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Tuesday, August 26, 2008

simpler to be cynical

i wanted to have ideals,
everyone cries about global warming
but they tore down three hundred acres of forest next door
 and put up a housing development
and the temperature along our street went up five degrees.
so how is my planting one tree gonna help?

i don't actually give a Gore's hairpiece about the environment,
it's gonna do just fine, we may all get wiped out
but the environment will keep on truckin' in one form or another.
i wanted to love people for who they are...
but they're so darn stupid!

Friday, August 15, 2008

Let it be

Got blindsided by a memory last night.  Just came out of nowhere and cold cocked me whilst i was exiting the shower.  i have no idea if there is some significance to my condition at the time, frankly, i don't want to know.  My curiosity only runs so deep and it tends to hit a wall where nekkidity is concerned.  
The memory was this: i was a teenager, roughly seventeen.  We were going to the mall, a friend, his girlfriend and i.  We didn't particularly want to go to the mall but we were bored and that was one of the places we tended to go.  For some unknown reason, i got the idea in my head to go in clown make-up.  Not the full goofy suit with big shoes or anything, more of a Red Skelton kind of thing, hobo get up.  i probably just wanted to liven up what was otherwise going to be a really dull night.
Now, as you may well imagine, i was not allowed past the kitchen in this get up.  My father particularly was very adamant about me getting changed.  We still went to the mall, i just went as an angry youth who hated the world instead of a hobo clown.
My boy, the pretty one, has recently bought himself a screaming pink shirt.  It's not quite Neon, but they hang out at the same bar in New Hope.  Crap, i'm even ridiculing the lad in print!  Here's the thing.  The pretty one is a fairly confident individual.  He does what he thinks is cool and the rest of the world be darned.  But he can be influenced.  My mirth over this shirt, which he likes and my mockery have shaken his willingness to wear it in public.  i've seen it.  He had to build up to it's debut.
Why?  Why do i care what color shirt he wears?  Why should he care that it was social suicide for a guy to wear pink back in the bronze age?  i dunno but i have a guess.
Father's think that their families are indicators or at least will be viewed by the unwashed masses as such, of their own character and its implicit failings.  A father who let's his son wear pink is raising an alternative lifestyle preferential child, i suppose would be the fear.  A father who let his son go to the mall in clown make-up would be picking him up from the police station later that night or have to answer uncomfortable questions at work tomorrow or at church on Sunday.  
i'm not saying that we have to let our kids do whatever fool thing enters their head.  This is wisdom, it requires discernment.  Knowing what's important and what isn't.  This all seems darkly ironic given some of my father's recent decisions but that's a story for another day.
i like to perform.  i didn't really know this about myself as a kid.  i've had to learn it since.  If, and that's a dangerously self-pitying word that gateways into a dark, self-pitying world if you live in it, if i'd been allowed to be myself a kid, what would i be doing now?  How would i be different?  Don't know, doesn't matter cause it didn't go down that way.  
But i think i'm going to stop giving my son a hard time about his shirt.

The plaid pants on the other hand...

Monday, August 11, 2008

Loons to Gulls

Two vacations in less than a month.  A week in Canuckada fishing with the Ballyhoo Gang, reinforced by Papa Panda and Unca Bubba and a long weekend at the beach with the Fricken Familia.  It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.  We must be stronger cause we didn't die.  Despite storms, our own cooking, restaurant cooking, an outbreak of the Frumps, chubikinis, plywood tables passed off as 'beds,' killer moss-kweetos, touching fish, Jersey drivers, Canadian drivers, New Yorkers, and Deleware road systems (which i believe are just run-off from New Jersey--Traffic Circles fercryinowtlowd!), toll roads,
 toll roads, 
toll roads (you have to say it three times because that's how many booths you hit in a ten mile stretch!  They're designed that way though.  The plot is to get us to buy EZ pass so that we're used to the idea of being charged money without noticing just for driving over arbitrary, invisible lines.  Pretty soon they'll bang your wallet for fifty cents every time you leave your driveway.  And another dime for crossing your own threshold.)  Yes, we survived.  And hopefully we're wiser too.  A few things we may or may not have learned...
  • the Ballyhoo gang don't like to touch fish
  • if the nice young man at the front desk shows you a menu BEFORE showing you the dining room, he is probably trying to find a polite way of saying you walked into the wrong, damn restaurant.  They're not being snooty, they're being kind, you won't enjoy the atmosphere any more than the regular patrons will downwind of your fishy hide.
  • seventies architecture is poop.  Block and poured concrete may be 'modern' and 'functional' but as soon as the paint starts to peel those spiffy hotels just start looking like government sponsored low-income tenements.
  • Russians seem amused and pleasantly surprised when you thank them in their native language, Latinos less so and Canuckleheads just give you a pained expression of long suffering.  They've dealt with Yanks before, eh.
  • i don't know why everyone's so concerned with self-esteem, just go to the beach and look at the swim suits, there isn't much of a self-esteem problem near as i can tell.  i'd have to say we need to start ridiculing people a little more.
  • that if the Ballyhoo gang don't have a television or a video game they go into this eerie state of hibernation.  They must do this in order to survive the drought of mindless entertainment.  Their bodies seem to relax and they read a lot.  In one instance, i saw one of them drawing!  Must do more research.
  • that i'd actually forgot how many stars there are
  • night fishing, while profitable, is a whole nother endeavor entirely.
  • it's also creepy
  • that i don't love people the way God loves people.  i'm actually suffering from a nightmare where i get to heaven and its a lot like the line at an amusement park with noise and lights and humanity in all its inhuman variations, dropping litter on the floor and not caring and screaming, spoiled kids and noise and lights and cigarette smoke and stomach aches and so on ad nauseum.  And God says something to me like, "if you can't love these, then you don't love Me."
  • that i really wish the kingdom of God was the beautiful scenery He made for us and not so much the people he put in it.  i find that a little easier to enjoy.  No offense, humanity.
  • that i have a great family!
  • that apparently my enchilladas beat Dos Locos' enchilladas.  Still a great place to eat though.
  • that i will never go to the beach again without packing a sweatsuit.
  • and a coat.
  • and maybe wool socks.
  • fish like to have their bellies rubbed
  • a lot!
  • it's gross
  • i don't recommend it
  • that i need more sleep
Good night.

Thursday, August 07, 2008


My issue with God is this: that while i have clear evidence that He's speaking to me, orchestrating events, nudging me to action, taking a truncheon to me train o' thought as it were, while i am without doubt upon this, it is fact, it is bedrock far from a fault line, it is something really solidish, and my faith tells me that these speaks, orchestral movements, nudges and truncheon lumps are for my good and are born out of a magnificent, mysterious, merciful and unmitigated love for me...

i'm never quite sure what it is He wants me to do.

F'rinstance, that's a word where i come from, does the constant eating away of my traditional writing time and the lack of any energy to stay awake after work mean i am:

A-- supposed to flip the laptop out of my car window on the expressway, burn all the blank paper in the house, break all my pencil points, hammer my sharpener to wee pieces, dip all the pens in wax and give up writing as an idea, hobby, institution or possible career choice?


B--get serious.  Knuckle down, carve out some real, designated, do-not-disturb time to commit to my art and who knows, let's go willy-over-teacups and maybe send something in to a magazine, editor, agent and see what happens?


C--go to work.  i'm almost late already.