There is a place on distant shore where purity and mayhem mingle.
Purity says "its Christmastime" and mayhem, "Who's Kris Kringle"
They dance their dance through the days laughing and then crying,
but I engaged them anyway, losing assured - yet still trying.
Purity is the pure white steed, the mythical unicorn
and mayhem is her leather chaps, double stitched and well adorned
I happened upon them both one day, whilst one was wearing the other
I was traveling far away, taking danishes to my mother
At first they seemed a happy lot, and so I accepted their offer
To ride the canyons, and the lane, and their path untold
Purity and I rode together, singing and discussing philosophy,
through the meadows and mountian pass ours was a sweet soliloquy
Purity is all good things - she is peacefulness and empathy. She is candle light, fine red wine, dry feet in the pouring rain. She is diamonds, and reading, and aloe vera to take away the pain. She is sickless winters, she is flatless tires, she is the Beach Boy's Kokomo - she is your favorite jeans, and indoor plumbing, and a clean rest room when you've really got to go.
She and I were meant together, like my sister if a unicorn could be
and yet the chaps they remained and they were bent on duty
The chaps - full of sorrow, full of mischief, and full of ruckus
love to throw us off and offer truffles
Mayhem loves pollution and synthetics, it loves obesity and electronics
it likes elevators and acid rain and the facade that is the Muppets
Mayhem is the author of, all that shouldn't be - the IPAD, and Walmart, and almost all of cable TV. Mayhem revels in pairless socks, in traffic jams, and disasters. It stubs your toes, it breaks your bones, it makes you fight at Fuddruckers. It is unpleasantness twenty fold - it is your dirty dishes.
The black leather chaps always linger, trying to slow purity down
She and I ride through the peaks and pure white snow, searching for the crown
But mayhem only leads us to, the dark and dank slippery places,
try as we may, he always seems, to be right there in our faces.
And so and so... we'll fight today, we purity and mayhem,
we'll whisper to you as you go
and
then
we
know
you'll
listen.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
Monday, February 21, 2011
Proper Closet Construction
I've got a buddy of mine that is redoing his closet. I've redone some closets in my day and I have some thoughts that I'd like to share about closest remodeling and renovation.
The first is to not do it. Redoing a closet is like - on your first day of skiing - strapping on a pair of sticks, going to the top, and "making" your way to the bottom. In your mind you heard race cars. You heard fighter jets. You could hear footloose. Kevin Bacon is older now but still looks great... and so will I.
But we could only hear the screaming. We saw your splayed limbs. We saw small children dance skiing past you. We saw the elderly gracefully and slowly snowshoeing beyond you. And you had said "take me to the top". Take me to the top you said. Where is the beach, and the boom box, and the roller skates you said... too late.
Well friends closet remodeling is like this. You think that it will be great. You say to yourself, "This is what we've been waiting for isn't it? This is what we worked so hard for. This is why I helped to organize the honor society induction ceremony even though I had no shot at ever making it into the honor society but wanted to write it on my college application to suggest that I had rubbed elbows with the intellectually elite. This is why we've been driving this crappy car. This is why we've been clipping coupons, playing the lotto, reading to the blind, siphoning the neighbors gas, hand making pinatas".
But once that closet is all done do you want to know what happens? I'll tell you what happens. You start to buy things. You doubled the space you had so you have to fill up the space. And it isn't with a bunch of junk. Its with pants that are too tight and fashionable. Its with shoes from Sweden and scarfs you bought on your trip to Paris. Its with your kids college money and your dreams of a comfortable retirement. All for this new closet.
And no one tells you that the kids will hang from the bars. That they'll dig in your sock drawer. That you'll never have any privacy again. That the rest of your life becomes managing a slow decline of you metal capacity, and virility, and hope. You might as well head off to the bread maker but instead of plump morsels of nutrition... you only end up with loaves of hate.
So my friends. The best type of closet construction is none. None of this. None at all.
The first is to not do it. Redoing a closet is like - on your first day of skiing - strapping on a pair of sticks, going to the top, and "making" your way to the bottom. In your mind you heard race cars. You heard fighter jets. You could hear footloose. Kevin Bacon is older now but still looks great... and so will I.
But we could only hear the screaming. We saw your splayed limbs. We saw small children dance skiing past you. We saw the elderly gracefully and slowly snowshoeing beyond you. And you had said "take me to the top". Take me to the top you said. Where is the beach, and the boom box, and the roller skates you said... too late.
Well friends closet remodeling is like this. You think that it will be great. You say to yourself, "This is what we've been waiting for isn't it? This is what we worked so hard for. This is why I helped to organize the honor society induction ceremony even though I had no shot at ever making it into the honor society but wanted to write it on my college application to suggest that I had rubbed elbows with the intellectually elite. This is why we've been driving this crappy car. This is why we've been clipping coupons, playing the lotto, reading to the blind, siphoning the neighbors gas, hand making pinatas".
But once that closet is all done do you want to know what happens? I'll tell you what happens. You start to buy things. You doubled the space you had so you have to fill up the space. And it isn't with a bunch of junk. Its with pants that are too tight and fashionable. Its with shoes from Sweden and scarfs you bought on your trip to Paris. Its with your kids college money and your dreams of a comfortable retirement. All for this new closet.
And no one tells you that the kids will hang from the bars. That they'll dig in your sock drawer. That you'll never have any privacy again. That the rest of your life becomes managing a slow decline of you metal capacity, and virility, and hope. You might as well head off to the bread maker but instead of plump morsels of nutrition... you only end up with loaves of hate.
So my friends. The best type of closet construction is none. None of this. None at all.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Birth
Today is the day of my birth.
Don't worry, this isn't some sort of veiled attempt to prod others into free meals or the like. It is a chance to be reborn... so to speak.
When I was in early college I made a rather lame attempt to start a Christian speed metal band called, "The Metaphorical Womb Escape". The band never got off the ground. All I brought to the table were my rather snug trousers, a tambourine, and the greatest Christian speed metal band name of all time.
And where does one conjure up such an inspired name you ask? Well the answer is simple. I, unlike so many others, can recount the details of my own birth. When you can recall the exact feeling and texture of your own issuance - band names become easy. (I have a list of 100 band names that rhyme with daffodil.) I have many times told this birth story to friends and family but each time it seems too powerful a thing for many of them. So, for the sake of this venue, I'll describe it this way:
Birth to me was like the scene in the Wizard of Oz when Dorthy steps out of the dark, lifeless, gray, confines of her recently twister transported home place into the warmth and light and color of Oz. But in reverse. For me the uterus was lined with happiness, convenience, food and drink a plenty. In there... for that time... I was all of the members of the lollipop guild... and the mayor... and Glinda.
But we can't live there forever can we. We can't stay. And that is ok. Birth is equal to growth - literally and figuratively. This is why birth days are so very important. The birthday is a celebration of our lives and also the celebration of possibilities. It is for this reason, every year on the day of my birth, I participate in my own self induced "womb escape".
I perform the womb escape because it draws me closer to the possibilities that lay before me. To grapple with mortality.
So here's what I do:
1. Put on tight fitting jogging costume.
2. Take out all the seats of the minivan.
3. Turn on the van and all heat settings on high.
4. Gather sleeping bag and 50' of fire hose.
5. Fill van up with empty card board boxes and stuffed animals.
6. Wrap myself with fire hose.
7. Put sleeping bag into van - underneath boxes and animals.
8. Climb into sleeping bag, close van door using bit of twine, and tape bag shut from inside
9. Wait until it feels right... then escape.
This process often takes 2-5 hours... which is similar to the time an actual birth takes. One reason that is takes so long is that I use a high end sleeping bag. Another is that I'm not allowed to exit the taped end.
Here is the point. This womb escape is my way of keeping it together. It is my way of remembering the possibilities of this life. For some people birthdays are sad... for me... they are full.
Don't worry, this isn't some sort of veiled attempt to prod others into free meals or the like. It is a chance to be reborn... so to speak.
When I was in early college I made a rather lame attempt to start a Christian speed metal band called, "The Metaphorical Womb Escape". The band never got off the ground. All I brought to the table were my rather snug trousers, a tambourine, and the greatest Christian speed metal band name of all time.
And where does one conjure up such an inspired name you ask? Well the answer is simple. I, unlike so many others, can recount the details of my own birth. When you can recall the exact feeling and texture of your own issuance - band names become easy. (I have a list of 100 band names that rhyme with daffodil.) I have many times told this birth story to friends and family but each time it seems too powerful a thing for many of them. So, for the sake of this venue, I'll describe it this way:
Birth to me was like the scene in the Wizard of Oz when Dorthy steps out of the dark, lifeless, gray, confines of her recently twister transported home place into the warmth and light and color of Oz. But in reverse. For me the uterus was lined with happiness, convenience, food and drink a plenty. In there... for that time... I was all of the members of the lollipop guild... and the mayor... and Glinda.
But we can't live there forever can we. We can't stay. And that is ok. Birth is equal to growth - literally and figuratively. This is why birth days are so very important. The birthday is a celebration of our lives and also the celebration of possibilities. It is for this reason, every year on the day of my birth, I participate in my own self induced "womb escape".
I perform the womb escape because it draws me closer to the possibilities that lay before me. To grapple with mortality.
So here's what I do:
1. Put on tight fitting jogging costume.
2. Take out all the seats of the minivan.
3. Turn on the van and all heat settings on high.
4. Gather sleeping bag and 50' of fire hose.
5. Fill van up with empty card board boxes and stuffed animals.
6. Wrap myself with fire hose.
7. Put sleeping bag into van - underneath boxes and animals.
8. Climb into sleeping bag, close van door using bit of twine, and tape bag shut from inside
9. Wait until it feels right... then escape.
This process often takes 2-5 hours... which is similar to the time an actual birth takes. One reason that is takes so long is that I use a high end sleeping bag. Another is that I'm not allowed to exit the taped end.
Here is the point. This womb escape is my way of keeping it together. It is my way of remembering the possibilities of this life. For some people birthdays are sad... for me... they are full.
Tuesday, February 15, 2011
Acoustic Harmagony
Sound is sensuality - in the sensualist way. All of us have a sound that drives a crazy... for the good or for the bad. Today I've selected a sound that to me is unreproducible.
Perhaps your sound is:
Patton's tanks
Old Faithful
The gentle breathing of a new born
Windsurfing
Here is mine:
There is one sound that in particular is universally exquisite and is without rival. It is the sounding of ram horns before battle and the metallic butteriness of chain mail in the dark. It is the voice of a lover from a distant hilltop and a revolutionaries call-to-arms. It is all of these and more.
It is the THA-WHAC-TIC you hear during the chopping of the kertain. The tough protein we find at the ends of our fingers and toes. After the chants of the personal health revolution have faded and the hygienic guillotine has dropped we ear its echo.
The distinctive and unmistakable clipping of toenails.
I am not aware of any other sound that can replicate the feeling that this sound represents. The feeling of leaving the past behind. The feeling of lightness. It is chalkboard tranquility. It is unmolested scabs. It is a scratch less back rub.
I have recorded this sound with sophisticated equipment and instruments. I have spent a lifetime studying its idiosyncrasies and judging its effects. I have sped the sound up - and heard light. I have slowed it down - and heard the angels.
What is your sound? Where does it take you?
Perhaps your sound is:
Patton's tanks
Old Faithful
The gentle breathing of a new born
Windsurfing
Here is mine:
There is one sound that in particular is universally exquisite and is without rival. It is the sounding of ram horns before battle and the metallic butteriness of chain mail in the dark. It is the voice of a lover from a distant hilltop and a revolutionaries call-to-arms. It is all of these and more.
It is the THA-WHAC-TIC you hear during the chopping of the kertain. The tough protein we find at the ends of our fingers and toes. After the chants of the personal health revolution have faded and the hygienic guillotine has dropped we ear its echo.
The distinctive and unmistakable clipping of toenails.
I am not aware of any other sound that can replicate the feeling that this sound represents. The feeling of leaving the past behind. The feeling of lightness. It is chalkboard tranquility. It is unmolested scabs. It is a scratch less back rub.
I have recorded this sound with sophisticated equipment and instruments. I have spent a lifetime studying its idiosyncrasies and judging its effects. I have sped the sound up - and heard light. I have slowed it down - and heard the angels.
What is your sound? Where does it take you?
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Love Confessional
I have had my wife fooled.
For 13 years hidden the truth.
I've pulled the wool over her eyes and danced a jig in the dark.
It has been mine alone, burden and curse,
but now,
today,
revealed.
That I am...
obsessively
literally
figuratively
physically
emotionally
psychotically
hypnotically
symmetrically
stratospherically
In love with her.
It isn't healthy really. For a lot of reasons.
Sure she knows that I love her. I tell her. We got married didn't we? We've got these kids... don't we? I bathe pretty much on a daily basis? And feed the dog. And. And. And.
But she doesn't really know. The way she handled a difficult situation recently brought tears to my eyes... I was so proud. She is my best friend. She has all of my heart.
Goldilocks and Rapunzel once got into a fight over her hair. It is silky and smells like honey.
She is a really good wrestler. One time she kicked me in the face - which hurt. But which I also deeply appreciated from a wrestling stand point.
She has a wonderful laugh. I can hear her laughing even when we're not together. It comes easily and it suits her. She also has very nice teeth so when she is laughing I feel like Tom Sawyer must have felt so many years ago... staring at those gleaming white pickets... thinking about my wife's incisors.
I have never met anyone that looks they way she does after just waking up. Most people look like they were in a fight. I look drugged. She looks like a rainbow. She looks like a gazelle on the Serengeti.
Her feet are nearly perfect. They are shapely and small. Unfortunately they are usually cold, which I attribute to not wearing socks. I like to buy her shoes. These feet are about four sizes too small for her height and but only seem right. If William Shakespeare had needed a nonverbal way of communicating Romeo's love for Juliet he would have used my wife's feet... but, as it turns out, the words were enough.
And so there you have it. The veil has been lifted.
This of course is just a taste, a glimpse, a hint at the depths of my love. It is but a hollow attempt to express the mysterious. But for this mortal... with these few words... it will do.
For 13 years hidden the truth.
I've pulled the wool over her eyes and danced a jig in the dark.
It has been mine alone, burden and curse,
but now,
today,
revealed.
That I am...
obsessively
literally
figuratively
physically
emotionally
psychotically
hypnotically
symmetrically
stratospherically
In love with her.
It isn't healthy really. For a lot of reasons.
Sure she knows that I love her. I tell her. We got married didn't we? We've got these kids... don't we? I bathe pretty much on a daily basis? And feed the dog. And. And. And.
But she doesn't really know. The way she handled a difficult situation recently brought tears to my eyes... I was so proud. She is my best friend. She has all of my heart.
Goldilocks and Rapunzel once got into a fight over her hair. It is silky and smells like honey.
She is a really good wrestler. One time she kicked me in the face - which hurt. But which I also deeply appreciated from a wrestling stand point.
She has a wonderful laugh. I can hear her laughing even when we're not together. It comes easily and it suits her. She also has very nice teeth so when she is laughing I feel like Tom Sawyer must have felt so many years ago... staring at those gleaming white pickets... thinking about my wife's incisors.
I have never met anyone that looks they way she does after just waking up. Most people look like they were in a fight. I look drugged. She looks like a rainbow. She looks like a gazelle on the Serengeti.
Her feet are nearly perfect. They are shapely and small. Unfortunately they are usually cold, which I attribute to not wearing socks. I like to buy her shoes. These feet are about four sizes too small for her height and but only seem right. If William Shakespeare had needed a nonverbal way of communicating Romeo's love for Juliet he would have used my wife's feet... but, as it turns out, the words were enough.
And so there you have it. The veil has been lifted.
This of course is just a taste, a glimpse, a hint at the depths of my love. It is but a hollow attempt to express the mysterious. But for this mortal... with these few words... it will do.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
The Talkers
Some folks like to dish... on themselves.
If you find yourself sharing your exploits in high school, or talking about how crazy you are going to be at your uncles' birthday, or how you once almost got a tattoo of Manuel Noriega on your neck while you were in Tijuana on a 30 day surfing odyssey followed by a short stint as a low budget documentary film maker at San Quentin you are a talker.
If you can talk about your weekend and it takes two full days to tell the story you're a talker. If people snort, grunt, giggle, run, cough, leave, hibernate, or start eating in the middle of your verbal straightjacketing you are a talker.
I am a talker - but I'm real sneaky.
Let me give you an example by going back to the neck tattoo concept. I've been talking about getting a neck tattoo 3 to 4 times a week for at least the last 8 years. I sort of think this is funny. I think that neck tattoo's are the ultimate form of self expression... in addition to skate boarding and grinding your own wheat. So here's the sneaky - when I'm talking about getting a dragon's tail inked onto my neck and I'm sort of laughing like I wouldn't really do it - deep down inside I'm hoping you'll ask me a series of questions about said body art so that I might talk about it.
These questions are:
What type of dragon?
What color are the dragon's scales?
What is the temperament of the dragon?
Was the dragon ever tasked to guard a castle?
Where was/is the castle?
What year was the castle built?
How big would the saddle for the dragon need to be in order to ride it and would it be made of leather?
Are dragons water proof?
So you see that I am a sneaky talker. Hoping that you'll ask me questions so that I may talk to you about anything. Theses dragon questions that I've just recorded are only a handful of thousands that I've already filed away in my metal question storage labyrinth - and they are just about dragon neck tattoos. Imagine the talking possibilities about shale laden soils or hip replacements.
So talk away fellow talkers. Talk it up.
Don't expect me to be an active listener though ... for I am a talker too waiting and wondering if you'll ask me about....
If you find yourself sharing your exploits in high school, or talking about how crazy you are going to be at your uncles' birthday, or how you once almost got a tattoo of Manuel Noriega on your neck while you were in Tijuana on a 30 day surfing odyssey followed by a short stint as a low budget documentary film maker at San Quentin you are a talker.
If you can talk about your weekend and it takes two full days to tell the story you're a talker. If people snort, grunt, giggle, run, cough, leave, hibernate, or start eating in the middle of your verbal straightjacketing you are a talker.
I am a talker - but I'm real sneaky.
Let me give you an example by going back to the neck tattoo concept. I've been talking about getting a neck tattoo 3 to 4 times a week for at least the last 8 years. I sort of think this is funny. I think that neck tattoo's are the ultimate form of self expression... in addition to skate boarding and grinding your own wheat. So here's the sneaky - when I'm talking about getting a dragon's tail inked onto my neck and I'm sort of laughing like I wouldn't really do it - deep down inside I'm hoping you'll ask me a series of questions about said body art so that I might talk about it.
These questions are:
What type of dragon?
What color are the dragon's scales?
What is the temperament of the dragon?
Was the dragon ever tasked to guard a castle?
Where was/is the castle?
What year was the castle built?
How big would the saddle for the dragon need to be in order to ride it and would it be made of leather?
Are dragons water proof?
So you see that I am a sneaky talker. Hoping that you'll ask me questions so that I may talk to you about anything. Theses dragon questions that I've just recorded are only a handful of thousands that I've already filed away in my metal question storage labyrinth - and they are just about dragon neck tattoos. Imagine the talking possibilities about shale laden soils or hip replacements.
So talk away fellow talkers. Talk it up.
Don't expect me to be an active listener though ... for I am a talker too waiting and wondering if you'll ask me about....
Monday, February 7, 2011
Fancy Pants
Fancy dinners are nice. They're really nice. They taste good. They look good. They feel good... usually.
I have a tendency to over eat at almost every meal. I feel patriotic when I do this. I feel like this is the way that I can contribute to the economy even if I'm eating leftovers at home. I like food that tastes good in my mouth. I bet you do to.
I also like refreshing beverages of all kinds. They taste good.
And dessert.
And coffee drinks.
My wife was taken out to such a dinner by my three year old son. They went to a fancy restaurant. If you'd like to get technical this was his first date. My wife said to him, "you know some day you're going to take a lady out to a fancy dinner like this."
Without pausing and completely straight faced he ended the sentence saying, "and then she'll take off her pants."
I'm not sure what to make of this. I know several things about my son. He does not watch soap operas. He doesn't read the papers. He mastery over the internet is in its infancy. He enjoys simple things. I don't know why he said this. I don't know how his mind works.
I do know that I'll never think about another fancy dinner the same way.
I have a tendency to over eat at almost every meal. I feel patriotic when I do this. I feel like this is the way that I can contribute to the economy even if I'm eating leftovers at home. I like food that tastes good in my mouth. I bet you do to.
I also like refreshing beverages of all kinds. They taste good.
And dessert.
And coffee drinks.
My wife was taken out to such a dinner by my three year old son. They went to a fancy restaurant. If you'd like to get technical this was his first date. My wife said to him, "you know some day you're going to take a lady out to a fancy dinner like this."
Without pausing and completely straight faced he ended the sentence saying, "and then she'll take off her pants."
I'm not sure what to make of this. I know several things about my son. He does not watch soap operas. He doesn't read the papers. He mastery over the internet is in its infancy. He enjoys simple things. I don't know why he said this. I don't know how his mind works.
I do know that I'll never think about another fancy dinner the same way.
Thursday, February 3, 2011
Kenny the Leather Clad Viking
Smells. Fragrances. Odors. Vikings.
I'm sure we have all gone through the olfactory triggered time machine that can transport to a place in the past so precise you are actually there for a moment... in your mind.
This is the place Kenny Chesney lives permanently and my jealously is boundless. As you all know Kenny rolls out country ballads that deal nearly exclusively with bygone eras and faded memories. I believe in my heart that he is able to accomplish this because he wears a perforated locket around his neck with very small clippings of his past - like his letterman's jacket, football field grass, and old prom photos wafting up into his nostrils and out his lyrical vocal chords.
Having recently purchased a new set of leather gloves, I naturally held them to my face and drew in a large whiff of their intoxicating aroma. I was instantly taken back to the day I wore my first leather jacket. Its heft and blackness and zippers were the closest thing I'd ever been to cool. Its leatheryness was overwhelming and I had visions of grandeur, of vikings in leather tunics braving the Arctic Sea, laughing at the thought of the Leviathan, dreaming of home and riches.
Let your nostrils guide you this day. Allow yourself to linger in the memories that you find there, in what was and what might have been.
I'm sure we have all gone through the olfactory triggered time machine that can transport to a place in the past so precise you are actually there for a moment... in your mind.
This is the place Kenny Chesney lives permanently and my jealously is boundless. As you all know Kenny rolls out country ballads that deal nearly exclusively with bygone eras and faded memories. I believe in my heart that he is able to accomplish this because he wears a perforated locket around his neck with very small clippings of his past - like his letterman's jacket, football field grass, and old prom photos wafting up into his nostrils and out his lyrical vocal chords.
Having recently purchased a new set of leather gloves, I naturally held them to my face and drew in a large whiff of their intoxicating aroma. I was instantly taken back to the day I wore my first leather jacket. Its heft and blackness and zippers were the closest thing I'd ever been to cool. Its leatheryness was overwhelming and I had visions of grandeur, of vikings in leather tunics braving the Arctic Sea, laughing at the thought of the Leviathan, dreaming of home and riches.
Let your nostrils guide you this day. Allow yourself to linger in the memories that you find there, in what was and what might have been.
Loin Fruit
Real success.
Its more than money and fancy things. Its about the feeling you get when you look into the eyes of your off spring and they say something that reverberates off of your soul. A phrase that takes the dreams of adolescence, devours the marrow, and leaves the carcass.
Today my son, full of life and energy, said to me, "my car has two doors that open."
Then he said to me... in our most intimate moment, "I want to poop in your ear".
One of my great fears in this life is that I would somehow fail as a father. I know now that failure isn't an option for me... not a reality... not a possibility. When your boy has the gusto to say that to his father. When he can tweak your nose with a twinkle in his eye and say the most inappropriate thing his three year old mind can devise. This is success. This is center of everything that I have worked for and been given.
Its more than money and fancy things. Its about the feeling you get when you look into the eyes of your off spring and they say something that reverberates off of your soul. A phrase that takes the dreams of adolescence, devours the marrow, and leaves the carcass.
Today my son, full of life and energy, said to me, "my car has two doors that open."
Then he said to me... in our most intimate moment, "I want to poop in your ear".
One of my great fears in this life is that I would somehow fail as a father. I know now that failure isn't an option for me... not a reality... not a possibility. When your boy has the gusto to say that to his father. When he can tweak your nose with a twinkle in his eye and say the most inappropriate thing his three year old mind can devise. This is success. This is center of everything that I have worked for and been given.
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