We Own The Night Starring Scatman Crothers

Did you know…
…The Atlanta Hawks are doing surprisingly well this year.
And that my roommate is from Atlanta
A City in Georgia
Referred to in nomenclature as the A-T-L
Yet no one in the Tall Trees Trailer Park will play a game of catch with me.
And that the office number of Tall Trees is
707-252-7247

The preceding paragraph was probably an easy read and slightly enjoyable at that. However, punch packed by the prose is nil, if any, for none of the aforementioned facts carry any weight, significance, or bearing on your being.

It’s been like that lately. In a lot of ways. I can’t help but feel that the world—even things I love—is comprised of commodities composed to be as frivolous as engineering can allow. This perspective cannot be unseen by the mind’s eye. See it once, even a glance, and the rest of your visage will be a smidge smudged.

I love football more than all but four things. A few Sundays prior I thought to myself, “what a silly game”. Loving gridiron warfare I proceeded forward and watched Matthew Stafford toss interceptions with reckless abandon (like the warehouse fires mere blocks from his home field) but I couldn’t shake my notion. My vision was altered. The lines (1080p) blurred as I stared at a muted image for no reason whatsoever.

I don’t identify with this. It isn’t me.

That being said I’ll be up early to watch the Lions tomorrow.

You don’t have to identify with all you love but a basic humanity would be nice.

I fear I am not making sense. Let me digress. Here is a meaningless bit of my past.

I used to be obsessed with Tom Green. By obsessed I mean crazed, driven stark mad with idiosyncratic, constant impersonation obsession. I’d watch his show (the aptly named Tom Green show) before terrorizing my middle school teachers by turning their classrooms into a debauched series of reenactments.

The apex of my obsession came with “The Bum Bum Song” in which Mr. Green rubbed his bum (or buttocks) on various objects while narrating his escapades over a crisp hip-hop beat. I believe he wore a prosthetic rear as well. In anycase, a music video was made. I’d tune into MTV’s Total Request Live, watching as the video for the Bum Bum Song ascended the ranks of some obscure database fueled on misplaced teeny-bopper adulation.

Tom Green retired the video after it reached number one on TRL.

I thought this was a poetic gesture.

In all likelihood it had much more to do with commerce. While a cute piece of self-promotion for MTV, the Bum Bum Song did not serve the musicmakers MTV was designed to serve. TLC was molded for world domination. Taking a backseat to a rubber bum could not have been a merry blow. The same goes for “NSync even though they were formed to perfectly emulate Orlando. They succeeded in this. If you think teenage girls went crazy for ‘NSync than you’ve never seen a young girl visit Orlando. Nor have I for that matter but I can imagine.

The Bum Bum Song was a trill piece of trash. By believing in this song and Mr. Green’s efforts I was mitigating the self, extinguishing the fire from which are souls are dredged.

*****

My goal is to do things humans ought to do.

On this note:

My new dream is to walk for twenty-four hours straight. When the hands of the clock complete their second cycle, I will lie down and rest, regardless of where I am. Be it street or subway, I will slumber.

The world belongs to us all.

I’ll be taking my piece later this week. Let’s say Thursday. Join me. Do whatever you can to do whatever it is you want.

See you bitches in Valhalla.

PS Haven’t written much lately. 2
about the rust. I could’ve been doing a lot—like self promotion!—but I’d rather do nothing than bullshit.

PPS Buy Typing With One Hand by Hoopster Jurich.