picking up my book
that i have unwittingly written for her.
she takes it off the shelf and carries
it home in her purse. she reads it then
sets it down, then later reads it again.
and somehow, despite my inadequacies in life,
in my dream, i have done it--i
have spoken to her as if i were God answering
that rhetorical question, and in that
moment i know. but then i wake up
and realize, begin typing again.
break after a whilefor a peanut butter
sandwich--the jelly is all gone,
but no matter, the car in which i
reside has no refrigerator anyway. after brunch,
i go to the workshop where they must read
whatever i write. the whole business is dull,
grey. but at night,
at night, i dream.

Day 5 or 6. Went to a two kegger last night. Saw lots of people that I haven't seen in years, some on purpose. That was enough, drunk off the glug glug question of 'what are you doing with yourself these days?' I sip my water, look the other way, "not much. you."
On a sunnier note, had lunch today with someone I wanted to and enjoyed seeing, a person I wish I had kept in better contact with over the years. Head West subs still best sandwich in hometown.