First Commandment of Blogging:

Thou shalt give time for readers to comment and comment alike before adding a new entry.

Fuck that. See, I was sitting here puppy sitting, and came to a conclusion.

Before the conlusion reached en utero thoughto, a brief story.

Years ago, I was standing outside my little Government issued family house, the house absent of a family at this point, drunk as all get out. In this case, "all get out" must be defined as "hell." I am rural and use terms such as this when I try to make polysyllabic points. I also inheritted a baritone voice free of gravel, but towards the left hand of a piano's scale.

To continue:

I was not sober. I was pontificating, as I am wont to do in states of any "all get out", when I stretched the definition of death, hell, and the grave*. I remember beating on the hood of my Scout to drive home every fourth or fifth gerund as my strange haiku unfolded. I told of dancing demons and firy graves of innerspace galactic drama. I called down pyrological deluges from heaven and pummeled the disgusting draw of our humanity towards our fellow man as a photophyllic ameoba towards the pond-water sun. I decried the Whore, yet called also for empathy and a small touch of the calming ethylene-glycol of masculine reason and masculine acountability. Hell was not merely in my words. It was a real sulfur proceeding from my mouth to kiss and fondle my gathered friends at the temple of closing time. My rumbly voice, product of too much alcohol and too many preachers in the gene pool, wooed their senses into my state of being and made them agree with the hateful lies I tried not to believe.

My rant and rave and sermon was nearing its climax wherein I no longer cared whether the stupid children who rode out into the street may get run over or the dirty tramp thumbed her way across the West Coast for a blowjob and a bump of rock, when I noticed the wide eyes and slightly hypnotized stares of my compatriots, my brothers in arms. They held their beers at waist height, frightened at the world I weaved out of my phonetics. They believed everything I said. I saw whites of eyes making room for irises. I knew the look. They might as well have been sitting on a church pew listening to my father.

Thus, I shut up and threw my two-pint glass over my shoulder. My keen hearing, conditioned by a few too many years at the business end of super sonic death machines, heard it obliterate the cross-walk behind me. They snapped out of the stupor.

One of my best friends, a guy named Baron Peter Christian von Blah Blah Some Elitist Horseshit, looked at me as an alien creature. I was no longer his friend but a Sunni mystic, one hand pointed towards the mysteries above and one pointed below to the dirty soil of life as I spun our way to freedom.

"Dude, you should fucking write."

He had honesty, and frankly, good taste in literature.

My papist wop friend, Fabian, agreed with a solemn hush and a heartened nod.

The conclusion:

To answer a quick question I get asked with remarkable frequency, that is why I write. Maybe if my shared thought is nothing more than ones and zeroes, it won't be an hypnosis. Maybe it won't be a sermon.

Sermons scare me.



_{*This is a Pauline term I had hammered into me, "...triumph over death, hell and the grave." One of those letters to Corinth, I believe.}