Boredom Diaries
Collapsing Into The Whatever.
How in the hell did this happen? The placement exam, eighty multiple choice, covering everything I knew nothing about. In it being so wide open on material, I could never make a decision. Erasing answers, frantically bubbling in other options. Ticking away at the exam, I tried my hardest to prove that I wasn’t an… Continue reading
Vocal Shrapnel.
‘Fuck’ Was the word that started all this. I used it to express exasperation. Driving while on the phone, my wife in the passenger seat, ‘Fuck, what a mess?’ were my exact words. I over use it, yes. Like most of my friends. To ‘cuss like a sailor’ couldn’t be more accurate amongst us. I… Continue reading
Resurrecting a Corpse.
The Law of Conservation of Energy. One of few ideas I retained from a year’s worth of high school physics. Its main premise: energy cannot be created nor destroyed. My teacher, Mr. Dove, was a stereotypic science instructor. Heavy beard. A muted, bland daily dress code. And a monotone deliverance of information that, when it… Continue reading
Till Death Do Us Part.
We had spent the entire Fall building our jumps. Four total at that point. The main lip dug about six feet under sea level, we’d hit the water table often. You’d dip down into the ditch, fire off the lip and land six feet above. Reminiscing, I can’t believe they lasted long. For starters, the… Continue reading
Cyclone Barbiturate.
It was a shotgun home. Narrow and rectangular. An old cigar worker’s abode from the early twentieth century. Up front, facing the street, two absolutely tiny, closet sized rooms. In the rear, a half assed addition served as a master bedroom. Added as a lower level, it laid on the ground having sunk into a… Continue reading
Soul Sucking Literary Suicide.
It’s been a year. Twenty Six posts. Roughly twenty six thousand words. Half a novel. Each entry a tiny sample of things running past and present in my head. The sentimental crap, easy for me. Most people will tell you I’m a softie. On the other hand, I’ve had a really difficult time writing humor…. Continue reading
Revving Up Like A Deuce.
To have an Achilles’ Heal is inevitable. To have a laundry list of Achilles’ Heals is inevitably human. For me, my metal weaknesses include and are not limited to a terrible short term memory, adult ADD (self diagnosed), anxiety about existential things out of my control, and never saying ‘no’ quite enough. Physically, I’m going… Continue reading
Neo-Nazi House Party.
Wherever they were, we went. We, the middle class kids, flexing behind our socialist, do-good for all banner. We served food to the homeless on Sundays. We hosted our grassroots environmental meeting on Wednesdays. We were the ones who broke away from home because we could afford to. Because our parents supported us financially. We… Continue reading
What The Desert Brings.
Simulacra, by definition, is the ‘˜imitation of someone or something.’ Jean Baudrillard goes even further, ‘˜the substituting of signs of the real for the real: a hyperreal.’ Las Vegas is the essence of this. A living definition. Walking out to get a taxi, Elvis brushes past us as he struts over to a rented limo…. Continue reading
The Unbearable Greatness of Being.
In November, I visited Gram C. at her nursing home. Although I stopped by as often as possible, it was always hard to visit. Each patient/resident in a different stage of the disease. The most well on, walking in circles, mumbling indefinitely. The rest, sitting at tables spread throughout the dining hall. Silent, they stared… Continue reading
Be Sure To Wear Flowers In Your Hair.
”˜The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer in San Francisco.’ I think that’s how it went? Was it Thoreau? Maybe Emerson?’’ I listened briefly to the yammering. Some dude behind me on United flight 1589. Houston to San Fran. 7AM. He was making small talk with my wife. She brought up literature. He,… Continue reading
Cock and Balls.
Driving has always been difficult for me. Depth perception. Speed. Using the proper signals at the proper time. But, the more I drive, the more the act becomes an innate sense. I could close my eyes and make that 66 mile commute to work. I’m not claiming it’d be a pretty one. I’m not the… Continue reading
