Research is Damned!

I was rumbling through Wikipedia the other day, trying to find something substantial to say about the isolation theory of speciation. About halfway down the article, I happened on a section devoted to epigenetics. In typical Wikipedia form, they immediately circled the wagons around what is really not a controversial issue and breathlessly lined up a tier of pikes, "epigenetics is not a challenge to the Theory of Natural Selection."

I would never have thought that it would be. I see no way that it can. But, they doth protest too much. Perhaps there is something going on in the graveyard that I should be aware of, said I. So, after an exhaustive research of epigenetics, I found absolutely no reason to even ponder why this would be a challenge to TNS. I am biased here and must admit that I find very little that is a challenge to the theory.

Then I thought, "So, you wonderful bastion of sense and intellectual prowess (as I have titled myself), where could we find an opinion on this soft inheritance that could direct one away from the consensus."

I hate consensus and try to veer whenever possible.

Ah, thought I, Conservapedia.com. Were there ever a database of challenges to Darwin, sure this is it. So I typed out the address and struck the enter key with aplomb. I would surely find the chink in all of the scientific elite's armour now!

A page lacking refinement and class burst open in my browser. "Conservapedia" was stamped with authority on Old Glory waving in a badge upon a field of neutral and academic color. This is where those cretins with their doctorates from accredited universities do not want you to go. They will not control me, sayeth I!

I typed in the search field "epigenetics" and struck the enter key again. Nothing. No mention at all of this obviously Achillean problem to this simply unproven theory. Ha! Forsooth! I must have mispelt. I whispered a dastardly chuckle to myself, frightening a few at this wifi hotspot. Their bemusement was of no consequence to myself, the great disprover of the hokery of Evil-ution. I had them on the run now, cursed lovers of monkeys!

I typed carefully this time and hit enter once more. Nothing!

How could these do-gooders with nothing but the kindness of humanity in their hearts not know of this chink in the bricks of scientific conspiracy? So, I too it upon myself to type into the search field. Evolution. After a link was followed I was at a momentous occasion on this day. The Trial of Scopes' Monkeys!

I soldiered through a sentence or two. Apparently the main researchers of American science's last best hope are all in eighth grade. Bryan's oratorical skills were unmatched? How do they know? There was not a footnote. There was no proof whatsoever for the claim. What about Alexander the Great? He may have been a little light in his loofas, but he had to be fairly persuasive. Lincoln? Probably a better orator. What of Jesus? The guy went on for days on some occasions.

No, thought I, this is not the hope of science. This page is no help at all. Who writes these articles? "As crafty as the day is long, [Clarence Darrow] arrived in Tennessee armed with his bag of tricks." Not since sound found a home in motion picture has anyone resorted to such colloquial jargon in sholarly circles.

What the fuck? scrame I. Patrons of the coffee shop fled. So said I to the constable, "But sir, they posit that the defeat of the evolutionists allowed George W. Bush to carry the state of Georgia thus winning the presidential election of 2000."

He was unmoved.

After posting my somewhat unreasonable bail, I tried a new tack on Conservapedia. Surely they would help my revolution in science if I simply looked for the right article. The results are less than encouraging.

Last One, I Promise

I swear, this will be the last post dealing with her. Maybe if I write it out, I can get her off my mind for good.

Who? Well, the girl who's been parading through all of the posts the last month or so. She flaunts my feelings for her across the ribbons of my mind and her scandalous wanderings through the backdrop of that mind paint any post I can give.

She hints at herself when I write about leaving. She insinuates herself into my words about sex and desire.

She's not a bad girl, just honest. She was honest about the prospects of her being able to wait around a whole year. I wouldn't have asked that of her anyway. Maybe she won't spend this year tied up in knots if I'm not someone she is officially tied to.

She was with me in life and death. I thought I was dying a while back and was absolutely miserable to be around. She stayed by. She held fast. There's a reason boats are named after women.

Now she's gone. I wish I could say she took all my money. My best friend.

Regardless, it's the same old story, and here it comes again.

I have to leave, not only my home and my plans, but I have to leave her. I laid on her, a woman all of ivory and tourmaline (fucking geology references), and I told her that when I come back I know I will not be the same person. Every combatant is a casualty. I have come home from these things before. I could not pretend with her that I would return and we could start where we left off.

I didn't know it was goodbye until her hug lasted a little too long. I promised to call her before I go. Her life is complicated. I have since been informed that before me she hated men. That is an understandable state given her past. I never would have guessed she had anything but love for men, but maybe that love was mine and mine alone, compounding the tragedy of it all.

I hate tragic people. I hate when I am one. Sorry for the lack of funnies and for the lack of anecdote.

I'll call her from the terminal when I'm leaving.

Some Titles Are Just Lame

So I wrote a post today. It was a true account of someone I met and briefly allowed my life to intersect, though she was a slave. Possibly an indentured servant, I'm not sure what the nice word would be. The story ends with her family dying. So, I decided to leave that one alone. I think my serious writing has gotten a little too heavy. Desperation held me in its icy grasp. I considered doing a meme. Honestly, I'm afraid Laurel would make fun of me, and her scorn is more than I can bear.



So, to keep it simple, I found some old pictures I took a couple years ago. I like them and will probably throw some on here when I need to illustrate a point. For Jimmy Page Did Not Understand The Ocean, I wish I had had this:







It is too late. The moment is over.

When I do finally hit publish on the story of me and Misha, which is not her real name, I have a picture of her home. You can not make out the tragedy from the mists of the Straits of Malacca. You also can not smell the water by looking at the picture, which is probably best.

The significance of the individual is lost on the mechanizations of the Earth. I was reminded of this several times this weekend during the Mike The Headless Chicken Days/Fruita Fat Tire Festival (please ignore the first two government sponsored minutes of this video). The Earth reached up with its mighty paws and smote me. Luckily, no concussions or anything spectacular this time, just some blood on the trail.

I've tried to pick up women in locales unassociated with the cult of mountain biking before. It doesn't work. They look at your shins with the snake track of sprocket damage and scraped knees and bruised bones. Then they ask a reasonable question:

"What are you, twelve years old?"

Distractions

Quick and dirty, I'm going to be away from here for awhile, maybe two weeks. Some of you are already aware of my accelerating schedule, so I won't elaborate. Since it takes no work besides being a pretentious prick, I'll keep up my minor, but sexy, half of The Five if I can. If you need placated, I always thought these posts were my best, proven by the fact I buried them before anyone could read them:

A Tribute To Ray
A Conversation With A Former Life
A Recipe
A Dream
A Rant
A Trip

I'm curious to see what others people may have liked, as this has been around a year or so now. Leave suggestions in the comments and I'll try to chime in sometime around next Friday or so.

In a side note of minor humorous value, I just had to go through all my posts to make sure I said nothing bad about waitstaff in the history of this site. Call me obsessive. I might be a little more self-conscious than I admit to being at times. I am perhaps a softie who hates to think of hurting anyone. Besides, I used to be waitstaff. If the job was demeaning and geared toward the uneducated poor, I have probably done it. Call me obsessive.

Concussion, Contusion, and Minor Whiplash

I have to point out briefly the benefits of a spectacular crash and a new set of contusions.

First among the list is the endorphin and adrenaline rush that courses through you hematos dendrite self for a few hours. The rush I can only describe as euphoric is comparable to any number of chemicals that are fun and enjoyable, though illegal. It is not illegal, however, to place your face in the dirt and slide on it for a while.

The larger benefit is the bump in your personal stock price among the opposite sex. With blood trickling from my nostril and a severe reddish brown stain of bruising over my left eye, I found women enthralled at my mere presence. Yes, children, they love to see a man who has battle damage. Had I known this earlier, I would have spent less on drinks in clubs and more on two wheeled conveyance.

This is OK, I have basked briefly in the attention of an astoundingly beautiful woman whom I have been quietly fascinated by for weeks, I also have a date Sunday with another girl I would normally not consider in my league. She actually witnessed the crash, and she has assured me that it looked as legendary as it felt. She is a lovely woman, but her approach to proposition I can only describe as “predatory.”

In short, the skin I have lost is repaid by the gods of testosterone. Thank you, Ping the enormous and Pong the bold.

On the other hand, I have been phased out of someone’s life for good. She is perfect for someone, though I see a crashing pile of burning parts down our road. Not that it matters, she found my leaving to be too big a burden to bear, and I would not have let her wait for me to come home anyway. We talked things out, and things are still friendly. She was a good girl, and right now good girls are not a priority. Good girls always hate you for leaving, and I am not a fan of being hated.

Not that it matters, I’ve had enough and so I’m getting out. I’m leaving now. I’m a long gone daddy. I wish I could say I don’t need her anyhow. That is true in the strictest sense of black and white truth. I don’t need her. I need air. I need water. I need a drink. I don’t need her, in fact I know I am better off without her waiting behind me, dragging me down for a year.

I apologize to all the good girls of the world. Especially the ones I have met, since I only meet them on my way somewhere else. I'm always crashing something.

Giro

I rarely endorse a product. In fact, I never endorse a product that is not limestone filtered and comes from Lynchburg, Kentucky.

I would like to thank and heartily recommend Giro helmets. I loved my old helmet, it's fit, it's finish, the refreshing ventilation properties. Now I have laid that helmet to rest, it has been given its due place in the carbon reinforced Valhalla. Fear not, it died honorably.

In all seriousness, I have seen these things take licks from a 16 oz. framing hammer, but today I managed to break one nearly in half. I'm not in the hospital, I don't need stitches, and my pupils are OK with life. The helmet took my 205ish pound bulk and the extra eight pounds of various gear and water I need to get my box of rocks up the hills impacting at whatever speed could make an object my size fly thirty feet over level ground.

The best feature of the helmet was the discount I got for bringing it back in. I appreciate those who appreciate loyalty.

If you need a helmet, check these guys out.

Pyro

A memory accosted me in the street yesterday. I threw a quick jab into the throat, but it swept the leg, Ralph Macchio style. I went down, my knees are not my strong suit, the poor little guys been through alot.

So anyway, this memory was of the time I was set on fire. I've been on fire a couple times, but this was more memorable.

So I was on the flight deck of the USS Constellation, a badass old heap of cold-rolled Bessemer joy if there ever was one, and I needed to make sure my machine could kill innocents and conscripts when an academy educated white man decided that was necessary. The flood of weakened sodium lights washed down on us in the cold, dark night in the Gulf. The machine was a hulk of titanium, boron, and aluminium. You would recognize one if you saw it, it is quite popular. The machine festoons itself with bulbous apparati along its sinewy flanks and under its flat belly that are there to take other machines and put them on heads or in buildings. Or on ships, though the US Navy isn't in the ship killing business anymore. The apparati need checked to ensure that salt and sand and the erosion of time have not rendered them unlethal. First you have to get electrical power to the machine.

Along the non-skid (a combination of epoxy and broken glass) surface of the deck, you'll notice holes. Or you won't and you'll fall in one. It is dark on a ship of war at night. The holes contain the large cables responsible for transferring power from the belly of the iron beast to the heart of the supersonic death machines resting on its back. I will spare you what useless trivia I can about this process.

In the bad old days, when naval aviation afforded you higher risks of maiming and death than being an infantryman in the Marines, we had to manually lock in the cables and power. Meaning you had to start the voltage, 800V worth, from ship and confirm with an electromagnetically held switch under the nose of the bird.

I had a friend named Trim. We had been months out at sea and had not heard from loved ones in a good, long time. When the earnest killing part of a war starts, the powers of good usually remove your ability to communicate off of a ship. I suspect that civilization would be a hobble if it was allowed to represent itself in the form of wives and mothers. Hand lifting of thousands of tons daily and lost sleep over our later confirmed suspicions of occurrences back home had frazzled us. Trim forgot to await my signal to start the voltage. As I rammed the plug home, an explosion of various high current DC and AC sparks shot around me. The sparks burned my hands singed my eyebrows. My shirt, as all red shirts with VF-(insert number) on the chest and back, was soaked in a cocktail of jet fuel, hyd fluid, and whatever other nitrate laden substance I had been playing with. So, the shit caught on fire.

I beat the flames off of me, and since the shirt itself is not flammable it was not difficult. Once the fire was out, the next rational thought I had was of home and Colorado and the girl that was waiting for me. Trim, still kneeling by the rat hole, caught a face full of steel toe. I think I choked him a little. We both left the flight deck bleeding and angry. We were still friends.


******


Unrelated update: If you thought bullshit blogosphere pretense and argumentative subject matter needed a home, it now has one. The Five.

Also, it is raining.

Everyday The Same

So it is uncouth to repeat themes every week or so in a blog, though I refuse to acknowledge that this corner of the Internet fits that definition. The maxim of subject rotation in internet writing limits severely what possibly can be updated.

Got drunk on bourbon and stared at the ceiling thinking all kids of genius into the world. Covered that recently, so it's out.

Girl is on my mind. No, not one I've written about much, one that I tried to keep from getting in and close on me. Spent a night with her dealing with my asshole tendency to be a little too perfect for women when our time is short. Covered that last week.

Curled 150 pounds. I am a badass. Cover that with some regularity.

I rode away my hatreds and frustrations, or at least beat them back into their cave in my worried and troubled mind. I love that damn bike. Covered that.

Women I know are having troubles that I can't assist. I can't help but wish that I could beat the holy fuck out of anyone who hurts people I care about, regardless of how much they deserve it. I am a violent person. That's been covered.

Leaving soon. Got it.

All this going on and nothing to write about.

This Is Indulgent

The motivation to improve one's body physically defies explanation. The body is obviously a machine in working order if you are able to even consider improving it. The explanation of your need to change that body at the expense of comfort confounds those who view the state of their carnality good enough. You'll get no explanations today. I make excuses about needing to be in good shape and requiring absolute physical readiness imminently, but it has nothing to do with that on any deeper level.

Today I sat on a bench surrounded by the smells of humanity, and I very much hate the vast majority or humanities offlacatorially detectable qualities, and fought a battle. I won't say it was a battle with myself, or with and ideal, or even a battle with weakness. The battle was with two chunks of iron. I sat on the bench with them in my hands resting heavily on my thighs. I could feel their weight settling onto the ciclismo hardened quadriceps that I love in a very vain corner of my soul. The iron keeps sinking farther into them while I try to match my breathing, my thoughts, and every vibrating breath of my metabolic monsters that are aching in my chest to Lemmy Kilmeister's invitation to riot.

I lay back, intensity screaming from the large muscle groups that have already taken a beating. The last four sets, every lift and breath and focus was leading up to this. These weights have always sat next to my last maximum ability. When I would grab the hexagonal barbells to the left of these, the greater size of the weights in my hand would bourgeon and they would glow in haughty distaste for me. For my inability to master them.

I pull them away from my thigh and let them rest on my chest. With one last breath closely monitored escaping me, I move the weights outboard until their heft is held by my shoulders and chest. That's the way I like it baby, I don't want to live forever.

I shove. There's no need to control the speed, I haven't the power to move them any faster than a steady crawl. But the crawl is steady. Power chords ring in my ears as the two weights meet above my straining neck and ring out like bells. Four more. My spotter is ready for my shoulders tortured in their short life to fail me. The weights move up again with a determination. They ring again as iron and iron meet above. One more. Slow and unsteady, but still lifting. The weights rest on my bent arms, my chest feels torn under their gravity. My spotter is bored. I hate spotters.

I look up at the ceiling and tell him, "Two more."

Steadier, breathe out going up, in coming down. My awareness of the room is gone. There is nothing but me, Lemmy and the dumbbells. Two more down, the last straining. "One more."

I hate people who make noise in the gym. I don't grunt or yelp or make any of those other noises men make. I blow air out of my nose, clench my jaw and shove. And don't forget the joker. I get the weight up without effort, but with my chest failing.

I bring them down as I inhale. They sit on my chest while I kick with my feet to lift my body back up to sitting. The weights hit the floor, small and insignificant. They no longer matter as the stench of men and exertion touches me and the four walls of the dungeon gym pull in out of the dark.

Love

I am in love, brethren.

But, you say, you don't believe in the convention! And no, I do not. Love is a loosely cemented conglomerate of several tasty states of being unless you are formed largely of bauxite and scandium. If you are a pleasing shade of aggressive and light to the touch, then I love you, or at least could were not my heart stolen.

So, with all the rocks (literal rocks, I eat them) eating up most of the displacement of whatever body cavity we love others with, where can this loose conglomerate of affection and commitment and lust among other, larger ideal nouns, this love, where does it live? See, love is a many splendored thing, but it must have some fairly light calcified cementation properties to its conglomeration because it easily is salted into small spaces. That is neither here nor there.

So, let us name what a loved one does for us:

A loved one supports.
A loved one enables.
A loved one obeys, though it gives commands.
A loved one likes to be ridden very, very hard.
A loved one responds to the slightest caress, but does not flip the fuck out when you over-correct.

Could this loved one use as little more rear travel? Maybe, but my affinity for hard-tails has left me cold for the soggy, soft bottoms of some black diamond beauty. Me and my Element, we went out into the wilds of the desert where the single lines of freedom run freer that the wind and we found our bliss. We were unable to capture it, but the pursuit, the following of our Bliss made us two in love.

My search is over.

I love you.

Pictures forthcoming.

Jimmy Page Did Not Understand The Ocean

This is a long post.

Her: I like you.

Me: Uh huh.

Her: I mean, I think I've started liking you a whole lot.

Me: Hmmm.

Her: I mean...I know you don't believe in love...

Me: It's not that I don't believe in it. Define it and I'll believe in it. I just think people really shouldn't be banking their life on some word they don't even know what it means.

Silence as the boat founders on the reef. Small compartments begin to flood as the boat creeps away, oblivious to the damage. The conspiratorial murder of the boat, murdered by the cooperative effort of the captain's negligence and the reef's indigent nature, is a slow poisoning by seawater. Somewhere out in the sackcloth night, the boat slows as the drag of salt water tonnage drive her keel down into the resisting of the Sea. The draft drags lower and lower until the first wave drives over the gunwale in a lackluster charge of a bored army and its hydrological friends start washing over and under the deck. Brine seeks its own level and finds buoyancy to be a personal insult. The Sea, forever dead and lovely, claims the victim of negligent homicide, chewing up the last gasps of the floating pulchritude as it capsizes and gives the Sea its empirical tribute and right-of-way.

The flotsam drifts away and all hands are lost.

One time one of our birds with a good man in it hit the water doing an aggressive nose-down maneuver (this is fancy aero-speak for he fucked up and flew straight into the ocean) at nearly 900 miles an hour. Somewhere on the bottom of the Indian Oblivion, there is some crushed aluminium and bent titanium. They never found the aircrew; at that interface speed hitting the water there would be nothing to find. The Ocean breathes salty, won't you carry it in. In your mouth, in your head in your soul. All that was left was an oil slick for a memorial. Maybe if we're lucky we might both grow old. I can't help but hope so.

Bullet 104. For your sake, I hope heaven and hell are really there, but I wouldn't hold my breath.

The ship sank forever into the big, big ocean, the men married in the wedding supper of the plank to her hull went with her.

I always thought it was funny that our ideas of the ocean are so terracentric. We name oceans and seas as if there were borders on it unmarred surface. We name them after the arbitrary political divisions of the land. The great undiscovered country, and no--the term did not originate on Star Trek, rests on the face of the earth with only the occasional break in its monotonous beauty for smudges of dirt and growths of life. Life clings in little concentric rings to the shelves of our dirt smudges and we cling like amoebae to the lighted slide of the beautiful edge of the Ocean.

Bullet 104 and the fragile, mighty ship I use euphemistically are somewhere under the raging main. They are memorialized in the slicks and debris that are dispersed to all corners of our Earth.

I'll miss them both, though I had no agency in either. These stories are not my own. That is that and this is this, tell me what you want and I'll tell you what you get. You get away from me. We talked for hours before that meeting about life and our disparate circumstances of existence. As I told her of my cold wife with the briny heart and tried to explain Davey Jones and the gold and quicksilver sunset of a Persian Gulf sunset, she loved me. I saw it. At least I saw the pupils dilate and her ideas of commitment form. I tried to dissuade her softly with personal narrative of a time when I killed and fucked and drank my way around the World. With every story, she felt she knew me better, but she did not. Love and knowledge are mutually exclusive states of being. She loved the thought of my blood and sand and sea, but she did not know that it was not a phase. It was not a temporary change in my life.

The sea is who I am.

And if I die on the raging main
Davey Jones will bring me back again
Give me some
PT
Good for you
Good for me
Kill 'em all
Spill their guts
Napalm, napalm sticks like glue
Sticks to the mamas and the babies too
etc...

So, we have to part ways. That is that and this is this, when I asked her what she saw in my stories and she told me what she missed. When the Ocean met the sky. She missed the part where time and light shook hands and said goodbye. It is not her fault or my fault, and blaming the Sea is like trying to swallow the moon.

I'm leaving in June.


The Ocean Breathes Salty; Modest Mouse
Random Violent Bullshit Poem; Traditional Navy Cadence

I am not dying

I have a lot to celebrate today. A bottle of Bushmill's will suffer terribly. As for that girl, well, she didn't suffer exactly. It is nice to know that I will live long enough to make some legendary mistakes.

So, how can you assist the party? Well, the next motherfucker going through a duty-free better cough up some of this.

Rambling Bullshit

I walked out into the cool of the morning to see the sun cut new shadows into the raised Precambrian and Jurassic temple of all things passed on. The Wingate cliffs burned orange and showed the cracks and fracture of enormous pressure pushing them skyward and rolling them up like a scroll. The Precambrian metamorphic partial melt is thrust out of the ground looking like the corpse of someone’s ancient virgin bride, the skirts of her folding in on themselves in a display of granitic modesty giving the gold light of morning a place to play. She is a bride. She is your origin. Mine, too, but I prefer to think that my genesis was something a little darker than the purple skirts. I prefer stardust and comets tails colliding with a burning planet washed over with caustic HaCL and silica and carbon billowing over the face of the deep. I don’t think God meant “ashes to ashes, dust to dust” to be depressing or a reminder of our short and anticlimactic lives. To be the dust and to be the rocks is indeed a beautiful thing. It was a little too warm for me in the store; I hate heat, though I have functioned admirably in temperatures up to 135. Anything after that number and I start to whine. My record for exposure to a hot day fell sometime in August out in The Gulf, 160 degrees of absolute atmospheric misery compounded by jet exhaust and arduous work. If I remember correctly that loadout was one of the heaviest sorties pre-9/11 ever locked and loaded. The cool of the day would mean the temperature would soar down to around a buck twenty and the swamp fans running in the berthing couldn’t quite keep enough air moving to draw out the smell of men living close and dirty. It was not a good time. That is a lie, it was a great time. IYAOYAS! And so forth.

Now God walked down in the cool of the day and called Adam by his name. He refused to answer, he was naked and ashamed.

Tell me, who’s that writing?

So who cares if John of Patmos is John the Revelator is John the Apostle or not? I read the book of the seven seals as a reassurance to a small and embattled minority facing death and some gruesome torture. When people wonder how the Catholic Church got as bad as it is, I remind them of the men like Eusebius who were absolutely thrilled to see the Roman Empire become the Holy Roman Empire. If you’d been getting genitals burned off with hot plates of iron in front of thousands of spectators, a little guvie love would indeed seem the promised Kingdom of Heaven if you’re writing to the Jews, Kingdom of God if you’re writing to the Greeks. In fact, Constantine’s conversion was seen as the fulfillment of The Revelation. Apocalypto for all you Papists. So then the Turks took their shit back. Holy shit, another thousand years of terror for the Christians who thought they owned the rest of eternity. Now it’s Istanbul, not Constantinople. Call me crazy, but I don’t believe in the End of the World. Unless you’re talking red giant vulcanization. That shit is a fact, bitch.

I need whiskey. Or a woman. Women. Women and whiskey. Or maybe a walk through the Garden in the cool of the day. If I was God, I would stroll around in that hour before the sun is high enough to truly light up the sin and murder of humanity, but after the chill of the cobalt early morning. I would boast to the rocks that they were mine and I would be glad to share rocks and glory; that I had formed them with little mathematical fun things and physical playtoys I had given the Universe. I would bask in mornings like this. I would be happy to share of my abundance.

I miss faith, faith more beautiful than wisdom or knowledge. Knowledge leads to more questions, and Sophie was kind of a bitch, most goddesses are, though I miss the ones I have loved in the past. A kind parent is Faith who quells the monsters of random under your bed and in your head with soothing words. Faith can protect you. Faith kills worry, which has been an issue lately. For what man can add even a minute to his lifetime by worry? I wish it could, with this much worry in my head I could live forever in extra minutes. I don’t have a happy home. A sweetheart I cannot find. I’m not looking, so that might be a source of the famine of femininity. The only thing I can call my own is a troubled and a worried mind. When my earthly trials are over, which may be soon, cast my body out into the sea. Save yourself the undertaker’s fare, let the mermaids flirt with me. God in heaven or in the Earth, or on it and in me and you, however that crap works, I hope is there. Send a band to to gather around me and stand, and when the time is right, bear me away on their snow white wings to my immortal home. The kingdom can have me, I’m tired of all this self-agency. And I’m tired. And maybe ruined. Things are not going well.

Did God create the heavens and the Earth? Well, I can’t prove that he didn’t. I can pretty much prove it took longer than six days. Then again, I like to think the Universe took a little effort on his part. Twelve to fifteen billion years of creative non-involvement or public crafting could yield a work of exquisite beauty. So, I might not be atheist. I can admit it.

Long story short, it’s a beautiful morning, Idaho sucks.



John the Revelator; Traditional
Let the Mermaids Flirt With me; Mississippi John Hurt
Oh Come, Angel Band; Traditional
The Thing About Worrying; Jesus

My Curse

An aspect of my person that conduits unnecessary frustration into my life is my ability to stay in good health. Half of it is my fault, the other half lies blame on my genetic history. I come from some pretty strong stock.

So, the half that is my fault accuses from one corner of the universe where chocolate, especially the sickening milk variety, does not garner preference over oatmeal. I love oatmeal. I eat it in serene bliss, the fiber and nutty goodness of steel cut oats suspended in boiling water with a small pat of butter and a touch of honey taking me to places I assume donuts take the overweight. I don't mean to be healthy, but my meal plan on a typical day involves salads, lean proteins, and a good shot of greens. Keep your snickers, hand me the blueberries. So, what is the big deal?

People hate me.

I recently made my way through the trough on the conveyor belt to pay for some groceries and the woman celebrating some fairly unkind decades who ran my food over the laser had all kinds of commentary. Her flappy jowls kept time to her tirade, wobbling fore and aft, her skin was yellowed and crumpled in smoker's jaundice. "Wow, what the heck is 'hoomis'? How do you eat these pita deals? That's sure a lot of celery, what you trying to live forever? Hey everybody look at this health nut here! Oh and you rode your bike? Boy, I think you're missing out on life. You trying to look pretty? I never ate any of that crap. I do fine."

I held my tongue, the line of dusty Carhartt jackets behind me shuffling back and forth try to get a good look at the garbanzo eating bitch. I said, "Well, ma'am, I don't want to live forever or even past your age, I just don't want to look like you when I get there."

That was brilliant and cutting. I only said it in my head, though. I'm a bitch.

This morning I had to get a checkup from the VA. I filled out my little form saying that I drink way too much, I eat like a horse, I have PTSD out the ass, and I am in danger of killing myself with some high risk activity (i.e. mountain biking, river rafting, etc.) imminently. When my name was called, I walked into the little room where an aged but beautiful silver haired woman told me kindly to sit. While she reviewed my clipboard of papers, she pointed to a scale. My feet touched the pad and LED numbers began to swirl. 197.5. I returned to my chair and my arm found itself in a cuff. An old man with a dusty ballcap modestly emblazoned with the black and white ribbon of a POW walked in and took the other chair. Judging by his gut, he knew his way around a case of beer. And judging by his eyes, he knew his way around some terror and unconsoled tragedy.

He was near my weight. We talked a little about the Connie while the strap grabbed on to my arm and caused a brief panic to shoot through my veins. I am claustrophobic. The machine beeped and the titteringly helpful woman, who I noticed flirted a little with the POW, looked over my shoulder to the infernal machine with its grip of death tunneling my vision. Her eyes rolled back and a look of contempt shot through her graying eyes. "111 over 73."

The words fell in a pile of lukewarm poo on the floor. She was angry at me. She met the eyes of her assistant and they both coughed out snide little laughs.

I can not vouch for any basis in reality past this point.

"Looks like we got ourselves some type of damn athlete."

"I'm sorry," i said, "did I do something wrong?"

Then she slapped me and told me to go out and run a marathon or some shit. Her words, not mine. The POW rose to come to my aid but the vicious Valkyries beat him back into his chair and slapped the blood pressure strap on him, it tightened and held him down. The swaggering woman smacked my knee with a mallet, harder that Hippocrates would have liked I might add. My knee jerked with immediacy. "Wow, I'll be goddamned, Champ Bailey, you made any touchdowns today?"

"Champ Bailey is a corner back, he rarely..."

"Shut your mouth, health boy." Her cold eyes searched me, "You got any healthy shit in that backpack of yours?"

"I...I don't know."

We both lunged for my bag, but my superior speed was defeated by the iron grip of her BP/P torture device. She ripped my bag from the floor, a bag of unroasted almonds falling from the open pocket.

"I swear I only eat them covered in milk chocolate and sugar!"

"Ha! You lie like that goddamn Kraut I 'interrogated' back before your parents were born. You a Kraut, boy? Or does kraut have too much sodium for you, sissy boy?"

"Um...no."

"Oh," she turned off the lights plunging our little room into darkness, "I think you may have a little Nazi in you. Health Nazi. You drink coffee this morning?"

I heard her booties scraping the cold tile floor. "No..."

I could hear her lips pull from her teeth in a sneer.

"...I mean yes! I drank four cups for breakfast. Five, and I drink eight for lunch. I don't even like water, I swear!"

The strap on my arm cinched tighter and the sound of cold steel filled the room.

Ghosts

About four and a quarter years ago, I sat in a cold room in an uncomfortable chair with my eyes locked onto the screen of an expensive and sophisticated video player. The screen swam with gray criss-cross patterns. Data transferred back and forth on the screen giving coordinates, atmospheric conditions, and conditional release information for the product materialized in the sky by the work of my team. The room was striped in the garish colors of an old and tired unit established in the dawning days of aviation. Pictures on the walls proceeded through the years of fighting machines launched and recovered in the hands of men with uncommon knowledge of simple physics and smiling skulls on their jackets. The picture ran from the Curtis-Martin biplane prototype first launched off of a converted oiler through the heyday of Grumman’s legendary run of cats, Wildcats, Hellcats, and finally, the Tomcat.

The screen showed the middle of a town I have never had the opportunity to visit. The grids of streets slowly pinwheeled giving some scale to the enormous distance between the video capture and the target. Numbers cycled through while the screen switched back and forth between a tactical loadout of the plane and the resolutions offered of the town. The screen went back to its original target, white crosshairs arbitrarily selecting the tracked vehicle with the protruding weaponry. White ghosts milled around the machine, heat registering strong on the infrared. A mechanical and bored voice interrupted the silence of the taped occurrence. A new set of numbers on the left of the screen started a downward trend. The numbers grew smaller, into the teens, as a large and glowing machine pulled up to the track. The machine began expelling occupants, dozens of men who sat around smoking and talking. The truck full of men was not a target. The numbers fell past three and the screen flared white.

My job started then. I had to sit with my clipboard and estimate what the mess of white splotches represented as losses to the enemy. I had to estimate the number of dollars lost to our single drop of a ton of steel and PBXN-9. White shapes slithered away from the burning vehicle parts leaving trails of white, liquid warmth. None made it far before all movement ceased. The room I sat in was cold, as all steel rooms are, and festively decorated for the season. Behind me, the man who had dropped, or "pickled," the shot gathered his papers and his coffee cup.

He spoke from behind us, "Night, guys."

"Goodnight, sir."

"Oh, and Merry Christmas."

Pride and Prejudice: Notes

These are notes from the movie I had to watch for ENGL 112. I took mostly serious notes, but these crept in there. And I left them in when I posted these notes to the class' shared folder. I kick ass.

1. Austen's use of cultural abnormaily -> expound later

2. We must have a ball! Oh, a ball! Tee hee hee. Bitches.

27. I hope someone dies of something violent soon.

35. God please make it stop. Pleasepleaseplease something explode.

38. How is this movie still going? Nothing has happend for FOURTY MINUTES

45. Darcy could beat the fuck out the skinny dweeby rich guy.

46. Bitch, he already chased you down in the rain, quit playing hard to get.

50. I could take Darcy.

51. Scandalous bitches.

53. Thankg you God for American orthodontic prowess. Keira's sister looks like an enraged squirrel.

72. For fucking finally. Two hours all to say three people get married.

Linguistic Differences

I have been making great attempts at the language of Spain lately. I am in no danger of falling into fluency anytime soon.

The problem is that Spanish is so much damn work. Keep in mind that my native tongue is Rural-Coloradoan. Most of my English speaking experience is a little soft on technique. The key to speaking my native tongue is pronouncing most vowels identically and routinely dropping consonants that seem like too much work. You city folks like to call it mumbling. For instance, were you to want to explain to your Rural Colorado that you are not concerned with a choice, it would help to say this:

Ah'on't cur. Donm'ckno diffurnce t'me.

The key is to pretend that every movement of jaw and tongue is an extravagant effort that shouldn't be wasted on just any occasion. I have since learned English, but my native tongue keeps wantint'crep up. That is why Spanish is so difficult. The pronunciations are all so expressive and the mechanics pay so much attention to precise flow. I really didn't like the language until today.

You see, in English, I play guitar. It is an object held in my will, iron fists extracting some trivial game from the polished wood. In Spanish, toco la guitarra. To play insinuates a lack of concern, an informality in the approach. Toco, tocar, tocando, all mean to "touch." I do not play an instrument as a baggy clothed teenage boy plays a girl, I touch an instrument like la esposa. There is respect. There is an implied permission granted by the subject.

The difference in language carries into the musician. I submit that Jimmy Page, with his lightning speed and lightning jumpsuit is merely playing while he sashays and pinwheels all over the stage. He is producing music and putting on a production. He is using the instrument as a tool. As an axe. This is why his riffs make me want to drive fast, fuck girls, and punch faces.

Compare and contrast to the great Andres Segovia. His phrasing, so respectful, so tender, borne of years of intimate knowledge, makes emotions I have never been properly equipped to deal with flood into me and well up in my throat. I want to sit in a dark room and love this life, love a woman, feel every breath enter and escape. I want to hear every day begin again and share it with a warm body, light slanting down from the window in tiger stripes of rose and gold.

This is the difference in "to play" and "tocar."

This is Bullshit

Shit, that is what I should be feeling akin to.

I do not feel like the aforementioned excrement, though I am righteously perturbed. See, I have a little tradition. On Wednesdays, for no reason whatsoever, I like to go out and eat a quality meal. I eat a vast amount of pasta-based one-pan creations throughout the other six days of a week for the intent and purpose of having enough extra money to enjoy my Wednesday night meal. This is normally not a problem.

Well, I rolled out of bed, shook off the feminist literature hangover, and what to my wondering mind should appear, but the CBS morning show (damn them bitches is hot), and some guy cooking up some type of lobster weirdness. He carved the carcass of the previously living, and one can only assume happy, lobster and put it into a feast for "someone special."

Don't get me wrong, I love cooking shows. I also love to cook. That being out in the open, hopefully some shining ray of heterosexual prowess will burst forth to quell the suspicions you may have, I would not consider in a million years lobster on a weeknight. So, why on this green and purple bentonite mud earth (and thus I submit the obligatory geology reference) would I have to watch some goddamn frog with a white coat decorated up like a goddamn NASCAR driver fireproof gay-o-tard cooking lobster? It is Tuesday, motherfucker.

Oh, that's right. Tomorrow is that day. That one day where everyone pretends to like each other more. I have no problem with any of that. If there is anything I learned from the string of pork rind women dressed up like tiramasou, it is that relationships thrive on the two people pretending to like each other more than they do. Do you women realize what kind of hair you leave in the sinks?

No, friends, what thoroughly annoys me about tomorrow is that I will not be able to go out on my date with the only person who's tastes I always agree are good and who's company is guaranteed not to annoy.

There is something wrong with the world when a man must make reservations to enjoy his own company. It takes all the fun out of being single. And thus I submit the tragedy of this February day, that I will have to order pizza or visit some sandwich shop on my hallowed day. It just don't seem right.

Flying V's and Charity Work

This post is in two parts. One is drunken rambling, the other a plea. You figure it out.

Subject One:

I have decided to get published and therefore I need an editor/proofreader sometime in the next week or so. I am serious about the proofreading part. I would prefer someone with an eye for mechanics, word usage, subject/object issues, etc. I like my prose the way it is, so I would only need minimal content direction, probably centered around the fact that I sometimes take vague way too far. Pay is not an issue, because you won't be paid. Obviously, this makes it an imposition if you have a busy schedule and I understand. Blah, Blah, and so forth. Anyway, volunteers should contact me by whatever means get their goat.

Subject the Second:

Albert King is cooler than you. Albert King is cooler than most, so your tears are wasted, mortal. On the eighth day of creation the Serpent tempted woman not with fruit or knowledge, but with the subtle sinew of a fretboard burning up the key of Bb. This is not in your Bible, or in some creation legend from the plateaus of shadowed Ararat. Those legends are fine, imperfect as they are.

Eve, Lilith and the tenderized portions of your mind left open to loving the soft touch and vanilla and quince scent of the one woman you never truly got to know sings in round and full harmonics and symphonics. In the raised voice of a thousand parishioners in the Burning Church of the Mortal Human, you hear the wail of a Gibson Flying V scything down the furrows of brown, sweaty, and slick women with eyes the color of ebony, skin borne of the plains of Mahogany.

The Serpent is the twisted and strained neck, fretted in wire, strings so loose and detuned they hang precariously over the inlaid dots that are meaningless in the note-and-a-quarter bends fluidly draining you of the will to work, pay, or buy. You simply want to give your soul over to all the demoniac passions robbed of you by civilization.

Albert King is the silent dictator of a thousand shining cities where the citizens vie for the chance to cry in the streets. In the palace of the cool, he sits entombed in hazy, smoking tendrils. He brings Hell up to us as a shading cloud and Heaven down from the sky as a flaming pillar of fire. All your lonliness he'll try to soothe. He'll play the Blues for you.

Be awed, mortal. He once shared this Earth with you.

Snippet IV

Got drunk by myself last night and they say that's no way to make things right, I just didn't have anything better to do.

That is a bald-faced lie.

Well, yes, but the song is amazing, though the production is terrible. I did have drink, but it was over pizza at the bar.

What song is that?

"Proud Souls" by Cross Canadian Ragweed.

That was real slick.

Hopefully enough people will like the song and buy their albums and they'll make music forever.

Always scheming. You are some sort of mastermind, aren't you?

Yes, but I try to veil it behind heavy doses of complete incompetence. Or heavy handed maneuvers like opening cans of beans with hatchets, keeps 'em guessing.

Funny, I thought the revolution is over.

That's exactly what I want you to think. See how genius works?

Awesome.

Speaking of awesome, I have new links. I might explain that my links are more for my convenience. I like to be able to hit everything of interest from one site.

And comment.

Um. Sure. I do that sometimes. It's only polite.

I am your conscience, I know when you lie.

Too bad you can't tell me when I drink a fat girl skinny at the bar, asshole. So, no, I don't comment much. I know how amazingly refreshing it is to have thirty people saying "OMG, I totally love, love, love ice cream TOO!!!LMAO!!!" It's reassuring on some level and Blogger has no referrer logs, so lurkers are unaccounted for.

What if they link back?

My links are for my own use, they're not recruiting tools. I don't care if they don't link, I don't even want them to in some cases. I don't think I'm the kind of company they want to keep. Creepy desert dreams, rants about killing people, posts that all seem to be about sex even when they're about rocks or guitars or some shit, not really blogosphere material. People's minds are dirty.

Or you're just always horny.

Such a crass word. I prefer toey. No one is sure whether I want to get in a fight or hop in a sack.

So, have you considered trying to write more to an audience instead of self-centered rambling?

No.

Hmmm.

Ok, yes. I even took pictures of squirrels and made up cute captions. It was real blogger activity, I even found a way to complain about Bush in a psuedo-informed manner using the squirrels as a foil, then I figured out ways to link all the people more popular than me in that post. It was amazing. I come this close to buying an iPod.

And then?

I shot the squirrels and made them into fajitas. Would it be gay to put recipes on here?

Probably.