tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-5146663533403995452024-03-13T03:39:11.952-07:00I Rant So Far Away655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.comBlogger45125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-858355504258071392012-08-10T15:52:00.003-07:002012-08-10T16:12:11.832-07:00The Missing Link<style>
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<br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">"Maybe an Angel did it. Maybe an Angel bit your dick off"</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />Frank exclaimed towards Luke with God-fearing eyes. He was always the one to bring religion into matters of the unknown.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />"No, no, no, wasn't no angel that bit my dick off, don't be daft." </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />Though Luke couldn’t be sure, he usually slept with his left hand covering the warm fleshy mass, like it was a bulletproof vest and his balls were in a gun fight. This being a habit he formed in childhood it was one he just couldn’t break, and it only really proved to be a real nuisance when taking naps in church. He awoke that hot August morning and reached for the spot where his pride and joy once sat only to fine there was now nothing. Just a smoothed, slightly concave, plateau of skin where once existed manhood. Totally vacant as if, well maybe, he had just dreamed he had a penis all these years.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />"Well the way you been using it, maybe it just packed up and left, needed a massage or some down time."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />Frank knew about Luke’s masturbatory timeline on account of them sharing a one-bedroom shack above the barn they worked at. Luke had to excuse himself for smoke breaks three times a day, only peculiar thing was Luke didn’t smoke. He'd rush from the corn field, or from milking the cow in a huff like a doctor visiting a patient on his death bed, and return like a cool summer breeze that had just been twerked from God's dong. Luke liked to logisticize to Frank, if others can take a smoke break, I can take a personal health break as well. Logic being logic, and logic has a way of being itself; well it sorta made sense to Frank. Only problem was Luke tended not to wash his hands before he milked the blue bell, and I don’t know how babies are made, but gosh that just doesn’t seem right.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />"You kidding me, I massage that son of a bitch more than anyone else."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />Again, this being true, all the more reason for a frank and his beans to take a vacation. But where would a Johnson go for holiday, the depths of an underwear drawer? A lesbian bar? Your grandfathers jockey shorts? A softball game? Munich? Luke hadn’t the first idea as to where to look. But he did intend to get the escapee back.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />"Yea well you know what I mean, probably just needed a break."</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />Luke had no idea what Frank meant, he’d never heard of a mans very manhood needing a break from the rest of the man. In his 33 years of existence his tally had been his best friend and Frank being his second best took a back seat now and then. When Luke had an extra ticket to a ball game, he took his package. When Luke took the car out, guess who sat shotgun? When Luke was with a woman, and she had a friend, Frank got sloppy seconds after Luke and his beefy friend had ravaged them. In fact Frank sort of liked the idea of Luke being detached from that cock block for a little while.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />“I intend to get it back, I do,”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br /> Luke sobbed into his cream of wheat that morning. The shadow of a man without a penis, well that’s no shadow of a man at all; and this thought weighed on Luke. Frank secretly wondered if his friend of 25 years might start growing tits. Was this the beginning of a transformation? Would his facial hair pack up just like his testicles? Would his short cropped black hair grow into curly velvety locks? Maybe the vacancy formerly occupied by Lukes best friend would grow inward into a shorn vagina; stranger things have happened. Would Frank be ok with dating his best friend? Shit, he would technically be a she, and she’d have all the required parts. They get along about as well a whore and a dick with a 500 dollar bill tied around it already. But could he marry Luke one day if it came down to it? After knowing that he lived his life as a man for 33 years previous. Well he’d have to think about that one.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />“I do!!”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />Frank shouted raising them both from their sordid daydreams. Luke looked at him peculiarly. What the hell was that? What the hell was that indeed, Frank’s face looked back. Had he really just been contemplating marrying his best friend if he woke up the next morning with a hole where his penis once layed like a drunk sloth? Frank was lonely, but had he let himself get too lonely. Maybe he oughta quit smoking and enjoy a few mental health breaks of his own. The farm was a lonely place, even lonelier when the only women roaming the land were Ms. Krumpkin whose nipples were held hostage between her second and third fat roll, and her young daughter Susan, who though was a looker, had just mastered walking on her own. No! Frank you must shake off those filthy thoughts. After all, you are a God-fearing man.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />With a screech as chair legs fought with barn floor, Frank excused himself from the table the two had shared for the last three years whilst working on the Krumpkin farm. He told Luke he was going to take a leak, but realized his error when Luke’s frown defied gravity in its sharp upturn. Was a urine stream now a luxury? How would Luke relieve himself without a hose or a hole? Would it merely seep from his pores like a bastard waterfall? Frank went into the little detached hut where piss and shit were laid to waist and twisted on the leaky faucet.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />“I will not have unholy thoughts about my friend, I will not have unholy thoughts about my friend. </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;">His loss is not my gain, his loss is not my gain.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />Frank continued to repeat these harsh words as he splashed cold water on his face like some sort of twisted baptismal twitch. He glanced into the rusty mirror above the shit tank and made out two scared eyes. Where was all this coming from? He shook his face about like a man trying to get dirty water out of his dirtier ear and unzipped his pants for a morning leak. He went to grab at his snake, happy that Luke’s affliction hadn’t spread to the 2nd nearest Y Chromosome and saw something that made him scream, something that made him run from that hut like a pedophile from a preschool full of cops.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />The doors to the small breakfast nook burst open as Frank held his pants together between his white knuckled hands. Luke looked up at his scared face and rolled his eyes.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />“I lost my penis today, what the hell do you got that’s gonna justify that pussy face of yours”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />With that, Luke dropped his pants and Frank’s mouth fell open so hard his tongue rolled out like in one of those old cat and mouse cartoons, I swear it. Wouldn’t you know sitting on the mound of pubis where Frank’s lone bat and balls had been sat Lukes right next to it, like two elephant trunks dangling in the breeze of the Outback. Both men looked at each other like it was end of times. Whilst this day was the apocalypse for Luke, it was the heavenly Mothers birthday for Frank.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />“I guess he got lonely,” Frank shrugged.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Times;"><br />A fire stirred in Luke’s eyes as he stared at his best friend attached to his second best friend. “Don’t you move, I’m getting a saw.”<br /><br />-655321</span><br />
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<br /></div>655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com39tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-52123096836032180362012-04-12T12:19:00.001-07:002012-04-12T12:23:57.666-07:00A Case of You TooShe won't throw out her trash,<br />
not even the casual-t of war.<br />
Letting it fester brings flies,<br />
and she sits in the filth.<br />
<br />
He's not speaking anymore,<br />
his fires been scorched. <br />
smoldering photos in a hole,<br />
wind picking up ash,<br />
twisting across a blank sky.<br />
<br />
The lights turn down,<br />
a sweltering summer blackout. <br />
Theres no moving in this darkness,<br />
or time to acclimate.<br />
<br />
Magnificent purple, orange, and blue.<br />
Down for the night,<br />
dead in the sky.<br />
<br />
She used to be excited about the sun,<br />
he remembers.<br />
<br />
A page turner to mark each occasion. <br />
<br />
But then it became easier to pretend,<br />
and the sun was just that.<br />
A ball,<br />
of fire,<br />
that hung in the sky. <br />
<br />
It's so still, he wonders if the worlds asleep.<br />
He wonders if he'll sleep the night.<br />
He wonders if he'll sleep for years. <br />
<br />
On some distant car radio,<br />
or from some distant FM wave<br />
waltzing through the air and in through a car window<br />
“I could drink a case of you darling" <br />
And the dial clicks off.<br />
No, "still I’d be on my feet.”<br />
<br />
-655321655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-90126060557794281082011-04-01T18:10:00.000-07:002011-04-04T15:40:34.862-07:0011-year-old, Noah Fagalosi, talks to God.<link href="file://localhost/Users/aricosta/Library/Caches/TemporaryItems/msoclip/0clip_filelist.xml" rel="File-List"></link> <style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><br />
</div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Hey God,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">it’s me Noah Fagalosi.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I hope all is well with you, and you worked out that issue you were telling me about.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">My mom tells me bacne is common among active men as they get older,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">it really has nothing to do with cleanliness,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">more with your gene pool,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">and yours is divine,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">so it is strange that your back is littered like a page of connect the dots.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I wouldn’t worry about pockmarks though,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">you’ll probably heal as fast as Wolverine.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">When I told my mom about your problem she said:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">“Tell God to use benzoyl peroxide” then a bottle of it showed up on my bed.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">She must be confused,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">what’s your mailing address?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">The other day I heard her shouting on the phone</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">“How in God’s name did I get herpes?”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Was she talking to you? How did she get your number?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">She wont let me sleep in her bed anymore.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">She said she had a “flare up” and didn’t want to pass it on.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I try not to be a jealous person but why would you give her something</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">and not me?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I decided to start taking the pills on her nightstand.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">She said they’re only for her, </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">but I know that you left them there for both of us. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">She was shouting your name really loudly the other day </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">when she brought </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Doctor Solomon from temple</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">home after their date.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">She calls him “Jackpot” and “Matzoh balls” to her friends.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I don’t like the way he twirls his long sideburns at our breakfast table.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Please get rid of him.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I know he’s not on your team anyhow. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Regardless, please look after that mongrel</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Cranky Gene.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">He was a good dog, but dumb as a bag of Protestants.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Let him sleep in your bed once in a while,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">and forgive the stench of his drool.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Talk to you soon.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">-Noah</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: large;">11-year-old, Noah Fagalosi, questions God.</span><o:p></o:p></span></b></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Hey God,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">me again, Noah Fagalosi.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Thanks for getting rid of Solomon;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">his curls still litter my bathtub and carpet though.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">This new guy who she calls “My first black;”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">he is ok.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">But he makes mother scream your name so loud it wakes me up at night.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Please do something about that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Are you both in there with her?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">If so, wake me up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">You know I like fun things. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Next time I hear this, I’ll come in,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I know you wouldn’t exclude me.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Now to the issue at hand.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">F-A-G.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Yes, you probably know what that means,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">well I didn’t.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I had to look it up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Google imaged it in fact.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">How did you let this happen?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">The kids at school have a nickname for me,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">it’s really simple, can you guess it?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">“Noah Fag.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Again, I thought it was endearing</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">until I looked it up.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Excuse my French but:</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Ta mere est une pute.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">That’s right I bet you wish you hadn’t given Mom</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">money for French lessons now.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I’m sorry, I don’t mean that.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I know Mary is the furthest thing from a harlot.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">But how could you?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Why would you give me a name like Fagalosi</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">knowing full right kids are cruel.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Timmy Peters called me FAG</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">while we were in the bathroom this morning.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">He said I was watching him pee.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Cut his little dick off.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I know that’s horrible but I’m serious,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">he needs to learn.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">John Harrison asked me to play catch last night.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">When I wasn’t looking he threw the baseball at my stomach.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I threw up, and as I did he called me FAG.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">He also spit on me and told me I was going to hell.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">God, please cut his little dick off.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">How will he learn otherwise?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Am I really going to hell?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">And finally, after soccer practice on Tuesday,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Tim Gunther thought he saw me looking at him in the shower.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">He screamed “Noah the FAG is watching me shower,”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">and everyone ran out of the locker room.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I <i>was</i> actually watching him scrub, but only out of curiosity,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I swear.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Please, please, please God.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Cut his larger than normal dick off.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">After all he is a Born Again.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Thank you for hearing my prayers.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">I’m sorry we didn’t get to talk about you this time,</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">but I’m all ears when you want to vent.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Seriously though, rethink my last name</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">or I might have to consider Scientology.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">Thanks.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">-Noah</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">P.S. Did the bacne clear up?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;"><br />
</span><br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #d9d2e9;">-655321</span></div>655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-46972783689283010082011-02-24T16:14:00.000-08:002011-03-02T14:56:59.547-08:00THE EBBS AND FLOWS OF ZIGGY SAWDUST AND THE TERMITES FROM URANUS<style>
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<div class="MsoNormal"><b><span style="color: #171717; font-family: Helvetica;"> </span></b></div><span style="font-family: times new roman; font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-weight: bold;"> <span style="font-size: small;"><i>Originally printed in the December 1998 issue of Rolling Stone Magazine.</i></span><br />
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It’s pit stain hot as it tends to be in Los Angeles on any given day, but as faded and fabled rocker Ziggy Sawdust pulls up to the Hamburger Hamlet on Sunset just past Doheny and gets out of his 1987 MG convertible, his lanky stature blocks the sun. Coincidence? Or is the sun as afraid of this gangly, obtrusive, recluse as we are? He shuts the door as his rusty little car puffs exhaust like it’s an exact personification of Ziggy himself; he tells me later in the interview his “day car” is in the shop. He has the disheveled look of a man who was born on a bender, a man who’d drink gasoline if he couldn’t afford booze. His eyes are bright blue with distinct gray webs piercing through like the Copenhagen Chaw that fills his mouth thought it could escape through his iris. He walks with an unearned arrogant swagger and wears leather pants so tight his little rocker screams for air. This is the look of a could-be rocker; a would-have-been rocker; a just missed it kind of guy.<br />
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He puts himself in the category of “should-have-been U2” band; Shook Up! He says he is better then “almost-was Def Leppard” band; Anvil! And he says he’s inspired more bands with his 1970 debut album “Ruby Cats,” then XTC inspired in their whole career. He balks at the topic of David Bowie and wretches at the similarities between their stage creations. He cites foul play all the way. His graying mane of confused locks is offset with a red velvet headband. He walks over to me with a stuck snarl that spits at God and seems to say “Yea, I’m Ziggy Sawdust, now fuck off!” We head towards the back of the Hamlet and I let Sawdust chose the table. He dramatically pans the restaurant as if to avoid glances from his never-were and never-wanted-to-be fans, and sits at a table right in front of a wall sized poster of “Jailhouse Rock”- era Elvis Presley prancing about on his tip-top-tippy toes. The first thing he says in his Cockney accent is “Ya know I met Elvis once, daft prick he was, didn’t see what all tha’ fuss was ‘bout.” </span></span><br />
<div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>The elusive Ziggy Sawdust, thank you for sitting down with me today. Before we dive into it full force I feel obliged to say I’m a fan; a part of your cult following. There is little written about your early life, and I’m sure the public as well as myself would love to hear about your origins. </i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Origins huh? Well I wasn’t bitten by a spider with Hep C or shot to earth in a crusty comet from Pluto; nothing that unique.<br />
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I was born in the rookery, aka the East End basically outside Middlesex, a nice place for prostitutes and criminals and a goldmine for Jane’s and John’s and the sorts. It definitely wasn’t the posh breeding ground for London’s elite, and I was under no presumptions as such. We was poor. There wasn’t even a shitter in my flat; I’d have to go to the communal down the hall where I learned about the ins and outs of intercourse on account of their being no god damned door on the stall. I’d stand there as some old bugger would shove his rusty knob into the quivering gash of some young twist. Seriously I’d be holding me bowels as I’d watch his ballbag slap back and forth on her diseased fanny, and all the while think, “well this is life.” That was the only upbringing I needed to figure out life had dealt me raw and I needed to use my talents to escape the filth I’d been birthed in. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> <i><br />
Tell us a bit more about your formative years. Were there any influences or encounters at an early age that may have shaped who you’ve become?</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Ahh I see, how subtle mate, you don’t want to hear about my upbringing in the Mid - you want to hear about good ol’ Davey and his life 15km south in peaceful Brixton. They all do; that’s what they want to hear. I suppose I’ll indulge you. <br />
<br />
David Bowie and I met under artistic circumstances, both taking piano lessons from the same barmy arsehole. His lessons were directly after mine and we’d encounter each other on the regular. Yea, me and Bowie was a passing relationship, fueled by interest in the arts, and circumstance, and thievery. I’d share my drawings with him, drawings that eventually inspired both my and his future stage act and he’d play riffs for me on the pocket guitar he carried about like it was a golden nut sack. We had an understanding and an appreciation for a quarter of an hour every week. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>As far as what I’ve read you two haven’t spoken in nearly twenty years, what are your feelings towards him?</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;">He’s alright mate - just the sod responsible for me being in the gutter while he sucks sashimi off the indigenous nipples of black super models. A right twat for his thievery and a genius at the same time…if only I’d known our friendship was a ruse that would last me miserable life. Next question.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>There has been hearsay, myth, and blatant lies floating around about the origins of your name ever since you emerged with accusations towards Bowie. What’s the real story?</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Right, well, that’s a real simple and clear-cut case, mate. I was born Ziggy Martin Tommelson February 8th, 1947 just outside of Middlesex, as I stated before. I came screaming out of my mothers gash a slimy rock n’ roller from the start. <br />
<br />
As a result of my mother’s indecent excursions with the opiates and my fathers pre-occupation with creating shit for shit men in his woodshed behind the shack we lived in, I wasn’t born in a hospital. I came sliding out onto his workbench, right into a fresh pile of sawdust to make for a soft landing and the like…guess we was out of blankets that day. I looked like a midget sandman, as I rolled around sticky afterbirth clinging wood chips to my naked body. The neighbors reported the screams I echoed were so evanescent, they wanted to get my little claws to sign a record deal right then and there. My parents stifled me though; they didn’t see my God-given talents and resorted to calling me “Sawdust,” as a result of the pile I was born in and the importance they placed upon my being, which is to say quite obviously, not much. <br />
<br />
Growing up I couldn’t help but be obsessed with the nickname. It was shrouded in animosity and contempt because I was another lousy mouth to feed. It ate at me for years, but eventually grew to define me. If my parents saw me as sawdust, I would show the world that powdered wood was the mutt’s nuts. From that realization on the 13th year of my existence and forevermore, I went by Ziggy Sawdust. I would create characters and the like in my notebook of what I aspired to, and I’d sign them all glam and proper in my newly penned name. That bugger Bowie would sit amazed….little sparkles going off in his starman eyes as I’d create my new persona, and it was a right cock-up that I ever shared it with him. If I had known all these years later I would be the one fagging for him, then things would have gone differently, you can rely.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"> <br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Tell us more about why you believe Bowie stole your image and just when the inception of this idea happened.</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;">I just told ya, he’s a prat, stole it from me in our piano lessons. Are you daft mate? Anyway he is a smeg - no he’s less than a smeg. I showed him Sawdust in privacy, I thought he was one to be trusted, but instead he stole me from me right under my own nose. Is it a coincidence Ziggy Stardust is so close to Ziggy Sawdust, a man from Uranus sent back to help earth during it’s last few days of existence? Christ the names are nearly fucking identical….so Stardust is from another planet and dressed a bit more fruity pebbles than myself - he’s a thief. Uranus is fitting for me though, since it’s a commentary on the stinking hole I was hatched from. I haven’t seen ma and Pawdust in nearly 20 years and it’s been better than the 20 before. I don’t want you to get all analytical on me and start scrutinizing my past though. They’ve done that before; they’ve all done that before, and that would be the end of this here sit down.</span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/ovLPkdyQ49Y?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Ziggy Sawdust- Spaceman </span></b></div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">1972 </span></b> </div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br />
</div></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Amongst the cult group of fans you have, you are known for your outrageous stage shows. There is a striking resemblance to Bowie’s stage shows in them. How do you explain this?</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;">I see you’ve done exactly no research at all into my personal history mate….I appreciate you taking the time to waste mine. You’re just another Bowie historian looking to crush the myth and the man behind his successes. <br />
<br />
Well how is this for striking resemblance? I debuted my stage show Ziggy Sawdust and the Termites from Uranus on January 9th, 1972 at the Tabernacle in London. That is almost a whole month to the day before Bowie pranced out on stage at the Toby Jug Pub in Tolworth appearing like a gothic lesbian hooker. Do the studying professor - look it up on microfiche at the Rock n’ Roll library, consult a paper or two. I was getting write-ups about my extravagant stage show days before his was blowing up across the nation. <br />
<br />
As for specific similarities in our act, just look at the facts. I gave actual oral sex to my lead guitarist Ron Braxton on stage during our first show. What did Bowie do? He simulated oral sex with a guitar….save it for the cheap seats mate, go home if you ain’t got the yarbles. I stripped down nude and wrestled stacked females on stage; Bowie just put on some knickers and pretend-fought like one of those large asian wrestlers with their pants shoved in their crack. I threw wood into a chipper and blasted the audience with the dust my name was created from. Bowie spattered glitter around like a tired Johnson during sloppy seconds. You be the judge. </span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Tell us about your latest record “The Man Who Shaved the World,” - is this meant to mock Bowie, or is this a serious album?</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;">It’s a good album. This is not a ruse ya twat. If Bowie can chase my career and create a life of candy corn for me as he swims in mars bars then I can surely answer back. “The Man Who Shaved the World” was an album I created while I was on the road literally shaving the world. <br />
<br />
I wanted to do my part and give back to the world that rejected me; prove to them I’m not the selfish man they pegged me for. So I went to the worlds greatest third-world countries like Israel, and Africa, and that place with the leader who’s name sounds like dong, and I did my relief work. These people are poor - what’s one thing they can’t afford besides food and shelter? It’s fuckin’ steel blades, razors mate. So I went to these places and I shaved the Yahuda’s beards; I shaved the scraggly beards on those dark saronged forest folk; I shaved the thin hairs on the rice lovers chins….I shaved the worlds beards. Cleanliness is unparalleled and I was trying to do my part. You know the #1 breeding ground for insects, bacteria, and mites? It’s long, scraggly, stringy bloody beards and it’s a serious problem. So this album coincides with my journey with songs like: The Width of a Mustache, Growing Hair Blues, Naked Face Rock, and my personal favorite She Shook Me Bald. These are rock ballads about literally saving the world from it’s own putrid, diseased hair.</span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
<br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>David Bowie recounts that you two did interact in the early 60’s but denies anything beyond an acquaintance. When was the last time you two encountered one another and what’s the full story?</i></span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i> </i></span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;">Fuck, it’s been some years now. He avoids me like I’m a rat during that one plague. What’s it, Bubonic? Whatever, if I’m the damned rat, mate, then he’s the flea clinging to my hairs and spreading the disease. <br />
<br />
That’s right, we was creative acquaintances sharing childhood dreams with one another. I never said we was friends or best mates - just that we knew each other and he stole and manifested my livelihood. Last time I saw the Thin White Crook was at my local church, Our Lady of Sorrow, when I was home for the holidays in December of 1980. He was there raising charity for some small organization or something; he wasn’t shaving beards though, that’s for sure, just raising money by appearing somewhere. A half assed ploy, if ya ask me. <br />
<br />
After the sermon, Bowie hung around to speak with his local fans. I waited in line to confront the prick after all these years of trying to track him down, and when I got up to the front, he looked me up and down said “Nice getup, now here’s a true fan,” and then he preceded to ask me who he should make his John Hancock out to. I told him “It’s me, it’s fucking Ziggy, ya bloody faker, take your Hancock out and let’s measure.” So I whipped out my flaccid meat and placed it on the table. And he looked me up and down…I saw the recollection and fear in his eyes…and as his security locked arms and started to drag me away, I managed to blow a load of sawdust in his squinting eyes. There was little more seen of Ziggy Stardust after that incident. He went on to create other characters, and of course we all know the fame of his later career, but it appeared I had won. Though, people continued to look at me as a copy rather than the original. And I got a lot of shit for taking my pecker out in the Lords House, but nothing else got through to the dense celebrity he’d become. Everyone thought I was the fake…. they thought I was Andy Warhol, when I was really the fucking soup can.</span></div><div style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"> </span><span style="font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-size: small;"><i>What’s next for Ziggy Sawdust? And do you still have hope for you and your career? Why not try a different image at this point in the game?</i></span></div><span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;"> </i></span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small;">Are you for real, ya suit? Are you really asking me this? </span><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">At this point in the interview Mr. Stardust becomes enraged and gets in my face. He lumbers over the table and stumbles towards me as if to swing. Instead, he swipes up his rocks glass, takes a small sip, and launches his Canadian Club at my face, cubes and all. He puts on that famous snarl, kicks over his chair, and storms out of the restaurant, but not before doing two things. On his way out he throws his empty glass at my back and shouts across the restaurant: “We are all copies of something…you’re just a writer, you’ll never be Hemingway.”<br />
<br />
And I suppose he is right; I’ll never be Hemingway, and he’ll never be David Bowie - the most we can hope is that we are the most original versions of those we are overshadowed by. There’s one thing you can say about Mr. Sawdust; he is an angry rocker with unproven talents who may or may not be the inspiration for David Bowie’s, Ziggy Stardust. At the very least, he is a colorful character that skirts around the spectrum of pop culture. He so violently skirts around the skirt that is pop culture that we should all charge him with statutory rape for licking all of our innocence raw. Yet there’s something intriguing and dreadfully positive about a man who won’t quit. Perhaps he plays with all of our morbid curiosities, as we wonder just who in our lives we’ve encountered and inspired to greatness.</span> </span></span><br />
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small; font-weight: bold;"></span></span><br />
<span style="font-family: times new roman;"><span style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif; font-size: small; font-weight: bold;">-655321<br />
</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />
</span></span>655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-55300499408616139272011-02-01T15:20:00.000-08:002011-02-24T16:49:40.078-08:00Peter and Tim<style>
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<span style="color: #d9d2e9;">Tim was 15 when he met the love of his life.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"> Peter was 33 when he met his.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"> They happened to be in the same tiny Huntsville diner, on the same gravel street, sitting at the same maple syrup covered table, both having an accidental conversation about the crispy, salty joys of bacon when love struck.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"> They didn’t arrive together, nor did either of them intend on sitting together. In fact the table that accommodated their fortuitous encounter was empty and unused for three whole days before they warmed its lonely seats. Table 11 at the local eatery was notoriously the worst table in the place; it was a staging slab for waiters to get their bearings before shuffling their piping hot dishes of pigs feet, or beef hash, or buttery grits to tables two, four, seven, nine, and everyone’s favorite: table five. 11 was a table with two wobbly leg and stains so thick they couldn’t be chiseled off with a razor blade. It was said to be made of layers upon layers of cheap impressionable balsa wood with only a thin pine top layer and a wax and shellac finish to disguise it’s shoddy craftsmanship. All the other tables were constructed from Ironwood taken from the most stubborn tree in the forest, the Ebony Tree. 11 was a table in desperate need of repair and a table only used on Sunday mornings after church when the influx of locals was at its most resplendent that it necessitated the use of a menial dining station. The waitresses would sometimes seat travelers and businessmen at the inferior table causing the locals to snicker amongst themselves because surely the wobbly, dirty, wood square promoted inferior conversation and an inferior meal as well. The table was so notorious at the diner in the bustling town that “table 11” became an expression, a local phrase slipped into everyday rambling which only the locals would understand. They would use it when talking business, such as: “hey don’t pull my leg and give me a number 11, when I am asking you the honest to God truth,” or “Charlie I ain’t going to the dance with you, why would I go with table 11 when I can go with the captain of the football team?” The table was an eyesore to say the least and surely not an appropriate place for such a serendipitous first encounter.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <span style="color: #d9d2e9; font-size: 180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">T</span></span><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">im happened upon the diner on that unseasonably warm fall day due to the intense post-football-practice-hunger of his inappropriately matched friends, Greg and Nicky Meadows - local star athletes, twin brothers, and class dunces. The boys matured much faster than Tim and often teased him about his lanky frame, soft cheeks, and flowing wheat colored hair. Tim didn’t mind though, he knew as other local teens knew, Greg and Nicky Meadows would stay in Huntsville their whole life, probably work on their fathers farm, have children much like themselves, and retire never having cared or lived up to their full potential. Alternatively, Tim would go to College and he would live in one of the big cities on the coast and he would continue to set goals for himself, constantly striving to be better as his potential would increase with his achievements. His ambition for himself was to mock the shelf life of a fine wine. Tim prided himself on his ability to focus and retain details others would overlook or simply find uninteresting. These were the precise skills he was currently using to excel into all AP classes at Grisson Virgil High School. This was a feat that Tim found particularly easy, and felt it could only bode well for his future endeavors. He never understood how he had maintained his friendship with the Meadows past their initial introduction at age two in the daycare center at Huntsville Memorial Hospital where their mothers worked the noon to midnight shift. As two year old Tim sat in a corner and put the finishing touches on a fire station built from outdated and worn Lincoln logs, the Meadow boys, in a roughhousing haze fueled by shot-gunning a 12-pack of Strawberry Kiwi Capri Sun’s, threw each other sidelong into Tim’s architecturally sound little building. To Tim’s chagrin they destroyed every log like oblivious, adrenaline fueled, toddler Godzillas. Tim was not one to hate or discriminate and the boys were no exception, he felt obliged to accept their sincerest apologies and indulge them as they insisted on using their Neanderthal-like little hands to re-construct that which they had obliterated.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"> This was the start of a relationship that was fueled by juxtaposition; Tim would paint a canvas of a peaceful stream and the Meadows would drown bugs in his oil paints. Tim would rehabilitate crippled animals he would find in the wild; the boys and their pump action bb gun were responsible for putting them there. Tim tried out for theater; the boys fell into football. Tim had never had a girlfriend; the boys had gone through nearly half the school, including two teacher aids during their 7th period gym class after being provoked by their football coach Mr. Fresco. Tim helped out at the Cedar Creek Home for the Aged, and the Meadows drove a few lucky octogenarians to senility with calls of “Old Bag,” or “Old Fart,” or “You’re more rickety than table 11.” Though for better or worse the three boys were bonded. The Meadows looked out for Tim and Tim told others of their often hidden soft side. He assured teachers, mail men, the local preacher, even the boys parents that they weren’t quite as cruel as they seemed. It was a friendship fueled by outsiders misunderstanding; nobody quite perceived them for who they really were. And on that specific Tuesday the Meadows and Tim entered the diner high off of 100 meter dashes, Redbulls and high school theatre respectively. Greg gave Tim a gentle yet annoying shove as they entered and Tim called him a freakish oaf, this was their relationship. The boys nodded to the day hostess Jenny and took their normal seat at the clean, pristine, and lucky table number 7; this had been their usual table since grade school only to be left for table 9 on particularly popular Sundays.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <span style="color: #d9d2e9; font-size: 180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">P</span></span><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">eter went to Bluegrass diner every Tuesday to work on his writing, (usually fan fiction for defunct tv show Northern Exposure that he managed to get published in the local paper), but on this particular Tuesday he was meant to meet a client who never showed. Usually Peter met his clients on Thursday afternoons, but this high profile customer, (the mayor!), had requested a Tuesday meeting to accommodate his already scheduled Thursday bowling league. Peter would write on Thursday this week, he was nothing if not agreeable. He preferred to meet his clients at table five since it was closest to the restroom and a sensitive bladder was one of the many faults his father’s line of genealogy had blessed him with. Table five also overlooked a small oak tree in the front of the diner and was off the well-treaded path of the main aisle. It was quiet enough to hear his clients discuss their W-2 and the misplaced receipts from the money they donated to charity, but noticeable enough that service was prompt. Peter had misplaced the mayor’s number and decided, knowing full well that the mayor had a tendency to make people wait, that he would hold his table for 45 minutes before dismissing the meeting as a wash. He ordered coffee from his normal Tuesday waitress Tammy and sat nervously tapping his foot, this was his third cup of coffee today. He looked like a man waiting for the other shoe to drop in a room full of barefoot people; antsy to say the least.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"> After a good thirty minutes of waiting Peter decided his guest wasn’t going to show. He took out his notebook, asked Tammy for a glass of iced tea with a wedge of lemon, and was then perplexed with the question of what to eat. He thought of the other gift his stoic and emotionless father had blessed him with: high cholesterol, and he weighed rocketing blood pressure against the thought of chewing on wilted lettuce and shreds of carrots much like a frail rabbit. He’d been waiting long, he’d had oatmeal for breakfast that day, he’d taken his medicine already, his wife wasn’t here to monitor him; what the heck. He asked for two flapjacks, a pad of butter, two eggs over easy, and three pieces of crispy country bacon. He sat and salivated at the thought. As he begin to jot down musings on the joys of southern life two rambunctious hulks followed by a lanky and reserved teen entered the restaurant. They were seated two tables down from him in what he overheard very clearly was their normal spot. As he came to terms with the fact that he wasn’t going to get much work done with thing 1 and thing 2 shouting from their perch, he wondered if there was a record in the Guinness book for fastest consumption of bacon and eggs. Peter made brief eye contact with the quiet boy and when it was returned he looked away immediately; if Peter was annoyed by his friends he surely didn’t want it to be obvious. He looked up again and the boy gave him a sympathetic nod that read “please don’t blame me for my dogs behavior.” Peter smiled and looked back down at his notebook, he decided not to judge this young man by the company he kept.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <span style="color: #d9d2e9; font-size: 180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">O</span></span><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">f course society frowned on the mere interaction let alone a romantic love between an adolescent boy and a mature man of no relation, but fate is fickle and works in devious ways. It didn’t happen like you’d think, there were no predatory advances from Peter. In fact Peter was a perfect gentleman. He was the town treasurer for four consecutive terms. Paul Bishop challenged him once in the fall of ’07 preparing himself for a long, heated, turbulent, debate only to be swept by an 85% margin. Peter was the kind of guy who would mow his neighbors lawn because he already had the Craftsman out. He was the kind of guy who would let you have the parking spot at the grocery store if both your cars happened upon it at the same time. He was not a pushover, just a generous kind man who didn’t see the point in rushing through life. This was exactly the sort of thing his wife Nancy had at first loved about him but eventually came to loathe over the course of their ten years together. She wondered why Peter never got around to painting the family room like his brother did for his wife. She wondered why he had worked for the same accountant firm since she’d met him and never even entertained the thought of going off on his own. She even wondered why their routine in bed had become so routine she was able to make full detailed mental lists as to where she wanted to send their three year old daughter to preschool. She couldn’t find particular fault with Peter; he was a good father, a good provider, and a generous man, but she had stopped respecting him. This one thought ate at Nancy all day long and the more Peter tried to correct himself, to be bolder or more brash, the less Nancy cared about making their relationship work. As the situation escalated Peter began to enjoy his time in the office, at the diner, or alone time with his daughter more and more. Nancy was someone he still loved but no longer understood. They had met at Ohio State their sophomore year of college and hit it off instantly. Coming from similar backgrounds and both having an interest in the arts, (a major they both switched out of their junior year), their attraction was undeniable. College was a time to reinvent oneself. Little did Peter know that back home in Indiana Nancy was known as the “Harlot of Hebron,” and little did Nancy know that back in Kentucky, Peter was known as “The Dork of Danville.” He was a quiet boy who floated through life with books as entertainment, a mother who was a mute, and a father that never took an interest in him. Peter only now started to question whether people could be right for one another for allotted amounts of time. Were there expiration dates on relationships? This was a thought he often tried to work through in his notebook during the long hours he spent away from his home. No conclusion had been reached yet.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <span style="color: #d9d2e9; font-size: 180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">T</span></span><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">im couldn’t help but feel sorry for the clean-cut, bookish, man that sat two tables away from him and the Meadows. He knew how off-putting their behavior often seemed, and he felt horrible every time they so obviously disturbed someone. He tried to send looks of apology his way, and received shy glances back that said this strange man understood he couldn’t leash his dining partners. It only occurred to Tim after he had ordered an orange soda and a turkey club, and after he and his buddies were munching on fried okra that the man who kept giving him sidelong glances was none other than Peter Tearney, the town treasurer. He’d seen him at town hall meetings when Professor Grant offered extra credit for his AP American History class to attend. He’d seen his face plastered on yard signs when he was up for re-election. One wouldn’t go so far as to call him a town celebrity, but he was slowly making his way up the D-list.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <span style="color: #d9d2e9; font-size: 180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">P</span></span><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">eter couldn’t understand what was taking his food so long. All diners specialized in breakfast, he hadn’t asked for turkey potpie, or chicken Marsala, or even Blue Grass’s special Pineapple Spam burger. This was bacon, eggs, and pancakes, it was like warming up a pop tart for any short order cook. Nonetheless his stomach continued to grumble. The only thing distracting him from his hunger was the game of “look and look down” he was playing with the young man two tables from him. He felt as if they were on the same level, like if his two giant counterparts weren’t there they would be sharing an intellectual conversation about foreign policy. Sure their conversation may start casual with a simple how’s the weather but they would instantly share a rapport that would lead them to commenting on the immense cumulonimbus cloud structures that had struck their town as of recent. The same clouds that brought intense rain and thunder which threatened to flood through the streets wiping out the small community forcing them to start from scratch like a modern day Noah’s Ark in a town-wide deluge. But his hunger consumed him, so he decided, even though it wasn’t in his character, he would take action. He looked for Tammy’s familiar crooked smile and peroxide blonde pixie cut, he even tried to wave one of the newer waitresses over. No success. They must literally be strangling a fresh pig for him he playfully thought to himself. Only upon a thorough gander around the diner did he spot two lone plates sitting on the crooked staging slab that was table 11. He put on his glasses and stood up to get a better look. Sure enough a plate with two pancakes, crispy bacon, and two large farm fresh eggs stared back at him like two giant sunny nipples.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <span style="color: #d9d2e9; font-size: 180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">W</span></span><span style="color: #d9d2e9;">here the hell was Tim’s food? The twins had already consumed their massive, bloody, bacon blue-cheese burgers and moved on to rhubarb pie, but he hadn’t even received his meal. He sat there patiently as the twins played bloody knuckles in between bites of fruit and cream. This had been going on for some time and Greg’s knuckle had already popped releasing a flap of thin skin that hung like the plastic peel on the top of a cup of yogurt. Nicky’s knuckles had already bled over and started to scab but they continued to pound at each other like there was a pot of gold in the center of both of their palms. Tim looked around the diner, hoping to get someone’s attention. He glanced over to the man he now recognized as the town treasurer but he was no longer there. His notebook and briefcase were still propped open on his table, but where was he? Tim stood up to try and track down their waitress; he had never waited this long for a sandwich before. He walked towards the kitchen and saw Peter sitting at table 11; nobody sits at that table. Across from his plate of eggs was a perfect, fresh looking turkey club next to a heaping pile of steak fries.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"> “Is this yours?” Peter inquisitively asked. If his food had been left in the trenches perhaps this young mans had as well.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"> “Yea, I think it is, just left here huh?” Tim picked up a fry and eagerly crunched on it.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"> “Guess they just forgot to run it, this tables practically invisible to them sometimes.” Peter added.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"> “Mind if I sit,” Tim forwardly asked “I don’t want to get blood in my food.” They both laughed as they looked at the twins smashing their fists together and wincing with pain. Tim sat, and Peter settled into the booth further.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"> “Name’s Tim,” he confidently pronounced.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"> “Pleasure, I’m Peter,” was the retort. But Tim knew, he’d seen his face plastered all over town throughout his childhood.</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /><span style="color: #d9d2e9;"> Perhaps they would discuss clouds today; maybe they’d discuss a foreign conflict. Who knows what fate had in store for a love between a 33 year old man and a 15 year old boy. Maybe theirs was a relationship with an expiration set at 30 minutes, or maybe it would never expire quite like the always-fresh Twinkie. Either way both men were happy to speak to someone with something to say, to sit with someone who wanted to learn, and to eat across from someone who wasn’t shouting obscenities and beef patty into their face. The connection between them was evident and maybe people stared, or maybe nobody looked at them at all. Perhaps their meal was held at a dining station that was quite like a black hole sucking the small towns dirty secrets into it. As Tim picked at the bacon in his sandwich and watched Peter pour ketchup on his eggs he felt obliged to say, “So this is table 11 huh? It’s not so bad.”</span><br style="color: #d9d2e9;" /> <br />
</div>655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-72649372178278635002010-11-30T17:43:00.000-08:002010-11-30T17:53:44.300-08:00The Sleep Cycles of Green TeaThe circadian rhythm of my body is off.<br /><br />Watch the tea bag dangle and twirl about itself,<br />winter washed fingers twist the thin white thread.<br />Puddles circle outwards as the bag hits the water;<br />they hit the barrier reef.<br />Can it sense this joy?<br />A short lived half hour depending on the sips.<br />Like dipping your lower half into a<br />continuously draining jacuzzi.<br /><br />My eyes droop,<br />I cant remember thoughts anymore.<br />My muscles feel weak,<br />I can’t support my own weight anymore.<br />Should I sleep?<br />Or dangle this tea<br />above the yellow water<br />and know it craves a bath.<br /><br />It won’t submerge, for fear of getting its hair wet.<br />What’s so bad about the bottom of a cup?<br /><br />Awfully cowardly for something that’s attached to a string.<br />How many times has it ever drowned?<br /><br />A bag without a string, that I can understand.<br />I’d be more apprehensive about soaks if I didn’t have arms.<br /><br />And the worst part? The ever-draining cup.<br />Just where does the water go when the mug tilts?<br /><br />They come packaged, sealed tight.<br />They live in water, boiling hot.<br />They’re left alone, just soggy leaves when the water drains.<br />Like fall.<br />Then it’s warm for just one second.<br />Warmth like pissing oneself which then turns into<br />Just<br />A<br />Frigid<br />Odor.<br /><br />What then of the short life of a bag of tea?<br />One bath and then a moist cold eternity of uselessness.<br />I rather stay in the warmth of the womb then.<br />Keep me in my packaging if that’s what life holds.<br /><br />At least then I can sleep,<br />and dream,<br />and safely bathe without a string,<br />gently bobbing around with potential.<br />And when I’m ready,<br />perhaps I’ll grace you.<br />Or continue to bob around untested,<br />never leaving the warmth and security of<br />a tin of tea.<br /><br />-655321<br /><style>@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style>655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-5459067244872465982010-10-25T14:51:00.000-07:002010-11-30T17:54:13.056-08:00The Childish Endeavors of Emily Sue<style>@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style>Little Emily Sue was only but two,<br />when off with her finger she decided to do.<br />It hung from her hand, vein and tendon unleashed,<br />after cauterizing the wound, the bleeding it ceased.<br /><br />She looked at her palm happy pinky was gone,<br />with the pain dying out it was time to move on.<br />She sharpened her knife with childish glee,<br />after placing pinky on mantle for all to see.<br /><br />Emily Sue with crayon and paper in hand,<br />sat down by candlelight and mapped out her plan.<br />With ease and great pleasure and taking good measure,<br />she walked up to her mother and eyed her next treasure.<br /><br />The innocent child handed over her art,<br />it went up on the fridge, the parenting part.<br />“Can I help you with baking,” she asked of her mother,<br />“I'll be quick with my hands and won't be a bother."<br /><br />Emily watched as her mom chopped an apple,<br />she giggled and laughed at the thought of the grapple.<br />She took a small knife and slid from the counter,<br />and down with her fell her mothers right pointer.<br /><br />Her mother stood shocked and let out a scream,<br />with red leaking out and polluting whipped cream.<br />Emily looked pleased and grabbed at the finger,<br />off to the mantle with treasure don’t linger.<br /><br />A devious smile spread from right to left ear,<br />as she went to the shed before father could hear.<br />Her father he worked alone in their shack,<br />tinkering at cars to get his youth back.<br /><br />She slid up to poppa and said with a grin,<br />“Daddy may I watch, you won’t hear a pin?”<br />Her father agreed and grabbed at a wrench,<br />she looked at his hand and hopped on the bench.<br /><br />He tightened a nut and worked at a screw,<br />the timing was right and Emily knew.<br />He reached for his cup for a sip of his drink,<br />and lost his ring finger before he could think.<br /><br />He let out a yip and she ran from the scene,<br />back to the mantle she had cut it off clean.<br />Her mother and father so tense with fear,<br />shouted for Emily “Where the hell are you my dear?”<br /><br />They stumbled about <span style="font-style: italic;">mad</span>, like lumbering giants,<br />rags covering their wounds inflicted by the defiant.<br />Emily Sue went and hid with the job almost done,<br />not realizing the trouble, only reveling in fun.<br /><br />She crept up the stairs as shouts echoed below,<br />tiptoed to her brothers room and up to young Joe.<br />She looked at his face peaceful and small,<br />then down at his fingers she wanted them all.<br /><br />That isn't the plan, now lets not be greedy,<br />only take the one, save the rest for the needy.<br />She slid out her knife and hummed a light tune,<br />sharp blade through his finger and out of the room.<br /><br />The blood it did spurt but only for a minute.<br />his little body was tough and able to fend it.<br />She held his middle finger and skipped down the stairs,<br />right into open arms and her wildest fears.<br /><br />Her mother and father with knife in hand,<br />held her down hard and took a stand.<br />With a dull pocketknife they stabbed at their daughter,<br />not realizing how or what this taught her.<br /><br />When she awoke on a red mound of carpet,<br />she felt a great pain and started to vomit.<br />She looked at her palms and saw they were round,<br />her fingers were amputated, the stubs whittled down.<br /><br />She looked at the mantle and started to smile,<br />there sat 13 jars, they’d been there a while.<br />She examined them closely and hummed a light song<br />all their fingers there floating, her plan hadn’t gone wrong.<br /><br />She went into the kitchen and sat down to dinner,<br />her family welcomed her in with smiles and vigor.<br />She looked at their wounds and looked at their faces,<br />no hard feelings revealed from the day; no traces.<br /><br />She looked to the fridge and at the scribbles of crayon,<br />she had etched all the fingers, this had always been her plan.<br />As she got older she never missed these thirteen,<br />for they were on the mantle and always meant to be seen.<br /><br /><br />-655321655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-30447825329771462752010-10-15T18:20:00.001-07:002010-10-18T14:31:50.292-07:00Victor and the Drain of PossibilitiesVictor squeezes a handful of Barbasol into his open palm, he rubs his thick calloused hands together and runs them over his clean bald head with precision, like icing a beige cake. He looks into the mirror staring past into the dark invading green surrounding his dilated pupils. He gets lost in the circular forest searching for answers as if the next step in his routine task has somehow deceived him. He glances at the taut skin covering his cheeks and nose, admiring how very few blemishes and imperfections he has at nearly 50 years old, and quickly wonders if in another life he could have been a model. Nothing extraordinary really, just magazines or a commercial or two, but could it have happened? Are we as in control of destiny as the self-help books collecting dust by his bedside let on?<br /><br />Victor turns on the hot water and his gaze fixes as it goes from an erratic drip to a steady stream. Steam permeates from the tiny waterfall as droplets bounce off the silver plug exploding like little crystal meteors landing in a nearly invisible Pollock on the unpolluted porcelain. The drain is a wormhole, an expansive stretch in time he wishes he could jump down. As a child he remembers reading Alice In Wonderland and wishing there was a pill that could shrink him down much like the fictional girl allowing him to dance in and out of peoples lives unnoticed. As a young adult he went in search of such a pill but what he found never shrank his physical being, only his perception. As a man he’s given up hope that such an escape exists, yet whenever the water is on he takes out the drain and stares into the darkness. He still wonders if it holds possibilities. He thinks of his regrets. He wishes he had studied Physics in college, he wishes he had gone to college. He wonders if it’s too late to live a life much like Einstein, is there an age when the creative and mental possibilities cease? If he wrote a letter to Stephen Hawking, would he find a way to respond? Perhaps he’d send a well thought out Podcast through the mail.<br /><br />He opens up the sterile medicine cabinet leaving an oily thumbprint on the bottom left corner of the mirror. Without looking at its contents his fingers navigate towards a shimmering silver straight razor resting on the bottom shelf. He grabs the razor by its sharpest edge with ease, and closes the cabinet. This is part of the routine. While setting the razor down on the perfect glossed white sink he notices the thumbprint, a dried disease on the pristine glass. The razor pokes his pointer finger as he reaches for a tissue to clean the smudge. He doesn’t wince or let out a noise, you could hear a pin made out of feathers drop on the carpeted floor of every room in his home. Never leave a trail- that rules been ingrained, nothing he needed to institute in his own home but an obsessive intricacy from work he’s somehow taken with him after hours like homework.<br /><br />Staring at the small red bead rushing to the surface of his finger he watches as the blood spreads, now the size of a ladybug. He wants to tell this little lady to flutter her wings and fly away as fast as she can, if she knew what was good for her she’d leave and take solace underneath a flower petal in the park. He’s afraid she will wait too long and dry up, she’ll be stuck to him, stuck with him; its happened before. After all his hands were guilty of everything, they told the stories of a past he’d like to lose down the drain of possibilities. Their complexity reminded him of his own wrongdoings as well as the wrongdoings of an entire culture. He would often sit for hours staring at them, wondering if he’d miss them if tragedy struck in the form of a rusty machete. He’d seen TLC specials on phantom limbs, would he still try and clench a can of Coke even though his fingers were long severed and forgotten? Victor watches as the blood breaks from it’s perfect circle and follows the detailed patterns and life lines on his pointer; much like veins taking blood away from a failing heart, like ants following trails in a cheap plastic ant farm, like painting with watercolors on a sheet of brail. Victor concentrates on his finger too long. The blood dries up, and he looks uncomfortable like a man at a funeral for someone he’s pretending he didn’t know.<br /><br />Victor recounts a tiny dark room; it’s long been abandoned. The only light illuminating the sparse dwelling is moonlight tearing through the roofs of two buildings across the way. He thinks it could be a room in a motel down the street from his childhood home, but he knows that isn’t true at all. There is a small twin bed in the far corner and a dusty Admiral turntable sitting on the nightstand separating the bed and the lone window. The record player is on but the needle loops around the outer rim continuously like it’s stuck in an unsolvable labyrinth. Victor wishes Johnny Cash was playing, he can almost hear Willy Nelson crooning something about Laredo but he doesn’t, it’s silent. He looks to the floor and sees his dark leather boots shuffling across the uneven rotting wooden floorboards. He gets down on the ground and sniffs an off-colored board. What is that? Victor recounts his face and sees a much younger man, still handsome, but twenty years more spry. He sniffs the spot again; his nose grazes the discoloration and takes away a sticky souvenir. He touches his nose and rubs the war paint, it’s not an unfamiliar color and texture. He knows this part of the memory; he’s been here before. The sparkle of something metallic catches his eye underneath the lone unkempt bed. Vic crawls closer as the dark red from the floor stains his torn blue jeans. His eyes start to tear up as he crawls closer and closer to a dark mass under the bed. He is on the battlefield of a great world war crawling towards screams and confusion, he’s waking from a dream where he’s fallen from a building and paramedics have scraped his lifeless body from shattered concrete. He remembered reading once if you died in your dream you’d never wake in life, yet he still sees something shimmer in the corner of his conscious eye. Victor starts to bang the floorboards and scream. The sparkling object is a shiny old watch attached to a limp wrist, attached to the body of a man: a dead man. Blood leaks from the back of the man's head like milk from a smashed coconut, it follows the grooves in the wood. Victor looks down at his hands with guilt, he doesn't remember picking up or firing the sticky dark pistol . He pulls the fragile man out from underneath the bed. His white t-shirt is stained with the rich innards of a wasted life. Victor performs CPR, he smacks the lifeless body around, his tears fall into the dead mans open mouth. If this was a fairy tale his salty tears of life would revitalize the body long expired. Victor would wake this Frankenstein and laugh about the inciting incident; but this is no fairy tale. He looks into the mans open mouth, where there was once possibilities there are now none. He wants to crawl into the hole and disappear, how can he make himself that small?<br /><br />Victor buries this dark memory. He blinks uncontrollably in the mirror observing the speed of his reflexes. His breath is heavy and fast. He focuses on his blinking and his breathing. Blink twice, breathe once, blink twice, breath once; he is prone to these panic attacks and the key is to focus on something that demands your full attention. He counts down slowly from ten and erases the now distant yet detailed memory. He takes his hands off the sink and stands upright. Beads of sweat wander around his now pale skin. It's difficult to stand and his eyes deceive him focusing on blotches of light that don't exist. He begins to run the razor through the mass of shaving cream on his baldpate. The little silver lawn mower cuts through snow covered grass. He continues to focus on his breathing and his expressionless face in the mirror. After all the Barbasol has been cleaned from his dome, he bangs the razor on the sink dirtying the etch-a-sketch. He takes a towel, runs it under hot water and cleans the dried remnants of cream from his scalp. He still continues to focus on his breathing. He takes his now scabbed pointer finger and traces a large tattoo invading the skin over his heart. It is apparent Victor has done this many times before and this nervous tic relaxes him. He continues to trace the shape of the Swastika with his pointer and unplugs the drain with his free hand. He stares into the endless void. He continues to trace the big blue ink. He reaches for the straight razor with his free hand and looks at the haunting rhythmic movement of the other. He breathes. He stares into the dark hole of possibilities. Where have they gone?<br /><br />-655321655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-90311479982947159752010-09-23T14:40:00.000-07:002010-09-23T14:42:00.626-07:00His Shadowy SideLet’s just call this an adventure of the third person. Mostly.<br /><br />You know his exterior. It’s a simple charm most find pleasant. You know his<br />character, his style, his nice eyes and smile. Oh, what a nice guy.<br /><br />You don’t know his interior. It’s a complicated web most would find foul. You don’t<br />know his dark tangled core, a mess of emotions he can’t control anymore. Oh, what a<br />troubled soul.<br /><br />The story you’ve heard is of Jekyll and Hyde, but that story is fiction, where this<br />is true life. You meet him, you know him. You see how he lives. What a life, what a<br />world, what you wouldn’t give.<br /><br />In real life real people do real with their lives. He imagines great intentions but it<br />rarely survives. The black ghost, the black cloud, the black mist, the black shroud,<br />the black news, the black night the black howl the black spite. It defeats the real, the<br />good, the light. It’s a dark hidden secret he’s trying to fight.<br /><br />A ‘how do you do’ while his thoughts of a knife plunge through salutations and take<br />a life…I’ve felt your blood before meeting you. I’ve seen your fear before eating you.<br />I’ve seen you dead while greeting you. I’ll tell you all this while I’m treating you…to a<br />nice dinner at my home. So lovely isn’t it? I’ve got paintings on the wall, records and<br />candles and knick-knacks and all. You’d trust me…even open your heart…Here, let<br />me help, I’ll break your sternum and ribs to start.<br /><br />I like to date, but I’m not into long-term relations. I’d take you, for sure, on a long-<br />term vacation. Let’s have a drink, a date, a screw. I’m a good guy…when I have my<br />good eye on you.<br /><br />C’mon I’m a sweetheart! Allow me to show! I just have a dark side…but, who doesn’t,<br />you know?<br /><br />-Seven-Butter655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-52492123693740125892010-09-03T13:03:00.000-07:002010-11-04T16:36:33.561-07:00A Letter to LuciousTo my dear, dear, dear <span style="font-weight: bold;">Lucious</span>,<br />(I hope. Your mother and I have yet to settle on a name)<br /><br />The day you were born was the day I died.<br /><br />Sorry for the density of that statement but I find in difficult situations it is best to avoid the roundabout. Your mother will tell you that levity was never my strong suit. I would tell you that reticence was never hers. They will both be yours.<br /><br />The reason for this letter is quite simple; it’s the symbolic changing of guards, the circle that is life, la note finale. It’s your compass in a world that can often be dark. Look to this letter for answers in those tough times that strike us all.<br /><br />I want to tell you that your life had nothing to do with my death, to really reassure you of this so it never plagues you like I think it may if you’re anything like me. But how do I know for sure? Can anyone that doesn’t know the reason for life be sure of the reason for death? Be consoled in this though, it reveals the uncertainty that is life and guarantees there is no algorithm.<br /><br />As for my cessation, should you ever feel guilt, take comfort in the fact that if there is a higher power, and we are made in his image, perhaps he was distracted. Do not blame though, to be distracted is the nature of man. Is it possible HE looked away for a second and there was a momentary rift in order? Like a typo in a report you hand in to the head of your company, maybe it was merely overlooked. One letter discounted in a document of words. To the higher power, one life’s tragic demise is that error you omit in a sea of pages expressing a larger thought. Will anybody really miss the letter “A” that should have been in the 11th sentence of the third paragraph on the 13th page?<br /><br />“There are no findings proving thus, nor do his actions communicate that further visits with a psychologist would be beneficial.”<br /><br />Vs.<br /><br />“There are no findings proving thus, nor do his actions communicate that further visits with psychologist would be beneficial.”<br /><br />I am sorry to bore you with the example, though it is an example taken from a report of your dearest departed’s, and I use it to prove to you that to err is human. True, it is hard to notice the difference, and as humans we tend to overlook these fine details. Maybe it’s the same for him, just a slip up on a canvas already containing too much color? Yaweh himself could have been watching over us as your mother went into labor, but struck with the curiosity only a creator could have for a “createe,” he got sidetracked. Perhaps two other men on a street in a city far below got into an altercation and used their steel-toed boots to launch their feet into each other’s reproductive organs. “That’s not what they’re for!” He’d surely want to shout. But that is what humanity sometimes is about son- we take for granted the gifts we were given and often feel like we got a raw deal or a kick in the genitals. Heed this warning and learn from it: there are no raw deals only raw men who don’t know how to deal.<br /><br />Alternatively, maybe the MAN stumbled across a documentary about the human discovery of his only sons bones, and his mind reeled off on a philosophical tangent wondering just whose bones they really found. Am I missing a bone? He’d wonder later, a thought that’d stick with him for days, as he’d rub his ribs. But ultimately he would realize he didn’t have a son and he wasn’t made of bones (spoiler alert). One small glance away from the tiny burdens of love below and the grand scheme turns into anarchic mis-happenings.<br /><br />You should know I would never blame you or anyone for my demise. And if others read this letter and for some reason these golden truths and theories are misunderstood, I want to be clear. I don’t mean demise in the sense of saying goodbye to the old me. Something like- a soon to be father says farewell to his partying, capricious, selfish ways and hello to the joys and responsibility of fatherhood. No I don’t mean this metaphorical paternal rebirth. I mean demise in the sense of saying goodbye to the only me; the end of physical life. A “swift, cold death” is what the doctors inform me I shall endure. Apparently the hospital where you were born, and where I will die, is not fond of levity either. Never be a doctor, Lucious.<br /><br />I guess what I want to say is please try not to feel culpable. If there was only room for either you or me in this world then I’m glad for this glorious happening. And in times when you are down and your mother, or your grandparents, or your cousins, or my bowling partner from church tell you stories of me and shed tears that make you regret not knowing me, I want you to really think. If I am gone, and you are here, and there was only room for one of us in this world then surely no mistake was made. Get to know these people. Ted will show you how to throw a hook ball down the lane, and will inevitably admit you bowl like your old man….that is to say not well. You’re grandparents will tell you of my first encounter at the zoo, where I nearly lost my three year old finger up an enraged llama’s viscous nostril. And your mother will surely recount my last words over and over again to you hoping they weigh upon you both as the thought of soon saying them weighs upon me. Laugh with these cherished few; they will love you unconditionally and protect you always.<br /><br />Forgive the long-winded nature of this letter, it’s the only time we have. Forgive the stains of tears that litter it with punctuation that will surely fade to yellow as this letter sets and waits for you to get on in years and interpret and analyze these last thoughts. The running trails of ink let you know I was a man of flesh and blood that felt for you and took the time to give you a piece of me. As I lay here in a hospital bed staring into your tiny squinty eyes, I notice they are a beautiful sea foam green just like my own. Your face tells me you were ready to be born, and your smile reveals a world of happiness and miracles are waiting. But my heart hurts, it hurts for you and it hurts for the physical ailment that will surely end me. As your breathing gets stronger mine gets shallower, as if we are synced in unison. “Stop writing,” the doctors say, “Get on with your final goodbyes.” Again, how crude, how daft, how frigid and uncaring; never be a doctor dear Lucious.<br /><br />There is more to recount and more to relay, but time is short as is life. I hope these anecdotes, thoughts, and feelings give you a sense of me. I have already seen your future and it is a splendid one. All the clichés in the world could not express my love. On my way out as you’re on your way in, embrace it all.<br /><br /><br />A life of Love,<br />Daddy<br />Poppa<br />Dad<br />Pops<br />Emmet Whitmore<br />9/24/89<br /><br />-655321<br /><br /><style>@font-face { font-family: "Times"; }@font-face { font-family: "Cambria"; }@font-face { font-family: "Georgia"; }p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal { margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-size: 12pt; font-family: "Times New Roman"; }div.Section1 { page: Section1; }</style>655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-31565348289959070022010-09-02T12:19:00.001-07:002010-09-23T13:19:08.701-07:00Twins<div class="im"> <p class="MsoNormal">There was a set of twins once.<span> </span>David and Daniel.<span> </span>David was good and Daniel was bad.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In kindergarten, Daniel and his friends would throw wooden blocks across the room at the other children.<span> </span>When the teacher reprimanded him, David would smirk from the shadows.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Serves him right.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In middle school, Daniel and his friends would sneak into the girls’ locker room and watch them change.<span> </span>When they were caught, David would smirk from the shadows.<span> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span></span>Serves him right.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In high school, Daniel would stay out all night with his friends.<span> </span>When his parents would yell at him, David would smirk from the shadows.<span> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span></span>Serves him right.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">In college, Daniel would get drunk with his buddies.<span> </span>The next day when he suffered from a hangover, David would smirk from the shadows.<span> </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span></span>Serves him right.</p><p class="MsoNormal">His whole life, whenever he went to the beach, Daniel would refuse to where sunscreen.<span> </span>When he died of skin cancer, David smirked from the shadows.<span> </span></p> </div><p class="MsoNormal"><span></span>Serves him right.</p> <p class="MsoNormal">Then David was alone.<span> </span>No friends.<span> </span>No Lovers.<span> </span>No Fun.<span> </span>Just cold, pale, and alone.<br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">Serves him right.</p><p class="MsoNormal"><br /></p><p class="MsoNormal">-Cornelius<br /></p>655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-89737711579662488852010-09-01T10:53:00.000-07:002010-09-23T13:19:22.562-07:00The Printed BlogHey there my little chickadees (can I call you that?),<br /><br />Whats up my Blue Jays (is that one ok)? In a totally uncharacteristic move by yours truly I'm taking a break from story writing, and thus you from story reading to shed the spotlight on something new I'm getting involved in. Quit your chirping and calm down, more drama and obscurity to come after this brief plug.<br /><br />Recently I have become aware of the printed blog:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://theprintedblog.com/"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 47px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_eq_cb6KelAU/TH6m7sHATPI/AAAAAAAAAto/KLylQoQUyJ4/s320/ThePrintedBlog.gif" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5512026538331098354" border="0" /></a><br />It originally started as an online mag and has now evolved into a <strong style="font-weight: normal;">weekly print publication. Yea, so what? No, no, no, not so what. So what not? This publication voraciously hunts the internet in search of the best blogs and photography on a weekly basis and prints it up for your perusal. Imagine a "best of" mix cd but for the internet. Yea...it's that good and it even leaves out that track 12 Hall and Oates b-side that makes you think of your ex. The Printed Blog scours the internet for it's treasures like a bald eagle swooping in for carrion, (I'm really into birds this morning) and collects them all in one magazine. It's an unexpected and pleasant gift, like your cat bringing an expensive bottle of wine to your doormat rather then a dead mouse. So the real question is what not, what doesn't the printed blog showcase, what doesn't the printed blog expose? The answer: seemingly nothing. Any and all blogs can be featured. Who wouldn't want the best of the internet printed up in neat little packages to read on the train, the waiting room, during your sisters dance recital? Check out the printed blog and get your finger on the pulse: <a href="http://theprintedblog.com/">ThePrintedBlog.Com</a><br /><br />Sign up for the publication at the site and check them out on twitter and facebook as well. For more info on exactly how "it all works," check out this awesome blog: <a href="http://ericaleexo.com/blog/bloggers-say-hello-to-your-new-bff-the-printed-blog/">info</a>, or see your doctor....depending on what "it" is and why it doesn't work. In a totally related matter, <span style="font-weight: bold;">I am trying to get my blog featured in the printed blog</span> so keep checking back here and with the printed blog in heated, heated anticipation.<br /><br />That's it for now,<br /><br />-655321<br /><br />oh yea......<a href="http://www.bird-friends.com/pics/PurpleFinch/PurpleFinch0LR.jpg">purple finch</a><br /><a href="http://ericaleexo.com/blog/bloggers-say-hello-to-your-new-bff-the-printed-blog/"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></a></strong><strong></strong><strong></strong>655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-47898317153625794762010-08-16T10:36:00.000-07:002010-09-23T13:19:32.589-07:00Brief Thoughts on DangerThe smell of danger is peanut butter frozen yogurt,<br />or chilled orient salad.<br /><br />It's never dynamite, gun powder, rotting flesh, hospitals,<br />or sticky blood.<br /><br />The smell of fear is that horrible twenty year old memory<br />of Uncle Albert<br />convulsing into his plate<br />of homemade spaghetti<br />in your mothers<br />freshly cleaned<br />home.<br /><br />But also, and be cautious.<br />While laying at the bottom of your pool,<br />dare yourself to breathe in through your nose.<br />Can you smell and taste the chlorine?<br />Be weary as the bubbles brush and tickle<br />your nostrils and brain.<br />You are indeed suffocating your life.<br /><br />Alternatively,<br />this is also you<br />signing off<br />with a belt around your neck<br />and trousers around your ankles.<br />what a horrible way<br />for death<br />to come.<br /><br />What does this mean<br />when our bodies awareness confuses<br />danger with joy<br />and<br />joy with danger?<br />Do we trust our senses still?<br /><br />-655321655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-65161042390838400042010-08-02T17:58:00.000-07:002010-09-23T13:19:44.566-07:00Finger Guns and Finger Bullets<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="border-collapse: collapse;font-size:16px;" ></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Thomas made it a habit to stroke Petey’s beard.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Petey would sit there, his old eyes wandering off, perhaps replaying 55 years of would be first dates on the busted projector in his mind, but he would never flinch. At first Thomas stroked it out of curiosity. He had never seen a beard that long, thick, and well manicured. His hands navigated it like blades through a field of wheat; his fingers following the curls left and right like a school child’s maze. In his youth Petey could have been mistaken for Santa Claus’s younger more handsome brother, Hanz, but now the differences were quite obvious. Petey had wasted away, appearing more like a large thin spider shoved into the old saggy skin suit of a man, then the sibling of a cheery, plump, universal hero.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Thomas would leave for school promptly at 8am and walk through the dark living room where Petey sat seemingly melded to his ancient worn recliner. He would stroke the ever-growing beard and whisper into the closest old ear ,“don’t forget.” Thomas would let the smallest peak of light in through the front door as he’d leave and shut it so fast you’d think Petey was Nosferatu. That daily dose of Vitamin D was all Petey got, and it’s all he had seen in the last five years. He had moved so little in that time that the doorframe of light he was exposed to for such a minimal period on a daily basis had formed a sun burn of sorts striping his solemn face. The crack of light had left a narrow pole splitting his static mug in two.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Petey had fought in all the great wars; at least that’s what his mind would tell him. In reality he prepared pancakes for the troops in South Korea for three days until the third fateful morning standing too close to the window overlooking the Geum River, he was struck with a piece of shrapnel which promptly pierced through his apron covered belly, lodging itself in his spinal cord and splitting his anterior spinal artery. He stood in shock and listened as his stomach gurgled and unplugged like a cork from a bottle of Shiraz, dripping life all over the waxed floor. Petey wouldn’t walk again. He would barely hobble, and each year he would lose more feeling in the lower half of his body until 1965 when he was forced into the wheelchair that would confine him for the rest of his days.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">About this time Petey would roll around the neighborhood on these, (oddly enough Korean) man-made wheels, losing all contact with the earth he once loved. He would sit his children on his numb knees and bounce them around with feeble arms. He would make up stories about his injury, playing up the fable as if he was the owner of a big blue ox. His family loved him but he lost touch with the world. Visits to the grocery store became less frequent; joining his wife in their marital bed became such a daunting feat for Petey he compared it to climbing a flight of never-ending stairs. The chair jailed him from the world he once thought he would rule. His ambitions of running for public office didn’t even succeed in his daydreams any longer. He missed the birth of his first grandchild because he was taught from an early age first impressions are everything. He didn’t want the small new born to see him as the caged monster he felt people perceived him as.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">Eventually trips out of the house were avoided all together, and trips to the window became a vacation from the darkness of his chair. Petey would sit by the window for hours watching as the neighborhood children played war, none of them ever ending up as old quadrupeds rotting away. He thought about how glamorous war was to youth, and wondered how many children would have met their early demise if finger guns had finger bullets. Petey would watch the neighbors mow their lawns and he’d imagine a horribly misplaced sprinkler causing a cacophony of sound as an orgy of metal and shards rocket through his window and end his tortured life. These thoughts brought down the blinds and kept Petey away from the window.Finally sometime around 2001 close to the birth of his first great grandchild, Thomas, Petey stopped moving all together.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">As Thomas matured he began to look at his great grandfather as one of the porcelain dogs in mid action he’d littler his mantle with. Great grampy was a fixture in the living room much like a plant you’d water and feed. The only thing that grew on Petey was his beard and his longing for a release. Thomas would prop himself up on Gramp’s knees to watch Spongebob. He would laugh and look at his great-grandfather hoping for some response or acknowledgment. How can he keep such a stern face when a talking starfish can’t find his pants Thomas would wonder. But Petey would stair off like some Jedi knight convinced he could make the television explode.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">When Thomas would return from school around 3pm each afternoon he would crack the door, (adding to Petey’s obscure tan), and slip into the darkened room. He would slowly walk past his great grandfather and rake his hands through his luscious beard. He would whisper into the oldest and closest ear, “don’t forget, I love you.” Petey would try to smile, he would try and force his facial muscles into a Cheshire cat grin but the most he could muster was a small lip quiver and a groan. He loved his great grandson, and oddly saw some of himself in this young human being. The irony was not lost on Petey when Thomas learned to cook and exhibited an affinity for pancakes. He would never make Easy Mac, or PB &J, or cereal for an after school snack. Instead he would make a short stack, smother it in maple syrup, crack open the blinds a tad and turn on his favorite movie “The Bamboo Prison.” Thomas would sit, obliviously propped on Petey’s knees, ingesting his after school snack, as tears would stream down his great grandfathers face. The irony was not lost on Petey, as he would see the familiar war images on tv and hear the shallow battle calls of 5 year old fallen soldiers in the streets as finger guns brought them to their staged deaths.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><br /></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;">-655321</span></p><p></p> <!--EndFragment-->655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-28477586587720605072010-07-28T09:46:00.000-07:002010-09-23T14:20:44.777-07:00Ice CreamI am walking down the street when I see a little boy enjoying an ice cream cone. He is a pleasant looking child, no more than 5 years old. He stands 4 feet 6 inches, with big, blue eyes and sandy colored hair. I find it odd that he is alone, and I smile to myself. Then he looks up at me. A blank expression.<br /><br />As soon as our eyes meet, I stop walking. I cannot help but feel extremely uncomfortable. I can't pinpoint the feeling. Nausea? No. Nervousness? No. Do I know this kid from somewhere? No... It sort of reminds me of the feeling I got in my balls when I peered over the edge of the Grand Canyon last summer and saw my life flash before my eyes. Not pain. Just discomfort. Suddenly a feeling of sadness washes over me, flooding my body. I am literally staring at this kid. Standing over him and staring into him. Staring through him. I can't look away. Just as I begin weeping the feeling swerves off in another direction. The sadness turns to anger, then to hatred. Then to clarity. An answer. As if he shot the idea out of his eyes, and planted it directly into my forehead. Into my brain. I know what I must do.<br /><br />I quickly stagger toward the boy and whip him in his stupid, little face with the back of my hand. The ice cream cone falls to the ground and the top scoop rolls off the sideway into a sewer drain. Of course he's crying. What a fucking loser. What has he ever fucking done with his sad, fucking life? Sit around and eat fucking ice cream? Ice Cream? Despicable. A sad excuse for a human being.<br /><br />Now the sound of his sobbing is overwhelmingly offensive to my ears. Soul crushing. I hit him again. He starts to scream. A jackhammer next to my bed at 6 AM on a Sunday. That's exactly what it fucking sounds like.<br /><br />I've had enough of this insignificant, little asshole's bull shit. I need to silence this kid.<br /><br />I push him down and grab his ankles. His soft, little body is weightless. I hold him upside down by his legs, and whip him up behind the back of my head. I don't hesitate another moment. With all of my might, I pull him up and forward, over my head and forcefully slam him down into the sidewalk in front of me. There is a deafening crack when his skull shatters and the screaming stops. I continue to whip... Crack... his body... Crack... against the sidewalk... Crack... until his bones are nothing but dusty shards in the bottom of a human sack of bloody flesh... Thump... Now I'm finished.<br /><br />I force the shitty, little bag of bones down the sewer drain. It gurgles and oozes with blood. The sound of flatulence. There is a wet slap when it hits the cement on the bottom of the man made precipice. It probably landed on that vanilla scoop. I laugh. I feel a sense of relief now. I'm going to have a great day. I continue to walk down the street.<br /><br />-Cornelius655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-17920982059987786852010-03-19T10:06:00.001-07:002010-09-23T14:21:25.442-07:00<span style="font-style: italic;">We take a story break to share a fully sprouted new spring mix from Gator, please enjoy: BLOOM</span>
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<br />The calendar year begins January 1st, but it doesn't really feel like a real new year until March 20th. The first day of spring is like a Boy Scout merit badge. You made it through winter, mostly unscathed, and as a reward you get a nice shiny new sunny day to pin to your belt. All that cold gross winter stuff was so last year. Now you're invigorated. This year will be different This year will have flip-flops and shorts. This year will have flowers and birds. This year will have tons of happy music. The kind of music you need to roll the windows down in the car in order to really appreciate. Music that makes you build a tree house or plant a garden. Music so hopeful it seems to inspire the sun to stay up longer and longer with each passing day. "Bloom" features all new songs that celebrate this new year. Though some of the songs may flirt with summer exuberance, make sure not to look too far ahead. You made it through winter and spring is your victory lap. Take some time to stop and hear the music.
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<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_eq_cb6KelAU/S6OxAJ_jHlI/AAAAAAAAAtQ/5p_iDVVqdNk/s1600-h/bloom%282%29.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_eq_cb6KelAU/S6OxAJ_jHlI/AAAAAAAAAtQ/5p_iDVVqdNk/s200/bloom%282%29.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5450394590289010258" border="0" /></a><a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?jzvgynoizhr">
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<br /><span style="text-decoration: underline;">Download Bloom here:</span></a>
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<br />-Gator
<br />655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-43394931333794954212010-03-10T10:37:00.000-08:002010-09-23T14:21:48.017-07:00A Brief Dream ThoughtA site through a window in<br />Valley Village.<br /><br />Dismembered dismal daughter;<br />English Porter Father;<br />"Dance Please Gentleman" brother;<br />Untamed, irritable mother<br /><br />the dog barks, a mimic of a bigger dogs bark.<br /><br />They sit down for dinner in their<br />ironed<br />pressed<br />work clothes.<br /><br />and you were there.<br /><br />napkins folded and napped<br />silverware silvered with ware<br />plates plattered with Po-tatoes<br />Pour wine for a heritage twice removed<br />poor wine, a heritage lost and forgotten.<br /><br />A silence unparalleled;<br />we both were there.<br /><br />How was your day?<br />Nay (neigh?), your week, your month, your year, your horse?<br />Your profession, what is it?<br />A postman, poppa?<br />The garden, momma; blooming, fresh, fragrant?<br />Sister, how many years are you now? still leading cheer?<br /><br />I remember now,<br />we are all here.<br /><br />-655321655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-42684720096407844162010-02-10T12:10:00.000-08:002010-09-23T14:21:58.665-07:00I and Like and You<span><span style="font-style: italic;"><br />Love and a mix tape from our newest of contributors:</span></span><br /><br />On last year’s I and Love and You The Avett Brothers mused upon those three words that became hard to say. This mix reflects long before that point, when it’s all unknown and exciting and the three hardest words to say are I and like and you. Luckily, Valentine’s Day comes around every year and Cupid gives those apprehensive ones a gentle push to revealing their true feelings.<br /><br />Since there have been crushes, there’s been tools out there to report the crush. Flowers, cards, and chocolates have been staples for generations. But, since the birth of cassette tape, there’s been the mix tape and it’s trumped all sweets as the best way to capture one’s heart. Us mortals may not possess the skill set to verbalize eloquently just how far our passions reach, but luckily our favorite artists are our mediums that put into words what we feel. As fun as it is to give a mix to your crush, it’s doubly as exciting to get a mix from your crush. You become instantly transformed in to a crazy haired conspiracy theorist, dissecting each lyric, looking for any sort of sign that this song, this verse, is about you. When you do make that transcendent connection between lyrics, to truth, to you, it’s one of the more visceral musical moments. All of a sudden it’s no longer just a song, it’s a secret between you and your mix maker.<br /><br />This mix has a bunch of new, sweet, fun and moving love songs (there’s also a lot of covers for some reason). Please send it to whomever your crush is, whether they know you like them or you’re a secret admirer. If there’s no one special in your life don’t fret, just listen to this mix over and over again until your confidence builds so much that when you do find someone, those three words will be easy to say: I and like and you.<br /><br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_eq_cb6KelAU/S3MUhlDmrJI/AAAAAAAAAsk/i2_1aZ0B3kA/s1600-h/iandloveandyou3.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 176px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_eq_cb6KelAU/S3MUhlDmrJI/AAAAAAAAAsk/i2_1aZ0B3kA/s200/iandloveandyou3.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5436711742281788562" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?2qz2y2nwmnm">Download | V-Day Mixtape | I and Like and You</a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />-Gator655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-61639396726980772872010-02-04T19:22:00.000-08:002010-09-23T14:22:08.848-07:00The Farmer's Son“Spffft,” <br /><br />The plastic arrowhead water bottle eases back down to the brown stained wooden desk it’s come to marry over the years. <br /><br />“qwwwa,” “qwaaaaa,”<br /><br />Yellow and green viscous liquid dribbles down the thin plastic rim to meet its thick brown cousin. The smell of old moldy mint and rich leather fills the air of the tiny dimly lit room. A tarnished green antique lamp sits at the corner of the desk Leonard has so awkwardly deposited himself behind (visual: an elephant shoved into a horses stable). It has been in Leonard’s family for generations and it still serves its purpose well, shedding light on the 1998 IBM holding the Phillip’s fortunes . . .. and, unusually, quite a respectable amount of fetish porn (Animal Husbandry, only literal). <br /><br />“<span style="font-weight:bold;">Farming is business and business is farming</span>,” or that was the closest thing to a motto the family abided by. It was carved into most of their doorposts, carved into all four desk legs, and muttered every dinner with prayer; it’s origins really a mystery. Leonard’s brother Jeb even went so far as to get it tattooed on his own hide; infection only lasted 3 days ending in an unexpected addition to the family plot and the farming business in Leo’s lap. Tattoos were out from then on, and like all dynasty’s Leonard was happy to be living his father’s life. Old family hearsay would explain that when this strangest of phrases first was challenged it was cause for a shouting match between Lee’s great great Grampy Ted and his partner at the time Ronald Pillsbury. Words were had, three shots were fired, blood was spilled and two bottles of scotch emptied before the men came to an agreement. The motto would stay and Ronald would try his luck in another occupation; something that put less stress on his small feminine hands and jealous soul, perhaps baking would work for the young food enthusiast. <br /><br />“Spfft, spffft.” <br /><br />More brown grainy fluid runs down the easy grip ridges of the sport bottle. Good Ol’ Leo picks the hardened tobacco from out between his thick fingernails and rubs the residue from his calloused hands. <br /><br />“Alice, we got anymore mint grizzly!?” <br /><br />“Nah Lee, you been goin’ through that stuff like its free beer day at the Limpton Fair.” <br /><br />Leo adjusts the chew, feels the good burn and looks up from his computer to the open door. <br /><br />“Sheeeee-itt, well how bout the Copenhagen Rodney got me for my birthday this year, we had two cases.” <br /><br />Silence as Leo and his wife hold a beat; the most predicament of predicaments for sure. He looks around the office, studies it, as if answers to unasked questions lay within its walls and floors. And what an office it is; straight out of Farmer’s Office monthly. The blinds stained with layers of dust and something that looks like old Campbell’s tomato soup; the floor formerly covered in linoleum but now more closely resembling a human skin rug with a horrifying case of Vitiligo. <br /><br />“Damn’t Lee, I’m trying to get my dress cleaned up for the meeting, you know this; been planning it for months, try the dresser next to Little Ray’s room, and for god’s sake put on your good overalls.” <br /><br />Little Ray’s room, little Ray’s room? He couldn’t go near there, how could he approach such a foreboding reminder of the past, not today. <br /><br />You see, it is true and can be attested to that Ray’s room is off limits; Lee’s wife Randy knew it, Lee knew it, even the dog knew it. It’s been off limits ever since Randy instituted the sanction on the rambunctious 5 year olds room two years ago after his bed was found empty and his window left open. The room was a reminder, a relic of sorts, owed to parental negligence. This room was an after school special hosted by Dean Cain and a trip to 6 months worth of couples therapy. But on second thought maybe today was the day to walk by Ray’s room, to turn on the lights, to dust off his old toys, to change the sheets on his bed and make his favorite meal. . . .a welcome home of sorts. This day shall further forth be deemed “Little Ray Day!!!” . . . . .Let’s not get carried away. <br /><br />Leonard was a farmer, his father Harry a farmer, his father before that and before that and a century before that; all farmers. Leonard knew his calling; he would take walks with Ray and in a very paternal way explain that all of these acres of natures joy would someday be his own. Ray would listen attentively while sucking blackberries and studying his fathers face. Leo would mimic the Lion King in a very Jeff Foxworthy meets James Earl Jones sort of way claiming “Everything the light touches is our kingdom.” Ray would smile like it was free cotton candy day at the Limpton fair, grabbing his father’s thick stained fingers while imagining himself a young farmer, with a wife, a golden named Sammie, and a fondness for the chew much like his father. Ray’s dreams were Leo’s dreams, were the dreams of a whole line of Phillips; the force was strong in these men. Ray already had responsibilities; he maintained the chicken coop, he brought the slop to the pigs, he rode a John Deer jr. right next to his father as they surveyed their golden corn in the late summer evenings. These were the same chickens that went unnoticed and began to reek of death when Ray disappeared, the pigs that slowly starved and began to decompose like the town’s memory for young Ray, and the little tractor that hadn’t moved an inch except to sink since Ray had gone missing. <br /><br />The town had mourned, search parties had been sent out, dogs had been rewarded with treats for their hard work, but the trail was cold. Ray had seemingly vanished from the small Kentucky town that he had called home his short five years on earth. Overtime Leonard became complacent; he would lock himself in his office, again searching the walls and floors for answers to whispers of questions. He started to rot away quite literally and figuratively as chew became his diet and his teeth started to pull away from his skull. Randy mourned in a different way; bathing 10 times a day was her way of ignoring her impulses for a sweet final release. She would wash her hands manically and clean every inch of the home; but if her eye should ever spot a bit of filth she would scrub until her hands bled. The deep, sticky, red leading to more "filth," which she would then try to scrub again from her hands and floor only adding to the mess and obsession. Leo’s office was off limits to her and it remained one of the last signifiers of how cruel time had been to the Phillips. The soil, animals, and crops were dead and farming didn’t seem a hell of a lot like Leonard’s business any more. <br /><br />But today, today is the day the grass starts growing again; today the Phillip’s wake from their dismal two-year slumber. A letter had come in the mail two months ago to the day, the writing was unfamiliar, the address was obscured, but the message was clear. For some reason or another, from some person or another Ray would return. What had been gained, why’d he been taken, where are the answers? None of that clear, but he would return to rule the kingdom and till the land like Phillips before and before. Randy believed; and Leo, well Leo had to believe or else his destruction would truly be complete. So today was a happy, joyous day. It was Randy and Leonard getting ready for church, it was family dinner at Denny’s, for god’s sake it was joyous like the Limpton Fair. It was a day for the best overalls, the best dress, pomade slathered hair, only one shower for Randy, and the promise that Leo would quit the chew that had quite unfortunately burned holes through his gums. This was the rebirth after the apocalypse for the Phillips.<br /><br />So Leonard tentatively mounts the creaky wooden stairs in search of the Copenhagen; a last fix. One last wad and then spit it out for little Ray’s grand arrival; a trade even: his crutch for his sons loving embrace. With each stair a new weight seemingly falls from his body, with each stair a month of stress shed and a younger man revealed. He makes his way down the haunted hallways towards the room preserved in time and a small humming can be heard, a familiar song, yet not a song Leonard knew. A gust of wind dances down the hall as he gets closer to Ray’s room and the hum become’s audible. Around the corner, an open window, a cold gust of air shocks his senses as the curtains violently jerk about. Little Ray’s drawings and scribbles of short stories blow about the room as if to communicate. It looks like a proud parents refrigerator exploded. Leonard get’s closer to the window confused, did Randy open it up to air out the room? As he approaches he spots something nearly covered by the bookshelf, in the corner kneels a small, dirty, frail thing; the source of the sound. It teeters back and forth slowly with its chin resting on one knee, a switchblade in hand carving something into the old dry wood. With each breath Leonard creeps closer as the little unaware human brushes wood chips away from his messages. Leo sucks in his breath and holds it, approaching this young living definition of suspicion and notices the whole floor has been carved, every board covered in words. Could this be young Ray? After two years could he really be back like Leo and Randy had hoped and prayed? As he gets closer to this child he realizes that not only has he carved something into the wood, he has carved these words into his own skin over and over again. Blood leaks from his body finding its way through the literary maze of scabs covering his frame and culminating at the handle of the knife. As he carves his hand drips visceral cave drawings all over the floor. Leonard gets closer to this mystery child and notices a familiar birthmark on his right forearm. He reads the scratch that can be found virtually everywhere on this small child and within this small room: “Farming is business and business is Farming.”<br /><br />-655321655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-50916542865706425872010-01-27T23:09:00.000-08:002010-09-23T14:22:29.052-07:00Snowglobed<!--StartFragment--> <p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">It was the New Year by now, Jim imagined. </span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">Time slows down in the cold, and when you lose track and can’t access the $75 a month clock/alarm that makes calls, but you don’t make any, and receives calls, but you don’t get any, time goes a lot slower. His eyes seemingly bugging out of his noggin, tears freezing down his cheek…luckily, a bubble, he remembered, would help him breathe.</span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> He just went out for one more run before finalizing the décor of the party and joining his friends. A quick one, to pick up a little adrenaline he calls his ‘energy drink’. ‘Peace out’ to the pals he shouts and he’s gone. How quickly a wrong turn changes a night. You see, it all fell apart right here.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> The type of friends Jim has? They’re great. Love to party. Best dudes. From college they never stopped the party, jumping from one reason to another to destroy what they’ve all saved up since college to call their homes. On rotation this New Year? Jim ‘Beam’ Bauman. As you presumably derived, Jim rocks the whiskey…and its what will save his life that night.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> The unfortunate side affect of having friends whose M.O. it is to party (hardy), is that friendship comes second to ice luge, beirut, flip cup and pound the tequila. The last one they made up sophomore year of college. Ingenious really. You see the rules are; Pound the tequila till you throw up, and if you throw up in the bottle, your punishment is to bring the bottle to every party thereafter and take shots from it until the bottle is done. Torture, humiliation, hilarity.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> It wasn’t until about 2am into the new year when Tom, the adult(erer) of the group, stumbling around his mouth with his tongue somehow managing to ask “Heyg…you guys…where’s Jims? He’s supposed to come overg right?! Where even is he, right??!</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Jim’s legs stopped shaking by this point, the cold coming through his boots has started feeling warm. He thinks this is a good sign. When he breaks it all down, its really not likely anyone is going to come find him, so he waits. Could he access his phone, its not even likely he can tell anyone where he is. Not only has the cold started clouding his vision, but the whiskey he’s been nursing out of his trusty extra large flask has his tongue as stumbly as Tommy back at the top.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Tom the Adulterer, the eldest of the pals, got his name from trying aggressively to sleep with all the guy’s girlfriends throughout their relationships. He had a 46% success rate once the relationships ended, and a 2.33% (repeating, of course) success rate while they were still in full swing. Tom’s an asshole, but they keep him around. Why? He’s great, loves to party, best dude.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Marky, the benevolent drunk, reminds Tom that they are currently </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">IN</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Jim’s condo, so yah, he was sort of supposed to make an appearance, and finishes his statement with ‘idiot’. They pour, they cheers, they shoot, they repeat. Marky, its important to know, still carries around his slightly discolored bottle of Cuervo gold from 2007. Its like a loan you can’t wait to pay back. Only six more payments! Only six more parties! At least that’s how many Marky thinks it’ll take to finally be through with his ‘pound the tequila’ punishment. Then he’ll retire (no he won’t).</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Jim worries now. It feels like days! He’s exaggerating. Wondering if he should piss where he is or hold it till he can find somewhere less gross…which might not be for a while. He pisses. At least its warm. Knowing the type of guys he surrounds himself with, selfish, inconsiderate, unfaithful…he feels a sort of, well, DOOM. In his mind he’s envisioning a wild party back at his condo with one of his friends in their underwear, at least one, maybe two broken lamps, and empties strewn about the bathtub. This ritual, with likeness to the ball pit at Chuck E. Cheese, is called the beer pit. Yes, that man in his underwear will end up in the beer pit, and most likely come out with at least one bad cut and will proceed to ruin Jim’s white towels. Jim doesn’t see them noticing he’s gone, which means a search party won’t come, but at least he’s laughing at the events to be. They’re great. Love to party. Best dudes.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Back at the party, Brendo, in his underwear, is about to sit his fat ass in the beer pit. He will slip, glass will break, he will need to go to the hospital, the crowd will eat it up. Marky will ask, “was it worth it” and Brendo passing out from shock will say, “it was worth it”.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> Jim hears sirens in the distance. He jams his empty flask into the roof above to break through and give whatever signal he can. “NO WAY, They fucking called a search party for me!” No they didn’t. Brendo is bleeding way too much for all of Jim’s white towels to handle so those are medics, and Jim is still fucked. As the sound fades he shouts, “One last run. One last run before the party and now I am going to die in an igloo. I’m a fucking figurine in a snow globe. Happy 2010…I’m getting new friends!”</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> As Jim rants, so far, he’s only heard the sound of his own voice echoing off the confined walls of his tomb. His voice trails off as he hears the sound of footsteps. Imaginary or not, his flask disappears revealing a blinding beam of light. Either God finally popped the cork and he’s on his way to heaven (somehow, rather than hell), or that’s the greedy hand of Bub, the freeloading borrower of things never to be returned, trying to skeef Jim’s flask. Bub shouts out, “this is Jim’s flask, but its empty. Greedy fucker leaves a clue, but no reward”.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> The guys, after seeing Brendo into an ambulance safely, decided to go out on Jim’s ‘energy drink’ run to see if something might have gone wrong. Equipped with the proper tools and several one million candle power flashlights, they went into the night. Turns out, the flask reflected all one million candles perfectly back into Bubs eyes.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> After digging Jim out and laughing at him for smelling like piss and whiskey, they share a round hugs, happy new years’ and shots of wild turkey they took from Jim’s liquor cabinet. As they make their way back to the condo. Tom announces to Jim he’s sorry. He put the moves on Jim’s girlfriend, but not to get mad at her, in her defense she was, and still is passed out in Jim’s bed. If Jim wasn’t so frozen solid, Tom would be joining Brendo in the E.R. In the time it takes to get back, it’ll blow over. Tom’s great, they love to party and together they are the best dudes.</span></o:p></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><o:p><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;"> To celebrate, they play a game of pound the tequila. Marky will lose. Poor guy.</span></o:p></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:small;">- Seven-Butter</span></p> <!--EndFragment-->655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-43793886882001055932009-09-09T21:11:00.000-07:002010-09-23T14:22:41.257-07:00Roses are. . .Anna had a tendency towards red, like lips, cherry popsicles, rose petals, a brand new ferrari, even a fire hydrant in a perfect neighborhood. For her it was a red summer top, rouge cargo shorts, red checkered chuck taylors, Victorias secret “Body by Victoria” thong, tennis cut red nike socks; she had a whole closet, an arsenal of red. The literal Red riding hood of her time. “I just like it she’d say, I don’t know why,” and then her face would get rosy with embarrassment.<br /><br />Red was also the color of blood; deep red, like rust went for a swim in a glass of ocean spray. Thick puddles of the sticky, salty, liquid would poison her thoughts; yet make her smile with what can only be described as a sense of relief. Doctors attributed this affliction and fascination with the vibrant hue to a day in Anna’s early life now referred to as her “rebirth.” “Rebirth,” because the experience, the very fierce awakening the young child was exposed to was like a damaged Phoenix springing from the fires of hell . She had only vague memories of that period in her life. She remembered the car mostly, the thick brown leather seats with claw marks from ginger’s feline rage. She remembered sleeping in mom’s lap as 50 states went by in 50 dreams. There was the diner in Kentucky, the Motel 6 in New Orleans, the library in Maine. There were friends for 3 days and new older men who mother would take for walks that would end in ice cream for Anna. Mom always had ice cream and her scent; always like the ripest of peaches on picking day in Georgia. Yes, Anna did remember some things, but only flashes like a coma took hold every month and wrapped her in a cocoon. And then darkness. . . .darkness. . . .darkness and finally<br /><br /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);">Red</span><br /><br />It was truly a day that shook the small Arkansas town from its sleepy embrace. August 5, 1989, that was when Anna was found, when darkness turned to dirty rouge. The police report described it as a massacre of horrific proportions; in reality it was a wholesome little blonde girl crying in a massive puddle of human life surrounded by pieces of her rotting mother. It was soon reported in “The Little” daily paper that this mystery child had been sitting in a pile of viscera for 3 whole days until she was discovered by the Taylor kid. The coroners would say it was simple, her mother had been stabbed to death, 15 times in fact, yet there was no evidence on the scene, no id on the victim. Who was Anna and why was she here? Who was the victim? All unanswered questions. It was as if the devil himself had dropped in to slay an angel and shake up this small southern town. The authorities would try and talk to Anna, but all she would do is giggle to herself and stare. They would offer her ice cream and treats and dolls and games, anything to speak but her red red lips were shut. There was always ice cream but it never made her mouth move. Anna was stained that day in the most simple of terms.<br /><br />One of the local school teachers and his wife decided that this young thing needed a home, needed love, an education, a family, and they took her into their life. It was a tough period for them; barely making it by financially in a town that gave sideways glances like they were a traveling freak show because of a daughter that wouldn’t speak. Gradually Anna got more and more comfortable with her family, her mother would take her shopping, her father would take her fishing. A new child entered their lives and Anna loved her brother more than her confused understanding of the value of human life would allow. 1 year after the accident she began to speak and proved to be very bright. Her thoughts flowed like an artist and “she was the most articulate in her class” her teachers would say. Then on her 9th birthday (perhaps because of regression, perhaps because of some subconscious indicator, or perhaps just because little girls are predisposed) it was a red elephant, a red skirt please, I want a red balloon, a red bike would be nice. Her parents were never suspicious they would just say Anna wouldn’t you like to try another color. But no Anna had a new religion, it was the worship of this morbid hue. Scientifically it was called Chromoluda but in the Luntz household it was “Anna’s stage,” “She just likes the color,” or “Girls will be girls.” But really it was quite odd.<br /><br />On her 12th birthday she went as far as painting the walls and ceiling of her room the color of a radio flyer, getting paint all over her red shag rug. Her friends would avoid her room asking if they could play downstairs where the AC was on. Her parents were just happy that she was becoming a normal young woman, besides the obvious obsession with rose, rouge, rojo, red. They would never speak of where they found her and she would never ask about it. Though the older she got the more this color began to take over her life. There was the Christmas photo when the red contacts made their debut. Strangers would feel sorry for the family, citing their daughter as an unfortunate albino because of her beady mouse eyes.<br /><br />Life was as normal as it really could be for a child with a past so mysterious and morose Charles Manson wouldn’t open her fan mail. Shortly after Easter on her 13th year of living Anna became a woman. Anna became a woman and lost herself for good on the same very day. It was a constant struggle with her, as if she was always chasing an image of her former self down a mouse hole or through a strange door quite like Alice; but on this day she was much too tired to keep running. Anna’s parents called and called and called, “Easter Dinner!! Anna ham!” her brother even tried “Anny Bananny, come sit next to me. . . .Anny.” When there was no response they went upstairs, knocked on the bathroom door, no response, her father busted it in grunting as it came down. There sat Anna in the middle of the cold tile floor like a marionette without a master bleeding and bleeding from between her legs. Who knew a teenage girl could bleed this much, in the most serious of explanations it was the period even science couldn’t explain. Anna wasn’t dead, she wasn’t alive, she was somewhere in between; and that was permanent. Anna sat there in this state staring at the white white walls with a small look of confusion on her pretty face; a look that was also permanent. Tears were inevitable, the family cried, their tears were clear and they watched as red came for its lost child.<div><br /></div><div>-655321</div>655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-69259931634632495852009-07-21T16:03:00.000-07:002010-09-23T14:22:56.568-07:00Evening RunJim left the house at 7 PM. The sun dipped below the horizon, replacing the orange hews with pale violet. Memories of the harsh day at the office faded in the first one hundred meters. He ran at a slow pace. He felt good. He always felt good on his evening runs. This evening the air felt particularly cool against his skin. Everything was still.<br /><br />He turned on Bronson Canyon. As he ran, the houses and streetlamps gave way to dark groves of trees. A deepening of the breath, a quickening of the stride. He let his mind wander into familiar zones of uncertainty. He thought of his life. It was fine. He had always been some sort of successful. A good student. Always had a girl on his arm. Good at sports. Really good at running. All American in track. Great job. But there was something missing. A void. Something just wasn’t there. And with every step, it became clearer and clearer.<br />He had grown up on the outside.<br />He never got picked on.<br />He never acted in the school play.<br />He never had a “most embarrassing moment.”<br />He never got upset.<br />He never had anything to say at the party.<br />He was that guy. Oh yes, that guy. Wait, which guy? Oh yeah, I remember him. Never really knew him though. Did he talk? His life was dull.<br /><br />Thoughts cranked through his head like celluloid through a projector. And then he saw it. Lights in the distance. A car? No, an SUV. It was close enough to see that now.<br /><br />As the vehicle approached Jim contemplated suicide. He thought carefully about all the people he would hurt if he jumped in front of it. The list was shorter than he had predicted. He could almost read the headline, “Corporate Pawn Killed by SUV on Run.” Not too bad.<br /><br />He wanted to cry, but he laughed instead. It was the most spontaneous thought he had ever had.<br /><br />The SUV charged forward. It seemed to speed up the closer it got.<br />The last lap.<br />400 meters.<br />200 meters.<br />100 meters.<br />And as Jim started for the middle of the road, the unthinkable occurred.<br />The SUV swerved, and for a brief moment Jim saw something silhouetted in the headlights. A small animal. And before he could duck, it hit him like a water balloon. Literally, like a water balloon. He slowed to a stop.<br /><br />A skunk had been running across the road, at the very moment of Jim’s attempted suicide. The SUV hit the skunk with such force, that one of the front tires, while applying over 2 tons of pressure to the abdomen, forcefully severed the bladder and propelled it through the air. It connected with Jim’s face and burst on contact. Like a water balloon.<br /><br />The SUV continued on its course, and for a moment Jim wanted to call out. But he continued running. When he got home he couldn’t differentiate between the sweat and the skunk urine that soaked his clothes. He had quickly gotten used to what was at first an unbearable smell. After his shower it seemed ever less noticeable and when he woke the next day for work it seemed to be gone. Back to normal.<br /><br />At work he was made fun of and became somewhat upset.<br />He had a story to tell at the party.<br />He had a “most embarrassing moment.”<br />A student adapted his story into a play at the local high school.<br />The skunk had not only saved his life, but it had improved the overall quality of his life. 1 year later Jim set out on his evening run. The air was cool and still. He turned down Bronson Canyon as he always had, when an SUV swerved out of control and hit him.<br />Jim was pronounced dead on the scene.<br /><br />-Cornelius655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-2803449997954942632009-06-30T16:55:00.000-07:002010-09-23T14:36:38.703-07:00U.N.D.E.R.G.R.O.U.N.D.With his eyes bushed and heavy, Bill parked his flipside on a dourly looking chair next to the fireplace. The heat from the nearby flames gently nuzzled his soul as he slowly elevated his feet to an equally dourly looking ottoman. As a babe-in-arms his mother and nana would take turns imparting the young Bill with yarns of his esteemed father in that same chair. Pictures though show the chair was much better for the wear in those days.<br /><br />Fredrik, the mounted water buffalo purchased one inebriated night hung above the fireplace. Perhaps his biggest critic, Fredrik looked on with a smirk swathed over his visage. Bill had been here before, tuckered and stretched tight, wasted from another days work, but this felt different. Almost final even. Even Fredrik looked tired.<br /><br />Nobody ever told him the life he chose would be an easy one, but that could quite possibly be because nobody had ever come up with such a peculiar walk through their days. A cowboy by day, a hip-hop recording artist by night. While not quite as stirring as a faceless vigilante valiantly struggling with the scum of sullied comic book conurbations, Bill would argue that his pseudo artistic persona, waxing poetic on such forces as ecological devastation, famine quandaries in various pitiable countries, and the insatiable voracity of crooked non-profit organizations was of greater consequence. I’m not sure just what Fredrik would have thought, but alas, he could not speak, so Bill would never know. Now, it should also be noted that at the time a British band who called themselves The Beatles had just played the Johnny Carson show so nobody even knew what the fuck hip hop was. Not even Bill.<br /><br />So, how did Bill, with dirt in his finger nails and a love for rhymes, turn out to be one of the biggest musical inspirations of all time? Well, it was mostly all, if not entirely all, because 2,403 miles away in the concrete and glass playpen known as New York, the boss’s daughter had a pretty face.<br /><br />************************************************<br /><br />Lewis, the long-limbed greenhorn, probably wouldn’t have paid much attention to the tape if it hadn’t just left the clutches of Jane’s right hand. Lewis studied the tape like a child, reading and re-reading the scribbled phrase “Lonesome Cowboy Bill” over and over again. Finally, after his vision blurred in an attempt to locate just one of Jane’s fingerprints he decided to give his ears a few minutes with it. Sad, weird, and terrible. Lewis couldn’t last more than a song before hitting eject and going on with the rest of his day (i.e. daydreaming about Jane’s naked body).<br /><br />Unlike the tape, but much like the right hand that left it, Jane was rather perfect looking. A nubile nineteen year old, she was born and raised in The City, to which Lewis, an outsider via Freeport, always fantasized about. Being from New York and being from Freeport just weren’t the same thing, certainly not to Lewis. After meeting her in the elevator, he quickly memorized her bio in the new employee handbook and later that night, in the comfort of his bedchamber, tried on no fewer than sixteen different wardrobe mishmashes with the sole aspiration of getting her attention the next day.<br /><br />Dauntless enough with his attire choice, Lewis, accompanied by dark eye liner, navy blue mascara, and his new shiny wardrobe, fingered his guitar and whispered a melody.<br /><br />{Cm}{Cm}{F}{F} (You got to see him in the rodeo)<br />{A#}{A#}{D#}{Dm} (When he's riddin', going too darn fast)<br />{Cm}{Cm}{F}{F} (You got to here the people ...)<br />{A#}{D#}{A#}{D#} (Lonesome Cowboy Bill, he's a ...)<br />{A}{A} (Oh)<br /><br />Those chords, those words, roused for whatever reason from that god awful tape, from a stranger 2, 403 miles away in Elko, Nevada (which wasn’t at all megalopolitan boomtown of New York, or even Freeport for that matter), would go on to change Lewis’s life forever. It even changed his name.<br /><br />Soon after, he wrote a song for Jane, and not much longer after that Lewis traveled up and down the eastern seaboard playing shows in dingy clubs and making nice with famous artists. He named a band with a gent named John after a clothing texture, painted bananas with his friend Drella, and after that, released his own solo record, but not before changing his name to Lou, because quite simply, Lewis was a name unbecoming of someone who walked on the wild side. All of the New Sensations and perfect days to follow, as farfetched as they were, traced right back to that pretty girl’s right hand and the tape dropped from it.<br /><br />By the time all of this had transpired though Bill had flown up past the clouds. By all accounts all that was left of the lonesome cowboy was a ramshackle hut atop his promontory ranch, still occupied by Fredrik, but whose smirk was replaced with a frown. His only company was a half drank bottle of poor man’s whisky, an empty pill box case, and the quiet solitude brought on by a wrangler’s dreams unrealized.<br /><br />-mildredratched655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-8842398364072538192009-05-07T11:55:00.000-07:002010-09-23T14:35:07.099-07:00Elsinore, The Living Lore"I programmed the universe with a used tube sock!?!"<br /><br />Ehhhh, She used to say shit like this alllll the time. As a child I would react with a chuckle and a genuinely curious smile but over the years it just became more of me yelling. Things like "What the fuck Ellie?, What the shit fuck hell are you talking about? The Lord made you crazy and you keep trying to get crazier, you are literally bat shit fucking nuts."<br /><br />Now I know this sounds hurtful but what do you say to a woman, yes a grown woman, who greets your friends with "I shit my tights, think about it, I literally shit my sexy black tights last night." Damn't her tights aren't even sexy, they are old and ratty, washed once every three months, and purchased twelve years ago, and fuck she's basically a slightly overweight woman wearing tights made for a large child. She was literally delusional and had that look in her eyes. You know the one or maybe you don't; like "Who's the Boss" is playing at the back of your skull on repeat, she would look right through you always chuckling at something Tony Danza was doing on your cranium screen. "How does he do it?" she would giggle. “Who damn't Ellie, damn it all to hell, how the hell does who do what?”<br /><br />I used to shake her when she was little, thinking this would correct her, quite like an Etch a Sketch. No amount of knob turning ever seemed to reconstruct a functioning human being though. Mom and Dad used to quarrel on long car rides about the Sweeney's little ADHD nightmare next door. They would try to diagnose that child with some sort of life threatening social disease ignoring their own little mistakes in the back seat. This was the 60's though, poorly behaved kids were likened to devil spawn more then they were to minor genetic problems. Ellie would scream "Nipple Pie," "or "Pizza Worm," out the window, and we would think, geez how absurdly cute this odd little child is. Inappropriate things at inappropriate times that's what my sister was famous for, and it was adorable, it was her way of rebelling, it was "oh she doesn't even know what she's saying she’s so fucking rip-her-face-off cute.”<br /><br />But as she matured her thoughts and behavior did not. "How adorable," soon turned into "Why God, why did you give us this little retard?" (it was the 60's, retards were still retards for the general public). That's when the excursions began. First there were trips to church, hours in confessional, "do you think an exorcism would work?" mom would continually ask. There was more shaking, this problem was going to be corrected quite the same way I would fix the tube as a child, hit it till the signal kicks back in. Ellie, smash, channel 3 please, kick, Howdy Doody is on, bang, what is wrong with you?<br /><br />The priests would tell us she was a very "disturbed young woman," and mom would shake her head eating their bull shit "oh yes yes yes I know, she's been this way since she could speak." Next came the monthly trips to the doctors; Ellie's been eating crayons, she screams obscenity's at the Officer club dinners, she won't keep her clothes on at school, I'm going through 2 boxes of crayola a week is this normal? The doctor's would say in that wise old owl voice "Well she is a perfectly healthy young woman, this is just a stage." Well guess what? She grew into it ok, "Nipple Pie" and "Pizza Worm," turned into the rants of a boozy young teen. She would lie and disappear for days; we would worry since her mental capacity had stalled at the age of ten like a 1973 Volvo wagon (the kind commonly used to transport blow to the masses). I would still shake her every now and again to see if maybe just the right amount of contact would force a synapse into firing correctly. The shaking only seemed to entertain her though.<br /><br />As she got older she would yell "I have hair on the field! Play ball!" or "I'm ovulating!" and Mom and Dad would leave her home staring at the "popcorn ceiling" or the "drippy drip machine" when we went for dinner, or to family reunions, or to gatherings of any sort. Ellie was always “out with her friends,” or “in a study group,” when people would ask; she was never snacking on burnt sienna or drinking a milkshake of forest green and hummus whilst locked in the pantry humming “Just the Two of Us” and dropping raw eggs on her toes.<br /><br />Finally when I came back from college to try and figure out my life, my parents were starting to figure out theirs as well. They tearfully (gleefully and relieved-fully) revealed “We just can’t handle her anymore, spend some time with your sister, she loves you, you have a connection.” Why mom and dad? A connection? Because I don’t resent her, because when I realized shaking her solved nothing, I decided to try loving her unconditionally, because she is the burden I was born into? And ultimately they would shell out the convenient cash to get us both an apartment, a nice two bedroom in the trendy part of downtown Charleston. Two windows overlooking Main Street where Ellie was free to shout her stunning revelations and embarrassing accusations to potential friends and lovers as they approached our quaint “mind fuck” of a home.<br /><br />Well that is where we have lived for the past five years, learning to accept one another and find a way to live without one of us ending up bloody in the floorboards. I even stop once in a while to watch “Who’s the Boss” with Ellie in the back of my friend Christian’s skull, when we can get him to stare at us long enough (I think I’m starting to see something). And you know screaming “Nipple Pie!” At strangers from the second floor can be more therapeutic than you would guess. In turn she has cut down on her crayon consumption and has learned how to dress and speak semi-appropriately for her age. The one thing that still gets me and it’s a doozy, is on Sunday afternoons when she sits out on our porch in the rocking chair with a pair of old black panties, and just that, as the setting sun shines down on her obvious and bare breasts. She sticks her belly out and sits like a 50 yr. old man at a strip club, legs spread displaying masses of the unimaginable and she ecstatically screams at the world “I live with a Pedophile, I’m 10 years old and my brothers a pedophile!” And I run to my room, lock the door, and shake my head quite like an Etch a Sketch, hoping I’ll wake up and this won’t be my reality. . . . . .<br /><br />. . . . . then one night far down the road in December of 2012, when we were both in our early sixties, long after our parents were gone, and long after I had been married and we had moved to the shore, long after Ellie had accepted her life living with me and my new family, and long after my divorce and my kids had grown up and left; she ran into my room with a tube sock... she told me to put it on and hold her tight... I humored her as I always had.... and well to my shock or perhaps to my lack of shock after knowing Ellie all these years, the world ended, it just froze and imploded and we were teleported to a pueblo, a warm cozy home on a planet not too far from earth... SHE HAD PROGRAMMED THE UNIVERSE THROUGH A TUBESOCK! And apparently I was the only one that was worth saving. . .<br /><br />-655321655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-514666353340399545.post-52890868350966227622009-04-01T14:20:00.000-07:002010-09-23T14:23:41.425-07:00The Weight of the WorldPity me, Woe is me; How Fucked is I?<br />To carry the weight of the world.<br /><br />1 billion obese souls and counting<br />with problems and issues and<br />and<br />and<br />outdated clothing;<br />they sit on my shoulders like hunched over children on bleachers<br />at your middle school little league game.<br /><br />“Hey, pitcher pitcher pitcher,<br />Hummina hummina hummina.”<br /><br />“Hey pitcher, pitcher. . . .Fuck You!”<br /><br />“Fuck you? Fuck me? Hey, Fuck You!”<br />Harsh words from those that no longer inhabit a vessel.<br />Sit there dancing, prancing, and harassing.<br />Tormenting the confusion<br />Which grieves your face with anxiety,<br />Not unlike a hyperactive 3 year old<br />With a small bladder,<br />In the back seat,<br />Of a sedan,<br />On a trip,<br />Up the coast.<br /><br />Let’s play chicken; let’s challenge the warden;<br />They say, and I guess that’s me.<br />Let’s consummate this after life, lascivious, love. . . . affair.<br />One geriatric, one pediatric; both dueling with switchblades<br />Gross!<br />The phantasmal, visceral, viscous, violates my younger than you cheek.<br /><br />How vain am I?<br /><br />With clouds in <em>my</em> coffee<br />To have mirrored ceilings,<br />A California King,<br />No crown, nor scepter<br />But 600 thread count.<br />In a room that only holds<br />A bed.<br />Off with all their heads<br />Leave mine intact please.<br /><br />Well woe is me<br />Woooooooe is poor little old me<br />To carry the weight of a million starving children<br />On these poor shoulders.<br />How horrible is me to carry the weight<br />Of all the derelicts in Los Angeles who’ve shit on the side of<br />Spago, and Koi, and Katana, and others;<br />To then shit on the side of a<br />Convenience store<br />In Bloomfield, Kentuky and say:<br />“No, this isn’t for me.”<br /><br />Ohhhh! To pontificate about that heavy feeling<br />But not<br />Give<br />A shit<br />Because the weight of me<br />Is weighing me down<br /><br />"The weight of the world?"<br />She says<br />"You wish you were that important."<br /><br />-655321655321http://www.blogger.com/profile/03934212155466143723noreply@blogger.com0