Cain and the Horrible, Terrible, No Good, Very Bad Day

And the Lord said to Cain, unbeknown to the rest,
“Dear son, it’s the big guy, as if you couldn’t have guessed.
I just thought I’d tell you, it’s worthless you know,
Abel’s hands offer life, and yours have nothing to show.”

He continued, quite fiercely, while Cain listened in shock.
“I care nothing for veggies, but as for his flock,
I accept without question his offers of grace,
And in this contest of two, you receive last place.”

Well Cain became angry, as I imagine you would,
He was the doing the best that he very well could!
And according to scripture, the Lord said, “Chill out.”
“I don’t know what all of this shit is about.”

It’s reported to Cain that sin waits at his door,
“But you must fight it off, albeit a chore,”
Says the Lord who knows nothing of pain, guilt, or sin,
But lounges in his recliner, sipping a glass of gin.

Cain collected his thoughts, and collected his brother,
And set out to ruin the good times, just like mother.
“Follow me to the field,” said the wild-eyed, hunched Cain,
The Hitchcock-like ending, where young Abel was slain.

Well, God just about spilled his full glass of spirit,
For in the chain of command, he was the first to hear it.
And he parted the clouds, looking down to find Cain,
Washing his hands in a basin that had been filled with rain.

“How dare you!” he boomed, and the entire earth shook,
Or, at least that’s the way it happened in the book.
But Cain slowly turned, looking into God’s ray,
And gave him the finger, and went on with his day.

And the Oscar Goes To…

It’s Oscar season.  This is a season I wait for more anxiously than Christmas.  The best movies of the year, in competition.  But more important than the movies themselves are the actors involved.  Directors?  Forget about it.  It’s all about the leading males. 

So before they announce a winner for this year, I went about ranking the last 21 winners, from my least favorites, to the pinnacles of performance. 

21. Nicholas Cage – ‘Leaving Las Vegas’:
Cage is one of the worst actors in Hollywood, and I don’t care what anyone has to say about it.  He and Keanu Reeves together couldn’t act their way our of a paper bag.  He played a man trying to drink himself to death in this film, a premise I enjoy, but he is such a stone, it was worthless.  He’s related to Francis Ford Coppolla, which is the only reason he gets ANY roles.

20.  Adrian Brody – ‘The Pianist’:
It’s not that the performance was poor.  As a matter of fact, it was very fine.  However, one must consider his competition.  In winning this Oscar, he beat out DANIEL DAY-LEWIS, THE GREATEST ACTOR OF ALL TIME IN ONE OF HIS BEST PERFORMANCES FOR GANGS OF NEW YORK.  Plus, ‘The Pianist’ was boring.  Enough Holocaust for me.  Ahem…

19.  Roberto Benigni – ‘Life is Beautiful’
Again, the performance was not a bad one.  However, if you have seen Benigni in anything else, you would realize this wasn’t acting.  It was Benigni.  Plus, he beat Hanks, who was up for his 3^rd Oscar for ‘Saving Private Ryan,’ and Edward Norton for ‘American History X.’

18. Jack Nicholson – ‘As Good As It Gets’
Not only was this movie a complete bore, (a romantic comedy that lacks originality, or young, attractive, naked women,) but Jack Nicholson LITERALLY played Jack Nicholson.  An older man who picks up younger women, and always wears sunglasses.  However, the competition was weak, (a return for Peter Fonda, and Robert Duvall in something boring.)

17. Jamie Foxx – “Ray”
Thus begins the Oscar soft spot: disability.  Although Cage was technically disabled in ‘Leaving Las Vegas’, (alcoholism,) he very possibly might have been actually drunk while filming.  Playing Ray Charles, Foxx was impressive in his singing and acting, but generally biopics are too sentimental. (Still better than the sequel: ‘Walk the Line.’)

16. Denzel Washington – “Training Day”
It was deemed the year of the ‘black Oscars,’ and Denzel took top prize.  His performance was pretty good, no complaints there, but the movie itself was a fairly cookie cutter print.  Denzel rarely gives a bad performance, but I have liked him in other roles much more, and thought this one was pretty standard.  I was moderately shocked to see him snubbed last year for a nomination for ‘American Gangster.’

15.  Dustin Hoffman – “Rain Man”
I have never been a big fan of this movie.  I understand the message, and I thought Tom Cruise did a fine job as his brother, but Dustin Hoffman has done much, much better.  He already has an Oscar win for ‘Kramer vs. Kramer,’ (another movie that left a bad taste in my mouth,) and didn’t pick up the Oscar for what I feel was his best performance, as Ratso Rizzo in ‘Midnight Cowboy.’  The Oscars have a tendency to make up for past failings, (i.e. Scorsese for ‘The Departed’ after his 3 best films did not pick up the win, ‘Taxi Driver’, ‘Raging Bull’, and ‘Goodfellas’.)

14.  Jeremy Irons – “Reversal of Fortune”
Irons plays a husband charged with the murder of his wife in a very well-written film.  This, however, is the only film on this list which I have seen only once, but I can’t say I didn’t enjoy it.  Irons is a classically trained actor, but always tends to play such stiffs.  He is extremely talented, and completely deserving of ANY award he receives.

13. Al Pacino – “Scent of a Woman”
Pacino has given some fine performances.  From ‘The Godfather’ to ‘Serpico’, ‘Dog Day Afternoon’ to ‘The Devil’s Advocate’.  But ‘Scent of a Woman’ picked him up an Oscar, while providing the now trademark Al Pacino impression: “Hoohah!”  Ex-marine, now blind, helps a young man come of age while suffering from his own bout of severe depression.  Fine, fine.  He really didn’t deliver the amount of emotion I’m accustomed to, considering Pacino.

12. Tom Hanks – “Forrest Gump”
Scoffed at by many film critics, and deep thinkers, I happen to be a big fan of  this movie.  But how Tom Hanks was catapulted into stardom after a career in films like ‘The Money Pit,” and ‘Joe vs. the Volcano’ I’ll never know.  But he caught his big break from ‘Philadelphia’ and cashed in.  His acting was fine, (for a disabled character, giving you a lot of room for creativity.)

11.  Daniel Day-Lewis – “My Left Foot”
As Christy Brown, a real life palsy victim who has only the use of his left foot, Lewis put in one of the most demanding performances ever witnessed.  A dedicated method actor, Day-Lewis stayed in character on and off the set, and broke several of his ribs from being hunched over in a wheelchair for so long.  His performance was completely believable, but because his character lacked a lot of ability for dialogue, I lowered him on the list.  Because we all know Day-Lewis is the greatest actor of all time.

10. Tom Hanks – ‘Philadelphia’
Along with Day-Lewis, as the only actors featured twice on this list, Hanks first won for his role as a gay AIDS victim fighting his former law firm for terminating him.  It was a compelling film, Denzel Washington did a great job as his lawyer, and Hanks gave, in my opinion, his finest performance, (and a hell of a lot better than ‘You’ve Got Mail.’)  Fully deserving of the Oscar for this one.

9. Sean Penn – “Mystic River”
Mystic River is one of those movies I feel is severely overrated.  Tim Robbins picked up the best supporting Oscar for this film as well, (in a performance I thought was over the top.) Penn played his childhood friend who grows up to be a mob-boss, trying to find out who murdered his daughter.  He gave a very good conflicting performance, (even if I think he is a pompous ass.)  In current events news: (I believe Penn will win this year for ‘Milk’ although I am rooting for Mickey Rourke’s role in ‘The Wrestler.’)

8. Russell Crowe – “Gladiator”
He should have won for “The Insider.”  He should have won for “A Beautiful Mind.” But he didn’t.  Instead, he won for “Gladiator” which is another film that didn’t live up to the hype for me.  Crowe was very good as the lead, and convincing at that.  However, the two aforementioned films were all around much better pictures, and gave Crowe more room to expand his prowess as an actor.  Still a great job.

7.  Geoffrey Rush – “Shine”
Playing a former piano genius who has a mental breakdown in his youth, Rush provides a touching portrait of a man completely blissful in ignorance.  Although this is another role based on disability, Rush gives something to the character that few could: humbleness.  Rush is not traditionally a leading man, but more of a character actor, which serves him well for this.

6. Phillip Seymour Hoffman – “Capote”
Just like Rush before him, Hoffman was always a character actor.  He was great in two P.T. Anderson films, ‘Boogie Nights’ and ‘Magnolia,’ and has always given memorable performances in almost all his films, (i.e. ‘Cold Mountain.’) ‘Capote’ was a great tribute to Truman Capote, and Hoffman was nearly flawless.  More importantly, it has allowed Hoffman to take the reigns as a leading man, and a well-known figure.  (Nominated this year for ‘Doubt’.)

5. Anthony Hopkins – “Silence of the Lambs”
In a movie that lasted over two hours, Anthony Hopkins is present for less than thirty minutes of them.  As a matter of fact, he’s not even the bad guy.  He does, however, give an outstanding performance as the genius cannibal, Hannibal Lector.  He completely steals every scene from Jodie Foster, and provides a number of very memorable moments, including descriptions of cannibalism, incest, murder, and fine wine. 

4.  Forrest Whitaker – “The Last King of Scotland”
Someone made the argument to me once that Whitaker was not even the lead in this movie, and therefore did not deserve the award.  But as mentioned with our last winner, the amount of screen time does not dictate whether or not you are the center of attention.  Whitaker is magnificent as the former dictator of Uganda, Idi Amin.  It was a break I was happy to see Whitaker finally get, after seeing him play football players and thieves for too long.

3. Michael Douglass – “Wall Street”
This might be the finest portrayal of a realistic villain ever given.  As Wall Street power-player Gordon Gekko, Douglass is able to not only put a face on the corruption often associated with big-money firms, but also give it some balls.  Released in the hey-day of director Oliver Stone’s career, ‘Wall Street’ is a fantastic film with in-depth characters, and maybe the catch-phrase of the 1980’s: “Greed…is good.”

2. Daniel Day-Lewis – “There Will Be Blood”
I have a well known infatuation with Daniel Day-Lewis.  He is the greatest actor of all time, hands down, in my opinion.  The knowledge he brings to every role, and the dedication to his craft, are peerless.  As a matter of fact, as Daniel Plainview, he IS the movie.  P.T. Anderson rewrote the Upton Sinclair classic “Oil!” and basically tore it apart.  But in the process, he made a three-hour documentary about early 20^th century oil industry, with one of the finest performances of conflicted drama ever witnessed.  He is evil.  Or is he?  I don’t know.  What I do know is that if Daniel Day-Lewis is sporting a mustache in his role, it is going to be something to see.  Dammit.

1. Kevin Spacey – American Beauty
As much as I love Daniel, Spacey knocked this movie out of the park.  Playing a passive husband and father who finally breaks out of his shell, Spacey performs not only a dramatically poignant piece, but a comical one as well.   Kevin Spacey is one of the few actors I will almost always respect, regardless of pitfalls and poor decisions, because of two or three roles that blow most competition out of the water.  Between this and ‘The Usual Suspects,’ Spacey has made himself the go-to-guy for smarmy middle-aged men. 

There are really only three performances in this span that I believe could have, and should have, beaten the actual winner. 

3. Bill Murray – “Lost In Translation”
He lost to Sean Penn for Mystic River, but despite not having an actual storyline, Bill Murray was fantastic, and has continued to be, in his shot at a dramatic career.  I was not only impressed, but moved.
2. Woody Harrelson – “The People Vs. Larry Flint”
I love Geoffrey Rush in “Shine,” but Harrelson was tight and incredible as porno mogul Larry Flint.  Not to mention, this is the only thing Courtney Love ever touched that was worth a damn.
1. Daniel Day-Lewis – “Gangs of New York”
How this lost to…Adrian Brody…for the “Pianist” I will never know.  This portrayal was flawless.  Intense.  Beautiful.  Sharing a lead with Leonardo DiCaprio, you’d forget Leo was even in the movie.  But Day-Lewis was breathtaking as the gang leader Bill ‘The Butcher’ Cutting, and has been the basis for my entire appreciation for character acting.  The Academy should be ashamed.

And finally, this year’s nominees.

Brad Pitt – “The Curious Case of Benjamin Button”
Sean Penn – “Milk”
Frank Langella – “Frost/Nixon”
Richard Jenkins – “The Visitor”
Mickey Rourke – “The Wrestler”

I am rooting for Rourke, with a second place hope for Langella or Jenkins, two actors who have been great for a long time with little to show for it.  But inside my heart, and in light of the political season we just got out of, I think Penn will take it for Harvey Milk.

Watch the Oscars.  Please.

The United States Senate: Keeping it Real for Over 200 Years

Some of you may be aware that the United States, hell, the entire world it seems, is in a noticeable economic crisis.  The wealthy and needy alike are scrambling to make sure their savings are safe and they will be able to keep their homes, despite a growing number of lost jobs and a shaky housing market.  Not to mention the wars in both Iraq and Afghanistan, a wearisome Middle-east, and the transition of a new White House team.

So, to be blunt, why the HELL is Orrin Hatch perched on the Senate floor this morning bitching about the BCS system in college football?

Now, I have spent many sick days in high school, many vacation days in college, and many lonely weekday afternoons keeping track of our legislative branch.  I have sat through hours of House and Senate floor debate, and for the most part the United States Senate is considered the more prestigious branch, and the House is full of misfits. 

I have heard Congressmen propose legislation in honor of fallen C-level country singers.  I have heard Congressmen propose legislation in honor of dogs.  I have heard Congressmen propose legislation in honor of THEMSELVES, and their colleagues conspire together to agree that they are all fantastic representatives.

But today, I witnessed a nearly twenty minute speech by Senator Orrin Hatch, a Republican from Utah, that may have upset me more than anything I have heard in a while from an elected official.  He claimed his beloved Utah Utes, (who may possess the worst team nickname in all of sports,) get screwed over every year by the college BCS system, which he claims favors certain teams on a year to year basis.  And maybe he is right, but Senator Hatch, aside from my distain for your ethics and general hatred for your lack of enthusiasm for any subject, (this guy ran for President, friends,) by what means are you the leading prosecution against the BCS, and why?  And more importantly, why do I care?  May God, or whatever all-knowing deity the Mormons choose to sacrifice to, have mercy on your turtle-like soul, who I believe was also trying to escape during your presentation.

Senator Whitehouse from Rhode Island followed and put me back at ease, debating the cons of an economic bailout package for CEO’s.  Isn’t that sickening?  I am soothed by the banal debate of financial recovery bills?   

Following another piece of challenging debate by the senior Senator from Missouri, the Senate took a well deserved break, while clerks scurried across the floor, shuffling papers from one Senator to another.  C-SPAN chose to play a delightful concerto to accompany the entire escapade, and several times an intern in a green sweater scampered to the melody while crossing the chamber.

Orrin Hatch took this opportunity to leave.  And I hope he never comes back.

A Purple Apology

The great inventor, statesman, and philosopher Benjamin Franklin is well known for his theory, “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy wealthy and wise,” and generally I don’t abide to any of that old-timey crap.  But I’ve been living in the complete antithesis of that statement, and upon review, it has made this man sore, poor, and damn near unapproachable. 

I’ve been tying up some loose ends today, giving some books a glance, and perhaps feeling the burn of eternal white guilt.  The loose ends?  Irrelevant.  The books?  In good time.  But for the readers unfamiliar with the concept of ‘white guilt,’ I provide you a lesson you should take to heart.  There is a theory that white people harbor a subconscious element of sorrow for their heritage’s misdeeds of yore, (i.e. slavery, lynching, and low ratings for the NBA Finals.)  I admittedly feel this, from time to time, and end up watching BET for several hours a day.  Today I got lucky, no sermons or hip-hop, but instead “The Color Purple,” one of my favorite films. 

If you haven’t seen it, do so, it’s a star-studded cast.  Whoopi Goldberg plays lead, Oprah Winfrey is compelling, and Danny Glover makes amends for all that “Lethal Weapon” shit, playing a mean, black southern husband with a smile for each passing lady.  It’s much better than ‘Pride and Prejudice,” heartfelt and hurtful, and I feel a bit closer to what I’m attempting. 

And in a recurring theme, I felt sorry.  Not the kind of sorry you say to get out of trouble, neither.  A real sorry that hurts.  And along with Celie, I felt bad a few of my personal misdeeds.  Began to feel a bit like Danny Glover, and not “Gone Fishin’” Danny Glover, and certainly not “Angels in the Outfield” Danny Glover, but the same Danny Glover I just watched threaten to kill his wife while shaving.  I prefer “Raisin in the Sun” Danny Glover.

So to a few faceless victims, I lump all together, I give a few true apologies.

I often point them out, make them stories, make them public, but for the purpose of today, it’s much deeper than that. An abandoned pinky swear on a bus ride one day.  A forgotten engagement at a theater one spring.  The cold look I gave you when you asked for a favor.  These are things I feel sorry for, and the people will never know.  For in turn, they gave up on me, and I can not blame them.  But every once in a while, I reach out, and they forgot I had arms.

And, to be honest, it takes a witness of treachery to understand their own.  And I am a wonderful witness.

A Sandwich Maker : A Heart Breaker

The night seemed uneventful, so I made my way back home.  I have actually conceded to calling this place home, despite it’s dirty décor and it’s need for strict attention.  It’s “charm” now, just plain charm, and the best that I can do.  So the windows are all broken, and the walls are paper thin.  It’s that kind of intimacy with everything but my own four walls that makes the world go round. 

They allow me to hear nuggets such as this:

“John.  I can hear you doing laundry all day.  All night.  You don’t have that many clothes.  Why you do all the laundry?”

“Hey man, I found three bags of clothes just sitting on the sidewalk over on Broadway.   Just sitting there!  So, I’m washing them to take to the Salvation Army for my nieces, nephews, and little cousins, man.”

“Aren’t you sweetheart.   It’s funny.  You spend who knows how much money to do load after load, but you never have goddamn rent.  Where is the goddamn rent?”

“I told you man, fuckin’ Friday!   I will have it all by Friday.  Hey—I found a shirt in one of the bags that still has the tag on it, and the receipt stapled right on the collar.  That’s sixty bucks right there, dude.  I can have THAT for you by tomorrow.”

“You know, if Salvation Army want clothes bad enough, they will wash them.   That way, you just drop them off, you no waste anymore quarters in the machine, and you can pay me goddamn rent, no?  Don’t pretend like you are saint John.  I don’t care.  I just want the goddamn rent.”

“Friday dude. I promise.   I always get it, eventually.  I’m just trying to slide by.”

“Do what you gotta do.   Goddamn rent.”

John has a dog that tracks up and down the hallway outside my room.  I’ve only seen his silhouette outside the back door, smoking a cigarette, and singing some Bob Dylan tune that has escaped my mind.  “Subterranean Homesick Blues” might fit his state of mind, but I feel like “Rolling Stone” was what he was getting at. He wears heavy boots I can hear rumble as he passes, and his voice is very low, like a whiskey-torn steelworker.  He sounds just like a giant, but he leaves me alone.

Outside of my cracked windows, I hear cackles from the yard. They are cheering from what I hear, and I peek behind the blinds.  Seven or eight little white guys crowded round a young blonde girl. Her shirt is pulled up high, and her tits are on display.  The neighbors clash their beers and laugh, and I can’t help but smile myself.  I let the blind smack against the window, and return to my bed. 

I think a little bit about this place.  About John.  About Mushin, my landlord.  About the dirty rebel flags that are draped across the upper story windows, and why anyone would frame them in bright red Christmas lights.  About the three or four dreadlocked figures I see pile into a faded Chrysler van almost every single day.  Where are they going?  And why would they ever want to leave a little scenic resort like this? 

They remind me of a girl that works at a dining hall here in Columbia.  My friends say they don’t get it, and I don’t get it either.   She has short, straight, orange-dyed hair that she wears underneath a blue bandana.  Her eyes are a pale green that never seem quite all there, and judging by her demeanor, I imagine she never is.  Stoned out of her mind—functioning on basic motor skills.  Dickie pants that sag past her ass, and a workwear issued shirt.  Each wrist is tattooed with something I don’t understand, and she probably doesn’t either.  She is thin, she is fragile, and her fingers are too long for her light and boney hands. 

“Do you still have muenster cheese?” I innocently ask, looking behind her as opposed to into her stale eyes.  She looks both ways and pouts her lips, leaning up against the glass.

“Baby, I have all the cheeses…”

And with that my heart sinks.  That’s really all it takes.  She stole my concentration in just two seconds flat, with a sultry little pose and a sassy line about dairy products.  But the sandwich has been finished, and the next guy waits in line.  He doesn’t see what I see, he sees meat and cheese and bread, and doesn’t care to even taste the working fingers of the stunner dressed in black.  And she couldn’t care less about me, nor should I expect her to.  She’s just another muse that I encase with wonder.  She’s nothing—yet, she’s beautiful.

A simple flaw of mine: easy infatuation.  Every sandwich is now attached to her, and I’ll never learn her name.  But I’ll remember those six words, perhaps forever, if not longer.  These hippie girls in hand-knit scarves don’t hold a torch to her.  Not even whiskey John. 

But if she’s out there somewhere, she’s invited over.  I think she’d like it here.

Living Alone and Idumea

“You know, all of the electrical outlets in here are upside down.”
“Mayibeh they are reeight seed oop, and—well, ju are oopside doon.”

I imagine he is right.  Although, I have to say, I have been in many establishments in my time on earth and have never seen a whole room furnished with outlets quite like these.  Exposed wires, dangling covers, and arranged in all kinds of dizzying patterns.  But it doesn’t dismiss the idea that I am upside down.

The entire building is dormant until around eleven at night, and suddenly everyone is up.  Someone punches the outside of my wall several times as he passes, and a neighbor dumps his laundry into the machines and slams the lids.  Someone here has a dog.  It’s nails tap against the outside hall and his leash jangles back and forth across his neck before barreling out the back door. 

“Danny Boy! The pipes –THOSE PIPES – are calling!  From blame to frames! And down a mountain—SLIDE.”

“Wiat are ju yielling about?”

“Shut the FUCK up.  The pipes. Are calling!”

He also stumbled away, down a set of stairs I think, into one of the lower apartments.  The landlord retreated back into his room, across the hall from my own, not to be heard from again for the night.  Someone upstairs is yelling about global warming, but seems to be getting little reception.  I fill my ears with a new John Frusciante album, and lay back on my bed.

Four shots.  Five.  Six.  Seven.  It couldn’t be a gun, not nearly loud enough.  But distinctly loud enough that I could hear through a muffling set of headphones.  I start running gangster movies through my head with suburban homes being bludgeoned with bulletholes.  What do they always do inside?  They get down on the floor, or hide in a bathtub.  I considered it.  Two more shots, much closer to my windows.  I chalk it up to firecrackers, and flip my phones back to full mast. 

I wake up to barking.  Loud enough that I could assume it was in my very own room. I look over at the clock radio and see it’s a little past five.  I fell asleep with my music playing and a lamp still on.  I lie back down and listen to the dog and his owner in a tug of war for authority.  Eventually the owner wins, confirmed by a hollow whimper, and the noises stop.

I look up at the ceiling, and a small drop of light leaks from the window.  It leaves a little design above my bed.  A woman pushing a shopping cart.  No, the head of a duck, with it’s mouth open.  No, no—A hand holding a spoon inside of a cereal bowl.  That could possibly be it. 

It’s the reaper.  The long black robe that hangs past his feet, covering sickly toes and ankles.  His head turned to the side, as though looking out my very window, distracted by the same fireworks I had heard.   But his right arms hangs sadly at his side, holding the trademark to his business: the handsome sickle whose curved blade ends with a point.  Unenthused, he waits for me to fall asleep.  There is no more debate inside my mind.  There is no old hag leaned over a shopping cart above my bed.  He’s the one that lingers.

A comforting thought to send me to dreamland.  A woman downstairs screams, but I barely notice.  The spirit of Gonzo hangs above my bed like a dreamcatcher of sorts, but the cloaked figure on my ceiling is no mere thought.  I roll over to press play on my laptop, the shuffle now in effect.

And am I born to die?
And lay this body down?
And as my trembling spirits fly
Into a world unknown

 A land of deeper shade
Unpierced by human thought
The dreary region of the dead
Where all things are forgot

 Soon as from earth I go
What will become of me?
Eternal happiness or woe
Must then my fortune be

 Waked by the trumpet’s sound
I from my grave shall rise
And see the Judge with glory crowned
And see the flaming skies.

Bonnie plucks at a poorly tuned guitar, the Appalachian sound flooding the Tibet production.  Idumea.  A relaxed hymn.  My feet burn under the blankets, and I look up once again at the ceiling.  His patience remains impressive.  The sun begins to rise, but my eyelids begin to flutter.

Idumea.  A Relaxed hymn. 

Thinking While Tossed: Not Encouraged.

There are few better ways to relieve the human body of it’s stress and sensitivity than a few hours on an open road.  A road that has no cops, no transients, and no possible stops on the way.  One can’t drink it off, or eliminate it through women.  Especially women.  You just have to drive, and drive fast, to beat the demons that are following you.  Bob Dylan alone can’t chase them off.  Bruce Springsteen might have a decent chance.

I don’t smoke, but sometimes I wish I did.  Sometimes I wish I had the long, unfiltered cigarette to dangle out of my mouth.  People often say that cigarettes are some kind of compensation for homosexual tendencies.  Those people don’t know what the hell they are talking about.  I have yet to meet a homosexual who smoked a cigarette.  If they needed something to smoke, they knew where to find it, because few people would turn it down on any precedent.

It’s a common thought that people with mustaches are untrustworthy, if not completely vile.  They are likened to rapists, molesters, and the like.  However, it is of my humble opinion that if you have the brass to sport a mustache, you have very little to hide.  The mustachioed would be smarter than to draw attention to themselves through the hair on their upper lip.

People who drink are drinking for a reason.  Likewise with the drug-addled.  There is rarely a spontaneous user, in any degree of the term, and if there is one they are lying.  People content with Jesus are content with themselves.  It’s odd that they are the rarities to drugs and alcohol. 

It’s a sad instance when a girl reminds you of another girl.  It ruins the time you’ve had with the former, and taints the time you had with the latter.  You begin to question why the connection was made, including: is it because the girl you’re with reminds you of how important it is to care, or rather whether your previous experiences were poor enough to write off.  You wake up and don’t quite know.

The term ‘Nazi’ is over-used and underappreciated.  We use it to describe presidents and congressmen, and take away from the importance of it’s origin.  Hitler was a Nazi.  I think that’s fair enough to say.  Despite the complaints of a well meaning society, I believe few have the merits of a Jew-killing swine.

Sometimes a suit alone can make a man more important than he is.  No one questions the qualifications of an individual at a funeral.  No one calls that fellow out.  Instead, as long as the suit is clean, every man is equal at a ceremony of death, if not raised above, to a level of nirvana.  Funerals are sad events, but no less a lie than the average political fund-raiser. 

Jesus could have ran. I don’t know what exactly the charges were, because I’m not a theologian, but in all instances considered, he could have ran.  I would have.

Workers and Workists: A Consideration

It comes as a sobering thought, to me at least, that the big bad world is looming ever closer.  Every day in college, every moment at work, and every application filed is one step towards moving out into the “real world,” which since the day we were children has been described as “rough,” “tough,” and “filled with hookers yielding slimy, purple tentacles.”  Ahem.  Some had had it harder than others.

I’ve talked to several of my friends back home, who unlike my college friends for the most part, have yet to decide what they want to do in life.  So I began to think about careers, suggestions for some of my former classmates, and the like.  But as I tossed and turned in bed last night, a much more trivial thought came to mind: How a profession ends, in suffix, creates a whole different perception of that career.  Well, for me at least.

I understand some of you may have slept through English class in highschool, and missed the general concepts of prefixes and suffixes.  I don’t particularly blame you.  The point is, the last few letters of words constitute a suffix, at times, such as –dom,  -ity, or –ment.  However, in the workforce, two suffixes tend to dominate most options: -er/-or, or –ist.  Here is where my point begins. 

I tend to have a great respect for careers in the –er category.  Doctors, lawyers, police officers.  A director, a professor, an actor. Most of them contain a truly masculine quality to their name, perhaps through pure simplicity.  There’s no need for a fancy ending.  The –er is simply a description for “one who does this,” which with the godawful help of Latin and all of it’s bullshit, sometimes gets lost through translation.  A doctor is still technically someone who “docs,” thanks to medieval slang and a number of other things none of you need to know. 

Social commentary and a skewed, yet readable history lesson of linguistics?  Could you ever ask for more?

The second category is the –ists.  Biologist, chemist, geologist, and a number of other (useless) professions under the simple cover of “scientists.”  If you play an instrument, you tend to be saxophonist, violinist, percussionist, guitarist.  (Keep in mind that if you are in a rock band, you are simply a “guitar player,” or a “drummer.”  No need for high-brow terms.)  Also covered by this list are the overused and mythical careers of psychology and psychiatry, both –ists, and both completely fake professions.  Even the path I currently tread, the one of the journalist, is filled with pinky finger punditry, and can easily ruffle the feathers.  Is anyone catching my drift?  I don’t imagine so.

It made so much sense to me in the wee hours of the night.  Still makes sense as I watch Mythbusters.  They have the noble career of busting myths, can’t you see?  To destroy the misconceptions of Hollywood presentation. They aren’t mythbustists.  That would make them ridiculous elitists, with hemp tennis shoes and underground homes.  Do any of you see yourselves as ritzy enough to comply with an –ist profession?  “Christ” perhaps?  Bastards…

I suppose we can all be content with whatever choices we make for life, as long as we end up happy doing what we do.  And as long as we don’t end up with an –ian career.  Politicians, theologians, and custodians are all frightening lives to lead.

To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before

Some of you may be familiar with a few of my previous female interests.  Hell, some of you might be more familiar than I ever was.  None have yet to last, mostly due to my personality and attitudes, and I can’t claim to be drenched in sorrow nor overwhelmed with joy.  The world happens fast, and I used to believe it happened faster to me than anyone else, but I think I’ve come to terms with the truth: I’m just a bit slower than everyone else. 

There’s a little-appreciated 1996 film called “Beautiful Girls” which has given me more food for thought than perhaps any other film I’ve seen.   One character provides a quote that sounds almost deranged at first interpretation, but upon further inspection into my own life, has taken affect:

“A beautiful girl can make you dizzy, like you’ve been drinking Jack and Coke all morning. She can make you feel high full of the single greatest commodity known to man – promise. Promise of a better day. Promise of a greater hope. Promise of a new tomorrow. This particular aura can be found in the gait of a beautiful girl. In her smile, in her soul, the way she makes every rotten little thing about life seem like it’s going to be okay. The supermodels, Willy? That’s all they are. Bottled promise…”

Pay no attention to the fact that this monologue was in defense of a room filled with nudie magazines, swimsuit calendars, and supermodel posters.  That is not important.  What is important is this: that promise of hope?  I witness it every day, and live by a similar creed. 

So, I pay homage not to the girls that I have had, almost had, or anything close.  Instead I turn my attention to the beautiful girls that have fueled my continuation in life up to this point.   Three specific ones, to be exact.  Each was special in her own way, and each still finds a way to haunt me in another. 

To the girl I spent half of my life avoiding through school, and then dreading when I didn’t.  The bashful, awkward chats that never seemed to go anywhere, and the constant day-to-day heartbreak that accompanies such feelings.  I have a shoebox full of letters I intended to deliver, or mail at the very least, that remain underneath my bed.  Most likely never to be seen again, until I die and some snot-nosed bastard rifles through them like candy.  Some are just fond memories of your long, dark hair, and others are casual appreciations for you being alive.  I’ve considered you an angel since you were just a stick with hair, and that thought will most likely never die. 

To the girl I hardly know, but saw for several years, and dabbled in conversation, sometimes eloquent, more often not.  To this day you break my heart, unintentionally of course, by just narrowly missing me at every chance you can.  And by staying with a “man” who makes my faults seem like virtues.  Every once in a while I catch a smile from you at work, but I’m just passing by.  You have intelligence and tact, confidence and fun, and a tiny little birthmark that makes your smile a little better.  I saw you tonight in fact, but decided to fiddle with my cell phone instead of risk eye contact.  Regret number forty-three of the day.

And finally, to the girl who I shared class with first semester.  Your name, in fact, escapes me, but it hardly makes a difference.  I’ll never see you again, which may be even better.  I can make you into myth, even better than you are.  For all I know you’ve slaughtered dozens, and I may even like it.  My remarkable absences were rivaled only by your dependable lateness, but always in fashion, with those fine yellow flats.  Your hair was nice, your nose was unique, and your height was just awkward enough that I like to watch you walk.  I can say such creepy things when I am certain to never cross paths again with my current hollow muse.  

To all the girls I’ve loved before.  Because my definitions now run with as low of expectations as everything else in my life.  To love is to be willing to give up time in my day to consider.  To consider you.  To consider how your life is going, and why you are so stunning.  To consider you as more than a person, but as a priceless work of art.

Some call that “pussy on a pedestal.”  I call those people assholes.  They call me sissypants.  I call myself romantic.  No one ever calls me. Period.

But I call each of those girls Beautiful.  As beautiful as any I have seen.  They can make you dizzy, Willy.  Like waking up in someone else’s kitchen covered in vomit.  That particular aura can only be found in the gait of a beautiful girl. 

A beautiful girl.  A wandering muse. A leaky bottle of promise.

To all the girls I’ve loved before.    

The Death of an Artist! The Rise of a Saint!

I find it strange, if not downright peculiar, that within the same small timeframe that I decide to give up on the arena of short stories and fiction that such a wave of it would come at me.  Friends have begun to occupy themselves with the matters of creation, the majority of which being very good, and I couldn’t be happier to see it.  But I have had some soul searching to do.

            And what better place to do it than facedown on the uncomfortable metal floor of ’95 Wrangler too small for my growing frame, (and yet again on further inspection, it sadly continues to grow.)  Realizations had to be assessed!  The mind must be probed–and picked!  No more lies for the sake of artistry! 

            I don’t even read fiction.  I mean, I read fiction, present tense and past, but I don’t particularly enjoy fiction–in comparison to the alternatives.  And the fiction I do read is almost exclusively based on true events, as though anyone cares to hear me babble about my tastes.  Bottom line: the better stories are the ones of truth.  The better lines come from thoughts you’ve felt.  The better character is almost always you, because unlike your typical sociopath, you know every inch of detail.

            And perhaps that is what has scared me out of fiction, and the gory shockers that seem to accompany my perception of it.  The characters were almost always me, for better or for worse, in one way or another.  My favorite lines are the ones I’ve thought: the beauty of a dangling cigarette, etc., etc..  But the knives to the throat, the senseless murder, and the trashing of common etiquette were for the reader.  For you.  Because I venture to believe at this point in my essay, I’ve lost half the readership I would normally have for my slasher-pulp scribblings.

            So why turn to poetry and prose, my attempts at the former even worse than my travesties of the latter.  (One can only rhyme “you” so many times before the inevitable question arises: Who the hell am I talking to?)  Fear of the reader. So it must be set aside.  Responsibility must be taken for the words I put in print, and I am willing to accept this responsibility.   When Hemmingway put a female character into his works, I don’t believe he was prepared for the years of dissection it would entail as to whom she REALLY was, and what real life effects she had on the author.  I’d rather surpass those silly sentiments and just tell you how it is. 

Who knows if you care.

            But when I found myself in a dusty chair at the public library thumbing through the grumpy essays of Andy Rooney, (ask your parents,) I not only realized that I was middle-aged and arthritic, but that I appreciate the realities of life more than the masks of flamboyant fiction.  I have real things to say.  Believe it or not, some of you used to read them, (the deleted catalogue of Xanga entries haunts me to this day,) and I have faith I can attract again.

For those who are writing, keep writing.  For those who are not: start.  But I’m down a new path just as desolate as the old, but for a far better reason: Why not?