Generalized Thoughts on Specific People

25 going on 70. Everything is wrong. Get a god damn haircut.

Red eyes, prairie skies.

I did my best to hold it together. I did my best on planes and trains, in rental cars and questionable bars.

I did my best until I saw the woman I love above all else fall apart. Rhyming does a disservice to how much this hurt, so I won’t carry it forward.

Singing, voices, words. Repose, repose, repent. She’ll never see him again once the casket closes and I’m not sure there is much I can do.

I carried the body of a man I didn’t know, who never knew me and who likely didn’t think our hands would touch when he died. Thinking about your mortality at age 20, it isn’t likely that you place your final moments into the hands of someone who doesn’t yet exist.

If this were a movie, the music would rise. The string section would slowly swell and give way to the wind instruments, followed by sweet brass. Emotion for emotion’s sake.

But it isn’t. So, Sweet dreams.

Related Meanings in French Cabaret Music, 1910-1913.

I typically reference qualms of a superficial nature and avoid qualms of  a ficial nature. In a language that I invented 4 years ago at a bar, ficial is a perfectly acceptable antonym for superficial. If you don’t believe this, remember the fact that you are reading a tumblog, on a Sunday night, by yourself. Your critique of my literary prowess is moot.

There are two things in the known cosmos that irk me beyond all reason: 6 minute eggs that have cooked for any duration over 6 minutes, up to and including 6 minutes 15 seconds, 7 minutes, 8 minutes, 7 minutes and 8 seconds, etc., and degradation of the popular social institutions that have, for the better part of the last 2000 years, separated us from den-dwelling woodland creatures.

I spent today seeking out a remedy for my floppy collar.  I am not someone who often ventures out without a tie, but when I do I don’t like what I see. If you believe my priorities are out of line, and feel the need to reference starving children is Africa, I would like to point out that I have spent more time there than you have, and what you are doing here isn’t helping. So pack sand you self-obsessed, ill-informed moron.

Digression, reign it in.

We’re back. While I was dealing with my floppy collar through neodymium magnets and metal collar strips, I noticed that I had seen at least three women wearing components of standard wedding attire: a headdress here, a cheap gown there, ill-placed garters and a bouquet. I wasn’t overly sure what this was, until I realised that each woman was with some mental-zero of a mate and both rejections of life had number plates on their backs, similar to the type marathon runners would wear.

At this point, I realized what I was witnessing. Though I never got the specifics, this was one of those ‘do some stupid consumer-driven series of challenges and win your dream wedding’. You know what a dream wedding isn’t manufactured from? A bunch of lowest-bidder brands and second rate hotels trying to drum up business for wedding season. I hold very few things sacred, in fact there is almost nothing that I have a favorable opinion of, except marriage. You are taking what is supposed to be one of the most important days of your life and trivializing it by competing with a bunch of other low SES rednecks to have your wedding commercialized just so you don’t have to pay for it. At what point did the world devolve to the point where it was ok to turn an agreement of eternal love into a day-long advert for blenders, or venues or some other garbage. I’m not asking this as though this is new information, I am legitimately curious when everyone gave up.

This contest is everything that is wrong with the current generation. Not only have you decided that you need to plan a wedding you can’t afford, you need to cheapen it by having someone else pay for it through advertising. Did you consider having a smaller wedding, where your friends and family get to interact? No, friend, you probably didn’t because you were too concerned with how ‘sweet’ it would ‘be’ if you you could get Carrie Underwood’s brother’s girlfriend’s younger sister to sing ‘twerk it with me’ during your first dance.

This isn’t a game, nor is it a competition. People do this because they lack the ability to think for themselves and ask the only question that matters: does this make me happy? No one needs a three-tier wedding cake, no one needs  a cliche, tired limousine decked out with ‘just married’ cans. ‘Just Married’ screams that its more important for the world to validate your having just been married than it is for you to be involved in the day and your own happiness. It’s like running around telling people you just had sex.

The good news is these people all eventually end up living in the suburbs, which is punishment enough. To the rest of you, who refuse to take this route and are committed to not being a walking cliche that is guaranteed to play the ‘chicken dance’ at your sub-par ceremony, I thank you.

I hardly recognize where we are

I have a watch, it has features akin to horological devices of decades past. This device, however, is from decades past. It will forever and always tick-tock to the theme of space and time. It’s from 1952, I wonder often whether the seconds and minutes had a different meaning through the eyes of the first man to wear it. I know him, or rather what remains of him. He doesn’t have the ability to interpret what this watch says anymore, but it won’t stop giving information.

For 59 years it’s had one task; history changes but the task doesn’t. Meaning, outcome, interpretation can all change around the function of this device, but what it represents never changes. It’s linear, it’s flawless.

May there be a dual meaning.

My wedding will have a Wedding Inception. It was my idea all along, I think.

I just want people to like me, which is a confusing statement to anyone who has ever met me.  

The problem lies in the fact that as a child in America’s South I was obese, locked into a civil war with the bowl cut and occasionally got wicked erections while pledging allegiance. Apparently one nation under god is only indivisible for those with penile control…the rest of us are free to be divided from the general population. The result of this is that I still feel like everyone has a grievance with me, and thus develop completely off base assessments of other people’s behavior. I had been trying to stop this, but eventually I realised it was so practiced that it wasn’t going anywhere.

I think, perhaps, people would better understand me if I broke down my thought process. Tonight for example I was in the drug store getting usual sunday night items: irish spring (now you know what I smell like when I’m typing), mouthwash, sonic-care replacement tips and a mouth guard. My immediate observation was of a couple standing behind me. Here is how I got from point A (observing) to point B (nearly externalizing my internal monologue)

"Fuck me that woman has a ream of tampons. Does that say heavy flow? That certainly says heavy flow…well, maybe pretend to get a magazine so you can look at the size of the beaver dam she’s working with. US weekly, check. Heavy flow, double check. This must be her boyfriend…what woman needs four packs of 48 heavy flow tampons. How many periods is she planning to have…I wonder if her boyfriend has just called his agent and requested a contract buyout. Simple math would tell me that with the volume of periodizing she intends to do, he is not likely to participate in coitus of any kind (including interruptus) between now and 2014…I wonder whether he even got it to begin with. You’re planning to be predisposed 53% of the year, how do you not have gatorade to replenish the tanker of fluid you’re about to lose? Ok…maybe there is some kind of vaginal apocalypse coming and she needs to horde. Maybe they are discontinuing her favorite brand…can people have favorite tampon brands? Wait…wait…these are pads. Her boyfriend may be a virgin.

In real time, this takes about 1 minute.

So I’m not a bad person, I’m just a fat kid with a poor haircut and an overzealous gentleman’s region.

The house rye was great, I have a few more grievances with rap.

Let’s get technical. Apparently I hadn’t covered all of my grievances yesterday. This came to me while driving up island which, as you may or may not already know, is North.

Nelly, specifically the line “somebody probably jealous because they bitch got hit: Somebody is probably ‘jealous’ because their ‘bitch’ got ‘hit’. There are so many ways to interpret this, but let’s leave the personal out of it and cut right to the legal ramifications. What you’re saying, Nelly, is that someone is upset that their wife, girlfriend, daughter, sister or christian children’s fund adopted child got hit; if hit means physically hit, then the best case scenario is that you’re beating a female. If hit is used in the pejorative ‘fucked’ sense, then we’re looking at at least a felony sexual assault. Someone is jealous because their bitch got hit? Of course they are you FUCKING MULE, you hit  a woman. Did you think no one would notice that you were A) beating women or B) sexually assaulting women? Know what makes me jealous? When my neighbour buys a Bugatti veyron…know what makes me take the Desert Eagle out of my safe and look up your address? You HITTING ANY OF MY FUCKING BITCHES. Saying someone is jealous because ‘they bitch got hit’ is like saying Todd Bertuzzi probably didn’t like it when Markus Naslund got concussed by Steve Moore. For my American friends: some kind of analogy involving Nascar…like, being jealous about consistent left hand turns.

You can’t handle this/You aren’t ready for this: this seems to be the default of every rapper ever, but more recently Jay-z has been promoting his newest album by saying that we, the people, aren’t ready for it. You know What Jay, I’m not ready for it. So why don’t you take it the fuck back until I am ready for it. What do you want from me before this record is released? Is there an information leaflet, or perhaps some literature, that I can read prior to your album dropping that will adequately prepare me? No rapper is the second coming of jesus, in fact no rapper is even the 17th coming of invasive diarrhea…so how is it possible that what you’ve done in the booth is so revolutionary, it will literally make my face explode upon hearing it.

When will I be ready, rappers of the world, for your liquid poetry…because we all know that writing about drugs is tough…yeah, no one has done that before. Not everyone alive, regardless of their age, has once had a deep thought about the effects of drugs.

Yeah, I’ve had a few drinks. I hear the house Rye is great, Friend. Here are a bunch of things about rap that bother me.

Pretty fragile, and you?

As anyone who knows me knows, nothing is right and everything should be criticized. The lone exception to this is me. I should never be criticized. Oh, what’s that balding man smoking a cheap dart in front of the pub…you don’t like my sweater? How about you realise this sweater represents everything you aren’t: class, textile genius, fashion AND sexual icon. But, I digress.

There are a lot of things I hate about rap, first and foremost that it is something I can’t do. Secondary, however, is my hatred for cliche rap phrases, intros, outros and fillers. Here is a brief list of my grievances. If you don’t care for them, you can just portage your opinions through a forest of giant, ancient fuck-yew trees.

'Jason Derulo': Really, you start every song with “Jaaaaaason DeRUlo”…You know what? If anyone knew who the fuck you were, or cared, you wouldn't have to start every song by qualifying it with who is singing it. This is like Matt Damon yelling MATT FUCKING DAMON at the start of a Matt Damon movie. Do you know why he doesn't have to do that? BECAUSE HE'S MATT FUCKING DAMON AND PEOPLE ACTUALLY REMEMBER HIS NAME. Fuck you Jason Derulo. Fuck you not only because I want to fed-ex you some balls (ground, 14-day shipping, no insurance) so you have a pair, but fuck you because your music is so bad, you are required to announce your presence at the beginning of every song, otherwise everyone would assume the song was sung by some guy name Keyshawn. Also you don't sing so much as you shit out of your face.

Konvict Music: Akon, you spent no time in jail. You strung together a bunch of separate sentences to total three years. Who else spent three years in prison, when combining various stints? LITERALLY EVERYONE, asshole. Even then, you aren’t a convict, you were arrested and jailed for low-grade weapons offences, like not having renewed your gun license. Cool, I did that on my 11th birthday because I couldn’t get to the licensing office. You might as well start every song with ‘Traffic Ticket’ or ‘Speeding’. As a youth who grew up in the US, there is literally no way you can be between 17-25 and not have spent several years in prison…Oh, but you did hard time? Perhaps your interpretation of it was hard time, but somehow I doubt the local jail cell and 65hrs of community service was hard time. Ask yourself these questions: did a latino try and penetrate me? Did several latinos try and penetrate me? At any given time, were there any number of latinos attempting to gain access to my rear guard? There is a common theme here: until you’ve been penetrated by a latino or close affiliate (like a spaniard?), you aren’t a convict. Also, music is spelt with an ‘S’, not a ‘Z’. Maybe you can you add ‘poor grammar’ to your wrap-sheet. 

Drake starting from the bottom: fact, Drake grew up in one of Toronto’s most affluent neighborhoods. Marketing your being black in Canada is like marketing a 142 ft yacht with ONLY one wine cellar… You’ve had a tough life. It must have been really fucking hard being on Degrassi the next generation, I hear the sandwich truck didn’t have grits. Oh wait, you’ve eaten fewer grits then me because I actually spent my childhood in the South. Maybe I should put out a record about…oh, I don’t know, chicken…grits…only living once. Maybe you only will live once, because I don’t think the world can tolerate a second round of your existence.

Robin Thicke: I have no grievances. We should all be so lucky to have a glimpse into what the man, the legend, Alan Thicke was like in his early thirties. I would pay excellent money to see Alan in his heyday. Fortunately I can just watch Robin Thicke blur lines here and there and all is right in my world.

Death is a holiday you can’t find the name for & Cold water on a non-locking nightstand

My grandfather has a nightstand by his bed in the hospital. This nightstand does not have a lock and as such seldom has a constant height. So it goes.

The man has been exported from his home, kidnapped by Germans and smuggled on boats. Most importantly, he’ll tell you, he raised my mother. This in itself is no great accomplishment as millions of people have raised millions of daughters; this one, however, was my mother and is thus afforded exceptional importance.

The mind-body gap prefacing death is all encompassing, when you can’t find words for your thoughts or thoughts to match your senses. Despite this, you can produce a single tear, welling up in your left eye. Analogy doesn’t cut it. When you speak of times past and people you once knew. You once knew them.

You once knew them. I can’t find the name for this Holiday…

My grandfather still knows all of us, by name and number and affliction and interest and height and color and such. The such is what gets me. Unique memories of individuals over a 90 year span. He would prefer I said ninety because this adds a mystique…a class that has sorely lacked since his heyday. 

A ninety year span with many memories. When he sees his daughter and my mom, he says he should live another year at least. Broken hearts subside to harsh realities, where he doesn’t remember my name and suddenly forgets where we are. The answers are in there, but we’ll never hear them again.

Death, I fear, I fancy. Death is exceptional relief from closed quarters…the mind-body-soul confusion. 

Exceptional experiences bounded by exceptional memories; its a shame the last request made will be for cold water, and even more shameful that this request will be placed upon a non-locking nightstand. All one ever wants is competence and predictability in a stand. In a place. Simile has no place here, its simply cold water on a sub-par apparatus.

So it goes.

"Son, what you need to do is lay out your plan for bike theft from a perimeter of 10 feet. These women will likely give you their bike so you can double up"

The thing about a night with new friends, is that you are never sure where it is going to take you. We started the night with some no-homo balsamic reductions and apple purée. As the night progressed through 42 herbs and spices, we found ourselves at the pub, where I proceeded to hi-ball nixon with a balled up vest to the mid region. Naturally, this set the tone for the night. 

Coming home from bar, it’s a natural reaction to want some pancakes, but ingredients are not always close at hand. 

one problem: butter. where do you get it? mechanical advantage. When in doubt, you follow two unsuspecting girls home, doing your best to not give off a rapey vibe. Ideally, you vocalize your plan to steal their bike so that when you steal it, it’s less of a shock. Plan actuated. As we doubled up on the steel panther, it occurred to that there was the expectation that we were going to put out for these girls. To quench their undying sexual aches, naturally, my compatriot bought the girls a lottery ticket and a caramilk bar… Because if there is one thing female sexuality likes, it’s not getting sexual validation. 

Anyway, after pointing out that the card had NO O’s, we high tailed it home, comparing moose calls along the way. 

Things I’ve learned tonight:

- sexual advances are best met with sex, not lottery tickets. 
- the mighty moose, noblest of creatures, does not make a noise that approximates GI tract failure.
- anything worth having is worth stealing a bike for, and promptly returning said bike.
- hot corners are best left to the professionals.
-women who want orgasms seldom want caramilk bars. 
- the coyote, second noblest creature next to the most noble moose, goes Woo Yip, Woo Yip, Woo Yip.

"Son, what you need to do is lay out your plan for bike theft from a perimeter of 10 feet. These women will likely give you their bike so you can double up"

The thing about a night with new friends, is that you are never sure where it is going to take you. We started the night with some no-homo balsamic reductions and apple purée. As the night progressed through 42 herbs and spices, we found ourselves at the pub, where I proceeded to hi-ball nixon with a balled up vest to the mid region. Naturally, this set the tone for the night.

Coming home from bar, it’s a natural reaction to want some pancakes, but ingredients are not always close at hand.

one problem: butter. where do you get it? mechanical advantage. When in doubt, you follow two unsuspecting girls home, doing your best to not give off a rapey vibe. Ideally, you vocalize your plan to steal their bike so that when you steal it, it’s less of a shock. Plan actuated. As we doubled up on the steel panther, it occurred to that there was the expectation that we were going to put out for these girls. To quench their undying sexual aches, naturally, my compatriot bought the girls a lottery ticket and a caramilk bar… Because if there is one thing female sexuality likes, it’s not getting sexual validation.

Anyway, after pointing out that the card had NO O’s, we high tailed it home, comparing moose calls along the way.

Things I’ve learned tonight:

- sexual advances are best met with sex, not lottery tickets.
- the mighty moose, noblest of creatures, does not make a noise that approximates GI tract failure.
- anything worth having is worth stealing a bike for, and promptly returning said bike.
- hot corners are best left to the professionals.
-women who want orgasms seldom want caramilk bars.
- the coyote, second noblest creature next to the most noble moose, goes Woo Yip, Woo Yip, Woo Yip.

When it’s a fine day to catch banana fish, you hunt marlin.

Deep dark secrets inside.

A sunrise you never wanted to see but apparently needed. Smokescreen clouds. I never liked the line here so I’m changing it.

It might be poetic. It likely isn’t.

Burn burn burn. Early hours, passing without recognition.

Sprinklers, lawn. The greens kept, early and often.

We drink to put the day behind us, but sometimes we live to see the next one come up.

Dawn. Sunglasses, back to square one. Pray you’ve learned something about yourself, lest your memories go to great waste.

Speedy cla cla claxton.

Call me pedantic, but the live version of Layla…. Really? Really? You start cheering and clapping 15 seconds after he lays the most noticeable chords in history? Like you didn’t know what song it would be? Collective douche fail

Banana hammock side profile

Lets talk about music festivals. Tonight was the Selah Sue show, and for $10 I got to see live music and watch my future wife sing her heart out. She might not be into me, on account of her being into understanding, inclusiveness and general acceptance. But I digress.

Why do festival goers feel the overwhelming urge to dress like ocean-going shit tankers? The flower head band, the high waisted everything that only serves to highlight frontbutt, giving you the appearance of having two full butts and making erectile achievement a near universal impossibility. When I go to a show I want two guarantees: a decent singer and a solid erection. If I can’t get these, what’s the point in going.

I’ve been working really hard lately. Here is a picture of a goose stepping owl. It’s really important to me, currently, to have a well rounded collection of owl photos. What they lack in grace and career stability, they more than make up for with innate owlness.

I’ve been working really hard lately. Here is a picture of a goose stepping owl. It’s really important to me, currently, to have a well rounded collection of owl photos. What they lack in grace and career stability, they more than make up for with innate owlness.

The dust will choke you blind

Ending credits. 82’ Lincoln. You drive down a city road…let’s say you’re leaving from Henderson, Nevada. You’re not sure how your presence resulted, or why you’re leaving. The important point is that you are.

The camera fades out, you’re potentially the hero. But maybe you aren’t. Did you ever consider that you would be the nightmare in your own lucidities? perhaps you would be the bad guy, the cadre of ne’re do wells.  The music fits, the scene fits. Does anyone ever ask the villain if this is the soundtrack they selected? is this the angle they wanted?

Boys. men. From Chicago. Then Joliet finds a whip and kills it.

AVZ is coming.

Celebrity. Smooth Operator. Women’s health advocate.

The thing about you {is that you are inconsequential}

Do you ever go out…in your old home town? Perhaps you meet girls, and guys, but more specifically girls… and your only thought is “you’re a 3 where I come from”. 

Does this make me a bad person?

No…it means they never left.

depth.

Tonight was multiple levels of my nightmare. Someone kept asking me if I knew Ken. No, friend, I don’t know Ken. I don’t know anyone because I live in a city with more than 43 people and I fucking like it that way.

Van Zorn out.