requested #7

This one was left over from the last time I did requested writing, but I was unable to think of what to say and so I let it stew a bit. I still don't have anything, but I don't want it floating around in my head for the next two years...

Today's Topic - Michael Bolton

I recently read somewhere that music is the only vice that doesn't have a limit. You can listen to music forever and never tire of it. Sure, you may change what you are listening too, but music will still be loved and completely insatiable. Of course, as in all love affairs, there is a time and place for changes of heart, a time and place for variety and a time and place for doubt upon reflection. With music, that time was Michael Bolton.

Mr. Bolton appeared out of nowhere in the mid 80's. A time when life and culture were testing the "pre-packaged" idea on a global scale. Not since the expansion of the church in the dark ages, had man aggressively pursued to indoctrinate so many with dribble and fluff. The 80's were a time of self-indulgence and the abandonment of self-reliance. There was a huge push to be pampered and to live large and to avoid pushing our lives or ourselves. There were no challenges. It was becoming cooler and hipper to be part of the system, a cog in the machine and to avoid stepping out and being an individual. And when the few did step out it was pre-packaged and seemed contrived. So, within this atmosphere of blandness and accepting nothing as something, the music world gave us Madonna and Michael Bolton. Their fame would show the world that it doesn't take creative talent to be special. Their fame would show the world that all you need to be is marketable. Stronger talents were lost to history as their empty tanks rose to the heavens. (Cyndi Lauper, Terrence Trent D'Arby to name a few)

Michael Bolton started his musical career in the seventies (?) and started off as a rock-n-roller a far cry from the crooner we know today. He had the voice talent, but couldn't write the rock songs. According to VH-1, he even wrote a song for Kiss, which they recorded! Somewhere along the line, Mr. Bolton realized that he wasn't going to be the rock star, or maybe, he got too old for spandex, and he moved to soul. He had the voice and he there was a planet FULL of desperate, disillusioned, easily impressed women ready to hear what he had to sing about. These women with their shoulder pads and salads, with hopeless jobs and a social life that looked like a prison sentence, needed something "new". Mr. Bolton's deep, soulful voice, filled their heads with such thoughts and it kept them from thinking for themselves. Making it possible for sexual deviance, like me, to easily seduce them... (thank you Mr. B) Had any of these women ever went to a record store and looked at the old records and maybe listened to one or two of them, they would have heard the original versions of those Bolton tunes and would have made Mike a real estate salesman today.

Women ate him up. Men liked him because you needed to be able to tolerate him in order to fuck the lowly women who DID like him. It was a mess. Thankfully these women found other pre-packaged music like The New Kids on the Block and MC Hammer and were replaced with fresher models to play with.

To his credit, Mr. Bolton was only doing what he had the talent to do. He dated Ashley Judd. Played Softball and had a curly mullet. He drove race cars, he did... he did... what those people do... HEY! He was sued once, for a song that he didn't own. Which one it was, I have no idea. And Mr. Bolton survived, so that's not special. I know that he still tours today and was active in Republican party fund raisers during the election last year.

I never owned an album but I know I have heard several of his songs all the way through more than three or four dozen times.

In music, the pure vice, there are times when we all hiccup a bit. Sometimes that hiccup tastes like curly mullet.

requested #6

Again... Here are the topics which you have asked me to write about. This first one comes from Canada, where most of my readership (or at least it feels that way). I have commented publicly about this topic before and apparently the issue was not resolved when the words came from my lips. I guess they want to see it in writing so they can show it to the world as a declaration of their greatness over America and as proof of how much America truly does suck.

The topic today... The war of 1812.

Canada loves to point out that they beat America's ass during this war and that they burned down our White House. They love this war. I'm not sure why they would want to remind the most trigger-happy, no-reason-needin-to-bomb-you country in the world that they beat it's ass in grade school, but they do. To America, it's a blip on the war radar and as far as meaningfulness is concerned, it means next to nothing to America. I'm not sure it's taught in school anymore. Most people have forgotten about it. There wasn't a great deal of coverage as CNN is still years away from conception. In the measure of war greatness, it's right below the Hatfield and McCoy fued, the family fued and the time Jimmy kicked Robert's ass for calling him a pussy.

So, yes, the White House burned down. America collected the Insurance and built another one. That building stayed relatively safe until Jackie Kennedy came along and remodeled it. This started a trend and every First lady since has done something obnoxious to it. BUT, we did rebuild and we chalked the whole experience up to using better fences to protect the White House against torch bearing enemies. The whole thing really just pissed off Dolly Madison, the first lady at the time. She didn't get her chance to do any remodeling.

Yes, America did take it in the ass, but not by Canada.... Canada wasn't even a country then. It wasn't even a territory. It was just a lowly... Area. Which is a step above an "over there" and a step down from a "a bit to the left". Canada, an area with many names at the time, owned somewhat by; The British in their typical, we have an army so we own it, way. The French, still trying to explore new places and make enemies. And the natives that still weren't sure what British and French people were doing there. It was just an area to be sure, but it was still their area.

So, during a spat with Great Britain, Canada, the area, became a good place for British troops to stage attacks on the US. It worked well for them, until they quit. They went home. There must have been a hockey strike or the cable went out in a snow storm, who knows, but they left and called it a day. There was a victor, but being American, I was never told who and I don't care.

However, some Brits stayed behind. They braved the cold and the French, the Natives and made "The kids in the hall" and then Alannis Morrisette was born. Canada was finally made into a country in the last century, somewhere during the 1960's and was finally recognized as a "real place" sometime last year. Again, I don't really know. I'm American, I don't care.

The war of 1812 was brutal, people died and you can see still "12-ers" walking around today with their medals on, talking about the war and the friends that they left behind. "You don't know the horrors I've seen, man. You weren't there! You weren't in the shit! Musket balls flying! British men running around with torches setting fires to houses! It was a nightmare, man!" they love to say. They also love to rag on the government for using cancer causing chemicals during the war and they talk about their drug addictions which they started during the down time between skirmishes with "Torchy Charlie". Sadly, They don't have a monument on the mall in Washington D.C.. Someone thought there should be a burned out replica of the White House built out of marble with all the names of the fallen inscribed on it, but it was shot down when it was discovered that no one knew what they were talking about. Again, we are America, we don't care.

Canada, the area, burned down our White House and to pay them back. We send a token number of men there during each war as a symbol that we will not forget their behavior. We also take from the all their talented people and brain wash them into becoming Americans. It's a process not unlike a "stepford wife". They forget wars, loonies, hockey and Donuts.

( I know this is going to lose me the last five readers I had, but as they say in Canada, "Play on!"

hey, fuck you, honkey!

There lives among us on this planet, a noble steed of ancient lore.. a fabled creature of fantasy that was thought to only live on the pages of Piers Anthony novels. It's presence in today's world, is a reminder to us all that we do not know everything about mother nature's plans or, for that matter, how her sense of humor works.

There are unicorns, griffins, minotaurs and other creatures that are herd about with some regularity. Some of them have even become part of the decor in certain aspects of our world. But these creatures are not beyond imagination to us. Some of us actually wouldn't be shocked to see one we are so used to the imagery. I'm sure there is someone out there right now, telling people about his grandfather's unicorn. I know I would love to know there was a minotaur somewhere. That would be glorious.

The creature I refer to here, is something that you can see, but you probably never thought could exist. Perhaps the science channel will do a special on it, and other odd cross breeds, and we can all go, "wow, that's fucked up."

Here's some background..

A donkey is a small, very smart, very docile creature. It's a working animal and it does so without question and without much explanation. Other beasts of burden need some "prodding or goading" but a donkey don't take to kindly to that kind of thing...and will remember any slight ever done to it. Never cross a donkey, it will have it's day... even if that day is years later, when you least expect it... Maybe in a movie theater... Maybe when you are sleeping... Maybe when you are making love... That donkey will have "his"!

A mule, is a donkey that is bred to a horse making a large eared-full sized horse. (Which animal is on top is a matter of hysterics that I will allow your imagination to run wild with.) Mules are extremely strong. Very, very strong. Very stubborn and half as smart as a donkey, but twice as smart as a horse. You seeing the math yet?

A horse is pretty and covered with flies. Not too much there really. Costs a lot to feed, frightens Incans, tastes like dog food and glue.

A HONKEY, is a miniature mule. A very small mule. About the size of a dog. It's a donkey lookin-horse bein, animal of science fantasy that, I'm sure, none of you even knew existed. It's too small to ride down on your enemies with, too large to pet in your lap and too weird to eat. I see this new creature as the next pot belly pig of the new decade. Order yours today.

It's really amazing that with all that we do as humans to preserve our surroundings, our heritage and our standard of living that there is no end to the amount of death that we can cause on the planet if we decide to put our mind to the task and get rid of the rest of the lowly creatures. Apparently, just killing off other species isn't enough of a challenge. Apparently, we want to have some fun with DNA and eugenics before we let them all go. Let's not just kill off the other animals, let's play with them a bit and see what we can do. Eerily reminiscent of the nazis, eh?

Side note - Lost to the world today were 600 different species of plant and animal. Born into the world for the first time is perhaps twenty two replacement species designed for research, food or pleasure.

All this talk of animals, I forgot to mention the most entertaining news yet. Born into the world not two weeks ago were pure bred Newfoundland puppies. Supposedly the same breed as Heidi. I went to see the new pups and I felt guilty about the whole thing.

Pups are cute and that makes them appealing. But sharing my dog love with a new dog seems to be cheating Heidi out of her share of my affections. A new pup would require more time, more energy, more petting and that would cut into a Heidi's needs, as if I were leaving her for a younger girl. I can't do it to her. I just like my Heidi too much.

The argument is that Heidi would feel better with another dog around. She could play and teach and feel like she had someone to relate too. I don't see it that way. Heidi has put in her time and she isn't the nurturing type. She knows her role and she does it well. Any interloper added to the mix would be viewed with great scorn and I'm sure there would be a hole or two dug with that pup's name on it. ( we do have extra lime laying around...)

So no new pup. Heidi will have to do. Until she decides that she wants a new dog or passes away, I don't think we need another dog around here. I don't think we could find a duplicate Heidi anywhere. When she dies, her species will die off with her. The dog is one in a million and I don't think the scientists of the world are going to put too much effort into finding the recipe to make more like her. It's sad.

But I will get over it when I get a honkey.

Funny moments that make a man

I am not normally interested in making the scene. I didn't say, making A scene, which I am a master at doing. No, I said, making THE scene, which is something that my whole life, I could have cared less about.

I don't want the party, the concert, the place-to-be, the hang out, the latest trend, the coolest look, the smartest hair, the smoothest car, the hippest chick or the best of the best. I don't need the most, the best, the longest or the first. I don't seek the prize, the glory, the top of the podium or the record. I need none of these things. What I want is somewhere just below the best and the brightest. Something just shy of the greatest. Sometimes the reason I want it is that no one else does. Sometimes it's just nostalgia or a look, but it's rarely is the reason pushed on to me. I like things my own way and I don't expect anyone to understand nor do I feel I need to make them understand.

It has been said that there are alpha males and beta males and alpha females and beta females. The Alphas are go-getters, self motivated, must win, competitive types whereas Betas are followers, buyers-in and humble. Alphas are the leaders, Betas the worker bees. Alphas, the trend setters. Betas the crippled masses. However, what is missing from this system, as far as I know, is the Omega types. A personality that is neither humble nor aggressive. Someone who came up in the tribe their own way, but it does not seek to be the leader nor cares to follow. The hermits, the loners, the outsiders. Omegas...

Alphas want people to listen and make waves whenever possible. They are quick on the trigger and willing to fight for any reason that suits them. Betas could care less and watch it all happen. They are less likely to voice an opinion and less likely to stand up for anything unless they are told too. Omegas, don't care what either side is doing and could care less what the Alpha wants to do and is dumbfounded by the Beta. ( as are the Alphas. Betas are truly weird people to watch ) Omegas see the through line. Where Alphas see a short term solution with no care for the long term success. Betas hope for the best,but rarely see anything. Alphas make history, Betas are the numbers that fill history books (as in number of dead at the battle of Agincourt, population of Des Moines, number of people killed by chicken flu, etc. ) Omegas are the ones that are stand alones that history only sees one of. Einstein, Tesla, Prince, Corey Haim.

I guess you learn in childhood where you stand in the herd. Do you pick the game that everyone plays on the playground? Are you the best player? Are you filler to even up the sides? Are you the person picking the teams? The last picked? Or a utility choice, picked somewhere in the middle? OR do you even play at all?

Depending on the game or sport, I was picked first or dead last. As a fat kid, I learned to dread the line up for basketball, monkeybar wars, soccer, and dodgeball. However, football, wrestling and baseball, my size had advantages. Other sports that saw me first picked; anything that involved a tetter-totter, tug of war and red rover. Last picked every time; relay teams in track. I was made an Omega by size. Forced out as I was too fat to be followed, too strong to follow and too stubborn to care. Omega...

My place in the herd was established by my size. Not my spirit or personality. This allowed me to avoid being picked, or not being picked, by loyalty of friendship or hatred by enemy. Something most children should enjoy. The freedom to be "you" and be respected for that without having to worry about social stigmas. Of course, this is being said now that I am older, thinner and aware that most of those kids turned out to be the worthless pieces of shit I knew they were at the time.

I was fat, yes, but I was a pimp as a child. Kissing a lot of girls and... other things. I was also a minor celebrity to the one or two friends that I choose to befriend. They were usually the less liked children on the edge of social grace and I found that those people would be the formula for my best friendships through out life. The best people are the people that don't feel the social tug of the popularity strings. These people are free to explore all the quirky interests that make life so colorful and allow Hobbits, Dungeons and Dragons and Atari to be cool on a certain level. These people allow all of us to follow them silently and wisely as they see something that the Alpha never sees. Success without glory. Salvation without fame. It keeps our entire world in check from those that would lead us so quickly down dark and disasterous paths. (by the way, the Hobbit thing...this part of my life didn't make me a pimp with the ladies, but the girls that were interested in these things, turned out to be the coolest chicks as adults, the so called, popular girls are still worthless to anyone, including themselves)

So being on the Omega side of things allows for priceless freedoms to roam freely in the world without concern for other's acceptance or other's presence. There is a solace in being the only one that matters without the burden of feeling like you need to share or lead or fight. There is a zen like existence in being outside of the alpha/beta world. An Omega will be the first person to travel to the end of our universe by themselves without anyone watching. A Beta would go if an Alpha told them and an Alpha would go if everyone would watch.

I am not someone who needs much. I rarely want to own anything or make too much of something else. I am not greedy or power mad, however, when I do want something, it's rare and I chase after it. I don't feel like I need to have a million of them or have the best one, I just want, "the one".

I never lost a game of red rover. That makes me the best ever.

get out

Too many of the people I know in this world have a blemish on their relationship record. And when I mean blemish, I don't mean to say that they did something wrong. What I mean to say is that, at one time or another, most of my friends were in an abusive relationship. One where they tended to be on the wrong side of a darkness.

The most common abuse is verbal abuse. Taking undue criticism and being beat down by a loved one. Second is emotional abuse, which is closely related to verbal, but contains fewer conversations and involves more scaring. Third, is physical. The type of relationship that starts with a shove, a slap or grapple that is a bit too tight and lasts a bit too long, and eventually progresses to weapons. All of my friends have come through and moved on. Some have walked right into another damaging relationship, not having learned anything from the first.

As a friend, you have to watch from the sidelines and no amount of commentary from you is going to make a difference. "Get out", you tell them, "cut your losses and run". They never really listen. You know they aren't listening when you hear them say, "I know, I know" and begin to try to explain it away or give you further details of the abuse as if that will make a difference. It's irritating. I hate it.

In the past few decades, there have been thousands of books written, organizations formed and federally funded programs developed to help those in abused relationships. But for some reason, it continues. The abused walk right back in. It makes you wonder if they want it that way. I don't believe that's true, but I do believe that their behavior is a very telling sign of human behavior... We hate to be wrong.

A really well conceived lie is worth a million truths. It's so satisfying to believe in a fantasy and ignore the truth. The abused of the world live this way for years, some for decades or more, and they never believe that they it's "all that bad". I am stymied. As are many of you that have friends in such relationships.

The real disgusting thing is that the more this goes on, the more you want to distance yourself from it and either they stop calling you because they can't, or won't or you stop talking to them because you think them stupid and just talking to them makes you mad. So they are abandoned to go it alone.

People abuse others for various reasons. I am going to play the part of an abuser and reveal what I can if you can tolerate to read it...

I am not the person I wanted to be. I wanted more, and either circumstance, choice, misdirection, misguidance, genetics, bad luck, missed opportunity or fate has made me this person and I don't like it. Anyone who does like this person or encourages me, compliments me or admires me, is stupid and I don't respect them. The more they remind me the more rage grows.

I drink, take drugs, watch television because I am not that person and these things pacify me, any interruption, discouragement or dissention shall be meet with resistance.

I hate my life but I must maintain a strong front and in order to do that, I will share my pain with others, making their lives more miserable than mine.

I am sharing my experience with others. It happened to me.

I don't want to be married with kids, I want to fuck anyone I want and I don't want the women I fuck to fuck (or even desire) other people.

I don't like kids interrupting MY time with responsibility, I want to be the free spirit I was when I was a kid and not have to worry about this shit.

I wanted to be taller, cuter, more endowed, smarter, richer, leaner and more popular.

People piss me off with their success and achievement where I have none.

People piss me off with their ability to be happy where I have none.

People piss me off with their stupidity where I have none.

People piss me off with their lives where I have none.

I need a place to put all this frustration.


I hope that those of you in your relationships realize that rage is eternal. It's hard to let go of it, because to let go of it would mean that you were wrong in the first place and that would just add to the misery. To be wrong again...

It's hard to live in reality. It's hard to accept your place in the world and find some peace within it. They drink to make the frustration go away and to pass the time it takes as they stand in line to die. If they hit, it feels good, they release some rage and feel empowered and in control of something. If you stay, it confirms their feelings.

If they call you names, demean you, undermine you, it's too make themselves feel better and to keep you in check. The idea being, you need to idol them and feel that their praise is worthy for someone as worthless as you. You will live your whole life trying to be good enough and to be respected by them to no avail.

It's hard to hear your tails of woe. I am sorry that so many of you are suffering. Get out. There is nothing more you can do. IT WILL NEVER GET BETTER. EVER. THERE IS NO VALID REASON TO STAY. YOUR CHILDREN ARE NOT AN EXCUSE AND YOU WILL ONLY RAISE THEM TO BE ABUSERS. GET OUT.

Kind of a tough one today.

tis not as deep as a well

but that fucking bee got me. Back of the leg, middle of the calf. OUCHY FUCKING OUCHY! I hate it.

I ran in and let the blood pressure build up and spread the venom around a bit. On the advice of everyone, I put windex on it, then baking soda and then my own urine. I'm not sure. In these moments of haste, you really forget the little details.

Everyone knows "just the thing" for this or that. When it comes to bee stings, how come no one says, "anti-venom". My leg is ammonia clean, baking soda soft and swollen to the point that you can not tell the lower half of my leg from the upper half. If I lose my leg, I am going to bury it with the bodies of every person that told me to put ammonia and baking soda on it.

It's practically impossible to move with my leg as swollen as it is. I laid on the couch for three hours with ice packs on the leg, praying for some reduction in the swelling. I watched three hours of the history channel educate me on Hitler's SS, it was wonderful. I really feel that I have mind in the right place for healing.

Somewhere in the day, I feel asleep and didn't wake up for a bit.

Naps for most of the world are quick little power naps of no more than twenty minutes. Maybe, if you're lucky, you can stretch a nap into an hour. I don't have that short nap gene. I lay down to sleep, it's going to be 8 hours. Yes, that's right, I did nothing all day but watch Nazis and give myself freezer burn on my lower leg. ( I tell ya, when I sleep, nothing is waking me up.) So now my leg is swollen still, still achy from venom soaked in ammonia and baking soda but now it's a beautiful blue color. I still can't use it.

I like bees. They are one half of the title of my favorite sit down chat with my parents. You gotta love em. They really do not mean you any harm. Just some really challenging Monday remedies that seem to be making the matter worse. That's all a bee really wants out of life, to watch you suffer. To exterminate you systematically and with nothing but pure malice. Bees and their little SS uniforms... Sorry.

string

It's often overlooked but you seem the everywhere. We really take them for granted or, if we do acknowledge them, it's to scorn them. They exist as a reminder to all of us where something starts and something else ends and I have never heard someone compliment one, but I have heard people describe them as an obstacle. Their tone to describe it sounds almost personal.

Georgie, my President, spent his sunday with some special needs children from across America. He invited them all to play a game of Tee Ball on the south lawn of the White House. And that's really a great thing. Special needs children, playing a game with no outs, no strikes and where everyone wins. No heckling... it's sports nirvana. It's pretty obvious where I am going with this and I don't think it would be surprising to hear me say something like, "The White House staff, feeling sorry for George, brought in some like-minded souls to share the day with. The idea behind the move was to lessen Georgie's anxiety about always feeling inferior to the rest of the White House staff and to let him feel like an important person for the day. There was a nation wide search for the most afflicted of the afflicted and only those who seem to be bad at Tee ball were invited. Georgie never struck out and he scored a run and he was allowed to show off the White house to all of his new friends. He was all smiles and laughter. His little hands clapping and waving in the warm July sunshine. The children benefited from the trip by being allowed to see that one of their own had risen to one of the most powerful positions in the world and that anything was possible." (when the rules of the game are altered to make it impossible for you to lose. Like charity, false reality, or being shepherded by other more powerful people that make the rules.)

Yeah, I could have said that. Or I could have say, "The President is being asked to take on a new role which his staff feels he is more than capable of; babysitting their children. George, not sure of what to do, created a game of Tee Ball for the special needs children and altered the rules to make them feel like winners and to insure that they continue to vote Republican. "There are no losers in the Republican party" said Georgie, "if we all play together and we do as we are told". Not available for comment was Mrs. Georgie who was in Africa feeding dying children. Children who's lives were altered when a much more powerful country ravaged their country for profit. "One child at a time" said Mrs. Georgie, "we can make a difference."

Yeah, that would have been funny. But creating satire about the President, as easy and as fun as it is to do, was not paramount in my mind today, I was putting up fences.

Putting up a fence looks like it would be a fairly easy task compared to some of the things I have to do around here. It looks so simple on paper. Dig hole, put fence post in hole, string out fencing material, tack it on, DONE! Of course, the true art of any task is in the finer details that fly below the radar and are always much more complicated than you want them to be and actually make the project, work! The little things like, measuring the distance that you want to fence. Lining up the posts to be equal across that distance. Digging the fucking holes to a suitable depth. Firming up the posts to make sure they don't jiggle. Stringing out the fencing material. Making sure it's measured out properly on each post. Making sure that each post is where it is supposed to be. Making sure that the distance between two points is truly a straight line. Making sure you have "enough" material to do the job; posts, fencing, staples, nails, etc. Making sure there is a gate if there needs to be. Making sure that you have the right distance between the two posts that will make up the gate. Hanging a gate. Drilling a hole for the hinges. Tightening the hinges on the fence to make sure it doesn't slip. Leveling the gate to make sure it works. Making sure the gate locks. Bracing the ends of the fence to make sure you have the right tension on the fence.

So when all of that is done, you have a simple, easy fence installed... And the rest of your day to slack off.

With all that you need to remember to do and in which order (above is not in order) you will forget something. Or you will do something to make the task harder than it is. For me that excerberation came in the way of string.

Lovely stuff. Simple, silky soft string. All rolled up like kite string. No problem here. String is used to insure that the line of the fence is straight. You tie it to one end and you string it across the span you are trying to fence and you have a template of where your posts need to go. Simple. Right?

String lives in a universe of it's own. It has it's own magnetism and it's law of physics when it comes to strength.

Again, in the heat, I am no mental giant. I should be playing Tee ball really. But there I am, tying string to a post and trying to let it roll out as I walk along the proposed fence line. A mild breeze picks up and the string carries a bit. The further I walk, the further the string carries off center. I finally get to the end and I look back to see a huge sideways arch in the string. Being a genius, I try to pull it straight. It gets caught on grass and won't let go. I pull harder. It won't budge. That fucking grass is holding all 200 pounds of me. It's fighting over the string with me and winning. So I walk back a bit to free up the string and the string, sensing some tension relief and slack, sails away and catches on other obstructions that I wasn't aware were obstructions; Tiny pebbles, dead insect, leaf on the ground.

Quickly, I started to roll up the string. Which never returns to the spool the same way it came off and it begins to bunch up in the middle. I let it out of the spool a bit and this sticky string which was strong enough to hold on to a blade of grass and not move, just flops off the spool onto the ground into a big ball, which is impossible to untangle. (there was grass holding on to it).

Twenty minutes into the unraveling of the ball of string, I notice that the string has found it's way around both my shoes and one leg. I start to laugh, either from dehydration or from the silliness of how this looks. I begin to imagine this string as a living organism and it's trying to kill me. I wonder what people would say if they found me, dead, with string wrapped around me in the middle of this field? I'm sure the first thing they would say is, "what was he thinking about that he let that string get the best of him?"

Tee Ball with Georgie. The most powerful man in the world, playing Tee Ball with special needs children, and only being able to play them to a draw.

and the man sang... nothing's gonna change my world

The hot death wind of summer came by today. It made the trees creak and moan. It lifted trash cans and spread pollen without much subtly. Standing in it was supposed to cool me off, but it actually aided the sun in dehydrating me further. The more I would sweat, the more the wind would dry, which made my body make more sweat to cool me off, it dried, more sweat, more drying, etc. The body temperature rose to a dangerous level, killing off vital parts of my mind. You could call it farm hand suicide. A slow, agonizing death by labor.

I enjoyed the breeze because I have been told to enjoy it. I am reminded of a time before air conditioning when the breeze was the only way to stay cool on hot summer days. These reminderers are generally older folks who love to recall a more enjoyable world than the one we are in now, and they love to share their knowledge with anyone they can grab onto, hold down and force feed the stories too. It's not that I don't appreciate a good ole trip down memory lane, they have a place and time, but it's not when you are suffering from heat stroke.

I am also reminded that the air conditioners of the world are a part of the global warming problem that makes summers on the planet so fucking intolerable. Such an irony is the vicious cycle....

My mother likes her life in 30 below temperatures. Even in the winter. She could sleep in a snow bank and think it too warm. However, her baths must be 9000 degrees. Maybe she's a lizard, I don't know. How people survive in the cold is something that amazes everyone. What did humans do before gortex? Before plastic on the windows? How did they survive? I am still shocked to hear about Eskimos. I get through the fish eating, the nose rubbing, but I lose it when I hear how cold it gets. Maybe my mother is a rare Eskimo lizard...

My brother called from Iraq to complain about the weather and boredom. Two things you wouldn't think someone in a war zone would be worried about, but he is. I guess if our mother is a lizard, making him half, he would be hating it all that much more. Beyond the tales of weather and staleness, we were able to chat about tractors and made bigger plans for his next visit, which I will put on hold, for now, as I don't like to do that to myself. I'm not really good at the long term planning. Things change so drastically and so quickly, that I never get to see a plan all the way through. So I stopped doing it. AND, if I had been good at long term planning, I would have been a rich and famous stand up comic today, and not a farm hand covered in dirt, eating clementine oranges, all day long.

Oh, the world is such a lovely place. I know that it pains people to hear that, but it is. I know things have gotten bad and are probably getting worse. But nothing is supposed to stay the same. Change is what makes it the lovely world it is. I wonder if the people of 1905 were complaining about how they were destroying the world and how much things had changed from 1875. I wonder if they grabbed young men and women and told them of times when there was no gas lighting to aid their way home and you had to ride a horse if you wanted to go to town. I wonder if they reacted the same. Hmmmm...

I wonder if they thought that the end was near and that their President was a hack. Yes, the world has changed, hasn't it? It's funny like that. Always making new things, killing some off, changing the landscape, creating mystery. Oh, mother nature, you old card, you. What will you think of next? Perhaps the elusive eskimo lizards of Norway will die off this year, or perhaps they will see a growth spurt, who knows...

You see... even mother nature doesn't make long term plans.

(and the man sang on)

the taste of victory

...is a lot like chicken.

Four full days of stiflin' heat. Four. It's to the point where I can not keep the water in me and that which is going in, ain't finding it's way out in the bathroom. I am feeling the effects. I am constantly wiping dirt and sweat and hair from my face, but it's to no use. The nature-has-done-me-in feeling is too much.

For some reason, during this little heat wave, I find myself, outside trying to complete little tasks that seem pointless. For example; my brother and I started a chicken coup for the new chickens and we were unable to finish it. Not having the money that my brother has to complete the project, the frame of the coop is there, but the chickens are not. Needing a place to put the now, 11 pound chickens in, I have constructed the THIRD temporary chicken coop to contain them until money finds it's way back into the permanent structure.

Before the project, the chickens were living on the north side of the barn in a 10x10 space, which was too small for twenty chickens. The new space is on the southern half of the barn and is double the space. However, things are sitting where the new coop is to be and that requires some heavy lifting (in the heat), moving elsewhere (in the heat), the space must be cleared (in the heat) supports built (in the heat) chicken wire, which is designed to make fools of mighty men, must be strung up (in the heat), then a gate built (in the heat) and then the transfer of the feeders, water supply and roost from one temp coop to the other must be done (in the heat) and then.... Chicken wrangling. ( in... the... heat)

Chickens are no easy task. For all that they are not, they are truly blessed with the ability to be evasive. If you are going to live in nature as the embodiment of all things frightened and become the term by which all things that live in fear are labeled, you have to be the best at it. The best at being afraid. Chickens are masters. They have no shame. They will run, attempt to fly, squawk, push other chickens in their way, anything... not to be the one you choose. They don't care what you want with them, they don't even want to know. They just would rather turn a blind eye to the whole affair. If you grab another chicken, all the better. It's not THEM you are after and they can live with that, guilt free. Sure, they will miss their coop mate, but this game of survival is every cock for themselves.

Even in an enclosed space, grabbing a chicken is not easy. What looks like a docile animal, come alive and can really move. And I mean, FAST! No matter how graceful, cool, collected or talented you are, chicken chasing will make you look like a fucking idiot. You look like a huge 9 month old trying to grab a toy that is too big for you to pick up. You're legs are useless, they move with a clumpy awkwardness that reminds me of Frankenstein or people with spinal cord injuries in rehab. The arms are streached out as if you are trying to hug the chickens as opposed to catch them. None of the chickens like you that much and are doing everything they can to avoid you. Now, the fact that no chicken will turn, face you and hug you back means that your arms are up for a while and you are turning back and forth and looking terribly stupid.

THEN...

You get one of those lazy fuckers. If you are thinking that you can wear out a chicken, think again. All that general laying around that chickens do is so they can save enough energy for just this very moment. And they don't hold back. It will be two hours later and that chicken will be panting, running and staring wide eyed at you from the opposite end of the coop as you lay there, dying. Chicken's hearts are very small, much like the Grinch, and they will just let you die there. Even after you die, they will still just stare at you. For months.

But, you caught one. Luck, is the only plan that works here. But once you have a chicken it's a whole new game. The game is called, holding on to that chicken. Fortunately, the chicken will submit after a few seconds, but those first few seconds are doozies. Riding a bull is for pussies. Chicken wrestling is a craft. To put this into perspective; cock fighting is popular around the world, because they can do some serious damage when they want too. Now, take one rooster out of that fight and put your arms in it's place and GET ON WITH YOUR BAD SELF!

Twenty four chickens, two hours and several scratches later, I am done (in the heat).

It's the little projects that sound so simple that find a way of becoming so much more. What looked like an hour of work, turned into the whole day. Of course, I was taking water breaks every ten minutes and I had other "watering" things to do (flowers and gardens are pretty parched even with hours of watering a day... in the heat).

I learn something new, every day that I am here. You find out things about yourself and the life it is, without ever really noticing that you are getting that education. Taking the time to work on a strategy for gathering chickens in a 10x10 space was weird thinking, but useful. Building a another fucking coop was not exciting to me and, in the heat, was even less exciting, but I did it. I knew that the chickens needed a new space. Letting them roam free has cost the ponderosa some beautiful flowers and there is a minefield of chicken shit on everything you can see. Getting them in a new, larger, enclosed space was necessary and worth all that I had to endure... to make sure the flowers looked good. EVERYTHING at this house, gets a fair shot at life. EVERYTHING here gets an equal amount of attention and care. EVERYTHING here should be free from torment from the other denizens that live here. It is my job to guarantee that that is possible.

I can't wait to kill those fucking chickens.

ants

Each home has it's own pest. Whether it's rats, mice, cockroaches, bees, beetles, silverfish, spiders, children, grandparents, old annoying friends, grown children that won't move out or religious zealots with no sense of interior decoration there are pests in every home. Millions of dollars, maybe billions of dollars, are spent, each year, to rid our homes of these pests. Sadly, nothing works. ( I still say fire is the best cleanser )

For my tiny hamlet, the word on the street is, "ants". They are everywhere. Making a name for themselves and bringing down the property values. They hang out past curfew; drinking, smoking, drag racing and carrying on. "Up to no good", they say, "something should be done!"

My home has it's pest, more than most, but I live in harmony with all of them. Bees are fine, they serve a purpose. Mice are just asking for it from the hungry cats that live only to watch them die. There are no rats, no roaches, no beetles and no silverfish. Spiders are a problem, but after a few dozen bites, you grow immune to their venom and they just become entertainment. There is nothing like watching someone over react to the first sight of a spider.

When I was younger, a friend of mine lived in an apartment that was so overrun with bugs that you couldn't sit down without killing ten of them. I don't know what they were, roaches, most likely. The landlord wouldn't do anything about it, so my friend started taping each bug he found to wherever he found it. After a few days, his walls looked polka-dotted with scotch-taped bugs everywhere. I think he got his message across.

For some reason, the ants haven't made their way out to the house. They seem to be an "in town" problem and I am mixed about how I feel when I hear about them. On one hand, I feel bad, ants suck and nothing, and I mean NOTHING, kills them. There are millions of poisons, family tricks and traps, but nothing works, they can withstand anything. On the other hand, I am glad. Glad that it isn't my house. I am trying to stay in the conversation and act as if I can help, but other than going to their house and stomping on them, what can I do? I don't know. You can't tell people, "fire" for every dilemma that comes up. Eventually they will begin to think you are a pyro and you will be blamed for every structure fire in town for years to come. It's best to keep the, "fire" comments to a minimum.

Some problems just don't go away. Karl Rove did a bad, bad thing and even congress and the courts, couldn't bring him down. The media left him alone and he remains America's most notable pest.

Some of you have jobs that have pestilent overtones to them. A co-worker, a scheduled task, or a major burden, that is just so annoying any you just can not figure out how to overcome it. I know people that see the passage of time as a pest. Either it is not happening fast enough or it's happening too fast. Which ever way you see it, time is just fucking with you.

So for all of you with ants in your life, a problem so pestilent that it won't go away and there is nothing you can do about it, I have this to say, "What? What do you want from me? I can't come there and step on it for you."

In other words, it's your pest, don't share it.

in this dream

You are walking down a long hallway. The walls and ceiling are not visible, but you know it's a hallway. You walk forever and eventually the walls and the ceiling come into view. As they get closer you see that the ceiling and the walls are segmented and are all identical in both length and width. There is no noise, not even the sound of your footsteps. The reason; you don't seem to be standing on anything as you walk. Eventually, you reach a junction where the hallway offers you a left, right or straight ahead option. None of them seems to have anything to offer you as an alternative to your present course other than direction.

You choose and you walk. The surroundings do not change and you do not seem to find the terminus.

A friend from Canada came to America for the first time and my mind swirled over what to showcase. First visit to America, have to experience "America". When visiting any new country, you should dive into their culture and live as Romans do. A buffet was my choice, as it shows America's love of gluttony and need for variety. Not only that, but how the American individual can not make up it's mind and is so prone to the weakness of greed. Buffets offer tons of food in every combination possible (think carrots in jello) and as much as you want for a small price. Take as much as you want, eat as much as you want. The only rule; use a new plate each time you visit the buffet. Apparently the restaurant people were not happy with just wasting food, but they figured that using another plate wastes water as well. Genius.

You can take all you want, leave it stacked a foot high, eat none of it and go back for another plate. Not eat any of that, and get more. You really can. That's America. People pushing and shoving, no courtesy, no ethics, just get me mine. Shovel it in faster because they might run out. America. Meanwhile, countries starve blah, blah, blah.

I could have offered any number of restaurants but they don't speak of America as very original; Chinese, Thai, Italian, Mexican, Indian. Or, I could have suggested a diner, or a chain restaurant, but these places have become so homogenized that no matter what corner of America you visit, they contain the same menu items; Cobb salad, Caesar salad, Club sandwich, Burger, Chicken sandwich, Hot wings, Chicken Fettacini, etc. There is no difference between a TGI Friday's menu, an Applebee's menu and a mom and pop diner's menu. So, you can not really "experience" America in the same way you might have thirty years ago. What you eat in Florida will taste just like the food in North Dakota.

Homogeny. Everything blended together so that big business can make you feel comfortable where ever go. You can seek out their business as an oasis in all this confusing, option filled world. Strip malls, clothes, hairstyles, radio stations, television shows, language, ambition... it is all blending together so that the world is truly becoming nothing to see. Just comfortable, no stress, no brainer options. Easy.

There was a time when traveling to Africa meant seeing a new world. Now you can stay at that Nairobi Hilton and shop at the Gap there. Get hungry, have a whopper. There was a time when visiting Europe meant shopping for goods that were sold in no other corner of the world. Now, they are available everywhere. I have three Swiss army knives. A German beer stein, a jar of nutella, some yardley soap and a porsche. None of which were purchased in Europe.

There was a time when you couldn's see the ceiling and walls of the hallway, when things started to seemed limitless and, at it's best and worst, different. When the view changed and so did the experience. Now, you travel somewhere, you look for familiar businesses to feel comfortable, you stay in surroundings that you feel you "need" to enjoy yourself and you only use products that are comforting and that you "can not live without". I have watched people do it. They are packing for trips to exotic locations and they take FOOD with them so that they can eat while they are there. They take along music, clothes, food and beauty products and then stay in their rooms during their trip to "relax". Then they buy postcards showcasing the "difference" of the locale they are visiting and send it back to others to see what they are "missing".

The walls and the ceiling get closer and closer. The options seem to offer no change from the present course. They wall and ceiling are segmented and there doesn't seem to be a floor.

Homogeny is making us weak. Reliant. Needy. Bland. "and the meek shall inherit the earth". For a long time this meant the humble, now it means all those tribes of the world that never bought into modern day civilization and won't be affected by it's demise. The meek, as we know them, will indeed, be the last civilization standing, in a lovely bit of irony.

Their hallway still has no ceiling and no walls.

inked

The best tattoo ever lives on the back of my neck. It's a greater than or equal too symbol and it says a great deal about me. My brother has it drawn on his body armor and the family is considering it for a family brand if we should ever really have a great herd of cattle or rabbits. Not that branding rabbits is a healthy thing to do, but we are a mean family when we want to be.

Coming in second is the lovely Don Quoixote as painted by Picaso, on my forearm. It, too, says a lot about me and I get loads of praise for it. I always show the love to the man who painted it, wrote the book and the tattoo artist that took the time, the beer and the talent to get it on there.

After that, the tattoos all blend together. Mermaids, A moose, A black sun, A crab, A phoenix, A tribal arm band, A tribal crest and a compass. They all have a meaning and they all have a special place in my heart. But, now, it's time for new ones.

Coming up on the list are the Cyranno Deberrac tattoo, A roman numeral of my birthdate on my ass, a ruler on my forearm and a complex chaos math equation that is supposed to be the formula for time travel.

The problem is where? Where to put them all? Where to get them done. My regular tattoo artist lives in the hottest part of Texas and I don't have any major trips south planned any time soon. Other than than an eastern trek in a few weeks, but that is mostly northern states. I have to figure out a way to lure him north, OR I must think of the body and look for a closer tattoo artist.

There is nothing simple about getting a tattoo. You really need to know what you want, believe in it and go for it. Dont' worry about pain or what it will look like in twenty years. Don't concern yourself about the job you won't get or the person that won't fuck you. Don't worry about the looks and stares. If anything, the tattoo just helped you uncover some rather nasty shit that needed uncovering in the first place.

Finding a good artist is hard, you have to trust them. You have to believe in their work and you have to get past the belief that they are strung out on meth. What you need to look at is a large three ring binder of their work. From that, you will get an idea of what they are good at; colors, animals, black and white, portraits, landscapes, etc. If their work is similar to what you are looking for, go for it. Try not to burn a hole in your budget, but get it. Believe in the symbolology and what it means to you, and DO IT!

Things not to get or ask for as the artist will hate you or want to kill you...

Tazmanian devils
Calvin or Hobbes
Little Devil
Your college mascot
Your greek letters
Anything written in an Oriental language that means something stupid, (example; serenity)
Anything smaller than a silver dollar (foreign currencies I don't know the equivalent)


Find something that is you. Something that you enjoy looking at... A LOT. Something that starts conversations, attracts like minded friends and scares away fools.

Best of luck, My day is due.

left overs

My brother heads back to Iraq and the work left in his wake is immeasurable. Sure, loads of things were built and new plans were added to old plans and old plans were just thrown out in place of new avenues and dreams. That always happens.

In the space of month, a new vehicle arrived, two new buildings went up, fence lines and construction were debated, new driveway layouts were pondered, new tools arrived and were assembled for use and alcohol was consumed. All in all, a heavy flow month.

As he flies across the ocean blue, I am left with a mountain of projects that will require more time and energy than I have in the remaining summer months. It's imperative that the chickens have a safe, warm place to roost for the winter and that the new chicks coming in have a place to be pampered before they get slaughtered and eaten. The new Bronco needs a drive train replaced and the parts that were ordered haven't come in yet and I don't know where to pick them up or how much they cost, but all of this must be figured out so I can move the Bronco out of the way of the garage door.

The porsche has some needs that will need addressing if it is to be sold any time soon. The battery tray needs welding into place and a new fuel pump will be needed to replace the damaged old one. The cars will have to be placed under the canopy before the fall rains and winter snows arrive.

The horses have movable fence to be placed, a wind break to be built and a new fence line to split the existing pasture put in. The garden will have to be harvested and canned. And then a ton of compost has to be moved with a tractor to where the new garden will be next spring. A new locale given the new chicken coup.

4 tons of gravel will have to be spread along new drive paths between the chicken coup, the garden, the workshop and the wood shop. Before that can happen, I need to place paving stone along the edges.

Then there is the new trellis. The new fuel tank stand of 5 or more feet in height. Power will have to run to the chicken coup when all the interior wiring is done and the new windows and door have been placed on it. Not to mention the metal siding has to be placed on and the chicken runs will have to be built.

In two months, my brother returns for another visit and there will hopefully be no new structures that need building that will take up the entire visit. I enjoy the time spent with my brother, but I can't imagine him wanting to leave a high stress environment where people are trying to kill him everyday to come home and rush through a month of construction knowing that you are not going to be able to do everything you wanted to in that short amount of time. Something, I think, would stress you out even more. It seems to me that coming home from Bagdad should be, "down time" and free from stress, but in reality, Bagdad, even though they are trying to kill him, is less stressful. Go figure.

The next visit is already planned and the thought is that we will travel a bit and actually vacation more. I know that loosely translates to, "not as much heavy construction, but still some construction." Most likely remodeling the interior of the house. Bathrooms and such. Finishing the Bronco and whatever new things can be thought up in the next 60 days.

The amount of effort to write this blog has always been a real kick, but I think I am too caught up in the insecurity over whether or not people are reading it or not. At the height of this blog's popularity there was over 2000 readers, now I would say it's back down to a more comfy 200 or 300 hundred. This being said, I am not going to print off a bunch of copies of the book, just in case, the 200 or 300 people who still read this, are broke.

With all the projects around the house, I might have to lessen the time I spend writing, something I do not wish to do. But I have so much work to finish in the next 60 days, I don't know when I will have time. I will try to publish but not on the weekends.

I hope the summer is rolling along for everyone as smoothly. I hope that the left overs from your original summer plans are just as tasty as they were when you made them.

Enjoy your tan, the naked white of winter is fast approaching and the rest that we will all need from the thrill ride of summer will be greatly appreciated.

so, you're an expert

I had a dream that a man and a woman came to look at the porsche and perhaps buy it. In the dream, the woman was very friendly but her husband was surly and stand-offish. I remember that they drove up to the house ( or did they fly in on magic wings, I don't remember clearly ) and they came over to say hi and the husband practically had to be dragged over to shake my hand. His interest was solely on the porsche which, you could tell, he was displeased with right away.

The porsche is a powder coat baby blue with a black removable top. It's a two seater that is only 4 inches off the ground where you sit. It has flip up headlights, a front and rear trunk and is just sexy as hell. As a porsche, it's a given that it's fast, but it also gets incredibly good gas mileage at something like 50 miles to the gallon. So it's a nice car, whether you are a porsche enthusiast or not.

When you buy a porsche, you know all about them before you buy it. For one, it's a fetish car. Not something you would buy unless you had another car and just wanted a project to work on or something to decorate your garage or driveway. It's a conversation piece and a cheap way to entertain visitors.

Porsches come in all kinds of shapes and styles and the year of each model can even make the difference in value ( think '68 mustang compared to a 82' mustang ). So when you come to "look" at a porsche, you know what to "look" for. Nothing should be a shock. You are there to assess what it needs and what it has. The overall shape and style should already be known.

In the dream, the man seemed put out and I couldn't figure out why. His wife was trying her best to deflect her husband's miserable attitude and create excuses for his frowns and moans. He looked over the car, sat inside and didn't ask one question. After ten minutes of watching this man look over the car, much the same way someone might look at a bad Christmas present that had just been unwrapped in front of the gift giver, I asked him, "what do you think?" Then the nit picking started. Rust here, ding there, not enough of this. But I could tell that these questions were not really the issue.

"Here came here thinking that this porsche was a different porsche." I thought. "He came all this way and found out he made a mistake."

There is always a kink in the expert mind that can't be distinguished until there is a monumental failure in their thinking. It's usually a small oversight that leads to a disaster, and as an expert to can not afford any knocks against you if you wish to remain an expert. In this case, he wouldn't admit he had made a mistake and was working hard to cover his mistake by making the car, myself and my home, the reason for this error. As if I had tricked him, or the car's model type was mislabeled on the car back in Germany, anything but him.

I don't remember the dream after that. There could have been sex, or food, or an apocalypse, I don't know. But I do know that I woke up today ready to kill that man.

Experts are experts for different reason. Some earn the title by education and loads of it. Others get the title from years and years of experience. And some are just born with it. Whatever the background, each one of them is prone to failure. Not something that they expect or we expect of them, but it does happen. Bobby Fischer, the greatest chess player of his time, lost a few games. I, a genius at all things prepared and eaten by me, have cut my fingers during preparation and bitten into burnt-on-the-outside-raw-on-the-inside food.

There is humor in these failures. You don't REALLY want to see a genius or an expert fail. Their success gives us hope that we can do it too but, their continued success makes us see our inabilities and inadequatecies, our laziness and our limits with more embarassing clarity, which feels like shit. They expose fears and anxieties that we carry that we didn't even know we had. So when an expert fails, we can all lose hope, we all lose faith, BUT, we do get to see someone, who makes us sick with all their perfection, become a humbled human again, just like all the rest of us imperfect fools. Maybe their success was just luck. Everyone has a good streak every now and then, perhaps their genius was a fluke. Or, that's what we tell ourselves, anyway.

I am not sure that I am great at any one thing, I know that I am not an expert at anything, but I do so enjoy being above average at almost everything. (notice I said, almost...) It allows me to fail and not have to spend time working to cover the mistake. It allows me to learn from it and it gives me room to improve, which is a great feeling. How awful it must feel to know that you could never have variety in life. To know that feeling, I play monopoly and when I own everything and I am ready to crush my renters in to bankruptcy, I get bored. There is no struggle and, therefore, no interest. How sad. ( I crush them anyway, just to watch them die).

You experts out there, keep a low profile. Pray I am not the one that sees you fail. Pray that I don't expose that chink in your armor. Or I will laugh my way into YOUR dreams.

be yourself

Half way through town, you will see a restaurant with a bus parked in the middle of it. At first glance, you would think that the bus crashed into the building, but in reality, it is meant to look that way. Written on the side of the bus is, "Buddy Holly and the Crickets" and for all of you who don't know who that is, Mr. Holly and his band of merry men were a ground breaking group of early rock and rollers. Then Mr. Holly died in a plane crash in Clear Lake, IA which ended thick rimmed glasses from every being cool again. ( until Elvis Costello came around)

So the bus sits there. Inside the food is ify and yet people come. You have to. Maybe not more than once, but at least once. It's kitchy. It's touristy. It begs you to stop. After you're done, you are really done. I don't think many people have the place high on their list of places to come back too.

Sad, isn't it? That bus restaurant which seems to send a message from it's decor that, "we didn't get it right" isn't working out. Maybe if Buddy Holly had died in a bus crash the place would be doing better. But, still, it's sad. Sad because the restaurant is just being it's own self. Something we are told to do. Every time we start something new, move somewhere, talk to someone new, we are told by others to calm our nerves to, "just be yourself and you will be fine." Really?! IS that so?!

I have a terrible streak of mischief that runs deep within me. I can not help myself. I like to see what happens when oil and water mix. I like to see how things burn, or how much of one thing something else can take. I like that kind of thing. It's fun in it's own little way. But it's not a great quality to have when you are trying to make a "good impression". I actually struggle to not make a good impression so that I have room to improve. Being a good impression leaves you nowhere to go but down. Why not start off an ass and work your way towards goodness?

In my town, business are sprouting up. We have a cake shop. Just cake, no cookies. We have a new deli coming in. There is a semi-sort-of antique mall/craft shop/kids play house. There are four gas stations with unique personalities. We have five places to get an espresso. An outpatient hospital for non violent mental patients, who walk up and down main street all day long. There is a tractor shop, a lumber yard, a flower shop, four day spas, one semi-bar, and an eagles. What more does a little town need?

Customers.

When you open a business there are many things you need to think about. One, what kind of business. Two, where will you put it. Three, does anyone want it. Most of the time, these are pretty easy to figure out. Especially in a town with one main street. The kind of business and does anyone want it are the two questions that seem to elude the savvy entrepreneur here.

absent from town are clothes, shoes, food variety (we have two burger joints and three pizza places), late night entertainment, and a porn shop. All of things are needed here and there is always a great deal of hope that the next business coming in will satisfy one of those needs. Alas, it is not always meant to be.

Most of the building on main street are historical. And the historical society made up of very old people who remember when they were new, run the town. They get money from the government to keep the buildings looking the same and the old people like to think that the buildings need to stay the way they are. The rub here is, if you want to open a business on main street, you have to bow down to their wishes or they will make your life hell. Funny, the burger joint going into a building that has a bus driven into the side of it wasn't a hard call. But the gym going into the old furniture store, that was. One makes us healthy and is thriving. The other raises cholesterol and is dying on the vine. The historical society loves the bus.

Be yourself. Does it work? How often have you had to hold back to make a good impression? Don't you think that's why so many of us are angry? Holding back when we want to be ourselves? Just think what a world we would be in if we didn't feel the necessity to hold back. True, the first few years would be a lot of, "fuck you's" and "eat shit's", but we would prevail. If being yourself really worked, women would be turned on by guys who loved to play video games. Men would be turned on by women's compulsion to look prettier. Employers wouldn't mind a compulsive napper. Voters wouldn't mind acts of personal indiscretion such as affairs and money laundering. There would be no secrets because there would be no reason to hide anything. Ah yes, it would be something.

My town loves to be itself. It doesn't care if you like the food, the decor or if you come at all. We stay and we try because we have the type of town that likes to be itself. So, I encourage all of you to go out into the world and tell everyone the kind of person you are without concern for what they will think, I am sure it will work out just fine. The first person you should seek out and try it out on, is the person that keeps telling you to be yourself.

chow yung fat is cool like that

A good kung fu movie can send you to heaven. As a child, kung fu movies were played late at night on the little network that seem to only play old movies. It played the Tarzan, the old war films, the westerns, the classics, some serials and then, late at night, just for the kids who were stealing some time after lights out... kung fu. I remember watching those movies and thinking that Asian people spoke that way and that there was no other language in the world but english, but that other countries just spoke it differently than we did.

The fighting is the reason you watch the movies. Every fight was the same, but it was always worth while. It starts with an accident. Someone does something wrong and as a consequence, someone dies or something is broken. The resulting action is what the movie is all about. Either the hero has to learn kung fu by balancing water on his head while an old man hits him with a stick or the hero is a mystery man who is in town to clean some shit up after finding his soft side in the eyes of a small curious child or sexy local girl. Either way, something bad always bad happens to them that kicks our hero into high, "kill em all" gear.

Fights are as follows..

There is a dramatic stare. Then a brief dash to face off. Then a pregnant pause. Then flying. Then fire. Then a sandal hits someone in the mouth and swords or some other weapons are drawn. More staring. Then more flying. Then some makes a misstep, or the ghostly, disembodied voice of the old man who was hitting people with sticks can be heard, and then some one dies.

The sound effects are brilliant and make you think that your body should make these "SHOONT" and "SLAAAAK!" noises when you move.

I was so impressed with kung fu movies that I wanted to learn it. I think that is what a kung fu movie really is. An advertisement. It worked. Millions of people have taken karate or kung fu courses, some people have taken them for years. Those are my favorite people because they walk around like they know that if shit went down, they could kick your ass. Or maybe those people have some kind of mental disorder that makes them think we are going to be overrun with ninjas in the near future and they want to be prepared. Maybe they scoff at us for not being ready. Ironically, it's these, "I have taken four years of Karate and have two black belts" people that get their asses kicked on a regular basis from some drunk in a bar with some real time fighting experience under his belt.

For those of you who have never fought, they don't last long. It's over quickly, not because the issue gets resolved or because someone gets knocked out, but because the combatants get pretty fucking tired pretty quickly. It's tiresome stuff. If you have never hit someone before and want to know what it's like, make a fist and punch the ground as hard as you can. It helps if there are some rocks in the dirt to act as bones. Hit it for thirty seconds at full power and see how tired you get.

Fights start off good, then end in a dull, death dance of circling before a bystander gets bored and drags his or her favorite opponent away for some water balancing and stick hitting training.

Here are some valuable tips for a quick end to a fight.

1. A gun shot to the body. Usually one should do. Lethal ones are best, but carry a stiff penalty if someone sees you and rats you out. BUT, the gun does have more bullets in it.

2. If no gun, then a heavy object, a knife or a vehicle works well. Same rules from 1 apply.

3. Running really fast.

4. If no weapon and you can't run. Aim for the throat, the knee, the crotch or the ear. These areas don't hurt you as much as them and they can end it pretty quickly. Need proof, hit yourself in the throat lightly and see how it feels.

5. Running really fast.

6. Grab hair at top of head and pull down quickly. Lowering the opponents head, then strike face with knee. It's going to hurt your knee, but it ends the fight.

7. Blame someone else and the join your assailant in beating the pulp out of the new victim.

I hope these little hints help you in your next fight. Enjoy your kung fu.

tabla raza

I can't begin to tell you how excited I am about Karl Rove's problem. He finally got caught, sort of, being the ass I told you he was. This time he leaked top secret information to the press to punish someone for not seeing things the way he sees them. His bravado cost a CIA agent her cover and the White House some validity points. Not that he cares. He has spent the past twelve years becoming the most powerful man in the world. How? By manipulation of all that is holy. He is a genius. And he is George Bush's brain. As the most powerful man in the world, he could care less that his little act of indiscretion was discovered. I think we can all learn something from this and there is a positive turn on this issue. Karl Rove stands a hero for all ugly people that have always wanted to fulfill the old adage of "one day I will make all the pretty people pay. You'll see!" Yes, he is the modern day hero for the ugly, lonely, uncool man of the new century. He is the new J. Edgar Hoover. The new Adolf Hilter. He is your parent's own version of Steve Buscemi. Ugly, focused, and pissed off.

I don't want to spend the time thinking about him if I can, there are so many other pressing issues working in the world today that require my attention. For example, "What does this administration want with all these child molesters?" and "Why are we still talking about gay marriage?" and "What is Subway doing in Iraq?". All these things require some thought, but they seem to be related in some way. This is what I have got so far...

Molesters.

Any sex offender is required to register his whereabouts (I don't say her because how often do we see female sex offenders?). The idea behind this is that we can track known criminals and keep our steally eyes on them. The law has been in place for ten years and it is worthless. Mostly. Before the law, children disappeared just as frequently but we never heard about it. Children were touched, snatched or had other ghastly things done to them and the public was left in the dark about it. Then the "polly law" and the "amber alert" came to pass and now we hear about everything. Maybe this is the real meaning of "no child left behind."

If I show you something that inspires you to react emotionally, you will disregard all logic to resolve that issue. For example, shark attacks are everywhere! We must kill sharks would be your answer. Then all I have to do is say, "we can't move the sharks, they are protected." Then you would say, stop protecting them and make me safe. I get to move the sharks and then the water they swim in is now open for whatever purpose I see fit. I created hysteria to achieve a predetermined goal and it worked for me. Now all I have to do is stop reporting the shark attacks and you think I am a savior. The twist, there were no more shark attacks than normal average per year, I just made it look like there were by reporting each incident something that had never happened before, but to you, it's new and it looked scary. You did exactly what I wanted and I got what I wanted from you, permission. (which the government knows it needs from it's people if it is to act inappropriately. Not that we punish our government, but they don't want to go down in history as bad people)

With that same system of thinking I can say, "Criminals are attacking are children." You react, "oh no! Something must be done." I say, "Well, we have already registered them on a database". You respond, "good, I feel better." Then I start to report every abduction and molestation. You get scared, angry and want something done. I catch said criminal and you see that it works. Then I start to show you other crimes. You respond the same way. I tell you that there is no criminal database. You respond, "make one!" I get to pass a law that requires every criminal tell us their whereabouts at all times. Crimes get commited, I tell you it was solved, you feel safe. It's not that more crimes were commited, but I made it seem like there were. You got scared and spent money and allowed me to bend the rules. As long as you think you are not a criminal, you don't think this violation of the constitution will apply to you. Until you get caught running a red light and are then required to tell someone everytime you take a piss and where.

But why do all of this, well, it is just another way certain money interests can monitor our behavior. It sounds odd, but remember what I said about prisons a few months ago. It's gooooooood money. Not only will we need more people to monitor the monitored, but we will need more people and more, more expensive equipment to catch all the naughty people. Someone has to create the new, more expensive equipment and someone has to build the new jails and the new adminstration building and the new... ad nauseaum. The more big brother knows about us, the more they can control us. And by controling us, I mean they can manipulate the system so they can get away with things that they don't want us to know about and would never think they would do. The great irony to all of this is, we will ask them to do it. We are the most glorious sheep in the whole world.

Gay Marriage.

Marriage, smarriage. go ahead. Marry whomever you choose. I think it's time we start adding new fuel to the "sanctity of marriage" issue. If marriage is so sacred and "gay marriage" is such an afront to marriage, the "institution", then why don't hetero couples get angry when women marry a man for money? Or when a man gets a bride mail order? Or when someone marrys to get a green card? Or when someone marrys to get a tax break? Or when someone gets married so a child won't be a bastard? Are those not afronts to the sacrament of marriage? Isn't marriage for any reason other than love an afront to marriage? I think we can put marriage on the level of entertainment now. It's more about the ceremony, staging, exculsion and scandal than anything else. I said it before and I will say it again...

Ask anyone who has ever been married and divorced. What was more exciting and which was done for the right reason?

Subway.

When fighting an invisible monster, it's best to do so with only six grams of fat in your system. Get 'em, Jared! You killer you. There is nothing like a footlong meatball sandwich on whole wheat after a long day of being terrified in the hot sun. Subway is in Iraq. And Joshua Greenway was killed and was sent home. I'm sure his family will feel better knowing that more money was spent on food than on armor. How many stamps do you get for that?

pollywollydoodledoddleday

Or whatever it is...

There is a precision that is needed when wood working that not all of us have. The simple task of taking a measurement and then applying it to a piece of raw material for shaping or cutting is made less simple when nature, odd forces and unusual named gods, work in collusion to make all that you worked for, come out all fucked up. What needs to be 78 1/8 inches long at measurement can quickly turn into 87 1/8 inches purely by magic. What was a 45 degree angle is now a 40 degree angle. The blame game begins and tools are always the first to sit in the hot seat. Upon further review, the project, the materials and then your diet all get a nod. At the end of the day, a simple, "fuck it, it'll work" comes to pass and the mess is resolved.

It's truly amazing how quickly things can go wrong even with the best laid plans. Logic and mathematical symmetry have no place in nature's more chaotic setting. To me, it's humorous to think that we humans could apply our sense of logic and reason to nature. What gall it takes to be so stubborn about it. I can't tell you how often I have cursed the lawn for not being level enough or for producing rocks that I knew were there from the last time I mowed, I just hadn't removed. It's nature's fault.

When planning my day, I try to think of all the things I need to get done, get started or just continue to care for. This involves this writing, my home, my family, the book, my friends and a multitude of strange and unusual projects that sprout up at any given moment. Every day I start off this way and every day, I don't get a tenth of it done the way I planned. Why? Because I forget to allow for abstracts. The little things that come up that send the day spiraling in a different direction. I get overwhelmed, at times, by the shift in importance of one project over another. Somethings just need addressing without hesitation and others can wait. At these times, you have triage the influx of needs and address some while abandoning others. Sadly, friends and family get shafted more than they should. I guess I take them for granted as non-variables or I think that their lives are moving in their own direction and my presence can wait.

Lately I have been rather antisocial both in person and on line. My emails to friends has slowed a bit and my phone calls, which I am not fond of in the first place, are really lacking. I am never aware of how much this affects my friends, but I think it does.

I measure it out, I cut it and it doesn't fit. You can follow instructions, or determine what steps should be taken in a certain order and hopefully it will work. You're pretty sure it worked before. But, here again, it doesn't always fit.

queer eye for the straight chicken

The peeps have grown and are sizable enough to roam free range around the ponderosa. It's a lovely sight. Chickens doing their thing. It makes you feel like you are on a farm. There is constant scratching and pecking and the cuckles are just soft enough to sound like boiling food. Which, in a way, is what some of these beauties are. You can't keep all the chickens, one rooster is enough. Too many cocks and there is fighting and such forth. So, some are gonna get it. Yum. You could say that sometimes it pays to be the cock of the walk. Weed out the weak and eat them righteously. There deserve it.

One of the more singular moments of joy that can be had with suck a flock is to throw fruit or veggies to them and watch one chicken strike out for it and then run away from the others that chase it fervently to steal the booty away. It's a wonderful sight. It's not "must see tv", but it's real entertainment on a base level that you can't get anywhere. To add real spice to the moment, you can spread some styrofoam pieces around and watch a chicken discover it and again, try to avoid being smeared by the rest of the flock as it runs away to protect it's find. Of course, it can't eat the styrofoam so the process perpetuates itself for hours of chicken pecking fun. You should all try it some time.

The sun is out, the iced sun tea is soothing and having the family around is making for a great July. There is contentment in their presence that is always missed when we scatter to the four winds for employment. The next two months will be trying as I head east for some work in Michigan, my mother continues on her path to career glory and the brother heads back to the far east to quench his thirsts. With any luck, the fall will bring us back together for another month of joy. Hopefully there won't be as much labor involved with the next pow wow.

I have come to realize that Jamoaca Almond Fudge Ice Cream from Baskin Robbins is quite possibly the best thing that has ever been concocted. What ever genius came up with the flavor combination that graces my lips at this moment should be sainted and immortalized in statues, all across the land. I think that I, too, would run to avoid having to share my tasty treat should others try to take it from me. I am not as graceful in my defense as the chickens are of theirs, but I understand the motivation.

QUESTIONS OF THE WEAK

When does the book come out?

End of July, hopefully.

Do you ever get nervous before you go on stage?

For comedy, no. Unless there is a contest or it's important, then I must get nervous, because I try to sabotage it, which tells me that I am fighting off the nervousness.

For other "stage" related events. No. I do a pretty good job.

What do you consider your favorite post so far?

The one I called, "education loses by 4 million votes". I just thought it was funny and pointed, which is how I measure a good post to a bad one.

What was your least favorite?

I guess it was the one in December where I said, "i'm still here, more later" and that was all. I am not that attached to that one. I don't think it made the book.

How old were you when you learned to read?

I was very young. Around 3 or 4. I am not sure. I was drinking a lot then and most of my memory is gone from that time.

What do you love to read the most?

Classics. Presently I am reading Herman Hesse. If you get a chance, read all of his work.

Do you think that you will be happier as a writer or as a stand up comic?

A writer... that gets paid to make public appearances. Does that count?

If you are asked to or were offered a ton of money, would you move?

Yes. I love it here, I really do, but there is so much life out there that I haven't lived yet and I would love to give it a go.

Where will you sell the book?

On line, or you can mail me money... either way, some of you bitches had better buy it or I am shutting this fucking site down.

When is your birthday?

December 8th, 1972. Born in Kansas City, Missouri, United States of America. Jackson County. Research Hospital. I know what you are going to say, and yes, it's true.

Are you still dancing?

I dance at least twice a week, either in my home or en route to some fabulous locale in the surrounding area.

How is Heidi?

Thinner. Happier. Healthier in general. Taking lots of walks, eating better and hoping that ten isn't real the life expectancy of a Newfounland. ( she's nine )

Have you ever had a mullet?

Sort of, not really. Not a style that would be considered one, but it was shorter on top than it was in back. So, yes and no. I hear that they are popular again in New York.

Are you really that angry at your readers for the questions they ask?

Fuck you!

..no, not really. I just wanted to share the burden of answering questions with some of the more avid readers. Nobody replied to give the advice, isn't that funny? I guess the readership loves to watch the madness but not be a part of it. What do you people want from me? BLOOD???

What kinds of advice are people asking for?

More "how to" things. Starting blogs, stand up comedy, travel, sexual ones are good, but rare. Apparently my sexual prowess isn't as well known as it should be. I think I will post my credentials next. But mostly the people that ask for advice seem to be kidding around, or it feels like they are. I don't know, maybe their serious.

Has your heart been bothering you?

Not so much. I haven't been working out in the gym for the past two weeks, I hurt my wrist putting in fence posts and I can't really lift any weights. The cardio is still there, but I am enjoying the good food of summer tooooo much. Can you say, "Jamoaca Almond Fudge"? But the heart is good. It's still there, still beating and still black from cigarette smoke.

Would you ever consider being a full time teacher?

I think the idea has crossed my mind a few times, but I am not sure I would stand up to the moral scrutiny of it all. If you remember, I once posted a list of qualifications that a JOB had to have for me to do it. Teaching would never make the cut. I like to say, "fuck" too much.

What would you teach?

Sexual education, to wayward, juvenile deliquent teenage girls. Or sociology to nerds, for almost the same reason.

Where do you get the titles of your posts?

They show up before I start writing and they just get thrown up there. I don't really remember them too well. I try to be cute, but that has only worked a few times.

When are you going to do Comments of the weak again?

Uh, never. Comments and the interaction with my readership will end soon.

When are you going to do the requested writing again?

In a few months or when a good one comes along. I don't know.

Have you slept with Denise?

No, and I think it chaps her hide a bit.

You have recommended four blogs, which is your favorite?

I think thebrettmartin is the funniest. marcusmouse is the most relatable and mine is the easist to read. Blogs should be legible, too many people with black backgrouds, weird fonts and that kind of thing... brett martin is a human comedy. Marcus is a good mind. I can relate. And marcus let me sleep on his couch when i was in Calgary.

Do you think the book will sell well?

No, not really. I can see sinking all this time and money into this and watching you people just let me lose my ass on this because you have all read it before. If I have to make a move to change the next one. i will stop posting and just sell the book periodically to people who enjoy the work.

You don't seem very chatty in person, are you shy?

No. I just don't have a lot to say to certain people. I have had the same conversation over and over again and I try to avoid having to have it again. Sorry to all of you that want me to be more chatty, but I am waiting for something new and fun. Old conversation makes me want to kill children and old women.

Would you take up arms against Canada?

Right now? No. Unless you know something.... ...give me a sec... I'll get my gun.

If you are referring to a war between the US and Canada. It would have to be a pretty good fucking reason. Otherwise I would have to say, "yes". No matter how much I love Canada. I am American first. And we rock! Fuck Canada. There is so much gravy in their veins, we could eat them for lunch in under an hour. It's not even a war! It's practice for when we decide to go to war with the Federation of retarded people with gimp legs and Cerebral Palsey. They are cowards!!!!! And we shall smoot them.

Are you depressed?

Not any more than your average deep thinker, smart-ass, horny, retired nympho would be if he found himself in a small town writing a blog every day to keep the readers of it from killing him. Did you know I have death threats from this fucking thing? I have people that say they want to come here and fuck me. No, none of you get to come here. None. Am I depressed? No, not yet.

Boxers or briefs?

You people scare me......

Send your questions to me, care of me, for me to answer. I will answer them if they are relevent and/or funny.

london bridges falling down

Try as they may, the people of Great Britain just can't convince their leadership to pull out of the war in Iraq. They see it as a lose-lose situation and they don't even agree with the reasoning behind the war. They just want out, like everyone else but a small handful of people tucked into small corners around the world. Most of those who want the war, are not actively fighting it themselves, but see it as a great money making venture and therefore need it to make themselves feel better. The few remaining people who want it are people who are not actively fighting it, but see the potential for anarchy and revolt and therefore need the war to convince the wishy-washy, people on the fence, that they need to become a terrorist to protect their way of life or so they can act out their personal vengeance against those who are terrorizing them. ( Funny little circle, yes? )

London is no stranger to strife. They have endured over a thousand years of war and struggle. London, itself, has been the target of many an enemy and the town has been leveled, burned, plagued, sacked or bombed numerous times. This latest set of attacks seems like a mere pittance compared to what that city has seen before. The English are tough people and are used to being in the center of the fray. True, most of the time, they started it, but periodically, they get a shove that was meant for someone else. The latest attack, was for Tony Blair. His people had to take a shove that was meant for his worthless, Bush-cocksucking ass.

So, let's do some math. The people elect Tony Blair, knowing that he is pro-war, pro-America and a spineless coward. Tony Blair continues to support a war that his electorate does not want. The "terrorists" blow up the underground carrying voters. I am having a hard time with this one.

Maybe this was another Spain, where the "terrorists" blew up trains to sway public opinion about the war in Iraq. It did work, Spain pulled out of the war and came under fire from Bush. ( No more Missy Elliott for Spain ) So, perhaps, "terrorists" were thinking that this would work in England. Not likely, but interesting. So, I wonder who gains the most from some bombs in England. I wonder who knew that the people would want some payback. I wonder who needs the English to stay on in Iraq? I wonder.....

You must defend your house. When gun toting enemies land on your front lawn with a tank, you don't sit idly by and watch them kill the red bud trees. You take up arms against them and fight until you have given your all. You are out numbered, out gunned and out of options. Hollywood makes films about people like you, you have become cliche. But still, you fight. If you can't take them head on, you flank them. You dodge and weave. You act quickly and decisively. You hide in plain sight only showing yourself when you must act, then you quickly disappear again.

This is the world of enemy combat in today's world of satellite guided H-bombs. It still works today as well as it worked two thousand years ago. And they didn't have satellites.

I am sorry to hear that many of England's people had to taste their vote so bitterly. Perhaps now, the vision of war on their home soil will convince them to act and act wisely. Mourn their dead and treat their wounded. Then act.

campfire excuses

Every holiday on the American Calendar is like an orgasm, a ton of exciting build up, a very brief moment of bliss and then it's over. The aftermath of which feels like it never happened at all. Common sounds to the holiday build up are the "what are you going as this year? what did you get so and so for christmas? where are you spending new years? what are you plans for St. pats? what do you do for easter? Etc.

The fourth of July, America's unofficial, but yet, official birthday, is a doozy. The craziness surrounding this special event can not even be measured by any known source of scientific method. There is heat. Explosives. Booze. Children. Tradition. Crying soldiers. Parades and picnics. There is so much riding on this holiday, most people forget what's it for.

Asking anyone within a two mile radius of you, on the fourth, there is a good chance that most people in all their glorious self-righteous indignation, will not know the basic elements of their own country. The speeches and the flags all total up to a syrupy sappy day of "remember" and "freedom" and "god bless the red, white and blue" and "let's get drunk and watch our kids handle burning phosphorous". You know, the same stuff we dropped in Vietnam.

I enjoy the celebration. I don't enjoy the method. How many people really feel that they are celebrating their country's birthday when the step foot into a firework outlet tent to buy firecrackers? Does the selection of the right home display make you more or less of a patriot? Can our patriotism be displayed in less obnoxious ways?

So, the day comes. The fourth of July. During the day, nothing. No mention of what it's for. No, this birthday of a nation can only be celebrated correctly at night.

Everything is closed during the day, is that part of the celebration?

As night falls at somewhere near 9:30, fireworks, which cost more than most people's houses, are set up in to the sky and detonated for all to see. We oh and ah, we hold each other and pretend that we deserve this. There is color and loud echoing explosions. Do they stir us to hold hands with our fellow countrymen? Nay. For as we are looking up, we are also looking to our side. Making sure we are not being robbed and making sure that no one is setting off fireworks near our heads as a joke. We are also keeping a strong eye on the way back to the car, which is two miles away and protected by three dozen drunk drivers carrying explosives. Yes. We love the sparkle in the night sky. We love the memories of firework displays of yore, but we are also aware of how much we want to see firework displays of the morrow.

Camping is fun. Isn't it? Not the sleeping in tents, not the sleeping bag, or the dishes covered with dirt. Not the dirty clothes or the dirty skin underneath, no, camping isn't any of these things. Camping is about, a fire. A mysterious lure. A mesmorizing flame of memory. You can stare at a campfire for hours and not take an eye away. You don't need to say anything, and if you are lucky, you can share your fire with someone else or a bunch of someone elses that know how to enjoy it too. That fire. A symbol that it's still there. It's still working. It's still free. It's still dangerous. It's still worth keeping.

We watch that fire with the knowledge that soon it will be gone and there is nothing more depressing than seeing the ashes of where a great pleasant fire used to be. I guess that's why we are so excited about starting up a new one.

Celebrate anyway you know how. A few moments of fireworks across the sky. Or a long slow burn.