Who Needs Sleep

Benders have a way to make you feel beautiful, or at least a little like Freddie Prinze Jr. Upon further consideration they feeling is more Freddy than beauty. Sopping wet in your own system, life becomes a slush. Four days of booze, drugs, and sleeplessness? I can go for that provided you're good company. Which I have a feeling you are. The non stop cycle of aggressive and humorous behaviors tends to take you up in it's wash and leave you to wonder how the hell five days can pass so quickly.

Like Freddy Prinze, Jr the luster washes off quick. Without the sleek veneer and momentum of young teen girl appreciations, you're nothing more than a schmuck. 6 hours of sleep in 3 days can do that to you. before you know it, your sitcom has been cancelled after only 3 episodes. And to think we thought Richard Karn had it tough! Oh boy!

Sitting in my place of business I was so tired I almost threw up. There was nothing I desired more than to go home and lie in bed welcoming the oncoming burst of dear sweet slumber. these ambitions weren't so difficult to sccomplish and moments ago I found myself on the verge of exiting my binge and entering the realm of the never world. For added luxury I opted to take off my clothes.

It was a beautiful thing, but by some far fetched reason a razor blade had found it's way into my bed and consequentially into0 my buttocks. Instead of sleeping I am nursing a somehow self inflicted wound on my ass.

I might have left the bender, but I can't stop it from following me. This is the sort of thing that only happens to Tommy Lee or Charles Bukowski. It looks like I'll be making it after all!

rest thee peacefully, sweet robert

I was fascinated by Bobby Fischer. It is true that I don't have much interest in chess anymore (I loved setting up intricate and complex battle formations on the board as a child, only to have my father crush me resoundingly like ol' Dolphy's tanks whuppin' ass on the Polish cavalry), and I haven't ever read a book about Mr. Fischer. Nor have I ever seen Searching for Bobby Fischer, which, I'm told, doesn't actually directly concern him anyway. All of these things are true, but I have followed Mr. Fischer's career closely, if generally; not much fascinates me more than an unhinged half-maniac. Or whole maniac, if I can find one.

Though not a muppet, Bobby Fischer was an anti-Semite. He lived in Iceland, pissed off the U.s. and defied the U.N., married a Japanese woman (I think), and bitch-slapped a bunch of Russians to the delight of freedom-loving, flag-humping Americans everywhere (or at least the ones who love a good-old-fashioned sweaty chess BATTLE).

It is sad to see him go. Although powers that be have not, as of this writing, disclosed the cause of Mr. Fischer's death, I like to think of him climbing the jagged slopes of some dark Icelandic Mt. Doom and hurling himself into the volcano's gaping maw, his hand-carved (from Icelandic crystals) chess set clutched closely to his breast.

Plum Thumb and All the Good Rum

Do you remember the era of my childhood? It might not have been your era, but that shouldn't stop you from pretending. Just like a lack of company shouldn't stop you from going to the movies. If you do, you'll just end up going online and researching the movie. (Oh these tangents control such vitriol sometimes). Well anyway, my childhood was quite impeccable even though I was a fatty. I remember every thing as so fast, so lush, so green. Looking back, the editor of my youth has opted for extra saturation. 

I remember dropping a toy in my swing set and losing it forever. I remember chasing my sister with a knife. I remember how basketball became cool to learn about once I got my first pack of basketball cards. I remember looking at the back of these cards, disappointed to learn that Patrick Ewing wasn't 8 feet tall. Judging by his flat top alone, I assumed the man to be at least 8 feet tall. I also remember the television show Muppets Tonight. This was a big deal then. The Muppets mattered to my Dad and Dennis Quaid was an amazing host. Who can forget the sketches poking fun  at his infamous Quaid image. Oh boy hardy! 

TV really resonated with me as a child, being a life blood, instilling an attitude of wiseacreage. Because it did so much for me I had no choice but to bestow it the sanctity and love usually reserved for Uncles (especially Uncles who live in the woods. If you're not in jail... HI UNCLE FRANK!"). Every word uttered by the television was  unadulterated truth. This was how I saw my father as well. He told me that you needed to turn on turn signals when merging because they needed to be tested every 5 minutes (or else they'd break). When the Muppets told me that every show would be brand new I believed them. They didn't just say it. They sang it in the theme song. How can one lie in song? 

Every Sunday at 7:30 I gathered with my friend Phil to watch the Muppets, the host, and their requisite arsenal of antics. This was hallowed. Our show was sacred. Until one day. The Muppets aired a rerun, breaking their vow. 

Phil and I turned to each other. Part shocked and wholly appalled. We stopped and stared with drool ebbing down our young chins. Then the following conversation took place. 

Me: What do you think happened? Why aren't the Muppets new?

Phil: They probably made a joke about Israel and weren't allowed on the air. 

Me: Yeah. The Muppets would hate Israel.

I wish I still thought like a child. This wish isn't because I wish I were more innocent. I just wish I were more Israel conscious. 

Oh yeah, Dartmouth wished ill on Andrew Bynum. Now look what happened. Way to go guy, whose life are you going to ruin next?

That ain't the way to my heart

Someone carved "Fuck Racism" into one of the tables at work.

While the offender's craftsmanship is to be commended, I find fault with the statement they are trying to make. While not completely at odds with the message (in fact there are intricacies of it with which I wholeheartedly agree) I feel that carving should be reserved for more cavalier statements. Something that will rile people up so to speak, something like "fuck white people" or "Kissinger feeds on da blood of middle eastern babyz." Don't write something pussy or something that reasonable people actually agree with. At that point you're no different than the middle school student who writes "Soulja Boy" or their crush's name on their backpack with white out.

I'm starting a new feature, it's called Since We Last Spoke. Here it is:

My interest in Vancouver, Canada has reached the point that I am now having two to three fever dreams about living there a day.

Robert Downey Jr. and I were at the same bat mitzvah on Friday. We danced while resting our hands on eachothers hips and whispered sweet nothings about the current state of stock market into eachothers' ears. No fucking joke.

What kind of name is Mitt. Is it short for something?

What can I tell you? I strive for weirdness. Going after the absurdity,  chasing down the obscenely unorthodox is the only way I can stay normal. If I invite the weirdness is, it is polite. It takes off it's shoes and doesn't sleep on my couch for three days. If I don't go after the weirdness it tends to surprise and hit hard. Damn hard. That's how you new cavities get formed. By sneaking up on you. 

I'm not gonna let any weirdness sneak up on me. I'll know where it's at at any and all times. This morning it was at the Santa Monica Bus Station. You know the place, even if you've never been there. A small, tattered building on the outskirts of town. Where you go when your luck runs out. Where you head when a relative dies and you can't afford the flight to Phoenix. 

It was usual there. The normal mish-mash of Pepsi Machines and paunchy vagrants. Reading my "Vogue" magazine, I felt right at home, that is to say, I felt normal. Such was the case until a man sauntered up to me, introducing himself as "The Bard". 

I asked this Bard what he wanted. His reply was simple. 

"An All-Star Birth for Shaquille O'Neal." 

"I can't do that sir. Shaq has been going downhill for the past two years. I'm not going to vote him in and I hope the coaches make the right choice and pick Rasheed Wallace or an out of position Chris Bosh." 

"But Shaq is the only player in the NBA who is a civil servant. He arrested that pedophile, remember?" 

"Yeah, but this is the NBA All-Star game, not the civil servant awards. Do you expect me to vote for Barack Obama too?

"Only if you are a man of honor" 

"I don't even know what position to put him in." 

"Small Forward. Think Chicago. Think Pippen." 

"Um ok." 

"So, will you vote for Shaq?" 

"No." 

"Well, you seem a modern man. Do you have a blog?" 

"As A matter of fact I do." 

"Well. Put this up so the internet can hear me." 

With that, he handed over a tattered scrap of paper and was on his way. Looking down at the paper, I noticed that it was a used Arby's wrapper and that he wrote a poem on it. What follows is the poem in it's entirety. 

A Bishop's Life by Pheasant Jenkins

I want to love you too much. 

Smother you, bitch, until you can't breathe

Crushing you with the total affection of my being

Seep in your lung stream 

Creep in your myspace

And chat with young equestrian riders

Cream in their shorts. 

I will become you. 

And you? 

You will become the moon, stars, and my assistant. 

Vacation in Haiti? 

Does that sound nice? 

Speaking of sound, which speaks of hearing... 

I hear it's nice now. 

Not nearly as many unwarranted murders. 

If I could share Buffalo Wings with anyone

I'd share them with no one

Cause I don't share

But If I shared

I'd share them with you

Will four buffalo wings make you love me? 

What about five and a baked potato. 

Janice,

Can I use your kitchen? 

Love, Pheasant

What can I tell you? I strive for weirdness. Going after the absurdity,  chasing down the obscenely unorthodox is the only way I can stay normal. If I invite the weirdness is, it is polite. It takes off it's shoes and doesn't sleep on my couch for three days. If I don't go after the weirdness it tends to surprise and hit hard. Damn hard. That's how you new cavities get formed. By sneaking up on you. 

I'm not gonna let any weirdness sneak up on me. I'll know where it's at at any and all times. This morning it was at the Santa Monica Bus Station. You know the place, even if you've never been there. A small, tattered building on the outskirts of town. Where you go when your luck runs out. Where you head when a relative dies and you can't afford the flight to Phoenix. 

It was usual there. The normal mish-mash of Pepsi Machines and paunchy vagrants. Reading my "Vogue" magazine, I felt right at home, that is to say, I felt normal. Such was the case until a man sauntered up to me, introducing himself as "The Bard". 

I asked this Bard what he wanted. His reply was simple. 

"An All-Star Birth for Shaquille O'Neal." 

"I can't do that sir. Shaq has been going downhill for the past two years. I'm not going to vote him in and I hope the coaches make the right choice and pick Rasheed Wallace or an out of position Chris Bosh." 

"But Shaq is the only player in the NBA who is a civil servant. He arrested that pedophile, remember?" 

"Yeah, but this is the NBA All-Star game, not the civil servant awards. Do you expect me to vote for Barack Obama too?

"Only if you are a man of honor" 

"I don't even know what position to put him in." 

"Small Forward. Think Chicago. Think Pippen." 

"Um ok." 

"So, will you vote for Shaq?" 

"No." 

"Well, you seem a modern man. Do you have a blog?" 

"As A matter of fact I do." 

"Well. Put this up so the internet can hear me." 

With that, he handed over a tattered scrap of paper and was on his way. Looking down at the paper, I noticed that it was a used Arby's wrapper and that he wrote a poem on it. What follows is the poem in it's entirety. 

A Bishops Life by Pheasant Jenkins

I want to love you too much. 

Smother you, bitch, until you can't breathe

Crushing you with the total affection of my being

Seep in your lung stream 

Creep in your myspace

And chat with young equestrian riders

Cream in their shorts. 

I will become you. 

And you? 

You will become the moon, stars, and my assistant. 

Vacation in Haiti? 

Does that sound nice? 

Speaking of sound, which speaks of hearing... 

I hear it's nice now. 

Not nearly as many unwarranted murders. 

If I could share Buffalo Wings with anyone

I'd share them with no one

Cause I don't share

But If I shared

I'd share them with you

Will four buffalo wings make you love me? 

What about five and a baked potato. 

Janice,

Can I use your kitchen? 

Love, Pheasant

Teacher, Please Excuse Our Absence

The eyebrows are growing in just fine thank you. That doesn't mean I haven't had all my mail shifted to a P.O. Box registered in a pseudonym. This measures might seem extreme, but I swear they aren't homophobic. Truth is, the minx has a bit of a soft side. I can't say "no". If the Mailman were to ask me out, I'd have no choice but to say yes. If we shared soda at a local fountainry and my Great Aunt chanced to see us I would lose fifty dollars worth of inheritance. I can't afford that now. My Esquire subscription needs renewing. I live for new mixed drink recipes. Funny thing about Esquire. it's great on Croatian bus rides when you're home sick, it's kind of trite otherwise. This isn't to say that it isn't a good sort of trite.

I listen to Timbaland so I will know what kind of shoes to buy. I would also listen to him if I decided to go to a club. This is no bunking on Lil' Timba. I just feel like a fool grooving to his sounds on the floor. It ain't for me, you feeling my chains.

This is going to sound dumb. I'm 'bout to hit you with Freshman Year Deep Thoughts, that's ok though. Imagine this in the voice of young Claire Danes "The thing is... life has patterns." Little grooves permeate lives and have more effect than we give them credit for. These are so often dictated by school, work, girls, or the presence, of bears. We can't help it. We aren't yet Communists or Socialites. We have no choice but submission to the way things are. That's how it goes.

Recently, I have found myself in the presence of nothing. Little leaped up to define my time so for the first while in a while, the onus was on me to put my own print on it. This has been the case before and it led to feverish porn viewing. This current version has brought upon something far from naked girls (or buys, FUCK!)...legitimacy. A new niche has been carved in this old being of mine.

I found myself exploring, working, and striving hard for basically anything and everything. If I were an athlete I would dare say that I was hinting on making the leap. Dare say, I've been acting a hella lot like Drew Bynum in his post-myspace era. Meals tasted better, thins got written faster, and I acquired like 12 new pen pals or some shit. if money, time, and extrinsic needs were of no salt I could see myself doing this forever. I'd be growing but not for any real reason, just because it was happening. The thing inside was getting boisterous and I was left with no choice but to grow to accomodate it. I feel that several of my cohorts are in a similar uphill jog (congrats, btw). It feels good to grow. It feels good to discover so many new shrimp recipes.

the problem with this is that things come and disrupt this. The world doesn't wait. it ain't like a roller coaster. You can't go in when you are the right size. You've got to take on the physics regardless. Forces that represent the world are coming. Fuck, they're even here already. I love and appreciate these forces but I can't take them now. Not yet anyway.

Rather than try to accept these forces and whatever new journeys they represent I've been lashing out and pretending to steal these force's car. I guess I have a little more growing to do.

On a side note, cleaned up episodes of Dexter will begin to air on CBS soon. Care to watch Grandma?

an open letter to Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler

My dear Mrs. Frankweiler,

I've got no friends in this city.

Since my expulsion and subsequent exile from Princeton, I have wandered these storied streets in a self-imposed bubble, one unpermeated by all but the most essential individuals. Why is this? What, exactly, is my problem with all my old school chums? I liked them well enough then, and, upon reflection, I like them well enough now. But there's something in me that keeps them at bay--or maybe me at bay.

I can't quite put my finger on it; maybe I'm trying to prove something, to myself, or to them, or to the world. That I can rebuild myself, from scratch, as I would have liked myself to be; without input of those who knew me when, I am free to create, to dash paint on the canvas, smoke French cigarettes, and drink Campari from a glass decorated with little prints of dogs.

But I worry that it's more than that. Surely there are elements of what I described above occurring, but I fear that perhaps I didn't like any of those people at all, really. Or perhaps they've disappointed me. Or perhaps--perhaps I'm afraid that they will come to disappoint me in time. It seems that most have.

Am I doomed to live my days alone? For whom will I purchase rounds of drinks? With whom shall I frequent the cinema? These and other questions haunt me.

Do you suppose I am merely stricken with some late-blooming angst? Perhaps it's just some good old fashioned clinical depression; I shall increase my Campari dosage immediately.

I await your reply with eagerness and impatience.

Your old friend,

James Tibolt Pterodactylus

Not Mine!

Please step forward and claim your Diet Coke. It looks delicious!

http://losangeles.craigslist.org/lac/laf/531621553.html

Oh No! Oh My! Oh Wait...

Let's get one thing straight before we start on this sure to be prolific endeavor. I am in the business of business. Though not quite a tycoon, I am no stranger to embarking on the occasional air travel adventure. In the global economy, efficiency has become as quality. I need to get there fast. I have to retire my dune buggy. In short, I will be in the airport this Saturday. I will be in the air for the entire day tomorrow.

(In actuality I have to leave my Mom's house and go back to school. It's a Pac-10 school so at least I'll be ooglin')

Gloom and doom. Haste and Hate.

My flights directly conflict with the first day of scheduling for the NFL Playoffs. It is Wild Card Weekend. That means it's Wild Card Weekend! That usually means eating Boneless Buffalo Wings alone, and lord knows I love that. What is a guy to do with no Wild Card Weekend? Is there anyway to survive? Is there anyway to stay a true football fan? I suppose I could TiVo it. Or maybe I could even move my flight back?

Naw. Those are fucking cop outs. There is only one way to stay true to my Pigskin Passion. Over the course of the playoffs I will not watch a single snap. I will not read a single recap. Instead, I will write NFL Playoff Fan Fiction.

Washington Redskins @ Seattle Seahawks

The Redskins led by Clinton Portis, Todd Collins, and possibly a ghost, bound into Qwest Field on a cloud of momentum. Great Wizards they are, they resemble their Hog predecessors to a T. The Seahawks have Shaun Alexander, a former "A" class Beast/Assasin, but has recently lost his love for the game... OF MAGIC!

Both teams meet at Mid-Field for the tossing of the quail to determine first possession. It doesn't need to be mentioned but Hermione looks absolutely stunning dressed as Seattle Linebacker Lofa Tatupu. Distracted by incestuous team mate inklings, the Seahawks are vacant and useless. The Redskins win the toss.

Chris Cooley, dressed in black and holding a torpedo for some reason, scores the first touchdown on the game. He catches a routine screen and rides a routine tornado into the end zone. 7-0 Redskins!!!

An epic battle commences. DJ Hackett weaves through the defense with his trademarked flummoxing skill set, Mike Sellars goes all "Juggernaut Bitch", and I really want to kiss Lofa Tatupu. He's so smart, sassy, and perky!

It is 21-21 going into the 4th. Gibbs and Holmgren glower up at the heavens, praying for divine intervention. Holmgren licks his lips hungrily, picking up a small amount of potion planted there by Patrick "POTENT" Kerney. He starts to like, think real smart and shit. Using his advanced strategic acumen, the Seahawks are able to cruise to an easy 4th Quarter Triumph. The game is sealed when Shaun Alexander waltzes into the endzone on a centaur, forever exorcising demons of Jerramy Stevens.

At the end of the game, Matt Hasselbeck and Lofa Tatupu finally kiss!!!!!!!!

Jacksonville Jaguars @ Pittsburgh Steelers

Before the game Ben Roethlisberger dedicates his performance to the Jeni Six. This not only wins him the hearts of fans every where (swinging karma in the Steelers favor), it also makes him the blackest quarterback in the game. David Garrard stares at his secret Malcolm X tattoo for hours, smoldering while visions of grandeur dance in his head.

David Garrard comes ready. David Garrard runs for 151 yards. David Garrard throws 4 touchdowns. David Garrard throws 2 touchdowns... to himself. Fred Taylor asks for a carry. David Garrard bites him right in the hand. David Garrard finishes the game on one leg and writes a collection of Afro-American poetry that inspires and enlightens.

The Steelers still win though. Do you think I'll oppose someone who dedicates their game to the Jeni Six?

Dearest Purveyors of Personal Pride...

Oh my. I have just seen the calender. Peeking out of the corner of a drawer a saw a small month riddled page reading "October". It had been so long, I had been doing so much, that I didn't recognize the term "October" as a month. I thought it could be a particularly fruity variety of marmalade. In case you don't know, marmalade is a lot like jam.

It has been a long, soulful, time away from this here web log. Though embarassed to admit. I must say that Sergei is right. I am coming back in a slightly more feminine form. As a New Year's Resolution I have begun to wax my eye brows. This isn't for me. Lord knows I'm not vain enough to give a hoot and a half about my appearance, but frequent visits to the woman called my Grandmother, have brought a disgusting amount of chatter about the bushiness of my eyebrows. She was in Vietnam. She was a Military Nurse put right in the shit of it all. Two weeks ago she took a good long look at my eye brows and wondered where the Napalm was. As a result I have begun to wax, pluck, and shape. I didn't realize it was a gay thing. I didn't realize it was a feminine thing. I suppose it is. I suppose it might prompt your local flamboyant mail man to drop off a bushel of love letters scented of Mustard. Being the masculine figure of machismo that I am, it brings me great shame to be so tainted, so able to be loved. Sergei, you have tapped into my soul, the source of insecurites, the St. Louis Arc above my irises.

I am also more feminine because I've been spitting up blood due to a severe case of bronchitis. I call this Mouth Menstruation.

I haven't been doing much lately. I have been hiding in my shame and avoiding windows, grandmother, and of course the Mail Man. This ritual has taken on a near religious tone for me.

The extreme hermitism has prompted an internal renaissance of the richest and most voluptuos sort (I JUST DESCRIBED MYSELF AS VOLUPTUOUS!!! OH NOES!!!). Unable to leave, unable to stand, I have found a great deal of satisfaction nearest to the ground.

What have I been doing? The obvious. Crawling, kneeling, shimmying, army crawls, and staunch avoidance of my dog. This Doberman's strongest muscle is his tongue. I have only been eating peanuts and the dog wants his salt, anytime and always.

On the ground I have managed to...

-Play three quarters of Wide Reciever in the Capital One Bowl

-Found a new recipe for Chex Mix

-Deep fry a pizza

-Write a letter to Rick James each and day, offering an extra room, in the off chance th at he decides to y'know be alive again.

-Chased the Roomba. I will be honest. You have not lived until you chase a Roomba.

-Gave my end table stiff competition. I can stay as a table for up to five hours.

-Added "stay as a table for up to five hours" to the skills section of my resume.

-Drew a picture of Salman Rushdie as "Salmon Rushdie" Again, you haven't lived until you've done this.

-Fired a Bebe gun straight up at the ceiling.

-Frantically ducking out of the way from a stray Bebe.

-Building a fort out of blankets.

-Hanging out in a fort of blankets, utterly utterly nude.

-Atrophied

-Making the Picture at the head of this blog. Seriously. His name is David Grogan. He is a professional bodybuilder. I call him "Mr. Sausages".

See, isn't this why we're American. By doing nothing I have managed to do everything. Slacking isn't slacking, it's finding time to do the things we've always wanted...like atrophying.

the toasted flatbread of victory

To quote my third favorite Aaliyah song, "it's been a long time." In the yawning gap since last we spoke, dear Hindenburgians, I have traveled to the frozen tundras of the West--and through the frozen tundras, sweet Hindenburgers, of my mind...

It all began while asleep in the booth of a Quizno's nestled deep inside the A Concourse of Denver International Airport. Due to global warming and extreme airline malfeasance, I was marooned inside this toasted-bread-smelling establishment within the year-round "snow caps" of DIA. (If I were a 1950s stand-up comedian performing in the Catskills, at this point I would make a remark about "D.O.A." followed by a rimshot. But I am not one.)

My thoughts, racing and whizzing with angry deeds of reprisal, slowly crystallized into a plan. I would make my way, barefoot, in the style of one of the Die Hards (I forget which one, but it's definitely not the first one, and definitely not "Live Free or," but I hope it involves Carl from Family Matters) (because Bruce Willis always does badass shit barefoot in those movies, as I recall), stealthy as a snow leopard (they are endangered), and secret myself aboard a Postal Serice jet.

In a series of super-awesome scenes involving judo, smart ass off-the-cuff quips, and a luggage conveyor belt, I made my way aboard a Christmas gift be laden vessel. The interior, pregnant with Holiday Spirit and sweaters on back order from L.L. Bean, was comfortable, if cold. I snuggled deep within a sack of letters the size of Andre the Giant, and slept, cocooned in other people's forethought and caring. (I myself did not send a Christmas card this year. I am lazy.)

But a troubling thought roused me from my partial slumber. Would it have been better, cooler, more unique, to have hidden myself in a Quizno's bread truck? Or perhaps disguised myself as the no-doubt lovable Quizno's mascot, whoever that may be, or--even better yet--as an actual, edible Quizno's toasted sandwich? This thought gnawed at me, plucked at my eyelids and flicked at my ears.

Why, I wondered. Why must I, yet again, imitate. Bruce Willis today; yesterday it was D.H. Lawrence, and the day before that, Daniel Day Lewis. I never used to have this problem. Eight, nine months ago, I was a dynamo. I spray painted the walls, I built farm animals from paper, plucked the hearts from adorable lambs and mounted them on stakes. Where has my vigor gone, my livelihood?

I must rediscover it, retrieve from whence it hath fled. At all costs; at all costs.

Rise, men, and become again impetuous!

Excited for Life

Do you know anyone who ever slipped on a banana peel?

This question occurred to me as I was walking to work today, eating a...wait for it...banana! In the not so distant past I played the role of a child in the latter quarter of the previous century. Like kids from this time period I watched a lot of cartoons. Because of this some of my most cherished memories are in two dimensions, and one of the ones that sticks out most is that of a character (make of them what you will; male, female, skinny, fat, tall, short, etc.) chasing after an elusive scoundrel until their right or left foot comes down on a conveniently discarded banana peel. What happens next is something we all remember. The character slides forward, a look of utter confusion in their eyes, and then launches up into the air end over end, flipping once or twice and finally coming down with a cloud of stars and a boom!

Sadly this memory is one that I have never seen replicated in real life, but I would like to someday. The thing is, like most of the things I came to believe while playing a child, I doubt there is much of a chance of it actually ever happening. It's a sad thing, but them's the breaks kid.

Fuck. I don't know why I wrote that.

In other news I'm still wondering if its better to be rock 'n roll or punk rock. Any thoughts? Normally I'd be on the side of punk rock, but in my advancing years I just don't know anymore. More and more it seems that rock 'n roll will allow me to do what I really want to do, get down and dirty. Which kind of girls age better? That's probably the better question.

Before I go rumor has it that Minxie's extended absence from the blog is more a result of surgery than wanting to spend time with his family for the holiday. It's all hogwash if you ask me. But those few of you that love Dartmouth, fret not. I hear he's coming back in a new and improved (and slightly more feminine) form.

Dear Coach Carter, thank you for your inspirational movie.

"You're not seriously going to wear that pink thing are you? You look like a fucking flamingo."

"I like it, it makes me feel safe. Why do your hands smell like feet?"

"What the fuck? Why do my...no they dont. And why the fuck are you smelling my hands. Get the fuck away flamingo hand smeller. You are such a child predator. Who the fuck are you anyway? Do i know you?"

What a fucking nightmare. I woke up with a hard jolt, lying face up in my bed with beads of sweat resting on my forehead. My legs were sweating and my heart was pounding like death would arrive at any second and steal my last breaths. And that would be that. Suffice it to say that there was no cloaked skeletal creature with a sickle in my room that night. Just me and my demons.

I never had dreams. None to remember anyway. Nothing that stirred me like the sight of a middle aged man in a pink poncho smelling my hands. I felt that my dream was an omen since it was such a rare occasion for such vivid images to appear in my head. I got up and washed my face. 5:02 in the AM. The water felt soothing running off my chin and back down the sink. My body had taken on a case of the cold shivers and the warm water was quite welcoming.

I sat on the edge of my bed and rubbed my temples, trying to purge any and all images of the nightmare from my brain. 5:09 AM. I didn't have to be awake for another hour and a half. i discreetly smoked a cigarette out the window from inside my room. There was still no light outside save a dim shimmer of the moon. The sun would be up in about an hour and life would be filling the streets like water in a basin. I dropped the butt of my cigarette in an empty beer can and laid back down to bed. 5:17 AM.

My eyes would not draw closed. Perhaps I was too shocked by the lingering memory of the dream or perhaps my body simply did not require more recharging. I laid on my back staring into the ceiling trying to manifest some more sleep. 5:21 AM. My eyes finally began to shut and I could feel my body drifting into sleep mode. I thought of soothing meadows and birds sailing across the sky. Anything but pink flamingos or hands or feet or raincoats.

CLACK CLACK CLACK CLACK. The unmistakable sound of shots fired through a handgun. At 5:30 in the morning. In fucking urban middle class white town. Where there is not so much as a car accident or petty theft. Fucking gunshots. Glorious.

I drug my ass half awake to the kitchen window and spied out. There was already a crowd of people outside hovering around a silver Volkswagen Jetta. The driver's side window was shattered and a limp body lay inside.

Sirens echoed off of the budding horizon. More people made their way out to the street to gawk at the madness. I went back into my room and smoked a cigarette on top of the covers, blowing smoke rings into the ceiling and waiting for the next link in what I imagined would be a long string of shit for the day.