Who here feels, like me, that you're living in the wrong time?
Like your worth shouldn't be measured by 1040's and sheepskins (which rarely relates to one's chosen profession), but by the wits you live upon.
How well I can manage my vehicle in a crisis and afterwards repair the damage I have inflicted should be my sole benchmark, not a long-sleeved T-shirt a customer asks us to wear so as not to appear sub-contracted.
I won't get started on self reliance since anyone that knows me knows I'm rough and ready to eat your dog if I have to.
The redneck song says to be proud that you can run a trot line or skin a deer or be polite to total strangers and I have to agree.
Should I need to get on a phone and explain myself to the powers that be? It's irritating to say the least. trust me, I always say.
The benefits of living in this age of soulless consumers are many. For I cannot remember the last time I split some wood to stay warm inside. I don't even have the shutzpah to mow my own grass, but I can. And of course, I thank those before me for modern medicine though they failed my parents.
But what a treat it would be to get up, do work, real work with one's hands then to be paid with real money in lieu of promissary notes (checques) and promises to, "take care of you guys soon."
Then not have to share with governmental policies that I was never consulted upon before "asked" to participate within.
I can make my own policies as to whom I am indebted. Indeed, I can also choose charities with great ease as they all three live closely with me here in my warm home.
I felt like writing so I did. And I'm sorry if it isn't brilliant.
And, yes, I know I would die if I had to put hay up all summer long for the winter so the milk cow would give us milk all year and the horse would truck us around all year. I know my gardening would take up copious amounts of time equalled only by the canning of produce, again for the winter leaving little time for fun.
But, I'd have a hell of a house and barn and a literal ton of meat in the smokehouse...
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Brett's quick and easy FREE cures
I am not a doctor. I am just a simple carpenter. But:
If you have gas, fart.
If you have diarrhea, poop, lots, then fast a day.
If you're bloated, burp (or stop eating/drinking)
If you have heartburn, sit or stand up straight. Drink copious amounts of water and eat a biscuit.
If you have greasy hair, wash it more often.
If you have dry hair, don't wash it as often.
If you're itchy, scratch (lightly, with your wife's hairbrush).
If you can't sleep, make yourself tired during the day--exercise*.
If you're constipated, drink MORE water, eat MORE fresh, raw jalapenos, run a mile, wait four hours, get a good book, then go in there and do what you have to do.
If Tiger Woods' personal life makes you sick, then turn your TV off.
If you can't get out of bed in the morning, then hit the sack earlier.
*of course i don't mean walk the dog around the block...i mean sweat or at least make your heart pound.
Well, that's it for now. Next week I'll tackle PMS and erectile dysfunction...and how they often coincide.
-rbm
If you have gas, fart.
If you have diarrhea, poop, lots, then fast a day.
If you're bloated, burp (or stop eating/drinking)
If you have heartburn, sit or stand up straight. Drink copious amounts of water and eat a biscuit.
If you have greasy hair, wash it more often.
If you have dry hair, don't wash it as often.
If you're itchy, scratch (lightly, with your wife's hairbrush).
If you can't sleep, make yourself tired during the day--exercise*.
If you're constipated, drink MORE water, eat MORE fresh, raw jalapenos, run a mile, wait four hours, get a good book, then go in there and do what you have to do.
If Tiger Woods' personal life makes you sick, then turn your TV off.
If you can't get out of bed in the morning, then hit the sack earlier.
*of course i don't mean walk the dog around the block...i mean sweat or at least make your heart pound.
Well, that's it for now. Next week I'll tackle PMS and erectile dysfunction...and how they often coincide.
-rbm
Monday, December 7, 2009
Typewriter work
Dusted off the hand-banger again, been so long. Nice to know i haven't lost my touch.
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
The WIld
Wilderness breathes,
And shirks sickly people,
With belching machines,
That choke down the weakly.
Laws of the Greenhouse
Predate the Carta,
But bright blinking panels,
Kill just as quick.
Wilderness hides,
You mustn't just chase it.
Sit on a sidewalk,
Until you can't take it.
Laws of the Greenhouse
Will make you a target,
Lunch from your wallet,
The magic of plastic.
Wilderness hides,
In with Greenhouses,
Not dreamy lakesides,
In grandmothers' houses.
And shirks sickly people,
With belching machines,
That choke down the weakly.
Laws of the Greenhouse
Predate the Carta,
But bright blinking panels,
Kill just as quick.
Wilderness hides,
You mustn't just chase it.
Sit on a sidewalk,
Until you can't take it.
Laws of the Greenhouse
Will make you a target,
Lunch from your wallet,
The magic of plastic.
Wilderness hides,
In with Greenhouses,
Not dreamy lakesides,
In grandmothers' houses.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Hunting Part II
One man's boring is another man's holy holiday. I think there was an auntie's boy who wrote a whole book about hanging out with one's self and how great it was isolated and surrounded by nature--named it after a lake, pond really. He was a tax-evader like me so I like him in spite of his Harvard degree. But I digress.
The whole idea of stand hunting is to sit on your ass and to see and not be seen. Yes, sitting. The activity itself doesn't inspire many thoughts of gallant hunts like American Indians did on horseback back in the day. Oh sure, you can try to stalk and hunt, but they'll see you way before you see them, and all you'll see is a white tail friskily waving good-bye.
So you sit, but, it can be fun. In the dark you can hear, but not yet see, these little wrens that are flying around you, digging in leaves around you, and landing on unnamed weed stalks or tree branches, two feet from your face. When the sky brightens, you can make them out doing their little his-master's-voice dog-head tilt as they scope you out with each eye. They ponder your bulk and wait for you to move, proving your mal-intent to them before they flit away.
I take binoculars so I can see stuff that's far away. Because of this, I can tell the difference between a clump of leaves and a deer. I can also see deer weaving in and out of trees, weeds, and cornstalks that I would never see without the glass. Counting antler points is a good idea too if you're told not to blast younger bucks who haven't wasted all that nutrition on showing off for the ladies...yet. When you're a guest on someones land, it's best to do what you're told if'n you want to come back.
When you hear someone else shoot off in the distance, you wait for the follow-up shot. When you hear more shots, it means the other hunter is either a doofus and a worthless shot, or he's laying them down like cord wood. I've shot two at a time before, but only because A: I didn't want to leave an orphan, and B: I thought I had inadvertently wounded a doe's companion with a through and through shot. I hadn't, but I saw a tuft of hair raised on her back, and just thought I had.
okay yes, it's boring. So you look through the binocs, you look at the hawks flying around doing the same thing you're doing only with the benefit of flight. You watch them circle low, drop in, and sometimes fly off with a rat and sometimes they don't. Once I saw a bald eagle at Kerr Lake flying around doing bald eagle stuff. This year I saw an immature bald eagle eyeing me as I relieved myself in the reservoir. He was unimpressed, but it was cold outside.
Wait long enough, and you'll be rewarded with the heart-pounding thrill of seeing a shootable deer, boy or girl, moseying right towards you. Early in the season, they'll glance up to the stand, and if you hold still, they won't see you. Late in the season they'll stand and stare, daring you to move so they can bolt. It's the curse of the fixed stand--like I said, when you're a guest, you do, and sit where you're told.
Anyway, this big animal, whether alone or in a crowd, heads right for you, and you put down the twins and grab the rifle to your shoulder. The ten power binoculars made it possible to see your animal up close and size him up, and now, your rifle scope makes it possible to see him as a target, as a marked shoulder on the hoof. That's where you want to shoot them, where they "live".
I myself am on a five year run of one shot kills. That builds confidence, and confidence puts meat on the table. Sing all you want too about whiz bang rifles and their whiz bang cartridges and three hundred yard shots, but the furthest I've shot a deer was one hundred and six yards. I have no compunction to stop me from putting a round into a deer's vitals.
After shooting, however, you stay put if it's still early. Another "herd" might mosey through, stepping over their fallen comrade on their way to bed. You just don't know, so you stay put and wait some more. And as the sun gets higher, and the air gets warmer, and you stop seeing deer wandering around, you pull out the blackberry and tell the whole world what you think about your belly-button.
I may never describe what it's like to peel a deer open and see what makes them tick. It's not that I think you can't handle it, it's just that it's indelicate, and pretty gross and smells like poop. Suffice it to say, "the funs over as soon as the smoke clears."
-rbm
The whole idea of stand hunting is to sit on your ass and to see and not be seen. Yes, sitting. The activity itself doesn't inspire many thoughts of gallant hunts like American Indians did on horseback back in the day. Oh sure, you can try to stalk and hunt, but they'll see you way before you see them, and all you'll see is a white tail friskily waving good-bye.
So you sit, but, it can be fun. In the dark you can hear, but not yet see, these little wrens that are flying around you, digging in leaves around you, and landing on unnamed weed stalks or tree branches, two feet from your face. When the sky brightens, you can make them out doing their little his-master's-voice dog-head tilt as they scope you out with each eye. They ponder your bulk and wait for you to move, proving your mal-intent to them before they flit away.
I take binoculars so I can see stuff that's far away. Because of this, I can tell the difference between a clump of leaves and a deer. I can also see deer weaving in and out of trees, weeds, and cornstalks that I would never see without the glass. Counting antler points is a good idea too if you're told not to blast younger bucks who haven't wasted all that nutrition on showing off for the ladies...yet. When you're a guest on someones land, it's best to do what you're told if'n you want to come back.
When you hear someone else shoot off in the distance, you wait for the follow-up shot. When you hear more shots, it means the other hunter is either a doofus and a worthless shot, or he's laying them down like cord wood. I've shot two at a time before, but only because A: I didn't want to leave an orphan, and B: I thought I had inadvertently wounded a doe's companion with a through and through shot. I hadn't, but I saw a tuft of hair raised on her back, and just thought I had.
okay yes, it's boring. So you look through the binocs, you look at the hawks flying around doing the same thing you're doing only with the benefit of flight. You watch them circle low, drop in, and sometimes fly off with a rat and sometimes they don't. Once I saw a bald eagle at Kerr Lake flying around doing bald eagle stuff. This year I saw an immature bald eagle eyeing me as I relieved myself in the reservoir. He was unimpressed, but it was cold outside.
Wait long enough, and you'll be rewarded with the heart-pounding thrill of seeing a shootable deer, boy or girl, moseying right towards you. Early in the season, they'll glance up to the stand, and if you hold still, they won't see you. Late in the season they'll stand and stare, daring you to move so they can bolt. It's the curse of the fixed stand--like I said, when you're a guest, you do, and sit where you're told.
Anyway, this big animal, whether alone or in a crowd, heads right for you, and you put down the twins and grab the rifle to your shoulder. The ten power binoculars made it possible to see your animal up close and size him up, and now, your rifle scope makes it possible to see him as a target, as a marked shoulder on the hoof. That's where you want to shoot them, where they "live".
I myself am on a five year run of one shot kills. That builds confidence, and confidence puts meat on the table. Sing all you want too about whiz bang rifles and their whiz bang cartridges and three hundred yard shots, but the furthest I've shot a deer was one hundred and six yards. I have no compunction to stop me from putting a round into a deer's vitals.
After shooting, however, you stay put if it's still early. Another "herd" might mosey through, stepping over their fallen comrade on their way to bed. You just don't know, so you stay put and wait some more. And as the sun gets higher, and the air gets warmer, and you stop seeing deer wandering around, you pull out the blackberry and tell the whole world what you think about your belly-button.
I may never describe what it's like to peel a deer open and see what makes them tick. It's not that I think you can't handle it, it's just that it's indelicate, and pretty gross and smells like poop. Suffice it to say, "the funs over as soon as the smoke clears."
-rbm
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Hunting Part III
Mention was made of rifle work and making ready for hunting season. And I figured I could post something at a later time explaining what some would call a ritual, but I would call a lifestyle that includes the actual hunting, rifle work, and ammunition manufacture.
I have to prepare every year because I buy new rifles or shotguns every off season that I want to hunt with every fall. I could, theoretically, have only one rifle and shotgun and hunt with them every year with only a modicum of preparation, but that’s boring.
So for birds, I get the new shotgun, and shoot skeet and sporting clays ad nauseam trying to acquaint myself with him or her before I hit the dove field, ponds, or “upland” areas chasing wild quail. After a few hundred rounds, I'm either dialed in with that shotgun, or I need to sell it to someone else. If it doesn't fit, you must acquit yourself of wasting your time.
For land critters, I start with a rifle. I usually get a new caliber I’ve read about, or fell in love with having bought a previous model in the same cartridge or caliber. The new rifle is usually a used model, and usually a Remington or a Marlin.
It almost always needs work done to it which is good because it satisfies the need in me to make a mark on my stuff.
I usually fix the trigger first, making the pull smoother, lighter, and better for consistent shots. And many times, the rifle will get a new stock, or have the old one refinished. If I can get one really cheap, then it's used for the "action" and will get a new barrel in a caliber and cartridge no one's ever heard of just to make me cool.
Then he or she gets a new scope and scope mounts. Usually something caliber appropriate with plenty of eye relief so I do not get busted in the eyebrow during recoil. This maybe the only certainty of the whole endevour as I can tell you the scope will be a Leupold.
As a reloader, I manufacture my own cartridges having purchased the bullets, propellants, cartridge cases, and primers before hand. Sometimes I have to purchase new cartridge specific dies before I can handload for the rifle, but not always.
Now, new rifle, new scope, and new cartridges all ride to the gun range to see how they all get along. Rifle is zeroed to hit 1.8” high at 100 yards and attention is paid to how closely the three or five bullets group together out there on my handmade grid targets. Strangly, this formula works for nearly all cartidges except ancient ones for those levered-actioned Marlins.
If the bullet holes are less than an inch apart, 1.8” high, then we’re done. Rifle is ready to kill. At 200 yards, the bullets will strike maybe two inches low, but that makes a four to five inch circle I can place the bullets in for fifty to 250 yards which is plenty accurate enough to kill anything with a heart-lung shot.
If the bullet holes are not so closely spaced, then the rifle gets worked on. It gets his or her barrel free-floated, or if it already is free-floated, it gets a pressure point. It may get re-crowned. It may get new bullets stuffed in its case, or a different powder as well.
There are an endless number of combinations when you reload as to powder selection, bullet selection (weights, brands, composition), case selections (brands—different internal volumes), and cartridge over all lengths that will affect accuracy. So I go through these until I get the ragged-hole effect I desire.
If I get a few cartridges that do not shoot well in a given rifle, then I practice shooting from field positions such as sitting, prone, and off my JB inspired hand made shooting sticks. At times I’ll shoot off hand, standing as well. It is this practice that will make a hunter proficient and humane. It is no fun. At 138 pounds, recoil can be troubling to say the least.
After that, the chosen one ragged-hole load is mass-produced to thirty or forty rounds and the rifle is stuck in the safe until we hit the woods. Then, after the hunts, the rifle is placed further back in the safe and rarely hunted with again as my ADD ass starts the whole process over with another year's accumulation of newer arms.
Clothes are chosen for earthy colours. Accessories are chosen for utility, phones are placed on vibrate. Knives are sharpened while watching TV at night. Batteries in flashlights changed. And neon orange hats are dug out of my closet. And hunting licenses are paid for and stuffed in wallet along with my Remington 1100 o-rings.
The places I hunt are scouted for sign of game. Are walked upon until I can find my way around after dark and before sunrise. I will choose trees to put a stand in, and I will chose spots to hunker down in under a poncho of burlap. Stand hunting is a game of careful napping, and still hunting is a careful game of pussy-footing.
But, none of this preparation counts as ritual. It’s all a pragmatic approach to killing swiftly, humanely, and necessarily. There’s nothing magical; it’s just a hobby wrapped up in a pastime, surrounded by a lifestyle.
The only ritual part, the honourable part, is the kneeling by whatever has been killed and looking into the eyes, and patting it on the side, the shoulder, and petting the hair, smoothing the ruffled feathers, spreading the wings, seeing, in your hands or by your side a beautiful, amazing creature up close.
And you think, or I do, like Coyote said in that book, “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t need to kill you now, but I did, and your life will not go to waste. We are connected, I too will die, but for now, you will live in me, your helices of protein will become me and you will be here too. You are beautiful and so was I today when I could hunt and be with you.”
I also have seen recently on a hunt to Vance County, NC the scrawny deer that are burdened by overpopulation and a lack of predators. Mention has to be made that I knowingly hunt at the discretion of our State Government and not a noble birthright. And that for now, the numbers of these animals has become so great that they are a danger to themselves and even the occasional motorist.
I skipped Pt. II
-rbm
I have to prepare every year because I buy new rifles or shotguns every off season that I want to hunt with every fall. I could, theoretically, have only one rifle and shotgun and hunt with them every year with only a modicum of preparation, but that’s boring.
So for birds, I get the new shotgun, and shoot skeet and sporting clays ad nauseam trying to acquaint myself with him or her before I hit the dove field, ponds, or “upland” areas chasing wild quail. After a few hundred rounds, I'm either dialed in with that shotgun, or I need to sell it to someone else. If it doesn't fit, you must acquit yourself of wasting your time.
For land critters, I start with a rifle. I usually get a new caliber I’ve read about, or fell in love with having bought a previous model in the same cartridge or caliber. The new rifle is usually a used model, and usually a Remington or a Marlin.
It almost always needs work done to it which is good because it satisfies the need in me to make a mark on my stuff.
I usually fix the trigger first, making the pull smoother, lighter, and better for consistent shots. And many times, the rifle will get a new stock, or have the old one refinished. If I can get one really cheap, then it's used for the "action" and will get a new barrel in a caliber and cartridge no one's ever heard of just to make me cool.
Then he or she gets a new scope and scope mounts. Usually something caliber appropriate with plenty of eye relief so I do not get busted in the eyebrow during recoil. This maybe the only certainty of the whole endevour as I can tell you the scope will be a Leupold.
As a reloader, I manufacture my own cartridges having purchased the bullets, propellants, cartridge cases, and primers before hand. Sometimes I have to purchase new cartridge specific dies before I can handload for the rifle, but not always.
Now, new rifle, new scope, and new cartridges all ride to the gun range to see how they all get along. Rifle is zeroed to hit 1.8” high at 100 yards and attention is paid to how closely the three or five bullets group together out there on my handmade grid targets. Strangly, this formula works for nearly all cartidges except ancient ones for those levered-actioned Marlins.
If the bullet holes are less than an inch apart, 1.8” high, then we’re done. Rifle is ready to kill. At 200 yards, the bullets will strike maybe two inches low, but that makes a four to five inch circle I can place the bullets in for fifty to 250 yards which is plenty accurate enough to kill anything with a heart-lung shot.
If the bullet holes are not so closely spaced, then the rifle gets worked on. It gets his or her barrel free-floated, or if it already is free-floated, it gets a pressure point. It may get re-crowned. It may get new bullets stuffed in its case, or a different powder as well.
There are an endless number of combinations when you reload as to powder selection, bullet selection (weights, brands, composition), case selections (brands—different internal volumes), and cartridge over all lengths that will affect accuracy. So I go through these until I get the ragged-hole effect I desire.
If I get a few cartridges that do not shoot well in a given rifle, then I practice shooting from field positions such as sitting, prone, and off my JB inspired hand made shooting sticks. At times I’ll shoot off hand, standing as well. It is this practice that will make a hunter proficient and humane. It is no fun. At 138 pounds, recoil can be troubling to say the least.
After that, the chosen one ragged-hole load is mass-produced to thirty or forty rounds and the rifle is stuck in the safe until we hit the woods. Then, after the hunts, the rifle is placed further back in the safe and rarely hunted with again as my ADD ass starts the whole process over with another year's accumulation of newer arms.
Clothes are chosen for earthy colours. Accessories are chosen for utility, phones are placed on vibrate. Knives are sharpened while watching TV at night. Batteries in flashlights changed. And neon orange hats are dug out of my closet. And hunting licenses are paid for and stuffed in wallet along with my Remington 1100 o-rings.
The places I hunt are scouted for sign of game. Are walked upon until I can find my way around after dark and before sunrise. I will choose trees to put a stand in, and I will chose spots to hunker down in under a poncho of burlap. Stand hunting is a game of careful napping, and still hunting is a careful game of pussy-footing.
But, none of this preparation counts as ritual. It’s all a pragmatic approach to killing swiftly, humanely, and necessarily. There’s nothing magical; it’s just a hobby wrapped up in a pastime, surrounded by a lifestyle.
The only ritual part, the honourable part, is the kneeling by whatever has been killed and looking into the eyes, and patting it on the side, the shoulder, and petting the hair, smoothing the ruffled feathers, spreading the wings, seeing, in your hands or by your side a beautiful, amazing creature up close.
And you think, or I do, like Coyote said in that book, “Hey, I’m sorry, I didn’t need to kill you now, but I did, and your life will not go to waste. We are connected, I too will die, but for now, you will live in me, your helices of protein will become me and you will be here too. You are beautiful and so was I today when I could hunt and be with you.”
I also have seen recently on a hunt to Vance County, NC the scrawny deer that are burdened by overpopulation and a lack of predators. Mention has to be made that I knowingly hunt at the discretion of our State Government and not a noble birthright. And that for now, the numbers of these animals has become so great that they are a danger to themselves and even the occasional motorist.
I skipped Pt. II
-rbm
Saturday, September 19, 2009
Working on Saturday
Satisfaction,
And a day--
Around my feet,
Is rinsed away
In brown water swirling with clay.
Lacerations
Of the day,
Soapily stinging,
Nerves won't play
In brown water swirling with clay.
Affectations,
Had just one today,
Happy and working?
On soaked Saturday?
In brown water swirling with clay.
Neoconstructions,
Done today,
Standing forever
And a day,
In brown water swirling with clay.
And a day--
Around my feet,
Is rinsed away
In brown water swirling with clay.
Lacerations
Of the day,
Soapily stinging,
Nerves won't play
In brown water swirling with clay.
Affectations,
Had just one today,
Happy and working?
On soaked Saturday?
In brown water swirling with clay.
Neoconstructions,
Done today,
Standing forever
And a day,
In brown water swirling with clay.
Friday, September 18, 2009
Typewriter Blog, without the typewriter--editing's a snap!
Stop with the handshakes already. We're not monkeys or apes. We can do better than the primordial hand biting of chimps can't we? It's a silly thing and we can use our big people words to come up with an infinite number of greetings? Why? For one, I don't have a clue as to where your hands have been.
I wouldn't yank a cigar out of your mouth and puff on it, and I damn sure wouldn't wipe your butt for you, unless you were a tiny mothershead in diapers. But if your hands have been anywhere near your anus, and you "forgot" to wash your hands, and you smile and present your mitt to me as if I have some need to contact you, then I reckon that's close enough.
Besides, YOU don't know where my hand's been either! Rest assured, it was washed at poopy-shower-fun time in the morning, but since that magic moment, anything's possible. Most likely, I've laid a thin snot streak down my "pointer" finger at work since this time of year, someone's cut all my sleeves off to combat farmers' tan and I can't use them as snot rags. So think about that when you see me at JPLooneys.
The new thing n my life is of course, my Precious: The Nextel version of a Blackberry. I forgot the model number, but it's red, as in red hot! The only downside is that it doesn't do MORE! Sure it's great, two email accounts, video/still camera, chat, and sms and mms messages and web browser (sorta)--but it's not enough!
I want a phone that'll start my truck in the morning from an upstairs window! I want a phone that's a universal remote...for everything in the damn house! The TV's and DVD thingys, and all of it. I want a cell phone that's a fax machine and a scanner and a microscope and a rangefinder and a laser pointer and a radar/laser detector to dupe and duck the highway patrol everywhere.
Indeed, my Precious just doesn't do enough for me now. Maybe when my "no cost" Blacberry's two-year commitment is up, if it's still in one piece, Motorola will come up with something smaller and even more...useful for us old carpenters on the go! Maybe with a taser so I can feal safe in a high school again!
-rbm
I wouldn't yank a cigar out of your mouth and puff on it, and I damn sure wouldn't wipe your butt for you, unless you were a tiny mothershead in diapers. But if your hands have been anywhere near your anus, and you "forgot" to wash your hands, and you smile and present your mitt to me as if I have some need to contact you, then I reckon that's close enough.
Besides, YOU don't know where my hand's been either! Rest assured, it was washed at poopy-shower-fun time in the morning, but since that magic moment, anything's possible. Most likely, I've laid a thin snot streak down my "pointer" finger at work since this time of year, someone's cut all my sleeves off to combat farmers' tan and I can't use them as snot rags. So think about that when you see me at JPLooneys.
The new thing n my life is of course, my Precious: The Nextel version of a Blackberry. I forgot the model number, but it's red, as in red hot! The only downside is that it doesn't do MORE! Sure it's great, two email accounts, video/still camera, chat, and sms and mms messages and web browser (sorta)--but it's not enough!
I want a phone that'll start my truck in the morning from an upstairs window! I want a phone that's a universal remote...for everything in the damn house! The TV's and DVD thingys, and all of it. I want a cell phone that's a fax machine and a scanner and a microscope and a rangefinder and a laser pointer and a radar/laser detector to dupe and duck the highway patrol everywhere.
Indeed, my Precious just doesn't do enough for me now. Maybe when my "no cost" Blacberry's two-year commitment is up, if it's still in one piece, Motorola will come up with something smaller and even more...useful for us old carpenters on the go! Maybe with a taser so I can feal safe in a high school again!
-rbm
Sunday, September 13, 2009
Two hot for facebook?
-You’re okay. You’re okay, right?
-Right as rain. Right as rain.
-Yeah. You really look it.
-Well just give me a minute. Hold this.
-Got it.
-Fuckin’ take it.
-Got it.
-Lemme just feel…blood? See blood?
-No.
-That’s something. Umm.
-Can you stand up?
-Fuck no. Just hang on.
I don’t think I can do this without you hanging over my shoulder, giving me a sigh or chuckle or disapproving silence. I can try. Will try. I haven’t been this willing to please since I don’t know when.
Trust that a few bars will tell the tale. Will make us or break us.
-Can you get off the floor? At least?
-Mmm, I’ll try. Grab me. Yeah, now pull!
-Up!
-Up, yeah? Fuck. That’s good, better.
-Poor, baby
-Shut up.
-Hey, I’m trying to help.
-You helped all right.
-You weren’t complaining a minute ago.
-No? Shit! Did you see my face?
-Heh, no I didn’t. My eyes were closed.
I cannot think of anything better than seeing your eyes closed when you sit on me, when you lean over and kiss me. That’s when you’re naked, not when your clothes come off, but when you close your eyes and let me see you above me, enjoying me as if I weren’t even there.
-I noticed. I mean, when I wasn’t howling…
-You didn’t ‘howl.’ You didn’t make a sound until you—
-I know. I was there.
-Very nice. I WAS impressed.
-Well we aim to please.
-You did. Just can’t keep it on the court, eh?
-Oh…. That might be your fault, honey.
-What’s a girl to do?
-Ummm, give me a moment?
-I couldn’t do that. I have needs too.
-Yeah? Now I need a doctor.
I could feel your hands on my shoulders, pushing yourself away from me, grinding yourself down against me…again like I weren’t with you. But I was there with you, inside you, loving you. I was watching you, making yourself come to me, bringing us to the same place at the same time. I watched you rock and twist, and I tried to keep up; followed you across the bed…
-No you don’t, pussy.
-Keep talkin’.
-Yeah? Or what?
-Round two.
-Heh, you better have a drink first, baby. Better have a smoke.
-I’ll be ready. Will you?
-Always. Let me have it, big boy.
-Hmm
-C’mon.
-I will.
-Called your bluff didn’t I?
-You’ll get yours.
-I HAD mine…you weren’t complaining.
Did I have time? You’re right, I couldn’t stop us when I felt that glow start growing in me with every breath you took, with every gasp you huffed right by my ear, with every lunge we made together with me inside you. Your grip cloying and annoying and shifting us further than ever before, ever to the…floor?
-Well, that WAS a first.
-Yeah?
-I might be sorry.
-Why? I’m not.
-That’s ‘cause we’re such a mess.
-Nothing a –
-You know what I mean.
-Mm, do I? I’m not sure I did come.
-Pretty sure you did.
Sliding down? That’s not how it is supposed to go, with me grasping, and trying to stay with you, in you. I know you’re there and feel as if only I can keep you there so I follow us down. How could I not? How could I let you go alone without me and my love? I would follow us anywhere, and will.
-Sure I did. I always do, right?
-You’re a man.
-A tough man.
-Maybe not so tough. I might have seen a tear?
-Hell no. If I did I was crying in pain.
-Because you love me so much?
-Because I busted our ass.
-Because I busted our ass?
-Because we busted our collective asses.
-But you do love me, right?
-Not yet, but we’re working on it all right.
-rbm
-Right as rain. Right as rain.
-Yeah. You really look it.
-Well just give me a minute. Hold this.
-Got it.
-Fuckin’ take it.
-Got it.
-Lemme just feel…blood? See blood?
-No.
-That’s something. Umm.
-Can you stand up?
-Fuck no. Just hang on.
I don’t think I can do this without you hanging over my shoulder, giving me a sigh or chuckle or disapproving silence. I can try. Will try. I haven’t been this willing to please since I don’t know when.
Trust that a few bars will tell the tale. Will make us or break us.
-Can you get off the floor? At least?
-Mmm, I’ll try. Grab me. Yeah, now pull!
-Up!
-Up, yeah? Fuck. That’s good, better.
-Poor, baby
-Shut up.
-Hey, I’m trying to help.
-You helped all right.
-You weren’t complaining a minute ago.
-No? Shit! Did you see my face?
-Heh, no I didn’t. My eyes were closed.
I cannot think of anything better than seeing your eyes closed when you sit on me, when you lean over and kiss me. That’s when you’re naked, not when your clothes come off, but when you close your eyes and let me see you above me, enjoying me as if I weren’t even there.
-I noticed. I mean, when I wasn’t howling…
-You didn’t ‘howl.’ You didn’t make a sound until you—
-I know. I was there.
-Very nice. I WAS impressed.
-Well we aim to please.
-You did. Just can’t keep it on the court, eh?
-Oh…. That might be your fault, honey.
-What’s a girl to do?
-Ummm, give me a moment?
-I couldn’t do that. I have needs too.
-Yeah? Now I need a doctor.
I could feel your hands on my shoulders, pushing yourself away from me, grinding yourself down against me…again like I weren’t with you. But I was there with you, inside you, loving you. I was watching you, making yourself come to me, bringing us to the same place at the same time. I watched you rock and twist, and I tried to keep up; followed you across the bed…
-No you don’t, pussy.
-Keep talkin’.
-Yeah? Or what?
-Round two.
-Heh, you better have a drink first, baby. Better have a smoke.
-I’ll be ready. Will you?
-Always. Let me have it, big boy.
-Hmm
-C’mon.
-I will.
-Called your bluff didn’t I?
-You’ll get yours.
-I HAD mine…you weren’t complaining.
Did I have time? You’re right, I couldn’t stop us when I felt that glow start growing in me with every breath you took, with every gasp you huffed right by my ear, with every lunge we made together with me inside you. Your grip cloying and annoying and shifting us further than ever before, ever to the…floor?
-Well, that WAS a first.
-Yeah?
-I might be sorry.
-Why? I’m not.
-That’s ‘cause we’re such a mess.
-Nothing a –
-You know what I mean.
-Mm, do I? I’m not sure I did come.
-Pretty sure you did.
Sliding down? That’s not how it is supposed to go, with me grasping, and trying to stay with you, in you. I know you’re there and feel as if only I can keep you there so I follow us down. How could I not? How could I let you go alone without me and my love? I would follow us anywhere, and will.
-Sure I did. I always do, right?
-You’re a man.
-A tough man.
-Maybe not so tough. I might have seen a tear?
-Hell no. If I did I was crying in pain.
-Because you love me so much?
-Because I busted our ass.
-Because I busted our ass?
-Because we busted our collective asses.
-But you do love me, right?
-Not yet, but we’re working on it all right.
-rbm
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Ruminations
One:
We moved into that house in 1979. I didn't leave until 1984 when I was requested to leave "with extreme prejudice." My mother didn't leave until she died there in 2001.
But.
From 1979 until 2001, there was a dish of soap in our bathroom that was not to be used, only looked at and never touched. I'm not sure why. After Mom died and people came over for the hand clasping and the head shaking and the warm, squeezing hugs and the pats on the back, I went upstairs, to "my" bathroom to use it instead of the one below.
Of course, there was that dish of soap...I took one.
Only now it was useless. Only now it was a hardened, dust-caked rock instead of the rose-shaped soap it had been. Insoluble and filthy, it neither lathered nor cleaned my hands.
I could stop there and some would understand yet some would not. Would not see that a lifetime spent reserving things for the future, for a posterity unseen, is a fool's errand.
When you're a Mothershead now, you will use the soap that smells like trees on a hill. You will light a dusty candle before you forget where it came from. You will consume kerosene in your lanterns. You will scratch your records, and you will break your glass.
Two:
The truck's been washed twice since 2003, October, and neither time did I raise a brush or a towel against it. It's cocoon of dust outside, and the sun protection factor of empty sunflower hulls inside keep him happy and safe from the sun, and the rain, and the occasional tree branch.
Worrying about something you don't sleep with is a waste if time. The worship I see of automobiles reminds me of the aforementioned bars of soap. I know people who measure success by the dents in their trucks which may be a good bench mark for people who think more about their cars and H3's than their own kid's home room teacher's name.
My truck's stained with blood, sweat, tears, vomit, and sharpies...a rolling bulletin board like this blog. How's my driving? Call 336-382-3399.
Three:
Health care reform? I don't know a thing about it, and I suspect not many of us do either. I don't know or care what the hell's going on, BUT, I will say this. As a carpenter, it is only a matter of time before I'm back in an Urgent Care center or emergency room to have something reattached or sewn shut or plastered immobile.
I'm always shocked when I notice these places have two mindsets when approaching injuries. One is the no holds barred, pull-out-all-the-stops (yippeee!!!) it's worker's comp let's make some money. The other is, oh, he owns his own company and he's gonna pay with a check....(dammit)
The former is always at least 1200 dollars, the latter is ALWAYS 247.00 dollars...which of course speaks volumes. I've noticed Americans love to milk insurance companies...and that's the rub isn't it? Some see a free ride,a gravy train with biscuit wheels, and they jump right on...
I've never done that. I got my thumb stitched, I got my truck fixed, and I told rehab and the auto "refinishers" to kiss my ass...
Four:
Just something to think about I reckon. Use your damn soap, stop kissing your car's ass, and stop getting carpal tunnel cause you need six weeks vacation, America.
We moved into that house in 1979. I didn't leave until 1984 when I was requested to leave "with extreme prejudice." My mother didn't leave until she died there in 2001.
But.
From 1979 until 2001, there was a dish of soap in our bathroom that was not to be used, only looked at and never touched. I'm not sure why. After Mom died and people came over for the hand clasping and the head shaking and the warm, squeezing hugs and the pats on the back, I went upstairs, to "my" bathroom to use it instead of the one below.
Of course, there was that dish of soap...I took one.
Only now it was useless. Only now it was a hardened, dust-caked rock instead of the rose-shaped soap it had been. Insoluble and filthy, it neither lathered nor cleaned my hands.
I could stop there and some would understand yet some would not. Would not see that a lifetime spent reserving things for the future, for a posterity unseen, is a fool's errand.
When you're a Mothershead now, you will use the soap that smells like trees on a hill. You will light a dusty candle before you forget where it came from. You will consume kerosene in your lanterns. You will scratch your records, and you will break your glass.
Two:
The truck's been washed twice since 2003, October, and neither time did I raise a brush or a towel against it. It's cocoon of dust outside, and the sun protection factor of empty sunflower hulls inside keep him happy and safe from the sun, and the rain, and the occasional tree branch.
Worrying about something you don't sleep with is a waste if time. The worship I see of automobiles reminds me of the aforementioned bars of soap. I know people who measure success by the dents in their trucks which may be a good bench mark for people who think more about their cars and H3's than their own kid's home room teacher's name.
My truck's stained with blood, sweat, tears, vomit, and sharpies...a rolling bulletin board like this blog. How's my driving? Call 336-382-3399.
Three:
Health care reform? I don't know a thing about it, and I suspect not many of us do either. I don't know or care what the hell's going on, BUT, I will say this. As a carpenter, it is only a matter of time before I'm back in an Urgent Care center or emergency room to have something reattached or sewn shut or plastered immobile.
I'm always shocked when I notice these places have two mindsets when approaching injuries. One is the no holds barred, pull-out-all-the-stops (yippeee!!!) it's worker's comp let's make some money. The other is, oh, he owns his own company and he's gonna pay with a check....(dammit)
The former is always at least 1200 dollars, the latter is ALWAYS 247.00 dollars...which of course speaks volumes. I've noticed Americans love to milk insurance companies...and that's the rub isn't it? Some see a free ride,a gravy train with biscuit wheels, and they jump right on...
I've never done that. I got my thumb stitched, I got my truck fixed, and I told rehab and the auto "refinishers" to kiss my ass...
Four:
Just something to think about I reckon. Use your damn soap, stop kissing your car's ass, and stop getting carpal tunnel cause you need six weeks vacation, America.
Saturday, August 29, 2009
Too Many Times
big footed bitch,
clunky monkey.
top floor and all,
stomp your way
across the hall.
turn it down!
go to bed!
make it quiet!
and play dead!
got you here,
in the dark.
cut the lines
lost the spark.
made me cry,
though no more
makes the hate
easier than time.
clunky monkey.
top floor and all,
stomp your way
across the hall.
turn it down!
go to bed!
make it quiet!
and play dead!
got you here,
in the dark.
cut the lines
lost the spark.
made me cry,
though no more
makes the hate
easier than time.
Too Hot for Facebook
Thoughtless Happiness
promised passion,
tipsy-handed delights,
and loosened lips
wet with lust,
seeing you there
open, waiting.
promised passion
brushed passed your lips
hovering above
teetering, teasing,
making you wet,
open, and waiting.
pressing passion,
lighter now than before,
arching backs
begging for more,
warm hot holds,
opened and waiting.
pressing passions,
slip past the parted,
without pause,
eclipsing all else
pulling all in,
open and willing.
pushing passions,
lost in the swirl,
who takes who gives,
sweet answers to kisses,
questions for skin,
opening to wills.
promised passion
we're here now,
left in sweat, hot sheets,
awkwardly wet
happily sweet,
opened by me.
promised passion,
tipsy-handed delights,
and loosened lips
wet with lust,
seeing you there
open, waiting.
promised passion
brushed passed your lips
hovering above
teetering, teasing,
making you wet,
open, and waiting.
pressing passion,
lighter now than before,
arching backs
begging for more,
warm hot holds,
opened and waiting.
pressing passions,
slip past the parted,
without pause,
eclipsing all else
pulling all in,
open and willing.
pushing passions,
lost in the swirl,
who takes who gives,
sweet answers to kisses,
questions for skin,
opening to wills.
promised passion
we're here now,
left in sweat, hot sheets,
awkwardly wet
happily sweet,
opened by me.
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Songs That Give Me Goose Bumps and Stuff.
I have to preface this with the assertion that to say I love music would be a gross understatement… I ALWAYS have something playing somewhere, and I sing along, badly, when I can, and I wish I weren’t so untalented. I can hear everything, but I can’t create it…it’s like a block…I don’t know…maybe a birth defect. Like, I HATE math, and music is close to being math…so close. So I’m Salieri, and all you lucky Mozarts who “get it” and can play… kiss my jealous ass.
What can I do? Crown molding?
Goose bump Songs:
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony: In the last part right when the cellos start … you know when. Holy cow. And then the choral, right when you think it’s over…but it ain’t.
Thunder Road –Springsteen; The lines, “you ain’t a beauty but eh you’re all right…” always get me. And of course, I belt it right along with it.
Don’t Stop Believing –Journey; Of course, if you don’t LOVE this song, you’re dead inside.
Forever Yours –Journey; That kinda love will always give you goose bumps.
The Best for Last- Vanessa Williams; I HAD those penthouses, my dog Duffer ate them, but I’ve always imagined her and a certain high-school crush singing that to me.
Blue Sky –Allman Brothers; I always think of my daughter now when I hear/sing this because she is my blue sky, my sunny day etc…
Still Fighting It- Ben Folds: What can I say. It completely parallels my encounter with my boy when I literally picked him up in Guatemala City and everything changed. AND it reflects my realization that my daughter is also so much like me that she deserves an apology
Why-Annie Lennox: Just hafta to wait til the end! Because I don’t think you know how I feel.
Thank You -Alanis Morrisette
Doesn’t Remind Me –Audioslave: That guitar solo? Likes hammering nails? Hell, who doesn’t?
Just Like Heaven –The Cure
Three Days-Jane’s Addiction: What a mantra the drum and bass beat! Tune in, turn on, and drop the fuck out! I got a man crush on Dave Navarro!
Baba O’Riley –The Who: This is the greatest rock and roll song ever written. I’ve almost ruined it for me listening to it so much. I almost killed my self wind-milling in my old gas F-250 coming home from the Amigos’ house…60 miles an hour and I knocked her in reverse on HWY 68! Good times, and yes, I was pretty tight.
En el Muelle en San Blas – Mana: I LOVE this song. The music alone gets you, you don’t need to know what they’re singing about!
Angels of the Silences –Counting Crows: When they get to “I’m gone, I’m gone…” Whew, good stuff.
Creep--Radiohead: I want you all to notice when I’m not around! The first time I heard the album version with the f-bomb brought the short hairs up! Changed the whole meaning in one fell swoop! And Mr Mackay says we shouldn’t say it m’kay?
L.A. Woman—The Doors: James Morrison is my real dad by the way. But that first riff. MMM that’s the shit.
Soul Singing—Black Crowes:
Rio-Duran Duran: But you hafta wait till the end…doo doo doodoo doo dooooo…
Bizarre Love Triangle—New Order: The 12 incher, not the album single!
Porch—Pearl Jam: indicative, baby!
Table for One--Liz Phair: Naw, I ain't a alcoholic.
Ray of Light--Madonna: Hell yeah, and the video's bad ass too. The opening strains and the middle "bridge?"
Rocky Mountain High--John Denver: Mentions seeing an eagle and how it made "him" a better man! Hell yeah...got a hunting story about seeing bald eagle and feeling great about it...and No he's not talking about passing a blunt around the campfire when "everybody's high!"
I’ll stop, but I could go on…
Tear Jerkers
Still Fighting It –Ben Folds: And some day you fly away, from me? Fuck. I’m tearing right now!
This Woman’s Work –Kate Bush: Oh man, tough stuff, when I’m whiskey soaked and on a crying jag.
Amazing Grace –Done with bagpipes: Even if I never met your dead ass before, I’ll cry at your funeral if you have “them” play this!
The Final Cut –Pink Floyd: Whew! Tough on a teenager full of angst. So it harkens it all back when it’s played now.
Night Swimming –REM: Remind me I am getting and old and am gonna die and step back.
En el Muelle en San Blas – Mana: I LOVE this song. The music alone gets you, you don’t need to know what they’re singing about! BUT it’s about loving someone who ain’t there.
Star Spangled Banner –Francis Scot Keyes: I saw somebody mention this under SAK’s post and it’s true. The older I get…
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony: Yeah, I saw it done live on PBS a few years ago and cried like a baby. To think I was listening to someone’s brain, not reading it, not looking at a picture or using an invention of a dead guy, but hearing his thoughts like 200 years later?
Romeo and Juliet—Dire Straits: I hate getting dumped and this reminds of those times. Which makes me want to expound on something.
Do Re Mi—Julie Andrews et al Sound of Music Soundtrack: This corroborates what was said about songs dragging old memories up…I wish I were still there…
Don’t Give Up—Peter Gabriel w/ Kate Bush: Maybe it’s her voice?
Drugs or Me—Jimmy Eat World: I don’t know anyone addicted to drugs, but the song just gets to me. I wish I did.
Bang—Frankie Goes to Hollywood: I don’t know if that’s the right title, but he says, “I’ll protect you from the hooded claw…” That’s fuckin’ love!
A Feast of Friends—James Douglas Morrison: Again…remind me that I’m gonna die and you’ve ruined my day….
All I Want is You—U2: ‘Nuff said.
I could go on, but I won’t.
Albums I can listen to one end to the other:
Making Movies—Dire Straits
Ten—Pearl Jam
Every Picture Tells a Story—Rod Stewart if you take out Maggie May
Unforgettable Fire—U2
Rattle and Hum—U2
So—Pete Gabriel
Dark Side of the Moon—Pink Floyd And yes, we listened to it and watched The Wizard of Oz once.
Weezer Blue Album--Weezer
Back Home Again—John Denver
Sap—Alice in Chains
Jar of Flies—Alice in Chains
Nevermind—Nirvana
Skin and Bones—Foo Fighters
I’m sorry it’s so long. It’s humid outside…sauna humid…and I got no desire to got out, so you get this list.
What can I do? Crown molding?
Goose bump Songs:
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony: In the last part right when the cellos start … you know when. Holy cow. And then the choral, right when you think it’s over…but it ain’t.
Thunder Road –Springsteen; The lines, “you ain’t a beauty but eh you’re all right…” always get me. And of course, I belt it right along with it.
Don’t Stop Believing –Journey; Of course, if you don’t LOVE this song, you’re dead inside.
Forever Yours –Journey; That kinda love will always give you goose bumps.
The Best for Last- Vanessa Williams; I HAD those penthouses, my dog Duffer ate them, but I’ve always imagined her and a certain high-school crush singing that to me.
Blue Sky –Allman Brothers; I always think of my daughter now when I hear/sing this because she is my blue sky, my sunny day etc…
Still Fighting It- Ben Folds: What can I say. It completely parallels my encounter with my boy when I literally picked him up in Guatemala City and everything changed. AND it reflects my realization that my daughter is also so much like me that she deserves an apology
Why-Annie Lennox: Just hafta to wait til the end! Because I don’t think you know how I feel.
Thank You -Alanis Morrisette
Doesn’t Remind Me –Audioslave: That guitar solo? Likes hammering nails? Hell, who doesn’t?
Just Like Heaven –The Cure
Three Days-Jane’s Addiction: What a mantra the drum and bass beat! Tune in, turn on, and drop the fuck out! I got a man crush on Dave Navarro!
Baba O’Riley –The Who: This is the greatest rock and roll song ever written. I’ve almost ruined it for me listening to it so much. I almost killed my self wind-milling in my old gas F-250 coming home from the Amigos’ house…60 miles an hour and I knocked her in reverse on HWY 68! Good times, and yes, I was pretty tight.
En el Muelle en San Blas – Mana: I LOVE this song. The music alone gets you, you don’t need to know what they’re singing about!
Angels of the Silences –Counting Crows: When they get to “I’m gone, I’m gone…” Whew, good stuff.
Creep--Radiohead: I want you all to notice when I’m not around! The first time I heard the album version with the f-bomb brought the short hairs up! Changed the whole meaning in one fell swoop! And Mr Mackay says we shouldn’t say it m’kay?
L.A. Woman—The Doors: James Morrison is my real dad by the way. But that first riff. MMM that’s the shit.
Soul Singing—Black Crowes:
Rio-Duran Duran: But you hafta wait till the end…doo doo doodoo doo dooooo…
Bizarre Love Triangle—New Order: The 12 incher, not the album single!
Porch—Pearl Jam: indicative, baby!
Table for One--Liz Phair: Naw, I ain't a alcoholic.
Ray of Light--Madonna: Hell yeah, and the video's bad ass too. The opening strains and the middle "bridge?"
Rocky Mountain High--John Denver: Mentions seeing an eagle and how it made "him" a better man! Hell yeah...got a hunting story about seeing bald eagle and feeling great about it...and No he's not talking about passing a blunt around the campfire when "everybody's high!"
I’ll stop, but I could go on…
Tear Jerkers
Still Fighting It –Ben Folds: And some day you fly away, from me? Fuck. I’m tearing right now!
This Woman’s Work –Kate Bush: Oh man, tough stuff, when I’m whiskey soaked and on a crying jag.
Amazing Grace –Done with bagpipes: Even if I never met your dead ass before, I’ll cry at your funeral if you have “them” play this!
The Final Cut –Pink Floyd: Whew! Tough on a teenager full of angst. So it harkens it all back when it’s played now.
Night Swimming –REM: Remind me I am getting and old and am gonna die and step back.
En el Muelle en San Blas – Mana: I LOVE this song. The music alone gets you, you don’t need to know what they’re singing about! BUT it’s about loving someone who ain’t there.
Star Spangled Banner –Francis Scot Keyes: I saw somebody mention this under SAK’s post and it’s true. The older I get…
Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony: Yeah, I saw it done live on PBS a few years ago and cried like a baby. To think I was listening to someone’s brain, not reading it, not looking at a picture or using an invention of a dead guy, but hearing his thoughts like 200 years later?
Romeo and Juliet—Dire Straits: I hate getting dumped and this reminds of those times. Which makes me want to expound on something.
Do Re Mi—Julie Andrews et al Sound of Music Soundtrack: This corroborates what was said about songs dragging old memories up…I wish I were still there…
Don’t Give Up—Peter Gabriel w/ Kate Bush: Maybe it’s her voice?
Drugs or Me—Jimmy Eat World: I don’t know anyone addicted to drugs, but the song just gets to me. I wish I did.
Bang—Frankie Goes to Hollywood: I don’t know if that’s the right title, but he says, “I’ll protect you from the hooded claw…” That’s fuckin’ love!
A Feast of Friends—James Douglas Morrison: Again…remind me that I’m gonna die and you’ve ruined my day….
All I Want is You—U2: ‘Nuff said.
I could go on, but I won’t.
Albums I can listen to one end to the other:
Making Movies—Dire Straits
Ten—Pearl Jam
Every Picture Tells a Story—Rod Stewart if you take out Maggie May
Unforgettable Fire—U2
Rattle and Hum—U2
So—Pete Gabriel
Dark Side of the Moon—Pink Floyd And yes, we listened to it and watched The Wizard of Oz once.
Weezer Blue Album--Weezer
Back Home Again—John Denver
Sap—Alice in Chains
Jar of Flies—Alice in Chains
Nevermind—Nirvana
Skin and Bones—Foo Fighters
I’m sorry it’s so long. It’s humid outside…sauna humid…and I got no desire to got out, so you get this list.
Friday, August 7, 2009
Hunting Part 1
Papa has pushed me to comment about something that I think, many of y'all do not care about at all, nor have an inkling of what the allure of doing so is. Hunting, of course is the pastime he spoke of many years ago, and hunting is what I want to speak of now.
The beauty of it is that it's something you cannot liken to anything else you do. What other endeavour, if you're not an emergency room doctor, will instantly decide life or death for another creature? For whatever the motive, that ability alone is, in and of itself, pure unmitigated power.
One could argue that desire for such power is a selfish attempt to overcome shortcomings and I'd assume that could be true, for some, but for the hunter I doubt any such notion could be further from the truth.
The hunter is there to feel the moment, to separate himself from everything that has become common and unholy like MVP cards and reality TV shows and Nintendo Wii's... The Hunter is there to make himself a part of everything that is real, and natural and transient, like himself and you.
It may seem pointless, to the uninitiated, all the work and suffering which should go into preparing for the hunt, but the preparation is the most important part. The practice, the maintenance, and the willingness to work is what makes hunting humane and viable.
Humane hunting is not an oxymoron. The Hunter knows he must kill, but he knows he wants it done quickly, painlessly. Most callous is the lout that wounds and loses, or worse, leaves a deer. One who would do that is not the Hunter I speak of. Not the Man I want to be nor want to be associated with.
So, one must practice the art of the rifle, of the cartridge, and shooting. However, the grace and nuance of a rifle shot and shot well would be better left now for another rant, another note. We just want to get the wherefores of setting our sights on wild and free game and taking them crisply with character and no malice, only the desire to self sustain.
I only mention deer as they are most abundant now, now that progress and "civilization" have allowed deer to flourish and their predators to disappear. And that said, obviously, we, the sardines in a can are the last predation, the last hope of maintaining a viable deer population before wasting disease, and starvation take their toll.
I will describe to you now, the choking feeling, the compunction and anxiety with which we place a cross-hair upon an animal's vitals that are just a skin's thickness away from the light of day. For perspective feel your own ribcage, and judge the distance from fingertip to bone; a half an inch? Fragile are we, and them, and our hearts beat less than two inches below the ribs you feel...nestled between our lungs, only four inches that a bullet can pass through in less than a hundredth of a second.
Not different, our beating hearts, and yet, the cross hairs are upon the Deer's, and the tension builds within you, the Hunter, and you think you know what it will be like to kill another, yet you do not until you can, or have to. It is now, for you're about to take the life of a beautiful creature that weighs just as much as you do, shares a certain physiology with you, and, just like you, is only hard at work making a living in an unfair an capricious world
Yes now is the moment you decide, or find out if you can or cannot take the life, the life of a graceful animal, a creation of nature not so unlike yourself. I can, and do, and feel sick, and exhilarated and regretful and proud. Because I have put the work into the craft, and have built equipment that is up for the task, and have rose before dawn to partake in the ritual. I am proud to make a clean kill or harvest as we like to say. And I am there! I am now, which I will never be again, and nor will the Deer.
Indeed, that moment passed.
The beauty of it is that it's something you cannot liken to anything else you do. What other endeavour, if you're not an emergency room doctor, will instantly decide life or death for another creature? For whatever the motive, that ability alone is, in and of itself, pure unmitigated power.
One could argue that desire for such power is a selfish attempt to overcome shortcomings and I'd assume that could be true, for some, but for the hunter I doubt any such notion could be further from the truth.
The hunter is there to feel the moment, to separate himself from everything that has become common and unholy like MVP cards and reality TV shows and Nintendo Wii's... The Hunter is there to make himself a part of everything that is real, and natural and transient, like himself and you.
It may seem pointless, to the uninitiated, all the work and suffering which should go into preparing for the hunt, but the preparation is the most important part. The practice, the maintenance, and the willingness to work is what makes hunting humane and viable.
Humane hunting is not an oxymoron. The Hunter knows he must kill, but he knows he wants it done quickly, painlessly. Most callous is the lout that wounds and loses, or worse, leaves a deer. One who would do that is not the Hunter I speak of. Not the Man I want to be nor want to be associated with.
So, one must practice the art of the rifle, of the cartridge, and shooting. However, the grace and nuance of a rifle shot and shot well would be better left now for another rant, another note. We just want to get the wherefores of setting our sights on wild and free game and taking them crisply with character and no malice, only the desire to self sustain.
I only mention deer as they are most abundant now, now that progress and "civilization" have allowed deer to flourish and their predators to disappear. And that said, obviously, we, the sardines in a can are the last predation, the last hope of maintaining a viable deer population before wasting disease, and starvation take their toll.
I will describe to you now, the choking feeling, the compunction and anxiety with which we place a cross-hair upon an animal's vitals that are just a skin's thickness away from the light of day. For perspective feel your own ribcage, and judge the distance from fingertip to bone; a half an inch? Fragile are we, and them, and our hearts beat less than two inches below the ribs you feel...nestled between our lungs, only four inches that a bullet can pass through in less than a hundredth of a second.
Not different, our beating hearts, and yet, the cross hairs are upon the Deer's, and the tension builds within you, the Hunter, and you think you know what it will be like to kill another, yet you do not until you can, or have to. It is now, for you're about to take the life of a beautiful creature that weighs just as much as you do, shares a certain physiology with you, and, just like you, is only hard at work making a living in an unfair an capricious world
Yes now is the moment you decide, or find out if you can or cannot take the life, the life of a graceful animal, a creation of nature not so unlike yourself. I can, and do, and feel sick, and exhilarated and regretful and proud. Because I have put the work into the craft, and have built equipment that is up for the task, and have rose before dawn to partake in the ritual. I am proud to make a clean kill or harvest as we like to say. And I am there! I am now, which I will never be again, and nor will the Deer.
Indeed, that moment passed.
Monday, August 3, 2009
Whiskey for the Funky
Then you hafta write, there's not an excuse, in fact it's what's best; and it's better for you, and for us. For you must do it here for all to see and read and concur or reply.
Prescribed by the best before you or I, involves a short fat glass, and some crushed ice from the door. It must be crushed for the magic to work; must be made to melt quickly. It has to calm the burning whiskey that you pour among the loose rocks of ice.
Look close and see the bourbon melt the ice in filament thin strands of water coiling around the chunks like clear worms dropping, dodging the light and your sight, for the darkening depth of the glass. Yes, cover the ice, and stop.
Now, watch the glass sweat, wait for the ice to melt and mellow the liquor. This summer's air is wet enough to freeze on the outside of the glass yet perhaps not for you up north.
Wait and look at your blank page or screen or what ever you have to write with and think. Let the Ice do its work then grab your glass and put them to your lips, your ice and water and bourbon, but smell them too; close your eyes and touch the cold and draw them in, and taste them burn.
Now, you can start to put pen to paper, soft fingers to gentle keyboard, and bang out a chord, like music, like water it will come. And we'll be there to gather and read and feel like you do if for only a minute or two.
Prescribed by the best before you or I, involves a short fat glass, and some crushed ice from the door. It must be crushed for the magic to work; must be made to melt quickly. It has to calm the burning whiskey that you pour among the loose rocks of ice.
Look close and see the bourbon melt the ice in filament thin strands of water coiling around the chunks like clear worms dropping, dodging the light and your sight, for the darkening depth of the glass. Yes, cover the ice, and stop.
Now, watch the glass sweat, wait for the ice to melt and mellow the liquor. This summer's air is wet enough to freeze on the outside of the glass yet perhaps not for you up north.
Wait and look at your blank page or screen or what ever you have to write with and think. Let the Ice do its work then grab your glass and put them to your lips, your ice and water and bourbon, but smell them too; close your eyes and touch the cold and draw them in, and taste them burn.
Now, you can start to put pen to paper, soft fingers to gentle keyboard, and bang out a chord, like music, like water it will come. And we'll be there to gather and read and feel like you do if for only a minute or two.
Thursday, July 30, 2009
The Mythology of Mothershead
Just started re-reading one of the greatest books ever written, To Kill a Mockingbird (like Stephen Colbert says, when you write one this good, you don't need to write another) this summer and realized something I had forgotten. Let me take you back.
I "borrowed" the first edition printing of the book from my parents somewhere in the late eighties. I know it was theirs cause Dad put a sticker in it telling us so and, apparently, according to the sticker, they also wanted to allow epileptics in public schools back in 1960. I mean, who doesn't?
Flash forward to the nineties when I got my first apartment with my girlfriend freshly graduated from college--her not me. Well, at any rate, I was there and worked full time and loved my job and read that book. That book made me sad when I was done. It made me sad to think I'd never get to spend anymore time with Scout (most of all) or any of them as Harper Lee hadn't written anything else.
However, it planted in me a seed that didn't really start to germinate until we had moved out of the apartment, got married, moved out of our tiny yellow rental house, slid down the road and bought our first little white house. Then it hit me: I want a daughter. I want my own Scout.
Well, I think it hit us both, but Lisa couldn't help herself because she's a chick. I wanted a daughter and we tried real hard for a few years. But, there was trouble. And Lisa went to doctors and had surgery while I just kept doing my thing. In fact, one time I had to do my thing in a cup and take it to a doctor to make sure my thing wasn't wasting every one's time, but I would've done anything for the cause at that point--even boxers.
So. It all goes back to college when I boasted to my girlfriend (Lisa) as we lay around on some mattresses tossed on the floor, that since I was adopted, then I was sure to adopt a child when I got married and never fool with "baby weight" and post-partum depression etc etc. And that was the answer now. When the doctor boasted, "You'll never get pregnant without my help," and , "Treatments are 20,000 dollars a month," it dawned on her as well, that adoption might be the way to go.
Well, TKAM rears its head again. I read that China is throwing little girls at Americans and all we need is money and all we hafta do is get to the YMCA and sign up after a discussion about it with Carolina Adoption Agency. I tell Lisa, "Let's go, it won't hurt to see." And we went, sat through the whole thing and heard, "You must be at least 31 years of age to participate."
I think I was 30 and Lisa was 29 (for real at this point). On the way out, I look at a table of pictures of children from other countries other than China, and see one set of pictures that looks vaguely familiar. The children are gorgeous, and some of them, believe it of not, look just like my baby pictures. "Well how old do you hafta be for Guatemala here?"
Lisa did more paperwork and running to the courthouse than I ever had fighting my countless traffic tickets and getting building permits. She got it done in about a year, maybe less. I won't tell you the trials and tribulations of all that, just to say that we were told we'd get what we'd get (just like knocking someone up) and I prayed for a Scout.
We got, the BOY! or rather his picture days after he was born. We paraded this picture they had sent with carefully placed post-it notes over his genitals to anyone who would look. They don't care a hoot about American Sensibilities down there when babies are concerned I reckon, but strangely, most everyone we showed the picture would peek under the post-it note! He was the child that was meant for us.
In four months I was a Dad! In four months Lisa was a Mom. In four months, Jaime was miserable and in a foreign world surrounded by strangers...anyway, he got better. And from an apartment, as we'd sold the house, to a rental on the lake we moved with the baby...and then I got the call, "I'm pregnant," about five months after we'd just gone south for our little organ donor.
Well, it was shocking, and I was shocked. I had just kept doing my thing, and somewhere deep down inside, Lisa had done hers; a year after we were told it'd never happen without help. Well, one belly sonar later, and "it" was going to become a Girl, my Scout. I don't remember when or how I asked if we could name her Scout, I just remember now, looking back, that it wasn't going to be.
Cruel fate it was. However, everything was fine...I had my Scout. I was gonna call her that ever if her name was Emily Rebecca Mothershead! But, she was tiny, and smelly, and...bald. She wasn't a Scout, she was a baby, then a crawler, then a toddler who apparently couldn't walk through a room without getting juice on the ceiling. And she was constantly sticky.
And I've mentioned before that Jaime, who was quick to label things in the house, had labeled her Loo-Doo so, it wasn't a stretch that she'd end up Sticky-Loo, and has been called thus for ten or so years. Yeah, she's no scout, but she's better, because she's real, and she's here and I can see her anytime I want. But best of all, she too is chock full of organs that Lisa or I can use as needed with less risk of rejection.
I have become a full blown dad now, and have learned many things about little people. I learned more from Atticus I think than I ever thought and have repeated his advice many times to people without even knowing I was parroting him. "Don't talk down to children, if he asks something, answer him," I like to say, and do. I don't do euphemisms.
Worse, however, is the realization that if I actually had a child like Jean-Louise, or Jem, or a house guest like Dill, I might have to kill them all to save my own sanity. I also see that the book, though loved indeed, is in fact, a work of fiction. Sure, some contents are perhaps loosely based on some of Harper Lee's experiences and childhood friends, but it is a vision of how it was, and not a historical document. And Scout, though lovable, could never be a Mothershead now, now that we have a Jaime and an Emily.
Maybe a dog then.
I "borrowed" the first edition printing of the book from my parents somewhere in the late eighties. I know it was theirs cause Dad put a sticker in it telling us so and, apparently, according to the sticker, they also wanted to allow epileptics in public schools back in 1960. I mean, who doesn't?
Flash forward to the nineties when I got my first apartment with my girlfriend freshly graduated from college--her not me. Well, at any rate, I was there and worked full time and loved my job and read that book. That book made me sad when I was done. It made me sad to think I'd never get to spend anymore time with Scout (most of all) or any of them as Harper Lee hadn't written anything else.
However, it planted in me a seed that didn't really start to germinate until we had moved out of the apartment, got married, moved out of our tiny yellow rental house, slid down the road and bought our first little white house. Then it hit me: I want a daughter. I want my own Scout.
Well, I think it hit us both, but Lisa couldn't help herself because she's a chick. I wanted a daughter and we tried real hard for a few years. But, there was trouble. And Lisa went to doctors and had surgery while I just kept doing my thing. In fact, one time I had to do my thing in a cup and take it to a doctor to make sure my thing wasn't wasting every one's time, but I would've done anything for the cause at that point--even boxers.
So. It all goes back to college when I boasted to my girlfriend (Lisa) as we lay around on some mattresses tossed on the floor, that since I was adopted, then I was sure to adopt a child when I got married and never fool with "baby weight" and post-partum depression etc etc. And that was the answer now. When the doctor boasted, "You'll never get pregnant without my help," and , "Treatments are 20,000 dollars a month," it dawned on her as well, that adoption might be the way to go.
Well, TKAM rears its head again. I read that China is throwing little girls at Americans and all we need is money and all we hafta do is get to the YMCA and sign up after a discussion about it with Carolina Adoption Agency. I tell Lisa, "Let's go, it won't hurt to see." And we went, sat through the whole thing and heard, "You must be at least 31 years of age to participate."
I think I was 30 and Lisa was 29 (for real at this point). On the way out, I look at a table of pictures of children from other countries other than China, and see one set of pictures that looks vaguely familiar. The children are gorgeous, and some of them, believe it of not, look just like my baby pictures. "Well how old do you hafta be for Guatemala here?"
Lisa did more paperwork and running to the courthouse than I ever had fighting my countless traffic tickets and getting building permits. She got it done in about a year, maybe less. I won't tell you the trials and tribulations of all that, just to say that we were told we'd get what we'd get (just like knocking someone up) and I prayed for a Scout.
We got, the BOY! or rather his picture days after he was born. We paraded this picture they had sent with carefully placed post-it notes over his genitals to anyone who would look. They don't care a hoot about American Sensibilities down there when babies are concerned I reckon, but strangely, most everyone we showed the picture would peek under the post-it note! He was the child that was meant for us.
In four months I was a Dad! In four months Lisa was a Mom. In four months, Jaime was miserable and in a foreign world surrounded by strangers...anyway, he got better. And from an apartment, as we'd sold the house, to a rental on the lake we moved with the baby...and then I got the call, "I'm pregnant," about five months after we'd just gone south for our little organ donor.
Well, it was shocking, and I was shocked. I had just kept doing my thing, and somewhere deep down inside, Lisa had done hers; a year after we were told it'd never happen without help. Well, one belly sonar later, and "it" was going to become a Girl, my Scout. I don't remember when or how I asked if we could name her Scout, I just remember now, looking back, that it wasn't going to be.
Cruel fate it was. However, everything was fine...I had my Scout. I was gonna call her that ever if her name was Emily Rebecca Mothershead! But, she was tiny, and smelly, and...bald. She wasn't a Scout, she was a baby, then a crawler, then a toddler who apparently couldn't walk through a room without getting juice on the ceiling. And she was constantly sticky.
And I've mentioned before that Jaime, who was quick to label things in the house, had labeled her Loo-Doo so, it wasn't a stretch that she'd end up Sticky-Loo, and has been called thus for ten or so years. Yeah, she's no scout, but she's better, because she's real, and she's here and I can see her anytime I want. But best of all, she too is chock full of organs that Lisa or I can use as needed with less risk of rejection.
I have become a full blown dad now, and have learned many things about little people. I learned more from Atticus I think than I ever thought and have repeated his advice many times to people without even knowing I was parroting him. "Don't talk down to children, if he asks something, answer him," I like to say, and do. I don't do euphemisms.
Worse, however, is the realization that if I actually had a child like Jean-Louise, or Jem, or a house guest like Dill, I might have to kill them all to save my own sanity. I also see that the book, though loved indeed, is in fact, a work of fiction. Sure, some contents are perhaps loosely based on some of Harper Lee's experiences and childhood friends, but it is a vision of how it was, and not a historical document. And Scout, though lovable, could never be a Mothershead now, now that we have a Jaime and an Emily.
Maybe a dog then.
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
One of my favorite passages from The Koran
From the Surah, Abraham 14:22:
And when Our judgement has been passed, Satan will say to them: 'True was the promise God made to you. I too made you a promise, but did not keep it. Yet, I had no power over you. I called you, and you answered me. Do not now blame me, but blame yourselves. I cannot help you, nor can you help me. I never thought, as you did, that I was God's equal.'
Isn't that cool? It's like Satan as a real dude, not a snake in the grass. And, he admits he's really up to no good. But the best part is, even if Satan is just the personification of one following one's desires without moral direction, the verse points out that one's problems are generally one's own fault.
I Don't know why, but that little blurb jumped off the page for me and I wanted to share it. The Koran is full of phrases turned just right even in my translation, and I would say it is translated at least as well as the christian tome. Both pretty much have the same supporting characters.
Well, that's it.
And when Our judgement has been passed, Satan will say to them: 'True was the promise God made to you. I too made you a promise, but did not keep it. Yet, I had no power over you. I called you, and you answered me. Do not now blame me, but blame yourselves. I cannot help you, nor can you help me. I never thought, as you did, that I was God's equal.'
Isn't that cool? It's like Satan as a real dude, not a snake in the grass. And, he admits he's really up to no good. But the best part is, even if Satan is just the personification of one following one's desires without moral direction, the verse points out that one's problems are generally one's own fault.
I Don't know why, but that little blurb jumped off the page for me and I wanted to share it. The Koran is full of phrases turned just right even in my translation, and I would say it is translated at least as well as the christian tome. Both pretty much have the same supporting characters.
Well, that's it.
Sunday, July 12, 2009
Mozart
The difference between you and me,
What holds us apart?
I can't yet,
And will Not go,
I hear the strains from 200 years ago,
You can too,
What more do you need?
A Book,
A Koran,
A Torah?
I give you immortality,
I give you DNA,
I give you paradise,I give you heaven,
I give you Mozart, our god,
Our muse.
What holds us apart?
I can't yet,
And will Not go,
I hear the strains from 200 years ago,
You can too,
What more do you need?
A Book,
A Koran,
A Torah?
I give you immortality,
I give you DNA,
I give you paradise,I give you heaven,
I give you Mozart, our god,
Our muse.
Saturday, July 11, 2009
The Fourth of July
You shouldn't need me to tell you
Where the holy part of you is.
It's the part that cries at commercials,
And old TV theme songs,
And pictures of dead children in africa
In honduras
In haiti
In NC where you live.
Not,where you rush to ball games
With 5 dollars bills
Stepping around the homeless
With yellow eyes and hungry, starving livers
Twitching for dimes
For beer
For death.
Not packing the clubs in the SUV
To see fireworks and flash your yellow magnets,
And your MVP card for cheap steaks,
While you protest a war
You'll never feel,
Until your strappin young lad
Sees sunny North Korea in 2015.
Not facebook or twitter.
Not AIM,
Not I-phones or nextel.
You don't need me.
Just feel what it means to know
You're alone.
You can't save yourself
You can't save your kids
You can't love your wife
You can't stop the rust on your car's aortic valves
Or your own...
You don't need me to tell you;
Love it here!
Feel the heat,
Feel the cold
You're alive that's what it means
Suffer well,
And you feel,
Hide from life,
And you die.
I see the dead everyday.
I mock them and protest,
But jealous none the less.
Easier still to be dumb,
Than to flick misguided worms to the grass after rain.
Wrap it up,
You don't need me...
You know why hurt kids'll make you cry
Why old people want to die,
And why oh why don't I?
Where the holy part of you is.
It's the part that cries at commercials,
And old TV theme songs,
And pictures of dead children in africa
In honduras
In haiti
In NC where you live.
Not,where you rush to ball games
With 5 dollars bills
Stepping around the homeless
With yellow eyes and hungry, starving livers
Twitching for dimes
For beer
For death.
Not packing the clubs in the SUV
To see fireworks and flash your yellow magnets,
And your MVP card for cheap steaks,
While you protest a war
You'll never feel,
Until your strappin young lad
Sees sunny North Korea in 2015.
Not facebook or twitter.
Not AIM,
Not I-phones or nextel.
You don't need me.
Just feel what it means to know
You're alone.
You can't save yourself
You can't save your kids
You can't love your wife
You can't stop the rust on your car's aortic valves
Or your own...
You don't need me to tell you;
Love it here!
Feel the heat,
Feel the cold
You're alive that's what it means
Suffer well,
And you feel,
Hide from life,
And you die.
I see the dead everyday.
I mock them and protest,
But jealous none the less.
Easier still to be dumb,
Than to flick misguided worms to the grass after rain.
Wrap it up,
You don't need me...
You know why hurt kids'll make you cry
Why old people want to die,
And why oh why don't I?
Family Lexicon
The words and phrases we use everyday in our house vary, of course, but a few were taught to us by infant and toddler children. I was reminded of where these words came from today in the shower.
To this day, no matter what it is, whether it's soup or a shower, if it's surprisingly hot, one says, "WHOO! HOT!" in a loud, toddleresque Jaime voice.
If one sees poop, left behind from any species of animal, lying in the yard, one is to shout, "DOO-DOO!" with his arms out stretched behind him like a penguin, again, in one's best young Jaime voice.
Forever, "Shawggy gon' get my cereal." means hurry up and eat before your cereal gets soggy.
My beautiful daughter was tagged, "Loo-Doo" by a not-much-older brother. So she still is called this with variations depending on mood and condition. These other names include Poopy-Loo, Stinky-Loo (Though she outgrew this phase when she started using the litter-box), Sticky-Loo (still applicable sometimes, even to this day), Grumpy Loo, but mostly plain jane Loo-Loo.
A toothbrush is a Blih-bluh at least once a quarter around here. We have Emily on tape saying that.
These are the main ones...the ones that get used many times and remind me personally of my kids when their dad was a giant and all-knowing and indestructible. My stock's gone down some, but I'm reminded every time, everyday, when I scald myself in the shower, or gulp hot coffee or pizza.
To this day, no matter what it is, whether it's soup or a shower, if it's surprisingly hot, one says, "WHOO! HOT!" in a loud, toddleresque Jaime voice.
If one sees poop, left behind from any species of animal, lying in the yard, one is to shout, "DOO-DOO!" with his arms out stretched behind him like a penguin, again, in one's best young Jaime voice.
Forever, "Shawggy gon' get my cereal." means hurry up and eat before your cereal gets soggy.
My beautiful daughter was tagged, "Loo-Doo" by a not-much-older brother. So she still is called this with variations depending on mood and condition. These other names include Poopy-Loo, Stinky-Loo (Though she outgrew this phase when she started using the litter-box), Sticky-Loo (still applicable sometimes, even to this day), Grumpy Loo, but mostly plain jane Loo-Loo.
A toothbrush is a Blih-bluh at least once a quarter around here. We have Emily on tape saying that.
These are the main ones...the ones that get used many times and remind me personally of my kids when their dad was a giant and all-knowing and indestructible. My stock's gone down some, but I'm reminded every time, everyday, when I scald myself in the shower, or gulp hot coffee or pizza.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Self express
Lemme see if this posts to the wall,
No empty page here,
but no eyes at all.
If I could have both and time to write,
Mistress and mommy,
both in our sight.
No empty page here,
but no eyes at all.
If I could have both and time to write,
Mistress and mommy,
both in our sight.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
Wasted Words
I can't remember what it was like to hit the TAB key and have it move the roller-thing forward five spaces for a real paragraph. Seems like such a long time ago. Is it something I'm doing wrong? Surely it is.
As the end of the world escapses us not,
And the sun creeps closer;
Keeping us hot.
Baking the water into the sky,
Drying out throats,
Cracking our eyes.
Swollen tongues,
Cackle and crackle silent cries.
Bury the fetus in a dusty cloud,
A wind gust away from thirsty hound.
Laugh at the crags underfoot,
A trip down a crispy lane of grass,
Then given a spark, a cleansing blast,
This world shakes us off
Like a shitty rash...
As the end of the world escapses us not,
And the sun creeps closer;
Keeping us hot.
Baking the water into the sky,
Drying out throats,
Cracking our eyes.
Swollen tongues,
Cackle and crackle silent cries.
Bury the fetus in a dusty cloud,
A wind gust away from thirsty hound.
Laugh at the crags underfoot,
A trip down a crispy lane of grass,
Then given a spark, a cleansing blast,
This world shakes us off
Like a shitty rash...
Tuesday, July 7, 2009
Time
The times for thinking of yourself have been over for a long time. You have nothing to offer them but more, more, and even more…you never stop offering. You never stop. Even when not asked, things are taken from you.
Those times you sit and think you’ll be remembered, hope to be remembered, then aren’t, will be the times you’ll ache to forget. You’ll forget. All it takes is a gentle comb of little fingers in your hair, a hand on your shoulder, an unexpected hug, then and only then is all forgotten.
Times sat together on a floor, on a bed, looking at the same things, laughing, and smelling and spilling, all together. Can be too much; can you be driven to madness? Until the snapping shut of lips and open arms, then doors.
The times in bed surrounded by piles on the floor of silent, sleeping parasites of love will be gone, are going and will be missed with the relief that naked sleepy blunders go unnoticed.
Times left to go now less than the times well spent, misspent wasting them at the mirror or waxing a car or cleaning your clubs. All the given and all the taken and all the gifts and stolen treats leaving you with little time for thinking of yourself.
Those times you sit and think you’ll be remembered, hope to be remembered, then aren’t, will be the times you’ll ache to forget. You’ll forget. All it takes is a gentle comb of little fingers in your hair, a hand on your shoulder, an unexpected hug, then and only then is all forgotten.
Times sat together on a floor, on a bed, looking at the same things, laughing, and smelling and spilling, all together. Can be too much; can you be driven to madness? Until the snapping shut of lips and open arms, then doors.
The times in bed surrounded by piles on the floor of silent, sleeping parasites of love will be gone, are going and will be missed with the relief that naked sleepy blunders go unnoticed.
Times left to go now less than the times well spent, misspent wasting them at the mirror or waxing a car or cleaning your clubs. All the given and all the taken and all the gifts and stolen treats leaving you with little time for thinking of yourself.
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
Friday, May 8, 2009
I Got Nothing
The Video
I saw you the other day,
The you, the one, i haven't seen
For some time.
I remembered what it was like,
And i wanted to apologize.
I saw me the other day,
Good ol' me, that i hadn't seen,
For some time.
I couldn't remember what I was like,
And I wanted to cry.
I'll say I'm sorry now,
To you, to me, that should do it
For some time,
It always seemed to
When I made you cry.
-rbm
I saw you the other day,
The you, the one, i haven't seen
For some time.
I remembered what it was like,
And i wanted to apologize.
I saw me the other day,
Good ol' me, that i hadn't seen,
For some time.
I couldn't remember what I was like,
And I wanted to cry.
I'll say I'm sorry now,
To you, to me, that should do it
For some time,
It always seemed to
When I made you cry.
-rbm
Wednesday, May 6, 2009
The Typewriter Posts
Well, I'll give you that they might be hard to read, but I ain't gonna type them upstairs, then retype them down here. I dunno, something about hitting a bunch of keys is satisfying, and loud, and I like being satisfied and loud.
I hope they can be read; too bad no one else does.
brett
I hope they can be read; too bad no one else does.
brett
Typewriter Blog
Here's something even I can do. I write my stuff where ever I am, then I can post it here, no matter how messed up it is.
I'll see if they can be read.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
She, Being Brand New
I wanted to write about a new shotgun. She's Italian and she sits upstairs in a safe waiting for her first time in the field for a chance to powder some clays before she has to kill. She's already shown an aversion to my powder puff reloads which worried me a little but not now.
So she's going to be an expensive date. She's going to want factory shells and my lust to feel her kick in my hands will make me plod off to the store for them just to make her happy. Like the first Christmas when I was really in love with an indifferent ingénue.
Having been built with an inertia engine to keep her chamber filled semi-automatically, she’s going to need the crisp, lively pop of a factory load to digest them properly. Also she’ll need to be fully stoked with 1 and 1/8 ounce loads of shot to perform her best for me.
Luckily for me, she's as light as a walking cane and that means she won't be all that fun to shoot very often at the skeet field as she'll ride me hard and leave me a little sore after just a few rounds. No she'll be in it for the hunt mainly and not the ground covering of empty shells for which skeet and the other clay games are known.
For that there’s the family of Remington 1100’s that reside in the same safe beside their adopted, Italian sister. The twelve gauge 1100 there is a humble, hard working American that will shoot any shell I ask of him…he, yes he, if you saw him you’d know why I know he’s a he. As a poor abused bastard he was adopted by me from a pawnshop, brought back to life, and shot with regularity.
The 1100’s are gas operated which means they are heavier and softer shooting which in turn means you can waste hour after hour and shell after shell without hurting your shoulder. My fellow here shoots the 7/8 of an ounce reloads I manufacture for him just fine without protest unlike his new sister.
But the darling of the 1100’s is the equally robust, though somewhat sleeker, 28 gauge who has enamored me so much that I‘ve acquired two as I’m hoping the boy will come to love his own, as I love mine. She, yes she, consumes only ¾ of an ounce of shot for each shell she fires making her a sweetheart that pretty much shoots herself with me being there just to hold her.
When you step down in gauge it becomes not harder to break a target, or kill a bird, but somehow better. When you’re ready though, you reach for the .410. Mine is an over-under Browning since I long ago foolishly sold my 1100 in .410 bore as it’s correctly called. If she were called by gauge, she would be a not so sexy sounding 68 gauge.
She is not fickle by design, as she’ll receive any shell that will fit inside her chamber and send the miniscule ½ ounce of shot load out her muzzle. She’s mean enough to powder targets for you and gentle enough on you that you when you miss it’s completely your own fault. That’s her mystique, that when you do miss, your friends all nod and commiserate because she IS a .410.
Well, they all have their place in my heart; it’s just that right now, Little Miss Italia holds the apple of my eye even though she hates my pitiful offerings to her. She’ll get me to the store and I’m eager to do it for her so she better treat me right this spring when it’s just her and me and turkey or two.
So she's going to be an expensive date. She's going to want factory shells and my lust to feel her kick in my hands will make me plod off to the store for them just to make her happy. Like the first Christmas when I was really in love with an indifferent ingénue.
Having been built with an inertia engine to keep her chamber filled semi-automatically, she’s going to need the crisp, lively pop of a factory load to digest them properly. Also she’ll need to be fully stoked with 1 and 1/8 ounce loads of shot to perform her best for me.
Luckily for me, she's as light as a walking cane and that means she won't be all that fun to shoot very often at the skeet field as she'll ride me hard and leave me a little sore after just a few rounds. No she'll be in it for the hunt mainly and not the ground covering of empty shells for which skeet and the other clay games are known.
For that there’s the family of Remington 1100’s that reside in the same safe beside their adopted, Italian sister. The twelve gauge 1100 there is a humble, hard working American that will shoot any shell I ask of him…he, yes he, if you saw him you’d know why I know he’s a he. As a poor abused bastard he was adopted by me from a pawnshop, brought back to life, and shot with regularity.
The 1100’s are gas operated which means they are heavier and softer shooting which in turn means you can waste hour after hour and shell after shell without hurting your shoulder. My fellow here shoots the 7/8 of an ounce reloads I manufacture for him just fine without protest unlike his new sister.
But the darling of the 1100’s is the equally robust, though somewhat sleeker, 28 gauge who has enamored me so much that I‘ve acquired two as I’m hoping the boy will come to love his own, as I love mine. She, yes she, consumes only ¾ of an ounce of shot for each shell she fires making her a sweetheart that pretty much shoots herself with me being there just to hold her.
When you step down in gauge it becomes not harder to break a target, or kill a bird, but somehow better. When you’re ready though, you reach for the .410. Mine is an over-under Browning since I long ago foolishly sold my 1100 in .410 bore as it’s correctly called. If she were called by gauge, she would be a not so sexy sounding 68 gauge.
She is not fickle by design, as she’ll receive any shell that will fit inside her chamber and send the miniscule ½ ounce of shot load out her muzzle. She’s mean enough to powder targets for you and gentle enough on you that you when you miss it’s completely your own fault. That’s her mystique, that when you do miss, your friends all nod and commiserate because she IS a .410.
Well, they all have their place in my heart; it’s just that right now, Little Miss Italia holds the apple of my eye even though she hates my pitiful offerings to her. She’ll get me to the store and I’m eager to do it for her so she better treat me right this spring when it’s just her and me and turkey or two.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
Thoughts on Parenting
I read something that struck a chord in me...something that said perhaps we parents deserve admiration...do we? Well thanks for the sentiment, but my modesty or honesty forces me to respond.
I admit it, there's nothing too awful special about parenting...I say, if you have a well-mannered dog, then you'd be a good parent. 'Cause, let's face it, kids and dogs are the same thing, at least until the kid's three or four. Before your child reaches that age, then there's not all that much difference!! And yes, our first dogs got three names too. Sadly, they're dead...so are the first four cats...the rat...the hamster...the fish....the chia pets...that damn guinea pig/ biting devil-spawn won't die!
Hmm, where was I? Oh yeah, the only real difference is you can't lock your kids up in a crate when you go out to eat or something. Not legally anyway. But that's it...well, you wouldn't spay or neuter your kids either, and it goes without saying, (but I'm a-sayin' it) there's some kids that could use that; not mine of course.
Same rules apply to both, train 'em early, be consistent, and with a nod to the dog-whisperer...be pack leader. Amazing what you can do with a good, "Pshht!" and a poke to your dog or, like I'm saying, to your kids too!
By the time they're eight, they're a lot calmer and quieter...the dogs, but the kids have turned into little people....I only wish they could reach the pedals to drive me around. And I haven't finished a candy bar, or a soda, or a bowl of cereal since I've owned dogs or kids. Both always want a sample.
Well, i forgot what i really wanted to say. People without kids enjoy the freedom, and extra money, and full refrigerators, and clean carpets, and clean bathrooms, and no diapers (worst days ever--ugh...ever change a diaper hung-over?),and their stuff is right where they left it, and road trips to wherever whenever..and...damn, i am depressing myself.
I just had a need to breed, and so did Lisa, and seven fun-filled years of trying (for me at least, oh so fun), and one adoption later, we had one the old fashioned way! (we were the only parents in LeMaz/LaMaz class that aced diaper-changing. We laughed cause we knew the baby-dolls those poor parents-to-be were diapering wouldn't wiggle or pee in their face like the real McCoy would).
It was a selfish feeling/want that we fulfilled, and I'm glad we did (later I'll need their organs for transplant!)So I got my heir and a spare and we're fresh out of dogs, so we'll keep the kids. And if'n you want to borrow a couple of kids, call me.I'll get to the top of kilamanjaro/kilaminjaro/kila-whatever later after the kids are gone and I'm in my hoveround!
I admit it, there's nothing too awful special about parenting...I say, if you have a well-mannered dog, then you'd be a good parent. 'Cause, let's face it, kids and dogs are the same thing, at least until the kid's three or four. Before your child reaches that age, then there's not all that much difference!! And yes, our first dogs got three names too. Sadly, they're dead...so are the first four cats...the rat...the hamster...the fish....the chia pets...that damn guinea pig/ biting devil-spawn won't die!
Hmm, where was I? Oh yeah, the only real difference is you can't lock your kids up in a crate when you go out to eat or something. Not legally anyway. But that's it...well, you wouldn't spay or neuter your kids either, and it goes without saying, (but I'm a-sayin' it) there's some kids that could use that; not mine of course.
Same rules apply to both, train 'em early, be consistent, and with a nod to the dog-whisperer...be pack leader. Amazing what you can do with a good, "Pshht!" and a poke to your dog or, like I'm saying, to your kids too!
By the time they're eight, they're a lot calmer and quieter...the dogs, but the kids have turned into little people....I only wish they could reach the pedals to drive me around. And I haven't finished a candy bar, or a soda, or a bowl of cereal since I've owned dogs or kids. Both always want a sample.
Well, i forgot what i really wanted to say. People without kids enjoy the freedom, and extra money, and full refrigerators, and clean carpets, and clean bathrooms, and no diapers (worst days ever--ugh...ever change a diaper hung-over?),and their stuff is right where they left it, and road trips to wherever whenever..and...damn, i am depressing myself.
I just had a need to breed, and so did Lisa, and seven fun-filled years of trying (for me at least, oh so fun), and one adoption later, we had one the old fashioned way! (we were the only parents in LeMaz/LaMaz class that aced diaper-changing. We laughed cause we knew the baby-dolls those poor parents-to-be were diapering wouldn't wiggle or pee in their face like the real McCoy would).
It was a selfish feeling/want that we fulfilled, and I'm glad we did (later I'll need their organs for transplant!)So I got my heir and a spare and we're fresh out of dogs, so we'll keep the kids. And if'n you want to borrow a couple of kids, call me.I'll get to the top of kilamanjaro/kilaminjaro/kila-whatever later after the kids are gone and I'm in my hoveround!
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