Sunday, November 24

Inappropriate and Offensive

Last night before going out and hitting the clubs I went to Hooters for some.. food. My basic plan was to get in some quick pre-prowl nourishment so I'd have something in my belly to work off when I started throwing down.

November in Florida isn't maybe as cold as other places in the country, but the wind was up, which made the air just chilly enough to be uncomfortable. Jacket weather. Or in the case of the waitresses at the place I went to, sweatshirt weather. This proved to be an strange fashion choice, considering that they were still all wearing the tiny orange ass pants like they usually do.

So, with the winter winds more or less removing the regular scenic elements, I decided to turn my attention to one of the twenty billion televisions in the place and catch up on some college football while I waited for my food.

And that's when I noticed that every TV was playing the same thing:

     Touched by An Angel.

Covered up Hooters girls is one thing, but Della Reese pretending to be a messenger from God is quite another. I mean, there were children in that restaurant.. what the hell were they thinking?



Wednesday, November 20

Snooze You Lose, Dylan

Last night I had this really weird Tchaikovsky dream where I was in this grand hall and the toys all came to life. The place was suddenly filled with all the latest dolls and action figures, but instead of going to war against the rats, the whole thing sorta turned into a bizzare sort of singles bar scene.

Before I knew it I was handed a small, empty plastic cup and an undercooked cookie from an Easy Bake oven. The doll serving the cookies gave me a wink, so I tipped her an extra Monopoly dollar.

Mainly I just sort of hung out in a corner, still not really sure what to make of the spectacle all around me.

After a few more teacups I was starting to feel kinda loose, so I started chatting up one of the Bratz dolls who was hanging out by the bar. She was cute, but after a moment it became pretty clear that we didn't have all that much in common. Still, it was hard not to feel like the Sheik of Araby while we were out there on the dance floor.

    That is, until her foot fell off...


Friday, November 15

The Choirgirl Trailer Park

Last night after getting home from the gym I found myself flipping channels for a while, which inevitably led to random pauses on the static-ridden mystery MTV2 hookup that shows up on my TV from time to time. I was sorta half watching and half spacing out when seemingly out of nowhere, a vision jumped into my mind:

        Tori Amos sitting at a grand piano,
        doing a cover of Andrew W.K.'s
        Jackass theme song, "We Want Fun."


                This is what happens when you skip out on your workouts
                for almost a month and then try to go back like nothing's changed

Convinced that it was some sort of subliminal warning message coming from my aching muscles, I tried to block it out. But for the rest of the night, all I could hear was a mysterious voice calling out to me, saying:

        "We want pie, want pie, want pie!!"


Thursday, November 14

Monday, November 11

The Lesson

When I was 12 or 13 years old, I had a semi-regular habit of sneaking out of the house late at night to take long bike rides around the area. I would crawl out the second-story window to the roof, slide down the television antennae pole, and then spend hours exploring, thinking, and escaping whatever it was that I was running from at that time in my life.

This was about the time my grandfather passed away. As a keepsake, I received a small case of military decorations. Not medals, but those colored bars that officers would wear on their breast pockets. I didn't really know what any of them were for, but I liked the way they looked on the front of my well-worn denim jacket.

One night after riding around the woods behind Craig Field I stepped in the door to Dunkin' Donuts, all ready to spend the quarters in my pocket on a Styrofoam cup loaded with coffee and sugar. The place - as it usually was at that hour - was scattered with cops and transients. Even though it was probably out of the ordinary to see a little kid in there, I found that I was usually ignored.

Or at least, I was before that evening.

He sat near the register, beard and eyebrows pepperd with red and gray. His head was bent over his shoulders, and he cupped a steaming drink with both hands. I ordered, paid, and waited - trying hard not to notice his attention turning to me.

     "Where did you get those?" he asked sharply.

I told them they were my grandfathers, hoping that would be the end of it.

     "Did you earn them, Do you know what they mean?"

More eyes turned to me, and I began to feel a little frightened. He repeated the question, jabbing a finger at my chest as he spoke. I told him again that they were my grandfathers. He looked at me for what seemed an endless collection of seconds, and then, leaning in close, he spoke to me in a push of foul breath and anger.

     "Those belong on a uniform. Take them off... Now. "

I stammered out something about not meaning any disrespect, but it was clear he was done talking. He turned back to his cup with a dismissive sigh, and left me there - more 12 than I'd ever been. I sat down at the table and worked at the clasps. A moment later they were all in my pocket.

    It never took that long to ride home ever again.


Thursday, November 7

Memo to Shady

Not to Purple Rain on your parade or anything, but I'm pretty sure that I've already seen your movie.

    And just for the record, I still say Morris Day got robbed.


Wednesday, November 6

To Know That the Cornstalks Talk

For reasons red and reasons shadowed, I’ve been reading a lot more poetry lately. I’ve never considered myself the biggest fan of bards or smiths (perhaps in part to my own failings), yet whenever I reach this place in my head, I always kind of notice how easy they are to find in my home.

     I’ve been reciting a lot of Gilbran, despite the risks and memories that he holds.
     I’ve been reading a lot of Bukowski, despite the thirst it tends to bring.
     Verses too famous to fathom, too personal to share.

        Yet my favorite will always be
        the fifty-seven words
        that Judy Grahn wrote
        to a woman that
        I will never know
        in the place where...


They’re here. In my house, on my shelves… in my mind.

I’ve always suspected that poetry was something written for others. Even when at it’s heart the lines are painted from the mixed colors of your innermost palettes, or written as a release from inside - there’s something about the way poetry feels…

     Something about the way it works,

                even when it’s never meant for eyes other than your own.


Tuesday, November 5

Hellhouse, Baby

Got off to a weird and late start this morning, and it was only when I finally got to work that I realized that I had forgotten to bring my bag with me. I can still do my job without it, but this means that I don't have my CD player, which tends makes the day seem insufferably long.

What's worse, the song stuck in my head right now is the last thing they were playing on the radio before I stepped into the office...

    The jingle from the Longhorn Steakhouse commercial...


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