Thursday, March 30, 2006
is honesty what you want
Study fails to show healing power of prayer
"Prayer... the last refuge of a scoundrel." - Lisa Simpson
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"Prayer... the last refuge of a scoundrel." - Lisa Simpson
A generation without name, ripped and torn
Nothing to lose, nothing to gain
Nothing at all
And if you can't help yourself
Well take a look around you
When others need your time
You say it's time to go...it's your time
Angry words won't stop the fight
Two wrongs won't make it right
A new heart is what I need
Oh God, make it bleed
Is there nothing left...
-- Bono
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almost the last day
Yeah. March ends tomorrow.
Which makes it at the least ironic or at the most just plain fucking stupid that "March Madness" won't end until next week, but then again, I really don't give a fuck about college basketball.
I realize Stephen Colbert considers them to be one of the greatest threats facing America, and I can't say that I disagree with him, but I think that bears have a good idea with that whole hibernation sleeping through the winter months thing.
For the past two years, the winter months have brought death.
Last year it was Curtis and Chris. This year, my aunt and uncle, and news of Dani. Oh my dear darling departed Daniela. . .
Hell, I haven't even begun to get into that yet.
And I'm still not ready to do so. But soon I know that I will, I must.
Ever the optimist, I know a new dawn follows every dark anniversary. Life is good, life is grand. I have The Wife, and The Boy. I am truly a blessed and fortunate man. But at times that does little to fill the dark void of night after The Wife and The Boy have fallen asleep and I'm left awake and alone in the house with my thoughts and half a bottle of cheap vodka.
Perhaps I'll take my mind off death in the real world by going to spread some in a virtual one.
Paint it black, baby, paint it black.
But first, please join me in a toast. . .
To the brothas who ain't here.
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Which makes it at the least ironic or at the most just plain fucking stupid that "March Madness" won't end until next week, but then again, I really don't give a fuck about college basketball.
I realize Stephen Colbert considers them to be one of the greatest threats facing America, and I can't say that I disagree with him, but I think that bears have a good idea with that whole hibernation sleeping through the winter months thing.
For the past two years, the winter months have brought death.
Last year it was Curtis and Chris. This year, my aunt and uncle, and news of Dani. Oh my dear darling departed Daniela. . .
Hell, I haven't even begun to get into that yet.
And I'm still not ready to do so. But soon I know that I will, I must.
Ever the optimist, I know a new dawn follows every dark anniversary. Life is good, life is grand. I have The Wife, and The Boy. I am truly a blessed and fortunate man. But at times that does little to fill the dark void of night after The Wife and The Boy have fallen asleep and I'm left awake and alone in the house with my thoughts and half a bottle of cheap vodka.
Perhaps I'll take my mind off death in the real world by going to spread some in a virtual one.
Paint it black, baby, paint it black.
But first, please join me in a toast. . .
To the brothas who ain't here.
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Tuesday, March 28, 2006
dark anniversary
One year ago today.
Yep, it's been a whole fucking year.
Today I took a big step. I took back Rush.
I know, I know, it sounds silly, dorkish, and goofy. It does to me also. But none the less, it was a big step in the whole grieving and healing thing.
Rush was your band, Rush was my band, Rush was our band. As I said yes, silly, dorkish and outright goofy. But we were suburban teenage whiteboys growing up in the 1980's crawling 'cross the fringes of the city. We had to love them. It was like a mandate or something, to be cool or be cast out. Their music has always been inexorably intertwined with you, in both experience and memory.
Since all was said and done, after you were properly memorialized with mezcal, and with great ambivalence I sadly accepted my curse, I have not listened to their music. I put away the CD's and deleted the playlists.
I just wasn't ready.
Too many hands on my time
Too many feelings --
Too many things on my mind
But like I said, it's been a year. It's time I got over it. Yeah, your still just as fucking dead you idiot, my brother, my friend, but I'm still very much alive.
So today, on this dark anniversary, I reloaded Rush on the ipod and hit the gym after school. I put it on shuffle and pushed, pulled, stepped, ran, and pedaled while borderline blasting out my ears. When I felt the tears begin to swell I squelched them and pushed myself a little harder until beads of sweat fell down my face in their place. When I felt the anger I just went faster.
It was oddly soul cleansing and fucking cathartic.
And probably long overdue.
I can honestly say that there has not been one single day out of the past year when I have not at least momentarily thought of you.
And you.
It does not matter who came first, either in deed or memory. Somedays it's one, some the other. A lyric, a verse, a scene, a clip, a place, a time, a moment, a memory. . . It doesn't matter the cause. Something happens, and poof. . . there you or you are.
The other inevitably follows. You are both eternally linked together in my mind by your ultimate act of foolish self-centered vanity.
But that's putting it nicely. You were both fucking idiots who shot yourselves in the head.
So my dearly departed ones, one year later, any regrets? Have you found what you lacked? Have you found what you're looking for?
I hope so.
You are both fondly remembered, greatly loved, and terribly missed.
As for me. . .
. . . well, I guess you can say I'm one step closer to knowing.
|
Yep, it's been a whole fucking year.
Today I took a big step. I took back Rush.
I know, I know, it sounds silly, dorkish, and goofy. It does to me also. But none the less, it was a big step in the whole grieving and healing thing.
Rush was your band, Rush was my band, Rush was our band. As I said yes, silly, dorkish and outright goofy. But we were suburban teenage whiteboys growing up in the 1980's crawling 'cross the fringes of the city. We had to love them. It was like a mandate or something, to be cool or be cast out. Their music has always been inexorably intertwined with you, in both experience and memory.
Since all was said and done, after you were properly memorialized with mezcal, and with great ambivalence I sadly accepted my curse, I have not listened to their music. I put away the CD's and deleted the playlists.
I just wasn't ready.
Too many hands on my time
Too many feelings --
Too many things on my mind
But like I said, it's been a year. It's time I got over it. Yeah, your still just as fucking dead you idiot, my brother, my friend, but I'm still very much alive.
So today, on this dark anniversary, I reloaded Rush on the ipod and hit the gym after school. I put it on shuffle and pushed, pulled, stepped, ran, and pedaled while borderline blasting out my ears. When I felt the tears begin to swell I squelched them and pushed myself a little harder until beads of sweat fell down my face in their place. When I felt the anger I just went faster.
It was oddly soul cleansing and fucking cathartic.
And probably long overdue.
I can honestly say that there has not been one single day out of the past year when I have not at least momentarily thought of you.
And you.
It does not matter who came first, either in deed or memory. Somedays it's one, some the other. A lyric, a verse, a scene, a clip, a place, a time, a moment, a memory. . . It doesn't matter the cause. Something happens, and poof. . . there you or you are.
The other inevitably follows. You are both eternally linked together in my mind by your ultimate act of foolish self-centered vanity.
But that's putting it nicely. You were both fucking idiots who shot yourselves in the head.
So my dearly departed ones, one year later, any regrets? Have you found what you lacked? Have you found what you're looking for?
I hope so.
You are both fondly remembered, greatly loved, and terribly missed.
As for me. . .
. . . well, I guess you can say I'm one step closer to knowing.
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Thursday, March 23, 2006
see you in hell
I've had better days.
Dani's dead.
There. I've just come right out and said it.
But I think I'm okay with it. I think. Maybe. Maybe not. I just don't fucking know right now.
"Dani?" you may be asking yourself right now, "Dani? No, not Dani."
Yes sir, you are correct, my dear reader. Not that Dani. And shame on you for your less than wholesome thoughts. And it's not the thoughts about that Dani being dead that will doom me. The greater risk to my soul or whatever if you believe in all that stuff, in regard to that Dani are my thoughts about the things she does while very much alive.
I'm talkin' about an entirely different Dani.
You may remember her as the reluctant, grumpy, then sleeping bridesmaid in the wheelchair at Our Wedding. She was one of my students.
She was only 12.
And it's not like she just died, like today or anything. She died last December.
I just learned about it today.
Through an email.
And like you, my dear reader, I thought that breaking-up via email to be the epitome of exceptionally poor taste. (assuming I heard that part of the story correctly, so sorry Spew, that totally bites)
But I heard a rumour that necessitated I ask a question via email because that remains my only open communication channel. It was answered almost as quickly as it was surprisingly.
Yes. The rumour is true. Dani is dead.
Fuck.
Dani was, is, oh. . . I don't fucking want to get into this right now. So I'm just not gonna.
But Dani. . .
Dani was, is, the reason for everything.
Because of my involvement with Dani, I met The Wife.
Because of Dani, The Wife and I were inspired and at least in part earned the confidence to open our hearts and home to The Boy.
Because of Dani, my life took an unforseen, if not entirely unexpected turn. It was a turn very much for the better. . .
My further thoughts on the subject are currently a boiling frothing mentally confused cauldron of anger and grief. So much so that tonight I will write of it no more.
But fear not my dear reader, I doubtless soon will. Oh yes, I soon will.
To help clear my head, after tucking both The Wife and The Boy snugly into bed I cruised down to the 'hood convenience store to buy beer and some smokes.
Yes. That's right. Beer and cigarettes. On a school night.
Lest you be tempted to cast judgement, please allow me to remind you: some of us pray, some of us meditate and think things very deeply, and some of us just flat out plain wanna get fucked up. Go ask Alice what the dormouse said, feed your head, feed your head.
So I goes down the local store, right? I gets my beer and goes to check-out. I asks the man for some smokes to go with my beer.
The total of my purchase?
$6.66.
"$6.66? Shit. The Number of The Beast."
The Middle Eastern and therefore presumably Muslim man who rang up my purchase seemed annoyingly amused at my exclamation of suprise and shock with the above statement. He gratiously knocked a penny off, making my total $6.65.
But I saw the cash register. I know the true value of my purchase, the Price of The Beast.
Still reeling from that spiritual kick in the testicles, I step out of the store and collapse into the driver's seat, key in hand.
I start the car. The radio is on the local AM talk station. I hear George Noory say something about how his next guest is going to talk about the Antichrist.
My total? The Antichrist?
Holy fuck.
Coincidence? Or synchronicity run amok?
Well, if I'm going in a bucket, at least I'm enjoying the ride.
Mostly.
Dani. . .
|
Dani's dead.
There. I've just come right out and said it.
But I think I'm okay with it. I think. Maybe. Maybe not. I just don't fucking know right now.
"Dani?" you may be asking yourself right now, "Dani? No, not Dani."
Yes sir, you are correct, my dear reader. Not that Dani. And shame on you for your less than wholesome thoughts. And it's not the thoughts about that Dani being dead that will doom me. The greater risk to my soul or whatever if you believe in all that stuff, in regard to that Dani are my thoughts about the things she does while very much alive.
I'm talkin' about an entirely different Dani.
You may remember her as the reluctant, grumpy, then sleeping bridesmaid in the wheelchair at Our Wedding. She was one of my students.
She was only 12.
And it's not like she just died, like today or anything. She died last December.
I just learned about it today.
Through an email.
And like you, my dear reader, I thought that breaking-up via email to be the epitome of exceptionally poor taste. (assuming I heard that part of the story correctly, so sorry Spew, that totally bites)
But I heard a rumour that necessitated I ask a question via email because that remains my only open communication channel. It was answered almost as quickly as it was surprisingly.
Yes. The rumour is true. Dani is dead.
Fuck.
Dani was, is, oh. . . I don't fucking want to get into this right now. So I'm just not gonna.
But Dani. . .
Dani was, is, the reason for everything.
Because of my involvement with Dani, I met The Wife.
Because of Dani, The Wife and I were inspired and at least in part earned the confidence to open our hearts and home to The Boy.
Because of Dani, my life took an unforseen, if not entirely unexpected turn. It was a turn very much for the better. . .
My further thoughts on the subject are currently a boiling frothing mentally confused cauldron of anger and grief. So much so that tonight I will write of it no more.
But fear not my dear reader, I doubtless soon will. Oh yes, I soon will.
To help clear my head, after tucking both The Wife and The Boy snugly into bed I cruised down to the 'hood convenience store to buy beer and some smokes.
Yes. That's right. Beer and cigarettes. On a school night.
Lest you be tempted to cast judgement, please allow me to remind you: some of us pray, some of us meditate and think things very deeply, and some of us just flat out plain wanna get fucked up. Go ask Alice what the dormouse said, feed your head, feed your head.
So I goes down the local store, right? I gets my beer and goes to check-out. I asks the man for some smokes to go with my beer.
The total of my purchase?
$6.66.
"$6.66? Shit. The Number of The Beast."
The Middle Eastern and therefore presumably Muslim man who rang up my purchase seemed annoyingly amused at my exclamation of suprise and shock with the above statement. He gratiously knocked a penny off, making my total $6.65.
But I saw the cash register. I know the true value of my purchase, the Price of The Beast.
Still reeling from that spiritual kick in the testicles, I step out of the store and collapse into the driver's seat, key in hand.
I start the car. The radio is on the local AM talk station. I hear George Noory say something about how his next guest is going to talk about the Antichrist.
My total? The Antichrist?
Holy fuck.
Coincidence? Or synchronicity run amok?
Well, if I'm going in a bucket, at least I'm enjoying the ride.
Mostly.
Dani. . .
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Sunday, March 19, 2006
fight the power
last day
On the Sunday morning sidewalk,Sunday morning coming down indeed.
Wishing, Lord, that I was stoned.
'Cos there's something in a Sunday,
Makes a body feel alone.
And there's nothin' short of dyin',
Half as lonesome as the sound,
On the sleepin' city sidewalks:
Sunday mornin' comin' down.
- Kris Kristofferson
It is Sunday, the last day of Spring Break 2006. And as it is the last day, unlike poor Mr. Kristofferson above, I'm not just wishing.
The Wife is still sleeping. The Boy is still sleeping.
I have a fresh poured pint of Guinness in hand.
I opted to enjoy a quiet morning of relative solitude sitting in the comfortably cool damp air and listening to the morning songs of the doves and birds play an everchanging melody over the omnipresent rhythm of a gently falling rain.
Holy Bejesus! And how unlike Mr. Kristofferson and not having to deal with that whole just wishing thing.
Sweet.
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Friday, March 17, 2006
and by the way
2:30 or so in the a.m.
Officially, St. Patrick's Day! So have a Guinness (or possibly 4 or 5) and a good one!
I just stepped back in from steppin' out for a smoke before I go to bed. Nah, don't worry, my dear reader, not picking the habit back up, just indulging in a little Spring Break decadence and enjoying the adolescent feeling of illicit thrill that sneaking out into the driveway to have a smoke still elicits.
"Come Monday, it'll be all right," is how I believe Mr. Buffet sings it.
The evening breeze carried a band, rocking way to hard to be rocking legally at this time of night. Ah, 'tis the middle of SXSW. There's music o' plenty in the cafes at night, but the chattering din of the slithering hordes of drunken music industry weasels drowns and squelches the revolution in the air.
Ah. . . but the sound of some cat rippin' a solo over some grungy blues Sabbath meets Skynyrd groove. . . blocks, if not miles away. . . at 2:30 in the morning. . .
21 years and counting. . . over half my life thus far. . .
I do still so love this town.
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Officially, St. Patrick's Day! So have a Guinness (or possibly 4 or 5) and a good one!
I just stepped back in from steppin' out for a smoke before I go to bed. Nah, don't worry, my dear reader, not picking the habit back up, just indulging in a little Spring Break decadence and enjoying the adolescent feeling of illicit thrill that sneaking out into the driveway to have a smoke still elicits.
"Come Monday, it'll be all right," is how I believe Mr. Buffet sings it.
The evening breeze carried a band, rocking way to hard to be rocking legally at this time of night. Ah, 'tis the middle of SXSW. There's music o' plenty in the cafes at night, but the chattering din of the slithering hordes of drunken music industry weasels drowns and squelches the revolution in the air.
Ah. . . but the sound of some cat rippin' a solo over some grungy blues Sabbath meets Skynyrd groove. . . blocks, if not miles away. . . at 2:30 in the morning. . .
21 years and counting. . . over half my life thus far. . .
I do still so love this town.
|
all i am saying
. . . is give peace a chance, yes, yes! I know, all you need is love and all that. Granted. And so this is Xmas and I know just what I've done.
It's no secret that I'm kinda a hippie. I totally get it.
But there's just something about this story that makes me wanna grab the fucking TV producer by the throat, and yes, I'll be tempted, but I will not so quickly blow my wad and satiate my desire by crushing his neck. Instead, I will snatch him up by his gah'danged ears and give him a proper flogging while he frantically yet foolishly attempts to slither away, like the vile worm that he is, through pools of his own excrement.
Well. . .
Some things just aren't right.
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It's no secret that I'm kinda a hippie. I totally get it.
But there's just something about this story that makes me wanna grab the fucking TV producer by the throat, and yes, I'll be tempted, but I will not so quickly blow my wad and satiate my desire by crushing his neck. Instead, I will snatch him up by his gah'danged ears and give him a proper flogging while he frantically yet foolishly attempts to slither away, like the vile worm that he is, through pools of his own excrement.
Well. . .
Some things just aren't right.
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Sunday, March 12, 2006
two years and counting
"What a long strange trip it's been" - The Grateful Dead
Wait, my dear reader, just wait. Before you go all freakin' that the Good Doctor Polymer Noyz has finally lost it and is hardcore tripping quotin' Jerry man Jerry, let's all pause, take a deep breath and just effing chill for a sec, okay?
Ready. . . inhale. . . hold it. . . . hold it. . . exhale. . . repeat. . .
Granted that's a better exercise if you've got a bong in your hand, but somewhat unfortunately that is not currently the case.
Today is an anniversary. Hooray!
Well, more technically, last night was, but let's not split hairs. Two years ago, on this very morning, I blissed out happily but quite unexpectedly woke up and found myself a father. It is a tale as lengthy as it is full of meaningless drama and worthless government officials.
If, my dear reader, you need to refresh your memory and you have some time to fill with my words of hopeful wit and wisdom, then here is a good place to start.
A more comprehensive update will hopefully be forthcoming. Briefly, The Boy kicks ass and continues to do so, continually exceeding our wildest expectations. He is an amazing child. He has my heart, my mind, my soul. He is doubtlessly an angel.
As for the rest of it, The Evil Bitch and All That, well. . . Let's just give everybody involved a big fat fucking zero. Nada, nothing, zilch. Nothing has happened.
Say 'um, that reminds me, I need to finish this and get started on another of what I intend to become an annual anniversary letter to our District Attorney reminding him of how badly his office fucked this whole thing up. I know he's a busy man and all, trying to bring down this Rat Bastard for which I applaud his efforts, but in theory everyone is still equal under the law, and The Bitch is still out there.
Bitter? Angry? Yeah, just a little. The System failed. Yes,The Boy is safe and thriving, but it's been two fucking years and he has not yet received the justice he deserves. Those who's job it was to advocate for him failed miserably. Bastards, all of them.
While I continue to wait for nothing to happen, I will do what I have always done, marvel at The Boy, and bless my good fortune to have him in my life. Never forget my dear reader, why this whole thing started. . .
All for The Love of The Boy
|
Wait, my dear reader, just wait. Before you go all freakin' that the Good Doctor Polymer Noyz has finally lost it and is hardcore tripping quotin' Jerry man Jerry, let's all pause, take a deep breath and just effing chill for a sec, okay?
Ready. . . inhale. . . hold it. . . . hold it. . . exhale. . . repeat. . .
Granted that's a better exercise if you've got a bong in your hand, but somewhat unfortunately that is not currently the case.
Today is an anniversary. Hooray!
Well, more technically, last night was, but let's not split hairs. Two years ago, on this very morning, I blissed out happily but quite unexpectedly woke up and found myself a father. It is a tale as lengthy as it is full of meaningless drama and worthless government officials.
If, my dear reader, you need to refresh your memory and you have some time to fill with my words of hopeful wit and wisdom, then here is a good place to start.
A more comprehensive update will hopefully be forthcoming. Briefly, The Boy kicks ass and continues to do so, continually exceeding our wildest expectations. He is an amazing child. He has my heart, my mind, my soul. He is doubtlessly an angel.
As for the rest of it, The Evil Bitch and All That, well. . . Let's just give everybody involved a big fat fucking zero. Nada, nothing, zilch. Nothing has happened.
Say 'um, that reminds me, I need to finish this and get started on another of what I intend to become an annual anniversary letter to our District Attorney reminding him of how badly his office fucked this whole thing up. I know he's a busy man and all, trying to bring down this Rat Bastard for which I applaud his efforts, but in theory everyone is still equal under the law, and The Bitch is still out there.
Bitter? Angry? Yeah, just a little. The System failed. Yes,The Boy is safe and thriving, but it's been two fucking years and he has not yet received the justice he deserves. Those who's job it was to advocate for him failed miserably. Bastards, all of them.
While I continue to wait for nothing to happen, I will do what I have always done, marvel at The Boy, and bless my good fortune to have him in my life. Never forget my dear reader, why this whole thing started. . .
All for The Love of The Boy
|
Thursday, March 09, 2006
shopping with nazis
My dear reader, I simply must share with you the following tale about an adventure. . . no, that's much too strong a word, it was more of an incident. . . no that's not it either. . .
Alright, it 's really nothing exciting at all. It's just me prattling on about some fellow I saw in the grocery store early this evening, whilst making a quick stop to pick up a thing or two on my way home from another busy day.
So I'm standing sideways in the aisle, right, you know, like how you stand when your looking at something on the shelf, comparing prices and all the shit.
"What were you looking at?" you might very well be asking yourself now.
Well, the tastes of my personal consumption are just not your damned business, at least not for the purposes of this story, so don't ask again.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see this. . . I see this, um, hairstyle approaching. Yes, that's right, I first noticed the hairstyle. Yes, that's right a hairstyle. It was rather unique, yes, but one we've all seen dozens, if not hundreds of times before. It was kind of cross between a bad part and a comb-over.
Then I notice the mustache, nostril to lip full and bushy, yet cropped close on the sides, scarcely wider than the width of the nose.
He continues to walk down the aisle towards me. I casually turn his direction, so as to discretely get a better look while acting like I'm just walking down the aisle, still looking for an item.
Something vaguely familiar. . . wearing non-descript neutral color pants with a nicely tucked and ironed short sleeve plaid shirt, fully buttoned up. His hair and mustache is dark to greyish, with a salt and pepper look to it. Do I know this guy from years past? Something definitely familiar.
He get's closer, his eyes appear to be a cold blue to gray, his cheeks seem slightly sunken.
Holy fucking shit. I do know this guy. Well, not personally, but we've all seen his fucking picture.
It's Adolph fucking Hitler.
Adolph Hitler just passed me in the bread aisle right past the deli of my local grocery store.
Okay, so it wasn't really THE Hitler, 'cause he'd be what, around 115 and it's doubtful that even if he faked his death and escaped to Argentina he'd still be alive. Unless he found some secret Fountain of Youth crap in all that weird creepy mystical shit he was into.
But for the purposes of this, let's remain reasonable and assume that's not the case. It wasn't really the Hitler, just some guy who happens to look like what a middle-aged Hitler might look like if he were to be walking down the bread aisle of my local grocery store.
This raised a really giant question in my mind.
What the fuck is wrong with this man's friends and family?
I mean really.
Let's start with the assumption that as this Hitlerish fellow is most likely a middle-aged American man, we have no choice but to forgive his complete lack of style-sense and of his appearance. He is completely oblivious as to how he may appear and subsequently be perceived by others.
A middle-aged American man that actually possesses a sense of how he appears to the rest of the world is a rare thing indeed. If you doubt me, I suggest you spend a few hours at a Wal-Mart on a Saturday afternoon, both as punishment for doubting me and to provide evidence of my point.
So the man is not responsible. But doesn't he have family, a spouse, a child, a neighbor, a friend? Is there no one in this man's life who has either the courage or a solid enough relationship with him to say, "Hey Bob, you might want to get a new hairstyle or shave the mustache or something. You're starting to look a little like the most hated and evil man in all of history."
If not, well, that's just plain fucking sad.
Then I had a second, scarier thought.
What if he does know?
What if he is totally aware of his resemblence to Hitler? That's not a look you would be prone to accidentally cultivate. Holy shit! He knows he looks like Hitler because he wants to look like Hitler. What if underneath his middle class insurance salesman attire he is a freaky tattooed neo-Nazi white supremist bastard? What if this man is a fucking Nazi! Fuck! I'm shopping with fucking Nazis!
Either way, in my mind, that poor dude is just plain fucked.
|
Alright, it 's really nothing exciting at all. It's just me prattling on about some fellow I saw in the grocery store early this evening, whilst making a quick stop to pick up a thing or two on my way home from another busy day.
So I'm standing sideways in the aisle, right, you know, like how you stand when your looking at something on the shelf, comparing prices and all the shit.
"What were you looking at?" you might very well be asking yourself now.
Well, the tastes of my personal consumption are just not your damned business, at least not for the purposes of this story, so don't ask again.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see this. . . I see this, um, hairstyle approaching. Yes, that's right, I first noticed the hairstyle. Yes, that's right a hairstyle. It was rather unique, yes, but one we've all seen dozens, if not hundreds of times before. It was kind of cross between a bad part and a comb-over.
Then I notice the mustache, nostril to lip full and bushy, yet cropped close on the sides, scarcely wider than the width of the nose.
He continues to walk down the aisle towards me. I casually turn his direction, so as to discretely get a better look while acting like I'm just walking down the aisle, still looking for an item.
Something vaguely familiar. . . wearing non-descript neutral color pants with a nicely tucked and ironed short sleeve plaid shirt, fully buttoned up. His hair and mustache is dark to greyish, with a salt and pepper look to it. Do I know this guy from years past? Something definitely familiar.
He get's closer, his eyes appear to be a cold blue to gray, his cheeks seem slightly sunken.
Holy fucking shit. I do know this guy. Well, not personally, but we've all seen his fucking picture.
It's Adolph fucking Hitler.
Adolph Hitler just passed me in the bread aisle right past the deli of my local grocery store.
Okay, so it wasn't really THE Hitler, 'cause he'd be what, around 115 and it's doubtful that even if he faked his death and escaped to Argentina he'd still be alive. Unless he found some secret Fountain of Youth crap in all that weird creepy mystical shit he was into.
But for the purposes of this, let's remain reasonable and assume that's not the case. It wasn't really the Hitler, just some guy who happens to look like what a middle-aged Hitler might look like if he were to be walking down the bread aisle of my local grocery store.
This raised a really giant question in my mind.
What the fuck is wrong with this man's friends and family?
I mean really.
Let's start with the assumption that as this Hitlerish fellow is most likely a middle-aged American man, we have no choice but to forgive his complete lack of style-sense and of his appearance. He is completely oblivious as to how he may appear and subsequently be perceived by others.
A middle-aged American man that actually possesses a sense of how he appears to the rest of the world is a rare thing indeed. If you doubt me, I suggest you spend a few hours at a Wal-Mart on a Saturday afternoon, both as punishment for doubting me and to provide evidence of my point.
So the man is not responsible. But doesn't he have family, a spouse, a child, a neighbor, a friend? Is there no one in this man's life who has either the courage or a solid enough relationship with him to say, "Hey Bob, you might want to get a new hairstyle or shave the mustache or something. You're starting to look a little like the most hated and evil man in all of history."
If not, well, that's just plain fucking sad.
Then I had a second, scarier thought.
What if he does know?
What if he is totally aware of his resemblence to Hitler? That's not a look you would be prone to accidentally cultivate. Holy shit! He knows he looks like Hitler because he wants to look like Hitler. What if underneath his middle class insurance salesman attire he is a freaky tattooed neo-Nazi white supremist bastard? What if this man is a fucking Nazi! Fuck! I'm shopping with fucking Nazis!
Either way, in my mind, that poor dude is just plain fucked.
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Sunday, March 05, 2006
life's little pleasures
Friday, March 03, 2006
an honest query
As a fairly to incredibly liberal leaning college educated white professional living a modest if not quite as "urban" lifestyle as my neighbors and I delude ourselves into believing, I realize that my question may rightly or wrongly open myself up to the potential charge of racial insensitivity or outright political incorrectness.
Oh well.
If an honest and open discussion of racial issues may possibly offend you, then please my dear reader, stop reading, as that is certainly neither my hope nor intention.
While I frequently do attempt to knock on boundries and perhaps incense, insult, or provoke, that is definitely not currently the case.
My question is one of simple honest, if moderately inebriated, curiousity.
So if you have not been scared off by my words of warning, well then, I do have a question. So let's proceed. . .
I just watched the 37th Annual NAACP Image Awards.
Well, okay. . . in the interest of honesty and full disclosure, I didn't really watch them.
More accurately, I fell asleep on the couch while the TV was on the channel that was broadcasting the award ceremony.
Please credit my lack of attentiveness to the three Baby A's margarita dinner I previously consumed and not to the program's entertaining merits or lack thereof.
But still, I did manage to see enough to generate my question.
Dave Chappelle inspired my question with the "racial draft" sketch.
I just watched Carlos Santana receive an award inducting him into the "NAACP Hall of Fame".
Um. . . Carlos Santana? Into the NAACP Hall of Fame?
Did I miss the draft?
When did Carlos Santana become black?
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Oh well.
If an honest and open discussion of racial issues may possibly offend you, then please my dear reader, stop reading, as that is certainly neither my hope nor intention.
While I frequently do attempt to knock on boundries and perhaps incense, insult, or provoke, that is definitely not currently the case.
My question is one of simple honest, if moderately inebriated, curiousity.
So if you have not been scared off by my words of warning, well then, I do have a question. So let's proceed. . .
I just watched the 37th Annual NAACP Image Awards.
Well, okay. . . in the interest of honesty and full disclosure, I didn't really watch them.
More accurately, I fell asleep on the couch while the TV was on the channel that was broadcasting the award ceremony.
Please credit my lack of attentiveness to the three Baby A's margarita dinner I previously consumed and not to the program's entertaining merits or lack thereof.
But still, I did manage to see enough to generate my question.
Dave Chappelle inspired my question with the "racial draft" sketch.
I just watched Carlos Santana receive an award inducting him into the "NAACP Hall of Fame".
Um. . . Carlos Santana? Into the NAACP Hall of Fame?
Did I miss the draft?
When did Carlos Santana become black?
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Thursday, March 02, 2006
happy anniversary
Wow.
Two years and still going.
Please, my dear reader, join me and raise a toast to where this began.
As always, I thank you for your support.
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Two years and still going.
Please, my dear reader, join me and raise a toast to where this began.
As always, I thank you for your support.
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