Soft edges, or I don't live today (maybe tomorrow)

Terry Jones is stuck in my butt. Like right up in there, and he hurts. I find him and then I gotta pick him out and that hurts even worse. He’s always showing up at the worst times too. My doctor has no advice other than to suggest that I not go anywhere near a cable news camera or I risk a serious infection of asshole. I guess I should clarify; Terry Jones, as in The Terry Jones (the psychopathic pastor from Florida) is not in my butt. I’ve just named the dirty little wads of TP that get caught up there after him (sorta’ like little prayers I can crush down the drain with my heel). Even if you’re dumb enough to agree with his “anit-islamic” sentiment – the limp prick still burned a book! When did that become a good idea? Yet, Terry Jones is effective – and what I mean to say is that Terry Jones inspired me a great deal. I’ve had a vision. A vision of America, the United States, the greatest country God could imagine, (whatever flavor of crazy you prefer), as my butt - America as a giant butt. You see, there’s the left and the right, both fairly benign when taken alone, but where the two shall meet things get a little dirty; this cleavage of darkness, crevasse of reason, black hole, has destroyed all sanity and intelligent discourse. Most of us reside somewhere on the rolling expanse of either hemisphere bordering this great valley, but as science has proven a positive cannot exist without its negative. Where these two regions of ideology are supple and full of interesting ideas, a mighty fault line divides the pair where they meet, and typically nothing you’d really want to hold onto comes out of there. The big problem is that certain individuals live there in the valley and spew idiocy like napalm–we all get burned. You already know about Terry, but Palin has a ranch, Jon Kyl just moved in along with Limbaugh, Reagan is buried there, Bush kept a summer home, and I’ve heard rumors that Obama is looking for a time share.  Suffice it to say it’s been very difficult getting clean – these phonies hang in there, and hypocrisy is sticky. I’m leaving for Europe in the morning and I’ll admit it – I don’t know if I should defect or wax.

A Life of Radiant Desperation

Men of boys or some reference; Ishmael, or Salinger’s rebel if you prefer (at what age did you read it ‘cause it matters). We are these things. I’m some kind of ignorant infant in a swarm of older boys holding to me to rules of a game I didn’t know I was playing. There’s time on the clock and I have no choice but to run the ball down the field. So sad. I would like to speak to people as they deserve it, but that’s a foul.  I would like to live, or imagine myself to live, without contradicting myself but it’s an obvious prerequisite to get on the field. I can see men on the tv! Men in holes bringing out black gold - sensitive stoicism. I think I can score some points here. We must succumb to the rules of our game. One rule: complete and impenetrable devotion to the ironic duplicity of the game – replacing religious tyranny with democratic ultra violence. Benefit the youth by sacrificing their bodies, and the elders will reflect (and audience is entertained).  The teams’ been on the field a long time and I can hear some string music; just one musician, very small and far away in the distance – this tune is for all the whiners. You never grow up and if you think you did you failed.  Read this – players quit everyday, but not mine. I’m sorry for apologizing for your loss, because I don’t get it, it’s not my loss. I’m sorry for mine when it comes, and you won’t get it. We never will. I’m just getting into the second quarter, and coach hasn’t made his speech yet and I got nothing to go on, so I think the best thing to do is hustle. We play through, and our game gets better or it doesn’t. The field gets bigger and the players faster, but I’m getting help - I’m playing in the ref’s blind spot. 

Wash your privates twice behind the ears

I hear alot of things. Stories and rumors. The big problem is that it's all good. Every story, no matter how poorly communicated, is worth something. Granted the better the storyteller the greater the impact/meaning/effect of the story - we get this. I find that my taste inhibits me, more often than not, from taking in a good story. I'm too concerned with the effect of the communicator; his/her presence and theater. Homer could tell you a shit parable and you'll listen, Jerry down the street could express the great American epic and you won't hear him. Jerry is a crap storyteller. But Jerry's story might be pretty good. I have to feel for Jerry. It's not his fault that he can't speak for himself, but it's just that I want to hear something with some character, give it to me good. Jerry has things to say, but he's so dumb it doesn't work. That's what frightens me. We'll gather for our storytellers. If you tell it, people will listen. Right now thirteen year-old white boys have captured our attention. I'm so scared - and my cave isn't dark enough to block out this sound. 

Things to meet in a Room

Jerry wore a cowboy hat. Beneath that a patrolman's cap, tuxedo jacket, brown paisley belt, checkered slacks and a black pair of hushpuppies. Susie wore ribbons. A pink tee shirt with "Male Gaze" in black block lettering printed across the chest, cut off jeans and two mismatched flip-flops. They had left their sunglasses at home. Every piece of fashion carried meaning, signs for others to read, and for Jerry and Susie the pieces added up significantly. Problem - fashion's capital is trend, and the TV broke so they got nothing to go on. Blair wears no hair. White cotton ties over yellow dress shirts, balloon pants and well-kept boots. Susie goes home with Blair, not because Blair has any greater quality than Jerry, but because Jerry wore black shoes and a brown belt without irony. Susie doesn't need the TV to tell her to trust her instinct - she got out as fast as she could.  Jerry has since fixed the TV and Susie and Blair moved in together - they got the last cold water flat in the city.

The Angel of Fair Play pleads the 5th.

A boy fell from a tree. It was an easy way up, and even easier way down. He didn’t have to work at it. The boy didn’t want to cry till help came. Dad was an inventor and the boy had a patented face. Dad thought it was a good move - a unique item, especially in his culture. Problem was the product broke and no one pays for busted goods. Dad didn’t know all this of course; he was on a sales trip, chasing clients and investors. Dad had an excellent pitch; he talked about obedience and adaptability. Most people, when sitting down with him, wanted a piece.  The boy thought about getting up but it didn’t make sense for his legs so he looked back up at the tree and watching it sway violently he got scared. Dad got home and saw the boy on the ground. He had no choice so he went inside and made some calls. Dad never came out the back of the house again. The earth ate the boy, it took awhile, but it happened. Dad lost some clients but he said "a good inventor never succumbs to failure." Many years later in a horrible storm the boy’s tree fell through the dad’s house destroying the property. The storm hit pretty bad and in the morning all the cops and fireman were there helping people out of the wreckage and looking for survivors.  They all said it was the worst storm in years, like some kind of vengeance drove it. Dad watched the news from his motel-room; he was selling 3 new inventions 4 towns over.

The Value of a Good Cry

I spoke to my Uncle last night. He's dead – three years gone, so I had to buy the first two rounds and the third was free. I came in to his house, a small bar at the last stop on the train, and he was on the wall.  Black and white, a few dirty finger prints all mounted behind glass in a faux gilded frame – he never blinked. I kissed the picture and spoke with the survivors, most of them knew me from before but I didn’t remember them. Something harder might have been more appropriate but I drank the ale –it wasn’t the cheapest option on the menu. I played his music, old crooners, rock ‘n roll from the 70’s, and a gnarled voiced carnie. I don’t think he regrets his death - he only left behind people that love him, but he doesn’t know that, he doesn’t know anything any more. Death or drink made me feel romantic about all of this – not sure which. Romantic about all the invisible men in the sky – they’re unhelpful most of the time except for Hermes. When the sun goes down Hermes is left to his own devices, bound only by his will. He carried a message for me and in the most timely of manners I got my response. I can’t tell you what I heard but soon I’m going back to that place to drink beneath my Uncle’s simple altar. I made my prayers last night and small sacrifices will be due in the future but for now it’s all paid up.

A smart trap

Eyeliner is difficult to remove. At the train station Sunday night a woman approached me - she looked mid-twenties and attractive - my eyes were black. She said she was a writer/producer and very interested in westerns. "Did you see the new Coen Brother's film" - "Ah, did you see the original?" - "Oh, did you read the book?" "I said, "Jeff Bridge's eye-patch was excellent, very believable; a ruff piece of leather." She thought about that and smartly asked where did the shoot happen. I told her it was the convent up the street, talk to Father Jim he's got the details. "Cool," she goes "Som- " And I left her on the platform, the train was here, I was tired with a grey face and black eyes and I needed to wash. The eyeliner didn't come off in one, it took a few attempts and I'm not sure I had the right tools around. It's fun making movies and changing your face for people, it seems honest because the lie is so loud.